#face mapping chart

[healthmonastery]

Face Mapping For Acne

Have you ever wondered, if your pimples could talk, they could tell you what’s happening inside your body? Well, acne face mapping is one such technique that does a similar job. It can help you find out the cause of the breakouts. Face mapping is an ancient Ayurvedic and Chinese technique that links specific acne spots on the face to health problems affecting organs or systems elsewhere in the…

[beyondthetemples-ooc]

#hey what the fuck is the KEY#i dont know what these damn colors mean

I'm pretty sure it's ranked from Most Polite to Least Polite (the #), and each color is a group of 10s in that ranking. (Dark blue are #1-10, light blue are #11-20, etc. If it follows the usual Map Scale convention, it's going to go dark blue, light blue, white, pink, red.)

If you're asking for the raw criteria on what makes a state "friendly" though, I think I found it here!

Friendliest States 2025 based in the Politeness Index

[kstarvibes]

BTS Jungkook's Remarkable Billboard Achievement

Jungkook’s Solo Album ‘Golden’ Sets a New Record BTS’s Jungkook has achieved a new milestone with his solo album ‘Golden’ on the US Billboard charts. As of January 13th, ‘Golden’ ranked 28th on the main Billboard 200 chart, marking its 9th consecutive week. This feat establishes ‘Golden’ as the longest-charting album by a K-pop solo artist in the Billboard 200 history. ‘Standing Next to You’…

[sh4nksslvt]

Surgeon’s Strategy

Law explains a battle plan, his hand brushing yours as he leans close, his smirk carrying a dangerously playful edge.

Law x reader | ONE SHOT tags: fluff, sfw, teasing a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ffs a bit cringe n akward word count: 1.8k masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

The Polar Tang’s map room was a sanctuary of sorts, a quiet corner of the submarine where the hum of machinery faded into a distant murmur, and the world outside seemed to pause. The walls were lined with charts and maps, some pinned haphazardly, others meticulously organized, reflecting the duality of Trafalgar Law’s mind—chaotic genius wrapped in calculated precision. A single overhead lamp cast a warm, amber glow over the large wooden table at the center, strewn with papers, compasses, and a half-empty mug of coffee that smelled faintly of roasted beans. You stood there, leaning over the table, studying a map of the next island on the Heart Pirates’ route, your fingers tracing the coastline as you tried to make sense of the scribbled notes in Law’s angular handwriting.

“You’re holding it upside down,” came a low, amused voice from behind you.

You froze, glancing over your shoulder to find Law leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed, his signature spotted hat tilted slightly to one side. His golden eyes glinted with a mix of amusement and something else—something that made your pulse quicken. He was dressed in his usual polo shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the inked patterns on his forearms, and his sword, Kikoku, rested against the wall nearby, a silent reminder of his ever-present vigilance.

“I am not,” you retorted, though you quickly double-checked the map, heat creeping up your neck when you realized he was right. You flipped it with a huff, avoiding his gaze. “Maybe your handwriting is just terrible.”

Law’s lips curved into a smirk as he pushed off the doorframe and sauntered toward you, his boots clicking softly against the metal floor. “My handwriting is impeccable,” he said, stopping just beside you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him. “You’re just distracted.”

“Distracted?” You raised an eyebrow, turning to face him, your hands planted on your hips. “By what, exactly?”

His smirk widened, and he leaned forward slightly, resting one hand on the table next to yours. “You tell me,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, teasing drawl. “You’ve been staring at that map for ten minutes, and I’m pretty sure you haven’t read a single word.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but the words caught in your throat as his hand brushed against yours, a fleeting touch that sent a jolt through you. It was deliberate, you were sure of it—Law never did anything by accident. His fingers lingered just long enough to make your skin tingle before he pulled back, picking up a pencil to annotate the map.

“Let’s focus,” he said, though the playful edge in his tone betrayed his attempt at seriousness. “We’re docking at this island tomorrow, and I need you to understand the plan.”

You nodded, trying to ignore the way your heart was still racing. “Right. The plan. Go ahead, Captain, enlighten me.”

Law shot you a sidelong glance, his eyes narrowing slightly at the playful lilt in your voice. “Don’t get cheeky,” he warned, but there was no real heat in his words. He tapped the map with the pencil, pointing to a cluster of buildings marked near the island’s port. “This is the main town. Intel says there’s a Marine outpost here, small but well-guarded. We need supplies, so we’re avoiding direct confrontation.”

You leaned closer, your shoulder brushing against his as you studied the map. “So, stealth mission?” you asked, tilting your head to look at him. His face was close—too close—and you could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the way his eyes flicked briefly to your lips before returning to the map.

“Exactly,” he said, his voice steady despite the tension crackling between you. “You’ll be with me, scouting the market for medical supplies while the others handle food and ship repairs.”

“Me?” You blinked, surprised. “You usually take Bepo for scouting.”

Law’s lips twitched, almost a smile. “Bepo’s great, but he’s not exactly subtle. You, on the other hand…” He paused, his gaze sweeping over you, lingering just a moment too long. “You blend in. Plus, I trust you to keep up.”

Your cheeks warmed at the compliment, though you tried to play it cool. “High praise from the Surgeon of Death,” you teased, nudging his arm lightly. “Careful, you might make me think you like me.”

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that did nothing to calm your nerves. “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he said, but his hand brushed yours again as he reached for a marker, and this time, his fingers lingered, curling slightly around yours before he pulled away. “Pay attention.”

You tried—really, you did—but Law’s presence was distracting. He explained the layout of the town, pointing out entry points, escape routes, and potential hazards, his voice calm and authoritative. But every time his arm brushed against yours or his fingers grazed the back of your hand as he adjusted the map, your focus wavered. He was doing it on purpose, you were certain, and the smug little smirk playing at the corners of his mouth only confirmed it.

“—and if we get separated,” he was saying, “you head to this rendezvous point.” He tapped a spot on the map, then glanced at you, his eyes narrowing. “You’re not listening.”

“I’m listening!” you protested, crossing your arms. “Rendezvous point, got it.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Repeat it back to me.”

You hesitated, racking your brain for the details you’d only half-absorbed. “Uh… head to the… north side of the town square?”

Law sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Wrong. It’s the old lighthouse on the eastern cliffs.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “If you get lost, I’m not coming to find you.”

“Liar,” you shot back, grinning. “You’d tear the island apart looking for me.”

His eyes met yours, and for a moment, the playful banter faded, replaced by something heavier, more intense. “Maybe,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “But let’s not test that theory.”

Your breath caught, and the air between you seemed to thicken. Law was close now, his hand resting on the table just inches from yours, his body angled toward you. The map room felt smaller, the walls closing in as the tension grew. You could smell the faint scent of antiseptic and sea salt on him, a combination that was uniquely Law, and it made your head spin.

“Law,” you said, your voice quieter now, “are you trying to distract me?”

He tilted his head, his smirk returning, though there was a heat in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. “If I were trying to distract you,” he said, his voice low and teasing, “you’d know it.”

“Oh, really?” you challenged, stepping closer, your chest almost brushing against his. “Because it feels like you’re doing a pretty good job right now.”

His smirk faltered for a split second, replaced by a flicker of surprise, but he recovered quickly, leaning in until his face was mere inches from yours. “Careful,” he murmured, his breath warm against your lips. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

Your heart was pounding now, but you refused to back down. “Maybe I like dangerous,” you whispered, your eyes locked on his.

For a moment, neither of you moved, the tension between you taut like a drawn bowstring. Then, slowly, deliberately, Law reached out, his fingers brushing along your jaw, tilting your chin up slightly. His touch was light, almost tentative, but it sent a wave of heat through you, making your breath hitch.

“You’re impossible,” he said, his voice rougher now, laced with something that sounded almost like affection. “You know that?”

“You’re one to talk,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. “You’re the one who keeps touching me.”

His thumb grazed your lower lip, and his eyes darkened, his smirk replaced by something more intense. “You’re not complaining,” he pointed out, his voice low and husky.

“Maybe I’m just being polite,” you teased, though your voice trembled slightly, betraying the effect he was having on you.

Law chuckled, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. “Polite, huh?” He leaned closer, his lips hovering just above yours, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath. “You don’t strike me as the polite type.”

Before you could respond, a loud clang echoed from somewhere in the submarine, followed by the unmistakable sound of Penguin and Shachi arguing over who broke what. Law’s hand dropped, and he stepped back, the spell broken. His smirk returned, though there was a lingering heat in his eyes as he shook his head.

“Saved by the idiots,” he muttered, turning back to the map. “Let’s finish this before they burn the ship down.”

You let out a shaky laugh, trying to steady your racing heart. “Right. The plan.”

Law resumed explaining, his voice returning to its usual calm, authoritative tone, but the air between you remained charged. Every time his hand brushed yours or his shoulder bumped against yours, you felt it—a spark, a promise of something more. He was focused now, pointing out the finer details of the mission, but you caught the occasional glance, the way his eyes lingered on you when he thought you weren’t looking.

As he wrapped up, he leaned back against the table, crossing his arms. “Any questions?”

You shook your head, still trying to process the last few minutes. “Nope. Crystal clear.”

“Good,” he said, but he didn’t move, his eyes studying you with that same intensity that made your skin prickle. “You’re with me tomorrow, so don’t screw it up.”

“I won’t,” you promised, then added with a grin, “As long as you don’t get distracted.”

His lips twitched, and he stepped closer again, his voice dropping to a low, teasing murmur. “Keep talking like that, and we’ll see who’s distracted tomorrow.”

You laughed, pushing him lightly on the chest. “Focus, Captain. You’ve got a mission to lead.”

He caught your wrist, his grip gentle but firm, and for a moment, you thought he might pull you closer again. But instead, he released you, his smirk softening into something almost fond. “Get some rest,” he said, his voice quieter now. “You’ll need it.”

You nodded, turning to leave, but you paused at the door, glancing back at him. “Law?”

He looked up, one eyebrow raised. “Yeah?”

“Don’t think I didn’t notice you dodging my question earlier,” you said, grinning. “You totally like me.”

His smirk returned, sharper this time. “Get out of here,” he said, but there was no hiding the amusement—or the warmth—in his eyes.

As you left the map room, your heart still racing, you couldn’t help but smile. Tomorrow’s mission was going to be interesting, and you had a feeling Law’s teasing was only the beginning.

[jxwl4k]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ mole map .𖥔 ݁ ˖

☘︎ . . . genre. fluff, comfort

☘︎ . . . pairings. bakugou x reader

⤿ bakugou likes to kiss yn’s moles.

