#Future of Cloud Architecture

[sigzentechnologies]

Embracing Agility: How Cloud Architecture Design Transforms Businesses

Introduction to Cloud Architecture In the contemporary landscape of technology, businesses are increasingly reliant on cloud services to propel their operations forward. Cloud architecture design has emerged as a pivotal element in this domain, offering scalable, flexible, and secure infrastructures that cater to diverse business needs. Crafting an efficient cloud architecture involves strategic…

[zegalba]

Futurelab: Cloud Odeum (2015) Location: Shenzhen Shi, China

[worlds-of-imaginations]

How close to the clouds will the new cities reach?

Man has always wanted to soar high into the clouds. The dream of building a building that would reach the sky seemed more realistic than flying, and the prospect of living as high as possible has fueled the architecture of the most important buildings in cities for many centuries. For centuries, the tallest buildings were the towers of Gothic churches and the minarets of mosques. The tallest towers of European medieval colossi were over 100m. The record height was achieved by the cathedral in Ulm (Germany), and the most monumental temple in terms of area was, among others, the Gothic temple in Gdańsk (Poland) or the famous Notre Dame in Paris. In the following centuries, nothing matched the craftsmanship and scale of these buildings.

The turn of the 19th and 20th centuries (the so-called "belle Époque") brought many inventions and new building materials. After many centuries, monumental Gothic cathedrals slowly began to surpass the first skyscrapers. The oldest skyscrapers (the term itself is relative) were built in US cities at the end of the 19th century. In Europe, in the interwar period, the tallest buildings were in cities such as Warsaw (Prudential hotel), Torengebouw in Antwerp or Torre Piacentini in Genoa.Today we are crossing the next boundaries of what seemed impossible; in Dubai, after the construction of the famous Burj Khalifa, which reached a gigantic height of 828 meters, the next record is to be the Dubai Creek tower, most likely exceeding 1000 meters in height.Dubai already looks like a city of the future, and large-scale projects of new, increasingly futuristic cities are also being created in other countries, on a larger scale also in China.This raises the question of what the future will bring, how high will we reach the sky through the architecture of cities in the near and distant future?

[technologymonger]

AI vs Human Intelligence: Who's Winning and Where Are the Limits

AI has made stunning leaps: language models, self-driving cars, drug discovery. But human intelligence remains the gold standard for creativity, emotional understanding, and adaptability. What is Human Intelligence? Natural ability of human to think, learn, understands emotions, solve problems, reasoning and adapt to new situation, creativity and intuition What is Artificial…

[dubai-properties-2024]

Sky Vista in JVC by Peace Homes

Sky Vista at JVC, Dubai, by Peace Homes Development, is a luxury lifestyle that awaits exceptional moments with your loved ones. Your choice of fully furnished 2- and 3-bedroom apartments with a pool Situated in the Jumeirah Village Circle community in Dubai (a family-friendly environment), it features easy access to Dubai attractions and destinations.

The developer of Sky Vista offers bespoke furnishings and kitchen appliances, and the project also holds private commercial offices and professional spaces. Moreover, Peace Homes presents the finest amenities, which include an infinity-edge pool, a rooftop lounge area, and state-of-the-art gyms. There is more to discover.

JVC Sky Vista consists of 17-story apartments and duplex apartments with spaces ranging between 1,733 and 3,426 square feet that are attached by a private swimming pool, which will be ready to deliver on the exact date of Q4-2025. Let all these features be included in your future by booking now with 20%.

[rabbitcruiser]

Clouds (No. 1142)

Whitehorse, YU

[charlotteking27]

Please stand up if Bruce Wayne was forced to marry the reader and then one day discovered that she was a superhero like him

The Hero's Bride

Bruce Wayne x reader

Summary: You are the daughter of a wealthy businessman forced into a marriage with the prince of Gotham, Bruce Wayne. But secrets within your marriage start unfolding.

Warnings: Sorry, it is not as long as my usual fanfics

It was a field day for the tabloids as Bruce Wayne, their prominent bachelor prince, was getting married to the daughter of a wealthy businessman. 

The newspaper reported on the events of the power couple, with your picture and Bruce Wayne's featured prominently in the middle of it all. The headline 'our playboy billionaire finally settling down'

The crystal chandeliers of Wayne Manor cast dancing shadows across the marble floors as Bruce Wayne adjusted his tie for the thousandth time. Another charity gala, another performance of the billionaire playboy. Except tonight was different. Tonight, he was meeting his future wife.

"The arrangements have been made, Master Wayne," Alfred said, his voice carrying its usual mix of concern and dry wit. "Though I must say, agreeing to an arranged marriage seems rather... medieval, even for Gotham's standards."

Bruce's jaw tightened. "The Wayne Foundation's reputation is everything, Alfred. After that disaster with the Gotham Gazette's exposé on my... nocturnal activities, the board thinks a stable relationship might help." He didn't mention how those 'nocturnal activities' involved more timely distractions to uphold his secret.

________________________________________________________

You stood in an elegant emerald evening gown, waiting anxiously to leave and get home, but tonight was different. Tonight, you are meeting your future husband.

The arrangement had come as a surprise. Your father, CEO of one of Gotham's largest tech companies, had presented it as a "mutually beneficial partnership." Bruce Wayne needed to stabilize his public image, and your family needed stronger ties to old-money Gotham. You'd agreed, if only because it provided the perfect cover for your nighttime activities.

Wayne Manor looms before you, gothic architecture stretching toward the clouded sky. Your driver opens the car door, and you step out, automatically scanning the perimeter – old habits die hard. The massive wooden doors swing open to reveal Alfred Pennyworth, Wayne's butler, and behind him, Bruce Wayne himself.

He's more imposing in person than in photos. Tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp eyes that seem to catch every detail. Including, you notice, the way you've already mapped every exit in the room. Interesting.

"Miss," he says, extending his hand. "Welcome to Wayne Manor."

"Mr. Wayne." Your grip is firm and professional. You notice a faint bruise near his collar, poorly concealed by makeup. Curious. Several things ran through your mind, the obvious one: how much of a playboy Mr. Wayne really was.

The weeks before the wedding pass in a whirlwind of public appearances and private arrangements. Attending numerous galas and other events to show the public the perfect couple.

You find ways to maintain your secret life – slipping out at night, patrolling the streets of Gotham in your specialized suit, complete with built-in stealth tech of your own design. If Bruce notices your occasional limps or mysterious absences, he doesn't mention them. Then again, he has his own habit of disappearing at odd hours.

The wedding is a spectacle worthy of Gotham's elite. You play your part perfectly – the accomplished businesswoman, the perfect bride. No one notices how you scan the crowd for threats, or how your bouquet hides reinforced knuckles that could crack concrete.

Life at Wayne Manor settles into an odd rhythm. You and Bruce orbit each other like binary stars, together but separate. You respect each other's privacy, never questioning the mysterious phone calls or unexplained injuries. During the day, you attend board meetings and charity galas. At night, you slip away to protect the city in your own way.

"Late night?" Bruce asked one morning, not looking up from his newspaper as you slipped into the breakfast room at 6 AM, still in yesterday's clothes.

"Charity gala planning committee," you lied smoothly, hiding your limp. The drug cartel you'd busted hadn't gone down without a fight. "You?"

"Board meeting in Tokyo." His tie was perfectly straight, but you spotted foundation covering a fresh cut along his jaw.

They were good lies, practiced lies. The kind that came with years of maintaining double lives.

It's during your fourth month of marriage that everything changes. You're tracking a human trafficking ring through the warehouse district, your suit's electric blue accents dimmed for stealth. The intel suggests Batman might be investigating the same case, but you've always managed to avoid him before.

Not tonight.

You kept your operations separate from Batman's territory, focusing on Gotham's tech-driven criminal underground. You had history there – scores to settle with your father's former partners who'd turned your family's Technologies' innovations into weapons.

But Gotham had a way of bringing its heroes together, whether they wanted it or not.

You'd avoided Batman for months, but now, crouched in the shadows watching him work, something felt familiar about his movements. The way he disabled the security system matched a technique you'd glimpsed Bruce using on their home's alarm panel.

The second you closed your eyes and reopened them, he was gone in the dark.

You sense his presence before you see him – a darker shadow among shadows. You turn to flee, but he's faster than expected. A grappling hook wraps around your ankle. You counter with a move learned in the mountains of Nepal, breaking free and landing in a defensive stance.

That's when you see his face in the moonlight, cowl knocked loose in the scuffle. The realization hit you like a thunderbolt

"Bruce?"

He stares at you, equally shocked. "You're the mystery vigilante?"

For a moment, neither of you moves. Then you start laughing, the sound echoing off the warehouse walls. "So this is why you're never around for midnight snacks."

"Me? You're the one who keeps claiming yoga classes run late." His voice carries a hint of admiration. "The tech industry's break-in last month – that was you?"

"Had to destroy some evidence of illegal weapons manufacturing. My father's old partners aren't as clean as they pretend to be." You step closer, studying his suit. "I always wondered how Batman got his tech. Wayne Enterprises explains a lot."

"How long have you known?" he asked, removing his cowl.

"About thirty minutes." She deactivated her mask, letting it dissolve into her suit's collar. "You?"

"I suspected something when you took down that smuggling ring last month. The tech they were using came from one of your family's Technologies' old subsidiaries."

"Cleaning up family messes." She shrugged. "Sound familiar?"

His laugh was unexpected – rich and genuine in a way she'd never heard from Bruce Wayne, socialite. "Alfred is going to love this."

"Alfred already knows," she said. At his surprised look, she added, "He's been leaving medical supplies in my bathroom for weeks. That man sees everything."

"The two-year gap in your resume," he says. "Training?"

"League of Shadows. Left when I realized what they really were." You notice his slight flinch. "But you already knew about them, didn't you?"

He nods slowly. "We have... history."

"Well," you say, smiling at your lips, "I suppose this makes our arranged marriage more interesting."

"It certainly explains a few things." He pauses, then adds, "Your father doesn't know?"

"About as much as your board knows about your nighttime activities." You activate your mask in place.

"So." Bruce stepped closer, studying you with new interest. "What happens now?"

You smiled, already seeing possibilities unfold. "Now we stop pretending our marriage is just for show. Between your resources and my tech, we could do more good together than apart."

"The press will notice if Batman and the new vigilante start working together simultaneously, you and I become inseparable."

"Let them talk." You activated your suit's systems, preparing to leave. "Besides, every good marriage needs a hobby. Speaking of which, I've got some traffickers to catch. Care to join me?"

The smile he gives you is genuine – perhaps the first real one you've seen from him. "Lead the way."

As you swing across Gotham's skyline together, you realize that this arranged marriage might be the best thing that ever happened to you. Not because it saved Bruce Wayne's reputation or strengthened your family's social standing, but because it gave you something you never knew you needed: a partner who understands both sides of your double life.

Later that night, as you both tend to your wounds in the newly revealed Batcave, Bruce looks at you with newfound respect. "You know," he says, "most people marry for love or money. We married for public relations and ended up with a crime-fighting partnership."

You laugh, wincing as Alfred patches up your shoulder. "Well, they do say marriage is full of surprises."

The next morning, headlines screamed about Batman and the new vigilante team-up against a human trafficking operation. But it was the society pages that really got people talking, with photos of Bruce and you sharing a surprisingly passionate kiss at a charity gala.

The papers call you Gotham's power couple, the perfect merger of old money and new innovation. If they only knew the half of it. By day, you run your companies and attend charity galas. By night, you protect the city together, two vigilantes moving in perfect sync.

