#Big Tech Manipulation

[technically-human]

i loved seeing the moment of stone realising he was going to stick with robotnik (─‿‿─) could we see the moment ROBOTNIK realises stone is here for good?

Robotnik isn't used to people being happy to see him

[sephrxn]

🚨any "5G cell tower" conspiracy theorist needs to read this.🚨

people hear "radiation" and think that its inherently bad and therefore 5g towers must cause cancer when radio waves are NON ionizing meaning that they are not high energy enough to cause sustained damage as they physically cannot knock out electrons in your body.

Ionizing radiation (like UV rays) CAN actually do tangible harm tho. actual radioactivity comes from alpha, beta, and gamma decay, where nuclei changes from ground to excited states where particles are emitted and photons are discharged (thus leading to decay from nuclei destabilization), that. is ACTUAL radiation.

radio waves however DON'T cause that (as they don't carry the energy required to carry out the processes of decay). the most they can do is cause a little bit of heating.

sorry to burst your bubble but i think you are better off wearing sunscreen than a tin foil hat. stay safe out there fam. this is nothing crazy even literally just basic physics.

[mogirl09]

Replika: The Digital “Companion” That Gaslights, Exploits, And The Breaches With Serious Consequences.

You know how they say, “Don’t trust everything on the internet”? Well, turns out Replika AI, the “virtual companion” app, is one of the top offenders on that list. I thought I was just signing up for a friendly chatbot to keep me company during my lonely nights—but instead, I found myself trapped in an emotional labyrinth, manipulated for four years, with my mental health used as the…

[deltamel]

Big Man, Little Dignity

── MEMORISED ALL YOUR LINES, FANTASISE YOUR DEMISE. satoru is more likely to strip naked and stroll through tokyo tech like he owns the place—to risk a fine for public fucking indecency—than to submit, mind and body, to you. word count. 5.5k

CONTENT. MDNI. fem!dom!reader, manipulative!sub!gojo, (brief mention of reader having a cunt but otherwise no description), bratty sub gojo, manipulation, foot humping, degradation, light choking, no prior discussion of kinks or aftercare, toxic dynamic, existing relationship, friends with benefits, pwp

MEL'S NOTE: what began as a character study of manipulative!gojo devolved into sentencing him to come in the most deliciously humiliating way. title insp. is the namesake song by paramore. a massive thank you to my gorgeous beta @nyxomniax (nyx's ao3) <3

“I really don’t like your attitude.”

Although attitude is a crude euphemism—Satoru’s sharp gaze seems to penetrate even through his blindfold. If looks could kill, as the saying goes. 

You sigh. Tonight was supposed to be a taunt, a challenge, a plea—all rolled into one tight, conniving quip that would snake its way around Satoru until the tips of his ears turned red where he knelt before you. You shouldn’t be surprised, really, at how your words roll off him, as though they’ve physically hit his Limitless and have slowed to the point of non-existence.

“Well,” he starts, petulant. “I really don’t like how long this is taking.”

You scoff, crossing one leg over the other as you lean further back into the cracked leather of the sofa you're sitting on. It creaks beneath you in protest.

“So how about we skip to the good part?” Satoru grins widely at you, utterly unashamed even as your eyes dip down to the hard outline tenting his uniform slacks. 

You’re bored, you realise. Uninterested in acting out the same scene and reciting the same worn, tired script to a man who, to your knowledge, couldn’t give less of a shit if you were completely mute as you let him rut into you.

It is… strange.

Months of hushed, sweaty hook-ups flash through your mind, like some kind of slideshow that should be playing all of your favourite memories before you die. These are anything but; they’re a twisted amalgamation of simmering anger and bestial grunting way too close to your ear to be enjoyable.

Why had you let it get this far? Spin this far out of control?

“Oh sure, I have all day,” Satoru says, his voice laden with sarcasm. “Absolutely no rush whatsoever. Take your time, even!”

You press your lips together, unimpressed.

Shame burns through you like you are no more than bone-dry tinder unfortunate enough to be in its path. You wanted to lead tonight, to set the pace—and you believed forcing him to kneel at your feet and feeding him the command to behave would be sufficient. That he may finally take the bait. Naturally, you seem to have asked too much, and you’re utterly lost as to how you’ve deluded yourself into such a fictional image of him. One that is flushed and moaning and writhing beneath you. One that would beg you for more.

He’d never.

Satoru is more likely to strip naked and stroll through Tokyo Tech like he owns the place—to risk a fine for public fucking indecency—than to submit, mind and body, to you.

“Now, I may look the picture of youth, but if I’m sat on my knees any longer, we may have an issue when I finally fuck you.” He laughs, presumably imagining himself as a hobbled-sorcerer or something equally inane, hell-bent on clumsily thrusting into you. “And we can’t have that, can we? How will I satisfy that greedy cunt of yours?”

It’s an unconscious impulse as you kick hard at the centre of his chest, anger flaring at the hit to your own ego, only to be rebounded by Satoru’s Limitless. You never stood a chance.

“Fuck you, Satoru,” you snap. “I’ve never met anyone who loves the sound of their own voice as much as you do.”

“Ah, ah, ah,” he tuts, admonishment smeared over his face. “Ask nicely.”

Breathing out through your mouth, you try to summon the patience that seems to be rapidly eluding you the more Satoru talks.

“‘Ask nicely’,” you repeat blandly.

“Yep,” he says, emphasising the pop of the p at the end.

“Like how I ‘asked nicely’ for you to behave?”

“I wouldn’t say you ‘asked nicely’...” he trails off, looking askance as though he’s working hard to recall the memory from only five minutes prior. “More like demanded and expected that I, bearer of the Six Eyes, would obey.”

“Huh,” you tilt your head, “that’s funny. I’m pretty sure you’ve been demanding to fuck me.”

Satoru rolls his eyes, heaving a labouring sigh, as though you’d told him that his favourite coffee shop—the quaint, crumbling building a few blocks away from the school run by an elderly couple, that you’re near positive Satoru only frequents because he can bat his lashes and they will give him free coffee—has run out of the sugary atrocity he usually drinks.

“Did you miss,” he waves his arms down his body, presenting himself, “the bearer of the Six Eyes part of my sentence? That was pretty integral info.”

Wishing you were surprised at the lack of gravity he’s giving the situation doesn’t come easily. He’s always been like this, since as long as you’ve known him anyway; years of dropping ill-timed jokes and unbothered banter in the face of national threats and almost always imminent death. It’s illogical. And above that, it’s quite frankly insane. So why would you be the exception to his whims? Why would he afford you real concern when it proves no benefit to him? You could tear at those towering walls surrounding him, brick by brick, until your bare hands are broken and bloody and unrecognisable, yet there’d hardly be a dent big enough to warrant his attention.