⋆˚✿˖° j speaking . . .

— Since YN is a reader-insert and I obviously don’t know what your beautiful face looks like, I’ll just be using my own moles as reference for this story! I hope you guys don’t mind that, enjoy reading!

Bakugou didn’t like PDA — at least, that’s what he always said. Loudly. Grumpily. Repeatedly.

So why the hell did he keep pulling you into his lap the second you were alone in his room?

You raised an eyebrow as his hand slid up your jaw and tilted your head gently. “What’re you doing?” you asked, soft and amused.

“Tch. Shut up,” he muttered, and leaned in.

He kissed your cheek, right where the small mole sat near the top right. You blinked as he pulled back just barely, like he was checking something off a list.

“There’s one,” he said with quiet satisfaction.

You flushed. “Are you… counting them?”

“Damn right I am,” Bakugou grumbled, already nudging your head to the side with careful fingers. “You got one on your eyebrow too.”

He kissed the very end of your left eyebrow, where the tiny mole rested at the bottom edge. Then another at your right eyebrow — between your eye and the brow. A brief, lingering kiss. Like he wanted to memorize the shape of you with his mouth.

Your heart squeezed a little at the tenderness.

“You always do this,” you whispered.

He paused, eyes flicking to yours. “What? You don’t like it?”

“I do,” you admitted quickly, cheeks warm. “Just… didn’t think someone like you would be into stuff like this.”

Bakugou scoffed and dipped down to kiss the one on your jaw, just beneath your cheek. “Stuff like what?” he asked against your skin.

You shrugged. “Being so soft.”

He froze for half a second, then huffed. “Don’t go around tellin’ people I’m soft. I’ll kill you.”

You giggled. He kissed your left cheek, right in the center, where another small mole peeked from your skin like a star in a sea of smooth. This one, he lingered on.

“You don’t get it,” he muttered, voice lower now. “I like ‘em. All of ‘em.”

You tilted your head, surprised. “Why?”

He looked away, ears pink. “They’re part of you.”

You could’ve melted right then and there.

“I dunno. Just… Every one’s like a mark I get to remember. A spot I get to protect,” he added, rubbing the pad of his thumb gently under your jaw.

You blinked back the sudden sting of emotion in your eyes. “You’re really saying this, huh?”

“Shut up,” he mumbled again, but his arms tightened around you. “I like your face. I like your skin. I like you. So yeah — I kiss ‘em. You gonna stop me?”

You shook your head slowly, smiling. “Not a chance.”

“Good.” He leaned in again and whispered against your skin, “Think I missed one…”

You squeaked as he started peppering kisses again — your temple, your brow, the edge of your jaw. Some didn’t even have moles, but he wasn’t being scientific anymore. Just stubbornly affectionate.

You’d never imagined that the explosive, shouty Bakugou Katsuki would turn into this — someone who mapped your skin like a treasure chart, finding gold in every small mark the world gave you.

And honestly?

You were never gonna stop him.

© jxwl4k 2025

[woso-dreamzzz]

Miracle IV

Aitana Bonmatí x Teen!Reader

Summary: You're up late

You're up in the attic when Aitana gets home.

That usually isn't a problem.

It's where you usually retreat to after school. You come in, say good afternoon to Aitana if she's in, eat a snack and immediately go up into the attic.

You've become a bit more sullen now that your friends are busy.

Conejita has entered the work force now, working at some florist in town, a few hours away from the little house Aitana bought so you rarely see Marta and Caro's daughter during the week.

Skatt is studying at some top rated school in Norway, drowning herself in her studies of bugs while Ingrid and Mapi fight to get her to go outside and see the sun.

You're still in school though. In all advanced classes, of course, but still school aged and catching the bus to the fancy school that Aitana is paying an extortionate fee to send you to.

You've withdrawn a little now that it's just you and her, disappearing up into the attic to study your star charts and maps and wait long enough for the sun to dip in the sky so you can use the telescope you spent all of last year saving up to buy.

Aitana doesn't have a problem with that.

You're a certified genius and sometimes you need alone time.

What she has a problem with is you being stuck up in the attic when she gets home from an event at gone three in the morning.

The ladder creaks under her feet as she hauls herself up through the hole in the ceiling, head popping up to see you sitting at the desk, documents in hand with your telescope set up through the skylight.

"It's late."

You jolt, dropping the papers in your hand and covering them with your star maps.

You spin in your chair, clutching at your chest.

"Mama," You say," You scared me."

"You should be in bed," Aitana continues, coming to stand in front of you," You've got school tomorrow."

You look away from her with an eye roll.

"We both know I don't need much sleep for school. You always say I'm intelligent."

You've been told you're intelligent for most of your life, a clear superstar in academics since your first year of school and you could already read and write and do simple multiplication and division.

You'd been streamlined into the most academic of classes and if it wasn't for Aitana insisting that you stay with your year group, you'd already be away at university.

"You still need rest," Aitana reminds you," And to rest your brain."

She cards her fingers through the loose strands of hair framing your face.

You're her mirror image in every way, the same eyes and nose and hair.

Aitana wonders briefly if she was ever this aloof with her own parents at your age and if she owes them apologies for it.

"Go to sleep, estrella," She says," We can talk more tomorrow."

You huff, pulling out of her grip and turning back to your maps.

They cover all the walls in the attic, completed and signed at the bottom with your name.

Aitana looks down at the ones on your desk, the ones not yet completed or not yet perfect enough for you to display on the walls of your little sanctuary.

Something peaks out from under one of them and she frowns.

She's already pulled it out before you've even noticed.

"Where did you get this?"

Aitana's voice is stern, one that you're not all too familiar.

You freeze, eyes wide in alarm.

You reach for the documents. Aitana holds them away from you.

"Where did you get this?" She demands again and you scoff.

"In the safe. Under your bed."

"You broke into the safe?!"

You roll your eyes. "It's not the most secure of passwords. Our birthdays? Please, it was easy."

"Drop the attitude!" Aitana snaps," Why were you rummaging around in there?!"

You stand up from your desk.

Neither of you are overwhelmingly tall but even at sixteen, you meet her height so you're eye to eye.

"They're mine!" You say and Aitana laughs.

"I think you'll find they're mine," She says," You certainly didn't sign them."

"Well they're my adoption papers! I deserved to see what they say!"

Aitana sighs, rubbing her temples. "Then you come to me! You don't go snooping around in my bedroom."

You huff, finally breaking eye contact to stare out of the skylight. "As if you'd tell me anything." You shove past Aitana, barging her shoulder on your way to the ladder," You never want to talk about them."

"Well, forgive me for not wanting to talk about my dead friends."

"Forgive me for waiting to know about my dead parents."

Aitana holds your gaze for a moment.

You're already halfway down the ladder, staring back at her with identical eyes.

The wound is still raw even though it happened sixteen years ago. The loss of her friends still weighs heavy. Aitana doesn't even know if she could look at you if you held even one feature of your parents.

"Estrella-"

"I'm going to bed," You cut her off," We'll talk in the morning."

[rjzimmerman]

Excerpt from this story from Grist:

The day I was supposed to join a group of young women to map Gros Islet, an old fishing village on the Caribbean Island of St. Lucia, I got lost. Proann Francis, who was helping lead the expedition, had told me to meet everyone at Care Growell School, which Google Maps informed me was some 8,500 miles away, in Uttar Pradesh, India. “Where?” I asked. She instructed me to wait outside my hotel for a ride because it would be impossible to find the place on my own. An hour later, I found myself standing at the side of a dusty St. Lucian highway as a vintage red Toyota van pulled up. I squeezed in, between Francis and the driver. Behind us, a group of young women sat wearing matching light blue shirts that read “Women Mappers.” 

“We have some heavy mapping to do today!” Francis announced, breaking into a toothy smile, her dark hair pulled back neatly into a bun. 

Most of St. Lucia, which sits at the southern end of an archipelago stretching from Trinidad and Tobago to the Bahamas, is poorly mapped. Aside from strips of sandy white beaches that hug the coastline, the island is draped with dense rainforest. A few green signs hang limp and faded from utility poles like an afterthought, identifying streets named during more than a century of dueling British and French colonial rule. One major road, Micoud Highway, runs like a vein from north to south, carting tourists from the airport to beachfront resorts. Little of this is accurately represented on Google Maps. Almost nobody uses, or has, a conventional address. Locals orient one another with landmarks: the red house on the hill, the cottage next to the church, the park across from Care Growell School.

Our van wound off Micoud Highway into an empty lot beneath the shade of a banana tree. A dog panted, belly up, under the hot November sun. The group had been recruited by the Humanitarian OpenStreetMap Team, or HOT, a nonprofit that uses an open-source data platform called OpenStreetMap to create a map of the world that resembles Google’s with one key exception: Anyone can edit it, making it a sort of Wikipedia for cartographers.

The organization has an ambitious goal: Map the world’s unmapped places to help relief workers reach people when the next hurricane, fire, or other crisis strikes. Since its founding in 2010, some 340,000 volunteers around the world have been remotely editing OpenStreetMap to better represent the Caribbean, Southeast Asia, parts of Africa and other regions prone to natural disasters or humanitarian emergencies. In that time, they have mapped more than 2.1 million miles of roads and 156 million buildings. They use aerial imagery captured by drones, aircraft, or satellites to help trace unmarked roads, waterways, buildings, and critical infrastructure. Once this digital chart is more clearly defined, field-mapping expeditions like the one we were taking add the names of every road, house, church, or business represented by gray silhouettes on their paper maps. The effort fine-tunes the places that bigger players like Google Maps get wrong — or don’t get at all.

[astrolook]

🌌Misconceptions about Astrology - Vedic Edition🌠

Note: These are all my personal observations and patterns I've noticed over the years. Take what resonates with you more and leave the rest. Lemme know in the comments if it hits home!

Let's say you have a debilitated Jupiter, or a retrograde Saturn/Jupiter. Doing remedies and such isn't gonna magically fix your problems in life. Don't waste your money, time and effort on these things.

If you have a hard placement in your chart like Jupiter in Capricorn, Venus Rx, or Saturn in the 5th, it doesn't mean your life is gonna be unpleasant. It's a map, and it's our choice to choose which way we wanna go. For example, Saturn in the 5th can indicate no children, child-free, c-section birth, IVF treatments, miscarriages, or childbirth after 30. It won't give the same outcome for everyone.