And if the criminals of Gotham complain that Batman's gotten twice as effective lately with improved tech? Well, that's just one of the many perks of married life.

[i4technolab]

Java is an established programming language and an ecosystem that has dominated the software business for many years. According to TIOBE index rankings, Java was the #1 popular programming language in 2020 and the fourth best currently for bespoke software development.

The key factor for its intensive popularity is its security, which is why it is extensively used in a broad range of disciplines such as Big data processing, AI application development, Android app development, Core Java software development, and many more. It provides a large set of tools and libraries, as well as cross-platform interoperability, allowing customers to build applications of their choice.

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

100 Vocabulary Words for Gothic Fiction | For Writers

Hello Writers! I've put together a list of 100 words to help you expand your vocabulary for writing gothic fiction in October. I categorized the words for easy reference. I did some research using thesauruses and dictionaries to compile this list for you. I hope you find it helpful! 👻🎃

Atmospheric Words

Tenebrous - dark and gloomy

Oppressive - overwhelming and unpleasantly powerful

Ominous - suggesting evil or harm is imminent

Eerie - strange and frightening

Uncanny - mysterious and unsettling

Nefarious - wicked or criminal

Malevolent - having evil intentions

Sinister - giving the impression of evil

Melancholy - deep sadness

Lugubrious - mournful or dismal

Sombre - dark and gloomy

Dreary - dull and depressing

Desolate - empty and lonely

Bleak - cold and depressing

Dank - unpleasantly damp and cold

Character Descriptions

Pallid - abnormally pale

Gaunt - thin and bony

Haggard - looking exhausted and unwell

Cadaverous - corpse-like

Wan - pale and sickly

Spectral - ghost-like

Enigmatic - mysterious and difficult to understand

Brooding - appearing darkly thoughtful

Tortured - suffering mentally or physically

Macabre - disturbing due to focus on death or injury

Architectural Features

Gothic - relating to medieval style architecture

Dilapidated - in a state of disrepair

Decrepit - worn out or ruined due to age

Crumbling - breaking into small fragments

Decaying - rotting or decomposing

Ramshackle - in a state of severe disrepair

Crypt - underground room or vault

Turret - small tower on a building

Parapet - low protective wall along the edge of a roof

Buttress - structure built against a wall for support

Supernatural Elements

Apparition - ghost or spirit

Phantasm - figment of the imagination

Specter - ghost or phantom

Wraith - ghost or spirit

Revenant - person who returns as a spirit after death

Ethereal - extremely delicate and light

Otherworldly - belonging to an imaginary or spiritual world

Paranormal - beyond normal explanation

Preternatural - beyond what is normal in nature

Occult - supernatural or magical

Emotions and States of Mind

Dread - great fear or apprehension

Foreboding - fearful apprehension

Trepidation - fear or anxiety about something that may happen

Anguish - severe mental or physical pain

Despair - complete loss of hope

Melancholia - deep and long-lasting sadness

Hysteria - exaggerated or uncontrollable emotion

Delirium - state of confusion and hallucination

Madness - state of severe mental illness

Obsession - persistent disturbing preoccupation with an idea or feeling

Gothic Settings

Moor - area of open, uncultivated upland

Wasteland - barren or desolate area

Labyrinth - complex maze-like structure

Catacomb - underground cemetery

Dungeon - dark underground prison

Mausoleum - building housing a tomb or tombs

Sepulcher - small room or monument where a dead person is laid

Necropolis - large cemetery, especially an ancient one

Citadel - fortress that commands a city

Monastery - building occupied by a community of monks

Weather and Natural Phenomena

Tempest - violent windy storm

Miasma - unpleasant or unhealthy smell or vapor

Fog - thick cloud of tiny water droplets

Mist - cloud of tiny water droplets in the air near ground level

Gloom - partial or total darkness

Twilight - soft glowing light from the sky when the sun is below the horizon

Umbra - the fully shaded inner region of a shadow

Penumbra - the partially shaded outer region of a shadow

Crepuscular - resembling twilight; dim

Tenebrous - dark, shadowy, or obscure

Literary Devices and Narrative Elements

Foreshadowing - warning or indication of a future event

Omen - event regarded as a portent of good or evil

Portent - sign or warning that a momentous or calamitous event is likely to happen

Harbinger - person or thing that announces or signals the approach of another

Presage - sign or warning that something will happen

Doppelganger - look-alike or double of a living person

Grotesque - comically or repulsively ugly or distorted

Gothic double - character representing the duality of human nature

Unreliable narrator - narrator whose credibility is compromised

Frame narrative - story within a story

Liminal Spaces and Concepts

Threshold - strip of wood or stone forming the bottom of a doorway

Liminal - occupying a position at, or on both sides of, a boundary or threshold

Betwixt - in between

Interstitial - of, forming, or occupying interstices (small spaces between things)

Twilight zone - undefined or intermediate area between two distinct states

Purgatory - place or state of temporary suffering or expiation

Netherworld - imaginary subterranean world of the dead

Abyss - deep or seemingly bottomless chasm

Void - completely empty space

Chthonic - concerning, belonging to, or inhabiting the underworld

Miscellaneous Gothic Terms

Sublime - of such excellence, grandeur, or beauty as to inspire awe

Ineffable - too great or extreme to be expressed or described in words

Eldritch - weird and sinister or ghostly

Atavistic - relating to or characterized by reversion to something ancient or ancestral

Numinous - having a strong religious or spiritual quality; indicating the presence of a divinity

Happy writing, and Happy October! 📜🕯️- Rin T.

[ka1rin]

A Match in Munich (part 1)

— kaiser x fem reader

summary: You move to Germany to pursue your studies and volleyball career, adjusting to a new life in a foreign city. Along the way, you meet a confident soccer player, and the growing tension between you both sparks an unexpected connection, leaving you unsure of what comes next.

author note: oikawa is mentioned here btw!! And I posted this at 3am without proofreading so if there’s a mistake, don’t be surprised. (T—T”)

The hum of the airplane engines faded into the background as you leaned your head against the window, watching the cloud-streaked horizon. Moving to Germany was a big step, but it was part of your plan—pursue your studies while preparing for your future as a professional volleyball player. Volleyball was your passion, but your education was equally important.

As you stepped into the bustling Munich airport, you spotted a familiar figure waiting for you. Noel Noa, your cousin and one of the world’s most famous soccer players, waved at you, his platinum hair catching the light.

“Welcome to Germany,” Noel said warmly, pulling you into a brief hug.

“It’s been too long,” you replied, smiling up at him.

Noel helped you with your luggage and led you to his sleek car parked outside. As he drove through the charming streets of Munich, you took in the cobblestone roads and beautiful architecture, feeling both excited and overwhelmed.

“I’ve set up a place for you near your university,” Noel explained. “It’s small, but it’s close to campus. You’ll like it.”

“Thanks, Noel. I really appreciate it,” you said sincerely.

He nodded, then glanced at you. “Actually, I need a favor.

You raised an eyebrow. “Already?”

He chuckled. “I’m swamped tomorrow. Can you pick me up after practice? It’s at the Bastard München stadium. I’ll send you the details.”

“Sure,” you replied with a shrug.

The next evening, you drove to the Bastard München stadium, parking near the players’ entrance. While waiting for Noel, your eyes wandered to the field, where the team was practicing. Their movements were precise and calculated, a testament to their elite status.

One player stood out—blond hair shining under the stadium lights, his confidence radiating as he effortlessly commanded the field. You couldn’t help but watch him.

Then, as if sensing your gaze, he turned. His piercing blue eyes locked onto yours, and a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. You quickly looked away, heat rising to your cheeks.

When practice ended, Noel approached, towel slung over his shoulder. “Thanks for coming. Sorry for the wait.”

“No problem,” you said, trying to sound casual.

Before you could leave, the blond player walked over, his stride casual but purposeful.

“Noa,” he greeted your cousin smoothly before turning his attention to you. “And who’s this?”

“This is my cousin,” Noel replied, his tone guarded. “She’s a professional volleyball player studying here in Germany.”

The player extended a hand, his smirk deepening. “Michael Kaiser. A pleasure to meet you.”

You hesitated briefly before shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you too.”

His grip lingered just a second longer than necessary, his gaze holding yours until Noel cleared his throat.

“All right, Kaiser, don’t bother her,” Noel said, ushering you toward the car.

As you left, you couldn’t shake the feeling of Kaiser’s eyes on you, his smirk etched into your mind.

A few days later, you found yourself at the stadium again, this time after classes. Noel had asked you to pick him up, but when he arrived, he had other plans.

“Sorry,” he said, climbing into the passenger seat. “I have a meeting downtown. I’ll need to leave my car here for now.”

“Okay,” you replied, shrugging.

Before you could drive off, Kaiser appeared, his gym bag slung over his shoulder. “Noa, heading out already?”

“Yeah,” Noel replied, nodding toward you. “(y/n)’s heading back to her place. You live in the same direction, don’t you? Why don’t you ride with her?”

You blinked in surprise, but Kaiser grinned. “If (y/n) doesn’t mind, I’d be happy to.”

You hesitated, but his relaxed demeanor made it hard to say no. “Sure, why not?”

Kaiser slid into the passenger seat after Noel left, his presence immediately filling the car.

“So,” he began, breaking the silence. “What’s a professional volleyball player doing chauffeuring her cousin?”

You laughed lightly. “It’s a one-time thing. I just moved here, and Noel’s been helping me get settled.”

“Ah, a newcomer,” he said, studying you with curiosity. “How are you finding Munich so far?”

“It’s beautiful,” you admitted. “But I’m still adjusting. It’s a big change.”

“You don’t seem like the type to be overwhelmed easily,” he remarked, his smirk returning.

You glanced at him, caught off guard. “And you can tell that from a ten-minute car ride?”

He grinned. “I’m good at reading people.”

When you arrived at his stop, Kaiser lingered, his hand on the door handle. “Thanks for the ride. I owe you one. How about I buy you coffee sometime?”

You hesitated, unsure if he was serious.

“It’s just coffee,” he added, his smirk softening.

“Okay,” you agreed, smiling despite yourself.

A few days later, you met Kaiser at a cozy café. The atmosphere was warm, the smell of freshly brewed coffee filling the air.

"So," Kaiser began after taking a sip of his espresso, "why aren't you playing volleyball right now? You're clearly passionate about it."

You smiled, leaning back in your chair. "I want to finish college first. After that, I'll focus on volleyball completely—no distractions."

He tilted his head, intrigued. "No distractions, huh? What's the plan after college?

"Brazil," you said, your eyes lighting up. "I have a friend there—Oikawa. He's one of the best setters I know, and training with him will push me to my limits. I'll stay there for a few years, then join Japan's national team."

Kaiser raised an eyebrow. "You've already been offered a spot on the national team?"

You nodded. "Yeah. It's a dream come true, but I want to be ready. I don't want to hold back when I step onto that court."

He leaned forward, his blue eyes locked onto yours. "You're playing the long game. That's rare. Most people I know rush into success without thinking."

"I'm not most people," you said, your tone teasing but firm.

Kaiser grinned. "I noticed."

After finishing your coffee and a shared plate of pastries, Kaiser leaned back in his chair. "So, what now? Should I call you a cab, or do you want to walk home?"

You glanced out the window at the calm evening streets. "I'd rather walk. It's not far, and I like the fresh air."

He stood up, slipping on his coat. "Then I'll walk with you. Munich's safer than most cities, but I don't trust it with you walking alone."

