#rhythm: transient space

[tsunagite]

Fragrant Sanctuary miscellaneous

[godihatethiswebsite]

Tethered Bonds

✽ Poly 141 x f!reader (Omegaverse AU)

A lucky stroke of fate led you right into the arms of your alpha soulmates. But is it everything you dreamed it would be or just the continuation of a nightmare?

Main Masterlist ✽ Ao3

°•. ✿ .•°.•° ✿ °•.°•. ✿ .•°.•° ✿ °•.°•. ✿ .•°

✽ Part Three - Deja vu

Remember when I said this was supposed to be the easy side project made of easy to consume chapters that was supposed to be easy on my brain? Oh the way life throws a wrench in things.

Apologies for the wait but thank you for the patience! A bit longer of a chapter this time (almost double the length) because if you also read my other fic you'll know I have a moderation problem :)

Trigger warnings: angst, depression

Time converted its seconds into a slow-motion camera, capturing the hectic moment as a series of shutter clicks in your mind. Rich earthy elixirs trapped like icicles in a frozen pour from heated spouts. Spare precious change suspended in mid-air spilled from jittery hands. A systolic heartbeat waiting to finish its rhythm. An overplayed Christmas jingle with the record player set to the lowest speed. 

How did you not pick up on the telltale signs sooner? It wasn’t as if this was a first occurrence for you anymore. Precious moments of escape wasted daydreaming of warm comfort when it could’ve been spent backpedaling to the safety of your vehicle. Even more insulting when you considered how perceptive you’d been not ten minutes prior, untrusting of your nose to keep you from trouble in the supermarket bakery, head on a dizzying swivel for any more unwanted surprises.

Yet here you were again, betrayed by the very caffeine that was supposed to be your savior, too slow to duck back out the shop before your scent had a chance to reach his nostrils. 

Now you were pinned in place by a complete stranger who had no business smelling that edible.

Pupils blown wide mirrored your own. Blue irises framed by full lashes contrasted against a faded tan that spoke of time spent abroad in warmer climates. Dark brown hair shorn close on the sides peaked into a mussed up mohawk, slightly damp from melted snow and tousled by the wind. Your eyes unfocused to take in the body belonging to the man - shifting lower, past slightly parted lips greedily inhaling your scent and a craggy chin scar encircled by a dusting of dark stubble. 

A deep brown leather bomber jacket stretched tight across broad shoulders only a few shades darker than his hair, upturned against the elements and protecting a tree trunk neck, accented along the trim by matching tufts of a lighter insulating sherpa. A hint of medium wash jeans caught in your periphery, unable to glance further at the lower portion of his body, too encapsulated by the cosmic force that kept you snared within his gaze.

The back of your neck prickled with the knowledge that whatever was passing between you in the charged space across the checkerboard tiles was a transient mirage at best and a dangerous amalgam of broken aspirations at most. That grim lesson had been embedded into your retinas the hard way– 

No matter how potent the connection, this man was not yours. 

You shouldn’t be here. You should not be here.

The alpha didn’t miss the way you transferred your weight onto your back leg. Predatory focus latched onto the subtle way you shifted, instincts preparing behind barely contained canines. You’d accidentally triggered something; a millennia’s worth of ingrained primality overriding the structured norms of good societal behaviour. Like an old timey saloon, it was an overstrung standoff to see whose will would break first.

Your need to run outweighing his need to possess. 

Eyes narrowed slightly, he pointed right at you with a warning look. In a rough brogue, “Don't…”

You didn't listen.

“Hey hey hey–!” 

It was all too familiar now - this choreographed dance of avoiding uncomfortable affairs instead of facing them head on, ignoring the startled clamor of bewildered customers as you darted past a group of unsuspecting teenagers through the narrowing gap of the cafe door.

Nearly bowling an elderly couple over in your haste to escape, you fumbled out a half-hearted apology as you skidded around the next corner with a high pitched squeak, losing traction on the glassy ice in your well-worn snow boots and catching yourself on a vintage lamp post that you used like a springboard to gain a few precious milliseconds of a head start. 

This was twice in two days now that you’d undergone a fateful encounter the majority of the population could only dare dream of. And here you were bolting from destiny like a frazzled rabbit scurrying helplessly through the underbrush from what should have been your savior.

What the hell kinda luck was this?! And why did it have to choose now of all times?!

The door flung open only moments after, the previously innocent bell chime now a harbinger of doom. Heavy footfalls slapped through the condensed slush of snowfall. Something feral rose up in the presence of a hunter in pursuit of his quarry. 

There was something on your tail, and it felt far more intimidating than a starving wolf leering at his lunch.

Your pulse was bellowing in your ears, weaving through the conglomerated foot traffic as best you could with a body not prepared for a long winded chase. A hot poker stitched your side and hobbled your gait. Frost coated your lungs with every ragged inhale, sapping what little breath capacity you had and crippling until you were little more than a wounded mammal, panicky and acting on pure foolish adrenaline. The rational part of your brain spoke of the futility against someone his size, the brief glimpse afforded to you of his stocky frame earlier proof that your alpha was capable; well fed, sculpted for survival, muscles made of endurance and stamina. 

Everything desired in a good mate, the back of your mind unhelpfully supplied.

Long strides ate up the distance, navigating the pavement far more sure footed than you.

“Bleedin’ Christ!” growled out the voice. “Will ye jus’– wait!”

The firm grip on your bicep rather than his frustrated words was what halted you in your tracks. The slippery slush beneath your feet gave way to an involuntary squeak as another hand snapped out to steady your skidding, keeping you from tucking ass over tea kettle. Heavy breaths turned visible in the frigid winter air as you panted from exertion, sucking in a heady mixture of espresso and chilled vapors that fogged up your mind and muddled your senses. 

Fuck, he smelled good.

A gloved hand shuffled you further out of the way from the crowds of passersby, huddling beneath a shopkeeper's veranda, muffled conversation from the building’s interior a muted buzzing compared to the ringing in your ears. He shifted so as to take the brunt of the whipping winds on his back, sheltering you from the worst of it and allowing you to blink clear the stinging snowflakes from your eyes.

Although you never really stood any substantial chance of escape, there was still something surreal to be said about standing toe to toe with an alpha outside your family circle. He beheld you with the same wide eyed stare you gawked at him with, pupils stuck in a constant state of dilation as he huffed in your shared air, just as drunk off his scent match as you were. At this proximity, even the outside breeze wasn’t enough to dampen the waves of pheromones spiking like heated tesla coils between you. Unlike you, he found it in him to scrounge together just enough self control to soften his stance and manage a relaxed smile your way.

“There now, lass.” His words weren’t winded in the slightest, something that petulantly annoyed you in your weakened state - even if the accented baritone of his vibrato was soothing the consternation from your veins. “See? No need fer misbehavin’.”

There was an obvious gentling to his tone; something placating with an edge of sternness that felt at odds with his choice of haircut. Blue orbs roamed your face as if he half expected you to collapse on him, no longer holding on to you but keeping a readied hand hovering in case your shaky legs gave way. Truthfully - with how you were still sucking in breaths - you weren’t quite sure his assistance wouldn't be needed.

“Christ, LT was right about ye. Got a scent that can skelp a man flat on his arse.”

Even in your current state he must’ve judged you steady enough to maintain balance, despite still keeping the rigid preparedness in his shoulders as his hands sought a place in denim pockets. “Got a habit fer runnin’, dontcha?”

The capability of speech was all but lost to you, tongue cemented to the roof of your mouth and dry as a wilted prune abandoned on the vineyard soil. You’d at least managed the bare minimum of appearing less like a beached guppy by snapping your jaw shut, but the snicker from his lips at whatever he found while searching your face revealed your inadequacy to mask as a functioning human.

Azure eyes sparkled with mirth. “I ken I’m a looker, hen, but I ‘ave tae say it’s been a while since I’ve left a bonnie lass like yerself truly speechless. Strokin’ my ego a bit, ye are.”

“Your coffee…”

The first words you say to the man of your dreams and all you can think of is his wasted cup left unoccupied on the counter.

“Eh, it’s only a drink.” His shoulder’s finally loosened with a shrug. “More concerned about yers. Not tae make ye feel bad, lass, but ye’re lookin’ a wee bit peckish if I can say.”

So your mirror liked reminding you every morning. 

You waved him off on instinct, not needing the alpha to start concerning himself with your health. Not like there was much either of you could do about it. “It’s fine. Shouldn't be spending the money anyways.”

He wasn’t satisfied with that answer, raising an eyebrow at your justifiably frazzled appearance, but choosing not to question it just the same.

“Gonna be honest, lass. Wasn't exactly expectin’ ta bump into ya.”

You could tell by the bite marks on another woman’s neck.

No. Stop it girl. That’s not fair to him.

You shoved back the bitter taste of jealousy, forcing a smile you both knew was awkward. “Yea… what are the odds…”

“Mind ye, when the others mentioned their wee run-in with ye at the shop the other night I ken’d there was a chance– Christ, when Cap’n finds out the…” His words carried on, but you stopped processing them beyond a certain point in his ramblings, focusing more on the melody as it slowly faded to the background. There was a lilt to his speech that didn’t quite fit the occasion - at least to you. A restrained awe; measured happiness so as not to overwhelm you right off the bat with unbridled emotion. 

Part of you was thankful for his careful insight considering the delicate nature of the situation. But even so, the squiggly edges of his personality felt forcefully crammed into an elaborate puzzle rather than fitting naturally into a predetermined space.

You should be thrilled to be having this conversation. Things should be clicking and the world should make sense and his voice should be songbirds twittering in your ear on a beautiful summer’s day without a cloud in the sky and…

All you can hear is the man in a blue camry honking at the lady jaywalking in front of his car, the squeal of halted tires and shouted insults from hot spilled coffee across his lap. The poor woman on the corner shaking a can of loose pennies in hopes of a two dollar meal from the shop down on 7th Ave. Dogs barking at strangers and high heels clacking on wet slushy pavement. 

Overstimulation hits you hard, leaving you incapable of making out anything but the shapes of his mouth without any of the feedback. His voice muffles despite only the foot distance between you, and try as you might you have no idea what’s causing that smile on his face. For all you know he could be just as easily discussing the week's snowy forecast or reciting Chaucer like those lunatics on the steps outside the performing arts college. 

The nagging presence makes itself known in the back of your mind, adding to the chaos plugging your senses and making the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end in a way that has nothing to do with the chill. The disgruntled alpha half a country away calls to your fraying nerves, taking advantage of your weakened mentality and twisting like a gnarled root around your windpipe. You disguise the full body trembles with a forced shiver, the restlessness of your fingers giving in to the urge to claw at your mating mark, hiding the motion by readjusting your scarf more securely and clearing your throat. A cold sweat breaks out underneath the insulating layers of warmth, adding to the already miserable conditions of the snowy bluster. There’s only so much more you can take before you split apart at the threads and reveal to the stranger just how rotted your insides were.

You needed to end the interaction.

“Look–” you interrupt his languid tirade, voice barely holding steady and as timid as a field mouse, mittened palm up to keep him from going any further and stunning him into silence. “You don’t have to do this. This kinda thing just… doesn’t happen to normal people. I’m not gonna hold anything against you when it was a one in a billion chance of us ever crossing paths. You have your life and I have mine.”

Something hard caught in your throat and gummed up your words, threatening to crawl into your lungs and make a permanent home if you focused on it for too long - gave it too much power. You hoped he didn’t see the way you forced yourself to push through. “Let’s just… be adults, acknowledge that it happened, and go about our day as if we were two strangers passing by on the street. No expectations, no mess. ‘Kay?”

Clearly not envisioning that reaction now that he’d finally gotten his paws on you, something in his look tightened at being told ‘no’. “Hardly seems fair.”

Who was he to know ‘fair’?

“And what about us?” he continued with an unexpected bite. “Ye think we can jus’ ignore the fact that our scent match is wanderin’ about somewhere in the city unguarded and at risk of bein’ hurt or– or taken?”

You could almost taste the self satisfaction flaring across the tainted bond, fighting back a wave of nausea and bristling at the emotional wound he unknowingly gut punched.

“And your omega?” You watched him flinch at the obvious retort, both hating and relishing in his discomfort at having reality thrown back in his face. At least you both knew there was an element of betrayal lingering beneath the surface. “You really want her to have to come home every day with you smelling like another woman? Your fated woman? Do you realize the damage that’ll cause not just to her but to your mating bonds?”

In a perfect world, this whole encounter would be different. He’d say hi, you’d give him your most winning smile. The two of you would go back to the cafe and he’d pay for your coffee. You'd sit across from each other with stars in your eyes, getting to know the ins and outs of their soul for however much time your schedules allowed, blowing off prior commitments in favor of lyrical words dancing sugar plums around your head. Numbers would be exchanged and you’d both part ways feeling lighter and hopeful and impatiently waiting for the start of the next exciting chapter.

God, you hated fairy tales. 

The alpha was clearly frustrated at how the conversation was playing out, scratching a rough hand through his mohawk with a groaned out hiss, eyes darting around empty space as a grimaced mouth searched for the right words. “Look, lass. The four of us–” 

Four. There were four of them. Four mates. 

“–aren’t gonna stop worryin’, not now that we ken ye’re within reach and without a pack of yer own.” Blue eyes skimmed downwards trying to peer beyond the veil of your scarf, flicking back up to your face when he failed, searching for a sign that you remain unmated as he suspects by your reactions thus far. 

Glancing off to the side, you avoid his gaze and focus on the piles of brown snow gathered along the curb, not trusting yourself to keep a straight face under his careful scrutiny. He must take your avoidance as confirmation, returning to the conversation at hand.

“Alright, yea. We’ve already bonded another. Nothin’ tae be done about it now and there’s no use bawlin’ o’er what might ‘ave been. But if ye think that's gonna stop us from tryin’ tae be a part of yer life then yer sorely mistaken.” 

There’s an endearing quality to his convictions - as misguided as you believe them to be. So sure of himself, reflected in the take-no-objections posture and firm set of his brows. All confident alpha bravado. 