Rahu (North node) in the 7th doesn't mean you will be married multiple times. Astrology is ancient. You have to remember that being with someone sexually is considered marriage in Vedic astrology. There are tons of debates around whether sex is indicated by the 5th or the 8th in the Vedic circle on other online forums. In ancient texts, if you had sex with someone, that was considered a marriage event, as in those times, they waited until their wedding night. If u already have one or more sexual partners, congrats. You got rid of your bad effects by half. You don't have to deal with a divorce.

Similarly, Saturn in the 7th doesn't always point to an older spouse. It can be in some cases, in other cases it can manifest as no marriage, marriage in mid-late 30s, no interest in marriage, etc. Saturn in the 7th is usually considered a bad position, as in those times, it pointed to a divorce. In the modern era, it can simply mean that the relationship you have with your first sexual partner/relationship will break up or will be temporary. Pre-marital sex wasn't even an option in those times.

Venus in the 8th, as for a general interpretation, means love can be intense and a lot of sexual relationships. Nope, not for everyone. We have to look at other positions as well. For example, if you have Sun in 7th or Saturn in 7th, having Venus in the 8th can actually restrict you or make you suppress your sexual desires in some form. Abstinence either by choice or involuntarily, being too picky, etc can be seen here. You can have Venus, Mars, or the North node in the 8th house and still not experience any of the 8th house themes. Each chart is unique, like your fingerprint.

The 7th house is for 1st marriage, aka the first sexual partner. The 2nd house (8th from the 7th) is for the second marriage, aka your second sexual partner. 9th house is for the 3rd marriage aka your 3rd sexual partner. This system works for people who wait until their wedding night. Not in this modern era. Personally, when I make a marriage prediction report, I apply the double transit method. Saturn and Jupiter both transit or aspect your 1st house or lord, or 7th house or lord. Afterwards, I apply Mars or Venus transits according to one's attraction - men, women, or both. Irrespective of how many partners one had, all these planets aligning in your chart like a Japanese train is a green signal. Still, it points to a sexual event with your FS (aka what ancient texts call marriage).

A retrograde planet in a debilitated sign doesn't mean your life is doomed. Exalted + retrograde = debilitated, and Debilitated + retrograde = exalted. For example, Jupiter Rx in Capricorn is exalted. Saturn Rx in Libra is debilitated. Saturn Rx in Aries is exalted. Jupiter Rx in Cancer is debilitated. Mercury Rx in Virgo is debilitated, but Mercury Rx in Pisces is exalted.

Debilitation doesn't mean you would face difficulties or challenges in that area of life. For example, the Sun in Libra is debilitated. So, all the people in this world born during the Libra season are gonna have a debilitated Sun. Jupiter in Capricorn is debilitated and anyone born during that transit, approximately close to a year, is gonna have a debilitated Jupiter. Venus undergoes transit in Virgo every year for approximately 23 days. Anyone born during the late spring/ early autumn is gonna have a debilitated Venus. I'll make a separate post on exaltation and debilitation.

A pattern I noticed in charts with some harsh placements and aspects is that when these natives moved abroad, or at least by 300 miles/ 482 km, it reduced the 'bad' effects in their chart. Why? Moving can be a chance to break free from negative influences associated with the old location. Not for everyone. This fits people with a retrograde planet in 1st,4th,5th,7th, or 10th house, having 2 or more retrograde planets, 12th house stellium, 1st lord in 12th, debilitated placements, North node in 7th, etc. A minimum of 2 harsh placements has to be taken into account for this.

Comparing celebrity charts or charts of the royal family and politicians to ours won't work. Most of their lifestyles are crafted/messy, and we don't know what's happening in their lives behind the scenes. Analyzing their natal chart is different than comparing it to us to prove a point.

Hope this helps some souls out here! Lemme know abt ur experience or opinion in the comments!

✨🔍Wanna dive deeper into your chart's layers? 🌙💬 Check out my pinned post for pricing and more info 💫💸

[daycare-care]

galaxy/Space themed activities

coloring pages

Activity sheets

Quests

Build Your Spaceship

Story: Your plushie crew is ready for liftoff, but the spaceship needs to be finished! Quest:

Make a spaceship out of a cardboard box, blankets, pillows, or chairs.

Decorate it with stars, stickers, buttons, or drawings.

Name your ship! (e.g., "The Cozy Comet" or "USS Snugglecraft")

Bonus: Make control panels with paper and crayons (lots of pretend buttons to press!).

Star Map Seeker

Story: You’re the official star mapper of the galaxy — chart those constellations! Quest:

Look out a window at night or pretend indoors with glow stars.

Draw a star map: connect stars into shapes and give them silly names.

Mark where your spaceship is going next!

Mission Log Journal

Story: Astronaut [Your Name] must keep a mission journal! Quest:

Write or draw what your day in space was like (pretend or real!).

Describe any aliens you met, planets you saw, or snacks you made.

📔 Add Stickers: Decorate your “mission logbook” with stars, planets, or plushies.

Galaxy Ranger Badge

Story: Complete missions to earn your Space Ranger badge! Quest:

Choose 3 missions (from this list or your own).

Make a paper badge or sticker with a star on it.

Wear it proudly or give one to a plushie crew member too!

🎖️ Badge Names: "Snack Officer," "Navigator," "Captain Cozy"

Alien Rescue Mission

Story: An alien plushie is lost on a faraway pillow planet! Quest:

Hide a plushie somewhere in your room.

Follow clues or draw a map to find them.

Bring them to your spaceship and take care of them with food/snuggles.

🍼 Roleplay Add-On: Feed them “space snacks” or wrap them in a blanket!

Moon Camp Snuggle Time

Story: You’ve landed on the moon and it’s bedtime at base! Quest:

Set up a cozy nap spot in a “lunar cave” (blankets or tent).

Bring a flashlight or star projector.

Snuggle with a plushie and listen to gentle music or white noise.

💤 Imagination Tip: Say goodnight to the stars one by one.

Recipes

🍇 1. Galaxy Fruit Wands

You’ll Need:

Blueberries (stars)

Purple grapes (galaxies)

Starfruit or watermelon stars (use a star cutter!)

Skewers or safe sticks

How to Make:

Slide fruit onto your stick in a galaxy swirl pattern.

Add a starfruit piece on top like a magic space wand!

🌌 Pretend Name: “Cosmic Comet Pops!”

🌀 2. Nebula Yogurt Swirl

You’ll Need:

Vanilla or blueberry yogurt

Purple and blue food coloring (optional)

Star sprinkles or edible glitter

How to Make:

Divide yogurt into bowls and mix in galaxy colors.

Swirl together gently (don’t mix too much).

Add sprinkles and call it stardust!

🥄 Serve With: Space spoons (glittery or decorated with stickers)!

🍪 3. Moon Rocks (Snack Bites)

You’ll Need:

Rice Krispies treats or small cookies

White or purple icing

Crushed rock candy or edible glitter

How to Make:

Coat treats in icing.

Sprinkle glitter or candy on top.

Let sit until they look like little moon rocks!

🌑 Little Fun Tip: Hide one and go on a moon rock “mission!”

🛸 4. Alien Toast Faces

You’ll Need:

Bread, toaster waffles, or rice cakes

Cream cheese, yogurt, or nut butter

Sliced fruit (bananas, berries, grapes)

Sprinkles or googly candy eyes (optional)

How to Make:

Spread your base topping.

Use fruit to make a silly alien face!

Add “antennae” with pretzel sticks or cereal loops.

👽 Play Add-On: Interview your toast alien before you eat it!

🌙 5. Planet Popcorn

You’ll Need:

Popped popcorn

Melted white chocolate or candy melts (dyed blue, purple, or pink)

Sprinkles or star sugar

How to Make:

Spread popcorn on a tray.

Drizzle with colored chocolate.

Toss with sprinkles and let cool.

💫 Pretend Name: “Pluto Puffs” or “Meteor Munch!”

[moody-alcoholic]

On a Wing and a Prayer

Part 4 - The Truth Hurts The Most

CW: light medical stuff, nice spoonful of angst. IDK how many parts this will be. I have a storyline all mapped out though. I also don't do taglists sorry

Previous parts - masterlist - next

You wake with Kyle still sleeping beside you in the tiny bed you would always be crammed in when one of them chose to stay over. It’s not the same though, there’s no cuddling, no kisses or talking about work. It’s just silence. 

You can’t tell if you slept any better. After Kyle insisted you try the sleeping pills your dreams felt even more vivid. As soon as you turn your body to sit up Kyle wakes too rubbing his eyes. You only have one thing on your mind now. You want to see Johnny. 

..

“Christ Johnny you had a lung resection.” You don’t mean to sound surprised looking over at Kyle. He could get discharged for this, it doesn’t look too big. Maybe he’ll be fine, you hope it will be. 

“I mean that’s what happens when you’re shot in the chest.” he chuckles. There’s a tension in the air between you and Kyle. This is the first time you’re reading his chart. This is the first time you’re catching up on what you’ve missed. You promised Johnny you would be with him every second, all he had to do was hold on, keep breathing. 

He did that and he survived. You didn’t hold up your end of the bargain. 

“What’s going on with you two? Did you have a fight or something” You ignore him looking back at his chart. You hoped John and Simon were just lying when they said he was almost dead. He was, he coded twice on the table. Fuck. He almost died, he really almost died. You want to jump into bed with him and just hold him close. You haven’t even had time to process what happened. 

Everything happened so quickly. As soon as you were off the chopper Kate was pulling John to the side. Before you could even finish the handover with the base medics you were being pulled in for questioning. 

That was the last you saw of Johnny, he being moved into resus. You thought John was going to talk to you about your performance. You thought it was a joke at first, you thought he was trying to prove some kind of point. When Simon walked into the room, his eyes were harsh, uncaring. That's when you knew it was much worse. 

A nurse walks in the room breaking your train of thought. You recognise her, you worked with her a few times on the base. She smiles at you as you pass her Johnny’s chart. 

“I’m sorry about what happened to you.” You freeze. You're holding your breath staring at her wide eyed. 

“What happened?” Johnny asks, you turn to him, he's sat up in bed. You look at Kyle, who sighs and grips the side of Johnny’s bed. 

“John and Simon thought she was the leak.” Kyle says. You swallow hard, your hand coming to your stomach. Johnny looks at you for a second then back to Kyle. 

“What leak?” 

“There was a leak, Makarov knew we were coming, it was a trap.” Kyle says. You’re trying to keep your cool, you didn’t even realise the nurse had left the room. 

“Why didn’t you say anything? I could tell something was wrong.” He turns to look at you. “What did they do just question you?” 

You shake your head. His face goes grim. He looks back at Kyle. 