You laughed softly but didn't argue, letting him accompany you.

The walk was quiet at first, the cobblestone streets glistening under the streetlights. The city seemed to glow, a mix of old-world charm and modern energy. Kaiser walked beside you, his hands in his pockets, his usual confidence seemingly muted by thought.

"So," he said suddenly, his tone casual but his eyes sharp. "Where will you be staying in Brazil?"

You turned to him, surprised by the question. "Oikawa's already reserved an apartment for me. It's next to his."

Kaiser stopped walking for a moment, his expression darkening. "Next to his?"

You nodded. "Yeah, he insisted. Said it'd be easier for us to train together."

He began walking again, his movements a little stiffer than before. "Are you and Oikawa... a thing?"

The question caught you off guard. "What?"

"You know," he said, his voice flat but laced with irritation. "Dating. Together. Is he more than a friend?"

You stared at him, unsure whether to laugh or be annoyed. "No, Michael. Oikawa's just a friend. We've known each other for years, and that's it.”

Kaiser's shoulders relaxed slightly, but his jaw remained tight. "Good. Because if he were, I'd have a lot to say about him reserving an apartment for you."

You rolled your eyes, choosing to keep walking instead of engaging. Kaiser, however, wasn't done.

"You're really going to spend years with this guy?" he pressed.

"It's not like that," you replied, exasperated but amused by his persistence. "We're both focused on our goals, and training with someone as talented as him is an opportunity I can't pass up. That's all."

Kaiser didn't respond right away, his gaze fixed on the pavement ahead. When you reached your apartment building, he stopped a few steps away, his expression softer but still guarded.

"Well," he said, his voice lighter now, "thanks for the walk. Try not to let this Oikawa guy push you too hard in training. And don't let him distract you from finishing college."

You smirked, raising an eyebrow. "I can handle myself, Kaiser."

He gave a small wave, his usual smirk creeping back. "Goodnight, (y/n)"

"Goodnight, Michael," you replied, watching as he walked away.

You climbed the stairs to your apartment, his words still lingering in your mind. Kaiser was nothing if not persistent—and somehow, you didn't mind that one bit.

The morning came early, as it always did in your life. The prestigious university you were enrolled in wasn't for the faint of heart, and each day felt like an uphill battle. Despite your passion for volleyball, the weight of academic expectations was just as heavy. You had to be at your best—on the court and in the classroom.

As you made your way through the crowded halls, your mind raced with formulas and historical facts, preparing yourself for another grueling round of tests. Being at the top of your game academically wasn't easy, but it was a challenge you gladly accepted.

The tests, assignments, and lectures blurred into a routine, but one thing was always certain—you thrived under pressure. Each paper, each exam, was a chance to prove yourself, to show that you weren't just another student passing through.

After hours of studying and a few brutal tests, you finally wrapped up the day. As you walked out of the university, exhausted but satisfied, the familiar call of coffee beckoned you.

A quick stop at your favorite café gave you just enough energy to power through the night. It was already 10:00 PM, and you had one final task before you could call it a day: picking up Noel.

You pulled into the stadium parking lot, scanning the area for Noel. It was a late-night session, and the stadium lights cast long shadows over the empty spaces. As you waited, the sound of footsteps caught your attention, and your eyes flickered toward a familiar figure.

It was Michael Kaiser, standing near his car, surveying the area with that same confident posture. His eyes caught yours immediately, his lips curling into a familiar smirk. You felt that familiar rush when you saw him, but this time it wasn't just curiosity. Something more lingered in the air between you.

You approached him, not even thinking twice. Kaiser turned to face you, his expression neutral but something flickered in his gaze.

"You here to pick up your cousin?" Kaiser asked, his voice smooth.

"Yeah," you nodded, scanning the area. "Where is he?"

"He's just speaking with someone," Kaiser said casually, though you could tell his focus was elsewhere. "Noel's always talking to someone. Could never get him to keep his head in the game."

You chuckled lightly. "You sound like you know him well."

"I do," Kaiser said, his tone still flat, but you couldn't help but feel that there was more behind his words. His gaze shifted to you, and after a brief pause, he leaned in slightly, almost like it was an afterthought. "I never got your number."

You blinked in surprise before pulling out your phone. "Right. You didn't."

He reaches for his pockets and pulls out his phone, he presses the power button, yet the screen remains black. “Shit my phone’s dead, can I type in my number instead?”

“No problem at all” You handed your phone to him, and without hesitation, he typed in his number. When he returned your phone, his fingers brushed against yours briefly.

"I've got somewhere to be," Kaiser said, checking the time. "But I'll talk to you later." His smirk deepened, and with a final look, he turned to leave.

Before you could gather your thoughts, Noel arrived, waving from a distance. You smiled and waved back.

"Oh, you're here?" Noel asked, jumping into the passenger seat of your car.

"Yeah," you replied, slipping your phone back into your bag, your mind still on the brief exchange with Kaiser. "Let's go home."

As you started the drive, the silence between you and Noel wasn't uncomfortable—it was more a reflection of how tired you both were. The night was peaceful, the streets of Munich empty as you made your way home.

"You were talking to Kaiser?" Noel asked after a long pause, breaking the silence.

You glanced at him, surprised by the question. "Yeah, I ran into him at the stadium. Why?"

Noel didn't immediately answer, but you could sense his curiosity. "He's a good player. But I didn't think you two would meet like that."

You shrugged. "We just talked for a bit. Nothing big."

Noel didn't press further. Instead, he looked out the window, his thoughts likely preoccupied with the training and his performance on the field.

As you neared your apartment, you couldn't shake the feeling that your encounter with Kaiser wasn't a coincidence. There was something about him that kept drawing you in. Maybe it was his intensity, or the way he seemed so effortlessly confident.

You pulled into the parking area of the sleek apartment complex where Noel lived, the car slowly coming to a stop. He'd been silent for most of the ride, probably too tired from training, but now, as you were about to part ways, he seemed to have a few words left to share.

"We've got a game tomorrow," Noel said as he reached for the door handle, his voice carrying a certain level of seriousness. "You should come watch, after all tomorrow is Sunday. We're playing a strong team, and it'd be good to have you there.”

You glanced at him, curious. "A game tomorrow?"

"Yeah," he continued, grinning a little. "And, you know, you should come and give Kaiser some motivation. Maybe he'll need it." His eyes sparkled with mischief as he added, "I'm sure he could use some cheering up."

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head. "Haha, very funny," you replied sarcastically. "We're just friends, Noel."

Noel gave a dramatic shrug as he opened the door, but there was a teasing glint in his eyes. "Alright, if that's what you say..." He paused, then added with a smirk, "But I'll still reserve some tickets for you. Just in case you change your mind and decide to come."

You chuckled. "You're impossible," you teased, but the offer still warmed you. "But fine. I'll see about it. Goodnight, Noel."

Noel stepped out of the car, turning back to give you a grateful smile. "Goodnight, (y/n). And thank you for picking me up, really. I know it's late, and you must be tired." He gave you a sincere nod before heading toward the entrance of the building.

"Anytime, couz. Get some rest. You've got a big game ahead," you called after him.

You watched him disappear into the building, your mind still buzzing from the day's events. You were excited for tomorrow's game now, especially after Noel's hint about Kaiser. It seemed like things were definitely starting to shift in unexpected ways.

As you drove home, you couldn't help but feel the pull of the upcoming game—and maybe, just maybe, you'd get a chance to see Kaiser again.

The second you arrived home, you didn't even bother taking off your shoes before you plopped into bed. The exhaustion from the day's work and everything that had happened weighed down on you, and before you knew it, you were under the covers, your eyes slowly closing.

Just as you were about to drift off, your phone buzzed on the nightstand, pulling you out of your drowsy state. You reached for it, blinking a few times to focus on the screen. An unknown number flashed across your phone.

You hesitated for a moment, then opened the message. The text read:

"Hey, this is Kaiser."

Your eyebrows furrowed in surprise. What was Kaiser texting you for? You quickly opened the message, eager to see what he wanted.

The next message appeared:

"Do you know about the game tomorrow?"

You blinked, then typed back, "Yeah, Noel told me. He's been talking about it all day."

Kaiser's reply came swiftly:

"The game starts at 1 PM. Don't forget to come and cheer us on. It's going to be intense."

You let out a small laugh, your fingers hovering over the keyboard as you decided to respond. "You should sleep now, it's almost midnight, and you have a game tomorrow."

Kaiser's reply was almost immediate:

"I'll sleep when I'm ready. But you're right, I need to rest. See you tomorrow at the game."

"Goodnight," you typed, a smile tugging at your lips as you sent it.

You dropped your phone onto the nightstand, turning off the light. As you settled back into the pillows, your thoughts drifted to the game tomorrow—and to Kaiser. Something told you tomorrow would be interesting, to say the least.

With that, you finally allowed yourself to drift off to sleep, ready for the day ahead.

You wake up with a sudden jolt, stretching your arms as you try to shake off the remnants of sleep. Your body feels heavy, but the realization hits you like a splash of cold water. You glance at the clock.

12:15?!

Your eyes widen in shock. You've slept way longer than intended, and now the rush is on. The game starts at 1:00 PM, and you have so much to do before heading out.

Scrambling out of bed, you grab a basic tee and a pair of shorts from your wardrobe. As you lay them out, a small doubt creeps in. What's the right outfit for a game like this? You hadn't thought about it before—just assumed anything would do. But now, standing there, it feels strange to show up unprepared.

After a moment's hesitation, you shrug. Whatever. Simple works.

You quickly pull on the clothes, grab your sneakers, and rush out of your apartment with your essentials—phone, wallet, keys. Locking the door behind you, you head to your car and drive toward the venue.

The trip is quick, but by the time you arrive, it's already 12:45. Just enough time for a quick stroll before the game starts. Noel had reserved a seat for you, so finding a spot wasn't a concern. But as you approach the entrance, you notice something that makes you pause.

Everyone around you is decked out in jerseys—some Bastard Munchen ones, others generic team merch—but they're all representing. Looking down at your simple tee, embarrassment creeps in. You feel out of place.

Scanning the nearby stalls, your eyes land on one selling jerseys. Perfect. You make a beeline for it, browsing through the racks until you find a Noa jersey. Excitement bubbles up, but it's short-lived. They don't have your size.

You frown, disappointment threatening to take over. But then you spot another jersey—a Kaiser one. That'll work.

You buy it and head to the bathroom to change, the fabric feeling a little stiff but comforting in its own way. As you glance at your reflection, a small smile tugs at your lips. You may not have planned this, but at least you won't stand out awkwardly in the crowd.

Alright. Let's do this.

You hurry to your seat just as the game begins. The energy in the arena is electric, the crowd roaring with every play. Your heart races as the teams battle it out, trading points in a nail-biting match. By the time it's 2-2, the tension is almost unbearable.

Then, the final set begins. Your eyes are glued to the court, watching as Kaiser moves with precision and determination. During a brief break, his gaze sweeps the crowd—and lands on you. For a moment, your eyes meet. Heat rushes to your cheeks, and you quickly look away.

The game resumes, and with one powerful strike, Kaiser seals the victory for Bastard Munchen. The arena erupts, fans cheering and celebrating wildly. But before joining his team in the celebration, Kaiser glances at you again. This time, a smirk curves his lips, as if silently acknowledging you.

The crowd was chaotic, with players and staff bustling about in the player's area. You were searching for Noel Noa, your cousin, but the sheer volume of people made it nearly impossible to spot him. Frustrated, you pushed forward, determined to find him.