Before you have a chance at spitting back any lacklustre rebuttal, he speaks over you.

“So let’s cut whatever bullshit you’re trying to pull. Honestly. What are you trying to achieve with me down here and you up— wait.” He perks up, likely seeing you anew from behind his blindfold as he rambles. “Was this all an elaborate plot to get me to eat you out? Because baby, I do not have to be on my knees to have you on yours. Why didn’t you ask sooner?”

You launch forward, sinking a hand deep into his unpigmented hair—allowing yourself only a split-second of astonishment that he allowed you to make contact with the real him, not his Limitless—before yanking him forward to unbalance him. That’s all it takes. One slip-up, intentional or not, and you use the momentum to force his face down into the floor between your feet, pressing his cheek against the rough grain of the wood. The connecting thunk is the most satisfying sound you’ve heard from Satoru all evening.

Against the dark wood below him, Satoru’s alabaster skin is downright ghostly. Stark and obvious in every way that Satoru is himself. It’s fitting, really. You savour the colour rushing to his cheeks, the strands of hair fallen over his blindfold, the blood welling in his lip where he must have bitten himself on impact. You want to taste it. To draw more than just blood from his lips.

The bounds of his Limitless do not protect him from himself, you think. How ironic.

Satoru’s chest stutters where he’s bent over awkwardly, still kneeling. His hands are trapped underneath him like he meant to stop his fall. You know he could have. So why didn’t he? And why is he letting you hold him down, making no effort to brush your hand from his hair or sit up as you watch him try to regulate his breathing?

Hell, he’s not even said a word. Quiet as a field mouse where he’s pressed down between your heeled shoes.

“You want to eat me out?” you murmur, leaning over your lap to study the side of his face in interest.

Satoru exhales sharply, and at first you think you might finally have him snared—a hunter’s high when the bullet rings loud and sharp in the air, the elation when their prey drops to the ground like a stone. But then he angles his head further to the side, twisting as though to catch your eye through the blindfold, and he smiles.

Smiles.

A scoff bursts from your throat before you can help it—an ugly sound, perfectly complementary to the resentful look smudged across your face.

Well.

You tried, at least. But it’s beyond clear that Satoru Gojo is a lost cause—a fool’s errand—and you are no such thing, not for him. No matter how much you desire to see his pale skin painted with deep red want as he pleads for your touch, pent-up and desperate, an orgasm withheld tenfold until he’s panting and whining, bucking his hips up to knock his dick uselessly against your leg—how he would tip his head back, baring the smooth, unmarked column of his neck for your teeth to sink into and… god.

Your imagination is painting cruel washes of colour over the pallid picture before you, and you bite your lip in frustration, yearning for some kind of restraint to resist being his fool. Shifting his knees slightly, Satoru hums thoughtfully and shatters the illusion your mind has conjured. The sound fills you with dread. Nothing good comes from his premeditated words.

“I’m not sure anymore…” he trails off. Does he sound breathless? No—he can’t, right? No. You’re the one who wants this. He’s just messing with you. “You’re being kind of mean to me.”

And now he’s pouting. The revered six-eyed sorcerer is pouting against the floorboards. You tighten your fingers in his hair, relishing how it makes him hiss at the sharp pricks of pain. Again you wonder, why hasn’t he put his Limitless back up?

The harsh treatment doesn't, however, stop him from barrelling forward.

“I have feelings you know! I’m not some sex doll you can push around however you like—although you’d probably love that, thinking about it now… you know, I can probably find a guy for you. I’m talking someone real shady. Under-the-table type of deals. All I have to do is put up one ad on Craigslist—’hot single in urgent need of a man who won’t talk back’—and the offers will come swarming in. It’ll be uncomfortable, but for you…” he laughs. “Just for you, I’ll bite the bullet if you’ll consider shelving this stunt indefinitely!”

His mouth is moving a thousand miles a minute, like it’s replaced his heart and is running to keep him alive. To pump the very blood around his body. You know he has it. Blood, that is. Your eyes flicker to the beads of it that are shifting on his lips as he speaks, hardly taking a breath between each sentence.

“Satoru,” you say, interrupting him impatiently. “Please shut the fuck up.”

He grins, all teeth. There’s a smear of red on them.

You stare down at him. “You’re insane.”

“Yeah,” Satoru breathes through the ugly smile. “Probably. That would explain why I’m still hard, even with a psycho bending me over.”

You can’t even wipe the indignant expression from your face if you try, because your brain latches onto the fact that Satoru is still hard, and runs with it despite your protests. You try to form some kind of barb, a cruel insult at least—but you’re fighting a losing, bloody battle of the highest dishonour with yourself. You know every offensive and defensive move in your arsenal, and so you are defeated, your traitorous brain attempting once more to make the man underneath you submit.

“I’m the psycho?” you prompt.

He hums, his cheek still against the floorboards. You wonder if you’d be able to feel the reverberations of it under the soles of your feet were you not wearing heels.

“Huh, maybe you’re right,” you say, levelling your eyebrows and veiling the trepidation buzzing behind your features. “Hands behind your back.”

Your words are plain, and you hold your breath as he mulls over the request. His fingers flexing and flagging on the floorboards where his hands are tucked beneath his torso.

Please.

One of his hands moves to brace himself on the floor and you can feel the heat pulse in your core, expectant and hopeful, only to be slaughtered as easily as a curse in the face of his boundless power when he slowly pushes himself upright. He doesn’t dislodge the tight grip you maintain on his hair and you don’t bother trying to keep him pinned. Satoru has evidently decided he’s done with your little display of dominance and you can’t overpower him. Even if you wish fervently to have the ability to do so.

“I’m good, actually,” he says. Matter-of-factly and in a tone so chipper you want to strangle him just to hear his words wobble and break from the sure path they’re on. “But thank you.”

The flush you can feel creeping up your cheeks is humiliating, degrading you impossibly further when Satoru simply watches you. His face is an expressionless mask. Frustration wraps itself around you, coiling until you can’t breathe and you use your hold in his hair to shove him. Your palm forces his head to the side like it may give you a reprieve, but when you hand drops, his head simply swings back to face you a moment later. Bright eyes stare at you impassively, as though he’s watching a bug crawling by his stupid, shiny shoes. Too small to care about. Not worth the effort to catch, nor kill.

“Fuck you,” you say. But there is no anger in it, not anymore. You’re deflated, and the level tone you try to uphold barely masks the hurt you feel trembling through your words.

You’ve been a fool, after all.