A small part of you keens at his certitude, recognizing it on a primal level and wanting to bask in the commanding presence your– the alpha provides. But those same instincts that scream at you to welcome his protective nature also serve as a reminder of why that could never work.

There’s a reason packs only keep one omega. While alphas are stereotyped as being the possessive pigheaded brutes who covet your kind like unstable beasts, everyone knows there is none so fierce as a territorial omega, baring her teeth to encroaching females without a moment’s hesitation to defend. It’s not like you’re the worst sorts of overly attached pack mates though. Society wouldn't be able to function if an omega snapped every time they all came within three feet of each other. 

But to have the two coexisting within the same ecosystem fighting over the affections of the same alphas…

If the heartbreak wouldn’t kill them, the blood on their teeth will.

The fact that he’s trying to send all that flying out the window is both impressive and infuriating in its stubbornness. 

Your own voice is far more subdued as you fidget with the hem of your coat. “That’s not how this is supposed to work…”

“Oh aye? Turnin’ down gaggles of soulmates jus’ a light Saturday mornin’ fer ya then?”

Despite the dour mood, you huffed in something akin to levity at his words, feeling some of that tension unreel from your bones in the face of the small upward curve of his lips that accompanied them. “If I say yes will that convince you to throw in the towel?”

Enchanting eyes sparked with determination and something playful. “Hate to break it tae ya, lass, but we’re a right stubborn bunch o’ blokes.”

“And her?” 

Cerulean eyes hardened again. “We’ll sort that out between us.” 

A leather covered arm reaches out to guard your left side, a firm body stepping into your space to block you from a passing beta encroaching too close on your private conversation. You don’t miss the slight rumble in his chest given as a warning to the traipsing man, the subtle growl claiming this spot and two of you in it, an intimidating scowl berating him for nearly knocking into you because of it. It catches you off guard, unconsciously leaning into the alpha's safety from the unaware intruder, the heady scent of freshly ground coffee beans permeating his clothes and coating you in a fresh pot to ease your delicate nerves.

It takes the two of you a moment to separate despite both of you knowing the ‘threat’ is gone; and even then the amount of space between is kept minimal at best. It’s hard to deny the pull molecularly chaining you to this man whose pheromones are carving out spaces in the cracks between the marrow like rapids, filling the pock marked gaps and branding your existence as something completely different than it was before. 

The structural fibers in your body are being split in half like colliding atoms in a particle accelerator. It’s a molecular tug of war between listening to ancestral instincts imploring you to stay with the protective alpha and past emotional trauma begging you not to give in to complicated matters of the heart. You’ve been hurt once before by someone of his kind and the last thing you needed was to punt yourself all the way back to square one when it had taken you so long to reach this part of your healing journey. 

You know where that path leads. There’s nothing waiting for you but despair.

Unknowing or lacking regard for your internal struggle, the alpha surprises you by shifting his arm to sprawl across your shoulder, a gentle but unrelenting force ushering you back in the direction you’d originally come running from, the deceptively casual grip brokering no room for argument. “Now, what’s say we make up fer scarin’ ye earlier with that cup of caffeine ye were gantin’ after, eh?” 

Maybe if you’d possessed a stronger will you might’ve opened your mouth to protest his commanding treatment over you. Instead, nestled close to his body and tucked in tight against his shoulder, he was gentleman enough not to comment on the small whiff you snuck on your way back to the cafe.

The soft instrumentals playing festive tunes over the cafe speakers were an appreciated break from the harsh monotony of whirring kitchen equipment. Depictions of snowmen and candy canes painted artistically on the inside glass celebrated the joyous season. Evergreens and mistletoe; frozen fractals falling from white fluffy clouds. A veritable winter wonderscape - the natural frost accumulated on the outside only adding to the weathering effect. 

Red and green twinkle lights hung strewn across overhead support beams. Garlands with small plastic ornament bobbles snaked around the insides of display cases. An electric votive nestled cozily in miniature wreaths and placed at every table flickered warmly for an added ambience to the already welcoming interior.

The holiday decorations had been up since Thanksgiving, but you’d never taken a moment to really notice them, too focused on the transactional exchange and the time on your phone to give it more than a passing glance of acknowledgement. Fidgeting in your seat, it was a welcome distraction.

You’d been ushered towards one of the secluded tables upon returning to the cozy cafe, your companion either ignorant or uncaring of the odd glances tossed your way by those still inside who witnessed your previous outburst. You kept your head ducked from the initial embarrassment, blood heating your face as he helped you out of your coat and slung it over the back of your chair, making sure you were settled before sauntering off towards the register to place the drink order you’d rattled off. 

While he stood distracted at the counter amongst a sea of waiting customers, one of the older baristas with a candy cane apron discreetly tried to flag down your attention, meticulously cleaning one of the espresso machines with a soiled napkin purposefully tilted away from his view. 

The words in scribbled sharpie pointed your way: ‘You ok?’

Touched by her concern, you gave her a surprisingly genuine smile despite your jittery insides, easing her enough to pass along a thumbs up as she goes back to working on whatever festive drink concoction the lady at the drive thru has deigned to torture her with. It was kind of her to look after you given the strangeness of the day. But against what should be all rational thought you trusted the man who was for all intents a complete stranger.

Here’s to hoping life didn’t pair you with a serial killer.

Shaking your head of such nonsense (hopefully), it took you a moment to recall the last time you gave yourself permission to linger somewhere. With the exception of the hour spent every week in Dr. Miranda’s office, you avoided congregating in public spaces for more than the few minutes it took to get in, get out, and return to the safety of your abode. Crowds made you skittish; the abused animal inside burrowed deep within your rib cage voicing its objections and reflecting its displeasure in the way it made you outwardly twitch. Once upon a time even stepping foot in a place like this - enclosed, swirling with clashing aromas, a singular point of escape - seemed like such an unattainable goal. Even now the awareness of the situation caused your agoraphobia to writhe under your skin, poisoning like fire ant venom and tempting your lungs into anaphylactic shock. 

Deep breaths, girl. In… out… in… out… let it wash over you… inhale… exhale… 

You are safe. You are safe. You are– 

Like nails on a chalkboard, the scratching of wood against ceramic jostled you from your meditative process, an involuntary yelp met with a small grin of apology as the imposing alpha placed your own drink in front of you before taking up residence in the open seat across. Something about the setting exacerbated his already potent smell, mixing with the sweetness of the beverages and leaving you with a deep gnawing ache to lean across the table and drink it straight from the source.

The tide of anxiety receded back to the depths of your mind, your inner omega settling in the presence of your scent match. Even if you couldn’t escape the dark presence prowling like a half-starved panther on the other end of the bond, the natural relief that came with sitting three feet away from your opposite designation had you breathing steadier than you had since leaving therapy a short while ago. You may not be entirely comfortable with this predicament, but at least the attention came with a few built in perks. 

The fake candle in the center highlighted the limited edition designs on your respective drinks, but it’s the name scrawled in sparkly black sharpie that catches your attention on his disposable cup. “MacTavish?”

“John,” he confirms, “pleasure ta meet ya, lass. Though I s��pose tha’s how I should’ve started things out in the first place. With, ya know… manners.”

“Not like I made introductions easy for us…” you mumbled with a wince, tracing over the cafe’s symbol on your cup as a small distraction from having to make eye contact at the admission.

“Aye, ye didn’t. But I cannae fault ye fer havin’ a sense of self preservation starin’ down a big burly Scotsman, now can I?” 

It had been moreso about running from your problems than being outright intimidated by the man, but you weren’t about to question his assumption and open up a whole new can of worms in the process. “Right...”

There was a brief pause as he stared at you expectantly, hoping you’d return the favor now that he’d taken that first step with an official greeting. Something about offering up even that little part of yourself scared you though. It felt like handing over power to the fae folk; like once he knew your name he could strip the autonomy from your spirit and ensnare you forever in his enchanted domain.

Instead, you took a sip from the hot liquid in your hands, soothed by the syrupy blend like a steady palm rubbing lines down your back. Not nearly as good as the earthy bouquet your nose had been sampling with every inhale. Maybe if you’d added a pump of caramel…

You fought desperately to ignore the part of your brain that whispered comparisons to the rich espresso-y figure across the way, stopping any and all sidetracking towards scandalous thoughts of a more private taste testing. 

This was not the time for slick inducing fantasies.

Once he realized he wouldn’t receive an echoing answer, he mirrored you with his own brew, humming in approval at whatever pleasant taste he found and dropping the subject temporarily. Thankful he didn’t push, you read further down on his own drink, unable to help the small scoff of surprise after reading the incriminating label.

“A sugar cookie latte? Not the most masculine of drinks, is it?” You’re not sure where you found the courage to softly tease him over his beverage of choice. Clearly his heavy alpha pheromones were messing with your logic receptors. “Thought your kind liked to keep things dark and bitter.” 

“I'm an alpha, lass. Chasin’ after sweet smellin’ omegas is what we do fer fun.” There was a sparkle there that hinted towards your earlier predicament, a not so subtle implication combined with his cheeky grin that reassured you it was all good natured. You at least had the decency to duck your head abashedly, face heating up from more than just the warming drink. “Kinda gives us a wee proclivity fer honeyed tastes.”

Honestly, he had a point. Can’t say you’d ever thought of it that way before. I mean, seriously. Whoever said alphas needed to be gritty when they came naturally ingrained with a sweet tooth?

“Guess that’s why she smells like chocolate.”

Your lips formed the words without thought, something mean tugging at you the same time he did. Nails bite into the recycled coffee sleeve like sharpened teeth, taking out the urge to scratch on the poor item rather than call attention to the scarf still secured around your neck. Couldn’t even get through a normal outing without him adding his two cents to the mix.

A hard tap on the tabletop called your attention back to John. You’d maybe expected an affirming response, but what you don't expect is to find him staring at you from across the table with a suddenly serious expression, speaking to you in an almost chiding manner. “I'd rather ye didn’t bring up sore spots to intentionally cause yerself pain.”

He didn’t allow you to hide, his face moving in tandem with yours as you attempted to duck his gaze, the blunt observation leaving you sheepish as you worried your bottom lip. 

“...can't avoid the conversation forever.”

“Aye. But the least we can do is get ta know each other first.”

That genuinely puzzled you. “Why?”

Even through the bulk of his winter coat you could see the way the material stretched to make way for his biceps as he crossed them over his chest, leaning back in his seat as he regarded you with easy going eyes. “Yer my scent match, lass. Ye think I'm not o’er ‘ere stewin’ in a fruity cocktail wishin’ I’d ‘ave taken ye tae a juice bar instead?”

Your face heated again at the implication. Seems his own thought pattern wasn’t too terribly dissimilar to the wiley suggestions pawing at your psyche with scintillating ideas of debauchery. “Wouldn't go that far...”

“Got no shame in admittin’ yer drivin’ me up the wall.”

He really didn’t, did he? 

“Not sure you should be saying things like that.”

“Probably.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “Ne’er been one fer followin’ rules though. Doesnae make sense when we're both wantin’ the same thing.”

You examined him over the rim of your cup, forearm resting on the sticky laminate as you leaned in closer, almost imploring in your tone. “Isn't that just further proof we shouldn't even be talking right now?”

Taking a sip of his own, he brushed off your concerns like a piece of lint from his sleeve. “Ye really think ye can jus’ wipe yer hands and forget about us?”

Silence laid thick in the air between you. There was no point denying when he felt every bit the earth-rattling gravity well that had the two of you touching toes beneath the table. 

He didn’t even bother trying to hide the smugness from his expression. “Exactly. I may not be takin’ ye ta my bed, lass, but yer mine nonetheless.”

You shouldn't have liked the way that sounded. For the past four years of your life you’ve been unwilling property to a man holding you confined in a secret realm of bleak oblivion. You’ve begged and pleaded through every starless sky to go back to being the woman you were before fate intervened, desperate for peace in an internal war. All you ever wanted was freedom; to bound over mountains and soar across fields. To scrape off the layers belonging to him and build castles in the clouds far beyond his reach.

Yet here you were thanking the maker of scent wicking panties that your match couldn’t detect the perfume wafting up between your legs at the thought of him staking his claim over you.

“So,” he went on, “we figure out a way tha’ we can be in yer life that doesnae cross any boundaries and ye gain four brutes that'll gladly shank a man fer ya.”

You raise an eyebrow at his choice of wording before taking a sip from your cup. “Sounds a tad extreme if you ask me.”

Canines gleaming, the look he sends you is downright carnivorous. “Oh, yer in fer a spell, lass.”

Chatter turns to small talk in an effort to distract you from the discomfort of previous conversation. Turns out he’d drawn the short straw when he and his pack mates realized over piles of paperwork and exhaustive meetings that certain individuals who would not be named - but he’d been more than happy to throw under the bus - hadn’t checked some things off their list while out doing a routine grocery run the other night. Seems like the previous two you’d met were left nearly as shaken as you after the encounter, forgoing the last few needed aisles in favor of ending things early to process tough decisions behind closed doors.

That’s all the information he offers; no further details exchanged on the matter. The internal workings of your personal lives kept private. It didn’t take a mathematician to understand why you prefer to remain guarded, but you assume on his end it had a fair bit to do with the obnoxious purple elephant in the room, trumpeting and stampeding all over the future you could’ve built had it just stayed locked in a zoo. There’s still some moments along the line where he lays a trail of tiny bread crumbs, challenging you with hungry eyes to follow the path through winding woodland and glittering caves towards whatever lay beyond. You’re tempted a few times to chance a couple steps, toeing the line of curiosity but always pulling back to the safety of the unknown. 

The less you know about their lives the better. You never even inquire as to the missing three names.

Eventually you settle on the topic of just how exactly he proposed this hairbrained… relationship?... was going to work. Fuck, there really had to be a better word for it. Not friends, not lovers. Not a situationship. Not total strangers anymore.

Companions? Counterparts? Symbiotes?

Either way, you’d both been spouting suggestions for the better part of five minutes and you weren’t any closer to a solution that would leave both parties feeling satisfied. Granted the only thing that could work for you would be as little interaction as humanly possible, but he was firm in his convictions.

