#center: passion brilliance

[moonieandi]

snapshots pt. 3 | stanley pines x f!reader 

summary: a quick look through concerning the early months of your life “married” to stanley pines, particularly centered around moments on the couch

warnings (TW): mdni, contains mature/suggestive content, swearing, alcohol consumption, mentions of drug use

tags: mature/suggestive content (in act iii), fluff, early relationship described, pining, affection

notes: please note that there is heavily implied/suggestive/mature content in act iii of this posting (after the second break)- if you do not wish to interact with this type of content i swear to you you can completely skip it if you like, i attempt to not tie TOO much significance to the written scene- and if you would prefer that the postings stray away from this kind of content i will attempt to better balance it in the future! i am in no shape or form a very “smutty” writer (mainly bc i have never written it), so i hope the scene isnt like… terrible ya know lol (also i don’t consider it much for “smut”- i am def using said word very loosly). annnnyyywayyys hope you enjoy and as always my dms are open for suggestions in the future and general conversation and encouragement! enjoy!

also to note! I believe the story is best read in order- i put certain dependences on certain words and bring descriptions back to really solidify the importance of certain scenes/interactions ! but completely up to you, lol

edit 8/27/24: hello! below i have linked the up to date masterlist for this series- thank you for reading, hope you enjoy!

word count: 4.5k

| masterlist | part iv |

She had caught him sleeping on the couch in the early heat of June. 

They had a late night on the couch, discussing Ford’s margin notes and rewatching The Price is Wrong. Stan had a certain affinity for price matching, and she was more than a little stunned to learn of it the first couple of months they resided in the shack together. 

She just didn’t expect this 30-year-old man to know the price of most common household appliances. 

After his divulgence last month, in which he had confided a little bit of his background in sales, she began to piece together that although Stan considered himself a conman in every way but words, she considered it pure brilliance. 

So she quickly got used to late-night T.V. shows, as they discussed next steps back and forth, with Stan interrupting conversations to yell out extremely accurate prices at the small box T.V. in front of the couch. It had grown on her, actually, and had turned rather… endearing. 

If not also incredibly hilarious, as he was so passionate about his own accuracy he usually forgot his volume, and sometimes took to ranting at her. 

“Hun! Hun! This is a load of malarkey I tell ya! That vacuum price is way too high! It don’t even come with added nozzle attachments!” 

She would laugh, and he would revel in making her do so. 

They had concluded the night in a similar fashion, and she had stumbled up to her bedroom. The first one on the right from the stairs. But he had lingered in the living room, muttering about tidying up some soda cans and taking the trash out quickly. 

She had shrugged it off, giving her goodnight, and made her way up the stairs. She had fallen asleep so quickly, she hadn’t heard the usual meandering steps of Stan as he made for his own room across the hall from her. 

She almost never woke up before him, another thing that surprised her. She figured he was the type to doze in and out in the early morning, but he seemed to be quick to rise and even quicker to make a pot of coffee, usually stumbling down the stairs thirty minutes before she could manage to roll out of bed. 

So she thought it odd to look down the stairs and not see the usual kitchen light on, and the usual grumble of the shitty coffee machine either. 

She found him snoring on his back, the throw blanket she had brought with her half on half off him. It had grown a little muggy in the shack, due to the distinct lack of central air, but Stan’s solution seemed to be very simple. 

Just wear less clothes. 

Something that wouldn’t disturb her in the slightest, if it were not for, well… Stan. 

She was a scientist, a usual logical thinker, and only slightly prude (due to her upbringing), but she was no idiot, and she knew the man she was cohabitating with was attractive. 

I mean, he was also funny- made her laugh more times than she could count. He was oddly sincere for his age and even more oddly protective. He was flippantly affectionate and even more flippantly kind to her. 

And he was also shirtless. 

Something she takes note of instantly, instinctually. Whipping her head to make for the kitchen, and trying to forget the curve of his broad shoulders and the slight swell of his stomach. The smattering of dark hair on his chest all the way down to the crisp edge of the boxers she had folded two days ago. 

Coffee, coffee coffee! 

She didn’t make as good of a cup as he did, she had never had to before. Something he scoffed at, but quickly took to doing himself. He made it every morning, now. Always up before her, with her mug waiting for her by her worn kitchen chair. 

She turned to the stove instead, moving pans and turning on the burner. She’d make breakfast for them instead of her shitty burnt coffee special. Pulling eggs and bacon out of the small fridge she went to work. 

The smell woke him up, and she noted his groggy fumbling to redress himself. Glancing out the archway from kitchen to living room she watched him pass to the stairs, still shirtless. He takes the stairs two at a time, back up to his room to retrieve new clothes she presumed. 

He returns in minutes, in typical fashion it took him not too long to get ready in the morning. 

He walks in, still stretching, with hair muddled from sleep. A pair of work jeans that had seen a lot of love in the past month, and a shirt that was quickly growing too tight around his arms and shoulders. She decided to ignore that sliver of stomach that peaked out when he raised his arms a little too high, otherwise, the bacon would burn. 

He made his way to the coffee machine, beginning the usual morning routine as it spurred to life. Moving to the sink he began washing their shared mugs. 

Breakfast was always a little quiet like they both couldn’t be bothered to open their mouths beyond sating their appetite. They still moved the same, instinctually and without words. Falling into their unassigned assigned seats, Stan moving to grab her feet and drag them across his lap, while she moved the salt and pepper between them both. She always reached across to his plate, grabbing his toast to butter first and then moving to her own. 

She had decided to interrupt their usual silence this morning, looking across to Stan as he fumbled with the morning paper. He always went straight to the comics in the morning, hoping to pick up on a joke to read to her that day, hoping to make her laugh first before anything else in the morning. 

But she had thrown a wrench in his usual plan (that she still hadn’t picked up on yet). 

“Why were you on the couch?” She asked, biting around her toast. 

“It’s cooler down here hun.” 

“I know heat rises Stan, but the sun rises on my side of the house in the morning. It ain’t that hot upstairs yet. Is there something wrong with your bed?” 

When first rearranging rooms he had resolved to take Stanford's old one. He didn’t want her to have to live in the shell his brother had left behind. His more intimate nick-nacks and sticky notes had been scattered around what is now Stan’s room. Along with his random mismatched socks and sweater vests, and his cologne. And he didn’t want to think about having her live around the last remnants of Stanford, because she got this weird look in her eyes already when she retraced his brother's writings and he couldn’t stand it. He had lived with Stanford for eighteen years, and sometimes entering the room was at least therapeutic. 

Except Stanford always had a weird affinity for sleeping on the ground. 

It’s the main reason Stanley even had the top bunk during their preteen years to begin with, because Stanford would find himself stiff on the floor most mornings. His brother had a tendency to doze away on any hard surface he could rest his head on, starting at his desk most nights, moving to his bed, but usually rolling off it in favor of the floor. Stanford was… not one for restful sleep. And his hard ass mattress showed it. 

“Ya.” Stan muttered behind the newspaper. “‘Ford trying to fuck my back up from another dimension.” 

“You can have my bed?” She offered up her own mattress, one she had splurged on with her own money. He still remembers her playing Goldilocks that day at the flash mattress sale she had circled in the classifieds the week before. 

He shook his head at the memory, them both laying side by side on each bed as she had discussed odds and ends. She had argued that she needed approximately 5 minutes on each mattress to sink into each, and that she couldn’t be intrinsically thinking about her comfort when doing so. So she had him lay beside her and talk to her, as she flipped from her back to her side testing out her comfort and considered the gravelness of his voice. Until she had landed on the right bed, the tenth one, declaring it her perfect match as she looked over at him beside her. 

“Nah, I can’t take your perfect match, hun, your one true love.” He joked, folding up the newspaper with the comics up, setting it aside in favor of looking at her. “Besides my bed is fine for now. I just… sometimes I like being close to the door.” 

She hummed. “I can rearrange the living room today? Do you want to move your bed downstairs?” She hadn’t even questioned it, still searching for something to sate his comfort. 

He laughed at this, he would never let her rearrange things without him and she knew it. He had hovered something harsh those first three months, moving around most things for her as she pointed from object to object. 

“No, no.” He shook his head. “I just, I ain’t used to sleeping in a room without a straight way out of it yet.” He admits, munching on his bacon, shrugging like he was discussing the weather. “So sometimes I just, sleep on the couch. No big deal.” 

She sits back in her seat, shock marring her face. He had spent so long hopping from place to place she had forgotten he hadn’t had a place to call home in a decade- besides his car. Something that may have four walls, but had no heart. 

Hotels, to cars, to floors of shelters, he had slept in questionable places for far too long, and in some cases Stanford’s room sometimes felt like a new prison, or at least reminded him of a certain Colombian one. Except this one contained taunting memories and a stupid amount of sweaters. 

It hurt more, to open his door to find hers closed, for some reason. He didn’t like the thought of her trapped either, nestled in a part of the house he couldn’t get to. But he didn’t know how to voice this to her without sounding mad in a way. Or obsessive maybe. 

She digs her toes into the junction of his ribs, grabbing his attention. She’s smiling across from him, and standing before he can ask why. Grabbing his hand, she pulls him up the stairs to their own parallel doors, not even hesitating to walk through the door Stanford used to call his own. 

She’s muttering under her breath as he stands in the doorway, landlocked by witnessing her in this exact space for some reason. She moves to the window, opening it all the way and fumbling with the screen. She gets it off and makes to climb out the window before he can protest. 

“If you want a way out, you got it right here!” She grunts, footing her way through to the shingled roof, his protests falling on deaf ears. 

“Get the fuck back in here!” He leans out, making to grab her. “Ain’t no way this shack's roof is any good!” 

She prances around, slightly mocking him by moving away from his waving arm. “Stan! It’s fine!” She laughs, the sun shining on her figure. Suddenly serious she stops, hands on her hips. “Seriously, if you need a way out, keep the window open, okay?” 

She crawls back through the window a moment later, using Stan’s hand as a weight as she balances back on the wooden floor. 

Still serious, she continues, “Stan if you need to keep the window open, you can keep the door open also if you feel like it.” 

She smiles like she has a brilliant idea, moving across the hall she opens her own room to display her own mess of things. “I can keep mine open also if it helps.” 

How the fuck had she read his mind? He was continually dumbfounded by her unquantifiable amounts of patience she had for him. Like it was a reserve she tapped into, to specifically deal with all his dumb bullshit. He would let it pile in the back of his head, but she’d reach back in and shake him awake, present him with a solution, and he forgets himself in his need to question “why?”. 

He had taken too long to respond, and she stands in the hall, hands wringing her too large t-shirt and looking surprisingly bashful. “Is this okay?” She asks, is this what you need? Vying for his approval as she continues. “Because really I don’t mind you sleeping on the couch, I really don’t, you can keep doing it if you like! Really! I just… I just…” 

Unspoken between them, he already knew. She meant well, she meant the best actually. She wanted him to be comfortable, here, with her. Wanted him to stop moving from place to place in the house because no where felt right because it all felt like a trap. Wanted him to know the four walls they shared could never be a prison, and that she didn’t want him to hop around anymore searching and clawing his way out of it. To not have to Goldilocks around the house, because across the hall from her had to be just right. 

And it was. Because she had read his mind as usual, and he was almost tired of being absolutely astounded by it. 

He nodded, smiling across from her, his confirmation in the squeeze he gave her hand as he reached for her again, and in the ruffling of her hair he gave her as he slipped from the house later. Making his way outside to his work, somehow lighter than usual.

They ended up on the couch most weekends, or at least most Saturday nights. 

She had insisted, against his better nature, that it was not appropriate to drink yourself into a stupor on a weekday. So he had gotten used to the shared moments on the weekend, routinely looking forward to shitty VHS movies and even shittier boxed wine and beer. 

She laughed at fucking everything when she was drunk. He almost wondered if she had ever been high, or if she even needed to be. He might as well be a stand up comedian most weekends, because if he thought he had a great audience Monday through Friday, well he had an even more endearing one on the weekends. 

It was a hot July night, and she had scoffed at his light beer that resided in the back of the fridge. Tisking at him as she danced around the kitchen, pouring sweet red wine into mugs (their only cups), and shooing him back to the couch. Only wine in the summer, only wine when it was this hot.

And it was hot, and humid, unsurprising for Oregon really. So hot in fact, that she had decided pjs were appropriate attire for the night, luckily for him. So he shed his jeans in favor of loose boxers and a well worn shirt. Unluckily for him, she had decided upon much the same wardrobe, which was odd for her and only uncomfortable for sober him. 

But he wasn’t sober anymore, and he had to admit she was rather enchanting hunched over on the couch, laughing at his shitty jokes with one of his old band t-shirts on, shorts that she made no indication of even owning, bagging up around the tops of her thighs. 

He had been intoxicated on numerous amounts of things, nothing, of course, too hard or addictive per say, but it’d be the first time he was this drunk on wine. 

And it was… different. 

He had scoffed at the movie she chose originally tonight. She always chose the second movie, and he chose the first. They had a habit of in depth discussing during films, especially when more intoxicated. 

But he had never been so incredibly invested in a romantic comedy in his entire life, he blamed his company and the alcohol. 

“I can’t believe that he thinks he stands a chance with the likes of her! She’s sacrificed so much! Her jobs on the line here and he won’t even consider marrying her for a green card!” He yelled, just about jumping at the screen. This man in the movie was ridiculous, demanding things from his assistant and throwing her away the next. 

She ran back into the room, mugs full with their next round. She had become the bartender tonight, waiting on him and grabbing snacks when he’d ask in exchange for rubbing her aching shoulders. 

“What did I miss!” She rushed back, handing him his mug and taking her seat back in front of him on the floor, her throw blanket being used as a cushion. 

He takes a sip, setting the mug aside her own on the floor and moving back to place his hands on her tense shoulders. 

“She’s being kicked out of the country right in front of her boss and he ain’t gonna do anything about it! She basically does everything for this man, why doesn’t he see he needs her?” 

She groans below him, her head rocking back as she takes her own drink. “Are we gonna discuss the intricates of them having a relationship though? I love marriage of convenience, don’t get me wrong, but that’s her boss! Isn’t there a weird power dynamic here?” 

“Oh ya!” He agrees, nodding along as his fingers began to dig into her muscles. “We gotta talk about that because if this gets creepy we gotta pick out a different one. He’s already pissing me off!” 

She looks up at him, eyes glowing with an idea. Enchanted, she moves away from him, crawling to the cabinet beside the T.V., and he really swears that he tries to look away. But he also reasons that it’ll be a while before he gets the chance to see her in shorts again. And fuck. 

She turns back, a new VHS in hand. “This!” She exclaims. “Now this is my favorite rom-com!” 

A shitty picture is well worn on the front of the movie sleeve, a VHS he doesn’t recognize from the donation bin sitting in her hands. She must have brought it with her, and she must have had it for a while. 

She crawls forward, movie in hand and a bright, flushed smile on her face. 

“Please, please, please Stanley! This one!” She all but yelled as she leaned up into him. His legs had already been parted to accommodate her sitting in front of him, but now were warm with her torso between them, as she crawled into his lap, movie still in hand and smile still on her face. She leaned up onto his chest, a fake pout on her lips as she looked up at him. 

He forgot himself for a minute, excusing her silently for calling him Stanley in her drunken plee. His hand finding her waist as he answered. 

“Okay, okay!” He snorted. “Better be a better love interest because this guy sucks.” 

He missed her as soon as she left, but his heart still felt something sick when she yelled victoriously on the ground, hand raised in celebration, movie clutched to her chest. Rolling from her current position to the VHS player and popping out the current horrendous movie. All the while she giggled, and he followed in much the same manner. Laughing while running his hand through his hair, trying to soothe himself to forget her warmth. 

She crawled back to him (fuck) settling back into his knees from her position on the ground. The title screen flashed, but he was much too busy watching it illuminate her face. Heart sick again when she leaned her head all the way back, hair across his knees and thighs, she smiles up at him, a thank you on her lips. Clutching his mug in her hands, bringing it to her lips for a sip before passing it up to him too. 

And when he carried her to bed that night he wondered when the tight sickness would leave him. He never closed either of their doors. 