You watch as his hands grip the covers and he lets out a sigh. You feel sick, you want to leave, you don’t want to upset johnny. When you turn to leave Simon walks into the room. He looks right at you. 

A chill runs up your spine, you’re looking in his eyes. They look darker when he has his mask on, now they look terrifying. 

“Si is it true?” Johnny asks. Simon looks past you towards the bed. You feel frozen in place, your head spinning. This is all your fault. You shouldn’t have been here. The sooner you get away from them the better. 

Simon doesn’t say anything. 

“Christ. I can’t-” Johnny doesn't finish his sentence.

“How long?” You look up at Simon who has crossed his arms now. 

“It doesn’t matter.” Simon says.

“It fucking matters.” Johnny says. You can hear the anger in his voice. You want to leave, you have to leave. You don’t want to be here. Your body is still betraying you though, you can't move.

“Tav sit down. You’ll hurt yourself.” You hear Kyle say. Your stomach twists, you squeeze your eyes closed. When you open them again Simon has moved out of your vision going up to the bed. 

“4 days.” Simon says. That seems to still the commotion going on behind you. You take a step towards the door, your legs feel like they’re about to give out.

“I want to know everything. Every single detail.” 

“Johnny-” Simon starts 

“Don’t you fucking Johnny me. Tell me.” His voice is harsh, you’ve only ever seen Johnny mad a few times. Most of the time it’s spur of the moment, a few seconds of anger then he’s back to his usual self. 

This is different. There’s hatred in his voice. 

Tears run down your cheeks as you make it out of the room. You can hear them calling but you don’t care, you just keep walking. 

When you make it out the med-bay the cold air hits your face. You realise you’ve been holding your breath the whole walk. You have to brace your hands on your thighs while you suck in as much air as you can. 

“Are you okay?” You hear someone say. You look up to see John looking back at you. There’s a somber look on his face. You’re mad at him. Adrenaline is pumping through your system. It’s fight or flight.

“It was just a normal day for you wasn't it.” You snap at him. “You woke up and went to bed like it was just part of the job. Like I was just another terrorist.” 

He doesn’t say anything. The silence hurts more, you thought he would fight, defend himself. No, he just stands there staring at you. 

“You let me suffer for nothing. You gained nothing, you learnt nothing. You broke me for nothing.” You turn away running your hand down your face pinching your nose as tears and snot stream down. They’re no closer to solving what happened than they were before Johnny was shot. Maybe this is Makarov's plan, the long game. Blame one of them break up the team, plant evidence. They were so sure it was you.

“I want to know why you thought it was me.” You say turning back to look at him. He presses his lips together for a few seconds, he’s thinking. You wipe your face with your sleeve. 

“Okay. C’mon.” He says turning away. You wait for a second before following him.  

next

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[stormgardenscurse]

hellooo i just saw that your requests were opening and i was wondering if i could request for a first years ace, deuce, jack, epel and sebek headcanons with reader in a setting similar to the kingdom dance scene in tangled where theyre just dancing with different partners before eventually getting back to one another.

kingdom dance - tangled au

Characters: Ace, Deuce, Jack, Epel, Sebek

Ace

Ace Trappola is the subject of many ‘firsts.’ He was the first one to break into your tower, the first to agree to bring you to see the lanterns, and the first one to get hurt (self imposed) because he realised that ah, you’re beautiful when you’re smiling at things about a world that he’s long lost faith in. And he’s placed himself into a lose-lose situation because he’d intended to trick you about your deal, at first.

There’s time to undo his mistakes though, right? Helplessly—hopelessly—Ace lets you drag him back into a world of color that’s painted by your chalk-stained hands.

“Ace, could you help me with something?”

Hm? “What is it—” 

Ace freezes, dumbstruck, as he feels your fingers cup his face. They graze over the soft flesh of his cheeks, and he snaps out of his surprise when he registers the mischievous glint in your eyes. 

The redhead’s brow rises. His hands too, are stained with chalk, so Ace grabs onto your waist to keep you from escaping while dishing out his revenge, eliciting squeals from you while a laugh too happy to be his own escapes his lips. 

There are many things you’ve both been doing that Ace would’ve called childish, before today. But now, he finds himself feeling more carefree than any prison escape he’s done.

When did you become so cheeky? Whoever you learnt this from must be a terrible influence, indeed.

Deuce

In truth, Deuce was just a civilian who noticed a criminal running from the palace guards, and decided to give chase himself! He finds himself at the tower right after you made a deal with Ace, and joins your adventures to make sure the redhead keeps his end of the deal (and maybe to steal and return the tiara to the palace, while he’s at it).

Because of this however, Deuce is much more welcoming about your discovery of the outside world. He’s just glad to see you happy and running around, and even accompanies you to the ‘boring’ part of the town; a library full of novels and history books!

“This place is a lot like my tower,” you’d explained to him, describing how over the years, you’ve painted the walls with murals and attempted no small amount of hobbies. “Oh, look at this page! Is this Corona’s traditional waltz?”

Hearing the wonder in your voice as you charted a map of nations across the sea on the side, Deuce thinks that it wouldn’t be so bad to dedicate a few years to travelling with you, even if he hopes to be a knight at the end. He lets you lead him in a waltz across the library tower, stepping lightly around novel to novel, each with maps and illustrations on its open page.

…And just as Deuce thinks he’s gotten the hang of it, his train of thought causes him to stumble and slip on one of the books! He topples, you land on him. And after a few seconds of silence… giggles bubble from your chest. 

…Maybe, staying in here a little longer wouldn’t be so bad, either. Even if he’s never been one for towers of words and dust.

Jack

The townschildren immediately took a liking to both you and Jack’s hair; the latter of which was tied into a long, fluffy ponytail, that looked incredibly pretty with flowers woven into them!

“Should I undo this for you?” You ask Jack, inspecting his now-semi braided strands. He shakes his head, gesturing towards the children who have retreated to play close to the fountain, but are still in sight.

“It’s fine. We'd better not upset them after all their hard work.” Jack answers, noticing the way you’re smiling. “...What?”

It’s just, “I never thought you’d be so good with kids! You felt like a dependable older brother.”

The afternoon wanes as Jack tells you a bit more about his siblings and you find a small meadow outside town’s walls. Sitting amidst it, next to Jack, almost makes you forget that you met at the Snuggly Duckling—which you probably wouldn’t have made it out of without him and Epel joining your party.

“Hey Jack, don’t you think that flowers look a little bit like the sun symbol on Corona's flag?” You hold up the flower crown you’d been weaving into the light. 

For a moment, Jack doesn’t answer—and you realize why when you turn around, only to see him pick a golden wildflower and tuck it behind your ear, since your hands were full.

“I think this one's colour is closer to what you meant.” He says, but Jack’s eyes don’t seem to be on the flower, exactly. What is this bubbly feeling in your stomach?

Epel

Having joined your group at the Snuggly Duckling (Epel’s family supplies apple-made products, and he’s always wanted to learn to be a cool mercenary), you’ve almost forgotten that Epel came from a quieter side of the kingdom with sprawling farms and fields for days. As such, he’s just as happy to explore the town as you are, buying a range of pastries from the local bakery and picking out souvenirs for his Meemaw once he finally makes the trip home.

“It’s a good thing my deliveries take a few days, anyway. And I was hurryin’ on the last vdelivery because I wanted to ask the mercs to teach— I mean, mentor me a little. But meeting you was lots more fun!” Epel smiles. He shares your wonder for the city, and even if some of your ignorance baffles him, Epel’s grown to admire your guts (the way you fought off city guards with a frying pan and zero fear).

…Well, almost zero fear. The closest you’ve felt to true helplessness was when your team was separated and trapped in a flooded cave—only for Epel to calm you down long enough for you to use your hair—and kept your secret until you chose to heal your friends’ scratches and bruises after the confrontation.

Meemaw told me stories about the sundrop flower. But we aren’t people that take more than we need from the earth; magic or not, it’s a plant like any other. And you’re a person! We can’t just steal your hair!

The fears you had about revealing your magic quickly melted away as you burst into laughter. From then on, you gained a little favouritism for Epel, who was always down for your daring shenanigans. This time, however, all you wanted was to learn how to carve apples like he did! And when your friends returned to admire your works, he was quick to swap apples with you, giving you a little shrug, saying he can make them anytime. “And even if it’s not exactly a long lasting souvenir… it’s a gift, for you.”

Sebek

A palace guard who’d tracked the five of you down after the Snuggly Duckling fiasco, Sebek is determined to keep an eye on you since you’re the one who’s hiding the stolen tiara. He starts off very standoffish and does not want to mingle, but eventually, after you’re left alone together in the town square… Sebek grows tired of something and asks if you’re done looking around the main area. He leads you to a store with kitchenware instead, where he asks you to pick out a new… frying pan?

“The one you have right now is too heavy, isn’t it?” He quips, trying not to show that he was concerned about the way you uncomfortably kept it inside your backpack. “You may be able to swing it around with relative ease, but when faced with proper villains, you won’t be able to lift it quickly enough.” Sebek finishes, moving forward to pick out the lighter pans in the store on your behalf. “...How about this?”

It’s not quite ‘picking out an outfit’ or new sword for a fellow knight… But you can tell that Sebek’s half-awkwardness comes from a place of care. Meaning, he’s warmed up to you, even if he doesn’t want to admit it! You accept his gift of a new weapon gladly, only to notice people gathering in the main square as musicians raise their instruments.

Before you can ask Sebek what it is, however, a firm grip suddenly pulls you behind the corner and blocks your mouth. You follow his line of sight to see royal guards patrolling by.

“Come on—let’s dance!”

“It’d be complicated if I’m spotted with all of you.” Sebek sighs.

To be fair, you are a group of criminals (mainly Ace). You notice the music swelling in the square and people twirling about, and decide to wipe the stressed frown off Sebek’s face.

[delusionalwritingsofagay]

Omega verse hiccup x nesting omega male reader. Coming home from a flight to find his bf nesting 🙏

Berk's Cozy Nest

Pairing : Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III x Male omega reader Fandom: How to train your dragon Tags :Established Relationship, omega verse, nesting, fluff word count: 772

The wind whipped past Hiccup’s face, a familiar embrace as Toothless soared through the crisp, late afternoon air. Berk was a patchwork quilt of greens and browns below, smoke curling lazily from chimneys, a testament to the bustling life he was so fiercely determined to protect. He'd been charting new territories again, pushing the boundaries of their maps, always driven by that explorer’s itch that gnawed at him.