“We can keep it ta texts fer right now if ye like.”

“But then she'll feel bad if she sees you writing them.”

“Then we'll jus’ ‘ave tae come visit.”

“But then I'll feel like some sleazy homewrecking call girl.”

“Now yer jus’ bein’ a numpty.”

“I’m being realistic.”

“Yea, ye should stop tha’.”

“John!”

“Lass.”

Oh, how you wanted to wipe that flippant laughter off his face and pry it from his mouth with dental tools. The damn thing was unfairly infectious in the way it warmly beckoned a smile to your lips. Here you were trying to be sensible about the situation he created and so far all attempts to come to some sort of compromise were met with off handed ribbing and facetiousness.

You wouldn’t admit that some of the holdup was partially your fault - looking for desperate excuses to keep this from happening - but it hung suspended in the quiet between your words. And what’s more he knew it too.

“What about the occasional email?” you threw out for the hell of it.

John outright guffawed at the ridiculous suggestion, drawing the attention of some of the surrounding tables without a care towards who heard, brawny arms tossed upward in fond exasperation. “This ain’t a business transaction, hen! Saints, what a notion…”

“Well…” you sputtered, “then it seems like we’ve reached an impasse.” 

Please just drop it.

He just looked at you with further amusement, swirling circles on the table with the bottom edge of his now empty coffee cup. “Ye always a neurotically charged mess or is this jus’ my lucky day?”

Oh god. In your desperation to undo the upheaval he’s already causing in your life you really weren’t painting a pretty picture of yourself were you? 

You cringed backwards at the realization. “Pretty sure you’re the reason I’m making myself look like one.”

“Aye, but a bonnie one,” he agrees.

“And you’re not worried about the mental stability of the person which life has comedically deemed yours and is making a complete fool of herself?”

“Just tryin’ tae make ye smile. It's been workin’.” A fact he looked quite proud of.

And it was. You couldn't deny that. For how much havoc this was wreaking on the parts of yourself that had become so ill equipped to handle basic human interactions outside your minuscule inner circle, there was a part of you that was glad to find you still possessed the capability of laughing with a stranger.

The conversation paused as his brow knit in confusion, the faint buzzing of a cell phone rattling in his pocket barely audible over the din as he drew it from the interior lining of his coat. The way he held the device and flicked through it with his thumb implied a text message as opposed to a phone call, huffing as he read over the contents before palming it in his meaty hand.

“Och, the louses are houndin’ me fer their caffeine fix. Hang on a tic, lass.” Flashing a quick smile, his chair slid back with a sharp squeak as he stood, strolling back towards the counter and flagging down an unoccupied barista. It was impossible not to follow him with your eyes, ogling his stocky frame as he rattled off coffee orders from the conversation pulled up on his phone. Even the sweet beta girl behind the register wasn’t impervious to his roguish charms; just a little more subtle in the way she admired the casual arrogance in which he leaned against the marble. 

How long had it been since you last let your eyes wander over the shape of a man and thought of something other than a rancid dumpster and abrasive brick scraping morse code across your exposed back?

There was something uniquely disarming about the alpha. In many ways his ability to break past your bullshit reminded you of Dr. Miranda. Both refused to let you spiral to darker thoughts, spinning the world into one of muted colors rather than shades of desolate gray. But where she spent years undoubtedly locked in a study hall pouring over dissertations and cramming decades of designation theory over red bulls and ramen, John had accomplished that same level of trust in a matter of–

You checked the time on your phone. The pair of you had been sitting in this cafe for roughly fifteen minutes now. That’s all it took for this whirlwind of a man to blow away the cobwebs accumulating in your chest and deliver a shot of adrenaline to your synapses.

Too bad the monster in your veins would make sure it didn’t last.

John came back from the counter holding a cardboard coffee carrier by the handle, looking down at you expectantly from his position towering over you. “Right, lass. Need tae be droppin’ these,” he raised his arm a smidge, gesturing to the drinks, “off tae the lads. So hows about we quit the stallin’ and skip tae the part where ye stop overthinkin’ things and lemme have yer number?”

He didn’t even let you open your mouth in feeble defense of that (true) statement before serving you a warning look that dissolved the syllables from the tip of your tongue. From what little you’d gathered during your brief stint together, you didn’t doubt his potential gumption to wrangle you to the cold tile floor - even in the presence of all these people - just to fish the device out of your pocket himself if need be.

Personally, you didn’t feel up to testing his bluff. 

Working off pure muscle memory, you handed over your phone and watched as he pulled up your messaging app, inputting his name amongst the scant others on the list and shooting off a fruit emoji. If he noticed the sparse amount of contacts in your phone he didn't comment on it. Not like it was hard to miss a grand total of four separate text chains.

His phone buzzed again from the text he sent himself, handing back your device with a smile that erred on the side of slightly devious contentment. The bastard knew he won and was being unfairly smug about it. “There now. See how easy that was, lass? Perfectly painless.”

That’s when it hit you.

“What if she says no?” The sheer panic gripping your chest catches you off guard as much as the blurted out words. Trepidation crushes like a hydraulic press, the thought of this precious fleeting moment being all you ever get seizing your body like a hundred electrified shocks. The rickety tower of emotional stability you’d been working so hard to keep steady seemed to crumble beneath your feet now that there was a chance he wouldn't be around to keep it from falling. “What if this is all just some big mistake and we never should have met and I end up ruining your pack–”

Gods, this was so fucked up. A minute ago you wanted nothing more than to never hear from John again and now your inner omega was giving you whiplash trying to cling to an alpha that wasn’t hers by the skin of her blunted teeth. 

This was exactly why you didn’t want to have anything to do with them in the first place! It was a no win scenario that was only going to make things worse by confusing your already emotionally precarious omega. Delaying the inevitable. Dragging things out. Torturing her wounded soul trying to wring water from stone.

But you couldn’t give him up anymore - not now. Maybe once you’re home safe in your nest and can breathe clean air not tainted with his fragrance. When you’ve forgotten the oceanic hues that gleam at you with such open eagerness. When his brogue and his candor are replaced with flashes of doe eyed brown and thick flowing locks and the taste of chocolatey truth cuts too deep to heal. Maybe distance will make this ache inside easier to bear. 

But at this moment, despite your earlier hesitations, you weren’t ready for the clock to strike midnight on the impossible.

If he couldn’t read the distress on your face then he certainly was made aware of it by the sour smell of overripe fruit cascading off of you, bitter and tart and pungent as you began to spiral, getting lost in a torrent of what ifs and worst case scenarios. 

You never got to finish your verbal stream of consciousness. Alpha instincts snapped into action before you could begin blowing fumes, disregarding his coffee as he hoisted you up from your seat with immediate alertness. Strong arms encased your vulnerable form, one hand cradling the back of your neck with gentle pressure, engaging the bundle of nerves located there with a direct line to the body’s limbic system. An omega’s weak spot; it overrides all internal circuitry and sends calming signals to the brain, disengaging stress receptors, activating the amygdala, bringing you to a headspace of obedience and security. It was highly taboo to touch an omega there without their explicit permission; a right reserved only for close family members and chosen pack mates. 

You should be angry– you should be furious. How dare he assume that just because he was your scent match that it gave him any right to manhandle you! Robbing your ability to retake control and leaving you just as helpless as that fateful night in the alley.

But he was. And you just didn’t care. Call it biology working against you, but all you felt in that moment was a deep rooted need to sink into his grounding embrace and let your mind go blissfully blank. Trusting in fate to send you an alpha with morals and integrity. Handing over the keys to a man who knew how to drive.

Releasing more of his smooth creamy scent into the air around you, body and designation worked in tandem to soothe every aspect of your overwhelmed being. Outside influences floated away with all the cares of the world, revolving around a fixed point in space exactly where you stood. Nothing else existed in this fraction of the universe. Just two souls destined to be together by forces beyond comprehension.

This was what you were made for. This felt right.

And, god– he was purring for you.

“Hey hey– shhh shhh. Settle, omega, settle... easy now. Jus’ like tha’... There’s a good lass.”

Slowly but surely, the acrid odor of anxiety faded back into the sweet juicy scent of a fresh crisp pear. A small whine escaped your lips as he sapped your body of strength, held aloft only by the taut muscles in his forearms. Glazed over eyes reflected the haze fogging your senses, melting you down into something gooey and malleable that dripped like corn syrup, sticky and coating every inch of your skin in a clear varnish. Breathing became easier. The heavy thumping in your ears faded back to white noise. Bones turned rubbery and tendons fell limp until you could no longer remember what upset you in the first place.

No longer needing the subduing effects of gentling, his hand moved from its spot at the back of your neck to the base of your skull, thumb tenderly stroking where skin met hair, shushing soft assurances against your temple.

“Ye needn’t worry a strand on tha’ bonnie wee head of yers. Ye dunnae ken her like we do. Jus’ leave everythin’ tae me. I’ll sort things right as rain, yea?”

The rational part of your brain knew better than to believe honeyed lies, but in the cloudy serotonin you simply nodded into the dark leather of his coat, spellbound under his tranquilizing touch.

“Atta girl. C’mon, let’s get ye tae yer car.”

Helping you back into your coat, he made sure you were bundled up nice and snug before shuffling you outside into the frosty air, a hand resting over the small of your back in a way you didn’t object to in your current slothful state. The chime felt a little less abrasive this time around as you exited the cafe, moving in the direction of your car parked in its spot alongside the bustling rush hour traffic.

You knew the elderly thing was a spectacle to behold; all chipped paint and rusted metal, duct tape holding the bumper together, a dent in the passenger door from where your neighbor’s kids had kicked a ball into it last spring. There was a crack across the windshield from where a bird made friendly with it earlier in the year that sliced through your vision but didn’t impede you from driving. 

‘Character’ was the word you used to describe it, but it certainly wasn’t what everyone else usually chose. John obviously fell into the latter camp.

“Ye sure tha’ thing’s operable, lass?” He scrutinized every banged-up, well-worn inch of it, pulling a face at what he found lacking and raising an eyebrow in disbelief. “Not sure I trust it ta get ya to point b without a few bumps and scrapes.”

You sighed at the familiar criticism, having heard much the same from your fathers. “It gets the job done. Still safer than walking around by myself anyways. I promise I wouldn’t drive it if I thought it’d get me killed one day.” Only a partial lie at least.

He was clearly unconvinced, but blessedly didn’t say anything further besides whatever mumbled remark he kept under his breath. Watching quietly while still keeping an eye on the surrounding area, he stayed near your side as you fumbled with the keys, grabbing the handle to hold it open as you tossed your bag on the passenger seat. “Right. In ya go then.”

You thought that would be the end of it as he closed the door behind you, buckling your fraying seat belt and hoping he was far enough away that you could safely attempt to start your car without any more judgment from him if this ended up being the one time it didn’t turn over.

You jumped slightly as his gloved hand tapped on the glass, turning your head to watch him motion for you to lower the window. Rolling the old school contraption down, you were again hit with a velvety shot of espresso as he half leaned in towards you, forearm resting against the top of your car.

“If ye think fer one minute tha’ I’m gonna jus’ up and forget about ye now tha’ we’re partin’ ways ye’ll be sorely disappointed lass. Tha’ there thing in yer purse’ll be ringin’ before ye ken it and I’m not afraid to come lookin’ if I dunnae get an answer.” 

The promise in his tone felt suspiciously like a threat, but one without any real intended consequence. His relaxed posture and sparkling irises assured you that while he’d probably still be cross if you ignored his attempts to reach out, you wouldn’t be awoken in the middle of the night to someone taking a battering ram to your flimsy front door.

At least, you hoped they wouldn’t.

Flashing you a playful wink, John took a step back from the vehicle. “Take care, omega. Be seein’ ya real soon.”

You’re shouting your name at him before you even realize what you’ve done, the small part of you that longs for a deeper connection clawing free from the part that fears having her heart shattered. From a few feet away you could still see the fireworks bursting in his eyes, the way he stands a little taller and puffs out his already broad chest with euphoria at your proffered olive branch. You can’t bring yourself to regret it when his unabashed smile conjures images you never dared hope for.

He waited until you rolled up your window and heard the telltale click of the locks on your doors engaging before finally taking off, crossing to the other side of the slippery street and walking with a hand tucked into his coat pocket until a line of cars finally blocked his retreating form from view. 

You sat there for a moment with your hands on the steering wheel, the silence in the vehicle more deafening than the wind howling outside. The past twenty minutes played like rewind on a VCR, speeding through the chain of events leading to the present to be watched again and again and again. 

After the fifth or sixth replay, all you could think of was rushing back to your apartment before fate could intervene once more and you accidentally run over your fourth scent match’s pekingese with your fucking car. 

°•. ✿ .•°.•° ✿ °•.°•. ✿ .•°.•° ✿ °•.°•. ✿ .•°

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[devilevlls]

hello cool writer. can I humbly request a sfw but very very angst (if possible) Barbatos fic with this?

-"This could either save us or ruin everything."

has too much hurt/no comfort potentional lol. sorry if its too specific but maybe bad ending for mc? :)

Hello!! Thank you for the request, I hope you enjoy 💚

This could either save us or ruin everything⭑.ᐟ´-

Gender-Neutral MC༘ ⋆｡˚

They couldn't help but admire Barbatos—his form, his presence, everything about him made their heart ache with longing. Perhaps they were lovesick, they mused, their gaze lingering on the majestic demon as he moved with effortless grace.

But they knew it was almost impossible to be by his side. Barbatos was someone so powerful, so meaningful, while they were just a mere human, transient and insignificant in comparison.

For a fleeting moment, they allowed their mind to speak out loud, the words tumbling forth with a vulnerability they couldn't suppress.

"Barbatos," they whispered, their voice barely a breath against the weight of uncertainty that hung in the air. "Do you ever wish things could be different? That we could defy fate and carve out our own path together?"

They waited, holding their breath as if afraid of the answer, knowing that the truth could either shatter their fragile hope or breathe new life into their wildest dreams. “No, I wouldn’t change a thing. Why do you ask, MC?” He speaks calmly.