It didn’t happen like this, that night. 

Not from what he could remember anyway, but he felt too groggy to care about accuracy and too intoxicated by the image of her to care much for what was right. 

Her hands had continued up his thighs from her place knelt in front of him, his back hot against the living room couch. She had climbed up on top of him, creeping up to sit on his knees and thighs like she had been there before. Her smile turned sweet into something twisted as she leaned in close to his face, the closest she had ever gotten to it. Whispering something between the heat between the two of them, something lost on him, as he tried to lean closer, tried to bridge the gap between their chests, aching to feel her against the very front of him. 

He knew it was different because she had never worn this in front of him before, at least willingly. He had caught her in the middle of the night, stumbling from her open bedroom door to the bathroom down the hall, panties striped and endearing on her ass. He had seen them in the washer, had seen her fold them and tuck them away. And she was in them, sitting on his fucking lap. 

His hands made for her, reaching behind her and dragging her close, his fingers edging the back of the band of her striped panties. 

She gasps like she does when she’s happy for him, always jumping from her position on the couch cheering along with him when he gets a stupid fucking The Price is Wrong answer right. 

And it’s how he imagined it, fuck, how he was currently dreaming of her noises. In bits and pieces he could remember, his brain scrambling to paint an image of her wanting him.  

Her hands edge along the back of his head, running through his long hair, and tracing to the front along his jaw. Mouth open, her fingers glide along the bottom of his lip, teasing. 

She whispers again, closer now. Her chest heaving against his own, her ass waits precariously positioned above right where he dreamt of her being. Right along the space he places her feet every morning, right where he thought she may kill him.

He catches it this time, between them. Her voice wavering like it had that day in the car when she had apologized for calling him him. He thought of begging for it, allowing her to say his name, but she had read his mind like she always fucking managed to do. 

“Please, Stanley.” 

He had surged forward like his own tidal wave, meeting her in the hot space between them. But he could only imagine a kiss with her, dream of it here. 

He imagined it slow, and building. Imagined her hesitation and the pout of her lip between his fucking teeth, imagined her moan when he eventually came back for more. 

Her hands pulled at his fucking hair, the only time she had placed them there to harm, and he groaned as she pulled him forward, meeting again in the middle of the heat they shared there on the couch. She moaned, her hips rushing to his own, making a new heat between them. 

The friction between them was the same as the kiss, slow and building. Grinding herself in the curve of his lap, right where they both needed each other. Every pass slightly faster, every groan from her more imagined, more unreal. 

The pressure felt real though, and her fingers in his hair felt even more so. His head thrown back on the couch, he looked down his nose at her, a groan leaving his throat as she makes a home in his shoulder, as her hips cause waves against his fucking lap. 

Her breath is hot on his neck, something real, and her echoing noises move up his shoulder to his ear and it makes him hotter than he could imagine. Her groans come to a precipice, getting higher in octave and volume and she thinks to fucking bite him there, right on his shoulder. 

The image she makes shakes him, his hands remembering where they are on her ass and hips, as he makes to work them harder, to somehow bring her closer and harder to the crook of his boxers. Her teeth nestle into him, and it makes him groan more, her hot breath and aching moans reverb off his skin back to him. 

It sends him reeling forward, his own head rushing off the back of the couch, groaning in heat, moving in blind passion. His head rests against the top of her own, his big hands digging into the fat of her behind, finger creeping in through the top of her panties. 

“Fuck.” He groans between them. “Fuck, honey.” His hips canting up, her moans echoing again, her teeth unlaching, like she can’t ground herself to him anymore, because all the movement is him now. He’s fucking using her, the pressure hot, and she peels back to look at him, a heat in her eyes he can’t have imagined. He must have seen it before, marring her face. He had, he swears, seen her with this heat in her eyes before.

He was using her. 

It stops just as abruptly as it began, and he wakes to his discomfort. His room is cool despite the morning sun, the curtains by his windows billowing out with September wind. His door wide open, and his hand curled around something that no longer needed relief. 

His other hand, clutching his hair in a fist. The back of his head tender from the pressure, and his fingers heavy from sleep. 

He got up quicker than usual, his heart still pounding oddly in his chest as he attempted to catch a breath he didn’t remember losing. On his way out of his room, dresssed for the day, he peaks into her parallel room, her door wide open like it was every day now. 

He groans low, she’s wearing the fucking stripes. 

He tries not to think about it the rest of the day, tries not to be disgusted with himself, but his chest aches something odd and his stride is somehow uneven for the rest of the day. His heart carries something sickly when he sees her that day, and she pretends it doesn’t hurt he’s oddly quiet that day, or that he doesn’t read her the morning comics like usual. 

She thinks it has something to do with how flushed he is, when she catches his staring that evening, as they sit beside each other on the couch, T.V. echoing in the background.

[eggyrocks]

35MM CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: as she sees it

track number eighteen: don't think twice it's alright by bob dylan

masterlist

He can see it. Clearly and vividly. Akaashi can see the world through her eyes, and it's beautiful.

In the theater, she leaned in close to him, the length of her shoulder pressing against his as she spoke, voice low and considerate despite the nonstop noise rumbling through the audience. She waved her pom poms in the air in approval and gave Akaashi a slight nudge when the character he's replicating appeared on screen. She gushed praise over the use of color, giggled in his ear about her favorite lines, and bit down on her lip when the emotional climax brought tears to her eyes.

When they left, she took that 35MM camera around her neck and made him stand in front of the marquee. She wouldn't let him move until she got a genuine smile out of him.

"I thought you only took photos of things that inspired you?" Akaashi asked, looking for his car keys as means of avoiding eye contact.

She was just a step behind him. "Who's to say you don't inspire me?"

Now his hands shake slightly as he grips the steering wheel. He's grateful she's providing an in-depth explanation about the brilliance of the film's set design, because he's not sure he could manage a conversation.

Nerves creep up from the pit of his gut to the center of his chest like they always do whenever she's around. Akaashi tries to center his focus on her stream of conscious commentary, but he keeps finding himself getting lost in her voice. He thinks it's a pretty sound. Something he wants to hear more of.

The closer he gets to her apartment, the worse his nerves get. He pretends to not know why, but he does. And when he pulls up to the side of the road where her apartment sits and shifts into park, he can feel them tightening around his throat. Her rant stops, and he shifts in his seat to face her. "Thanks for letting me come with you tonight."

She grins, brightly and widely, beaming like a refraction of light, warm and colorful. "Thanks for coming with me, and putting up with my nonstop talking."

Akaashi smiles. He's feeling selfish. Nervous and selfish and guilty and giddy. "I like how much you talk. I like hearing what you have to say."

She snickers. "You might be the only one."

Selfish, selfish, selfish. It repeats in his head. A self-crucifying mantra. "I can be the only one."

For the first time that night, she goes silent.

The world, as she sees it, is cinematic. It is the blue nostalgia of a coming-of-age film and the furious red heat of vintage slasher. It is the familiar grain in film and the growing tension of a unsettling score. She understands the world and it understands her, and this mutual sort of understanding allows her to bend and reshape what the world has given her, and make something beautiful.

Beautiful.

She talks about intricate details that go over his own head. The tone of her voice conveys a clear love and passion that tugs at Akaashi's chest. She smiles when she speaks and it makes Akaashi feel like he would give her anything she wanted, anything she asked for.

He leans in closer. Slow enough to know what he's doing. Slow enough to know it's wrong. Slow enough for her to stop him, if she wanted.

Her eyes go sort of wide, and he can see that she holds her breath. He inches closer. She doesn't stop him. Akaashi leans over the console and he can smell her perfume. Selfish, selfish, selfish. He raises a hand, and the tips of his fingers trace along the line of her jaw. A shudder goes down her spine. She doesn't stop him. His hand inches up until his fingers breach the roots of her hair, and his palm cups her cheek.

She stares at him, eyes wide and unblinking. He stares back. For a moment, he's still. He contemplates, a moment. Akaashi acknowledges his actions. He acknowledges their consequences.

And Akaashi kisses her anyways.

-> fun facts!

i did not proofread this

like not even a little

yn typed out “you guys” like 15 times and spelled it wrong a new different way each time

it took yn like a good ten minutes to calm down before she could tell iwa noya and kema what happened and by that point they had already put the pieces together

yn and akaashi shared popcorn during the movie and akaashi was really careful not to reach for it at the same time she did

their dinner together was spent mostly talking about each of their favorite medias, books, music, movies, etc

akaashi’s favorite book is the absolute classic frankenstein which prompted yn to ramble about its adaptations

taglist: @wyrcan @thechaosoflonging @publicbathroompanic @bedeater @rottingt1tz @rintarawr @deluluforcarlos55 @ahseyy @localgaytrainwreck @cherrypieyourface @baskin-robinhoods @polish-cereal @iheartamora @ferntv @eclecticeggknightpsychic @httpakkeiji @does-directions @needtoloveoutloud @rinheartshyunlix @causenessus @bookworm-center @kettlepop @makkiroll @atsumou @eyes-ofhell @kawaii-angelanne @ryeyeyer @k8nicole @mydearchoso @phoenix-eclipses @lixie-phoria @suitstars @reneny @scxrcherr @ueknightbl @iluvaquaphor @sleezzsister @barricadesenthusiast @staygoldsquatchling02 @hyunskzza @nemesii @sereniteav @crimsoncamra @gsyche @evening-latte @rrosiitas @kunimix @kitnootkat @aquariarose @iluv-ace @sparkei @gl6ss

[aeth-eris]

Leo in Houses : What makes you proud?

1st House (Self-Image): Radiant Confidence

Leo in the 1st house illuminates your self-image with an irresistible charisma and a resolute sense of pride. You possess a magnetic aura that commands attention and admiration, effortlessly drawing others to your captivating presence. Your unique identity radiates with an unyielding confidence that captivates those around you, leaving an indelible mark of distinction and self-assurance. You take great pride in your natural leadership qualities and your innate ability to shine in any situation, fostering an environment where your individuality becomes an inspiration for others to follow.

2nd House (Material Wealth): Regal Abundance

With Leo gracing your 2nd house, you derive pride from your luxurious lifestyle and financial security. You take great joy in the opulence you've meticulously cultivated, displaying your prosperity to the world with a regal flair. Your indulgent tastes and penchant for the finer things in life reflect your inherent desire for comfort and extravagance, and you feel a deep sense of satisfaction in surrounding yourself with tangible symbols of your success. Your unwavering confidence in your ability to create and maintain wealth projects an image of abundance and prosperity that is not only tangible but also serves as a source of inspiration for those around you.

3rd House (Communication): Expressive Brilliance

With Leo gracing your 3rd house, you possess a unique and vibrant communication style that fills you with a sense of pride. Your eloquence and expressive nature captivate those around you, making you a compelling storyteller and an engaging conversationalist. You take immense delight in articulating your ideas with flair, infusing your words with passion and confidence, leaving a lasting impression on your listeners. Your intellectual prowess and persuasive charm allow you to effortlessly convey complex concepts in a way that is both enlightening and entertaining, establishing you as a magnetic force of expressive brilliance that effortlessly commands attention and respect.

4th House (Home and Family): Majestic Roots

Leo gracing your 4th house signifies your profound pride in your nurturing role within your family and the sense of warmth you instill in your home. You derive immense joy from creating a secure and loving environment, one that serves as the cornerstone of familial unity and love. Your regal demeanor and natural leadership qualities make you the pillar of strength, fostering closeness and admiration among your loved ones. Your dedication to providing a stable and affectionate space allows your family to thrive, with you at the helm, radiating a majestic aura of protection, love, and unwavering support that forms the very roots of your familial harmony and pride.

5th House (Creativity): Theatrical Inspiration

With Leo illuminating your 5th house, your creative passion ignites like a radiant stage spotlight. You find an immense sense of pride in your artistic talents, reveling in the opportunity to express yourself in grand and dramatic ways. Your creative pursuits take center stage, captivating your audience with a unique flair that demands attention and admiration. Your vibrant and expressive nature infuses your artistic endeavors with a theatrical inspiration that sets you apart, drawing the spotlight toward your dynamic and compelling expressions of creativity. You bask in the glow of your own artistic ingenuity, finding validation and fulfillment in the profound impact your creativity has on those who have the privilege of witnessing your imaginative brilliance.

6th House (Work Ethic): Mighty Efficiency

With Leo gracing your 6th house, you take immense pride in your strong work ethic and unwavering dedication to your responsibilities. Your reliability and competence shine brightly, earning you well-deserved recognition and admiration. You approach your tasks with a sense of majesty, infusing every duty with a regal touch that sets you apart as a paragon of efficiency and capability. You find deep satisfaction in the praise you receive for your diligence, reveling in the acknowledgment of your unyielding commitment to excellence. Your mighty presence in the realm of work and responsibility serves as a powerful inspiration for those around you, fostering an atmosphere of productivity and professionalism that reflects your stellar work ethic and steadfast determination.

7th House (Partnerships): Royal Allegiance

Leo gracing your 7th house infuses your partnerships with a sense of regal pride and unwavering commitment. You find immense joy in providing steadfast loyalty and unwavering support to your partner, valuing the sense of commitment and dedication that underpins your relationship. Your affectionate nature and generous spirit create an environment of mutual adoration and respect, fostering a connection that is built on a foundation of admiration and devotion. You expect your noble and affectionate gestures to be met with admiration and validation, seeking acknowledgment for your unwavering allegiance and the regal presence you bring to the sacred bond of partnership.

8th House (Challenges): Courageous Resilience

With Leo gracing your 8th house, you find pride in your unwavering ability to face and overcome life's challenges with a dignified and courageous spirit. Your unwavering emotional fortitude serves as a source of strength, enabling you to confront even the most daunting of adversities with grace and resilience. You take profound satisfaction in the admiration earned from your ability to navigate difficult situations, inspiring those around you with your unwavering resolve and regal composure. Your courageous approach to life's trials and tribulations serves as a powerful testament to your inner strength and fortitude, setting you apart as a beacon of hope and inspiration for those who witness your dignified journey through the darkest of storms.

9th House (Philosophy): Noble Wisdom

With Leo gracing your 9th house, you derive immense pride from your vast knowledge and profound philosophical insights. Your intellectual pursuits and expansive understanding of the world fill you with a sense of noble wisdom that is both enlightening and inspiring. You take great pleasure in sharing your wealth of knowledge with others, reveling in the profound impact your teachings have on those seeking guidance and enlightenment. Your regal approach to imparting wisdom and motivation serves as a beacon of hope and inspiration, uplifting those around you with your profound insights and your unwavering commitment to the pursuit of truth and enlightenment.

10th House (Career): Glorious Achievement

With Leo gracing your 10th house, you channel your ambitious drive for professional success and recognition with a regal grace. You take immense pride in your leadership qualities and your unwavering dedication to achieving greatness in your chosen field. Your unyielding pursuit of excellence and your authoritative presence demand acknowledgment and admiration from your peers and superiors. You approach your career with a resolute determination to leave a lasting impact, establishing yourself as a beacon of inspiration and influence. Your professional achievements stand as a testament to your regal stature, symbolizing the heights of success and recognition that are the hallmark of your illustrious career journey.

11th House (Friendships): Influential Magnetism

With Leo gracing your 11th house, you bask in the influential role you hold within your social circle. You take immense pride in your ability to lead and inspire others toward shared goals and aspirations, radiating a magnetic charisma that captivates and motivates those around you. Your unwavering confidence and regal presence make you a natural guiding force, and you derive deep satisfaction from the admiration earned through your charismatic guidance. You revel in the harmonious camaraderie and shared vision that flourishes within your friendships, symbolizing the profound impact and lasting legacy you create through your influential magnetism within your social network.

12th House (Spirituality): Majestic Resilience

With Leo gracing your 12th house, you find pride in your inner strength and profound resilience, which serve as your guiding light through personal struggles. You derive joy from conquering life's challenges with grace and courage, drawing upon your majestic resilience to overcome even the most daunting of obstacles. You seek validation and fulfillment in your profound emotional endurance and spiritual nobility, viewing each hardship as an opportunity for personal growth and spiritual enlightenment. Your regal approach to navigating the depths of your subconscious mind and spiritual journey serves as a testament to your unwavering strength and the noble grace with which you face the trials and tribulations that come your way.