“Alright, bud, time to head home,” Hiccup murmured, patting Toothless’s head. The dragon crooned in response, banking into a sharp turn that sent a thrill through Hiccup. He loved this, this feeling of freedom, of discovery. But there was a pull even stronger than adventure – the thought of returning to Berk, to his friends, to his Y/N.

Landing gracefully in front of their house, Hiccup dismounted, grinning at the sight of the familiar, albeit slightly haphazard, structure.

He pushed the door open, expecting the usual boisterous greeting, maybe the crackle of the fire, and the scent of whatever experimental dish Y/N was attempting to create. But silence met him. A strange, unsettling silence.

“Y/N?” Hiccup called out. “I’m back!”

Still nothing.

A flicker of worry tightened his chest. Y/N was rarely quiet. Usually, he was a whirlwind of energy, tinkering with things, sketching designs, or just chattering away about the latest gossip from the village.

“Y/N!” This time his voice was sharper, laced with concern.

Then he saw it.

Tucked away in the corner of the living room, hidden partially behind a screen adorned with Y/N’s intricate carvings, was a nest.

Hiccup froze. He’d heard whispers, of course, snippets of conversations amongst the village women, tales passed down through generations about Omegas and their…nesting instincts. He knew Y/N was an Omega, of course. They had dated long enough. But Y/N had never presented like this, not even close. The nesting instinct has never been a thing for him. He had never made a nest before.

It was a jumble of blankets, pillows, soft furs, and… oddly enough, some of Y/N’s favorite worn tunics. There were also a few of Hiccup’s own belongings scattered about – a tunic he’d lost weeks ago,

And nestled right in the middle of it all, curled up like a contented dragon hatchling, was Y/N.

Hiccup’s worry instantly evaporated, replaced by a wave of… well, something akin to awe. And a healthy dose of amusement.

Y/N was fast asleep, his face buried in the soft folds of a blanket. His hair was a mess, escaping from the loose braid he usually wore. And around him, the nest radiated a sense of…peace. A quiet, safe haven carved out from the bustling world of Berk.

He carefully approached the nest, his footsteps soft on the wooden floor. He knelt beside it, studying Y/N’s sleeping form.

He reached out a hand, gently brushing a strand of hair away from Y/N’s forehead. Y/N stirred slightly, nuzzling deeper into the blankets.

Hiccup smiled. Gods, he loved this man. Every quirky, brilliant, exasperating thing about him.

He knew he should probably wake him, ask him if he was alright. But the sight of Y/N so peaceful, so safe in his little nest… it was too tempting.

Instead, Hiccup did the only thing that felt right.

He kicked off his boot, unbuckled his prosthetic leg (setting it carefully aside), and crawled into the nest beside Y/N.

The blankets were warm and soft, smelling faintly of Y/N’s familiar scent – a mix of woodsmoke, metal, and something uniquely him. He carefully arranged himself so he wasn’t putting too much weight on Y/N, then wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

Y/N sighed contentedly and snuggled closer, his head resting against Hiccup’s chest.

“Hiccup?” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

“Hey,” Hiccup whispered, pressing a kiss to his hair. “It’s me.”

“Mmm,” Y/N murmured, his grip tightening on Hiccup’s tunic. “Missed you.”

“Missed you too,” Hiccup said, his voice laced with affection. He closed his eyes, listening to the steady rhythm of Y/N’s breathing.

Y/N leaned up and leaned closer for a kiss. Their lips met in a soft, tender kiss.As they kissed, Hiccup felt a wave of warmth wash over him.

Breaking the kiss, Hiccup nuzzled his nose against Y/N's cheek. "So," he said, his voice low and intimate. "What do you say we spend the rest of the evening right here? Just the two of us, in your cozy little nest?"

Y/N's smile widened. "That sounds perfect," he replied, snuggling closer to Hiccup's warmth.

[doumadono]

Silent Waves, Silent Wounds - Touya Todoroki x Reader

A/N: today's episode broke my heart and made me cry uncontrollably. With a nice prompt set for this week's challenge in a community I'm part of, I decided to combine the two. I just hope my Touya will survive. Gif was made by @gamergirl-niffler

MY HERO ACADEMIA

Touya's first breaths of freedom were laced with the sterile scent of antiseptics and the distant echoes of calamity.

Beneath the flickering streetlights of Musutafu, shadows twirled across the damp pavement, casting the world in veils of half-truths and murmured secrets.

It was upon a night cloaked in despair that Touya Todoroki, shrouded in the remnants of his shattered past, escaped the suffocating confines of what should have been a sanctuary. The hospital, ostensibly a bastion of healing and hope, had morphed into nothing but a prison, all under the malevolent gaze of All For One.

In a moment fueled by raw desperation and a primal urge for freedom, Touya, with hands trembling and heart pounding against the cage of his ribcage, ignited the very foundations that had ensnared him. Flames, hungry and unrestrained, licked upwards, clawing at the structure with a ferocity. Fire roared through the hallways, a fierce, unforgiving inferno that consumed everything in its path — medical charts, synthetic bed linens, the false promises of recovery.

As the inferno raged behind him, Touya stumbled into the cold embrace of the night.

The city loomed large and indifferent, its countless lights flickering like distant stars, unreachable and cold. Each step was a battle, his body a map of wounds both fresh and long endured, scars that told tales he could barely remember, tales of a mere boy who once dreamed of heroism but found himself ensnared in a nightmare of his father's making.

He moved through the shadows, a spectral figure haunted by the echoes of his past and the uncertain horrors of his future. Tonight, the world was both his enemy and his ally, hiding him from those who would seek to drag him back to that hellish place, yet offering no comfort from the relentless grip of his solitude and sorrow. His face, marred with scars that told stories of a tragic past and unresolved pain, was not one that people usually turned to for comfort.

As he navigated through the dimly lit streets, his eyes were cautious and wary of the stares that followed him like specters.

It was then he saw you - a girl sitting alone on the curb, your sobs cutting through the muffled sounds of the city like a siren’s call. You were young, perhaps no older than he, with tears streaking your cheeks and your shoulders trembling under the weight of your unseen burdens.

Despite his fears and the fresh pain of his own memories, something within him stirred - a remnant of the hero he once aspired to be. Hesitant, he approached you, his voice barely above a whisper after he cleared his throat, trying to sound normal, even though he knew it was no longer possible. “Hey, are you okay?”

You jerked your head up, your eyes wide with a mixture of fear and surprise as they landed on his disfigured features.

For a heartbeat, Touya thought you would scream, run away, or recoil in horror.

But then, something remarkable happened - your expression softened, and your initial fright melted into a sad, understanding smile. “Not really,” you confessed, wiping your tears away with the back of your shaking hand. “My dad… he drinks too much. And my mom, she doesn’t really care. She threw me out tonight. Said she’d had enough of me being useless.”

The words struck a chord in Touya. Abandonment, pain, a longing for something better - themes that resonated deeply within his own life. Sitting heavily beside you on the cold curb, he offered you a timid smile, one that seemed almost out of place on his scarred visage. "I’m sorry,” he said, his voice a mixture of warmth and a chilling detachment born from years of conditioning under his father’s harsh regime. “I… I know what it’s like to feel like you have no one.”

You studied him, your reddened eyes lingering on his scars with a curiosity born from your own pain rather than judgement. “What happened to you?” you asked gently, perhaps too gently for the horror that his story contained.

Touya looked away, his eyes tracing the patterns of light and shadow on the ground. “I don’t remember everything,” he confessed. “But I know I was trying to prove something to my dad. It didn’t end well, as you can see.”

You sat in silence, the world around you bustling with life, yet oblivious to the shared moment of grief between two strangers.

People passed by, their glances sharp and sometimes filled with a disdain that neither of you were unfamiliar with.

Sensing Touya’s discomfort, you made a decision. “Let’s go somewhere else,” you suggested, a spark of resolve lighting up your tear-stained face. “Somewhere away from prying eyes. I know a nice place, if you'd like to join me.”

Touya nodded casually, “I think I’d like that. I have nowhere to be anyway.”

Without another word, you stood, holding out you hand to help him up. Your touch was warm, a stark contrast to the coldness he had come to expect from the world.

Together, you walked through the deserted streets, your steps in sync, until the city sounds faded into the background, replaced by the soothing rhythm of waves crashing against the shore.

Beneath the expansive canopy of the night sky, the beach lay deserted, bathed in the ethereal, silvery glow of the moon. The ocean before them transformed into a shimmering tapestry, each wave weaving threads of light across the dark canvas of water. It was here, with the cool sand cradling your steps and the vast, relentless sea stretching into infinity, that you discovered a fleeting sanctuary — a momentary escape from the ravages of your tormented existences.

As you settled onto the sand, the ocean's eternal murmurs surrounding you, Touya found himself unexpectedly comforted by the raw, natural beauty of the scene. Yet, he was taken aback when you revealed that it was not just chance that brought you to this tranquil haven in the dead of night.

“I come here often, especially after fights at home,” you confessed softly, your eyes reflecting the moonlight like fragments of a broken mirror. “The sound of the waves… it calms the storm inside me. Maybe it can do the same for you.”

Touya hesitated before his voice broke the silence. "I'm like these waves," he murmured, his voice tinged with a haunting sadness. "Crashing again and again, with no control, no end. I don't even remember why I started… what I was trying to prove." His gaze was lost to the horizon, where the dark sea met the darker sky, his face a mask of sorrow sculpted by the silvery light.

"It's hard, isn't it?" you said softly, pulling your knees closer to your chest, feeling the chill of the night seeping through your clothes. "Feeling like you're caught in a storm with no shelter in sight. I sit here, night after night, wondering if the screaming will ever stop, if there will ever be a night without tears, without all this emptiness."

"Does it help? Coming here, hearing the waves?" Touya asked.

"It doesn't stop the pain," you admitted, "but sometimes, it makes it bearable. The sea doesn't judge, doesn't demand. It just is. And for a little while, I can just be too, without worrying about the next wave that might knock me down."

"I wish I could remember what peace feels like," he confessed, his words blending with the whisper of the wind.

You reached out, your hand brushing against his, a small gesture of comfort in the overwhelming vastness of your shared solitude.

"Maybe we can't go back to who we were," you suggested, your voice a tentative whisper against the symphony of the sea. "But perhaps we can find new reasons to look forward to the sunrise."

Touya's hand trembled slightly under yours, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he gripped your hand, his hold tentative but needing the connection. "I'd like that," he said, a flicker of a smile ghosting across his lips, as fragile and fleeting as a wave’s crest as a single tear rolled down his cheek. "To look forward to something, to hope for something better."