"I wish we had a timeline where we could end up together. Life is so cruel," MC murmured, their gaze fixed on the swirling depths of their tea, as if seeking solace in its dark embrace.

"Soulmates are destined to meet, not be together, my darling," Barbatos replied, his voice tinged with a melancholy that mirrored MC's own. With a gentle smile, he poured another cup of tea, his tail swaying in a silent rhythm of understanding.

"But… what if we could escape? To another reality?" MC's voice trembled with desperation, their fingers tracing the delicate patterns of the teacup in search of answers that eluded them.

"This could either save us or ruin everything. Timelines aren't clear and definitive, they are blurry, risky, and things could change with the smallest of details," Barbatos explained, his gaze meeting MC's with a depth of understanding that spoke of lifetimes spent in quiet contemplation. He moved to sit beside them, offering a sense of comfort that transcended the boundaries of time and space.

"Please, drink it. I made it especially for you," Barbatos said softly, his hand resting on MC's, a silent promise woven into the fabric of their shared sorrow. He didn’t seem bothered. Maybe that’s what being completely powerful meant. There was no logic for an immortal being like him to worry about such thing, so useless, so… meaningless.

And as they sipped their tea together, the bitter taste of inevitability mingled with the sweet warmth of companionship, reminding them that even in a world where soulmates were destined to part, the bond they shared would endure, a beacon of light in the endless expanse of time.

Drabble prompts you can use in your requests!

[fortunatelygloriousruins]

Whispers in a Liminal Font

In the quiet pause between moments, where the familiar fades and the unknown looms, lies the essence of liminal spaces—a definition filled with promise, yet laden with unease. A hallway, an airport terminal, a bridge—these spaces whisper of movement, of change, of a destination waiting just beyond sight. They embody the hope that one day, the discomfort will give way to a new rhythm. Yet for me, life has been a relentless carousel of transitions. Each time I step into what feels like a new beginning, it quickly morphs into yet another waiting room, another corridor extending into the dark. A move to a new city brought excitement, but ultimately, it became just another threshold, another place where I felt both lost and oddly familiar. I realized that while liminal spaces are often viewed as temporary, my existence has been marked by a ceaseless series of them—a relentless cycle that doesn’t allow me the comfort of belonging. The unease festers like a shadow, whispering doubts that echo louder than the sounds of possibility. In the quest for an anchor, I grasp at fleeting connections and evolving passions, only to watch them slip through my fingers like sand. I crave a return to firm ground, but the landscape of my life remains fluid, constantly shifting beneath my feet.

As celebrated in countless artistic representations, these spaces evoke a haunting tranquility, but often lack the warmth of genuine human connection, leaving an ache in their absence. In popular culture, liminal spaces evoke not just the idea of a transition, but an unsettling beauty—a strange stillness that speaks volumes without uttering a word. Films imbued with surrealism, such as those crafted by David Lynch, plunge viewers into these uncanny realms, where the absence of human presence heightens a disturbing sense of paranoia, leaving one captivated yet yearning for connection or even just safety of a warm presence, of familiarity. In the realm of the internet, ‘liminal space’ aesthetics flood social media feeds, portraying desolate hallways and empty playgrounds—spaces that exist in a vacuum, devoid of life yet brimming with emotion. While these imagined spaces entice with their aesthetic charm, they also amplify a solitude that reverberates somewhere deep in the bones. I find myself wandering through my own empty hallways, much like the desolate landscapes captured in art, where the allure of solitude clashes painfully with the yearning for human connection. In contrast to the glossy allure of these spaces in film and photography, my reality often feels like a silent scream—an echo without a voice to answer.

There is a strange magnetism to liminal spaces—those unsettling places that exist on the threshold, like deserted parking lots in the dead of night. They’re meant to be temporary, to be passed through quickly without thought or hesitation, yet they pull us in, inviting contemplation of the indefinable discomfort they evoke. The allure of liminal spaces has seeped into pop culture, into the eerie photographs and grainy videos shared on Reddit and TikTok, the empty rooms bathed in fluorescent light, abandoned swimming pools, and back alleys captured by dim, flickering street lamps. They draw us in with the haunting promise that, however unnerving, these spaces are transitory. A temporary pause in the steady march of existence. They specially piqued the interest of the generation-z around late 2019 when the pandemic led to everything shutting down around them. This happened for the first time in a while when everyone was forced to stay inside. The usually busy places were suddenly devoid of human activity. And calling those places "liminal" provided them a much needed comfort—that it's just a transient phase, that would eventually make way for a new normal, no matter how deeply disorienting it may feel in the moment.

For me, however, they are not a pause but a pattern. My time here has been a series of liminal spaces, one after another, an endless succession of thresholds that I can never quite cross. The feeling is visceral—like I’m standing on the edge of something unknown, waiting for a change that never arrives. I am caught in the perpetual dusk between who I was and who I could be, but never who I am. The unease, the disquiet that comes with transitions, has become a permanent resident in my bones. While others move through life as if through rooms—each with a door that closes behind and another that opens before them—I remain stranded in the hallway, never quite belonging anywhere.

The pop culture obsession with these places hints at a shared understanding: the strange comfort of knowing that the eeriness will end. People pause to admire the beauty in the emptiness, to find poetry in the in-between, but then they move on, not before shaking off the chill that runs down their spines. I can’t move on. My tragedy is that I have never been afforded the luxury of belonging. Each moment of my life feels like another entrywa a building with no exits.

It is no wonder that liminal spaces are almost always portrayed devoid of people. The absence is stark, a universal truth in every image—an abandoned gas station under a buzzing neon sign, a swimming pool drained and dry. In these spaces, human presence is always missing, and I’ve come to understand why: true belonging happens only when you have become a part of a story, not when you are standing at its threshold, unsure whether to step in or retreat. In life, you find comfort and purpose when you are woven into the fabric of something meaningful, something that feels whole. But I remain forever on the periphery, trapped in the space between stories.

I think about those images often, how the emptiness of these spaces mimics the solitude of my own experience. Those photos and videos, scrolling endlessly on social media feeds, depict places where people were once present but have since moved on. They have left their mark, their fleeting footprints, and then disappeared, perhaps to find themselves fully within the next moment, the next chapter. They were participants in a story, however brief, and then they exited. But I am the one left behind, the one who does not belong either inside or outside. For them, it is a journey; for me, it is a destination I never intended to arrive at, a destination where nobody ever arrives nor stays.

Maybe that’s why I feel most at home in those photographs of empty spaces—because they are the only places that mirror my own reality. A reality where I have never fully crossed the threshold into a narrative that feels like my own. To be present in a story, to be part of something greater than oneself, is to know where you stand, to know that you are not simply a shadow lingering at the doorway. But I do not stand; I hover. I am not an actor on the stage, but a ghost in the wings, forever waiting for my cue, which never comes.

To truly belong is to be written into the story, to feel the weight and the warmth of other people’s lives pressing up against your own, merging, creating something that feels substantial, that feels real. Instead, I exist in the gaps between those moments, the spaces where no one else lingers long enough to even see me. I find myself most drawn to these places because they reflect my own existence back to me, in all its stark, aching solitude.

And so, I remain here, wandering these empty spaces that stretch endlessly before me. I am the emptiness that haunts them. If these spaces are metaphors for transitions, then perhaps I am the exception that disproves the rule: the one who stays when all others move. A ghost in a world that doesn’t know how to see me.

There is no comfort in knowing that one day, this will end because even endings are a luxury not afforded to everyone. I remain as transient in the spaces between, where the walls breathe, and the lights flicker, endlessly.

The liminal- they exist in the uncanny hours, the moments of transition between what was and what will be. We are drawn to them, to the way they disorient, to the way they feel like the pause before something unspeakable. We linger in their eeriness, the empty hotel corridors that seem to breathe on their own, the swimming pools drained of water, standing like gaping mouths. But there’s comfort, we tell ourselves, because these spaces are not meant to last.

For others, perhaps, that comfort is true. But I know what it is to be trapped in these places. I feel the walls close in, the floors stretch beneath me like old, creaking wood. I am forever waiting, caught in the grip of some invisible force, a heavy hand pressed against my chest, keeping me from moving forward. Each step I take echoes against the hollow emptiness around me, but never reaches a destination. I am the figure in the photograph you can barely see, half-hidden, blurred at the edges like a ghost who can’t decide if it wants to be seen or remain in the dark.

I am haunted by the absence of people in these spaces, not because they never were, but because they left. They crossed the threshold, into rooms with warmth and noise, into stories that welcomed them and wrapped around their existence like familiar sheets. They found themselves inside; they became something more than just the sum of their loneliness. But I am the one who stays behind, the one who cannot cross. The perpetual guest, never the inhabitant. I drift from one room to the next, never lingering long enough to leave a mark, never staying long enough to be remembered. I am the visitor who never finds a seat, the traveller whose bags remain packed by the door. I see the way others sink into the spaces they claim, their bodies folding into the comfort of familiarity, their voices rising like music that fills the air. I watch from the sidelines, my presence like a breeze that stirs the curtains but never enters fully.

Every room I enter feels borrowed, as if I have stepped into someone else’s life and can only tiptoe through it, careful not to touch anything, not to disturb the fragile peace that belongs to others. I leave no footprints on the carpet, no fingerprints on the glass. I have learned to navigate quietly, to slip in and out without being noticed, like a shadow cast by something unseen. I feel the walls around me pulse with the life they contain, a heartbeat that is not my own, a rhythm I can never match.

It’s as if I am always knocking on the door but never crossing the threshold. I stand there, on the cold step outside, feeling the warmth of the inside brush against my face, but I never feel it fully on my skin. I am always outside looking in, peering through windows into rooms aglow with light that never reaches me. I am the outsider, forever on the fringe, watching life unfold from the other side of the glass, never invited in.

To be an inhabitant is to know the smell of the walls, the creak of the floorboards, the way light falls through the windows at different times of day. It is to feel the texture of the air change with the seasons, to hear the hum of the refrigerator at 3 a.m., to know which step on the staircase will always groan underfoot. It is to be known by a place and to know it in return, intimately, deeply, as if it has become a part of you and you, a part of it.

But I am not known by any place. I do not belong to any corner or crevice. I am the one who slips in under the cover of darkness, whose name is written in dust rather than ink. I am the one who drifts between spaces, feeling the way they reject me, spit me back out into the cold air of not belonging. I am forever the guest, moving through rooms that are not mine, beds I will not sleep in, and doors I will never close behind me.

I pass through, my presence barely a whisper, a breath against the skin of a life I can never truly touch. I am left hovering in the doorway, where the air is always colder, where the shadows grow long and the light is always just out of reach. I stand there, hands in my pockets, feeling the weight of the spaces I can never claim pressing down on me, a weight that grows heavier with each passing moment, each step I never take.

I am the perpetual guest, and the world is a house that will never be mine. I remain outside, my fingers grazing the doorframe, my feet never crossing the line between here and there. There is no place I can call my own, no room that knows my name, no door that opens for me willingly. I am forever in transit, forever searching for a space that will let me in, but always finding myself back at the beginning—a stranger to every threshold I meet.

And perhaps that is the cruellest truth of all: that I am destined to wander, never quite belonging, never quite seen, forever the guest in a world that moves on without me. A phantom at the edge of every story, a nameless figure passing through the pages, never finding a place to rest.

The images on social media show this over and over—the empty malls, the deserted offices with chairs left spinning, the playgrounds in twilight where no children ever played. These places resonate with me because they are my own; they speak of an existence where the story never begins. Where I hover like a breath just before it is exhaled, hanging in the air, suspended. They are empty because they do not know how to hold me, because I am not made to be held.

I’ve tried to step inside, to enter the frame fully, to feel the world with its weight, to feel alive in a way that doesn’t echo with hollowness. But every time, I find myself slipping back, back into the doorway, back into the corridor that stretches endlessly into the dark. I’ve never been part of the story, only its interruption. A whisper between chapters, an ink smudge on the page.

In these places, I see myself reflected back, a figure without form, a shadow that never becomes flesh. I am drawn to them because they are the only places that tell the truth. Here, in the endless twilight of empty hallways and cold rooms, is where I belong. Where I am what I have always been—a liminal being, caught forever in the act of becoming but never being—it is a curse I carry like a stone in my chest. I feel the weight of all the almosts and could-have-beens, their presence a reminder of every step I failed to take, every door I left unopened, every room I never dared to enter. There is a deep shame in this, a gnawing regret that chews at my insides, whispering of all the ways I’ve failed to step fully into my own skin. I have been caught in the web of my own making, tangled in threads of hesitation, paralyzed by the fear of what might be on the other side.

I think of all the times I have stood at the threshold, my hand hovering over the doorknob, feeling the heat of life radiating from the other side, yet unable to push through- I have waited for a sign, for some force to pull me forward, but it never came. I was too afraid to make the first move, to take that step and claim my place in the world. And so, I lingered, trapped in the twilight between where I was and where I could have been, suspended in a state of perpetual almost.

I am haunted by the sense that I have lived my life in fragments, a collection of half-formed attempts, of sentences left unfinished, of dreams abandoned before they could take root. I am ashamed of my own indecision, of the way I have let myself drift, never committing to one path, always looking for a way out. I am ashamed of the way I have tried to hide this truth from myself, burying it beneath layers of distraction and denial, pretending that someday, somehow, I would find my way. But deep down, I have always known that I am not on my way anywhere. I am simply here, stuck in the thick, suffocating fog of my own inertia.

I feel the shame of all the versions of myself I have left behind—the selves I could have been if only I had dared to step into the light. I am ashamed of the way I have clung to the comfort of the unknown, the safety of the shadows, the false promise that someday things would change. I regret every moment I have spent waiting for something to happen, for someone to come and save me from myself. I regret the wasted time, the wasted potential, the way I have let myself become a stranger in my own life.

There is a sorrow in knowing that I have been caught in this act of becoming, stretching myself thin in every direction, always reaching but never grasping, always seeking but never finding. I have tried on so many skins, so many versions of myself, but none have ever fit quite right. I am like a ghost, haunting my own life, moving through rooms I do not recognize, wearing faces that do not belong to me. I have tried to be so many things, to fill so many roles, but in the end, I have been nothing.