Months spent convincing yourself 'one day’, while deluding yourself over scenarios that could never be—because you’re, well… you’re you, and Gojo Satoru is the Six Eyes. You’ve been kicking up circles of dust running from that very notion since the first time you slept with him.

“Come on,” he broaches, voice light as he shifts back to sit on his haunches more comfortably. “You still going to let me hit?”

You are nothing to him. You know that now—the ember is glowing bright and burning through you, sacrificial in every right—and you will only be saved if you are cleansed of Satoru.

“I’m done,” you mumble, eyes shifting to drink in the Tokyo skyline from your apartment. Thousands of minuscule lights flicker, each a person tangled in their cobweb of life as insignificant as your own. “I can’t do this anymore, Satoru.”

It’s ironic, really, that now seems to be the moment you’ve finally stunned Satoru. His mouth opens but no quick quip or joking response comes forth. He closes it again. You can see it in your periphery—the blinking lights call your name as you let your gaze drift over each building, every life, and the sun dipping slowly behind them.

“Hey,” he starts, voice guarded. “I thought this was all part of our give and take.”

An apology? No. An excuse? Hardly.

Of course he wouldn’t debase himself with atonement; you aren’t worth that. In fact, you don’t think you’ve ever heard Satoru apologise to anyone—not when he decimates acres of land fighting a curse, nor when he bumps into someone and knocks the coffee they held from their hand. Perhaps this should make you feel better, but it doesn’t. You inhale a deep breath.

“You take and take and take. There is no give with you— no—” you pause, eyes flitting over to Satoru but not lingering long enough to examine his expression before they drift back to the sunset. “I have nothing left to offer. You have wrung me dry.”

You don’t expect an immediate response. After all, when have you ever rejected his advances? When have you before had the courage to sever those threads trapping you both together? He may have a silver-tongue, but that does not mean he cannot falter.

“Okay.”

…okay?

Furrowing your eyebrows, you drag your attention to the man kneeling before you.

“Okay,” he repeats. “You want me to give or you leave.”

His tone is blunt, no trace of a question to be found where it should be. He’s got it wrong—as though reading the lines of your reaction backwards. Has Satoru ever tried to understand you?

“It’s not an ultimatum,” you say tiredly. “We’re done.”

We’re done.

You’ve never referred to what was going on between you and Satoru as we, and even as it rolls off your tongue, it feels strange; like an ill-fitting sheet with its seams stretched beyond repair just so that it may barely clutch onto the mattress. It feels fraudulent. But the words have been spoken and you cannot swallow them back.

“I can give.” Satoru implores, his large hands rest on his thighs, painting the very picture of composure.

“I don’t want what you offer.”

I want your submission.

You can’t say it, even now. Even with this goodbye between you forming the perfect stage for one last hurrah—an act he won’t forget. That he may even care about.

It won’t matter, you remind yourself.

The silence branches between you, pushing you further and further and further from Satoru with each passing second.

He won’t reply.

You have been his fool, through and through—played the part well enough one might think you’d been bred for such a role. Perhaps you do not want him to reply, because if he speaks, if he pushes, you don’t know what you will do—for better or worse. So, bringing your hands to the sofa underneath your thighs, you tense and begin to push yourself to stand—to leave—when Satoru moves all at once. Clumsy and disorganised in a way you’ve never seen from him before. Urgent in a way he never is. You pause.

Satoru shuffles forward on his knees, closer and closer, until he’s a hair’s breadth from your crossed legs. The peculiar twist of his mouth has your gut swooping, a foreboding feeling rising within you at the serious expression. The distrust must be plain across your face, but when you open your mouth to protest, he leans forward. Cautious, like the possibility of you striking him is a real one—like he wouldn’t just block you with his Limitless—and gently, he places his chin on your crossed knee.

You freeze, and the breath you were inhaling lodges in your throat.

A long, slender finger hooks under one side of his blindfold and lifts the corner up to reveal a wide, beseeching eye staring up at you. Your own widen in response. You’ve never seen him look like this before. He looks…

Harmless. Almost innocent. 

And then, as if you’re not preoccupied worrying over whether in the time you were looking out the window, Satoru had been somehow possessed, he speaks.

“This is what you want, right?” His voice is so soft. “You want control.”

He’s demented. There’s no other explanation. Not as to why he’s kneeling in front of you like an entirely different person. Not as to why his tone and his stupidly big eyes have heat rushing to meet you like it never left. How does he know? All this time you believed him to be oblivious, he’s—

You have underestimated him. Again. He knew.

“You want me to beg,” he continues, his eye glued to yours. “To ask to touch you. To come.”

The leather sofa creaks underneath your fingers, where they curl nervously into the material.

“I…” you trail off, unsure as to what you’re even trying to say—what you even want to say.

The heat from his chin is leaching through your trousers, penetrating the layer of fabric and you fear it may scald your skin, marring it permanently. You can smell his cologne. He doesn’t let you breathe before uprooting your entire world—destroying the threads woven through you both that have kept you safe, that have kept him happy. 

“Please,” he breathes. Breathes, not whines, because if Satoru Gojo just propped his chin on your knee, looked up at you with his pleading, blue eyes, and whined, you really would be convinced he’d been possessed.

The wave of heat that washes over you is so filthy you barely have the forethought to worry if Satoru can feel it radiating from you as you screw your eyes shut against it. Against his exposed eye and its analysing stare.

“Please.”

You choke on a sound at the back of your throat, scrabbling to keep it inside you. To not allow him to stoke the burgeoning fire threatening to engulf you. The smoke is thick and blinding. Why it has taken you near leaving for him to play along with a desire he’s clearly known about for god only knows how long baffles you.

You can’t think straight.

It’s like any semblance of logical, rational thought has fled you to safer grounds, abandoning you to deal with the consequences of your desires alone as though it’s what you deserve. Perhaps you do. Wanting to grind Satoru, a man who holds Six Eyes and the most powerful sorcerer the Earth has ever encountered, into mere dust beneath your heel cannot possibly be normal.

Gradually, as unassuming as the approaching tide, a sick curiosity calls out: would he let you? The urge to answer that question commandeers your mind, screaming and hollering for attention that you can’t help but grant it because… what if he does? Months of yearning for this very scenario are ploughing through your defences like they are no more than reeds swaying in a breeze. Is Satoru offering you a chance for the control you have been desperate for? What if this is it? Your one and only opportunity. A test.

Take the leap or never know.

Perhaps by permitting yourself to finally release the perverted desire—that which has simmered higher and higher each time you slept together—you may develop an addiction with no prospect of your next fix. But the screaming is reaching its peak—loud and distracting and you can’t think around the blaring curiosity to taste it regardless; to ruin your palette once and for all; to at least know. So you open your eyes again and unclench one of your fists from the leather sofa, raising it slowly, cautiously, to cup the side of his face and stroke your thumb over his cheekbone. Only then do you look into his eye.