You bumped into someone solid, nearly losing your balance. "Tch, watch it," came an annoyed but familiar voice. You looked up to see Kaiser, his sharp eyes narrowing at first, then softening with recognition.

"Oh, Y/N? What are you doing here?" he asked, crossing his arms.

"I'm looking for Noa," you said.

Kaiser let out an exaggerated sigh, brushing a hand through his hair. "Figures. Fine, I'll help you. Stay close."

He started cutting through the crowd effortlessly, his confident presence parting people as he went. You followed closely, grateful for the help.

"There he is," Kaiser said, nodding ahead. Sure enough, Noel Noa stood tall, deep in conversation. "Go on, talk to him."

You stepped forward, but just as you called out, a journalist swooped in, pulling Noa aside for an interview. He gave you an apologetic look as he was whisked away, leaving you stranded in the middle of the bustling crowd.

Suddenly, the noise felt deafening, the people pressing in too close. Your breathing quickened as panic started to set in.

A hand grabbed your wrist, steady and reassuring. "Hey, I've got you."

It was Kaiser. He pulled you out of the crowd and into a quieter, more open space. The relief was immediate, and you took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself.

"You good?" he asked, his tone unusually gentle.

Before you could respond, a voice called out. "Hey!"

You turned to see an interviewer with a camera pointed at you, a curious glint in her eyes.

"Hey! Aren't you the star volleyball player invited to join the Japan national team?"

You freeze, your heart skipping a beat. Turning, you see an interviewer, her camera pointed right at you.

"And," she continues, her tone teasing, "are you two a thing?"

Her words hang in the air, and you feel the heat rising in your face. The camera clicks, capturing you and Kaiser standing close, his name clearly visible on your jersey.

Before you can respond, Kaiser steps in, a charming grin on his face. "We're just talking," he says smoothly, his voice carrying an easy confidence. "But I guess the press loves a good story."

The interviewer isn't deterred. "So no romance, then?"

Kaiser laughs, placing a hand on your shoulder. "Nope. Just friends," he says with a playful wink. "Though I'll admit—she has excellent taste in jerseys."

You glance at him, half-annoyed, half-amused, as the interviewer snaps another photo and moves on, satisfied with her scoop.

"Well," you mutter, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, "that was... something."

Kaiser chuckles. "You'll get used to it. But hey, we looked good, didn't we?"

You can't help but laugh, his lightheartedness easing the tension. "I guess so."

"See?" he says with a grin. "You've got a fanbase now."

Shaking your head, you reply, "I just hope they don't start spreading rumors."

"Let them," Kaiser teases. "We'd make a great duo" His tone softens, and he gives you a sincere look. "But seriously, you okay?"

You nod, offering a small smile. "Yeah, I'm good. Thanks for handling that."

"No problem," he says with a wink. "Just another day in the spotlight."

And with that, the tension melts away. Standing beside him, you feel like you can take on whatever comes next.

you realize that being around Kaiser isn't as overwhelming as you thought. His charisma, while undeniable, has a way of putting you at ease.

As then crowd thins out, he gestures toward an exit. "Come on, let me walk you to your car," he offers, his tone casual.

You nod, falling into step beside him. The evening air is crisp, and the noise from the stadium fades into the distance. For a moment, neither of you speaks, the silence oddly comfortable.

"You know," Kaiser begins, breaking the quiet, "you're full of surprises."

You glance at him, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

He shrugs, a small smirk playing on his lips. "Most people I meet are either intimidated or trying too hard to impress. But you? You're just... you. It's refreshing."

You let out a soft laugh. "Well, I could say the same about you. For someone as confident as you seem, you're not as much of a showoff as I expected."

Kaiser raises an eyebrow, feigning offense. "Not a showoff? Did you not see that goal today?"

You roll your eyes, a smile tugging at your lips. "Okay, maybe a little bit of a showoff. But not in a bad way."

He chuckles, and for a moment, his expression softens. "Thanks for coming today. It was... nice having you there."

The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard, and you feel your cheeks warm. "It was fun," you admit. "You guys are incredible to watch."

As you reach your car, Kaiser leans against the door, his hands tucked into his pockets. "So, about that coffee," he says, his smirk returning. "How about we make it dinner next time?"

You blink, surprised by the sudden shift. "Dinner?"

"Yeah," he says casually, as if it's the most natural thing in the world. "You need a proper introduction to Munich. And who better to show you around than me?"

You hesitate for a moment, unsure if he's teasing or serious. But the look in his eyes tells you he means it.

"Alright," you say finally, a small smile playing on your lips. "Dinner it is."

His grin widens, and he steps back, letting you open your car door. "Good. I'll text you the details."

As you drive away, you can't help but replay the day's events in your mind. Somehow, amidst the chaos of your new life in Germany, Kaiser has managed to slip past your defenses. And while you're not sure what that means yet, could you possibly have feelings for him?

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Great Expectations 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, power imbalance, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Professor Holmes’ class is your most difficult, but he’s about to make it even more challenging.

Characters: Sherlock Holmes (modern AU)

Note: monday

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Friday arrives too quickly for your likely. Amid the usual cluster of readings, lectures, and assignments, you have Professor’s Holmes’ additional task to add to the pile. It feels unfair that he would point out your own efforts only to force more upon you. His praise hardly seems like that in retrospect. 

That you did the readings likely made your experience simpler, though the vague instructions leave you uncertain. No rubric, no objectives, no outline. Your format in the usual style and triple-check the word count before you resign yourself to fate or fortune, whichever favours you. 

As usual, Professor Holmes prefers a physical copy, neglecting the digital workspace designed by the campus for ease of access. He doesn’t seem to be the type for the easy way out, does he? You try not to malinger on your gripes and head off, promising to reward yourself with a double whip frap for your work. It’s certainly more than you’ll receive from your professor, even if you do manage to gleam your first A+ from the man. 

The softness of autumn mingles with the crispness of early winter. You mourn the orange and yellow leaves as they start to curl at the edges and brown, blowing across the pavement and catching on pantlegs and tree roots. Midterm season is almost over but it won’t be long before finals rise to haunt you. 

You come up the Herringbone building and look up at the romanticist arches and columns. The esteemed architecture has you feeling even smaller. Surely, the professor will only add to that. 

Inside, the air is dry from the heat blowing from the high vents and curved staircases crest the foyer. You follow the left one up and continue along to the small set of steps that lead up to a hallway with only three office doors. Holmes is at the very end. You went there once before when you needed to be signed into the course; he was certain to make you wait then threatened not to sign the form at all. 

You stop and stare at the frosted glass with his pedigree emblazoned on it. You contemplate just shoving the paper through his slot but the light is on. You raise your fist and gently tap on the wood. You bounce on your feet as you wait, tugging at the itchy collar of the blue sweater dotted with little clouds. In the warmth of the stuffy building and under your wool jacket, it’s stifling. 

You hear movement from within and ready yourself for the encounter. You don’t think you’ve ever talked to Professor Holmes without some degree of awkwardness. On your end, of course. He can’t be bothered to care what others think of him. 

The door opens and you try to smile but it feels like chewing rocks. He looks back at you without an ounce of emotion. You gulp. 

“Um, Professor, I have my paper--” 

He’s already walking away as you stand dumbly in the doorway. You blanch as he circles back to his desk and sits heavily in his seat. He leans forward and dips his head, bending over an open leather folio with a lined pad within. A curl falls onto his forehead and he reaches without looking for the pipe propped up on a mahogany tray. 

“Come in,” he says before he puts the pipe to his lips and bites down. He teethes on it as he snatches up a pen with his other hand. You warily obey and cross the threshold. 

“So, um, here you go,” you near the desk and lay down the stapled paper. He doesn’t look up. “Erm, thanks, professor. I hate to disturb, so I’ll just leave it here--” 

He sighs and sits up, flicking back the curl as he replaces the pipe on the tray, “they won’t let me light that, even with the window open.” 

You glance over at the drawn curtains and nod, “oh.” 

“You’re the first,” he interjects before you can summon any sort of response. 

“Ah, oh--” 

“You are rather quick, aren’t you?” He challenges as he rolls the pen between his fingers, his shoulders spreading wide against the puckered leather chair, “fleet of foot, as some Victorian ponce might say. Quiet.” 

You blink and purse your lips, giving a shrug. 

“You didn’t say hello,” he intones, “it is courteous when you see an acquaintance to greet them, though I suppose etiquette does continue to change.” 

“Um, I didn’t want to... impose?” You murmur. 

His expression remains cryptic. You can’t tell if he’s annoyed or amused or something else. 

“So you didn’t,” he shrugs, his vest bracing on his chest. 

“Sorry, er, sir. But um, there’s my paper, I’ll... let you be. I’m sure you’re busy enough--” 

“Terribly busy,” he confirms dryly. “Since I’ll have a new batch of papers to mark, I’ll be kept well in hand.” 

You clasp your hands together and sway, “right, uh--” 

“And you’ll be off like the rest of those dull girls, paying no mind to the real purpose of study, but rather the wordly pleasures of the modern campus. All that pumpkin spice and such.” He reprimands. 

“Oh, uh, professor...” you know better than to argue. He is set in his ideas of his students and what should make you any different than the rest. 

“Right then,” he reaches for your paper and barely glances at the title page. He flips to the short essay and his eyes skim. He reaches for the antique pen and marks up the page as he goes. He hums as he scratches with the nib. “Good point but clunky prose. No, redudant.” He scribbles his comments in the margins. He turns to the second page and sighs. He closes it and holds it out. “You show comprehension but you need refinement.” 

“Um, thanks, er...” you take it hesitantly and back up again. He watches you with his bold blue eyes, not showing a single crack in his veneer. 

“Go off and enjoy your weekend, don’t fret over the fault of others. Certainly, you show more promise than most who haunt my lectures,” he says. His tone is flat but his words are praising. The contradiction has you off-foot. 

“Thank you, Professor, have a good weekend too.” 

He doesn’t respond as he puts his attention back to another stack of papers. You turn on your heel slowly and scurry to the door. He clears his throat and you stop. 

“Perhaps I mightn’t have such a tedious weekend.” 

You glance back but he still has his head down. You nod and leave him be with a sharp inhale. You hold your breath in until you close the door from the other side. 

Only a few more weeks and you’ll be through this class. Hopefully, you won’t ever have to face the heart palpitations that come with each encounter after that. For now, you will focus on the last paper and the eventual exam. Those are hurdles that look higher the closer you get. 

📕

There’s a cafe off campus you prefer. The library kiosk and the franchised booth in the Student Rec Centre are always overcrowded. This place isn’t so bad. A local mom and pop with a single barista. Maude, the retiree turned businesswoman, works slowly but efficiently. Traffic matches her pace but is enough to keep her thriving. 

“I’ll bring it to you, dearie,” she smiles as she hands you a plate with a crumbly scone on it. You thank her and go to find a seat. 

The place is homey. The seating is mismatched. There are armchairs around a low coffee table, some long tables with thrift store dining chairs, and square table in the corner with two benches and some stools. The rug that stands center to the sitting space is faded but its patterns still visible. 

You claim one of the armchairs near the bookcases and sit. Despite the tense submission, you’re glad not be stressing over another mark. Another A- to add to the rota in Holmes’ class. You could do a lot worse given what you’ve overheard from your classmates. 