[ruewritesoccasionally]

NSFW Alphabet | Terry Richmond

pairing: terry richmond x black reader

warnings: predominantly smut (18+), some dark themes with a dash of fluff

word count: 5.0K

a/n: let me know if you have a favourite letter 🤭

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

With Terry, aftercare is a non-negotiable ritual - quiet, thorough, and deeply felt. It’s a side of him most wouldn’t believe existed. To the outside world, Terrance Richmond is all hard lines: a stoic man carved by military training, personal loss, and the scorched aftermath of Shelby Springs. Someone who seems more at home in silence than softness, more familiar with pain than peace. So, the idea of tenderness from a man like him might seem… unlikely. But to the woman he loves? It’s as natural as breathing.

Because unsurprisingly, to those lucky enough to know what’s beneath the surface, Terry is nothing if not devoted. And that devotion doesn’t stop when the sex does - in fact, that’s when it sharpens. He’s not the type to rush. He stays close, grounded, watching every tremor in her breath with that unblinking focus of his, waiting to see what she needs or if she can speak at all. If she can’t, that’s fine. He already knows.

There’s a kind of reverence to how he moves afterward. She’ll find herself cleaned up without ever needing to ask, ice water placed on the bedside table, fresh sheets already pulled tight. A bath is drawn, steam curling from the door as he helps her step in, and if her muscles are sore, which, under his hands, they often are - his fingers will find every knot with the same ruthless precision he’d use clearing a weapon. Terry’s love is measured in actions, not words.

She’s lotioned down head to toe with practiced care, her favourite pyjamas waiting at the foot of the bed, a silk scarf gently tied to protect her hair but only after he’s oiled her scalp, thumbs pressing slow and sure like it’s holy work. He doesn’t speak unless she needs him to. But his touch - steady, firm, unrelenting in its care - tells her everything she needs to know.

You’re safe. You’re mine. I’ve got you.

B = Body Part (his favourite body part of his and his partner’s)

His own? It’s his shoulders. Always has been. Not just for how they look - broad, sculpted, unmistakably powerful but for what they represent. They’re where he carries the weight of his world: duty, regret, discipline, loss. And her. Especially her. It’s where she clings when she buries herself against him, face tucked into his neck, arms circling like she’s trying to hold the very foundation of the man together. It’s also where her legs go - flung high and trembling, draped over his shoulders while he locks his arms around her knees and fucks her deep, steady, unrelenting. There’s no part of that position he doesn’t love: the helpless arch of her spine, the ragged pitch of her breath, the quake in her thighs just before she breaks. She never escapes him like that. She doesn’t even try.

As for her body? Where does he begin. There’s no part of her he doesn’t favour. She was made for him. That’s what it feels like, every time he lays his hands on her. Perfectly built to fit into his arms, against his chest, underneath the full press of his weight. Her smaller stature leaves her nestled so neatly beneath his - he never has to try hard to shield her. And he lives for that contrast. Her hips, wide and soft beneath his palms, make for the perfect anchor. Her neck? A canvas for his marks, a place his lips return to night after night. Her breasts - full, sensitive, hers - seem to respond to nothing but him. But it’s her stomach that always stops him. The stretch marks, the give beneath his hand, that faint tattoo that curls from her back and trails over her side - he kisses it every single time like it’s the first. And maybe it is worship, the way his mouth lingers there longer than anywhere else.

He doesn’t just know her body. He’s memorised it. Charted it like a map. He knows her body better than his own weaponry. Better than the sound of his own voice.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Terry Richmond is a traditional man, in every brutal, beautiful sense of the word. He comes inside his woman or not at all. That’s the point. That’s the claim. That’s the ritual. He waits, stays buried deep, unmoving - just to feel her flutter around him, to watch the subtle shift in her features when it all hits at once. Her orgasm. His. The tension between their bodies snapping like wire pulled too tight. He doesn’t pull out until he’s sure every last drop is right where it belongs.

And then the part he never skips - he makes her walk. Shaky, fucked-out legs, body still trying to remember how to breathe. He doesn’t help her. Not at first. He just watches, arms crossed, silent and smug, as gravity takes its course and the evidence of what they’ve done together spills down her thighs. There’s reverence in it. Possession. Filth.

Making her cum is less about pleasure and more about proof. Multiple positions. No shortcuts. No mercy. He doesn’t stop until she’s writhing, the sheets soaked beneath her, and she’s left speechless - not because he demands it, but because she has nothing left to give. Her moans are his favourite sound in the world, but no one else gets to hear them. The room’s soundproofed, his design. No one hears her cry out but him. No one ever will.

And just before she breaks, just before her body clenches tight and drags him down with her - he looks her dead in the eye. That’s the moment he wants her to see it. The shift in his face. The fire in his gaze. The exact second the man she knows becomes the man who ruins her, again and again.

D = Dirty Secret (a secret or unexpected turn-on)

On the surface, Terry Richmond is a man made of command: hard jaw, sharper eyes, voice that never needs to rise above a low register to be obeyed. Every inch of him reads “control.” Which is why it would come as a surprise, to anyone but her, that his dirtiest secret is this: he loves when she takes over.

Not often. Not always. But when she decides to flip the script, to pin him down, ride him slow, leave him begging with nothing but the roll of her hips and the drag of her fingernails across his chest? That’s when she sees it - the man who commands entire rooms coming undone at the altar of her body. It’s not submission. It’s devotion. It’s knowing he could throw her off at any second, but choosing not to. Choosing to be undone. Choosing to give her the same power he wields everywhere else.

It’s not about being topped. It’s about being hers.

E = Experience (how much experience do they have, how good are they?)

He’s not the kind of man who talks about his past - especially not in the bedroom. But if you’re wondering if he’s had his fair share of partners, the answer is yes… and no.

There were women, here and there - more when he was younger, before the weight of the world settled across his shoulders. Most of them blurred together, bodies used more for stress relief than intimacy. He turned down more opportunities than he took, never out of prudishness - just disinterest. If it wasn’t meaningful, if it wasn’t mutual, he didn’t see the point.

But Terry is a strategist before he’s anything else. And strategy starts with observation. He studies her - every twitch, every stuttered breath, every shift in the rhythm of her moans. He learns fast. Remembers everything. And once she’s his? She becomes the only curriculum he’ll ever need.

F = Favourite Position (what do they prefer, and why?)

It depends on the night - on the weight he’s carrying, on how much she needs to forget, on how much he needs to feel.

But more often than not, it’s chest to chest. Her legs wrapped around his waist, her back arching to press them closer, breaths mingling in the small space between them. Eyes locked. Skin slick. Heartbeats syncing. He fucks like he fights: with precision, intention, and focus and he wants to see her come apart under him.

Sometimes he holds her face in both hands as he moves inside her, like she might disappear if he looks away. Other times, he tucks his forehead against hers and stays completely silent, except for the way his hips keep moving and his hands don’t let go. For Terry, eye contact isn’t just a kink - it’s a confession.

Every thrust says what he won’t out loud: I see you. I need you. I’m not leaving.

G = Goofy (are they silly in bed?)

Terry Richmond is not goofy. He doesn’t crack jokes mid-thrust, doesn’t fumble, doesn’t break into boyish laughter when something slips or squeaks or shifts. That kind of playfulness doesn’t suit him, not with everything he’s been through. He’s far too composed, too deliberate. Always in control. Always watching.

But that doesn’t mean he’s humourless.

No - Terry’s version of “play” comes in the form of teasing, the kind that walks the line between cocky and cruel. The kind of low-voiced taunts that make her breath catch and her legs tremble. “Oh? Is it too much for you now?” A tilt of his head. That slow, wicked smile that only ever shows when she’s split open beneath him. “Then you’d better hold on”.

And just like that, he’s nudging her thighs wider with his knees, his palm closing tightly around her throat, the other braced against the headboard as he fucks her deeper and harder, with the same cool precision he uses to handle a weapon.

It’s not humour. It’s dominance dressed in charm. And if she dares to answer back? He makes her regret it… or beg for more.

H = Hair (how well-kept are they?)

Terry takes immaculate care of himself. Always has. From the cut of his beard to the shape of his brows to the way his body hair stays groomed without ever being bare - it’s not vanity, it’s discipline. The kind of upkeep that was drilled into him in the field, refined in civilian life, and perfected the moment he found someone he wanted to look good for.

He doesn’t believe in showing up as anything less than his best, for himself, yes, but especially for her. She deserves to look at a man who knows what pride in appearance looks like. A man who knows the value of presentation - of presence.

As for how she keeps herself? He has no preferences, no requests. Her body is hers. Full stop. The fact that she gives it to him at all - bares herself to him, lets him see her in every state, every angle, every inch. That’s the real honour. And Terry treats it as such. Always.

I = Intimacy (how romantic are they?)

Intimacy isn’t a mood for Terry. It’s his mother tongue.

It’s in the way he handles her like she’s breakable and indestructible all at once. In the way he holds her after just as tight as he did during. It’s in the way he says her name - low, reverent, like it costs him something every time and he’d pay it a thousand times over.

With Terry, love is suffocating. Not in a way that overwhelms, but in a way that fills. Every room. Every breath. Every corner of her body until all that’s left is him. She breathes him in - and he holds her steady when the world tilts on its axis.

He doesn’t speak in flowery declarations. Doesn’t send poems or write long letters. But his love is devotional. It’s adoration in action. It’s in the way he slows down when she starts to speed up. The way his thumbs trace lazy circles into her hips long after they’ve stopped moving. It’s the quiet pride on his face when she melts under his touch like he’s just witnessed something sacred. It’s the blanket pulled up to her chin before she can shiver. The pad of his thumb brushing over her bottom lip, not to hush her - just to feel her. And when she’s half-asleep, limbs tangled with his, skin humming from everything they’ve shared - that’s when he presses his mouth to her temple and breathes the only truth that ever mattered: Mine. Still. Always.