[angelofthenight]

What Doesn’t Kill Me Pt.1

(Yandere!Alex Delarge x Fem!Reader)

Summary: You were finally free from your abusive and obsessive “boyfriend” when he was arrested with a long sentence. But when he comes back to you on his knees in tears after the Ludovico's Technique, you can’t help but welcome him back into your arms once learning that he is literally incapable of harming you ever again. Yet you begin to question your own morals.

Warnings: Yandere, Dark themes, Ladstat, Swearing/Language, Unhealthy/Abusive relationship, Sexual context/themes, Non-Con (off screen rape), Gangs, Obsessiveness, Home invasion, Sexual sadism, Physical abuse/Violence, Knife threat, Blood, Spitting, Brief pussy slapping, Alex is his own warning, You are responsible for your own content consumption

Word Count: 4.2k

( Fun Fact: I fucking hate Alex so much but I wrote a very long essay about A Clockwork Orange’s moral of redemption for my senior year of film studies class and I got an interesting idea for a yandere fic. Like how would the darling react if the yandere was “cured into being a good person”? )

Table of Contents

~

You hated Alex Delarge. You hated him. You loathed him. You despised him. But most of all, you were terrified of him.

On the contrary, Alex was head over heels in love with you. He was absolutely smitten with you and you were the center of his world.

You were practically forced to be his girlfriend. He just one day walked up to you and declared that you were his girlfriend now. And every day since that day was hell for you, the torturous part of hell that you are chained to.

Your soon to be nightmare all started when you two were just standing next to each other at the record store flipping through rows of records that were next to each other. He pulled out a record that caught your eye, it was one of your favorites, you thought you were the only one in town who listened to that band. Your passion for that specific artist made you smile and say aloud, “I love that record.”

He looked up at you with surprise in his eyes. He didn’t think anyone in town knew the record.

His silence made you awkwardly rant. “I honestly thought I was the only one in town who liked them. No one knew who the hell I was talking about when I would bring it up.” You gave a lighthearted laugh. “I love how the order of the songs makes a story and how each melody can, like, control what you feel. It’s a work of art. Gives me chills every time I listen to it.” You said all of this with your grin growing bigger, so happy you could talk to someone with taste.

The corner of Alex’s lips lifted up and his eyes gleamed with genuine joy, thrilled to meet someone who understands the brilliance of his favorite record. The two of you had a very long conversation about the record which extended to talking about other kinds of music. You both would drag each other around the shop to show the other some of your other favorite records.

You two instantly clicked and got along. Alex felt so comfortable with you, his mind felt at ease, and he enjoyed just simply talking with you. He’s never felt that way about anyone before. He actually enjoyed listening to you. You were so understanding, so open minded, so fascinating.

You two met in the record shop about three more times after that and would hang out for the rest of the day. You liked being around Alex. He was very funny and always put you in a good mood with his positivity. He was a very easygoing and eccentric guy; a rarity in this town full of people with sticks up their asses.

You thought nothing but good things about Alex. You really enjoyed having him as a friend. That is, until he fell for you.

In his own defense, how could he possibly not?

You were so kind and gentle with him, treating him as if he were your priority. You could get so feisty, like a house cat. As much as he loved his women defenseless and frail, your straightforward approach and no-nonsense attitude in situations that called for it really riled him up. You made him laugh and always had knowledgeable opinions. You were so smart and had an ability to be unashamedly open. And you had some real horrorshow groodies.

It was as if you were specifically and meticulously and personally made for just him. You had the same music interests as him, your exact physique was his dream girl body, your jokes always landed perfectly with him, your eyes were coincidentally his favorite color, and your breasts were the perfect size for his hands.

Alex didn’t believe in love, nor believe in wasting time seeking it. But you… you had just infected him with a fever no ice pack could soothe. Your ivy vines laced and intertwined around the wrinkles of his brain making you his constant thought. And those leaves left behind a poison ivy rash he couldn’t scratch away.

You were everything he had ever wanted. Everything he would never be… but still wanted to own.

After a night of exhilarating ultraviolence, terrorization, and vandalism with the gang, he felt such a rush. And because of that rush it was that moment where he realized he had to tell you the truth. He must have you. So he left his pals a little early to make his way straight to your apartment. He knew where you hid your spare key so it was easy storming into your living room and finding you cleaning up after yourself of your dinner.

Alex was too caught up in his adrenaline to take notice that he only took off his mask and hadn’t changed out of his gang-related wardrobe, far too focused on getting to you. But you had noticed. It was the very first thing you noticed as he stood in front of you with a breathless grin. And it was all you could focus on even as Alex declared with a cane in his hand that the reason as to why he’s been acting so strange lately was because he was in love with you.

Your iris’ were shaking and your breath was heavy within your chest as you took in the clothing from his bowler hat down to the visible codpiece. What he was wearing looked exactly like what one specific violent gang wore in the papers next to the article explaining the increase in gang terrorism due to the reduction in policing effectiveness. Juvenile delinquent gangs populated the streets because of how understaffed the police force was, most people barely even went out these days. But, for a reason you now understood, you always felt safe yourself when you went out into public, especially with Alex. But now you understood why you were safe when seen with him.

“Alex… what are you wearing? Is this a joke?” You shakingly spoke out, not responding to his confession which appeared to irk him. He took a step toward you which prompted you to take one back. Alex glanced down at his clothes and in honesty… he didn’t really care if you knew. He was creative with ways he could keep you quiet. He honestly kind of liked it if you knew.

"These here are just my nochy on the town duds with my droogs.” He announced with a sharp grin, gesturing towards his white clothes. “You won't dob me in, won't you, devotchka?” He said with a joking tone despite the threatening look in his eyes.

Your frown sunk down, your lungs feeling as if they were closing in on your heart making it harder to breathe steadily. Your hands wrung together in a nervous fashion as you seemed to cower away from someone you considered a friend. “Alex, you’re scaring me. I… I think you should leave.” You said with the delusional hope that he would respect your wish and exit the way he came.

But Alex wasn’t having it. “Leave without your answer?” He exclaimed as he held out his cane then slammed it down against your floor with one hand on his hip, tilting his head up with a sense of pride. “I think not.”

He wasn’t going to leave until he got your answer to his confession. You felt sick to the pit of your stomach. Your lips parted but no words were released. You didn’t know what to say, too caught up in the chilling realization of Alex’s secret life.

You’d be lying if you said you never really thought of him in that way, because you have once in a blue moon. How could you not with your handsome and funny male friend who always made time for you? You always teased the idea of dating him in your mind, experimented with the thought of being in a relationship with him. But it was never more than that though. More of curiosity and craving a partner rather than a crush.

You struggled to find the right words. “I… I… I feel… I-” You were torn between not wanting to encourage or provoke him yet also fearing your safety. “Spit it out, devotchka. Koshka got your tongue?” He giggled with a devilish smirk.

“I just…” You swallowed the growing lump in your throat, as if trying to swallow your fear, before it got too big that it would render you mute. “I really like you as a friend.” You fully expected him to lash out, scream at you, anything of the sort. But he simply cackled like a child.

“Nonsense, dearie!” He said in between the chuckles. “You’re just taken by surprise, is all! You’ll surely change your mind after some lubbilubbing.”

Your eyes widened in shock and horror and offense. You thrashed your arm up to point at your front door with a face full of upset anger. “Get out, Alex! I mean it!” You demanded, not believing this was all coming from someone you used to respect and think kindly of.

He, however, wasn’t phased by your raised voice and demand as he began to take swinging steps toward you, his cane lifting up to rest over his shoulder. “You’re not just gonna send me off without any sweet treat, are ya, love?” He said with a sick smile, his eyes going hooded with a predatorial shadow over his blue orbs that began to travel your body.

Your blood went cold, stinging your bones like frostbite, as you took notice of your nighttime wear. You didn’t plan for company and due to living alone you had the habit of dressing a little more indecently, as well as because you planned to go to bed right after finishing cleaning your dinner dishes. Your goosebumped skin hardly had the safety of coverage from your silk one-piece pajamas that consisted of thin tank top straps and shorts.

Your bottom lip grew so unbearably heavy that it began to shake, you taking a slow step back despite how close he’s gotten already. Your frighteningly alarmed eyes kept themselves trained on Alex’s as he stalked forward like a lion cornering an antelope, that shit-eating grin still intact.

“Y’know,” he started while he slowly began to close in on you as you walked backwards, “I think, deep down, you’re a bit of a bad girl.” He said, a tone a tad darker than before which only made your heartbeat pump painfully in your pulse. Your terror was slowly swallowing you whole like a drain.

“I think you might get a kick of it if I come on strong, just a bit rough.” He said, and before you could react in fearful panic to what he was implying, he held both ends of his cane in his hands and swung it over your head to land on your lower back. He used the position of his horizontal cane to roughly pull you closer to close the gap, sending you straight into his chest.

You gasped at the action and instantly began to struggle, throwing your hands up in an attempt to push him away by his shoulders or to at least grant some distance between the two of you. But he kept you tightly against him. “Excited now are we, eh?” He chuckled down at you, your resistance getting him all hot and bothered.

Before he confessed how he felt about you, Alex had already assumed that you felt the same way. He had an intense belief in his own perception of reality and didn’t really consider the possibility that you may not share the same feelings. His view of love was distorted and interpreted any signs of kindness or attention as your reciprocation.

But Alex was a self-aware guy. He wasn’t blind and deaf to how you clearly did not want him by how you panicked and struggled within his hold. But now that he thought about it… he didn’t really care about how you felt. Your rejection surprisingly affected him a lot less than he would’ve guessed, it actually didn’t really hurt that much.

He was naturally driven by his own twisted desires and impulses. He just wanted to exert control and power over you, rather than to seek your genuine love and affection, even though he had to admit that those would be nice to have. It was like he was in his own world, detached from the reality of reciprocal love.

He loved you. And that was all that mattered. He could still do whatever he wanted to you. And with the right tactics, he could make you do whatever he wanted. So what exact difference would your feelings make?

Alex’s cane dug into your lumbar spine, springing a pained wince past your teeth. Your attention was so focused on the pain on your skin that you gasped in unpleasant surprise at one specific tug on your body that made your pelvis grind right into the bulge of the codpiece. You stifled your whimper behind your teeth, the hard pad rubbing a sensitive part of your clit as Alex continued this action with a malicious grin.

When he got you distracted enough he took the opportunity to quickly pivot around you, rotating his cane around your body from your lower back to against your neck. The sudden harsh pressure on your throat instantly made you wheeze, your hands flying up to grasp onto the stick to try to grant you some air but to no avail due to the imbalance of strength between you and Alex.

You felt his chin rest in the crook of your neck and shoulder, his cheek also pressed against the side of your neck. You felt his smile and heard his pleasurable inhale through his nose. He was enjoying your struggle. He lifted his head so that his lips touched the shell of your ear, prompting you to make an effort to squirm away from his touch. But the grip he had on the cane across your frail throat made it easy to keep you as close as possible.

“Very well tomorrow’s your laundry day,” he practically purred into your eardrum which only created nausea that spread throughout your gut, “because those sheets of yours are about to get very merzky.”

If his innuendo hadn’t paralyzed you to absolute terror, you would’ve paid more fearful mind to the question on how he knew when you did your laundry.

You whimpered in powerless fear when he jerked you with the cane to force you to walk backwards. Well it was mostly him walking and your feet practically being dragged; your hands still remained on the cane to try to loosen its pressure on your cartilage. He led the two of you into your bedroom, jabbing his foot back to kick your door open in a wider frame. Once you were in he had tossed you onto the mattress with little care.

Tears began to prickle your eyes once you had collided into your bed, coughs following from the stinging pain on your throat as you gently touched where it hurt. You weren’t allowed much relief of personal space when Alex threw his hat to the side before crawling onto the mattress to reach you. He tightly grasped your biceps to flip you onto your back, him taking a comfortable seat on your waist.

He angled his torso above you and rocked his hips, grinding his clothed erection against your pelvis just once before he placed one hand next to your head. His other hand slowly wrapped itself around your face to force your shaking, watering eyes onto his carnivorous ones. He stared at you for a moment, a moment too long for your comfort. He stared at you and you could practically see the feverish twisted and covetous thoughts stream behind those bright blue eyes. And then a Cheshire Cat grin spread his lips after realizations awoke in his mind.

“Thou art such a beauty when you platch.” He said. The feeling of sadistic fervor and his far-too-long repressed lustful temptations were morphed together into bedroom eyes.

You went owl-eyed around your petrified pupils. Finally, you couldn’t hold the weight any longer as the situation became much too real to you and the heavy tears spilled out of your eyes. Alex’s smile widened before he pushed himself back up to straight posture, both of his hands reaching behind his back to unsheathe a dagger from his cane.

The sight of the long and sharp blade made your deep frowning lips part, a faint yelp weak in your throat. It was as if your horror stole all the words from you and left you far too terrified and weak to say anything. And your ears felt nearly deaf from the violent beating of your heart that rang in your eardrums. The only sounds you could hear were your scared sobbing wails and the sound of your pajamas ripping as he dragged the dagger down the clothing like a zipper.

Once sliced open enough, Alex placed the knife in his mouth to hold it with his teeth as he used his hands to tear it open the rest of the way. You were left in nothing but your panties, no bra due to the fact you had planned for independent slumber. But now you wished your sleeping customs were different as you laid exposed and helplessly vulnerable underneath the wicked monster you once felt joyful to call your dear friend.

And that monster’s eyes took in your vulnerability with a deranged infatuation; eyes that ravished the sight so hungrily. With the dagger still clenched between his white teeth, Alex’s hands were free to reach down and grope your breasts like dough. You whimpered with a feeble tremble, your leaking eyes squeezed shut in severe discomfort as you tightly gripped the sheets with white knuckles.

He grasped the side cups of your chest to push your bust together, giving him a better view of both of them at the same time. The action made you sharply inhale from the sensitivity, but it was as if that woke you up because you then felt the protective courage to snatch his wrists in an attempt to claw his unwanted touch off you; furious and disgusted by his animalistic audacity.

Your attempt of defense was rendered as nothing but a detriment to yourself as it was simple for Alex to free himself from your hold. One hand slammed onto your elbow to cage it to the mattress and his other hand retracted the dagger from his mouth to push it horizontally against your still hurt throat. Not hard enough to draw blood but hard enough to make you cower away from him and attempt to push yourself deeper into the mattress to escape the touch of the blade.

“Now, now, now, my dear darling.” He spoke with a sharp smile and pupils dilated in insanity. “Don’t do anything you will regret. Best to just lay back, relax, and enjoy the show. Maybe a couple of tears here and there for sweetness. But be the noble girl you always are and behave while I ravage your cunt.”

He turned the dagger diagonally to rest the tip atop the center of your collarbone. His grip on the handle was tight and you knew one wrong move on either of your ends would end with your blood gushing down your naked body. “I’d hate to carve up such elegant plott. It’d be a sin!” He tapped and glided the blade against your neck teasingly.

He leaned down to position his lips next to your ear. “But it’s a good thing I’m not a gloopy malenky dobby church boy.” He breathed out, causing your limbs to shiver in sickened fear. “I’m not afraid to get a little sinful.” He husked before he opened his mouth to drag his wet, warm tongue from your jawline up to your ear. Your joyless frown involuntary trembled.

Alex angled his face above yours, taking in your visibly terrified features and your salty rivers of tears and nearly salivating at the sight. “Now… Do you promise to behave?” He asked you with a cruel, mocking tone. The breathy, agonized sob you were holding occupied your throat so all you could do was reply with a twitchy yet compliant nod.

His smile practically lit up. “That’s my devotchka!” He exclaimed proudly before parting the dagger from your chest and instead moving it to rest against your jawline, allowing his thumb to caress your tearfully wet cheekbone. He dipped his head down to capture your lips within his for a sweet and simple kiss. He separated himself after he was satisfied with the taste to look up into your immensely glossy eyes with unfiltered fondness.