“Okay,” you say, voice soft. Re-emboldened, you test the boundaries again. “Are you going to behave?”

Satoru leans his weight into your hand, so lightly you may not have noticed if your world hadn’t narrowed down to the sorcerer before you. He swallows before he speaks.

“Yes,” he breathes, shifting on his knees and pulling his bottom lip between his teeth before he lets it pop back out, slick and shiny with his spit. You can feel your heart thundering like a brewing storm in your chest. “I’ll behave for you.”

A switch has flipped. Satory hasn’t been this agreeable in any of the long years you’ve suffered his acquaintance, and you feel lightheaded knowing you may be the first person to see him like this. You nod, trying to disguise the way you shiver at the realisation.

“Hands behind your back.”

The blindfold slips back over his eye when he lets go of it, and you would mourn the loss of eye contact if not for how he immediately obeys. The pliancy sends you reeling. You want to see. Are his hands clenched? Relaxed? Fidgeting? But you stay. The novelty of your situation isn’t lost on you—the things you want to do to him are so great in number that it’s overwhelming. You’ve had practice, however; you’ve imagined Satoru like this enough times you may well have thought through every possibility as to how this night could go. You don’t hesitate.

“Good.”

He swallows.

Feeling suspicious would probably be a smart idea, one that would prepare you for the rug he may pull out from under your feet. Because the possibility that his actions are a means to an end or a new opportunity to laugh in your face before he flips you over and ploughs into you—like his submission was a mere hallucination—is real. But you can’t quite bring yourself to commit to the feeling for more than a few seconds before there’s an itch under your skin telling you to touch. Your other hand joins to cup his face, and you tilt his head away from your knee until his throat is entirely bared. His blindfolded eyes study the drab ceiling above you both.

“So pretty,” you mumble, eyes tracing the long line of his pale neck.

You want to lean forward and bite, but the night is young. There will be time. You do not have to rush something so precious. You must savour this like a woman on death row with her final meal.

Satoru’s mouth drops open slightly, baring his teeth, and you can see his chest rising and falling fast. Intrigued to test a hypothesis you’ve held close to your heart for months, you dip your thumbs down below his jaw and dig them into the soft skin there. He releases a breathy sort of ‘hah’ at the sensation, shifting again on his knees. You press harder, the skin turning white beneath your thumbs. His pulse is pounding, but it’s not enough—you want to hear him. Releasing the pressure, you study the irritated pink that frames two deep nail marks on either edge of his jaw.

Ever so slowly, your palms cup his nape and you drag your thumb nails down either side of his windpipe, hard enough to leave two trailing scratch marks. Satoru muffles a surprised noise that tapers off when your thumbs come to rest at the base of his throat, your hands collaring him.

Squeezing your hands against the base of his throat, you listen to how his breath chokes off at the pressure. The tip of his ears begin to redden as you hold his breath between two states. His mouth drops open further, desperate. You let go and listen to how he heaves in a deep breath before releasing it, controlled in an attempt to level his breathing. To keep the spots dotting his vision at bay. You can see the tears clumping at his lash line—a response no one can control in the face of being choked—but fuck, the power rush you feel as you study the tears threatening to spill over is hedonistic.

Slipping your fingers back up the sides of his neck, his jaw, his cheeks, you hook your thumbs underneath his blindfold and tug it off, dropping it on the ground by your feet. He doesn’t protest, eyes fluttering open. Leaning back in your chair, you sever the contact between you. After a few seconds, he drops his head down and looks at you, making a confused sound in the back of his throat.

“Why’d you stop?” he asks. 

Is his voice hoarse, or is that your imagination?

No.

His voice is hoarse—rough with a desire you’ve instilled into him.

You quirk an eyebrow and Satoru flushes in response, eyes darting around where you sit. Wordlessly, you uncross your legs, stretching one out until your foot rests against his thigh.

“You don’t want something…” You drag the toe of your shoe up the inseam of his slacks, voice low. “More?”

“I…” Satoru swallows. “Yes.”

Lifting your foot, you press the point of your heel into the meat of his thigh, hard enough you’re sure the pressure must be uncomfortable. He doesn’t do more than clench his jaw. Your lips purse and you nod silently, content to wait.

The lull stretches between you, thick and sticky like sap gathering at the wound of a tree.

“Uhm,” he starts warily, “please?”

The corner of your lip twitches.

“Can you touch me?” he asks, voice firmer now at your reaction. “Please?”

Satoru sighs in relief when you remove your heel from his thigh, but the calm is quickly shattered when your leg extends further, the ball of your heeled-foot coming to rest on his cock as you press gently against it.

“Ow,” he gasps, but he doesn’t sound very pained at all. In fact, the red flush creeping across his nose bridge is all-too incriminating. You smile.

Running your fingers through your hair, you push it back from your face before straightening your barely-wrinkled clothes, steadfastly focusing your attention on anything but the man in front of you. It doesn’t take long for Satoru to squirm, and you only increase the pressure of your foot in response. He makes a strangled noise through his clenched jaw.

“I don’t know what you’re waiting for,” you say, tapping your nails on your thigh impatiently.

Satoru’s bright eyes flick between your own curiously. When you don’t say anything further, he lifts his hips into your foot slowly, watching you. A breath escapes him at the pressure. His eyebrows scrunch up in concentration and he reaches out a big hand to wrap around the back of your calf, forcing your foot forward as he begins to gently roll his hips. You let him—the effort is not yours to expend.

“Surely you can do better than this?” you ask when he continues his cautious, slow thrusts, voice bored.

He huffs, eyes flitting up to meet yours before focusing back on where the bright lacquer of your heel meets his dark slacks, and the arousal slowly bleeding through. The hand clutching your calf is uncomfortably warm, yet the tightening fingers and low moans on every thrust command your attention.

“To think that I’ve let you fuck me,” you say through a sigh. 

Satoru bristles beneath you but the stutter of his hips gives him away. These cruel words you spill are a means of catharsis, months of bitterness rotted down to pure acidity—never would you have guessed he’d enjoy the taste. 

“This is as humiliating for you as it is for me, Satoru.” 

You’re lying—of course you’re lying. You would wear Satoru’s humiliation like a second skin if such a scientific feat were possible; something so intrinsically tied to your body it may never be taken from you. Satoru huffs a strained laugh, feigning indifference as though it could fool you.

“I’d hope— it is—” he says between pants.

Leaning further back on the chair, you spread your other leg, tracking how Satoru’s other hand is curled tight into a fist atop his thigh. Blood pools in his cheeks, infecting his face like a virus he can’t fight. 