J = J*ck Off (masturbation headcanon)

Yes, but rarely. Some would call it denial. Terry calls it preservation. Why settle for fantasy when the real thing ruins him so thoroughly every time? Still, when the ache coils too tight and the nights stretch too long, he lets himself give in. But even then, it’s never just about release. It’s about her. The way she arches when he grabs a fistful of her hair and drags her hips back to meet his thrusts. The soft hiss she makes when he licks a stripe along her collarbone. The crack in her voice when she moans his name like it’s a prayer and a curse all at once. His hands move with a mind of their own. Rough. Focused. Ruthless. Fists wrapping around his length, mimicking her grip - sliding, tugging, pumping, desperate for the relief only she truly offers. Sometimes he pictures her watching. Mouth parted. Eyes locked on his. Talking him through it like only she can. His tip flushed, swollen, threatening to spill, he pushes harder. Faster. Until the knot inside him snaps. When the pressure snaps and he spills hot across his own thighs, he just closes his eyes and breathes through the comedown. And still, for a moment, he stays in the silence. Chest rising. Fingers twitching. Eyes closed. Not ashamed. Just imagining how much better it’ll feel when it’s her hands next time. Her heat. Her body. Because waiting for her? That’s not denial. He tells himself he can wait a little longer until he can have all of her again.

K = Kink (one of more of his kinks)

Terry is controlled, but never boring. Experimental, but never careless. A beautiful oxymoron. He’s a man of studied extremes and nothing excites him more than seeing her toe that line. Restraint is a favourite. Ropes, wrist cuffs, the ring loops he’s fitted into their headboard; all to keep her laid out, helpless, and entirely at his mercy. Blindfolds sometimes. Headphones, rarely. But her mouth? Never. He'd sooner carve his own heart out than miss the way she begs, pleads, breaks for him. Because that voice - ragged, raw, soaked in want, is his anchor and undoing both. He doesn’t play for noise. He plays for ruin. And if her voice isn't echoing through his bones, it’s not worth the game.

L = Location (their favourite place)

Nowhere beats their bedroom - the sanctity, the scent, the sweat-soaked sheets that still hold memories in the morning. But the living room? That’s where the devil in him stirs. There’s something about seeing her bent over the back of the sofa, flushed and wrecked, skin marked where only he knows to look. Even better when they have company over. Watching her glide through the room with practiced grace, laughing, offering drinks, hair still damp from the shower he pulled her into after fucking her face down on the cushions. No one suspects a thing. Except her. Because her thighs still tremble. Her voice still cracks. And she knows damn well that when the last guest leaves, he’s taking her right back there and starting all over again.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

It goes without saying that Terrance Richmond is a man of order. Regime. Discipline. That control extends into every aspect of his life, including the bedroom. He’s no stranger to want, to need. But he doesn’t indulge every whim that flickers across the battlefield of his mind. Unlike most men, he chooses his moments and that’s what makes him lethal. But then again, not every man comes home to her. A half-drunk glass of red wine, perched carelessly on the staircase. A full bottle at its base. The laundry basket outside their door - a quiet invitation for him to strip off the day, piece by piece. And then: her. Clad in a striking blue lace babydoll, curves haloed in soft lighting, curls pinned into an elegant updo. The sheen of oil catching the light along her legs - the same legs that would be wrapped tight around him soon enough. Lingerie was his undoing. His favourite contradiction. She couldn’t possibly get more perfect and yet she did, every time she walked into their bedroom dressed like sin and sanctity all at once. The lace - intricate, delicate, deliberate - mirrored her spirit too well. He’d started buying two of everything: one to tear off in a frenzy. The other to study like scripture.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Finding a hard limit with Terry is near impossible. This is a man who embodies darkness - the best and worst thing to be alone with in a locked room. He devours fear, spits it back out in flames. He doesn’t just toe the line, he redraws it. But even he has his rules. Anything that leaves a permanent mark? Off the table. Not because he’s afraid to claim her - he already has. But because when he met her, she was immaculate. A masterpiece. And though he has no intention of ever leaving, he’s made a quiet vow to keep her body untouched by time, unmarred by consequence. The bruises and bite marks he leaves? Temporary. Intentional. Because he loves watching them heal - knowing they’ll fade and that he’ll get to ruin her all over again, one careful kiss, one hungry mark at a time.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

This was her time to shine. Terry pleased her so thoroughly, so relentlessly, that she always found her way back to her knees - not in submission, but in passion. Because from that vantage point? She led. She saw everything: The way his brow furrowed in restraint. The ripple in his abdomen with every twitch of muscle. The bead of sweat threatening to drip from his temple. The way his stance widened as balance became a fight. The slow tilt of his head as pleasure took him over. And above all else - the way his cock swelled and pulsed against her tongue, weighty and commanding, as she hollowed her cheeks and took him past the point of resistance. She could’ve come from the sight alone. And Terry? He said nothing. Didn’t need to. The way he looked at her in those moments, like he was the one being worshipped and he accepted the praise wilfully.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual?)

It’s not that Terry doesn’t have time for romance, he does. He bleeds affection into every corner of their life. But the bedroom? That’s where he leaves the polish at the door. That’s where his unbridled desire runs unchallenged. She can take everything he gives. He fucks like it’s life or death - fast but never rushed. Rough but never reckless. If she still has air in her lungs to beg him for more, he’s not working hard enough. He wants her breathless. Wants her squirming. Thrashing. Wanting. Sometimes he even shoves the sheets out of the way - not to see more of her, but so there’s nothing else for her to cling to but him. The marks she leaves on his back? Better than any medal, trophy, or ribbon. They don’t adorn him. They belong on him. He doesn’t need a crown. He has her nails.

Q = Quickie (opinions, frequency, etc.)

Not a no but definitely not his preference. Terry doesn’t like to rush when he could instead unravel. Still, that doesn’t mean he’s immune to the thrill of public teasing. He plays the long game: A curl tucked behind her ear, knuckles skimming her cheek - not for affection, but to feel the heat rise there first. A hand resting innocently on her thigh under the table… until it slides higher. Two fingers dipped between her folds, her body already welcoming, hungry, slick. If not for the noise of conversation around them, the wet sound of her taking him in might echo across the room. By the time they’re walking to the car, she’s gripping his wrist with more desperation than poise. He whispers that they’ll finish it later - not because he’s teasing, but because they both know the real reward is the slow torture he’ll deliver when they’re home. Quickies? Fine. Delayed gratification? Divine.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks?)

Terry doesn’t take chances - he takes control. He knows her better than he knows himself, and that makes her the safest risk he’s ever taken. So when he wants to push boundaries, it’s never a gamble. It’s a guarantee. He guides. He reassures. He commands. Her pleasure isn’t just a goal - it’s a study, a ritual, a devotion. Yes, he could bend her into obedience. But the real satisfaction? Watching her surrender willingly. Letting her mind go blank and her body follow his hands. He plans. She trusts. And in those moments, she isn’t just a woman. She’s his canvas. His doll. His perfect experiment in how far desire can go when it’s built on faith.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

The answer’s almost insulting, painfully obvious. A body like that? It didn’t build itself. It was made, sculpted, trained - almost as if he constructed it just to ruin her. Terry lasts as long as it takes. And then a little longer. One orgasm is simply a warm-up. Two, a tease. Three, expected. It's not over until he sees the signs: — When her clit flinches at the ghost of a touch. — When her legs tremble just trying to close. — When her arms are too weak to cushion the next thrust and instead fall limp around him. — When her back sticks to the sheets, soaked and twisted from the wreckage of too many positions. — When she's gulping air between moans, bruises blooming on her throat from his hand. — When the spasms of orgasm don’t shake her anymore but her body simply gives. But most of all? It's when she can't even say his name. Not a gasp, not a whisper. Just silence. That’s when he knows she’s truly been fucked. He turns her every way but loose, keeps those tired, glossy eyes on him the whole time. Villains can still have superpowers and his is endurance.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Toys? Terry’s view is simple: collaboration, not competition. They’re tools, not replacements. A means to an end, the same end he always works toward: her ruin. And if a few carefully selected instruments make that ruin deeper, louder, longer? All the better. He doesn’t keep anything for himself, but he’ll watch her choose her weapon: wand, clamp, vibe, plug - like it’s a rite of passage. He wants her to feel in control… before he takes it away. She’s ridden him with a bullet vibrator tucked between them before, the trembling pulse nearly knocking the air out of both their lungs. He’d gripped her hips and thrust up so hard she nearly lost her balance, her spine bowing as she sobbed from the overstimulation. He’d only laughed. “Keep going,” he’d growled, voice dark and low. “I didn’t say you could stop”.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Terry Richmond is a deviant. Plain and simple. Cruel in ways that make her cry and come in equal measure. He mocks. He teases. He degrades. And all of it? Every word, every withheld touch, every dragged-out edge - it’s intentional. He'll stroke her slowly with just the head of his dick for minutes on end - never pushing in, just circling, prodding, taunting. He’ll whisper filth in her ear, not for arousal but to bait the desperation. Tears? He laps them up. And if she thinks that’s enough to earn mercy? She’s sorely mistaken. He has no problem leaving her high and dry, strung out on the edge, legs shaking from denial. Sometimes he’ll even fake the promise of release, only to pull away at the last second - again and again and again. He could let her come. He could be kind. But instead? He’d rather see her beg. Break. Burn. And when she finally does? He rewards her with overstimulation so vicious it feels like punishment until it doesn’t. Until her brain stops knowing the difference.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Terry doesn’t believe in holding back when it comes to her - not in touch, not in feeling, and certainly not in sound. He’s hers in every way a man can be. Mind, body, soul and voice. If she wants to hear how good she makes him feel, she will. No hesitation. No shame. A groan when her mouth wraps around him just right. A deep, drawn-out moan when her walls flutter around his cock mid-stroke. A low, guttural grunt when she sinks down on him without warning. But it's the whimpers that undo her - rare, involuntary things, dragged from his throat when he’s too far gone to hold onto pride. He’s vocal, not just with sound but with language. Praise? Filthy promises? Cruel nicknames that make her drip? He doesn’t discriminate. One second it’s “Good girl, that’s it, fuck, you’re perfect.” The next, it’s “So fucking needy. Bet your pussy’s been aching for this all day.” His voice is always coated in something dark and sweet. Honeyed, but laced with salacity. Whatever the moment calls for, Terry gives. Because she deserves to hear the ruin she creates.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

When Terry’s working late or away on assignment, they fall back on their menu. Code words. Inside jokes. A whole system built on anticipation and shared sin. “#27?” he might text - short, simple. And she’ll know it means a photo from her back camera, her fingers spreading herself open just for him. “#33” means a video in one of his shirts, toy buried deep, his name whispered like a prayer. Sometimes she sends something extra just to surprise him: no warning, no number and it never fails to derail his night completely. He’s ruined in the best way. Hard behind his belt with no time to do anything about it. And when he comes home, he makes sure she pays for every one. Routine isn’t boring with them. It’s just the foundation they build their chaos on.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Terry is the exact opposite of short and sweet. He’s long - intimidatingly so - with a thickness that takes time to adjust to, no matter how many times she’s taken him before. Uncut, flushed dark with blood when aroused, the kind of dick that curves just enough to hurt in the best way. A prominent vein trails up the underside, pulsing against her tongue when she sucks him slow, against her walls when he fucks her deep. He’s heavy in the hand, even heavier on the tongue and when he’s buried to the hilt, balls pressed flush against her, she feels every inch. The kind of dick that ruins her for anything else. And he knows it. She’s left trembling and stuffed full, dripping down her thighs, breathless and stretched to her limits and he still asks if she can take just a little more. “You’re mine, sweetheart. Say it with your cunt”.