The door opens and closes, letting in a chilly. You keep your coat on as you balance the scone on the coffee table. You’ll wait until you have your mocha and savour them together. It’s a rare treat but the dropping temperature coaxed you into it. 

A familiar baritone pricks your ears. You glance over before you can bury your nose in your phone and flinch. What luck. You almost doubt it’s a coincidence. Twice in a row you’ve managed to stumble upon the Professor outside of class. 

Your shoulders sink as you turn back and plant your elbow on the armrest, shielding your face behind your hand. What do you do? Your mind races. Despite what he said in his office he does not radiate welcoming energy. You can’t just flee and leave your order behind; it isn’t fair to Maude and you wouldn’t want to waste the money. 

Professor Holmes’ voice carries. He orders a black coffee and two shortbread biscuits; the Saturday special. The elder barista takes his order and as usual, bids him to sit down so she can bring it to him. You chew your lip as time ticks on. Make up your mind. 

Too late.  

“Pardon, oh,” Holmes approaches and gives pause as you look up at him. “You aren’t reserving these for your friends?” 

He gestures to the other arm chairs. You shake your head and clasp your phone tight in your hands. He dips his chin and sidles around the coffee chair. He removes his jacket and hangs it on the rack between the bookshelves. He lingers there as he browses the titles on the spines. 

Maude appears with your mocha in a large mug on a matching saucer. You thank her as she sets it by your scone. She calls over to Holmes, “I’ll have your coffee and biscuits in just a moment, dearie.” 

He turns his head and nods but says nothing else. She shuffles off and you lean forward to take your mug. Somehow your chocolatey treat doesn’t seem so sweet any more. He backs up and lowers himself across from you. You shyly return his gaze over the brim of your cup. 

“You come here often?” He asks. 

The question has you off-guard as much as his presence. You slurp noisily before you pull the cup away and put it down. You take the napkin by your scone and wipe your lips. 

“Sometimes. Once in a while. Er, I... I make my coffee at home. Tea, more often.” You clamp your lip shut before you can ramble on. 

“Mm, yes, I prefer tea as well. I was suggested the dark roast here by a colleague however.” 

You don’t know what to say. You’re entirely unprepared for the conversation. You’ve never thought much of what he might speak of outside his lectures. His interests, you assume, would align with his expertise. 

“You are enjoying your time? You haven’t any schoolwork?” He asks. 

You slant your lips one way then the other. You look down at the bag by your feet and back at him. He wears a wool sweater with elbow patches; not quite casual but casual for him. 

“I was going to do my readings...” you say. 

“Ah,” he sits back in the chair as Maude brings his coffee and biscuits. He thanks her tersely. 

You bend over and reach for your bag. You slide out your notebook and open it to the printed articles stashed between the pages. You hope it’s enough of an excuse not to talk as much. 

“My class?” He asks. 

“Yes, sir, er, Professor,” you answer. 

“Those are available digitally, as I understand.” 

“I know, but I, er, prefer print.” 

“Mm, yes, it does permeate more effectively, doesn’t it?” He intones. 

You agree with a silent nod and try to focus. You’re too shy to check if he’s watching you but it feels like he is. He sighs and sips from his cup. 

“What were you on the hunt for then?” He asks abruptly before you can read the introduction for the fifth time. You look up, perplexed. “At the craft store?” 

You open your mouth then pause. Finally, you summon the answer, “thread.” 

“Thread?” 

“Yes, I... make little things. Sometimes. It wasn’t urgent. I don’t have my sewing machine in my dorm and... no time.” You shrug and let the papers lay flat on your notebook. 

He considers you as his cheek dimples and he leans his chin on his knuckles. He looks down at the cup he holds over one leg. He sucks his teeth. 

“Rather flat,” he dislodges his elbow and leans forward. “And what did you get? It smells intriguing.” 

“Mocha with peppermint,” you answer. 

“Mm, with whip?” He peeks at your cup and the melting glut of cream. 

“Yes, Professor,” you reply. 

“I think I might trade mine for the same,” he stands with his cup in hand. 

You watch him, confused and uneasy. So much for getting some studying done. You doubt you’ll be able to concentrate with him looming on the other side of the table. 

[loafysainz]

Animals chap 3 | LN 4

cast: lando norris x minji nj

warn: PLS DONT READ IF U NOT INTO DARK FIC! SMUT 18+, NSFW, MDNI, toxic relationship, manipulation, obsession, controlling behaviours, mention of rape, suicide, and sa, rough sex, no-consent, kidnapping, full of madness, step-brother lando!, step-sister minji!

song rec: animals - maroon 5

chap 3/8

PLS DONT READ IF U NOT INTO DARK FIC!

Bianca returned her gaze to the city skyline outside the window. The cotton-like clouds had begun to scatter, revealing a clear sky—a perfect morning for their business trip to Thailand. She would be flying with a group of executives and, of course, Lando, who was leading the project.

Their company, Norris Automotive, was in the process of collaborating with Sainz Company, a luxury car manufacturer, to open a state-of-the-art factory in Thailand. This joint venture aimed to expand their market in Southeast Asia and establish a stronghold in the region’s automotive industry. Bianca knew this was a massive project, one that could shape her future.

"Wake me up when we landed, okay?" she said to her seatmate, a young production manager named Olivia, as she settled into her business class seat. Olivia smiled warmly. "Yes Bi. You look like you haven't slept all night. Rest up."

Bianca chuckled lightly. She hadn't had a proper night's sleep in days. The 11-hour flight to Bangkok seemed too far and long, and she barely had enough time to catch up on rest before the plane landed.

Upon arrival, they were whisked away by luxury cars arranged by the local team. The hotel Bianca had carefully selected was both beautiful and strategically located near the planned factory site. She had ensured every detail of their accommodations met the team’s needs, but Lando's unreadable expression left her wondering if her efforts were satisfactory.

“Here’s your room key, Sir,” she said nervously as she approached him.

Lando just taking the key without making eye contact before walking away.

Bianca sighed, her shoulders slumping. "Did I mess up again?" she muttered under her breath.

“Let’s get to our room,” Olivia said cheerfully, looping her arm through Bianca’s and snapping her out of her daze. They had agreed to share a room to make coordination easier.

****

As the hours passed, Bianca worked diligently to prepare for the afternoon meeting. The team gathered in a sleek, modern conference room in central Bangkok, where Lando presented a compelling proposal to Sainz’s stakeholders. His commanding presence and strategic insights impressed everyone in the room.

The meeting was a success. The company agreed to proceed with the partnership, paving the way for the construction of their new factory in Thailand. The deal promised to bring economic growth to the area and position Norris Automotive as a leader in the luxury car market.

“I need this report ready by tomorrow morning,” Lando said brusquely.

“Yes, sir,” she replied, masking her frustration.

****

After a long meeting the teams have all arrived in a quiet village near Chiang Rai, where they plan to visit the potential site for Norris Automotive's new factory. The company is exploring partnerships in this beautiful location surrounded by lush greenery and fields that seem to stretch on indefinitely.

The main road that runs through the village is impeccably maintained, their tour guide, Mr. Somchai, leads them to a resort-style facility built in harmony with its natural surroundings. The architecture reflects a traditional, Thai elements, with wide glass windows and teak wood accents. The air carries the scent of lemongrass and jasmine in bloom as Bianca and other teams explore the facility.

"Good afternoon," greeted a woman dressed in traditional Thai attire. Bianca and her colleague smiled politely in return. "We’ve arranged a complimentary spa for all the company staff,"

"This is amazing," Olivia whispered, nudging Bianca as they entered the spa’s reception area. "A fully paid spa session? I feel so lucky to be here!" Bianca chuckled, following one of the Thai attendants toward the massage rooms.

"This way, ma’am," the attendant said, guiding Bianca into a serene room filled with calming music and the faint aroma of essential oils. Bianca chose a traditional herbal compress massage, eager to experience the famed Thai therapy.

Half an hour later, Bianca decided to take a dip in the natural stone pool located in a secluded corner of the spa. She draped a soft cotton wrap over herself and stepped into the warm sun. But just as she was about to descend the stone steps leading to the pool, her foot is too slippery because of the spa oil.

But a pair of arms that suddenly wrapped around her waist made her body freeze.

"Sssh!" Lando! Bianca's heart fell to the bottom of her stomach. The danger alarm, set up on hear head. Because she is totally naked. Without a single fabric wrapped around her body. Bianca should have been able to escape as quickly as possible, but her reflexes suddenly dead. She could feel Lando's arms right under her breasts hugging her tightly,

"Shut up, if you don't want to be ashamed." Lando whispered right next to Bianca ear. What did that mean? Wasn't it Lando who was now make a shame on her?

"Well, well, Lando just getting a massage must be with a comfort woman." Max's sudden footsteps and voice alerted Bianca. She panicked and scared, what if he knew that the girl Lando was hugging was her own sister? But Lando's arms tightened around her.

"No matter where you are, there's always a girl who's willing to play with you. Including that woman, who spent the night with you in the hotel room."

Lando chuckled. "Of course. This woman deserves to be enjoyed." And the man's low laughter made Bianca tense up.

"So, can you go Max? My little business with this woman isn't done yet."

"Okay, I'll be waiting in my room." Max chuckled. "Make it easy, man."

Then the sound of his footsteps retreated, allowing Lando's voice to return to Bianca's numb hearing. This is wrong. This shouldn't be happening.

They were in the middle of a mistake.

"I have saved you from embarrassment," the man whispered in a low voice, while

whispered in a low voice, as he spread a strange all over Bianca's body.

"I deserve a thank you right? Lil sister?" Bianca steeled herself. "Let me go, Land-"

The man pulled her, and Bianca was about to say never came out because Lando silenced her lips first. Until the girl's eyelids widened as Lando crushed them passionately. With his rough tongue that insisted on playing around in her mouth. Lando kissed her.

After a few minute Lando came to his senses and broke the deep kiss, their gazes met. Bianca gasped, her tears welling up and her lips swollen.

Lando's breathing was just as bad, uncontrollable. But in those blazing eyes, there was not the slightest hint of regret for making her little sister cry.

Instead of clarifying his actions, Lando picked up the fallen fabric and draped it around Bianca's naked body. And his fingers put the flower that fall from the trees in his girl's ear. Before he left, without leaving a word.

next chap

[jcmarchi]

3D-ViTac: Low-Cost Tactile Sensing System Bridges Human-Robot Gap

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/3d-vitac-low-cost-tactile-sensing-system-bridges-human-robot-gap/

3D-ViTac: Low-Cost Tactile Sensing System Bridges Human-Robot Gap

The world of robotics faces a persistent challenge: replicating the intricate sensory capabilities that humans naturally possess. While robots have made remarkable strides in visual processing, they’ve historically struggled to match the nuanced touch sensitivity that allows humans to handle everything from fragile eggs to complex tools with ease.

A team of researchers from Columbia University, University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign, and University of Washington has developed an innovative solution called 3D-ViTac, a multi-modal sensing and learning system that brings robots closer to human-like dexterity. This innovative system combines visual perception with sophisticated touch sensing, enabling robots to perform precise manipulations that were previously considered too complex or risky.

Hardware Design

The 3D-ViTac system represents a significant breakthrough in accessibility, with each sensor pad and reading board costing approximately $20. This dramatic reduction in cost, compared to traditional tactile sensors that can run into thousands of dollars, makes advanced robotic manipulation more accessible for research and practical applications.