There is a deep, bitter shame in realizing that I am only a collection of attempts, of maybes and might-haves. I have been too afraid to commit to being one thing, to risk failure by trying to be something at all. I am ashamed of my own cowardice, of the way I have let my fear define me, shape me, turn me into this—this half-formed thing, this shadow caught between worlds. I regret every time I have chosen the safety of the doorway over the uncertainty of stepping inside. I regret every time I have let myself believe that there would be another chance, another moment, another time.

But time does not wait. I have waited so long to become something, to find myself, to finally be, but all I have found is this—this empty space where a person should be, this hollow ache where a life should have grown. I am left with nothing but the shame of my own failures, the regret of a thousand missed chances, the weight of a life spent on the brink of something that never arrived.

Caught forever in the act of becoming, I am ashamed of what I have not become. I regret the way I have wasted my own existence, how I have let the years slip through my fingers, watching as the world moved on without me. I regret the moments I didn’t seize, the chances I didn’t take, the love I didn’t let myself feel. I am caught forever in this in-between place, forever reaching but never touching, forever moving but never arriving.

And perhaps this is my deepest regret of all: that I have become the thing I feared most. Not someone who failed to become, but someone who never truly tried. A being suspended in a moment that never passes, a life caught in a pause that never ends, a shadow that never finds its light.

But even as I drown in my own shame, there is a part of me that knows the fear wasn’t entirely mine, that my hesitation was not born of choice but of circumstance. I was moulded by forces I could not see, could not name, yet felt heavy against my chest like an invisible hand. Fate had woven its threads into my skin long before I even knew what it meant to be alive. It wrapped me in its cold fingers, cradling me in the shadows, and whispered in my ear that I was meant for the spaces in between, for the pauses, the breaths held in the dark.

I was shaped by a world that taught me fear before it taught me courage, that carved doubt into the marrow of my bones, leaving me hollow before I ever had the chance to be whole. I felt the weight of expectations I never agreed to, the heavy pull of destinies that were never mine, and in their shadows, I cowered, believing that I was always one misstep away from falling into an abyss that had been waiting for me all along.

I wish I could say I was strong enough to break free, to pull myself from the web spun tight around me, but I am not sure I ever had that choice. I have moved through life like a leaf caught in a windstorm, tossed and turned by forces far greater than myself, unable to find a moment of stillness, a place where I could plant my feet and stand firm. I have felt myself pulled in a hundred directions at once, and in the chaos, I could not help but freeze, paralyzed by the impossibility of it all.

How could I have acted differently when the script was written long before I even set foot on the stage? When the path was laid out like a trap, a snare hidden beneath the fallen leaves? I was cast as the wanderer in the spaces between, and in that role, I felt myself shrinking, shrinking until I became almost nothing at all.

And yet, even as I drift, I feel the shame like a brand on my skin, knowing I could not have been any other way, that the world had left me with so few choices, and none of them my own. I wonder if fate is cruel, or if it is simply indifferent—if it laughs as it watches me stumble, or if it doesn’t care enough to even notice. I am left standing here, on the edge of what could have been, holding the fragments of a life that never fully came into being, the broken pieces of a self that never had a chance to be whole.

And so I am left with this aching contradiction: the shame of my own inaction, and the knowledge that I was helpless to act. Caught in a web not of my making, a prisoner to a fate I never chose. A leaf in the wind, a ghost in the doorway, waiting for a storm to pass that may never end.

And so, I remain here, wandering these hollowed-out spaces that stretch on and on. I am the emptiness that fills them. I am the ghost that can never leave. They say these places are only temporary, that they will end, but I know better. I know that some of us never leave.

The door is always open, the light always flickering. I hear footsteps in the distance that never come closer. I feel the walls closing in like a shroud. And still, I wait, knowing that even an ending is too much to ask for.

Because even in endings, there is some kind of peace, and I have been denied even that. I am the silence that fills the gaps, the breath caught in a throat, forever suspended, forever waiting.

[silveringofrose]

A Time for Truth

Time is a soft resonance in

the quiet corridors of

memory where

delicate threads of handwritten

heartache have woven

themselves into

a tapestry of the moments

that slipped

through the sieve of existence

And I had thought I could

fall no further yet

here I

stand on the precipice

of the ephemeral

where dust to dust I will

disappear into the spaces

between what was

a spectral whisper lost

in a wilderness of transient dreams

Moonlight weaves silver through

this realm of shadowed whispers

where

fragments of once

were's etch themselves into

a mosaic

of longing and regret

And I've surrendered to the

cadence of inevitability,

found solace in the rhythm

of stars that

pirouette celestial

elegance as

destiny's ink dries

in the contours of my soul

Yet there is a

truth

that lingers

elusive and

haunting

If I had known what

secrets the constellations

would whisper

what confessions the wind

would make

I don't know that I would

have followed the

compass of those

handwritten heartaches

through the labyrinth of

what could have been

I don't know

that I would have dared

to be standing here

at the crossroads

of existence,

witnessing

the enigma of

my own becoming

[santoschristos]

I am the emperor of dreams; I crown me with the million-colored sun Of secret worlds incredible, and take Their trailing skies for vestment when I soar, Throned on the mounting zenith, and illume The spaceward-flown horizons infinite… --Clark Ashton Smith

In the cosmic dance of existence, the pulsating rhythm of consciousness orchestrates a symphony of thoughts and emotions. Embrace the wisdom inherent in the profound words: "Rather than being your thoughts and emotions, be the awareness behind them." Transcend the transient nature of fleeting feelings and ephemeral thoughts; become the silent witness, the boundless awareness that remains untouched by the ever-changing tapestry of the mind.

In this sacred space of self-realization, discover the infinite power to sculpt your reality. Navigate the cosmic currents with the helm of awareness, steering through the galaxies of thought and the nebulae of emotion. As the cosmic architect of your destiny, surrender to the universal flow and manifest your dreams with intention.

In the alchemy of being, recognize that you are not the storm, but the unshakable center that witnesses its passage. Embrace the cosmic truth that you are the stardust of creation, intimately connected to the cosmos. Awaken to the expansive vista of your soul, where thoughts and emotions are but fleeting constellations, and you are the eternal cosmos itself. In this profound awareness, discover the cosmic dance of unity and become the enlightened architect of your celestial journey.

Cosmic Temple --Mahaboka

[barnabytremayne]

Beyond Bodies: Exploring Celibacy in a Sexualised World

In the symphony of a society dancing to the rhythms of intimacy, my existence is a quiet note, a pause in the melody. I stand on the periphery, observing the ebb and flow of connections that seem to define the human experience. Celibacy, a deliberate choice, has shaped my life into a canvas painted with the hues of solitude in a world increasingly adorned with the vibrant colors of shared intimacies.

Celibacy, for me, is not a lack but a choice—an intentional decision to walk a different path. It's a choice woven from the threads of understanding that emotional closeness carries a weight far greater than the transient pleasures of physical proximity. In a society where connections are often measured in the closeness of bodies, I've found a profound intimacy in the space I've carved for myself. It's not a rejection of love or companionship but a celebration of a different kind of connection—one with the self, with the universe, and with the rich tapestry of solitude.

The mainstream narrative is one of intertwining bodies and shared warmth, a narrative that, at times, feels like a current too swift for my pace. In an age where the value of relationships is often equated with physical proximity, my celibacy becomes a divergence from the expected script. It's a script that I've chosen not to follow, a decision to remain on the sidelines as others engage in a dance that doesn't resonate with my spirit.

The world around me is increasingly sexualized, a landscape where desire is both a currency and a compass. In this terrain, my lack of interest in partaking in the chase might seem like a rebellion—an act of defiance against societal norms that whisper, "You should want this." Yet, it's not rebellion but a gentle assertion of autonomy. I navigate this sexualized society with a quiet confidence, knowing that my worth is not defined by my participation in a narrative that doesn't align with my truth.

Solitude, often misunderstood as loneliness, wears many layers. It's a deliberate withdrawal from the noise, a conscious choice to find meaning in the spaces between heartbeats. My celibacy becomes a lantern in this solitude, illuminating the beauty that exists beyond the conventional definitions of connection. It's a celebration of self-discovery, a journey inward where the complexities of my soul unfold.

In a world where movement is constant and noise is unyielding, the allure of stillness becomes my refuge. The silence within me is not an absence but a presence, a canvas on which I paint the portraits of my thoughts and aspirations. The stillness is not a void waiting to be filled; it's a space pregnant with the potential for self-growth and understanding.

While my choice of celibacy remains steadfast, I stand open to the possibilities that tomorrow might unfold. The pages of my narrative are not sealed shut; they flutter in the winds of time, leaving room for chapters that are yet to be written. There exists a recognition that desires are fluid, and what is true today might evolve into something different tomorrow.

As of now, the physicality of relationships doesn't stir a longing within me. My contentment resides in the realm of emotional closeness, a connection that transcends the boundaries of the corporeal. Yet, I remain receptive to the notion that the winds of change might blow me into uncharted territories, and should that happen, I'll approach it with the same contemplative spirit that guides my celibate journey.

As a celibate soul in a society of intimacies, my narrative is not one of lack but of abundance. Abundant in the richness of self-awareness, in the depth of solitude, and in the quiet symphony that plays when bodies cease to entwine. My choice to stand apart is not an act of defiance but a journey into the sacred realms of selfhood, an exploration of the landscapes that unfold when one chooses the path less traveled. In the midst of a world pulsating with desire, I find my own rhythm—a cadence that sings the song of a soul content in its solitude.

[reallygroovyninja]

Coffee and a Danish

The whistle of the kettle pulled Clarke's attention away from the gripping pages of her novel. She had been sitting by the window, lost in the world of fiction, as raindrops pattered rhythmically against the glass. The overcast sky outside cast a moody glow into the room, making it the perfect setting for a day of reading.  

Rising from her cozy chair, Clarke padded over to the kitchen. As she poured the steaming water over the tea leaves, she felt a profound sense of contentment. Here, amidst the storm and the comforting scent of brewing tea, reality and fiction beautifully intertwined, offering her an escape from the everyday hustle. 

Clarke settled back into the comfortable embrace of her armchair, the ambient light casting a soft glow around her. The room was silent save for the occasional rustle of the pages she turned. In moments like these, she felt a deep appreciation for solitude.  

It wasn't just the quiet or the absence of company; it was the space to breathe, to think, to be unapologetically herself. There were no expectations, no roles to play, no judgments. Just Clarke and her thoughts.  

She realized that amidst the chaos of life, she had come to cherish these fleeting moments of serenity. It was in this solitude that she rediscovered herself, her passions, and the simple joys of just being. 

Clarke’s gaze drifted from the pages of her book to the window beside her. Raindrops splattered against the glass, their trails merging and diverging in a liquid dance. Each drop seemed to tell its own story, racing downwards before being absorbed by another.  

She felt torn between two worlds — the rich tapestry of characters bound by duty and honor in her book, and the mesmerizing, transient world of rain outside. The rhythm of the raindrops seemed to sync with the beating of her heart, pulling her into a meditative trance.  

For a moment, the book felt heavy in her hands, its weight a symbol of the deep, intricate tales within. But the rain, with its fleeting nature, reminded her of life's ephemeral beauty. Clarke found herself caught in a delicate balance, longing to continue her literary journey, yet equally compelled to lose herself in the simple, hypnotic beauty of the rain. 

Clarke's gaze shifted from the rain-soaked windowpane to a familiar figure dashing from a car parked on the street. It was Lexa, her enigmatic neighbor, who was now making a hurried sprint to escape the downpour.  

Even in the brief, rain-blurred glimpse, Clarke noticed how Lexa's eyes narrowed in focus, a subtle grace to her movements despite the urgency. They had spoken only briefly in the past—small talk in the hallway, a nod during morning jogs—but Clarke had been intrigued by her from the start.  

She remembered Lexa mentioning a girlfriend named Costia in one of their early exchanges. Oddly, Clarke hadn't seen Costia for a few months now, and the absence left her curious. Watching Lexa shake the rain from her coat before disappearing into the building, Clarke contemplated the stories hidden behind closed doors, including her own.  

The thought weighed on her as she turned back to her book, but the words on the page suddenly seemed less captivating than the unfolding narratives of real life. 

Clarke found her thoughts consumed by the brief image of Lexa running through the rain. The absence of Costia, whom she hadn't seen for months, was particularly puzzling. Had they broken up? Or perhaps Costia was away on a trip or some long-term assignment.  

Clarke had noticed Lexa occasionally looked more reserved, her usually sharp gaze seeming distant. But trying to decipher the intricacies of a relationship from mere observations felt like walking through a maze blindfolded.  

She pondered if she should ever ask Lexa directly or if it was better left as one of those unspoken curiosities between neighbors. Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, Clarke tried to refocus on her book, but the characters and their fictional problems seemed pale in comparison to the real-life enigma just a few doors away. 

Clarke's eyes glazed over, the world around her blurring as her thoughts ventured elsewhere. In her mind's eye, she and Lexa were seated at a quaint cafe, its windows misted up from the rain pouring outside.  

They were tucked into a cozy corner, the ambient light casting a warm glow on their faces. Soft murmurs of conversation, punctuated by gentle laughter, filled the air between them. As they sipped their coffee, the aroma intertwining with the scent of rain, Lexa would break off a piece of a shared danish and offer it to Clarke with a playful grin. The sweetness of the pastry was nothing compared to the shared moment - one of stolen glances, comfortable silences, and a budding connection.  

The imagined ambiance was so serene, so perfectly picturesque, that Clarke could almost hear the soft jazz playing in the background, a gentle accompaniment to the rhythm of her heart. 

Clarke couldn't quite put her finger on why her daydreams about Lexa so often revolved around a cafe setting. Perhaps it was the intimacy of the small tables, the comforting aroma of coffee, or the simple joy found in shared desserts. Cafes seemed to encapsulate a sense of peace, a slice of normalcy where complex lives could pause and find refuge.  