Your intoxicating lips tempted him to return for another, but quicker, deep kiss before his hands slid down your waist to hook his long fingers around the hem of your panties. He kept them there as he moved himself to come face to face with your sheltered cunt. Your frowning lips quivered as you bit them to ease your pounding heart. But not even your mind that tried to make you recite an entire work day in your head to distance yourself from your reality could distract you from Alex lifting your hips high up into the air so that he could straighten his back.

He smiled devilishly down at your forbidden flower with unhinged admiration laced within his features and eyes, your legs dangling over his shoulders. And without a hint he had shoved his nose straight into your clothed clit and took a deep, dirty inhale. You whined at the contact. He removed his nose to look down at you. “My, oh my. Your sladky von of strack is quite to die for, my dear.” He chuckled sardonically in his throat to himself before jokingly pecking a kiss to your clothed folds, creating a ‘mwah’ sound, and chuckling again at your second whine. He truly found your meek fear amusing.

He released the hold he had on your hips, letting your lower body plop back onto the bed with a bounce. Then he jumped the gun, his hands back onto the band of your panties and tugging them off down your shivering legs. Clasping his hands tightly onto your inner thighs, he pushed them apart to spread your legs wide open to put your cunt on full display for his ravishing eyes.

Breathy sobs began to invade your voice despite your desperate resistance to such. You just couldn’t believe this was happening. Your body shook as if you were freezing yet you felt your humid sweat as if you were boiling, it was a sickening feeling as your once sanguine world crumbled around you.

Alex retched inward to spit onto your clitoris, gave it a second to let his thick saliva ooze down your folds before using his fingers to rub in the slimy substance. He used an up and down then circular motion before giving it a slap, creating a wet, lewd sound.

You barely even registered Alex removing his codpiece then pants and boxers until he positioned his erection near your now wet hole and climbed on top of you, leaning his face awfully close to yours with his hands pinning your wrists. He relished the sight of your bloodshot eyes coated with hot tears and the sound of your distressed sobbing begs. A sense of sick euphoria swelled up within him.

Oh god how he adored you; his severe psychopathic obsession. Truthfully, Alex would’ve done whatever it took to have you.

He held a predatory gaze. “You’re my world, darling.” He purred to you before thrusting himself into you with a possessive claim and lustful selfishness fueling him.

Alex was right about your sheets. After a very long night of the old in-out-in-out, multiple rounds and positions and orgasms later, he finally left you on your bed and made his exit. Not without promising that he'd be back and proclaiming that you were now his and his alone though. And threatening you as well about tattling.

He was right, your sheets became filthy. They were vandalized with both of your climax’s and your blood, as well as your tears and a few rips that had been made with your gripping nails and his dagger. Your body was as vandalized as your sheets. The elegant skin of yours he seemed so fond of was now littered with bruises, hickey’s, bite marks, nail scratches, and small blade wounds (you just couldn’t stop yourself from resisting and fighting back so many times). But it seemed like he loved the sight and color of your blood as he had lapped it up every time his dagger and his teeth punctured into you.

You laid in the mess and weeped. Your mind was vandalized worse than both your sheets and body. Vandalized with betrayal, trauma, violation, dread, and a mortified horror. All of what Alex was deep down this entire time.

That was when your life became the torturous hell you had to live with.

[st-juliet]

Can I request an nsfw fic sitting on Sherlock Holmes’ lap while he explains a case to reader, she start kissing his neck and he starts stuttering 😩😩 (also, Im literally in LOVE with your works 😫 😭)

Pulse Point

Fandom: Henry Cavill as Sherlock in Enola Holmes

Summary: To help him relax in the midst of a trying case, Reader exploits Sherlock’s only vulnerability.

Content: 18+ for smutty smutty smut, Sherlock’s filthy mouth, unprotected sex, and pure domestic bliss.

Notes: My first prompt! Thank you thank you thank you, Anon; I love this so much. I wrote it quite quickly and unedited, so apologies for any imperfections!

“Come, sit with me, darling girl.”

Standing in the door of your husband’s study, you fall even more in love with Sherlock Holmes. He sits behind his desk in his leather wingback chair, attired in his shirtsleeves, coat discarded, posture tense—it has been hours since you saw him come home, carrying a crate of papers and wearing the expression of determination and passion that lets you know the game is well and truly afoot.

Eager to be of help, you follow his directive at once, crossing the room to his side. He settles you on his lap and places a chaste, gentle kiss to your temple, pausing to breathe in the scent of your hair. A little of his tension seems to melt away with your closeness, and you return his kiss—but on the lips, this time—with a smile. He smiles, too, and whispers, “I love you so.”

“As I love you! Now, tell me the matter of the case,” you prompt, with another light, teasing peck. “Begin at the beginning, and perhaps some new detail will reveal itself in the telling.”

Sherlock smiles, a little wearily, but with a clear relief at your presence and enthusiasm.

“Yes, pray lend me a little of your brilliance, Mrs. Holmes, for I am at my wit’s end.”

“Nonsense; your wit is endless,” you scoff, and at last he laughs, too. You share another kiss, deeper this time, and he settles more comfortably into the chair.

“It is Moriarty,” he sighs, loosening his cravat and tossing it aside. “It is always Moriarty, the spider in the center of the web. But for once, he torments me with leisure, not urgency. There is no captive aristocrat, no explosives planted, no threat of impending murder; and thank god for it. But instead, he spins me an ever-expanding list of riddles, each more obscure and particular than the last. To what end I do not know.”

He tips his head back against the chair, exposing the long line of his throat to your gaze. Though you would find it nigh impossible to select a favorite part of your husband’s body—for truly, it seems that every night as he fills your aching channel so perfectly, so completely, there is some new, glorious detail of his physique thrown into prominence—Sherlock’s neck is especially tempting. It is a singular point of vulnerability in such a massive, muscled man, and one you love to exploit: you know well that so much as a single kiss can bring the man to his knees, or else drive him to bend you over the nearest surface and make you his in the most primal, profound way.

“He boasts of the reach of his accomplices by infiltrating those systems in which we have the greatest trust, so much that the average man may not even notice anything has changed.”

You simply cannot help yourself.

Delicately, you shift upon his lap, wickedly delighted that he has fixed his eyes upon the cluttered wall opposite his desk, where his series of pinned-up schedules, diagrams, and ciphers distract him from your intentions.

“But I first noticed that the regular seven o’clock train from Trafalgar to Charing Cross was delayed on Tuesday—“

With a slow deliberation, you kiss the point where his pulse beats steadily beneath his jaw.

“—initial—initially—by seven—“

You part your lips ever so slightly and kiss him again.

“—by seven—se—“

A large, lissome hand lands heavily on your thigh. You do not let this deter you; no indeed, it only incites you further, and you press your lips more firmly against his neck.

“By seven minutes!” he concludes in a rush, and you take advantage of his pause for breath to trail your kisses lower, pulling aside the collar of his shirt for a better vantage. 

You lightly sink your teeth into his flesh, just at the juncture where his neck and shoulder meet, and he moans.

“Angel—oh, my g—god…”

As you work your way back up to his pulse point, he still stutters out a little more on the subject of the case: “Angel, the—the trains—I am—tr—trying to—explain…“

You raise your head up innocently.

“Shall I stop, sir?”

Sherlock kisses your lips hungrily, squeezing you tighter, and you wriggle in delight, feeling him grow hard at your ministrations. It gratifies you to no end, when this stern, controlled man falls prey to his own lusts, unable to help the way his length strains at his trousers—and all for you.

“No, no—“ he breathes, and you take your cue eagerly, shifting to straddle his thighs, their breadth forcing your legs wide apart. “Don’t stop, my sweet—ah—angel.”

He fumbles with the fastenings of his trousers, but can’t seem to manage the simple motor function, such is his arousal, especially as your lips return to his neck.

“Let me help you,” you offer, murmuring against his throat as you pepper it with more kisses. “Let me please you, please, Sherlock…”

“God, lo—look what you’ve—done to me,” he sighs, throwing up his hands. Laughing breathlessly, you finish the job yourself, a rapturous smile of triumph gracing your lips as your hand wraps around his freed cock, already leaking and flushed with desire. “You…you undo me completely,” he groans, thrusting up into your grasp. “Fuck, please, my darling girl, please, let me feel you—“

“Yes, Sherlock, anything you want!”

This seems to reinvigorate him, and he growls, pushing aside your skirts roughly. He does not allow the time for you to rise and doff your undergarments, but instead simply tears the delicate fabric at the seams to reveal your dripping petals.

“I’ll buy—buy you more,” he promises, as you rock your wet heat against his achingly hard cock. “What do you want, angel? What can I give? All the lace in the world. A dozen gowns, a hundred, anything for you—emeralds or pearls or—oh, Christ, you are so fucking tight I can hardly—“ This as you sink down on him, sheathing him to the hilt with your own a cry of ecstasy. “I’ll give you the world. Oh, my love…”

You continue to besiege his neck as you ride him, finding out each sweet spot that makes him clutch your hips all the harder, with Sherlock babbling out a litany of absolute filth mixed with romantic nonsense:

“That pretty, pretty mouth god your lips—you will be the death of me, angel!”

Sherlock hardly lasts a moment more after your climax causes you to clench around him, holding him tight and deep and perfect, and he gasps your name and a stammering profession of love as he spills himself inside you. You gaze into his eyes as they come back into focus, and you share a little panting laughter, for you are both an absolute mess of half-discarded clothes, dripping seed, and riotously disheveled hair. You have even left a clear mark on his neck, which makes you feel as grand as the empress of the earth, to have laid such an intimate claim upon his otherwise unassailable body. Murmuring quiet, loving little praises, you help one another to undress fully, till you stand before one another fully natural, each drinking in the sight of the other.

“My god. Just look at you, Mrs. Holmes.”

“You are the most beautiful man alive!” you cannot help but exclaim, and he tosses his head in evident pride at the compliment. How you love to make him vain.

“And at last, I am thinking clearly—for the first time all day!” he says, making you laugh again, then he lets out an exultant “Ha!” and strides over towards the gallery of evidence pinned to the wall. “You’ve done it. By Jove, Mrs. Holmes, you have knocked the scales from my eyes. I see the whole design now…”

“Then let me fetch you fresh clothes—and some water to wash, hmm?”

“Yes, give me leave a little while to dole out justice upon Moriarty. And then turnabout’s fair play for you, wife: I think your lovely neck deserves a mark or two of its own…”

If you enjoyed, please do leave a comment, reblog, or visit my Masterlist!

[nartml]

Should Oikawa have gone to Shiratorizawa?

It's a well known fact that Oikawa, soon after graduation, left off to join the Argentinian Volleyball League.

Now, Oikawa was never able to beat Ushijima, which probably played a bigger role in his decision to immigrate to the other side of the world than you might think.

He was never able to go to Nationals and leave Miyagi, therefore never made his brilliance as a player known, and consequently was overshadowed by the other two 'genius' setters, Kageyama and Atsumu.

Something that would've been a huge hindrance to his career if he were to stay in Japan.

His reputation, or lack thereof, might have actually held him down for years, especially when there were two other setters who were arguably even better than him and already established their presence in the big leagues.

Ushijima knew this, and was certain that Seijoh was dragging Oikawa down, which is why he was so confident that Oikawa shot himself in the foot when he refused to go to Shiratorizawa.

Had he chosen otherwise, he would've gone to Nationals, where he'd also have his debut in the big leagues.

Scouts would undoubtedly take notice of this other brilliant setter who played everyone on both sides of the net like a fiddle—

Wait. What?

Would they have taken notice? Would there be something to take notice of?

Since when did Shiratorizawa rely on gimmicks, tricky strategies, and versatile attacks? Since when was there room for mind games?

Since when did coach Washijo allow anyone other than Ushijima to take the lead?

Didn't Semi get benched because he didn't prioritize Ushijima? Didn't he take the boot for not sucking up to him?

Oikawa shines, but that's only when he's actually allowed to do his thing.

His playing style is the exact opposite of what Shiratorizawa wants.

It was kind of stated by coach Ukai too.

"If Aoba Johsai is the most complete team in the prefecture, then Shiratorizawa is the most incomplete."

Shiratorizawa's playing style centers around individual strengths, raw power, and Ushijima.

Oikawa prefers a united front, plays connecting with one another, making room for proper adjustments and adaptation. He's down for the occasional mind game too.

But most of all, he prefers to take the damn lead.

Yes, cohesion is imperative for his playing style, but that's also the case for many of the strong teams we see in the show.

The difference is, Oikawa is clearly the one in the driving seat. We see it most of all in their team huddles.

Oikawa flawlessly communicates with his team, knows where, who, when, and how much to push, and while everyone participates in the discussions, he's clearly the leader.

He does the thinking, the planning, the strategizing. He keeps track of everyone on both teams.

He reminds me a bit of Kenma in that regard.

But apart from being the brain, he also has the athletic prowess, the technical skills, the passion, the people skills, and it's safe to assume, countless more hours of practice too.

Seijoh's coaches know that, and have let him cultivate all those skills through the years.

By contrast, we see coach Washijo usually butt in during the time-outs, and insist that his players just hold proper form to put in even more power, to be more dynamic on account of their physical stature.

Imagine how little of a say Oikawa would have, especially if he attended Shiratorizawa from the get-go.

The only first year we actually know is Goshiki. The rest are near entirely unknown.

I highly doubt he'd be half as devious a player as he is, had he had Washijo for a coach.

The chances that old guy would let him do even a fraction of his thing are next to zero.

At the end of the day, Oikawa is tricky, and Shiratorizawa just isn't.

So then, did Seijoh hold him back? I'm not sure.

We're not gonna talk about year-long friendships, bonds, and good chemistry, which were undoubtedly huge factors, both in his decision to attend Seijoh, and in everyone trusting him to do his stuff.

Let's just take a quick look at their capabilities as a bunch.

Objectively, they're strong. Skilled. But not strong enough, and not skilled enough either.

I mean, look at that first practice match. They didn't have Oikawa, and Karasuno, which kinda sucked at the time, beat them in straight sets.

Yes, it was a practice match. Yes, they got stronger later on.

But that loss highlighted, more than anything, just how much of an effect Oikawa had as the leader, and how much he elevated his teammates.

Without him, they would've been a lot weaker.

And that might just be exactly why Oikawa shone the way he did.

His judgement was trusted, and he learned how to take advantage of everyone's abilities and maximize them.

No, I'm not sure if Seijoh actually held him back, or if he partially owes his polished brilliance to them. Could be a bit of both.

I am sure, however, that Shiratorizawa would've actually done a hell of a lot more damage than Seijoh ever did.

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Sampling - Forward, but Never Forget/XOXO

A journalist finds themselves on the Eye of Zaun's platter...

(Run, you idiot. Run.)

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

"Have you considered," you dared, as you both resumed your seats, now side-by-side, "finding a companion to share the burden with?"

"Companion? I trust you don't mean a spouse?"

Your cheeks flamed. "Are there so few suitable candidates in Zaun?"

"Suitable? Oh, plenty."

You found yourself leaning in. "But no one special?"

"Special..." He rolled the word on his tongue: languorously, as if savoring a peculiar delicacy. "In a manner of speaking."

He eyed the decanter, and seemed to debate whether or not to pour a second shot. He settled for a single finger. Yours, too, was devotedly filled. The atmosphere was beginning to warm: a clandestine coziness of blue-and-gold.

You'd not realized how much heat the Chancellor radiated, until he was a scant distance away. The shared settee felt like a private sauna.

"Who, then?" Your voice, coming from somewhere deep, had grown husky. "What sort of person could entice you?"

"Oh, a rarity. But Zaun has no shortage of those. We're a spirited folk, Mx. Goode. Our passions, our ambitions... they are not bound by convention." A hand lifted; sherry swirled in the glass. "They are not, in fact, bound at all."

You took a shaky sip from your own. "You seek, then, an equal match."