The system features a dense array of tactile sensors, with each finger equipped with a 16×16 sensor grid. These sensors provide detailed feedback about physical contact, measuring both the presence and force of touch across an area as small as 3 square millimeters. This high-resolution sensing enables robots to detect subtle changes in pressure and contact patterns, crucial for handling delicate objects.

One of the most innovative aspects of 3D-ViTac is its integration with soft robotic grippers. The team developed flexible sensor pads that seamlessly bond with soft, adaptable grippers. This combination provides two key advantages: the soft material increases the contact area between sensors and objects, while also adding mechanical compliance that helps prevent damage to fragile items.

The system’s architecture includes a custom-designed readout circuit that processes tactile signals at approximately 32 frames per second, providing real-time feedback that allows robots to adjust their grip strength and position dynamically. This rapid processing is crucial for maintaining stable control during complex manipulation tasks.

Enhanced Manipulation Capabilities

The 3D-ViTac system demonstrates remarkable versatility across a range of complex tasks that have traditionally challenged robotic systems. Through extensive testing, the system successfully handled tasks requiring both precision and adaptability, from manipulating fragile objects to performing intricate tool-based operations.

Key achievements include:

Delicate object handling: Successfully grasping and transporting eggs and grapes without damage

Complex tool manipulation: Precise control of utensils and mechanical tools

Bimanual coordination: Synchronized two-handed operations like opening containers and transferring objects

In-hand adjustments: Ability to reposition objects while maintaining stable control

One of the most significant advances demonstrated by 3D-ViTac is its ability to maintain effective control even when visual information is limited or blocked. The system’s tactile feedback provides crucial information about object position and contact forces, allowing robots to operate effectively even when they can’t fully see what they’re manipulating.

Technical Innovation

The system’s most groundbreaking technical achievement is its successful integration of visual and tactile data into a unified 3D representation. This approach mirrors human sensory processing, where visual and touch information work together seamlessly to guide movements and adjustments.

The technical architecture includes:

Multi-modal data fusion combining visual point clouds with tactile information

Real-time processing of sensor data at 32Hz

Integration with diffusion policies for improved learning capabilities

Adaptive feedback systems for force control

The system employs sophisticated imitation learning techniques, allowing robots to learn from human demonstrations. This approach enables the system to:

Capture and replicate complex manipulation strategies

Adapt learned behaviors to varying conditions

Improve performance through continued practice

Generate appropriate responses to unexpected situations

The combination of advanced hardware and sophisticated learning algorithms creates a system that can effectively translate human-demonstrated skills into robust robotic capabilities. This represents a significant step forward in creating more adaptable and capable robotic systems.

Future Implications and Applications

The development of 3D-ViTac opens new possibilities for automated manufacturing and assembly processes. The system’s ability to handle delicate components with precision, combined with its affordable price point, makes it particularly attractive for industries where traditional automation has been challenging to implement.

Potential applications include:

Electronics assembly

Food handling and packaging

Medical supply management

Quality control inspection

Precision parts assembly

The system’s sophisticated touch sensitivity and precise control capabilities make it particularly promising for healthcare applications. From handling medical instruments to assisting in patient care, the technology could enable more sophisticated robotic assistance in medical settings.

The open nature of the system’s design and its low cost could accelerate robotics research across academic and industrial settings. The researchers have committed to releasing comprehensive tutorials for hardware manufacturing, potentially spurring further innovations in the field.

A New Chapter in Robotics

The development of 3D-ViTac represents more than just a technical achievement; it marks a fundamental shift in how robots can interact with their environment. By combining affordable hardware with sophisticated software integration, the system brings us closer to robots that can match human dexterity and adaptability.

The implications of this breakthrough extend beyond the laboratory. As the technology matures, we could see robots taking on increasingly complex tasks in various settings, from manufacturing floors to medical facilities. The system’s ability to handle delicate objects with precision while maintaining cost-effectiveness could democratize access to advanced robotics technology.

While the current system demonstrates impressive capabilities, the research team acknowledges areas for future development. Potential improvements include enhanced simulation capabilities for faster learning and broader application scenarios. As the technology continues to evolve, we may see even more sophisticated applications of this groundbreaking approach to robotic manipulation.

[dubai-properties-2024]

Al Thuraya Island by Ajmal Makan in Sharjah

Al Thuraya Island is your next step for luxury waterfront residences. Along the picturesque shores of Al Hamriyah, Sharjah, The Island stands as a radiant beacon of refined elegance and unparalleled living. This ambitious real estate project by Ajmal Makan redefines the very essence of luxury, offering an exclusive collection of 4, 5, 6, and 7-bedroom villas ranging from 2,773 to 5,119 square feet.

[vigilante24ish]

Angeli et Daemones

Summary:

You are part of the Corps of Gendarmerie, working alongside your father, Inspector Ernesto Olivetti. You also have a secret relationship with your childhood friend, the Camerlengo Patrick McKenna.

However, when the Vatican is under attack by shadows of the past, you are paired with Professor Robert Langdon to save the kidnapped Preferiti and, subsequently, the Vatican City itself.

Will you manage to save the city and the Catholic Church? Or will you betray everything you knew for the man who had captured your heart for so long?

Paring: Patrick McKenna x Reader Chapter Warning: Smut, Sex, and Mention of Death

Next - Chapter 2

Chapter 1

The Vatican City was a rare jewel in Italy. It was its own country and city, with its own rules and a plethora of secrets. There, secret orders were born and faded as the power of the Catholic Church grew with the passing centuries.

So many people visited, whether as tourists or for a religious trip, yet few knew what was hidden behind the ancient walls and fancy architectural miracles across it. Not even you, someone who was raised at the very heart of everything, knew of all the secrets they were kept buried.

Your father was the Inspector General, and that had opened many doors for you, giving you exclusive access behind the scenes, as some would call it. Yet, your mouth remained shut, and the secrets of Vatican City were well guarded.

You guarded not just their secret but also yours. For years, you portrayed the perfect soldier and a potential future investigator—the first woman to do so. For years, you visited Sunday Mass and prayed before sleep.

And for years, you had found yourself lying in the arms of a holy man, sinful thoughts clouding your mind... and his.

You thought you had everything in your life and knew everything about him, and you should have, after all; you were raised together. Yet soon you would discover that even the holiest of people had secrets, and the man you loved was not the exception.

The house you lived in was warm and just perfect for you. Being the Inspector’s daughter did come with privileges, like houses in the best areas and rather close to the Church, making certain evening visits far easier.

Candles burn slowly, the only illumination in the rooms, including your bedroom. Aromatic sticks burn without stopping, their sweet fragrance masking the smell of passion and lust in the room.

Your back was pressed against the soft mattress of your bed, body bare of anything but a simple satin nightgown that was pushed up, letting your legs and waist be exposed to needy, steady male hands.

A strained moan escaped your lips, your hand grabbing the back of a man’s neck and the other holding on his shoulder, nails threatening to mark his soft white skin. You tossed your head back, pressing it harder against your pillow and arched your back in response.

Eager lips found your neck, the kisses feathery soft and gentle, teeth always careful not to leave a mark. A groan reached your ears, the sound vibrating through your skin as your lover picked up his pace, unable to resist the way your body bent to his will.

A strong arm grabbed one leg and hooked it, wounding his waist, offering him a new angle that stole your breath away. Then, the same arm returned to hold you steady by the waist, fingers threatening to bruise your soft skin as he chased his release, no longer able to hold back.

For a man of the church, who was the true epitome of patience, he sure did know how to lose it when around you.

Though in your defence, it had taken years to achieve that and a lot of failed seducing attempts.

“My...” you almost called out the name of God as you felt the coiling sensation in your stomach, yet you restrained yourself from committing that sin.

It was bad enough you were sleeping with a man of god, a Camerlengo nonetheless. The last thing you needed was to utter God’s name as you reached your euphoria and surrendered to the familiar bliss that so many chased after.

Though, even if you did dare to sin that way, you could always ask for forgiveness. You preferred, however, not to reach that point, not yet, at least.

Your walls tightened, and you squeezed your hands, mouth open in delight and shock. The Camerlengo above you cursed next to your ear, feeling just how tight you were after your orgasm, threatening to lock him there.

His thrusts became sloppy; A few more was all he needed before he joined you, his face buried on your shoulder as he leaned, emptying his holy seed within you, making sure not to spill anything.

You both remained there for almost a full minute, the room silent except for your laboured breaths and pants. The high you both experienced slowly came down as sweat made your hair stick to your skin, and your bodies ached for a better position and some stretching.

The Camerlengo lowered himself to rest on you, always careful of his weight—a difference between the two of you. He let his head rest on your chest, hearing just how fast your heart was beating and sensing your chest as it moved up and down, filling your lungs with precious air.

You slowly released him and merely opened your legs wider, letting him find comfort in this position while he remained within you, as if wishing to ensure not a single drop was spilt. And you let him.

Your other hand moved from the back of his neck to gently caress his sweaty hair, which was once pristine and well-maintained but is now a moppy mess. Wild strands fell on his forehead in a way that you would never stop loving.

“You almost did it again, love,” a male voice said, your lover holding back a chuckle as his mind started to clear and his body started to relax.

“Did... did what?” you asked, trying to catch your breath.

He smirked, chin resting against your skin. “Call God upon this act.”

Your smile was sweet, and you had no true shame about what you almost did. “Next time, I will try to call you instead,” you said, bringing your face closer, pecking his sweet pink lips. “Camerlengo.”

This time, he did not hold his chuckle as he gently moved one hand to caress your side. “You could call me a sinner, and I would still ask for more.”

His gaze was soft and caring, something not many saw during Mass. To them, he was Camerlengo Patrick McKenna, the orphan boy under the Pope’s guidance. He was the soldier who preached kindness, whose eyes held pain and strength far beyond his years.

But to you, he was just... Patrick, your childhood friend. To you, he was the boy you tutored in Italian and spent your days studying the bible with him. To you, he was the man who broke his vows to be with you.

“Anyone who does not love does not know God because God is love.” He told you when you were younger, when you were worried what you wished to do was wrong.

Even now, many would judge it; thus, you had to remain secretive. It did offer a sense of adrenaline; you were not going to lie. But sometimes, you could imagine the scandalous news titles if things got out.

A Camerlengo and a Gendarmerie.

The Pope’s son and the daughter of the Pope’s bodyguard.

Straight out of the forbidden romance stories you used to read as a teenager before your interests shifted to more serious matters, such as psychology and criminology, to name a few.

Gentle, strong fingers caressed your cheek, snapping you from whatever world your mind had wandered into.

“What is on your mind, mi Angelo?” Patrick asked, looking at you with his beautiful deep blue eyes.

“Just stuff, you know how my mind is,” you explained, dismissing the seriousness of the topic.

“Thought I had knocked them out of you,” he smirked, shifting his body slightly, his soft member still within your caverns. “Perhaps I didn’t do a good job.”

Your chuckle was music to his ears, your beaming smile the sweetest image he could see. He wished this could be what he saw daily, not the grumpy old faces of the Priests. You were a ray of sun, sent by god to break through the dark clouds of his existence.

You were God’s gift, hidden behind the image of a simple low-born woman. Just like Mary Magdalene, you were more than you showed; he was the man you vowed to follow and love.

He offered his signature smile, letting you chuckle and brighten your mood while he admired you, as if you were the most beautiful painting he had ever seen.

His staring was not new; it was something he did when so many things were in his mind, and yet no bodily movement took place. Sometimes, you were out in public, and all he could do was stare at you from afar, hoping for the second your eyes would meet, and you would lower your head to hide your smile.