More puzzling was how easily Lexa fit into this imagined sanctuary. In Clarke's mind, they would talk softly, smile warmly, and share unspoken understanding over coffee and a danish, as if the barriers that often divide people could be easily dissolved in such a setting. These recurrent daydreams, always at the same imagined cafe, left Clarke both bewildered and fascinated, like a familiar tune she couldn't quite shake. 

Clarke sighed, setting her book down and massaging her temples. It felt odd, this involuntary pull of her thoughts towards her neighbor. They had shared nothing more than fleeting exchanges and polite nods in the hallway, so why was her mind so insistent on crafting these elaborate daydreams about her? 

It wasn’t as if they had a deep bond or shared moments of intimacy. Was it simple curiosity, a product of the mysterious allure that Lexa carried, or something more profound that Clarke was reluctant to acknowledge?  

She chided herself for allowing her thoughts to wander in such a peculiar direction. After all, they were just neighbors. Still, in the quiet of her room, the ambiguity of her feelings remained, making her question the simplicity of their acquaintance. 

With a sigh of resignation, Clarke closed her book, the words on the page no longer holding her interest. Try as she might to immerse herself in the fictional world of her novel, her thoughts persistently strayed towards Lexa.  

Every scene, every interaction in the book was overshadowed by the vivid imaginings of encounters with her enigmatic neighbor. The contours of Lexa's face, the timbre of her voice, and their brief conversations played on a loop in Clarke's mind.  

It was both unsettling and fascinating how someone she knew so little about could occupy so much of her mental space. Admitting defeat, she set the book aside, surrendering to the pull of her thoughts, which seemed determined to weave stories of their own. 

Rising from her chair, Clarke stretched her arms and walked towards the window. She noticed the rain had momentarily ceased, leaving the world outside glistening and renewed. Just then, she spotted Lexa emerging from the building, carrying a box filled with assorted items.  

Clarke watched with interest as Lexa made her way to the trashcans near their building and, with a discernible sense of finality, threw the items away. The act seemed laden with significance, though Clarke could only guess at what it meant. Was it simply household clutter being discarded, or perhaps remnants of a past relationship?  

The gesture, simple yet mysterious, only deepened Clarke’s curiosity about her neighbor. She found herself pondering the lives lived so close to her own, yet remaining worlds apart—each apartment a microcosm of secrets, dreams, and untold stories. 

Clarke remained at her window, transfixed by the sight of Lexa, who stood by the trashcans in silent contemplation. The weight of memories, perhaps, or the resolution of a decision seemed to envelop Lexa. As she turned back towards the building, her gaze inadvertently met Clarke's.  

The sudden eye contact, while fleeting, was heavy with unspoken acknowledgment. Lexa, with the corners of her mouth turning upwards ever so slightly, offered Clarke a brief nod and a small smile. It was a simple gesture, yet it resonated deeply within Clarke, as if they had momentarily bridged the distance that had always existed between them. Clarke's heart raced, surprised by the intensity of a connection made in silence, a mere glance speaking volumes more than any words could convey. 

Without fully realizing what she was doing, Clarke felt herself drawn away from the window and towards her apartment door. It was as if an invisible thread connected her to Lexa, gently tugging at her.  

The fleeting moment of shared acknowledgment, that brief nod and smile, had awoken a curiosity, or perhaps a courage, that Clarke hadn't known was there. The rhythmic thudding of her heart echoed her steps as she approached the door. 

"Just a casual chat," she told herself, though deep down, she hoped it could be the start of something more meaningful. The door handle felt cold under her grip, and as she opened it, she took a deep breath, hoping to find Lexa in the hallway and seize the opportunity to finally bridge the gap between them. 

As Clarke gently swung her door open, she was met with an unexpected sight. Lexa stood mere feet away, in front of her own apartment door, her hand hovering over the doorknob. There was a palpable hesitation in Lexa's posture, a vulnerability that seemed to mirror Clarke's own feelings.  

Their eyes met, and for a second, the world seemed to stand still. Both women, caught in their own whirlwind of emotions and uncertainties, now stood facing each other, the silence punctuated only by the distant echoes of the city.  

The spontaneity of the moment left them both momentarily speechless, but it also presented a golden opportunity—a chance to move past the pleasantries and superficial exchanges and venture into deeper waters. Clarke took a deep breath, ready to seize the moment and let the conversation flow where it may. 

Summoning a courage she didn't know she had, Clarke broke the silence. "Lexa," she began, her voice soft yet steady, "would you like to come in for a cup of coffee? Or tea, if you prefer?" She gestured towards her own apartment, the warm lights from inside spilling into the dimly lit hallway.  

It was a simple invitation, yet laden with so many possibilities. Clarke watched Lexa's eyes for a response, hoping that the warmth and genuineness of her offer would resonate with her neighbor. The anticipation in the air was tangible, as both women stood on the precipice of a moment that could transform their relationship from mere acquaintances to something infinitely more profound. 

Lexa's eyes met Clarke's, and after what felt like an eternity but was only a few seconds, her lips curved into a genuine smile. "I'd love a cup of coffee, thank you," she said, her voice carrying a tone of relief and maybe, just maybe, a hint of excitement. As she spoke, the tension in the air seemed to dissipate, replaced by a newfound sense of possibility.  

Clarke felt her heart lift, buoyed by the simple affirmation. It was as if the door to her apartment wasn't the only thing opening tonight; another door, one that led to a different kind of space—intimate, personal, and full of potential—had just been unlocked as well. 

Once inside Clarke's apartment, Lexa moved to sit at the small dining table, her eyes taking in the cozy, lived-in atmosphere. Books were neatly stacked on shelves, framed artwork adorned the walls, and a soft, ambient light seemed to wrap the room in a warm embrace. It felt like an extension of Clarke herself—welcoming and filled with complexities yet to be discovered.  

Meanwhile, Clarke busied herself in the kitchen, the rich aroma of coffee beginning to fill the air as she started the brewing process. The gentle sounds of the coffee maker at work mingled with the residual patter of raindrops outside, creating a backdrop of domestic serenity.  

As she prepared the coffee, Clarke couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation; they were no longer just two strangers separated by a hallway, but potential friends sharing a humble yet intimate moment, all thanks to a spontaneous invitation and the magical allure of a warm cup of coffee. 

Balancing two steaming mugs of coffee in her hands, Clarke made her way from the kitchen to the table where Lexa was seated. Setting the mugs down, she caught Lexa's eye and asked, "Would you like a danish? I've been experimenting with making pastries and I'd love an honest opinion." Clarke's eyes sparkled with a blend of enthusiasm and mild apprehension. After all, offering something you've made yourself is a kind of vulnerability, an invitation for judgment. But as she spoke, she felt an underlying sense of excitement.  

This was more than just a sharing of food and drink; it was an offering of a part of herself, an opening into the personal realm of her own tastes and talents. The coffee, the danish, the comfortable atmosphere—they were all small pieces of a tapestry that Clarke was hesitantly unfurling before Lexa, hoping she'd appreciate the intricate patterns woven into its design. 

Lexa's face lit up at Clarke's offer, her eyes meeting Clarke's with evident delight. "I absolutely love danish," she exclaimed, her voice tinged with genuine enthusiasm. "I would be honored to taste yours and give you my honest opinion." Her broad smile seemed to illuminate the room, breaking down whatever invisible barriers remained.  

For Clarke, that smile was a seal of approval, an unspoken affirmation that their encounter was about more than just neighborly politeness—it was an opening to a deeper connection, perhaps even a friendship.  

Clarke felt a warm sense of validation wash over her, further sweetened by the excitement of sharing something she had created with her own hands. It was a small but significant step, their lives intertwining over cups of coffee and a homemade danish, and Clarke couldn't help but think that it was the beginning of something truly special. 

Clarke reached for the freshly baked danish on the counter, placing it delicately onto a plate before setting it in front of Lexa. The golden-brown flaky layers of the pastry glistened under the soft lighting of the room, emitting a warm, inviting aroma.  

Lexa's anticipation was palpable; her fingers danced lightly over the plate before picking up the pastry. There was a gleam in her eyes, a mix of excitement and genuine curiosity, as she brought the pastry to her lips. The moment felt suspended in time as she took her first bite, the flaky layers giving way to the soft, creamy filling inside.  

Clarke watched intently, her heart fluttering, awaiting Lexa's verdict on her culinary experiment. The room was filled with a blend of tension and anticipation, every second feeling like an hour, every small movement weighted with meaning. 

As Lexa chewed, her eyes widened and her expression morphed into one of genuine delight. After swallowing, she looked directly at Clarke and said, "This danish is incredible. Honestly, it's one of the best I've ever had." Her voice was filled with a sincerity that left no room for doubt.  

The compliment landed in the room like a triumphant chord, and Clarke felt a warmth surge through her. All the hours of experimentation, the trials and errors, the worry over whether her culinary skills would meet some mark—suddenly, all of it felt validated.  

Lexa's praise wasn't just about the pastry; it was a nod to the care and skill Clarke had put into creating it. The words seemed to fortify the connection that was forming between them, giving Clarke a sense of gratification far richer than the most decadent danish. It was as if they had crossed an unspoken boundary, turning a simple act of sharing food into a moment of deep, personal connection. 

Lexa looked contemplative for a moment, her gaze settling on the steaming mug of coffee in front of her. "You know," she began, her voice taking on a hint of nostalgia, "I've always wondered who was creating those delightful baking aromas. It's been like this comforting anchor every time I walked through the hallway."  

She took a slow sip of her coffee, allowing a beat before continuing, "It's funny. My ex-girlfriend absolutely despised the smell. Said it was too sweet and overpowering. But for me... it always felt like a gentle reminder of home."  

The revelation hung in the air between them, offering Clarke a brief insight into Lexa's past dynamics. It was both an intimate share and a testament to the subtle ways in which their lives had been intertwining, even before this evening. 

Clarke's lips curved into a gentle smile, her eyes locking onto Lexa's with understanding and warmth. "Well, I'm really glad that the aroma brought you some comfort," she said softly. "It's strange, isn't it? How something as simple as the scent of baking can evoke so many emotions and memories. For me, baking has always been a way to relax, to create, to feel connected to home." She paused, letting the words linger. "And knowing it had a positive effect on someone else, even in such a subtle way, makes it all the more special." As Clarke spoke, Lexa's eyes softened, reflecting a shared moment of appreciation for life's small joys and the serendipity that can arise from them. 

Lexa paused, her eyes momentarily losing focus as if she were gathering her thoughts from some distant place. "I'm far from home, you know," she finally said, her eyes meeting Clarke's again. "I moved to this city not knowing what to expect, and it's been a whirlwind ever since. But despite the ups and downs, the loneliness, the challenges—I'm really glad I made the move." Her voice was tinged with a sense of revelation, as if the words were not just an admission to Clarke, but also a confirmation to herself.  

"It's opened doors for me, broadened my horizons, and led me to experiences and people I would never have encountered otherwise." As she spoke, Lexa looked around Clarke's apartment, and her eyes settled back on Clarke. "Like this moment right now, enjoying a home-baked danish and having a genuine connection. I wouldn't trade it for anything." The sentiment hung in the air, affirming that both women, each far from their roots in their own way, had found something meaningful in this simple encounter. 

Clarke simply smiled, absorbing Lexa's words as they floated in the air between them. It was a smile that communicated more than mere politeness or casual acknowledgment; it was a smile of resonance, of understanding the undercurrents that had led both of them to this point in their lives.  

In Lexa's honest reflection, Clarke saw pieces of her own journey—the uncertainty of new beginnings, the beauty of unexpected encounters, the invaluable worth of genuine connections. And for that brief moment, words seemed superfluous. The smile said it all: a mutual recognition of the unique paths they had walked, the challenges they'd faced, and the simple, sweet joy of finding something—or someone—worthwhile along the way. 

Tilting her head slightly, Clarke's curiosity bubbled to the surface, and she posed a question that had been dancing on the tip of her tongue since their conversation began. "You mentioned being far from home," she began, her voice soft and inquisitive, "and it makes me wonder, what made you decide to come to this city? Out of all the places you could've gone, what drew you here?" There was a genuine interest in her eyes, a desire to understand the deeper layers of Lexa's story. It was as if the walls of the apartment dissolved, and the two were no longer just neighbors across a hallway but kindred spirits eager to unravel the tapestries of each other's lives. 

Lexa inhaled deeply, her gaze distant as she traveled back in her memories. "You know, for as long as I can remember, I've felt this pull towards this city," she began, her voice filled with a mix of wonder and nostalgia. "Even when I was a child, before I had any real understanding of what living here would entail, I'd hear stories or see pictures, and something inside me just... resonated. It's hard to explain, but it was as if the city's heartbeat matched my own. Like there was a piece of me already here, waiting for the rest to catch up." She chuckled lightly, her eyes meeting Clarke's once again.  

"I know it might sound whimsical, even a bit silly, but I've always believed that certain places, like people, can call out to you. And this city, with all its chaos and beauty, was calling my name." As Lexa shared her story, Clarke could feel the passion and sincerity behind each word, painting a vivid picture of a young girl with dreams as big as skyscrapers, drawn by an inexplicable bond to the place they now called home. 

Turning the focus of the conversation, Lexa leaned forward slightly, her interest clearly piqued. "What about you, Clarke? What's your story with this city? Did you move here for work, or..." She let her voice trail off, inviting Clarke to fill in the blanks.  

Clarke chuckled softly, touched by Lexa's genuine curiosity. "Actually, I grew up here," she explained, her voice tinged with a warmth that comes from deep-rooted familiarity. "This city, with all its flaws and wonders, has always been home to me. I've seen neighborhoods change, new buildings replace the old, and people come and go. But despite all that, there's a constancy here that I've never felt the need to leave."  

As Clarke spoke, her eyes momentarily drifted toward the window, as if trying to capture the essence of the city that lay beyond it. "It's like an old friend that you can always count on, even when everything else is in flux." With that, Lexa nodded, her eyes reflecting an understanding that went beyond the simple geography of their lives. 

With a tilt of her head and a genuinely inquisitive look in her eyes, Lexa ventured into more personal territory. "So, Clarke," she began, her fingers idly tracing the rim of her coffee mug, "I've been curious. With all the time you spend baking such delicious pastries, what do you do professionally? What's your day-to-day like here in the city?"  