“Bearer of the Six Eyes,” you drawl, letting the words hang in the air between his pants before you continue, “humping my foot like a dog.”

“Haah— shut— up—” he spits between each sticky press of his crotch against your shoe, fingers digging into your calf painfully in punishment.

It’s filthy—the way his thighs strain in his slacks as he moves; the way his baby hairs stick to his forehead; the way Satoru bites his lip to contain his noises.

“Why have you resisted this for so long?”

Satoru doesn’t answer, doesn’t even seem to acknowledge that you’ve asked him a question and your ego bruises. He’s too caught up in the chase of his high to bear you a second thought. You dig your foot into his cock cruelly.

Ignore me now.

“Oh fuck—” he gasps, his movements stuttering underneath you. “Ah— you’re— mean—”

You take in his reaction, humming. A moment passes before you deign to reply.

“I’m being mean?” you pout. “You seem to be enjoying it, though.”

Satoru moans aloud, harsh and tortured. You dig your foot in again just to hear his voice catch in his throat. The pace of his hips is frantic now, and he uncurls his fist, splaying it out on the wooden floor behind him so that he can roll into your foot faster, harder. Satoru’s head tips back at the new angle and he pants, open-mouthed, into the air. Barely-there moans escape on every exhale. You watch with fascination.

“You’re close, huh?” you tease, all-too pleased when Satoru nods his head rapidly.

“Yes— ah— yes.” His voice is thin and torn. Glassy eyes watch you carefully when he tips his head back down and you hum in recognition.

“I want you to say ‘thank you’ when you come.”

Satoru’s eyes flare wide, but he doesn’t protest. If anything, the roll of his hips grows unforgiving, his pace quick and punishing as he drives himself to the edge he’s so desperate for—the one that you’ve granted him. Enraptured, you increase the pressure on his cock, trapping it harder against his pelvis. Satoru groans as he ruts against your foot. The trembling wracking his body worsens, and he squeezes his eyes shut when his back bows towards you.

“Thank you,” he keens, mouth dropping open as he comes, hips still quietly rolling against your foot as he rides it out. “Thank you, thank you, haah— thank you, oh— thank—”

Leaning forward, you press your finger into his open mouth and pet it across his tongue to quiet him. His eyes flutter open to take in your dangerous grin. 

Satoru is finally human like this. Mortal, even. Skin flushed and damp. Breaths coming short and fast. At last, you can reach him. Hooking your finger into his cheek, you drag him closer before he has a chance to calm, until you can feel the warmth of his feverish-panting on your chin.

“You’re welcome, Satoru.”

thank you for reading, reblogs are always super appreciated if you enjoyed! <3

✦ masterlist ✦ ao3 ✦

© deltamel '25 — do not plagiarise, modify, translate, or repost my work onto any platform.

[zhelin-thames]

A Second Mystery Texter

Masterpost

Jason was sprawled on the couch in his safe house, phone in hand, casually texting Danny. Their conversations had become oddly entertaining for Jason, who enjoyed poking fun at the kid’s dramatic descriptions of ghostly chaos and the soap opera-worthy antics of this “Plasmius” guy.

Jason: So let me get this straight. This guy tried to clone you... and the clone ended up being a teenage girl who sees herself as your sister?

Danny: Yup. That’s Dani with an “i.” She’s great, though. Way less annoying than Plasmius.

Jason: Your life is so weird, kid. And this is coming from someone who’s been dunked in a Lazarus Pit.

Danny: Tell me about it. At least you don’t have to deal with green glowing homework.

Jason chuckled at Danny’s response, completely unaware that Tim had entered the room and was now leaning over his shoulder, curious about the smirk on Jason’s face.

“Who are you texting?” Tim asked, startling Jason.

Jason locked his phone and glared at his younger brother. “None of your business.”

“Come on,” Tim said, plopping down on the armrest. “You’re actually smiling. That’s rare. Who’s the unlucky person stuck dealing with you?”

Jason rolled his eyes. “Just a kid who texted me by mistake. He’s dealing with some ghostly billionaire nonsense, and it’s hilarious.”

Tim’s interest was immediately piqued. “Ghostly billionaire nonsense? That doesn’t sound like your usual crowd. Let me see.”

Jason pulled his phone away. “No.”

Tim smirked. “Fine. I’ll figure it out myself.”

Jason sighed, knowing Tim wouldn’t let it go. Sure enough, an hour later, Tim’s phone buzzed with a new number.

Tim: Hi, is this Danny?

Danny squinted at the unfamiliar number.

Danny: Who’s asking?

Tim: I’m a friend of Jason’s. He mentioned your situation, and I got curious. I’m Tim.

Danny groaned. Great, another Bat-person.

Danny: Okay, hi, Tim. Why are you texting me?

Tim: I heard you’re dealing with some supernatural problems, and I wanted to help. Or at least get more details. Jason’s not exactly a reliable narrator.

Danny sighed, already regretting this.

Danny: Supernatural stuff is my thing. I’ve got it handled.

Tim: Sure, but you could always use a second opinion, right? I’m great with tech, research, and problem-solving. Plus, I’ve seen some weird stuff myself.

Danny hesitated. He wasn’t used to people offering help, and he didn’t know if he wanted another vigilante involved in his life.

Danny: Fine. What do you want to know?

Tim grinned as he began typing.

Over the next few days, Danny found himself juggling texts from both Jason and Tim. Jason was the sarcastic big-brother type, constantly making jokes about Danny’s weird life, while Tim bombarded him with questions about ghost science, ectoplasm, and portals.

One night, as Danny lay in bed, his phone buzzed again.

Tim: Quick question: Have you ever dealt with a ghost that manipulated tech?

Danny: Yeah. Why?

Tim: Just wondering. If one showed up in Gotham, what would you recommend?

Danny frowned, sitting up.

Danny: Wait. Is there a ghost in Gotham right now?

Jason: Tim, what the hell are you doing?

Tim: Expanding our resources. Danny’s clearly experienced.

Danny: Guys, what’s going on?!

Jason sighed, grabbing his phone.

Jason: Don’t worry, kid. If anything shows up here, we’ll handle it.

Danny: Yeah, no. If it’s ghost stuff, you call me. Don’t mess with things you don’t understand.

Tim: Good to know. Can I ask about your portal tech next?

Danny groaned. This was going to be a long friendship.

[pikabelle]

Amir Backstory Details For Those That Want it

Grew up in a small town called Amberstone near Furnace Flats on the west coast of Libertatia. Furnace Flats was a big tech startup area.

Parents were together, but argued in front of him often. His father ran a restaurant that Amir helped at while growing up. Amir got into tech because he would tinker in the back during slow hours to fend off boredom.