And sometimes, his staring was rather obvious to the men around him, especially his holy men. They were old men; they did not understand his feelings or his views, choosing to judge him for admiring the beauty of God, just as Adam admired the beauty of Eve after her creation.

“How is he?” you suddenly asked, your smile slowly fading. “Your father?”

The Pope’s health had declined in the past few months, and many feared for the worse. Medication was given in secret, and the world did not truly know, but deep down in their hearts, they feared it.

Pop Pius the XVI was a revolutionary, more open-minded than his predecessors. He did not cower at the face of advancing science but actually supported it, wishing to reduce the gap between religion and science.

He was a kind man, who adopted Patrick after his parents were killed in a bombing attack; and who allowed you to spent time with his new son, helping him learn this new life and language.

Despite being a woman, he even believed that you could make it to the Corp and follow your father’s footsteps.

Patrick sighed and returned to lay upon your chest, his ear pressed against your skin. “He is declining, day by day,” he confessed, his heart heavy. “I am afraid it won’t be long before the Father will take him back.”

Your hand through his hair was comforting, fingers gently massaging his scalp as your steady breathing calmed him down.

“When it happens, know I will be there for you, Patrick.” You whispered, gently kissing his head.

His response was to move his arms in a hug, keeping you closer as he chose to try to quiet his mind. He knew you both had to clean up, but you could do that later.

For now, he only wished to stay where he was, to cherish the feeling he only got when the two were left bare, with no secrets from one another.

Only this time, he held one: a secret he could not tell you. Perhaps one day he would, but for now, the burden had to be his and his alone.

He told himself, " There is no other choice," hoping this would help justify his actions before God's ever-seeing eye.

The day you dreaded happened a week after that sweet night with Patrick. You were with the Swiss Guard, accompanying your father to a meeting about increasing security measurements.

The phone call was sudden and went straight to the Commander’s Richter office. He picked it up, his face never giving away his emotions, even after the call ended. He looked at everyone in the room, his eyes cast down momentarily.

“His holy father is dead. He has passed in his sleep during the night,” he informed, forming a cross in respect.

Everyone followed except you, who were too shocked by the news to react in such a way. Your lips had parted, your eyes wide, and you swore you felt your heart rate spiking. But it was not because of the Pope’s death.

No, it was because of the pain you knew Patrick felt.

Patrick, you thought as you grabbed the silver cross hanging around your neck, his gift to you from years ago.

It took a week before you could even see him, for Vatican procedures were strict. He was inside preparing the funeral, destroying his father’s ring, and accepting the responsibilities that would happen when you arrived on the day of the Conclave.

And you... Well, you were busy yourself.

Cardinals from all over the world would fly for the funeral and then the Conclave, foreign security mixed with yours, while Vatican City would be filled with loyal believers who would come to pay their respects and cheer for the new Pope.

The Swiss Guard and the Gendarmerie would be spread thin, with every man available to help and ensure the outmost security for the holy faces of the Catholic Church. Meetings were held daily, and missions were sent often, and crime spiked now that the crowds were gathering.

But after one week of thinking and longing for the man that held your heart, your chance came.

His visit to your house was unexpected, starting with a sudden knock on your closed door. It was so unexpected that you grabbed your gun, ready to defend yourself if the visitor ended up being a foe, not a friend.

Yet all your trainings went silent upon opening the door and seeing a red-eyed, tired Patrick standing there, soaked clothes sticking to his skin while the rain outside raged with ferocity.

“My god, Patrick!” you exclaimed and placed the gun on a nearby little table before you grabbed his wet sleeve, pulling him into your house.

Your door shut with little more force than necessary, and you put the bolt in place before you turned to face him. His gaze remained downcast, his shivering body suffering beneath his wet clothes and the raindrops that had mixed with his salty tears.

Your next move was rushed. You grabbed a white towel from the cupboard before wrapping it around him. You felt the water seeping through the towel and felt how his body shivered due to the cold.

“Oh, Patrick,” you said gently, moving him to the armchair near the lighted fireplace and helping him sit.

“I am... so-sorry for co-coming this late...” his teeth faintly clutered with one another as his hand held the towel closer, trying to warm himself.

“Do not be ridiculous.” You knelt before him, your hands placed on his knees. “And don’t apologize. Patrick, you might be a man of God, but you are also human; don’t forget that.”

Your moves were soft. You slowly helped him remove his wet shoes and socks before grabbing another towel to start drying them off. You let him stare at you as you slowly started to take care of him, starting from low.

Like Jesus cleaning Judas’ feet, you were doing the same, unbeknown to yourself that you two represented those two more than one would think of.

You had just stood up when he did as well, his arms wrapping around you in a desperate and needy hug—one of a wounded child asking for comfort and safety. You returned the hug without hesitation, rubbing his back above the white towel, and you felt the silent sobs he tried hard to suppress.

“Let us get you something to change, Patrick.” You whispered to his ear, your heart aching for the wounded man in your arms.

He nodded but spoke no words, his body and mind tired after all he had been through, and more would come. Thankfully for him, you would be there like you always had been.

[starpains]

"Wrong" by Depeche Mode is literally Anakin Skywalker’s entire life in song form

This idea’s been sitting with me for a while now, and every time I revisit the song, it just hits harder. I don’t see myself ever writing a full “songfic,” but this connection wouldn’t let me go. I need to put it into words or combust. So I’m writing it out.

Depeche Mode’s Wrong is a brutal song—sharp-edged, spiraling, defiant—but the more I listen to it, the more it sounds like a mirror to Anakin Skywalker’s life. Not just thematically, but literally line by line. It traces the shape of his story with this eerie precision, like it was composed with him in mind.

It’s not just the events. It’s the emotional architecture. The bitterness, the failure, the misplaced trust, the ache of being told to be something you’re not. That desperation of trying to do the right thing and somehow getting it wrong—again and again and again.

So here’s a breakdown of how the lyrics unfold across Anakin’s life—from the boy on Tatooine to the man beneath the mask. Not a reinterpretation of the song. Just an overlap so specific it feels cosmic.

BORN WRONG 1. I was born with the wrong sign 2. In the wrong house 3. With the wrong ascendancy Anakin is born into slavery on a planet the Republic pretends doesn’t exist. His mother is a slave. He has no father. He doesn’t have a surname. He doesn’t even have a legal identity in the galaxy’s records. Implanted with a slave chip and owned by Watto, he grows up scavenging parts and risking his life in podraces. Everything about his childhood screams displacement. Vulnerability. Unbelonging.

“Born with the wrong sign”—he’s a child of prophecy, but his arrival brings anxiety, not celebration. Qui-Gon believes he’s the Chosen One. But the Council only sees danger. Darkness. A future clouded. From the moment he sets foot in the Temple, there’s resistance to his training. Yoda says, “The boy’s future is clouded.” The Force is strong in him—but unpredictable.

“In the wrong house”—Tatooine isn’t just lawless. It’s ignored. He’s outside the Republic’s reach. The Jedi would never have found him if not for a crash landing. His Force sensitivity is extraordinary, but it exists in the margins of a society that doesn’t care. He builds droids and podracers in a dusty workshop surrounded by scraps. His world is one of survival, not destiny.

“With the wrong ascendancy”—he has none. The Republic has no record of him. The Jedi don’t know how to place him. He doesn’t descend from a known family or tradition. And even once accepted into the Order, he never fully escapes that outsider status. He’s a nine-year-old slave turned initiate with no peer, no precedent, no place to belong. He’s too old. Too passionate. Too different. And he knows it.

Even within the Jedi, his origins mark him. He is treated like a risk, not a promise. The Council debates him as a problem, not a person. Anakin is made to feel that simply existing is already a deviation from the order of things.

This verse doesn’t just reflect where he’s born. It’s the foundation of his fracture. From the first breath, Anakin Skywalker is told he is wrong.

WRONG PATH, WRONG PLACE 4. I took the wrong road 5. That led to 6. The wrong tendencies The Jedi path offers freedom but demands detachment. From the start, Anakin struggles with this. He loves fiercely. He fears loss. He acts out of instinct and heart. The Council sees these as threats. His tendencies—loyalty, passion, empathy—are labeled dangers. Even Obi-Wan, who loves him, warns he’s too emotional. The road was paved with good intentions, but it leads him to be alienated within his own Order.

7. I was in the wrong place 8. At the wrong time 9. For the wrong reason 10. And the wrong rhyme 11. On the wrong day 12. Of the wrong week 13. I used the wrong method 14. With the wrong technique These eight lines all collapse around a single event: the Tusken Raider massacre.

Anakin dreams of his mother’s suffering. He rushes to Tatooine, too late to save her—she dies in his arms. Overcome with grief and rage, he slaughters the entire village. Not just the men, but the women and children too. It’s a moment of unrestrained violence that changes him. And everything about it is wrong. The timing. The place. The reasoning. He acts from anguish, not clarity. He confesses it to Padmé, expecting her to turn away. She doesn’t. The moment is buried. But it festers.

“Wrong rhyme” refers to the logic he uses to justify what he’s done. His actions come from pain, but he wraps them in rhetoric that sounds like purpose. He tells Padmé, “They’re animals, and I slaughtered them like animals.” That isn’t a reason—it’s a rhythm of rage disguised as rationale. A distorted rhyme that masks his grief with violence.

“Wrong technique” speaks to how he acts: brutally, blindly, and without discrimination. He doesn’t seek justice. He doesn’t rescue anyone. He destroys. It's not just vengeance—it’s an unraveling. And there’s no control, no restraint. The way he wields his power is reactive, not intentional.

This event becomes a template.

When Anakin kills Count Dooku, the same structure repeats. The choice isn’t made in a moment of necessity but under pressure, spurred by Sidious’s whisper: “Do it.” Dooku is unarmed. The act is not justice—it’s execution. Wrong reason. Wrong method.

When he intervenes in the fight between Mace Windu and Sidious, it plays out again. Wrong place, wrong time. He doesn’t act out of allegiance to Sidious, but out of fear. Fear of Padmé’s death. He tries to stop one death and causes another. The technique is a betrayal. The result is irreversible.

The Tusken massacre is where it begins. Every major turn afterward—Dooku, Windu, Mustafar—is a variation on that same flawed pattern: pain mistaken for purpose, violence masquerading as control.

SOMETHING WRONG INSIDE 15. There’s something wrong with me chemically 16. Something wrong with me inherently 17. The wrong mix 18. In the wrong genes This is the core of Anakin's internal conflict. He isn’t just different—he’s impossible. Born without a father, potentially created by the Force itself, he carries a midichlorian count that outpaces every known Jedi, even Yoda. He is a miracle to some, a mistake to others. Qui-Gon sees him as the Chosen One, the one who will bring balance. But the Jedi Council looks at him and sees something unstable.

They sense something coiled beneath the surface—potential, yes, but also volatility. He is supposed to embody the light, but darkness pulses inside him from the beginning. And he feels it. He doesn’t understand it, but he knows it’s there. That unshakable sense that something inside him isn’t aligned with what he’s supposed to be.

When the Council doubts him, when Obi-Wan warns him, when Palpatine flatters him, it all reinforces the same thing: there’s something wrong with me.

“Chemically” becomes more than metaphor when the Jedi analyze his blood. “Inherently” reflects the gnawing feeling that he was born with a flaw in his soul. “The wrong mix” is both literal and symbolic—power with no peace, love twisted with fear. “In the wrong genes” is the deepest echo of all: if he was created by the Force, why does he feel like a ticking bomb?