"A balance, not a scale." His chuckle rasped up your spine like a lit matchstick. "I'll admit I'm no catch. My faults are many. A temper to shame Shurima's blistering sands, and a stubbornness to rival their stone colossi. I'm prone to jealousy, and far too accustomed to getting my way. Then there's my taste for strong liquor and late hours." He tipped his head back, and downed the shot. You watched the tendons in his throat flex sinuously. "But, whatever else, I keep my vices within legal bounds." Wry: "Even if those bounds are elastic."

Your own glass was nearly empty. Your head spun: from the sherry, or the man, you couldn't say. "I have heard... rumors."

"The world's full of them."

"Your, ah, tastes. Are said to be eclectic. And your carte du monde..."

"Broad, as they say, beyond the pale." That low laugh. "You're curious?"

Breathless, you answered, "Very."

"I'm afraid, then, I must disappoint. Some secrets are best kept secret." A sidelong smile. His front teeth were finely serrated, and chipped at the center. Why did that strike you as attractive? It was mystifying. "I will say this. A wide platter is no promise of a full belly. Especially—" A pair of canines bared their twinkling points. "If one’s palate is discriminating."

The temperature had jumped several degrees. You felt, in a trance, your glass being taken from your hand. Heard the clink of the two, set aside.

When his attention returned, he was closer than before. You noticed the creases at the corners of his eyes, and the scar notching his left temple in its trajectory down to the jaggedly seamed flesh of his cheekbone. His mouth, too, had a scar: a tiny white nick near the upper lip. It was not unattractive. In fact, the violence in the topography of his flesh seemed only to enhance his appeal.

The imperfections were signs of a life lived fully. With passion. With vigor.

A Zaunite life.

"Surely," you licked your lips, and tasted the sherry, "you've sampled everything the city has to offer."

"I've sampled." He tipped a shoulder. "And been satisfied."

"But not fulfilled?"

Again, that equivocal shrug. "I'll be blunt. The city has a surplus of beauty, and no a shortage of brilliance. But it is the rare find whose value cannot be gauged. The Noxian boys, not to stereotype, are always greedy to prove themselves. Too greedy, in my estimation. Bilgewater's wenches are bold as brass, but insufferably spiteful. Ionians, I've a soft spot for. A study of elegance, in their way. But tender hearts can be fickle. And Demacians..." He gusted a sigh. "A pretty passel, but heads as empty as eggshells. If I crack one, its contents will likely ooze." A grin. "Unless it's a good fuck, in which case, I won't complain."

It was the first time he'd uttered a profanity in your presence. And his delivery—the way his lips lingered on the f and cut like a knife through the k—was undeniably filthy.

The heat spiked into a flare. Your skin felt slick, your pulse wild. His stare, that lazy-lidded blue eye, took in the effects.

There was the faintest of smiles, and no tell. His poker face was perfect.

"Have you considered," you fumbled, "searching closer to home?"

"Indeed, I have." Then, to your dismay: "The local Vekauran enclave, in fact."

"I—really?"

"I've no prejudice. They're a fine-looking folk. Lithe and lovely and dark as dusk. Their cuisine, especially, is a godsend. Have you tasted payasam, Mx. Goode? I detest sweets, but their use of jaggery is pure genius."

"Their dishes," you heard the pique in your own tone, "are a bit too spicy for my taste."

"Spicy?" The smile slipped into a smirk. "Or hot?"

"Is there a difference?"

"There is in Zaun. Spice has layers of flavor. It can be bitter, or sweet, or sour. But its essence is its bite." He lounged back, and his knee brushed yours. The blue and red eyes snared you with hypnotic intensity. "Hot, on the other hand, is a lasting potency. Does it sear, or scald, or swallow you whole? Only a brave tongue can tell."

You swallowed. The parlor was an oven. His knee, kissing yours, a branding-iron.

"Is that what suits your palate," you managed. "A little spice?"

"A little. Never too much. Just enough to get the blood flowing." His arm draped the back of the settee. You felt his thumb skim your nape. Gooseflesh bloomed. "Anyway, Vekauran beauties are best enjoyed at a distance. Praise one by saying she belongs in the kitchen, and she'll chop off your tongue and feed it to you raw."

You voice was nearly a shiver. "You seem... well-versed."

"I am, indeed." Another brush against the nape. You tried not to arch. "And I prefer my tongue in working order."

 "For business...?"

"That, too." And, slowly, his thumb stroked down to the hollow between your neck and shoulder. "Speaking of which, are you enjoying yours?"

The words—the touch—were a dousing of heat. Your eyes fluttered shut. You were on the verge of a slip down scandal and into the inferno. A part of you screamed to abort, and flee to the safety of your suite. To cool down, and return to Piltover with a full report, and an intact reputation.

The rest of you—the real you—melted like candlewax under a flame.

You'd played with fire before. But never one as scorching as this.

"I think," you breathed, "we've done enough talking."

The Chancellor, smiling, closed the last scant inches.

[soberpluto]

Explaining Dignities: Detriment (Sun, Moon, Mercury and Venus)

2nd post on dignities! Hope you enjoy 🤩

Context: In Hellenistic (traditional) astrology, planets in detriment (or debilitated planets) are planetary rulers who sit in its contrary sign (the opposite of its domicile sign), such as Moon in Capricorn. They are said to be like foreigners in a land where they don’t speak the same language and are not familiar with the resources available in that place. Because of that, they cannot express their personality well and find success easily, as they need double the effort to accomplish their goals. With time, they can learn to make the best out of what’s given, but things will not be as easy as with exalted planets or in domicile. Planets in detriment tend to create delays and challenges in the house they occupy.

*Mind that below I’m speaking metaphorically of “house” as the SIGN the planet is exalted, and not the astrological house (1st, 2nd, 3rd, etc.) as such.*

Also, my intention is not to "condemn" people with these placements. As with everything, there are positive and negative interpretations, but for the purpose of this topic, I'll be centering on the challenges only.

Sun in Aquarius: When the Sun is in Aquarius, his powerful and charismatic personality feels threatened. He’s at odds because he cannot be a creative leader and a community ally at the same time. He trades his uniqueness for a sense of belonging and feels like an outsider when he doesn’t achieve this. The Sun is frustrated, as he’s pushed aside from the limelight. He has to accept that his host prefers transcendence and unity over fun, passion, competition and recreation… the things he loves! Aquarius tries to get rid of his need for recognition and superiority in an attempt to make him fit into the masses, and while the Sun finds some sort of value in it, he misses his followers, as he feels underappreciated and misunderstood. After all, he lives for the drama, the theaters! His charisma is of no use in this gray and futuristic laboratory, where he has to learn to get in touch with his shine and brilliance from a mental place instead of his heart. His natural self-expression and emotionality need to be contained and transformed into scientific and innovative concepts that will help humankind, not amaze, or entertain it, as he wishes to.

Personality keywords: detached, stubborn, arbitrary, isolated, alienated, misfit, misunderstood, cold, unemotional.

Moon in Capricorn: When Capricorn receives the Moon, he finds her sensitivity too overwhelming and disturbing. He finds it hard to tolerate her fragility and self-expression, as he wants to keep things under control and practical. Facing drama makes him nervous, so he tries to avoid anything disturbing the Moon may complain about; this creates distance, insecurity and discomfort between hosts. The Moon feels misunderstood, lonely, and alienated from what makes her happy. In this ancient and lonely place, she’s gloomy because she cannot create a cozy and hearty home, where people feel welcomed and she’s able to take care of them without feeling judged or weak. Since she’s ripped away from emotional closeness, depression and exhaustion enter right away, as her host seems to be obsessed with duties, work, and material goals. She does not understand why life has to be so cold and serious. What is she supposed to do with all this vulnerability and depth in a place that sees them as undesirable?

Personality keywords: stern, lonely, gloomy, distant, restricted, pessimistic, overly ambitious, materialistic, incredulous.

Mercury in Sagittarius: Sagittarius is adventurous, expansive and preoccupied with the larger picture, so when Mercury lands into this spacious and disorganized household, he’s overwhelmed and lost. He wants to rearrange things and be as scrupulous as he can so he can make sense out of it all, but in here he has no idea where to begin, or if it’s even possible! He’s not interested in philosophy or spirituality as his host does, as he prefers facts and logical explanations to understand the world. Where he comes from, knowledge cannot beat experience, contrary the abstract and diluted things he finds in this amusement park. Because there are no clear guidelines, books or archives to find his answers, he has to turn into his underused intuition and sense of faith to find clarity. His host just wants him to be excited and have fun without worrying about the minor details! Therefore, his valued brain power seems to not be as useful as before, making him feel ungrounded and confused most of the time. He finds out that it’s better to just go with the flow and ends up sacrificing his methodical approaches for disorder, recklessness and impulsiveness because he gets tired of trying to do things objectively and rationally.

Personality keywords: blunt, distracted, careless, reckless, unclear, outspoken, non-sensical, wanderer, disorganized, lacks attention, messy, inconsistent, excitable.

Mercury in Pisces: Because Pisces is boundless and diluted, Mercury experiences a similar effect of anxiety and frustration as before when he enters the watery and nebulous chambers of his host’s homebase. Mercury needs libraries, schools and constant communication and interactions to feel happy, but in here, he feels alone in the middle of nowhere and things are just too mystical to be digested with common sense. He finds it hard to navigate the temple of the unseen realms, as he’s used to approaching life from his scientific rationale. There are so many things that don’t make sense here! Yes, there are interesting concepts in here and while he learns a thing or two, he loses track of applicable information for “the real world” and inadvertently turns impractical because the knowledge he stumbles upon can only live in the lands of the intangible, dreams or fairytales. He cannot differentiate between illusions and lies from real facts. Because there’s no impartial or logical point of reference, he frequently may be caught up by deceitful communication. His confusion can drive him towards victimhood or self-undoing tendencies, in an attempt to escape what he cannot cope with logically (which can be a lot!).

Personality keywords: disoriented, deceitful, confused, lost, mentally ill, escapist, unreal, delusional, self-absorbed, distracted, martyr, unreal, highly Influenceable.

Venus in Aries: When the planet of love, beauty and harmony enters this host’s home, she feels threatened and uninvited. She feels too weak and scared in a place where war and blood are the bread of everyday. She does not tolerate violence well, but this is what is expected of her in here. Venus understands that she must defend herself to survive, and although she has the resources to do that, she feels unhappy because her soft, passive, gentle and kind approach towards life cannot be expressed without being seen as a liability, a weakness. Cooperation and partnerships are hard to maintain here, because her host couldn’t be less interested healthy connections or other people's wellbeing. He only looks out for himself and makes sure Venus knows this! She feels unable to relax because she’s constantly pushed towards violence and exhausting combat. Venus hates so much chaos and egoism! She and her host bump into each other because both want to follow their own agendas. Tension and ego-clashes will surface, especially if her provoked violence goes to extremes. In an attempt to preserve her values, she can lash out unnecessarily or become passive-aggressive because she is constantly irritated or frustrated about her surroundings. After all, the way she's allowed to love is contrary to what she's used to.

Personality keywords: tempestuous, passive-agressive, visceral, contradictory, tense, over sexualized, highly masculine, too controlling or pushy, self-centered, tough love, competes for love, hyper sensitive.

Venus in Scorpio: Although Scorpio values intimacy and emotional depth like Venus, when she enters this hidden cave of mysteries and forbidden things, she becomes overwhelmed and terrified by the darkness she bumps into. Venus is used to thrive in a place of beauty, peace, and relaxation, but in here, her host loves the tenebrous and complicated. She’s left to her own devices and is obligated to find her way out alone. Exploring this realm can feel like a house of horror ride for sweet and innocent Venus! Her host is an enigmatic creature that allures but frightens her, because she’s not able to guess if he’s a friend or an enemy. This is a place where she is forced to find beauty and resilience in the darkest of corners, as daylight is very hard to be seen beneath the ground. She has to become familiar with sorrow and pain too, and she does this by going through constant deaths and rebirths because her need for understanding and closeness drags her to the extremes and into unknown dangers. Venus builds a thick crust around herself to protect her vulnerability. This makes her painfully isolated at times because she will always crave for love and intimacy; a secret she cannot tell. The intensity and uncertainty of this place can make her hyper controlling or mistrusting, but also resilient.

Personality keywords: intense, vengeful, possessive, jealous, secretive, insecure, mind-player, exploitative, dark, uses sex as a weapon, gold digger.

2nd part coming up! Thanks all for reading! 😘

Written by @soberpluto

[waitmyturtles]

Turtles Catches Up With Old GMMTV: He’s Coming To Me Edition

[What’s going on here? After joining Tumblr and discovering Thai BLs through KinnPorsche in 2022, I began watching GMMTV’s new offerings -- and realized that I had a lot of history to catch up on, to appreciate the more recent works that I was delving into. From tropes to BL frameworks, what we’re watching now hails from somewhere, and I’m learning about Thai BL's history through what I’m calling the Old GMMTV Challenge (OGMMTVC). Starting with recommendations from @absolutebl on their post regarding how GMMTV is correcting for its mistakes with its shows today, I’ve made an expansive list to get me through a condensed history of essential/classic/significant Thai BLs produced by GMMTV and many other BL studios. My watchlist, pasted below, lists what I’ve watched and what’s upcoming, along with the reviews I’ve written so far. Today, I’ll cover He’s Coming To Me, how this show centers Thai-Chinese/Asian culture, shipper culture, and the brilliance of Ohm Pawat and Singto Prachaya. THIS IS A LONG POST.]

I’m gonna have to hold myself down for this one. He’s Coming To Me. This kind of show. HCTM is ABSOLUTELY the reason why I created this project watchlist in the first place -- to watch this kind of show. This show cements my utter respect and passion for the work of Aof Noppharnach. This guy’s work needs to be taught in schools. 

I’m like -- after days of finishing HCTM, and furiously and hungrily rewatching episodes, I am still shaking my damn head at this show. I knew it was great, but y’all didn’t prepare me for ITS GREATNESS. (And to be watching it the same week as Our Skyy 2 x Bad Buddy x A Tale of Thousand Stars -- it’s been an Aof-themed moment, and I’m a touch overwhelmed by EVERYTHING I’ve absorbed.)

I am actually contemplating -- I’m seriously contemplating this! -- if I like this show better than either Bad Buddy or Moonlight Chicken. I know, I KNOW. I’m not talking about the story, the structure, the filming, the writing and direction. I’m literally just talking about my own damn preferences. I might just LIKE this show better, for what it held, what it told, and how the show showed so much respect for its story.

And there’s a lot I want to touch on in this piece, so as usual, a little list for myself:

1) Where this show came from vis à vis the watchlist, and what I think it meant by way of previous BLs 2) The Asianness of the show and how it transcended the usual BL tropes 3) A celebration of Aof’s favorite themes, and how cool it was to see them being born in HCTM (including the theme of young/first love that I haven’t seen before in his work) 4) A hopefully brief and not angry reflection on shipper culture, homophobia, Ohm, Singto, and how that affected HCTM in the annals of Thai BL

Without having seen his My Dear Loser work, or his screenwriting for Gay OK Bangkok 1 and 2 (which I plan to watch after the OGMMTVC is over, in preparation for Only Friends): HCTM is the first full Aof vehicle to enter my watchlist. So just quickly looking behind me: I’ve had shows like Love Sick, SOTUS, Together With Me, Love By Chance -- shows that began to toe the line, then define the line, then sharpen the line of what BL was. As I wrote in my Love By Chance review last week, I felt that LBC was the first show on my watchlist that felt like a true derivative BL, complete with tropes that had been born during Love Sick and SOTUS, and sharpened over those first few years of the Thai BL industry growing.

So it’s 2019 now, and we get He’s Coming To Me, both written and directed by P’Aof. Tropes? No tropes. What a flip from LBC.

Instead, we get an absolute head-first dive into many of the themes that we see Aof continued to play with in his later works. For me, HCTM evoked Moonlight Chicken the most, especially for what I call the Asianness of this show -- Aof’s unabashed focus on Asian cultural themes and threads that create structure and movement for his characters.