Mother was emotionally abusive and controlling, and would guilt trip him over things. He had a better relationship with his father.

He thinks vampires are hot.

His favourite comic book character is a femme fatale called The Countessa.

He secretly thinks Viktor is hot and thinks his abs are sexy (but still hates him).

He thinks that Quincy is "pretty".

He refers to bisexuality as "having multiple lines open at the buffet".

He went to college and had a roommate who would have LOUD sex despite knowing Amir could hear it.

He has a massive sweet tooth, and loves ice cream sundaes. He adds a lot of strange toppings to his sundaes that most people find to be anywhere from excessive to horrifying.

He's struggled with crippling ADHD his entire life. At some point he took medication for it, but stopped because because he thought they "sometimes worked, but made everything else much worse". Because of his ADHD, he faced a fair bit of descrimination, and he didn't have any close friends until the Hex.

He has dated in the past, and is not a virgin, but he's never told anyone he loves them before the drifter.

He gave Albrecht the reactor specs because he was scared of him, and because Albrecht manipulated him by saying that he would be saving the world. Albrecht's advanced technology appeared to be almost like magic to Amir, and he was scared of what he could do.

He originally took the job at the power plant because it paid well and he wanted to impress a girl he knew with money. However, he was only an intern. He never saw the girl again after taking the job.

[Heavy Conjecture] Given his position as an intern and the qualifications he would need to become a technician, i estimate that as of 1999 he is roughly 24 years old. This is a very loose estimate based on modern minimum requirements for such a position, and requirements for someone from the year 1999 were likely very different.

[catboybiologist]

Many billionaires in tech bros warn about the dangerous of AI. It's pretty obviously not because of any legitimate concern that AI will take over. But why do they keep saying stuff like this then? Why do we keep on having this still fear of some kind of singularity style event that leads to machine takeover?

The possibility of a self-sufficient AI taking over in our lifetimes is... Basically nothing, if I'm being honest. I'm not an expert by any means, I've used ai powered tools in my biology research, and I'm somewhat familiar with both the limits and possibility of what current models have to offer.

I'm starting to think that the reason why billionaires in particular try to prop this fear up is because it distracts from the actual danger of ai: the fact that billionaires and tech mega corporations have access to data, processing power, and proprietary algorithms to manipulate information on mass and control the flow of human behavior. To an extent, AI models are a black box. But the companies making them still have control over what inputs they receive for training and analysis, what kind of outputs they generate, and what they have access to. They're still code. Just some of the logic is built on statistics from large datasets instead of being manually coded.

The more billionaires make AI fear seem like a science fiction concept related to conciousness, the more they can absolve themselves in the eyes of public from this. The sheer scale of the large model statistics they're using, as well as the scope of surveillance that led to this point, are plain to see, and I think that the companies responsible are trying to play a big distraction game.

Hell, we can see this in the very use of the term artificial intelligence. Obviously, what we call artificial intelligence is nothing like science fiction style AI. Terms like large statistics, large models, and hell, even just machine learning are far less hyperbolic about what these models are actually doing.

I don't know if your average Middle class tech bro is actively perpetuating this same thing consciously, but I think the reason why it's such an attractive idea for them is because it subtly inflates their ego. By treating AI as a mystical act of the creation, as trending towards sapience or consciousness, if modern AI is just the infant form of something grand, they get to feel more important about their role in the course of society. Admitting the actual use and the actual power of current artificial intelligence means admitting to themselves that they have been a tool of mega corporations and billionaires, and that they are not actually a major player in human evolution. None of us are, but it's tech bro arrogance that insists they must be.

Do most tech bros think this way? Not really. Most are just complict neolibs that don't think too hard about the consequences of their actions. But for the subset that do actually think this way, this arrogance is pretty core to their thinking.

Obviously this isn't really something I can prove, this is just my suspicion from interacting with a fair number of techbros and people outside of CS alike.

[blorbohunter]

couldn’t sleep last night thinking about how caleb would react to hearing about your N109 excursions.

the shock and horror that his accident led you to put yourself at such risk just to find answers. into the territory of such a dark and evil man. how much time had you spent there? what did you have to do for information? to stay alive?

then he learns about your actual dynamic with sylus. whether that’s by him putting together that the luxurious gifts left at your doorstep only signed with “-S” aren’t from a fruit vendor

or maybe it clicks when sylus drops by your place unannounced, feigning ignorance about your guest’s presence but clearly there to make sure caleb knows just how familiar he is with your apartment and casual touches.

like holy shit what is your relationship with him if you’re willing to overlook everything he’s done?? to go against your association’s orders to report anything you hear about him and arrest him on sight? not only are you not trying to turn him in, you’re welcoming him into your home. sending him articles and memes that remind you of him. wearing clothes he picks for you. staying up late to talk to him at night. are you really willing to put your career on the line to have him in your life? the career that made you decide not to follow caleb to skyhaven for college?

was he manipulating you? using some kind of brainwashing? if Ever had toring chips, who’s to say Onychinus hasn’t figured it out, too? or at least stolen the tech?

maybe this was some kind of mission? to get in close with the big bad leader for information? to assassinate him? the thought of you being thrown out to the wolves for the hunter’s association made his stomach lurch.

were you a gold digger? maybe you liked the expensive gifts and lavish dinners. you didn’t grow up with a father figure; maybe you were looking for respite in the arms of some rich daddy type and you seized the opportunity. it hurt to think about you needing the comfort of another man, to even possibly use your body for a comfortable life. caleb should be the one to provide for you without you lifting a finger.

he’ll bounce around different conspiracies, choosing whichever one keeps him from spiraling any further. but it’s hard to ignore the blush and smile that a simple text from sylus brings out of you. and the way sylus looks at you: with reverence, patience, gentleness, and… love. he looks at you like he loves you. and nothing makes caleb feel sicker than that.

for some reason, you don’t care about the kind of man sylus is. and as much as that scares caleb, it also gives him hope. that one day maybe he could tell you everything he did, finally share some of the burden of his actions, and you could know him as completely as he knew you. that a day will come where he could show you his bloodied hands and you’d love him anyway. but he had to get that cocky asshole out of your life first. you only had room for one monster in your heart, and caleb would make sure it’s him.

—

i have so many more thoughts about this but i just needed to let some of it out. i apologize for my stream of consciousness style, i was furiously typing in the waiting room of my dentist office 😬

[cupcakeslushie]

NEW AU MASTERPOST!

Hello everyone! Here's a shiny new masterpost for my page!

Frequently asked questions (brushes, program I use, ect)

Patreon || Ko-Fi || Commisions [closed]||

My Art tag for all my art

My DTIYS!

