#quietpower

[giantcowboy]

He knows exactly what he’s carrying.

[theweightofdivinity]

A witch’s mark was never something visible on the skin. It was cognitive. Perceptual. A way of moving through reality that altered other people’s inner weather. Not by force, but by presence.

Some cultures call it (Ashe), authority of spirit. The capacity for intention to carry weight because it is aligned, charged, and rooted. When a woman holds that kind of current, people around her don’t just feel her, they rearrange themselves around her. Thoughts surface. Truth leaks. Masks loosen. Historically, witchy women were known to enter the mind not because they invaded it, but because clarity is disruptive. When someone stands firmly in their own knowing, unresolved people begin to experience interference… these things look like: confusion, fixation, projection. They call it being influenced. In truth, they are being revealed to themselves. This is why elders warned witches about restraint. Not because the power was dangerous but because it was effective. A focused presence could bless, unsettle, protect, or unmake illusion without a single word spoken.

[featherrest]

There is a quiet power in existing without apology. In saying: “This is me. Soft. Strong. Human.”

Photo: Thomas Gerwers

[louisdeclairvoile]

If you can’t stand today—kneel.

You don’t have to hold it all together, not here. When the world feels heavy, let your knees find the floor. Let me be the ground beneath you—the place where you can let go.

On your knees, you are safe; you are seen. I’ll keep watch while you breathe.

[velvetsurrender]

Composure is a discipline. What you notice is a choice.

[furminxceductress]

I don’t raise my voice. I let the look do the damage. And baby, it always lands.

[wells-gold58]

Edge Control

Wells was on the first flight out of the Golden City.

Toronto greeted him with cold air and gray light. He stepped onto the sidewalk in tight blue jeans and black winter boots, gold-and-black plaid flannel fitted across his shoulders, a gold puffy jacket catching what little light the morning offered. Civilian, but unmistakably himself.

By the time he reached his condo, the city felt quieter.

He shrugged off the jacket, moved through the space with purpose. Fresh sheets on the couch. Blanket folded clean. Pillow placed just right. A glass and a water bottle set side by side.

Prepared. Intentional.

Wells paused, hands on his hips, then gave a low laugh.

“Get it together.”

The Toronto Speed Skating Club smelled like cold air and sweat. Wells changed quickly, sealing himself into the metallic gold skin suit, tight, aerodynamic, black strips cutting clean lines down his legs. Gold helmet. Gold eyewear. When he stepped onto the ice, he felt fast before he even moved.

He pushed off for his first warm-up lap, gold flashing as his skates bit clean lines into the ice.

Coach arrived shortly after, tight black jeans. Black winter boots. Red-and-black fitted plaid flannel. Black vinyl puffy jacket shrugged off shortly after he stepped inside. Baseball cap worn backwards. Calm, grounded authority.

Coach watched Wells warm up without comment.

When Coach joined him on the ice, the shift was immediate.

Black skin suit. Glossy, almost liquid under the rink lights. Gold accent strips mirroring Wells without matching him. Black helmet. Dark eyewear. Control made visible.

They stood side by side at the boards for a moment, gold and black, speed and restraint.

Wells pushed off hard, gold flashing as he carved the ice.

“Inside edge,” Coach called.

Wells adjusted, smirk visible even behind the eyewear. “You watching me that closely?”

“I’m watching everything.”

They ran drills back and forth—Wells fast and loud, Coach precise and quiet. Every correction landed sharper in skin suits, nothing hidden.

“You’re leaking control,” Coach said.

Wells laughed breathlessly. “You keep saying that like it’s a bad thing.”

Coach glided closer, close enough to feel without touching.

“It is when it costs you speed.”

Coach’s bare hand came briefly to Wells’ lower back. Firm. Corrective.

“Hold.”

Wells held.

The line sharpened instantly.

Wells exhaled. “Okay. Yeah. That’s better.”

They changed quickly after training, the cold still clinging as they stepped back into civilian layers. Wells pulled on his gold-and-black flannel and jacket. Coach returned to black jeans, red plaid, jacket zipped, cap still backwards.

The coffee shop was warm and quiet, steam rising between them.

Wells stared into his cup of hot cocoa before finally saying, “About the kiss.”

Coach didn’t look away. “Yes.”

“You said it was wrong.”

“It was.”

“But.”

Coach exhaled once. “I’m attracted to you.”

Wells’ breath caught. “Okay.”

“And I’ve been teasing you,” Coach added. “Deliberately.”

Wells smiled. “Yeah. I noticed.”

“Because you respond.”

The honesty settled between them, direct, controlled, real.

Back at the condo, jackets came off and were hung without ceremony. The space felt smaller without winter as an excuse for distance.

Wells moved easily in flannel and jeans, boots heavy on the floor. Coach stood across from him, red-and-black plaid stretched over a broad chest, cap still backwards, authority intact without armor.

Coach glanced at the couch. The prepared bed.

“You set this up.”

“Didn’t want you uncomfortable.”

Coach stepped closer. Not touching. Just presence.

“Tomorrow,” Coach said quietly, “we run the same drills.”

“Yes, Coach.”

“And you’re going to stop pretending you don’t like the control.”

Wells smiled, no bravado now. Just truth. “Not a chance.”

Coach huffed softly. “Good.”

The tension didn’t dissolve.

It settled.

Structured. Intentional. Ready to be used.

Control isn’t taken, it’s earned. Edge Control is where discipline sharpens desire, restraint builds power, and every moment on the line changes who you become. Step closer. Hold steady. Learn what control really means. Contact our recruiters: @polo-drone-001, @polo-drone-125, @polo-drone-166, @franco-gold94

[theacidjazzguitarist]

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗥𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗣𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗶𝘁 (Available as 8x10 print. DM for details.) A moment suspended in time — a man seated in quiet contemplation, framed by ancestral patterns that speak of heritage and resilience. This piece invites us into the sacred space of introspection, where power is found not in loudness, but in reverence, depth, and presence. Wrapped in golden hues and layered textures, The Reverent Portrait is a tribute to the enduring strength of legacy and the silent voices that carry it forward. . . . . .