Before I get ahead of myself, I want to thank @telomeke very deeply for chatting with me about how I could learn more about Thai-Chinese culture, because themes and behaviors related to Thai-Chinese demographics are clearly common in Thai BLs, and I’ve felt that it behooved me to learn more about the culture (or as much as I can from the internet) as I continue to review these shows. But @telomeke reminded me that a lot of the assimilation of Chinese cultures and populations mirror the cultural mixing that took and takes place in Malaysia, where a part of my family hails and where I’ve spent a good portion of my life. So I’m relieved that I actually understand more about Thai-Chinese culture than I gave myself credit for, BUT -- that’s only a caveat, because I still have so much more to learn.

I say this because I’m using this word, “Asianness,” to describe in part at least one impression I have about HCTM, which is taking seriously the theme of ghosts and what role ghosts play in a human’s life. We see very often in Japanese doramas the practice of praying at an altar honoring past ancestors -- ancestor culture and worship are big in Japan, and the doramas don’t shy away from that. We see temple trips all the time in doramas and BL doramas -- especially during New Year’s. (Our Dining Table being just the most recent one.) We see Buddhist temple culture in Thai BLs often -- in KinnPorsche, in Bed Friend, in Big Dragon, and very especially in Moonlight Chicken.

I think what I want to point out here, if I can say it eloquently, is that a Western viewer might find more notable in an Asian drama, than in a Western show, the inclusion of practices of spirituality. In the West, spirituality might be indicated by a trip to a church, or prayer. But it strikes me -- and maybe this is because I’m a first-generation Asian-American, my eyes open to ALL the differences between my culture and America -- that Asian dramas incorporate the practices of spirituality more seamlessly, because practices like lighting an incense stick and giving a quick prayer before breakfast is more culturally embedded in places like Japan or Thailand. The practice is there, and you just do it, because that’s what you do for your culture. (I often see a stick of incense lit and burning next to a plate of fruits in the early mornings when I jog past Thai restaurants. It’s just -- what you do.)

It struck me, and I still wonder about it, if Western viewers may have thought that Thun was going overboard with his interest in Thai-Chinese Buddhist practices, including being so diligent about offering alms to the passing monks, going to the temple for merits, and keeping electric incense sticks on him to make sure that Med wouldn’t disappear. An auntie on Whatsapp might cock a curious eyebrow, but also regard Thun as a “good boy” who’s devoted to the temple.

In any case, this struck me particularly deeply, because I think, if P’Aof had been a little more abashed, that he could have toned this theme down -- the theme of the everyday practice of Buddhism.

And he didn’t. He didn’t tone it down. He leveraged it as THE major theme of the drama: that ghosts exist in Thai-Chinese-Buddhist culture and practice, and that some people can communicate with ghosts, including both Thun and his mom. 

The ABSOLUTELY wonderful @telomeke​ affirmed this for me, writing so eloquently: “Underlying HCTM is an unshakeable belief in the spirit world, and it's also a given ... for a majority of people in SE Asia and Thailand in particular that the spiritual realm is as much a part of the everyday world as much as the physical reality of what we can see and touch.”

The reason why I’m hammering on this in particular is because it categorizes the show as one that is utterly representative of A SPECIFIC CULTURE -- just like Moonlight Chicken, with its commentaries on spiritual and economic practices of the particular place of Pattaya. @telomeke​, I know you have specific feelings about the ending of HCTM, which I’ll get to in a moment, but I think for me, the ending of HCTM is deeply satisfying BECAUSE of this connection to Thai-Buddhist culture, what it says about ghosts and spirits, and how they continue to be incorporated in the ongoing life of a young Thai adult like Thun. AND, I appreciated that the ending skirted, just slightly, what we might have expected about someone losing their lover (à la Eternal Yesterday). Thun only temporarily lost Med... but Med still doesn’t quite exist. And I think there’s layers there that I’ll hopefully get to teasing out, either here or in a future post.

Going back to BL tropes and structures... I mean, HCTM was just like, yo, I’m gonna play in another ball field. I’ll have more thoughts on this after I watch Dark Blue Kiss, but at least, as far as I’m aware WITHOUT having seen DBK yet, that it’s not until late 2021 that P’Aof begins playing in the BL sandbox, takes his toy dump truck, and turns the tropes upside down in Bad Buddy.

And I see, in HCTM, P’Aof laying the groundwork for the themes that he DOES love, that I happen to love, and that get repeated in his oeuvre:

- The theme of community: the need for young and old queer individuals to interact with other queer individuals (most recently depicted in OS2/BBS/ATOTS) - The theme of NOSTALGIA: Med having never left his moment 20 years prior, listening to the same music of Thun’s mom’s generation (nostalgia being most recently depicted in Moonlight Chicken) - The parable of 1,000 stars: what it means to be the last star on which to make a wish (most recently depicted in ATOTS and OS2/ATOTS) - The anguish of coming out: Thun, Uncle Jim, Li Ming, Pran coming out to Dissaya -- all heavy, all impactful, all different stories that carry heaviness and their own meaning to each of these incredible characters

And there’s so many more. But what I really want to do, to get up on the rooftops that P’Aof loves so much, and YELL TO THE AIR is:

THE GENIUS, THE SHEER GENIUS, of linking these themes -- many of these as ASIAN themes! -- to specific issues that face the queer community, such as coming out, and being invisible (like a ghost) in a majority cishet society. 

GAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH. Oh, the pain in my heart. This is exactly what I wrote in my notes while rewatching the show: “This is the first time we get Big Cultural Themes outside of issues with the queer community -- and Aof LINKS the Big Cultural Themes WITH queer issues -- the brilliance of it all.” Just like he did subsequently in Moonlight Chicken.

What was so beautiful to me about He’s Coming To Me -- and how it was channeled with GENIUS TALENT AND GRACE from Ohm and Singto -- is that, unlike Moonlight Chicken, this was the story of one young man who needed to sort out his feelings. And there was another young man, a young man who was killed, who HAD begun realizing his feelings, but was trapped by station (from a rich family) and role (the only son in a family). Med even said, it would have been impossible for him to come out as the only son of his family.

As far as we knew, Med had only come out to Kwan, Thun’s mom, before he died. Med may have very well been attracted to other men before he died -- but we see him VISCERALLY attracted to Thun, and vice versa, and that burst of first love for both young men, IN THE CONTEXT OF Thun’s spiritual practice and abilities to BRING Med to “life” in Thun’s life -- I mean. I’m shaking my head. It’s a parable for manifesting what you want in your life, and making it happen. 

And yet, what HCTM also touches on, is that many times, you DON’T get what you want in life. Med WILL disappear one day. He will be reborn. It wasn’t his time at the moment of the ending, but it will be his time one day. Thun only has Med temporarily -- we don’t see the WHEN of that. 

BUT. I would posit (and @telomeke​ and @wen-kexing-apologist​, I wonder what you think of this), à la OS2/Bad Buddy, that P’Aof is OKAY with us not seeing this, and not necessarily considering the ending of HCTM to be a happy ending for Thun and Med. Because he knows -- and he knows that his Asian viewers know -- that Med WILL leave Thun one day. Not yet, though. Thun still has a little time to grow wiser and older and stronger. But Med WILL disappear one day. He had been hinting at it all throughout every episode of the series. He will have to leave Thun’s side. 

I think the way the show ended was graceful. It leaves that door open for Med to find his rebirth, because was a good kid and deserves to be reborn in a happy life. It allows Thun time to grow through his first love -- first love being such an important theme to this show. It’s COMPASSIONATE to Thun, very similar to me to the kind of compassion that P’Aof showed to Uncle Jim throughout Moonlight Chicken, and just now in OS2/ATOTS to Phupha. But it’s also rooted in the SPIRITUAL REALITY that Med WILL leave -- just not yet. And P’Aof is saying, I didn’t need to show y’all, because y’all Asians already know, Med’s outta here one day. 

The other thing to note about the ending is that P’Aof had already shown a tremendous amount of Thun’s pain. Thun wasn’t necessarily HAPPY in this show. He was curious, exploring, and loyal to Med. While Thun is clearly a young man who DEMONSTRATES happiness -- MY GAWD, the 19-year-old smile of Ohm Pawat!!! -- I wouldn’t say that he was a happy child. He lost his dad young. He was SCARED as hell for potentially letting his mom down. And: he had a lot of secrets to keep. The secret of being gay. The secret of being able to see and talk to ghosts.

“He’s coming to me.” Thun comes out, twice. He’s gay, and can see ghosts. 

Even though others can’t see ghosts, I can. Even though others aren’t gay, I’m gay. Mom: I’m different. 

When Thun sobs for Med while holding onto the jar of stars in his bedroom. When Thun spins around, looking for Med on the rooftop in episode five. When Thun calls for Med and Med isn’t there. Thun is alone. He is alone with his secrets, and Med is not there -- he is NOT coming to Thun in those moments -- and Thun is left alone, different and unique, as he has been his whole life.

I’d posit that that uniqueness is particularly difficult to deal with in collectivist Asian societies as in Thailand -- which led, in part, to Thun not knowing the language of his feelings as he came out to Med in episode five on the rooftop, and being SCARED, to his bones, to come out to his friends and his mom in episode six.

For 2019: I see this show as being ahead of its time, way ahead of its time. I have lots of theories as to why this show isn’t considered a more striking part of the canon of Thai BLs, and the incredible @bengiyo​ and @shortpplfedup​ have helped me to understand the magnitude of the impact that P’Aof made in breaking up the KristSingto ship to pair Singto with Ohm -- and how the fan shippers came for HCTM, and pushed GMMTV to hide this show for years before finally releasing it on YouTube with subs.

But besides that fucking bullshit, which I’ll return to in a second, I also want to note that maybe -- considering that we have more years now, after 2019, to consider the massive trove of Thai BLs that exist now -- the skirting of the still-nascent BL tropes framework was too early for many when this show came out. As I’ve demonstrated here in this piece -- this show’s complicated. There’s A LOT A LOT. I mean, I’m in love with P’Aof’s work because I LIKE HAVING A LOT in my shows. But you go a flip side and you get Together With Me and MaxTul with love bites and throaty kisses (in the words of Seinfeld, not that there’s anything wrong with that). 

HCTM is heavy. It carried a lot that wasn’t overtly sexual by nature, like many BLs at that moment in 2019 and right beforehand (randy Perth, randy MaxTul, etc.).

I understand from @bengiyo​ and @shortpplfedup​ that, because Ohm needed to move on from Make It Right and the OhmToey ship due to Toey leaving BL after MIR, and Ohm joining forces with Singto, that Ohm received massive criticism, and continues to be a subject of criticism and bullying today (some of which I’ve seen on this site). And that Singto was also the subject of online bullying as well.

With all of this in mind -- Ohm, Singto, and the unique nature of HCTM -- I’m continuing to mull over the issue of homophobia in shipper culture. If BLs are reduced down SIMPLY to the pairings that lead these shows -- and that there’s an EXPECTATION that the shows NEED to depict certain acts of queer sexuality, SPECIFICALLY among actors who identify as straight -- that seems straight up homophobic to me.

I can see HCTM being too ahead of its time to begin shifting that paradigm. I’ll see what Dark Blue Kiss does next in the Aof oeuvre from this purview, but what I want to get at is:

IT IS CRIMINAL THAT HCTM ISN’T MORE WIDELY KNOWN. This show is affecting me literally at the same level as Bad Buddy and Moonlight Chicken.

What HCTM HELD by way of Asian culture and spirituality, by the RESPECT IT HAD for the experience of first young queer love, by LEVERAGING the ABSOLUTE BRILLIANCE OF ACTING OF OHM AND SINGTO (omg, AND SINE INTHIRA, are you kidding me?!?!?), and, oh shit, by BRINGING THAT ALL TOGETHER? To TELL a story of queerness and spirituality in Thailand?

Fuck. I’m just shaking my head. If it’s too much for the shipper folk, then... okay, go off. Leave the good stuff to me and the fam that GETS IT — the fam that gets that what we’re watching is ART, and not intended vessels for fantasy and fetish.

Last notes. I just want to say that in my SOTUS reviews, that I theorized that Singto would be brilliant when paired with a really good actor, and HCTM proved it to me. If it weren’t for this fucking shipper bullshit, I would have liked to see Singto and Ohm paired again.

Ohm is probably the most prevalent actor on my Thai BL list. I get that he was nicknamed “the king of BL,” and that he’s been the target of bias for that label and his predilection for being utterly brilliant in telling queer stories (thank you to @bengiyo​ and @miscellar​ for helping to fill me in on this).

Let me just say that this man is a goddamn MASTER. @shortpplfedup​ nailed it in her Ohm appreciation post.  @absolutebl summarizes why Ohm is singular in this BL space. Shippers who want to bully the mans, bring him down or whatever, spread misinformation, I want to say, angrily and rudely -- fuck off, and be afraid of talent in y’alls lives. 

With the tangle of homophobia and cyberbullying that seem to have an overstated impact on the Thai BL industry, it is a damn shame that Ohm doesn’t get more of his flowers, because he makes shows better. I mean: this guy OWNS ROOFTOPS. Episode five of HCTM?! Episode five of Bad Buddy?! Get this guy on a rooftop and he will SLAY. Pair him with people -- Singto? Nanon? Perth? OHM MAKES THESE GUYS BETTER ACTORS than they ever were previously.

I say the following, in all honesty, with a touch of disdain, of condescension, and sadness, for the people who don’t watch this show because it doesn’t have pectorals or hot make-out sessions, and because it features actors that many fans might want to bully:

HCTM does not have the reputation that it deserves. It’s not just a good show. It’s an HONORABLE show. For me, it pays homage to Asian cultures and practices that I relate to. It features a story of queer revelations and love that is written with passion and respect. It features probably the best acting I’ve seen so far on my watchlist. And it features two actors who were willing to subvert expectations, at the risk of their own careers, to tell this story, as written and directed by one of of the most brilliant, subversive, experimental, and creative filmmakers I’ve ever watched in Aof Noppharnach.

I want and need BL fans to appreciate Asian culture more in these shows. And I want and need BL fans to appreciate human behavior development as well. Because P’Aof is telling stories out here, stories that can enrich our lives. I wrote in my Bad Buddy thesis that BBS will be required viewing for my children. HCTM joins that list. HCTM makes me want to be a better Asian mother, and to make a world for my children where the experience of first love and coming out can be regarded not with pain, but with celebration and joy.

[It’s going to take me a while to get over HCTM, but I’ve already begun Dark Blue Kiss, and am having a FABULOUS time with it. That opening theme! P’Aof and JOCKS! Yum. Another frappé, please.

Here’s the updated list! Much to the chagrin of everyone-I-know-on-Tumblr (I’M SORRY @shortpplfedup​), I’m adding a VERY fast rewatch of ATOTS. Blame it on Our Skyy 2. I’ll want to watch ATOTS after the cinematic affair that is ITSAY, and after I’ve seen P’Aof do his thing on two existing series in DBK/Kiss and Still 2gether. ATOTS was my very first P’Aof series, and I want to rewatch it in chronology.

Here we go. As always, I’ll take recs, comments, etc.!