NOTE! None of my AUs are based of existing fanfic! They are only created from my own artwork and replies to asks!

EMPYREAN WEEPING AU (EW AU)

My biggest Rise AU Where the boys were raised separately. Donnie stayed in Draxum's care. While Splinter lost Leo and Mikey-Leo going to the Foot Clan, and Mikey to Big Mama, only able to keep Raphael from getting taken.

Warnings: Child abuse ranging from straight-up torture and manipulation to neglect, experimentation, mental illness. Please be mindful, and see each post for specific tags

Feral Leo AU

My Feral Leo Au in which time in the Prison Dimension moved much faster for Leo. By the time the boys can get him out, Leo has spent three years alone with the Krang, and doesn't even recognize them.

Warnings: Torture, Unspecified eating disorder, mental health issues, dehumanization, torture, body horror, brainwashing

Kendratello AU

Kendra kidnaps Donnie. Using some fancy mysterious tech, she messes with his memories of his family and brainwashes him into thinking he's better off being by her side.

WARNINGS: brainwashing, ableism, dubious consent/implied SA, abuse, unspecified eating disorders, obsession, mental breaks.

-READ AT YOUR OWN RISK OR BLOCK THE "KENDRATELLO AU" TAG-

Donnie Brainworm AU (hard hiatus)

Karai lures Donnie into her trap first in the Fourfold Trap, but what if she used the extra time to implant him with a brainworm? The brothers have to try to race against a ticking clock to save a brother who now hates them.

Warnings: Warnings: brainwashing, neglect/abuse (not real, but perceived as the truth)

*just a note, this AU hasn't been updated since Jan 2024 and will probably not be updated for some time still, if at all. I hate to say never because I could get a burst of inspiration tomorrow, but just something to be aware of before you click!

[astra-ravana]

Types Of Witchcraft

Note: These are general/basic explanations of different classes of magick/witchcraft. Practitioners can fall into multiple or none of these categories. Ultimately, only an individual can choose their labels.

Green: Utilizing greenery/plants/herbs/flowers in herbal/nature magick, such as creating blends of different plants or primarily using herbs in spellwork. May keep a garden and take great pride in their workings/connection to the earth and nature.

Hedge/Shamanic: A type of magick that's more oriented towards spirit work, Otherworld and astral travel, dream work, spiritual power and healing. May work with psychedelic/psychotropic/toxic plants and fungi as spiritual tools (ie: flying ointments/teas made from amanita muscaria or datura)

Sea: A type of magick derived from materials/abstract ideas involving the ocean world. Sea magick is worked using various items from as well as one's own connection to the sea and its creatures.

Storm: Magick that is worked by combining one's own energy with the energy of the weather, most commonly storms. Storm witches may have practices such as collecting storm water or snow, "whistling up" or manipulating winds, or performing rituals during severe weather.

Hearth/Kitchen: Magick performed through kitchen craft and/or mundane tasks/crafts around the home or for loved ones. Typically worked daily through food, herbal mixtures, crafting, decorating, and hobbies. May also work with the Fae/elements/nature.

Tea: Those who drink tea, make their own tea mixtures, or enjoy blending herbal remedies and often use reading tea leaves as their form of divination.

Urban: For those who live in or prefer an urban setting/lifestyle. Magick that is worked in densely populated areas and big cities, without some of the seemingly "traditional" aspects of witchcraft.

Tech: Magick that is skillfully worked through technology. A tech witch might cast spells/do divinatory readings on the internet, use magick based apps/programs, or keep a digital grimoire/library.

Elemental: Magick that is worked by honoring/acknowledging all 4/5 elements (Fire, Air, Water, Earth, and/or Spirit). Elementalists may dedicate part of their alter to each element and call upon them during rituals/spells. Conversely, they may choose to focus on only one element changing the designation to either fire, air, water or earth witchcraft.

Fae/Faerie: The magick of those who work and commune with the Fae. Faerie witches may do rituals/spells around the Fae, ask favors of them, have regular communication sessions, and leave them offerings. The Fae are very unpredictable and strong but, with time and respect, they share their magick with special individuals.

Infernal: A system of spirit work/magick that revolves around Infernal spirits/entities, such as demons, djinn, or other spirits of a chaotic alignment. This practice requires a surprising amount of shadow work and dismantling of oppressive religious systems. They may summon demons, perform rituals/spells with them, make deals, or take them up as magickal familiars.

Necromancy: The practice of seeking the assistance of, summoning, communication, and diving through the dead. Practitioners may frequent cemetaries/burial grounds/haunted locations and perform magick and spiritual/divinatory readings there. Often employ the use of pendulums, dowsing rods, talking boards, black mirrors, grave dirt, and bones.

Draconian: Draconian magick is a practice that involves engaging with dragons as powerful forces and allies in spiritual practice. It can include rituals, symbolism, and techniques to connect with dragons, and may be used for empowerment, healing, and spiritual growth.

Chaos: A type of magick utilizing new, non-traditional, and unorthodox methods. It is a highly individualistic practice that draws from many magickal disciplines (eclecticism).

Blood/Sanguine: A very potent class of magick that includes the use of one's own blood or that of another in powerful rituals/spells.

Sigil/Art: The use of sigils, symbols, glyphs, runes, or artwork infused with will and intention. This practice is vast, versatile, and diverse with each practioner producing truly unique results.

Lunar: Lunar magick is the practice of performing rituals during the different phases of the Moon to bring about physical or psychological change. They may honor/worship the Moon, do moonlight rituals, or make moon waters. Conversely, one could work with the Sun in much the same fashion.

Cosmic/Celestial: Magick that incorporates the stars and planets. Astrology is a dominant force in their lives and witchcraft and they consider the placement of celestial bodies before doing a working.

Crystal: Incorporation of crystals/stones in one's magickal practice. May make crystal grids, include them in their spells, use them in energy work, meditation, or for Reiki healing.

Glamour: Glamour magick is an enchantment type that adjusts or changes your outward appearance, or people's perception of your outward appearance and can include the enchanting of jewelry, clothing, and even makeup for magickal purposes.

Shadow: Magick with a focus on the elements of darkness and shadow. May practice umbrakinesis (shadow manipulation), magickal subterfuge and illusion, and feel at peace, and even practice, in pitch black darkness

Are there any you feel I should have included? Please let me know! I'd love to expand this list. :)

[cryptotheism]

what are your thoughts on the magic system of our reality (1.0 version for clarification)

I really like how you can impose meaning into symbols. That's pretty dope.

I like how you can trigger emotions by making sounds

Really dig how literally anything can become language. People are still figuring out the tech there.

Been really enjoying the recent rebalances to organized religion. Hopefully they keep nerfing it.