Lexa's question carried with it an underlying respect and intrigue, a genuine interest in understanding more about the woman who sat across from her. Clarke's eyebrows rose slightly in playful surprise, not expecting the topic to shift to her profession, but she welcomed the opportunity to share a glimpse into her world. 

Clarke's fingers gently circled the rim of her coffee cup as she spoke, "I'm an author, actually." Lexa's eyes immediately brightened; her interest piqued. "Really? What do you write?" she inquired, genuinely intrigued.  

Clarke leaned back, her eyes drifting toward her bookshelf filled with various titles, including her own. "I've penned a few things, but my most well-known work is a series called 'Between Worlds,'" she explained.  

Instantly, Lexa's eyes widened in recognition, her mouth forming a small 'o' of surprise. "Wait a minute, that book was turned into a movie, wasn't it? I saw it a few months ago. It was absolutely captivating," Lexa exclaimed, her voice tinged with excitement and awe.  

Clarke felt a rush of warmth spread through her at Lexa's words, thrilled that her work had reached someone she found herself increasingly interested in. "Yes, that's the one. It's been an incredible journey seeing it go from page to screen," Clarke responded, her eyes meeting Lexa's in a moment of shared understanding and respect. 

Lexa leaned back in her chair, a playful smirk forming on her lips as she regarded Clarke with an amused glint in her eyes. "You know," she began, taking a moment to sip her coffee, "I've lived in different places, met all kinds of people, but I never thought I'd find myself living next door to someone famous." Her voice carried a tone of lighthearted jest, but also genuine admiration.  

"I mean, here I am, sharing coffee and a danish with the very mind behind a movie I enjoyed. Life is full of surprises." Clarke chuckled, shaking her head in mild embarrassment, appreciating the moment of levity. "Fame is relative," she retorted playfully, "but thank you, Lexa. That's very kind of you to say." 

Curious to know more about Lexa, Clarke shifted the focus of their conversation. "So, we've talked about me being an author, but what about you, Lexa? What brought you to this city and what do you do for a living?" Clarke asked, locking eyes with Lexa across the table.  

Lexa set her coffee cup down and took a deep breath before speaking. "I'm a psychologist. I moved here to work at the local hospital for my postdoctoral fellowship," she explained, her voice filed with a sense of purpose and dedication.  

"Psychology has always fascinated me—the intricacies of the human mind, how people interact, why they do what they do. It felt like a calling, and the fellowship offered the perfect opportunity for specialized training and research. This city has a reputation for excellent healthcare, so it was an opportunity I couldn't pass up." Clarke nodded, intrigued, sensing a deeper layer to Lexa that she was eager to discover. 

Clarke leaned back in her chair, the steam from her coffee wafting into the air between them. "You know, beyond writing, I find such joy in cooking. It's my solace, my quiet place," she mused, her eyes reflecting her deep connection with the craft. "What about you, Lexa? What brings you joy outside of your profession?"  

Lexa hesitated for a moment, a gentle blush coloring her cheeks. "I've taken up painting recently. I'm no artist," she added with a soft chuckle, "but a few years ago, I was part of a program that used art as a medium to help children cope after tragic events. The process... it resonated with me. Watching those children find a form of expression, a release, in the midst of their pain—it inspired me to try my hand at it. Painting became my own quiet refuge, much like your cooking." Clarke's eyes brightened with a mix of admiration and curiosity, seeing Lexa in an even more multifaceted light. 

Clarke looked at Lexa, her eyes shining with curiosity and a newfound admiration. "You know, if you'd be willing, I'd love to see one of your paintings sometime," she said softly, a genuine invitation hanging in the air between them. "There's something incredibly intimate about sharing a piece of your own art—it's like offering a glimpse into your soul. I'd be honored to see what you've created, to understand that part of you a little better." Clarke's voice was tinged with a respectful curiosity, understanding the vulnerability that came with sharing one's art, yet hopeful Lexa would take her up on the offer. 

Lexa's eyes widened slightly, caught off guard by Clarke's genuine interest. She had always considered her paintings to be deeply personal, a private reflection of her thoughts and feelings. However, there was something in Clarke's demeanor, a genuine warmth and respect, that made her feel at ease. "You'd really want to see them?" Lexa asked, a touch of incredulity in her voice.  

After a moment's hesitation, she continued with a soft smile, "I'd love to show you, Clarke. No one has ever expressed such an interest before. It would mean a lot to share that part of myself with someone who appreciates the intimacy of it." The room filled with an atmosphere of anticipation, as a budding bond between the two neighbors grew even stronger. 

Clarke caught herself just before the question tumbled out, but curiosity got the better of her. "Did Costia not find it interesting? Your painting, I mean. Did she ever show any interest?" Clarke felt the words leave her lips before she had a chance to fully weigh their implications.  

There was a delicate balance in asking about someone's past, particularly when that someone was an ex, but the question was already out in the open. She looked at Lexa, her eyes conveying both curiosity and a hint of cautious sensitivity, hoping she hadn't crossed a line. 

Lexa looked down at her coffee cup for a moment, as if contemplating how much to reveal. When she looked back up, her eyes met Clarke's with a quiet, reflective intensity. "Costia was... particular in her interests," she began carefully.  

"She was never really captivated by things outside of a certain scope, things that were deeply important to me like my painting, my work, and other passions. She had her own world, and sometimes I wondered if there was truly room for me in it." Lexa's voice was soft, tinged with a melancholy that hinted at a well of deeper, unspoken feelings.  

Clarke sensed the emotional weight behind Lexa's words and felt a subtle shift in the atmosphere, as if a layer of distance had been peeled back between them, making room for something more authentic to take root. 

Clarke watched as Lexa's eyes dimmed with the weight of memories, the vulnerability in them pulling at her heartstrings. Without thinking, she reached across the table, gently placing her hand on top of Lexa's. The instant their skins met, an unexpected jolt ran through them, akin to a pulse, a palpable current of connection.  

Both women looked up, their eyes locking, mirroring the same startled realization. It wasn't just physical warmth; it was as if their souls had briefly brushed against one another, hinting at a depth of connection neither had anticipated. In that fleeting moment, the outside world faded, leaving just the two of them anchored by that single touch. 

In that suspended moment, neither Clarke nor Lexa moved. Clarke's hand remained atop Lexa's, each feeling the subtle warmth and pulse beneath their skin. Their eyes were locked in a silent communion, a wordless dialogue that neither had expected but neither seemed eager to break.  

It was as if they were both searching for something in the other's gaze, perhaps an explanation for the electric charge that had flowed through them, or maybe a glimpse of some deeper understanding, an emotional resonance that words couldn't adequately express.  

Time seemed to slow, and the world beyond the window, the rain, and even the walls of Clarke's apartment, all faded into irrelevance. For those few seconds, all that existed was the space between their eyes and the connection in their touch. 

The world seemed to contract, the distance between them dwindling as if guided by an unseen force. Neither was fully aware of initiating the motion, but there they were, drawn inexorably closer to one another. The sounds of the room dimmed, their shared heartbeat taking precedence over all else.  

But that initial hesitance melted away when their lips met. An intense torrent of emotions surged through them, feelings so profound and all-encompassing that they felt like they were drowning and being reborn all at once. In that singular moment, everything seemed to click into place.  

It wasn’t just attraction or chemistry; it was as if two lost souls had found the missing pieces of themselves in each other. Both felt an overpowering sense of completeness, as though they had been wandering the world in search of something they couldn’t quite define, only to discover it was right in front of them all along. 

As they finally pulled apart, both Clarke and Lexa remained silent, still held in the thrall of the emotions that had overtaken them. Words seemed inadequate, unable to capture the magnitude of what they had just experienced.  

Lexa looked into Clarke's eyes and found them shining, as if lit by the same internal light that she felt glowing within herself. Without speaking, both women seemed to acknowledge that they had crossed a boundary, ventured into new emotional territory that neither had anticipated but both were reluctant to leave.  

In the vast expanse of the universe, where countless stars glitter and galaxies dance, there exists the age-old belief that souls, predestined to unite, will always find their way to each other. Clarke and Lexa's unexpected connection was a testament to this cosmic truth.  

Despite the myriad paths and choices that had led them to this point, their souls recognized one another, intertwining seamlessly, as if they had been waiting for this union for lifetimes. And as the evening deepened, casting a blanket of stars across the sky, it was clear that their souls had not just found each other, but had come home. 

[austerulous]

◈   @destineden

Beautiful and rootless, great sprays of chrysanthemums decorated the shining foyer, their slender stems bending under the weight of their blooms.  Beautiful and rootless, Awa strode through the generic opulence of the hotel.  Duty’s crown did not weigh on them so heavily; they navigated their transient existence with flawless, infuriating poise.  Still every instinct in the mercenary screamed that he must protect them, shield them from the shadows that lurked within the asphalt veins of the city.  His devotion was evident in his healing bullet wound, knitted into its gory roots.

Hanzo was pinned silently to their side as the elevator ferried them skyward, and he fell into step with them when they exited, positioning himself between their sleek form and the seamless floor-to-ceiling windows.  Awash with rivulets of rain, a skyline of monoliths was blurred, faraway holographic advertisements and neon light diluted like lurid watercolours on the glass.  To his mind, it added to the intimacy, the sense of privacy they had once craved.  To his mind, electric tension crackled between them even now.

Awa’s suite was halfway to the heavens.  High enough to escape the wailing sirens of the megalopolis below, evading the pulse of the city that so often registered like a throbbing wound, a dull headache pounding behind the eyes.  There had been a time when they would have retreated together, scraped away their veneer and hung up their guard at the shadowy threshold between their public and private spheres.

Now, Awa bid him a good evening, their tone perfectly polite and devastatingly impersonal.  Speaking, but saying nothing.  They moved to slip inside, an elegant hand extended towards the sensor, triggering the door to close behind them.  They meant to shut him out with the rest of the world, to leave him to his duty of standing vigil.  Their sentinel, their shield. An employee.

Something in Hanzo bared its teeth, his carefully constructed façade of stoicism splintering as he thrust his foot into the narrowing gap, jamming the door open.  Even before he spoke, he had ripped away his mask.  Long suppressed and hidden beneath the armour of professionalism, a swell of unspoken words clawed their way to the still waters of his surface.

“No,” he hissed in a steely whisper.  “Enough of this.” 

With burgeoning resolve and boldness, he surged forward, squeezing inside the hallowed space, walking Awa back until their shoulder blades kissed a marble wall.  They need only raise the alarm and he would be expelled for his transgression, for taking such liberty.  Instead, they remained a picture of filtered, unflappable calm, their luminescence heightened by the equally artificial glow that bathed the interior. 

“I will not be shackled by silence.  I will not play these games.”  Hanzo’s voice was a fusion of frustration and raw vulnerability.  “Is it not clear that I am prepared to die for you?  And not out of duty – not because of something as frivolous as a salary.”

It was an insult to his love, to all they had.  If there had been any silver lining to his bleeding out on the concrete, it had been that Awa had held him, their glossy, plastic demeanour crumbling into something authentic.  That was what he desired, more than anything. Something real.

Slowly, he raised a hand, traced a knuckle along their jaw.  His heart thundered within the bony vault of his chest, its rhythm matching the torrential downpour that drummed against the walls.  A maelstrom of emotion swirled in the accursed no-man’s-land between them.  Hanzo had been the one to set the fire, now he burned in it.

“Awa… my feelings for you never changed.  Tell me, did yours die in Hanamura?”

[rudyrupakus]

Rudy Rupak: A Master of Melodies and Lyrical Narratives

In the ever-evolving world of music, few composers manage to carve out a space that is uniquely their own. Rudy Rupak is one such artist, a master of melodies and lyrical narratives who has consistently demonstrated his ability to create compositions that resonate deeply with listeners. His work transcends genres and boundaries, blending classical sensibilities with contemporary flair, making him a standout figure in the world of music.

The Journey of a Musical Visionary

Rudy Rupak's journey into music began at an early age, where his innate love for melodies and rhythm set him on a path of discovery and innovation. His early years were marked by an intense curiosity and a desire to explore the boundaries of sound. This exploration led him to study a wide range of musical genres, from classical to jazz, rock to electronic, and beyond. His diverse influences are evident in his compositions, which often feature intricate arrangements, rich harmonies, and unexpected shifts in tone and tempo.

Crafting Emotional Landscapes

What sets Rudy Rupak apart from many of his contemporaries is his ability to craft emotional landscapes through his music. Each piece he creates is more than just a melody; it is a story, a journey that takes the listener through a range of emotions and experiences. His compositions often feature complex, layered arrangements that build and evolve, creating a dynamic listening experience. Whether it's a sweeping orchestral piece or a minimalist electronic track, Rudy's music always carries a profound emotional weight that connects with audiences on a deep level.

A Composer of Lyrical Narratives

Rudy's talent extends beyond just melody and harmony; he is also a master of lyrical narratives. His ability to weave stories through music is unparalleled, with each composition telling its own unique tale. His lyrics often explore themes of love, loss, hope, and redemption, capturing the human experience in all its complexity. Rudy's skill in pairing these narratives with the perfect musical accompaniment results in songs that are both powerful and memorable.

Innovating in the Modern Musical Landscape

In a time when the music industry is rapidly changing, Rudy Rupak continues to innovate and adapt. He has embraced new technologies and platforms, using them to reach wider audiences and experiment with new sounds. His work in film scoring, for example, showcases his ability to blend traditional orchestral elements with modern electronic techniques, creating soundtracks that enhance and elevate the visual storytelling.

The Legacy of Rudy Rupak

As a composer, Rudy Rupak has already left an indelible mark on the music world. His works have been praised for their originality, emotional depth, and technical excellence. But beyond the accolades, Rudy's true legacy lies in the impact his music has on those who hear it. His compositions have the power to move, inspire, and connect people, making him a true master of melodies and lyrical narratives.

In a world filled with fleeting trends and transient sounds, Rudy Rupak's music stands as a testament to the enduring power of melody and storytelling. He continues to push the boundaries of what music can be, and in doing so, he ensures that his work will resonate with listeners for generations to come.