This section isn’t just a reflection of how others see him—it’s what Anakin comes to believe about himself. That no matter what he does, no matter how hard he tries, something inside him is wrong.

THE WRONG MASTER 19. I reached the wrong ends 20. By the wrong means 21. It was the wrong plan 22. In the wrong hands 23. With the wrong theory 24. The wrong man

Everything Anakin does in this arc is meant to stop a death that hasn’t happened yet. He sees Padmé die in a vision, and he decides he will do anything to prevent it. That’s the end he’s chasing. But that goal leads him away from compassion and toward control. He reaches for something good—love—but he tries to seize it through domination.

“Wrong ends” because he stops being a Jedi. Stops being a protector. Starts being a destroyer.

“Wrong means” because he pledges himself to a Sith lord, betrays the Jedi, chokes his pregnant wife, and turns his blade on Obi-Wan Kenobi—his mentor, his friend, his brother. The man who raised him, trained him, loved him. Obi-Wan doesn’t just fight Anakin on Mustafar—he begs him to stop. “You were my brother, Anakin. I loved you.” And Anakin still tries to kill him. He’s not just crossing a moral line—he’s crossing every line he once swore to uphold. The Count Dooku execution was only the beginning. By the time he’s standing on that lava bank, he’s not acting out of confusion anymore—he’s acting out of conviction. The means are wrong because they cost him everything that mattered, and he knows it.

“Wrong plan” because the solution he’s given is never real. It’s manipulation. Palpatine never teaches him how to stop death—because the knowledge doesn’t exist.

“Wrong hands” is literal. He gives himself over to Darth Sidious, who has orchestrated the war, lied to every side, and plans to rule by fear. But they’re also his hands. The ones igniting the saber. Signing the orders. Choking the people he once swore to protect. Anakin isn’t just being led—he’s the one doing it. The wrong hands are his own, and that’s what damns him.

“Wrong theory” because the foundational belief is flawed: that power can protect people from fate, that control can replace trust. This is Sith ideology at its core—the seductive promise that strength can rewrite destiny, that fear can preserve love. It's a theory built on illusion, and Anakin builds his choices on that illusion until it collapses around him. Sith logic is always the wrong theory: it isolates, corrupts, and devours.

“Wrong man” because Palpatine is the inverse of what a Jedi Master should be. Where Obi-Wan guided with discipline and love, Sidious guides with flattery and fear. And Anakin follows him willingly. But he himself is also the wrong man. The one who was supposed to bring balance, and instead brought annihilation. The one who was meant to save, and instead became the instrument of ruin. He’s the wrong man because he chose to be—over and over again, when it mattered most.

THE FALL 25. The wrong eyes 26. On the wrong prize 27. The wrong questions 28. With the wrong replies “Wrong eyes” because this is the moment Anakin becomes unrecognizable. His eyes turn gold on Mustafar, after he executes the Separatist leaders—Sith eyes. Not metaphor. Not implication. Literal, visible evidence of the Dark Side corrupting his body. The same eyes Sidious wears. They’re iconic, horrifying, final. A visual cue the transformation is complete. No ambiguity left—only allegiance. They burn with borrowed hatred. They reflect nothing of who he was.

These aren’t Anakin’s eyes anymore. They don’t plead. They don’t soften. When Obi-Wan pleads with him to come back, he glares. When Padmé reaches for him, he scowls. And when he sees his own reflection, he doesn't flinch. The wrong eyes aren’t about what he sees—they’re about what others now see in him. The boy who once wanted to free slaves now looks like a weapon forged in hell. The wrong eyes aren't looking at others—they're looking out from him.

“Wrong prize” because it’s no longer just about saving Padmé—it’s about owning her future. Dictating it. Controlling it. He says, “I can overthrow the Chancellor. I can end this war. I can save you.” Not “we.” “I.” The prize is no longer her life. It’s her submission.

“Wrong questions” because he stops asking the questions that made him who he was—How do I help? How do I save? How do I do what's right?—and starts asking How do I gain power? How do I stop death? How do I control the future? These are the questions that open the door to Sidious. They aren’t questions of hope or principle. They’re questions of desperation, rooted in fear, and every one of them invites an answer that tightens the leash around his neck. Sidious is ready with replies—every one of them calculated to replace doubt with obedience, fear with fury, love with possession.

“Wrong replies” because every word from Sidious is a trap. “Only through me can you achieve a power greater than any Jedi.” “The Jedi are traitors.” Anakin asks out of fear and gets answers steeped in manipulation. And he believes them—until the truth hits too late.

This verse is where the Sith transformation completes. Not in armor, but in mind. In vision. In motive. His fall isn’t about fury anymore. It’s about control. And everything he’s seeing, wanting, asking, believing—it’s all wrong.

VADER TAKES OVER 29. I was marching to the wrong drum 30. With the wrong scum 31. Pissing out the wrong energy 32. Using all the wrong lines

“Wrong drum” because he’s no longer in sync with the Jedi, the Force, or even himself. He marches with the 501st into the Temple, a sacred place now defiled under his command. The rhythm of his life becomes one of destruction. It’s the Imperial cadence. The hollow, mechanical beat of conquest.

“Wrong scum” because these are not the Jedi, not peacekeepers. Now he moves beside Tarkin, clone officers, and bureaucrats who serve tyranny. He leads killers, not comrades. He becomes their symbol, their weapon, their justification.

“Wrong energy” because what once poured from him in bursts of fiery hope is now cold and venomous. Every act of power is driven by loss and hatred. His anger doesn’t smolder—it rots. His presence drains hope instead of kindling it.

“Wrong lines” because he no longer speaks from belief. He echoes Sidious. “The Jedi are traitors.” “He is of no use to us.” The words are commands, not truths. He speaks like a man who’s erased his own voice. The lines are wrong because they belong to someone else—and because they kill something in him every time he repeats them.

33. And the wrong signs 34. With the wrong intensity Everything about him screams terror now. The red saber—a weapon of aggression, not defense. The black armor—designed to intimidate, to erase identity. The choking grip—used not just in combat, but as punctuation in conversation. Every gesture is meant to dominate. Every breath—amplified and mechanical—is a reminder of what’s been lost.

Wrong signs because his presence no longer comforts the weak—it silences them. Wrong intensity because his passion no longer protects—it destroys. There’s no Anakin left in the way he moves, speaks, or fights. There’s only Vader. And Vader is a storm that never clears.

THE HOLLOW SELF 35. I was on the wrong page 36. Of the wrong book 37. With the wrong rendition 38. Of the wrong look

“Wrong page” because the narrative he’s following isn’t the one he was destined for. He’s not the Chosen One in this story—he’s the villain. The savior becomes the enforcer. He was meant to turn the tide of darkness, but instead he deepens it.

“Wrong book” because the prophecy was misread, misunderstood, mishandled. The Jedi never truly grasp what balance means, and Anakin, left unguided, ends up following the Sith’s version of the tale. A darker book. One where fear is power and love is possession.

“Wrong rendition” because Vader is a twisted cover of the man Anakin once was. Every instinct he had—to protect, to love, to serve—is still there, but it’s been distorted. Rewritten. The melody is familiar, but the lyrics are cruel.

“Wrong look” because he wears armor that doesn’t reflect who he is—it conceals the ruin underneath. The mask, the mechanical breathing, the towering silhouette—they project power, but only to hide devastation. What’s inside isn’t a man reborn. It’s a charred body with no legs, no arms, no flesh untouched by fire. A scorched shell held together by pain and metal. The myth stands tall, but the truth is collapsed inside it. He’s not just hidden—he’s erased. What remains of Anakin is entombed in a machine made to inspire fear, not healing. He was meant to be the Force’s vessel, the living embodiment of balance and hope. Instead, he’s become a grotesque inversion of that promise—a cage of his own making, forged in flame. The look is wrong because it mocks everything he was supposed to be.

39. With the wrong moon 40. Every wrong night 41. With the wrong tune playing

“Wrong moon” because he chooses Mustafar—the site of his greatest loss—as his base. It’s not a symbol of triumph. It’s a grave. A planet scorched by lava, where Padmé died and Anakin was broken. He builds his fortress there not as a monument to power, but as a prison carved into his own past. Every inch of it burns with what he lost.

“Every wrong night” because there is no peace. Not in the Force, not in his dreams, not in the armor. The comics show him haunted—restless in bacta, chased by visions, rebuilding droids and hallucinations that fall apart in his hands. He reaches through the Force, trying to change what’s already done. Failing. Every night is a reminder. Every night is penance.

“Wrong tune playing” because the music of his life isn’t the fanfare of an empire—it’s the low, endless hum of grief. He doesn’t hear triumph. He hears Padmé’s last words. Obi-Wan’s devastation. The silence that followed his screams on the lava bank. The tune is made of loss. It plays every time he breathes.

THE FINAL NOTE 42. Till it sounded right, yeah 43. Wrong 44. Wrong 45. Too long

“Till it sounded right, yeah” because for the first time in years, something does. Not commands. Not prophecy. Not Sidious’s lies. But Luke’s voice, calling him “Father.” Anakin hears it—and believes it. That there’s something left of him to save. Something that isn’t Vader. And in that moment, it resonates. Not with power. With love.

“Wrong” because every moment before that one was a distortion. Every decision made in fear, in anger, in hunger for control. He had the wrong guides. The wrong truths. The wrong self. But now? Now he’s being offered a different choice.

“Wrong” again, because there were so many points where he could have turned back—so many people who tried to reach him—and he didn’t listen. Obi-Wan. Padmé. Even himself. It wasn’t just one wrong moment. It was a lifetime of them.

“Too long” because the price of that delay is irreversible. Padmé is gone. The Jedi are gone. The galaxy is scarred. And he’s dying. He doesn’t get to come back. He doesn’t get to rebuild. And in waiting this long, he didn’t just lose his own future—he stole it from Obi-Wan, too. Obi-Wan who loved him. Who walked away from Mustafar believing Anakin was lost. Who spent years in exile on Tatooine, watching over Luke from afar, tormented by guilt, buried in grief. That’s what “too long” means. Not just for Anakin—but for the brother he betrayed. And yet, even after all that, he gets this. One act. One truth. One right sound.

He saves Luke. He saves his son. And in doing that, he does something else—he makes the future possible.

Not too late for Luke. Not too late for the future.

This song doesn’t just fit anakin—it echoes him.

The way this track spirals through regret, fury, confusion, identity—it hits every part of Anakin’s story with uncanny precision. Not just in theme, but in rhythm. In language. In emotional cadence.

And coming at this as both a Depeche Mode fan and a Star Wars fan? That overlap feels electric.

It’s not just that Wrong captures the mood. It captures the architecture of his downfall. Every verse cracks open another layer of who Anakin was, what he feared, how far he fell, and what it cost him to make one thing right in the end.

There’s something kind of stunning about seeing two pieces of art—written in entirely different worlds—line up like this. As if they were always meant to find each other. And when they do, they don’t overwrite each other—they amplify.

This post isn’t meant to redefine Wrong, or imply that it was written with Anakin in mind. The original song stands on its own—brilliant, biting, and defiant—and this interpretation is purely my own. It’s not about overlap or authorial intent. It’s about applying one piece of art to another and letting that resonance unfold.

And in choosing to follow it through to the end, I’m consciously treating the original trilogy as the close of Anakin’s story—his fall, his redemption, his legacy. I know the sequels extend the narrative, but for me, the curtain falls with his final act aboard the Death Star.

And when it falls, it sounds like this song.