Y = Yearning (how much they crave their partner / how high is their sex drive)

Terry craves. Not just in body, but in presence, in spirit - in the quiet moments and the ones filled with chaos. He’s a real lover, always has been. Deep, unwavering, and endlessly tactile. He’s not shy about needing her. Privacy is sacred, sure but that doesn’t stop him from wrapping an arm around her waist at the supermarket or slipping his hand down the back of her jeans in the lift. If she’s within reach, he’s touching. Whether it’s her hand, her thigh, the curve of her ass, or a possessive squeeze under the table, it grounds him. At home, she’s his pillow and his prize. He’ll rest his hand under her shirt, palm cupping her breast like it belongs there and it does. His sex drive is sky-high, but never messy. Never careless. She could so much as breathe and he’d be hard but he’s never just horny. He’s needy. Needy for her. When the ache gets too deep to ignore, he’ll brace himself over her with forearms dug into the mattress, hips grinding slow, deep, relentless, pressing his full weight into her so she feels it. So she knows he’s not going anywhere. She’s his. And he’ll spend a lifetime showing her what that means.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

It depends on the day, the session, the storm they’ve weathered but she usually falls first. Terry likes to watch her drift. Curtains cracked just enough for the moonlight to kiss her skin, the sheets tangled between their legs, her breathing deep and steady, one bare thigh thrown over his waist like she’s trying to keep him there. Not that she needs to. He’s not going anywhere. It’s in those moments - her soft sighs, the curve of her mouth still wet with kisses, the faint scent of her pleasure still clinging to his skin - that Terry feels something close to peace. He’ll fall asleep eventually. But not before he’s memorised the shape of her in the dark. Not before he’s reminded himself, again and again, just how lucky he is to have her.

taglist: @writingsbytee @venusincleo @notapradagurl7 @23jammy @nayaesworld @theogbadbitch

comments and reblogs are appreciated as well as feedback, i hope you liked it 🫶🏾🫶🏾

[theskywithin]

Birth Chart Breakdown: Planets in The Ninth House

☉ Sun in the Ninth House You aren’t satisfied with simply existing, you need to understand why you’re here. There’s a fire in you that refuses to settle, that keeps pushing you toward something bigger, brighter, more meaningful. You want to find yourself in faraway places, in deep conversations, in the stretch of becoming more than what you were handed. You’re chasing purpose, not applause, and you’ll keep going until you find the truth that makes you feel alive.

☽ Moon in the Ninth House You’re searching for a belief you can rest inside. For a truth that doesn’t just sound good, but feels like home. Your soul needs more than logic, it needs faith, vision, wonder. You carry your questions like prayers, hoping the sky will answer. And even when you don’t know where you’re going, you keep walking, because something in you believes there’s a place where your spirit will finally exhale and say, “This. This is where I belong.”

☿ Mercury in the Ninth House You need to understand everything. Not in a shallow way, but deeply from the inside out. You question the world like it’s a puzzle you were born to solve. You chase philosophies, languages, systems of thought, not just to be right, but to feel anchored. You want your mind to roam, to leap into unfamiliar places and come back changed. For you, knowledge isn’t a destination, it’s a journey that turns questions into doors.

♀ Venus in the Ninth House You fall in love with what expands you. With cultures, ideas, and people that open something inside you you didn’t know was closed. You long for beauty that feels eternal, love that feels like a philosophy, not a performance. You want to be inspired, not just wanted. And wherever you go, you’re hoping to find something that mirrors your own ideals, something that feels like poetry and truth at once.

♂ Mars in the Ninth House You are driven by a need to go beyond. There’s a restless spark inside you that pushes you toward experiences that shake your limits. You’d rather leap than wait. You chase intensity in the form of expansion, not chaos, but challenge. You don’t want safety, you want aliveness. You want to feel the wind against your face and the thrill of standing at the edge of what you once believed was possible.

♃ Jupiter in the Ninth House You live with your arms open to the sky. There’s a wild optimism in your bones, a belief that life is meant to be more than survival. You seek experiences that lift you, teachings that grow you, paths that widen your world. You trust in something higher, even when you don’t know its name. And wherever you go, you carry the quiet knowing that the universe is not working against you, it’s calling you forward.

♄ Saturn in the Ninth House You want to believe, but you need to build your belief from stone. You don’t trust blindly, you test every truth until it earns your loyalty. Your path to meaning is not fast or easy, but it’s real. You may carry doubt like a shadow, but that doubt carves you into someone solid. When you do find what you believe in, you hold it like a vow. Not loud, not flashy, but lifelong.

♅ Uranus in the Ninth House You were never meant to walk anyone else’s path. You don’t just question the rules, you rewire them. You search for truth in the cracks of tradition, in the sparks of rebellion, in the freedom to think and live for yourself. You don’t want a map. You want the thrill of making your own way. And if your beliefs shake others... GOOD. That means you’re still alive.

♆ Neptune in the Ninth House You’re not looking for answers, you’re looking for wonder. For the feeling of dissolving into something divine, something infinite. You want to believe in more than what you can touch. You long for dreams that stretch beyond this world, for connections that feel cosmic. Sometimes you drift, sometimes you get lost, but even in the fog, you trust that your soul knows the way.

♇ Pluto in the Ninth House You don’t just want purpose, you want to be transformed by it. You are drawn to truths that shatter, to teachings that undo what you thought you knew. You crave meaning that burns through your bones and leaves you reborn. You are not afraid of the darkness that comes with seeking, you know that real understanding often requires letting go of who you were. And you’re willing to go that deep.

🗺️ Your birth chart, decoded in my book- The Sky Within

[artchvies]

snippet of my current wip f1 driver oscar + trainer carlos bc sometimes i forget how to move in silence. ah! it’s abo. obviously.

The first weeks with Carlos are hell. But not in the way Oscar expected—no motivational speeches, no ego games, no forced bonding. Just structure. A complete teardown of his existing system.

New warmups. New hydration plan. New protein shakes that taste like algae. New stupidly intense mobility drills that make Oscar ache in places he didn’t know he had muscles.

Carlos brings laminated training charts and annotated spreadsheets and this look like he’s disappointed when Oscar makes a face at the morning beet juice.

Oscar liked his old routine. It worked. He was winning. He was sleeping. Mostly. Now it’s twice as hard and starts earlier, and Oscar’s not built for 5:30 a.m. sunrise runs through whatever backroad route Carlos maps out on his iPad.

He remembers Carlos saying something once, in that low, thoughtful voice of his, just after Oscar had groaned through his third set of banded crab walks:

“The ones who want to be champions? They work ten times harder than everyone else.”

Oscar had rolled his eyes. But. Yeah. Okay. Fine. He knows Carlos is right. He just likes being stubborn about it. Especially with Carlos.

Because it’s not the new routine that’s getting to him. Not really.

It’s Carlos.

Carlos and his stupid, big, Alpha hands.

His hands that are always on Oscar—gripping his ankle to pull his leg up higher during hamstring stretches, or planted wide on Oscar’s back while he holds a deep lunge, or pushing under Oscar’s knee to tilt his hips just a little more.

They’re big and warm and hairy in this unfair way. They stay imprinted on Oscar’s skin for minutes after. Sometimes hours.

The scent blocker Oscar started using last season has had to be doubled. Then tripled. Because around Carlos it doesn’t work for shit.

Not when he leans over Oscar during assisted stretches and all Oscar can breathe is that stupid scent of his.

It’s not even fair. Carlos doesn’t even smell like he’s trying. It’s not slicked up pheromones or aggressive presentation.

It’s just—him. A constant low hum. A very specific, very masculine Carlosness that short-circuits Oscar’s brain and has him shifting his thighs closer together.

Sometimes Oscar has to bite the inside of his cheek to stay still. To not move. To not shift his hips just a little, just to see what Carlos would do.

Because the worst part—the absolute worst fucking part—is that Carlos notices everything.

He notices when Oscar starts holding his breath during cooldowns. When his thighs twitch mid-stretch. When his scent starts to turn, just barely—not full slick, not yet, but the shimmer of it. The anticipation.

And Carlos doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t make a face. Just shifts slightly closer, presses his palm deeper into the small of Oscar’s back, and says,

“Breathe.”

Or worse:

“There. Like that. Good, Oscar.”

His voice when he says it—low, fond, almost affectionate—scrapes along Oscar’s nerves like a bite. Carlos always says his name like that.

Oscarrr. Drawn out, warm, syrup-slow.

Oscar wants to strangle him.

Or kiss him.

Or push him to the floor and ride his cock until he cries.

He’s losing his mind.

Like now. Carlos is doing post-workout mobility with him—gentle work, glute activation and pelvic resets—and Oscar’s flat on his back, knees bent, trying not to think about the fact that Carlos’s hand is under his thigh, cupping the back of it.

His thumb keeps pressing right near the crease, dangerously close to the soft wet heat between Oscar’s legs, where his slick is starting to pulse despite the triple blocker.

“You need to relax here,” Carlos says, thumb dragging a little too slow. “Breathe into the stretch.”

Oscar swallows hard. His voice comes out thin. “I am relaxed.”

Carlos gives him a look.

“No, you’re not. You’re holding tension. Here—” and then he moves his hand, and Oscar’s whole body lights up.

Not even on purpose. Carlos doesn’t touch there, not really. Just brushes the edge of it. But Oscar still jerks, thighs trembling, pussy clenching on instinct like it’s starving.

Carlos pauses.

Oscar can feel it. That moment—Carlos’s hand still, his breath catching.

He’s noticed. He knows.

He always knows.

But he just adjusts Oscar’s leg slightly, smooth and calm. Back to normal. Says,

“Breathe, Oscar.”

Like nothing happened.

Oscar’s going to combust. One of these mornings—somewhere between the beet juice and the crab walks—he’s going to snap. And if Carlos doesn’t touch him properly, Oscar’s going to do it himself.

Or worse. Ask.