1) Love Sick and Love Sick 2 (2014 and 2015) (review here) 2) Make It Right (2016) (review here) 3) SOTUS (2016-2017) (review here) 4) Make It Right 2 (2017) (review here) 5) Together With Me (2017) (review here) 6) SOTUS S/Our Skyy x SOTUS (2017-2018) (review here) 7) Love By Chance (2018) (review here) 8) Kiss Me Again: PeteKao cuts (2018) 9) He’s Coming To Me (2019)  10) Dark Blue Kiss (2019) and Our Skyy x Kiss Me Again (2018) (watching) 11) TharnType (2019) 12) Senior Secret Love: Puppy Honey (BL cuts) (2016 and 2017) (I’m watching this out of order just to get familiar with OffGun before Theory of Love -- will likely not review) 13) Theory of Love (2019) 14) Dew the Movie (2019) (not an official part of the OGMMTVC watchlist, but I want to watch this in chronological order with everything else) 15) Until We Meet Again (2019-2020) 16) 2gether (2020) 17) Still 2gether (2020) 18) I Told Sunset About You (2020) 19) Manner of Death (2020-2021) (not a true BL, but a MaxTul queer/gay romance set within a genre-based show that likely influenced Not Me and KinnPorsche) 20) A Tale of Thousand Stars (2021) (review here) 21) A Tale of Thousand Stars (2021) OGMMTVC Fastest Rewatch Known To Humankind For The Sake Of Rewatching Our Skyy 2 x BBS x ATOTS 22) Lovely Writer (2021) 23) I Promised You the Moon (2021) 24) Not Me (2021-2022) 25) Bad Buddy (2021-2022) (thesis here) 26) Bad Buddy (2021-2022) and Our Skyy 2 x BBS x ATOTS (2023) OGMMTVC Rewatch 27) Secret Crush On You (2022) [watching for Cheewin’s trajectory of studying queer joy from Make It Right (high school), to SCOY (college), to Bed Friend (working adults)] 28) KinnPorsche (2022) (tag here) 29) The Eclipse (2022) (tag here) 30) My School President (2022-2023) 31) Moonlight Chicken (2023) (tag here) 32) Bed Friend (2023) (tag here) (Cheewin’s latest show, depicting a queer joy journey among working adults)]

[talonabraxas]

The Rose in Alchemy

The cross stands wound densely round with roses. Who has put roses on the cross?... And from the middle springs a holy life Of threefold rays from a single point. — Goethe, Die Geheimnisse (1784-1786)

In alchemy, the white and the red rose are well-known symbols for the lunar and the solar tincture, from which the "precious rose-coloured blood" of Christ-Lapis flows. And the Shehina, the brilliance of celestial wisdom on earth, is understood in the image of the rose, and "the collection of honey" stands for the common inheritance of theosophical knowledge. “Thus the whole parable of the Song of Solomon finally refers to the object of our rose-cross: 'I am the rose of Sharon and the lily of the field'”. As regards "the correct procedure for attaining the rose-red blood of the cross that is poured (as quintessence) in the centre of the cross", Fludd used the image of wisdom: the work of the architect as a labourer of God on the building of the temple. — R. Fludd, Summum Bonum, Frankfurt, 1629

Symbolism of the Rose

A highly complex symbol; it is ambivalent as both heavenly perfection and earthly passion; the flower is both Time and Eternity, life and death, fertility and virginity. In the Occident, the rose and lily occupy the position of the lotus in the Orient. In the symbolism of the heart, the rose occupies the central point of the cross, the point of unity. The red and white rose together represent the union of fire and water, the union of opposite. In Alchemy, the rose is wisdom and the rosarium the Work; it is also the rebirth of the spiritual after the death of the temporal. In Hebrew Qabalism, the center of the rose is the sun and the petals the infinite, but harmonious, diversities of Nature. The rose emanates from the Tree of Life. In Hinduism, the lotus parallels the symbolism of the Mystic Rose as a spiritual center, especially in the chakras. For Rosicrucians, the Rose-cross is the Mystic Rose as wheel and cross; the rose is the divine light of the universe and the cross the temporal world of pain and sacrifice. The rose grows on the Tree of Life which implies regeneration and resurrection. The rose in the center of the cross is the quaternary of the elements and the point of unity.

In the Grail legend, the invocations addressed to the divine heart of Jesus contain the feminine element. It is extolled as "the temple in which dwells the life of the world," as a rose, a cup, a treasure, a spring, as the furnace of divine love "ever glowing in the fire of the Holy Ghost", as a censer and as a bridal chamber. Jesus receives the souls of the dying into his heart which "burns glowingly", "as red gold burns and melts in the fire", and the soul dissolves therein, "as water mixes with wine". All of these symbols are feminine and are therefore very closely connected with the motifs of the Grail legend and of alchemical symbolism. --Emma Jung & Marie-Louise von Franz, The Grail Legend (1986)

[rubberizer92]

🌟 Welcome to the mesmerizing world of Latex Legends League Season 4, where dreams take flight and legends are born! 💫 Join us on an exhilarating journey as 21 human contenders and 15 AI characters vie for the esteemed title of Latex Legend.

Now, let's turn the spotlight on Rodrigo, representing Brazil! 🇧🇷 This dynamic force of nature dazzles us with his neon yellow suit, set against the backdrop of a vibrant cityscape illuminated by colorful streetlights. 🌃✨

Dressed in a striking ensemble that commands attention, Rodrigo exudes confidence and charisma. His bold fashion choices and magnetic presence capture the essence of Brazilian vibrancy and energy.

As Rodrigo takes center stage, he invites us to join him on a journey of excitement and self-expression. With each pose, he reveals a piece of his soul, inviting us to embrace the beauty of his passion and creativity.

Join us in celebrating Rodrigo's journey as he blazes a trail of brilliance and excellence in Latex Legends League Season 4. Let's immerse ourselves in his captivating charm and revel in the splendor of his undeniable charisma! 🎉🔥

[mononijikayu]

phase one — FICTION.

Within this sacred cocoon, Geto Suguru found himself basking in the radiant warmth of her presence, a warmth that surpassed the boundaries of mere physical proximity. Mundane worries and the relentless rhythm of routine, which often dictated the tempo of his thoughts, now receded into the background. Instead, the genuine connection that had withstood the relentless march of years took center stage, its brilliance eclipsing the mundane and casting a soft glow upon their shared space.

Genre: No Curses AU, University Professors AU!

Warning/s: Fluff, Romance, Pinning, Co-Workers, One Sided Romance, Childhood Friends, Secret is Revealed;

note: this was an old idea from when I rewatched wotakoi love is hard for otaku. this is a spin on that!!!

masterlist

logic ≠ love masterlist

HE DIDN’T EXPECT TODAY TO BE ANY DIFFERENT. Suguru Geto's life unfolded with the rhythmic precision of a well-rehearsed composition—an unbroken cycle that comprised waking up, immersing himself in the world of history, and returning home to find solace in sleep.

His days were marked by a meticulous routine, leaving little room for extracurricular activities, let alone the intricate dance of romance. Within the confines of this disciplined existence, Suguru found both anchor and escape, his relentless pursuit of becoming a history professor shaping the very contours of his identity and offering a sanctuary from the tumultuous waves of life.

The mornings heralded a new day for Geto Suguru, and with a sense of purpose, he embraced the unfolding narrative of hours ahead. As a dedicated history enthusiast, his waking hours were consumed by the passionate exploration of the past.

Whether delving into dusty tomes, deciphering ancient manuscripts, or engaging in scholarly debates, Suguru's world revolved around the rich tapestry of historical narratives. This scholarly pursuit was not merely a profession but a calling, a lifeline that tethered him to a realm where the echoes of bygone eras whispered secrets and lessons.

The evenings saw Suguru returning to the comfort of his abode, where the quietude of his dwelling provided a backdrop for reflection and reprieve. Amidst the shelves lined with volumes chronicling the annals of history, he found sanctuary. His home became a haven, a space where the weight of the world outside momentarily lifted, allowing him to recharge and prepare for the cadence of the next day.

This structured routine, though seemingly monotonous to an outsider, held profound significance for Suguru. It was a deliberate orchestration of his life, a conscious decision to prioritize the pursuit of knowledge and scholarly endeavors over the chaotic whims of a world beyond his books. The role of a future history professor beckoned to him as a beacon of purpose, providing direction to his existence.

In the symphony of his routine, Geto Suguru discovered a unique harmony—one that resonated with the pursuit of intellectual fulfillment and the escape from the unpredictable currents of life. The relentless rhythm of his days not only fortified his scholarly pursuits but also created a fortress against the uncertainties that lurked beyond the confines of his carefully curated world.

As Geto Suguru navigated the chapters of his life with the precision of a historian crafting a narrative, his unwavering dedication became a testament to the transformative power of a life immersed in the pursuit of knowledge.

Within the academic confines of Jujutsu High, Suguru Geto stood as a figure known for his unparalleled passion and unwavering dedication to his craft. His reputation as a history enthusiast echoed through the hallowed halls of the institution, garnering both admiration and concern from his colleagues. Notable figures such as Ieiri Shoko from the Science department, Gojo Satoru specializing in Physics, and Nanami Kento, an expert in Home Economics, often found themselves perplexed by Suguru's seemingly one-dimensional focus.

Colleagues would observe Suguru, immersed in the annals of history, his dedication so fervent that it bordered on obsession. Besides the time he spares for reading and drinking with all his friends, he seems to have no time to leave himself to rest. 

Shoko, with her scientific pursuits, wondered about the balance between the rigidity of historical study and the dynamic nature of scientific exploration. Gojo, a physicist with a penchant for the mysteries of the universe, pondered whether Suguru was missing out on the thrill of unraveling the secrets of the cosmos. Nanami, skilled in the close inclination  of domestic studies, questioned whether Suguru's singular devotion to academia left little room for the richness of life's experiences beyond the pages of history books.

There lingered a collective concern among his colleagues that Suguru needed to break free from the self-imposed shackles of routine and embrace a more well-rounded life. Their worry was rooted in a desire to see Suguru not just as a historian but as a person who could explore the diverse facets of existence. They believed that a broader perspective could enrich his understanding of history and, in turn, make him a more insightful and empathetic educator.

Amidst the academic symphony of Jujutsu High, where each faculty member brought their unique expertise to the table, Suguru stood as an enigma, a scholar consumed by the echoes of the past. The concern expressed by his colleagues was not a critique of his dedication but a heartfelt plea for him to discover the harmonious blend of academia and life's myriad experiences, realizing that the canvas of knowledge stretched far beyond the boundaries of history textbooks.

Whether Suguru would heed this collective advice and embark on a journey beyond the well-trodden paths of routine remained an open question within the academic corridors of Jujutsu High.

Yet on one fateful day, as Suguru Geto was engrossed in the intricate tapestry of historical research within the sanctuary of his office at Jujutsu High, the familiar creaking of the door interrupted the quiet symphony of his thoughts. The door swung open, revealing a face from the past that he hadn't encountered in years—his childhood friend standing right before him. There, in the hallowed academic halls, stood the embodiment of a connection that transcended the pages of history.

Suguru blinked, momentarily taken aback by the unexpected intrusion into his scholarly solitude. As his gaze focused, he recognized the features of a person he hadn't seen in what felt like an eternity. It was her—the companion of his youth, a friend entwined with the memories he had meticulously stored in the recesses of his brain. The echo of shared laughter and the hues of their shared adventures flooded his mind.

Time seemed to pause as he stared, absorbing the sight of her youthfulness, juxtaposed against the backdrop of their shared history. The years melted away, revealing the familiarity that lingered beneath the veneer of time. He felt his heart skip a beat, an unexpected rhythm in the well-orchestrated symphony of his routine, as she smiled, her expression a blend of warmth and nostalgia. With a casual wave, she greeted him, the gesture a silent acknowledgment of the bond that had weathered the years.

"Hey, Suguru! Long time no see," she exclaimed, her voice carrying the resonance of shared memories.

Suguru, still processing the surreal nature of the moment, managed a hesitant smile. "I... I can't believe it's you. It's been years."

She chuckled, the sound reminiscent of the carefree days they had spent together. "I know, right? Life takes us on unexpected journeys,  indeed."

The air in the room seemed to hum with unspoken sentiments, the weight of shared history palpable. Suguru, usually composed in the face of historical mysteries, found himself navigating the unfamiliar terrain of emotions stirred by the reappearance of a significant figure from his past.

With a soft smile, she continued, "I just started here about a month ago. Can you believe it's my first day in the office? Crazy, right?"

Suguru nodded, a mixture of surprise and delight coloring his features. "It's incredible to see you here. How has life treated you?"

She took a step closer, her eyes filled with a shared understanding of the passage of time. "Life's been an adventure, Suguru. But same old same old! How about you? Oh wait, I’m sorry I was being rude wasn’t I? I should ask first. You’re my senpai here now, after all.”

“And what is that, kouhai–chan?”

“Can I invite you to talk?”

He was sure his heart fluttered again.

It was as though he was a child again.

It was cute that she still rambled the same.

The offer lingered in the air, a suspended invitation promising to reignite a connection that had withstood the test of time. Suguru, a historian navigating the structured corridors of his meticulously planned routine, found himself at an unexpected crossroads—a convergence of the rigidity of historical records and the fluidity of the present moment. There, in the confines of his office at Jujutsu High, the familiar contours of academia seemed to morph into a realm where past and present intertwined.

As she stood before him, a warm specter from his youth materialized, and the room underwent a transformation. The once-familiar space expanded, the sun streaming through the glass seemed brighter, and the air he breathed felt charged with the freshness of anticipation. Suguru, usually grounded in the permanence of historical narratives, found himself caught in the ephemeral magic of the present.

"Sure," he whispered back to her, a nod accompanying his words.

In that simple acknowledgment, he granted passage to the possibility of rediscovery—the chance to revisit shared histories and weave new narratives within the fabric of their connection. Suguru gestured toward the office worker lounge, and as they walked, the echo of their footsteps seemed to resonate with the unspoken promise of uncharted territories.

At the vending machine, Suguru pressed buttons with a deliberation that betrayed his inner turmoil. He sighed, attempting to calm the surge of emotions within him. It had been too long, and the familiarity of their past interactions felt like a distant memory. Amidst the hum of the vending machine, he wondered if she remained the same, if her preferences had evolved, if the matcha drink he selected still held a place in her heart. His palms grew damp, his nerves encapsulated in a smile that sought to conceal the whirlwind of emotions within.

Suguru raised the green canned matcha drink, the words escaping his lips with a hint of anticipation, "Do you still like this matcha brand?"

Her smile blossomed in response, a radiant affirmation that carried a sense of delight. "Ah! I do~ It still tastes like heaven to me!"

"I'm glad," Suguru replied, settling into the chair across from her. His gaze lingered on her as she opened the can, a silent observer of the joy painted across her features. The subtle crinkle of the aluminum lid, the effervescent aroma of matcha—these small details seemed to carry the weight of shared memories.

As she took a sip, Suguru couldn't help but watch her, captivated by the genuine pleasure etched across her face. Her smile, a testament to the timeless connection that linked them, unfolded against the canvas of taste.

"It’s been such a long time since I’ve just sat down with you and enjoyed life," she remarked, her eyes reflecting a mixture of nostalgia and genuine warmth. Clapping her hands in a rhythm of remembrance, she set her drink down. "How long has it been since I’ve seen you?"

Suguru's eyes softened with a quiet acknowledgment of the years that had slipped through the hourglass of time. "Too long," he admitted, his voice carrying the weight of unspoken sentiments. "Life really took us on such wild journeys.”

Her gaze lingered on his face, a silent understanding passing between them. "True, but I'm grateful we found our way back to each other. This," she gestured to the matcha drink, "feels like a delicious reunion."

Suguru nodded, the resonance of her words echoing within him, creating a quiet symphony that reverberated through the air. As they sat in the office worker lounge, enveloped in the warmth of shared memories and the familiarity of each other's company, Suguru contemplated the journey that had led them to this moment.

"It's incredible how life brings us back to these connections," he mused, his gaze momentarily fixed on the matcha drink cradled in his hands. "The taste of this matcha seems to carry the essence of the past, doesn't it?"

She nodded in agreement, her eyes tracing the contours of the room as if searching for traces of the years that had passed. "It's like a sip of nostalgia. And in these moments, it feels like time folds in on itself."

Suguru smiled, appreciating the poetic sentiment woven into her words. "Nostalgia has a way of turning ordinary moments into cherished memories."

The atmosphere in the office worker lounge seemed to shift as Suguru indulged in the comforting embrace of his matcha tea from a canned drink. He glanced over at her, a spark of curiosity in his eyes.

"So, I heard you're the new literature professor for the first-year college students?" Suguru inquired, his tone carrying a blend of surprise and amusement.

She nodded, a playful smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Guilty as charged. Never thought you'd see the day, huh?"

Suguru chuckled, shaking his head. "I never expected you to turn to teaching. I thought you were already knee-deep in your writing career."

Her laughter echoed in the room as she corrected him, "I was doing editorial work, Suguru. You forgot that already?"

"I didn't forget," he retorted, grinning down at her. "You wanted to be a writer, that's why you decided to dip your toes into the editorial industry, right?"

She pouted, a playful defiance in her expression as she took a sip of her matcha. "That didn't work out as planned."