[aluckyleaf]

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the sky transformed into a canvas of deep purples and fiery oranges. The coffee shop, nestled in a quiet corner of the bustling city, began to fill with the evening rush. The air was thick with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the murmur of conversations, a symphony of clinking cups and whispered words.

Amidst the busy hum, I sat at my usual spot by the window, watching the day surrender to the night. The twilight cast a gentle glow through the glass, creating a cozy sanctuary within the chaos. People came and went, their faces fleeting and transient, yet my thoughts remained anchored to a single, immutable presence: you.

I had never met you, not in the tangible sense that lends itself to shared moments and stolen glances. Yet, in the realm of my heart and mind, you were a constant companion. I envisioned your smile, the curve of your lips, the way your eyes might light up when you spoke of your passions. I had woven countless stories around you, each one a delicate thread in the tapestry of my imagination.

The barista called out another order, and the clatter of mugs being set down punctuated the evening's rhythm. I sipped my coffee, the warmth spreading through me, a comfort in the face of longing. You were an enigma, a figment of my heart’s deepest desires, and though we had never crossed paths, the bond I felt was profound and unyielding.

I often wondered what it would be like to sit across from you, to share in the silence that speaks louder than words. To laugh at a shared joke, to simply exist in the same space. But such thoughts were ephemeral, dissipating like the steam rising from my cup. They were dreams confined to the ether, never to manifest in the reality of our separate lives.

The night deepened, and the crowd began to thin. The coffee shop, once a whirlwind of activity, grew quieter, the energy settling into a more subdued cadence. Yet, my thoughts of you remained vivid, undiminished by the passing hours.

Perhaps we were never meant to meet. Perhaps the beauty of our connection lay in its impossibility, in the purity of a love that existed only in the mind, unmarred by the complexities of real life. As I finished my coffee and prepared to leave, I carried you with me, a cherished memory of someone I had never known, yet loved all the same.

[tsunagite]

Rhythm gayming miscellaneous stuff

[zinbu]

In the intimate glow of the tatami room, the air thick with the heady aroma of sake and the comforting warmth of flickering lanterns, Tengen Uzui found himself listening to Kyojuro Rengoku’s confession. The room, awash in the golden hues of candlelight, held a serene stillness, punctuated only by the gentle clinking of porcelain cups and the soft rustle of his haori as the man shifted in his eats.

Tengen, with his flamboyant nature subdued by the gravity of the moment, felt an unfamiliar yet welcome sense of tranquility. The usual boisterous cadence of his thoughts was replaced by a reflective stillness, mirroring the calm surface of the sake in his cup. Rengoku’s voice, usually a roaring flame, now reminded the man the soft intensity of glowing embers, each word meticulously chosen, each phrase carrying the weight of unspoken years.

And they spoke of dreams and fears, of burdens shouldered and battles fought not just with demons, but within their own hearts. There was a raw vulnerability, a stark contrast to the usual exuberance. And in this moment, Tengen realised how much he had always admired the purity of his friend's spirit, a beacon of unwavering resolve amidst the darkness.

Tengen’s gaze wandered around the room, taking in the delicate artistry of the calligraphy scrolls, the meticulous arrangement of the ikebana, the subtle interplay of shadows and light. This room, this moment, felt like a sanctuary, a sacred space where truths could be unveiled without the fear of judgment. It was an unspoken bond forged not just in battle but in these quiet moments of shared humanity.

Inwardly, Tengen marveled at how comfortable he felt. The self-assured facade he often wore melted away, leaving him in a state of peaceful acceptance. He was not the Sound Hashira here, not the warrior clad in the splendour of battle, but simply Tengen, a man among men, listening to the heartfelt words of a friend. The sake, smooth and warm as it slid down his throat, seemed to carry with it the essence of this transient yet eternal moment.

As Rengoku’s confession drew to a close, the silence that followed was not empty, but filled with the profound resonance of their shared understanding. Tengen, in his usual exuberant style, would have laughed, made a grand gesture, but here and now, he simply reached out, placing a hand on Rengoku’s shoulder, a silent testament to his support and friendship. His heart, usually a symphony of clashing sounds, beat in a steady, comforting rhythm, echoing the quiet harmony of the night.

In that sacred space, where sake and words flowed freely, Tengen Uzui felt a rare and profound sense of peace. The weight of their roles, their struggles, their unspoken fears, all seemed to dissolve in the warmth of their camaraderie. And as the night deepened, the two warriors sat in companionable silence, bound by the unspoken, their spirits as intertwined as the stars in the night sky. // @blazinghashira

[anasraza25]

The Enduring Essence: Surah Yasin's Role in Ramadan Taraweeh Prayers

In the hushed embrace of Ramadan nights, mosques come alive with the melodious recitation of the Quran. Among the revered passages that find a special place in the hearts of worshippers during Taraweeh prayers is Surah Yasin. With its profound verses echoing through the prayer halls, Surah Yasin assumes a pivotal role, intertwining with the fabric of spiritual devotion that defines the holy month.

The Tradition of Taraweeh Prayers:

Taraweeh, derived from the Arabic word 'tarweeha,' meaning to rest, is a special nightly prayer observed during the month of Ramadan. After the Isha prayer, Muslims gather in congregation to recite portions of the Quran, often completing the entire scripture over the course of the month. This tradition, traced back to the era of the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him), holds immense significance, fostering a sense of community, spiritual reflection, and connection with the Divine.

The Revered Status of Surah Yasin:

Among the chapters of the Quran, Surah Yasin holds a distinguished position. Revered for its eloquence, profundity, and spiritual potency, it is often referred to as the "Heart of the Quran." Its name stems from the opening verse, where the Prophet Muhammad is addressed as "Yasin." This Surah encompasses themes of monotheism, resurrection, divine mercy, and the consequences of disbelief, offering solace and guidance to believers.

Surah Yasin in Taraweeh Prayers:

During Taraweeh prayers, the recitation of Surah Yasin occupies a cherished place. Its rhythmic verses, adorned with poetic beauty, captivate the hearts of worshippers, transporting them into a realm of spiritual contemplation. The soothing cadence of its words provides solace to weary souls seeking refuge in the tranquility of prayer.

Spiritual Significance:

Surah Yasin's inclusion in Taraweeh prayers holds profound spiritual significance. Its verses serve as a source of inspiration, reminding believers of the transient nature of worldly life and the eternal promise of the Hereafter. As worshippers stand in prayer, immersed in the recitation of Surah Yasin, they are invited to reflect on the purpose of their existence and the inevitability of their return to the Divine.

Strengthening Community Bonds:

Beyond its individual impact, Surah Yasin fosters a sense of unity and cohesion within the congregational setting of Taraweeh prayers. The collective recitation of this Surah creates a harmonious rhythm, binding worshippers together in a shared spiritual experience. As voices rise and fall in unison, barriers of language, culture, and ethnicity dissolve, paving the way for a deeper connection with fellow believers.

A Source of Comfort and Hope:

In the midst of life's trials and tribulations, Surah Yasin emerges as a beacon of hope and comfort. Its verses offer solace to those burdened by grief, anxiety, or despair, reminding them of Allah's infinite mercy and compassion. During the long nights of Ramadan, as worshippers stand in prayer, the recitation of Surah Yasin becomes a source of strength, renewing their faith and resilience in the face of adversity.

Personal Reflection and Renewal:

Taraweeh prayers, adorned with the recitation of Surah Yasin, provide a sacred space for personal reflection and renewal. As worshippers bow their heads in submission, they embark on a journey of self-discovery, seeking forgiveness, guidance, and spiritual elevation. Surah Yasin, with its timeless wisdom and divine guidance, serves as a compass, guiding hearts towards the path of righteousness and piety.

Conclusion:

In the tapestry of Ramadan's spiritual landscape, Surah Yasin weaves a thread of profound significance, enriching the experience of Taraweeh prayers with its timeless wisdom and divine beauty. As worshippers gather in mosques around the world, the recitation of Surah Yasin serves as a testament to the enduring essence of faith, unity, and devotion that defines the holy month. Through its verses, believers find solace, inspiration, and guidance, illuminating their path towards spiritual enlightenment and divine proximity.

[rainset]

Project Zeus: VI

His useless mop slaps over perfectly white tiles molded together so perfectly that no distinguishing lines exist. No discerning feature of where one begins and the other ends. A purity of white slap continuous and ongoing- forever- in the dark.

And so he goes, following that white space. Between sliding doors, around steel lab tables, through the corridors, back to the spiral core. Where it’s pure black with only red lights for company. It’s always peaceful before they all arrive and everything gets too bright.

Zeus remains transient. Theres nothing but pure sensory of the layers of spiral grating above and below him as a beautiful fractle. His ancient mop completely useless to this particular area.

Any of his slop just falls through pores and drops into dark infinity. With only contrast being thick, dark chords taut to the endless ceiling. The only way out- a lift.

His neck cranes up. The massive seal kept shut by a thin line with a beam of moon light shining through, slightly.

Dancing right over his brown eye, his pupil, with particles dancing in the light.

His fingers start to thrum then soon, dance to the rhythm of dust. His mind taken completely from him, once again.

A vision come back before him of his own chambers where a bright white light blisters on, signaling her arrival.

His submarine door slams open and stomping in comes a tall, thin, blonde woman- crying. Her head down, sniffling, and immediately cradles his inferior form in her arms.

Her burning tears drenching his shirt. He’d put his book down and whatever he said then, is muffled to his ears now. His mother’s words, crisp and clear “I can’t take this anymore.”

She spills out sobs and details of her life, her society and how it’s all crashing on her. Her red face meets his, as he’s calm and pure as snow.

Zeus’s hand tried to rub his mother’s cheek saying “Loraine..” but she looks to him with disgust. “Why am I here..” she mutters, turning away. “You’re not him anymore.”

She gets up and repeats her previous steps, smashing the door close. His bed vibrated to that thrumming.

There’s something pulsing through him now.. it hurts. His fingers hurt. He drops his mop and grips his palm. Why is he in pain?

Jolts creep up his arm, through his shoulder and to his neck. He slaps his hand there and squeezes. Letting the pulsing pass until all is cool again.

Till his mind empties again and all those memories wash away as waves on a shore.. in and out.. in and… out.

Safely numbed, returns to his room once again.

A red light beaming on a rusted old capsule door.

[dentalucg]

Track 6 - Deciduous Teeth

Introduction: In the symphony of life, each stage is accompanied by a unique composition, and childhood is no exception. One crucial movement in this symphony is marked by Track 6: Deciduous Teeth. Often overlooked, deciduous teeth, commonly known as baby teeth, play a significant role in a child's development. Let's delve into the intricate notes of Track 6 and understand why these temporary pearly whites are more than just placeholders for their permanent successors.

The Prelude: The Arrival of Deciduous Teeth The journey of deciduous teeth begins early in infancy, as these tiny heralds of growth make their debut. Typically, the eruption of the first tooth occurs around six months, initiating a gradual progression until the full set of 20 deciduous teeth is complete by the age of three. This harmonious process is a testament to the intricate orchestration of genetics, nutrition, and overall health.

The Composition: Functions and Roles Beyond their aesthetic value, deciduous teeth perform essential functions crucial for a child's well-being. The composition of this track involves multiple movements, each contributing to the overall crescendo of oral health.

Mastication Maestro: Deciduous teeth are the first players in the mastication ensemble. They enable the child to chew and process a variety of textures, paving the way for proper digestion and nutrient absorption. The rhythm of their growth aligns with the introduction of solid foods, marking a key transition in a child's diet.

Speech Harmony: As the child grows, deciduous teeth actively participate in the development of speech. Their presence aids in the proper formation of sounds, helping children articulate words and sentences with increasing clarity. The absence of certain deciduous teeth can impact speech development, making this track a pivotal contributor to linguistic milestones.

Space Holders: Deciduous teeth serve as placeholders for the permanent dentition that follows. Their strategic arrangement maintains proper spacing in the jaw, preparing the stage for the incoming adult teeth. This function is crucial in preventing alignment issues and ensuring a harmonious arrangement in the future.

The Bridge: Nurturing Healthy Habits Track 6 also serves as a bridge, guiding parents and caregivers in fostering healthy oral hygiene habits. Introducing children to proper dental care practices during the deciduous tooth stage establishes a foundation for a lifetime of good habits. Regular brushing, flossing, and routine dental check-ups become integral parts of the melody, contributing to a symphony of oral health.

The Finale: The Natural Transition As the child matures, deciduous teeth begin to loosen their grip, signaling the impending arrival of permanent teeth. This natural transition is a beautiful conclusion to Track 6, emphasizing the cyclical nature of dental development. The fallen deciduous teeth pave the way for a new movement, as permanent teeth take center stage in the ongoing symphony of oral health.

Conclusion: Track 6: Deciduous Teeth, although a fleeting composition in the grand symphony of life, holds profound significance in a child's journey. Beyond their transient nature, deciduous teeth play crucial roles in the realms of nutrition, speech, and future dental health. Embracing this symphony with proper care and attention ensures that the melody of oral health resonates harmoniously throughout a lifetime.

Infancy | Eruption | Baby Teeth | Primary Dentition | Childhood | Oral Development | Mastication | Speech | Dental Health | Temporary | Transition | Permanent Dentition | Growth | Nutrition | Alignment | Milestones | Hygiene | Tooth Decay | Speech Development | Baby Smiles | Oral Care | Tooth Loss | Pediatric Dentistry | Tooth Fairy | Orthodontics | Teething | Root Resorption | Deciduous Dentition | Primary Teeth

Conference Name: International Dental, Advanced Dentistry and Oral Health UCGCongress Short Name: IDADOH2024 Dates: July 29-30, 2024 Venue: Dubai, UAE Email: mailto:dr.assyaisraeli@ucgcmeconference.com Visit: https://dental.universeconferences.com/ Call for Papers: https://dental.universeconferences.com/submit-abstract/ Register here: https://dental.universeconferences.com/registration/ What Sapp Us: https://wa.me/442033222718?text=