"Ah," Suguru replied, catching the fleeting glimpse of dejection in her gaze. Deciding to shift the topic, he continued, "Still, you as a teacher."

Her eyebrows arched in question. "Still me, what?"

"You as a teacher," Suguru reiterated, taking another sip of his matcha coffee. "It's not really suitable, don't you think?"

A mischievous glint danced in her eyes as she responded, "Do I really seem like someone who wouldn't enjoy being around youngsters?"

He couldn't help but smile. "No."

"Ah, I didn't miss your honesty!" she groaned in mock exasperation, shaking her head. "It's really so rude, you know."

"Nothing is bad about being truthful," Suguru replied with a playful smirk.

"Bringing me down once again...."

Suguru laughed, the rich sound filling the room. "It's just a surprise. But well, it's a wonderful surprise. Since I get to see you again."

Her eyes softened, a warmth settling in. "Hm, me too.”

For a moment, Geto Suguru felt his cheeks turn red.

He lifts the canned drink once more.

He should ask the cleaning staff about the air conditioner.

"So, Suguru, what's new with you?" she asked, her eyes gleaming with genuine curiosity. The playfulness in her tone hinted at the words she expressed. "Any new intrigue? A new girlfriend? If it's a boyfriend, that's fine too! I'll support you!"

Suguru let out a sigh, a subtle acknowledgment of the routine that had come to define his life. The notion of introducing a romantic element into the equation felt both foreign and improbable. Not when he’s staring at her right now the way he is. He wonders if she would ever notice the way his eyes warmed when he stares at her.

"Not much, just buried in my work as usual. Living this dream of becoming a history professor."

She chuckled, the sound echoing with familiarity. "Always the dedicated one, huh? But you need to loosen up a bit, Suguru. Life's too short to be all work and no play."

His lips curved into a wry smile, appreciating the sentiment behind her words. "Loosening up has never been my strong suit. But who knows, maybe I'll find a way to add a bit of play to the equation."

Her eyes sparkled with amusement. "I'll believe it when I see it. But until then, you’re stuck with me and my chaos!”

“I guess I am.” He smiles wider at the warmth of her words. 

As Suguru wove through the tapestry of animated banter and shared laughter, he sensed a delicate warmth blossoming within him, akin to the gently unfurling of petals in the first light of dawn. This warmth transcended the physical embrace of the room and the soothing cradle of his matcha tea; it was a profound resonance emanating from the presence of someone intimately familiar, the beautiful soul with whom he shared a history that gracefully danced beyond the confines of time.

The cadence of her voice painted ethereal strokes in the air, each syllable a melody that resonated with the depths of shared experiences. The sparkle in her eyes mirrored the constellations of laughter that illuminated the otherwise mundane surroundings, transforming the office worker lounge into a sanctuary cocooned in the hues of nostalgia and companionship.

Within this sacred cocoon, Geto Suguru found himself basking in the radiant warmth of her presence, a warmth that surpassed the boundaries of mere physical proximity. Mundane worries and the relentless rhythm of routine, which often dictated the tempo of his thoughts, now receded into the background. Instead, the genuine connection that had withstood the relentless march of years took center stage, its brilliance eclipsing the mundane and casting a soft glow upon their shared space.

Her proximity created a sacred geometry of familiarity within him, a resonance that echoed through the chambers of his soul. In this haven, the outside world lost its audacity to intrude; time itself became a gentle breeze, allowing Suguru to linger in the fragrant bloom of the moment.

With each sip of his matcha tea, Suguru found himself immersed in the intangible warmth that enveloped him—a warmth woven from the threads of shared memories, the playful cadence of their banter, and the sheer joy of having her near. The ordinary metamorphosed into the extraordinary in her company, and the relentless march of time seemed to acquiesce, granting them the luxury to savor the richness of the moment.

In this quiet sanctuary of connection, Suguru's heart resonated with a profound gratitude for the unexpected reunion. The genuine warmth that radiated within him became a poetic ode to the beauty of shared history, a symphony of emotions kindled by the serendipity of their encounter.

He should have cherished this moment when he had the chance.

He could feel that something was about to happen.

It wasn’t going to feel good.

“Yo, Suguru!” Gojo Satoru's voice echoed with characteristic exuberance, cutting through the ambient hum of the surroundings. He waved his hand in animated greeting as he came rushing toward them, his presence injecting an immediate burst of energy into the atmosphere.

Suguru couldn't help but let a small frown grace his lips; it was a familiar irritation, the kind that accompanied Gojo's interruptions, which always seemed to occur at the most inconvenient times. However, at this particular moment, there was an added layer of frustration that Suguru couldn't quite pinpoint.

"I've been looking for you!"

Suguru pursed his lips, a subtle tension forming in the furrow of his brow. "What do you want, Professor Gojo?" 

The formality in Suguru's address carried a hint of restrained annoyance, a testament to the ongoing exasperation he felt regarding Gojo's timing and seemingly perpetual intrusion into his affairs. The air crackled with unspoken tension, setting the stage for the impending exchange between the two distinctly different personalities.

Gojo Satoru's grin widened, seemingly undeterred by Suguru's restrained irritation. "No need to be so formal, Suguru. We're colleagues, after all. Friends too!”

Suguru's gaze remained fixed on Gojo, the frown deepening as he fought to maintain composure. "Colleagues, perhaps, but we have our own spheres of work. Yours usually involves causing disruptions. Even as friends.”

Gojo chuckled, unapologetic. "Disruptions? I'd call it adding a bit of spice to the routine. Anyway, I've got something interesting to discuss with you."

Suguru sighed inwardly, a sense of resignation settling over him. He lets out a small smile. "Fine, what is it that Gojo Satoru needs?”

Before Gojo could respond, his attention shifted to the woman beside Suguru. "And who do we have here?" His eyes twinkled with curiosity as he gave her an exaggerated once-over. "A mysterious addition to our little meeting, Suguru?"

Suguru's irritation deepened, but he introduced them nonetheless. "This is—"

But Gojo cut him off, extending a hand toward her with a charismatic grin. "No need for formalities for the ladies, please. I'm Gojo Satoru, the most handsome, bestest, smartest professor here. And you are?"

She raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on her lips. "Your introduction seems like a lie."

Gojo's grin widened, unapologetic. "Hm, not really. I have the accolades to prove it."

“You are so shameless, you are.”

“But isn’t that what makes me so attractive?”

“Not really.”

Suguru sighed, his breath carrying a mix of exasperation and fond familiarity as Gojo unabashedly praised himself. The eye roll was a well-practiced response, a silent acknowledgment of Gojo's flair for theatrics. Yet, beneath the surface of irritation, Suguru recognized the enduring charm woven into the tapestry of their friendship. The playful banter, marked by Gojo's larger-than-life persona, had become a hallmark of their interactions. 

As the verbal jousting continued, the atmosphere in the room became charged with the shared history and unspoken understanding that had accumulated over the years. The camaraderie between Suguru and Satoru wasn't just a product of their professional proximity;

it was a testament to the genuine connection forged through countless shared moments, both mundane and extraordinary. The air crackled with an energy that only true friends could generate, an energy born out of familiarity, shared jokes, and the comfort of being completely oneself in the presence of the other.

Despite Suguru's initial irritation, he couldn't deny the magnetic pull of Gojo's antics. There was a magnetic quality to Gojo's over-the-top personality that drew people in, and Suguru was no exception. The undeniable charm in Gojo's playful exaggerations and theatrical self-praise became a binding force that kept their friendship vibrant and dynamic throughout the years.

It was a charm that transcended the surface-level annoyances, becoming an integral part of the unique bond they shared—a bond that had weathered the tests of time and emerged stronger, laced with the enduring warmth of a friendship that only deepened with each passing year.

“Oh, where were we, darling?”

She hesitated for a moment, then shook his hand. "I'm—"

Gojo Satoru’s eyes widened as he leaned closer to her.

She gulped, surprised at the invasion of her space.

Gojo claps his hands, finally remembering.

“Satoru, you’re making her uncomfortable—”

"Miss ******! Is that you?” Gojo says out loud, seemingly unperturbed by others looking at them. "Is it really you? I haven’t seen you since the last Comiket! I was worried when you said you would be taking a break! I've been a fan of your works for years. I used to buy your work at those stands too! Ah, memories!”

Geto Suguru felt his eyes widen.

Gojo Satoru kept showering her praises.

‘Wait.......The BL mangaka?’

She choked as her hands hid her face. “I abandoned that name so long ago!”

The weight of Gojo's revelation hung in the air, and the room seemed to echo with the collision of two worlds—the fantastical realm of Comiket, where creativity thrived under the guise of pseudonyms, and the reality of their current setting, where identities were laid bare. The unexpected unmasking of the renowned artist behind the pen name left an indelible mark on the atmosphere.

As her hands concealed her face, a mixture of embarrassment and nostalgia played across her features. The name she had left behind resurfaced, propelled into the spotlight by Gojo's exuberant recognition. The pleasant surprise she had anticipated turned into an unforeseen encounter with a past she had consciously distanced herself from.

Suguru, caught in the crossfire of this unanticipated revelation, felt a surge of protectiveness for their guest. The air crackled with a potent blend of emotions—Gojo's unbridled enthusiasm, her visible discomfort, the people around them staring and Suguru's silent plea for moderation. The moment hung suspended, a delicate interplay of past and present, as they navigated the intricacies of unveiling the hidden layers that connected them in unexpected ways.

The woman could only feel horror in her body.

She thought she was safe from the shadows.

She probably would have to quit this job too.

[coltbuckley]

TASK 001 - YOUR CRYSTAL BRACELET

Colt's Mogok Ruby

Rubies and their red is considered to be a passionate color with lots of energy whether it relates to love or war. Rubies have long been associated with the intense flames of passion. Their deep red hue, reminiscent of the color of blood, has led to the belief that rubies are tokens of love and desire. Throughout history, they have symbolized romance and ardor, making them a popular choice for engagement rings and tokens of affection. Mogok rubies are known to produce the finest color quality in rubies—the coveted “pigeon’s blood red”—a vivid pure-red hue with no overtones of orange or brown.

Colt's Mogok Ruby has clearly been worked on by a human hand - shaped, polished and cut into a round, multifaceted shape to bring out it's pidgeon-blood colored brilliance. However, this stone, coveted by some as one of the most valuable kinds of Ruby, seems to be an unfortunate one. It's cut seems to have been abandoned halfway through, perhaps because of a thin, hairline crack running through the center and tarnishing it.

[santoschristos]

The Rose in Alchemy

The cross stands wound densely round with roses.

Who has put roses on the cross?…

And from the middle springs a holy life

Of threefold rays from a single point.

--Goethe, Die Geheimnisse (1784-1786)

In alchemy, the white and the red rose are well-known symbols for the lunar and the solar tincture, from which the “precious rose-coloured blood” of Christ-Lapis flows. And the Shehina, the brilliance of celestial wisdom on earth, is understood in the image of the rose, and “the collection of honey” stands for the common inheritance of theosophical knowledge. “Thus the whole parable of the Song of Solomon finally refers to the object of our rose-cross: ‘I am the rose of Sharon and the lily of the field'”. As regards “the correct procedure for attaining the rose-red blood of the cross that is poured (as quintessence) in the centre of the cross”, Fludd used the image of wisdom: the work of the architect as a labourer of God on the building of the temple. --R. Fludd, Summum Bonum, Frankfurt, 1629

Symbolism of the Rose

A highly complex symbol; it is ambivalent as both heavenly perfection and earthly passion; the flower is both Time and Eternity, life and death, fertility and virginity. In the Occident, the rose and lily occupy the position of the lotus in the Orient. In the symbolism of the heart, the rose occupies the central point of the cross, the point of unity. The red and white rose together represent the union of fire and water, the union of opposite. In Alchemy, the rose is wisdom and the rosarium the Work; it is also the rebirth of the spiritual after the death of the temporal. In Hebrew Qabalism, the center of the rose is the sun and the petals the infinite, but harmonious, diversities of Nature. The rose emanates from the Tree of Life. In Hinduism, the lotus parallels the symbolism of the Mystic Rose as a spiritual center, especially in the chakras. For Rosicrucians, the Rose-cross is the Mystic Rose as wheel and cross; the rose is the divine light of the universe and the cross the temporal world of pain and sacrifice. The rose grows on the Tree of Life which implies regeneration and resurrection. The rose in the center of the cross is the quaternary of the elements and the point of unity.

In the Grail legend, the invocations addressed to the divine heart of Jesus contain the feminine element. It is extolled as “the temple in which dwells the life of the world,” as a rose, a cup, a treasure, a spring, as the furnace of divine love “ever glowing in the fire of the Holy Ghost”, as a censer and as a bridal chamber. Jesus receives the souls of the dying into his heart which “burns glowingly”, “as red gold burns and melts in the fire”, and the soul dissolves therein, “as water mixes with wine”. All of these symbols are feminine and are therefore very closely connected with the motifs of the Grail legend and of alchemical symbolism. --Emma Jung & Marie-Louise von Franz, The Grail Legend (1986), p. 100

[hermitsmirror]

🔥 PICK 🌺 A 🌸 CARD 💎

Close your eyes. Breathe deep. Open your mind to the peaceful dark and quiet within. Let it become a library of possible worlds, inner passion burning in the dark, sparking and then twinkling like stars. See new worlds and ways emerge. Follow their trails and see the message before you in that glittering sea of inner brilliance. Watch it meld into the recesses of your mindscape. Then pick a card from the Muse Tarot by Chris-Anne.

Will you pick left, center, or right?

If you need more time to find your center and that spark of light within the infinite possibility of the blank and darkened mind, take that time. Find that space within you where creative possibility bursts forth from the depths of your inner world. Let it open and expand and create fresh trails to explore.

How does that feel? I hope it allows you to step into the future with curiosity but also peace.

Now pick a card (if you want) and read its message in the reveal.

Let me know how it resonates, and share the post with those who might benefit from some inner wisdom.

If you need a more in-depth reading, schedule one with me. And if you want to divine with depth and insight, enroll in my self-paced tarot fundamentals course: Read Tarot like a Nerd.

[galacticsavage-blog]

Our Cosmic Dance

Art by @yhelsstuff

In the sanctum of our shared night, under a canvas stretched wide with the ink of infinity, speckled by the luminescent glow of distant suns, my gaze finds you—a silhouette bathed in the moon's silver grace. It's here, in this consecrated moment, where the universe conspires to etch your form into the constellations, a celestial ode to the female divine.

Your skin, a tapestry of stardust, radiates with the light of countless galaxies, each curve a mystery as profound as the dark side of the moon. The contours of your body, sculpted by the hands of unseen forces, speak of the birth of worlds, of nebulae blossoming into existence at the mere suggestion of your touch.

The gravity of your presence draws me in, an inescapable orbit around the sun of your being. In the luminescence of your eyes, I navigate the depths of the cosmos, discovering not just the brilliance of stars, but the quiet beauty of black holes where all light, all love, finds refuge.

Our union, a dance of celestial bodies tracing orbits in the void, creates a symphony of movements that bends the fabric of space and time. Each sigh, a supernova; every touch, a comet streaking across the firmament of our desires. You are the center of my universe, the black hole at the core of my galaxy, pulling me deeper into the mystery of you.

In the crescendo of our connection, we reach the event horizon, a point of no return where our spirits merge in a blaze of cosmic brilliance. Here, in the sacred geometry of our embrace, you are both the creator and the creation, a universe unto yourself, birthing nebulas of passion with the whisper of your name.

As dawn creeps across the sky, painting the world in hues of awakening, we return from our astral voyage, tethered once more to the realm of earth and air. Yet, the space between us is forever altered, imbued with the stardust of our nocturnal journey, a silent covenant that binds my soul to the celestial masterpiece that is you.

In the quiet aftermath, as we bask in the afterglow of our cosmic ballet, I find solace in the knowledge that within you lies an infinite universe, a realm of beauty and mystery waiting to be explored. Each day with you is a voyage into the heart of that universe, a journey guided by the stars but anchored in the profound gravity of your essence.

Yours, forever orbiting the celestial wonder that is you.