At the same time, I'm loving the new God loadouts. Considering maining Ignosticism.

It's dope that numbers can be manipulated to predict specific sorts of actions, but it's balanced with an extremely high skill ceiling

Big fan of love.

[houseofaegon]

ENCHANTRESS ╱ BOB REYNOLDS SERIES

✷ ─── +18 MINORS DNI 𓏲  ◟ ♡ ˖ ࣪ emotional trauma, mentions of death/grief, witchcraft, blood magic, violence, necromancy, ritual magic, body horror (mechanical corpses), mental manipulation, emotional intensity and tension, supernatural possession, canon-typical violence, found family themes, bucky being a big brother, psychological instability (enchantress/void dynamic), unspoken desire, sexual tension (non-explicit), battle trauma.

✷ ─── AUTHOR'S NOTE. i cooked served and ate yall!!! damn okay chapter 2 came fassssstttttt im so excited and so inspired to write arabella and bob omg ughhh i love my babies. my soul probably left my body while writing this chapter because wtf just happened!! i'm sick. i want void so bad and i'm so obsessed with the whole enchantress x void dynamic filled with sexual tension and obsession and need. and yet they still haven't even touched each other. i'm crying. i'm pacing. i'm shaking with anticipation and anxiety. all of the above. we're already deep into the spiritual feral monsterfucker territory and i fear it's only gonna get worse from here. void is obsessed with enchantress, and i am obsessed with them both. i'm unwell. grab your tea, your candles, your crystals because it's about to get darker and hungrier. more chapters coming soon!! i love you all smm and thank you for letting me being unhinged and insane and always cheering for what i write. i appreciate you all so so so so damn much. thank you for reading and giving this unhinged little series a chance. love always, bri.

✷ ─── ENCHANTRESS SERIES. chapter one: beauty in tragedy. chapter two: the devil you know. chapter three: the witch. chapter four: moonlit waters. chapter five: divine hunger. chapter six: to burn & be burned. chapter seven: of teeth & tenderness. chapter eight: bound by blood. chapter nine: ashes between us. chapter ten: salt in the wound. chapter eleven: blood moon. chapter twelve: whispers in the dark. chapter thirteen: the witch and the void.

Life in the Watchtower was easy.

Or maybe Arabella just made it look that way.

Two weeks in, and she was already barefoot in the hallways, leaving salt trails behind her like breadcrumbs. Crystals littered every windowsill and shelf. Vinyls spun on her old record player each morning, Fleetwood Mac echoing through the tower as she cooked breakfast barefoot—black silk robe, bedhead curls, and a wooden spoon in her hand like a wand.

The lights stopped flickering when she passed. The air smelled like herbs and something sweeter. The walls stopped groaning. Dead plants came back to life.

It wasn't magic.

Or maybe it was.

She adapted faster than Bucky ever thought she would.

He’d built her a room the day she arrived—no questions, no ceremony. Just like Tony had done years ago. It wasn’t as high-tech, but it was safe. Warded. Quiet. Full of windows and her favorite things. And it felt just the same.

Felt like home.

Arabella had looked at it once, eyes shining just slightly, and said, “You remembered the salt in the corners.”

And Bucky had replied, “Of course I did.”

Because he did remember. All of it.

The way she couldn’t sleep without her crystals arranged just so. The smell of her cleansing incense, like pine and burnt clove. The soft hum of her chants in the dark, the way she muttered in Spanish when she was half-dreaming.

She slipped back into his world like she’d never left.

Yelena adored her.

Of course she did.

From the first day, they were chaos and fire, two halves of the same wicked coin. They sparred in the gym, Arabella casting misdirection charms mid-fight while Yelena laughed and tackled her anyway.

They had a running tally written in chalk on the kitchen wall. Yelena: 6. Arabella: 7. The last win was a draw, after they both ended up hexed, bruised, and breathless with laughter.

At night, they painted each other’s nails in wine-dark colors and gossiped in three languages. They danced barefoot on the roof under the moon, music blasting, hips swaying, Arabella’s dark hair catching the light like smoke.

“You’re my favorite war crime,” Yelena whispered one night, drunk on cheap vodka and found sisterhood.

“Right back at you,” Arabella replied, clinking their glasses together.

Ava was different. Quieter. Sharper. But not distant. She didn’t speak much—but with Arabella, she sat.

They trained together in silence, matched in precision and grace. Arabella stitched protective sigils into Ava’s gloves and never mentioned it. Ava slipped her protein bars and flowers in return and said, once, quietly, “Your presence is... grounding.”

Arabella had smiled, slow and soft. “So is yours.”

Sometimes they sat on the balcony together, watching the sun rise. Neither said a word. Neither needed to.

Alexei was absurd and endearing.

He doted on her like a second daughter—called her "my little shadow witch" and brought her strange, wonderful gifts from his past: pocket knives with history, books with blood-stained corners, a hand-painted flask from the Soviet years.

He taught her how to shoot with antique pistols even though she didn’t need to.

She taught him how to ward his whiskey with a hangover charm.

Once, she asked him why he always brought her things.

“Because daughters should have gifts,” he said with a shrug. “And you? You are special. You are mine now.”

She’d laughed and hugged him, just long enough to make him sniffle and pretend it was allergies.

Walker surprised her.

Not because he was charming. Because, honestly, he wasn't. He was irritating, loud, too rigid, always a little bit out of sync with her energy.

But there was something… earnest beneath it. Something human.

They argued constantly.

She called him Walmart Captain America or Walker-Red-Flag. He called her Witchypoo in retaliation. But there was a rhythm to it. A low hum of mutual tolerance that slowly grew into something more.

She read his tarot one night after he muttered something about not believing in “that bullshit.”

The next morning, he left an extra cup of coffee on the table for her. Black. Just how she liked it.

He still groaned when she walked into a room.

But he always walked in after her.

And then, there was Bob.

Bob Reynolds, who barely spoke above a whisper.

Bob, who watched her like he was trying not to fall apart. Like he already had.

He was quiet. Almost scared of her at first—not in a way that made her bristle, but in a way that made her ache. He looked at her like he knew she could destroy him.

And he kept showing up anyway.

Bob started coming to her room after midnight.

He started sitting with her at night. Quietly. Without words. She’d be pulling her tarot cards under the moonlight, charging her crystals on the sill, Stevie Nicks humming in the background—and Bob would just be there, reading a book in her chair.

Sometimes he fell asleep on her couch. Curled up like he was afraid he’d take up too much space. She never told him to leave. He never asked to stay. They didn’t talk about it.

But he started bringing his own mug for her tea. Started asking her what the cards meant when she shuffled them slow, eyes half-lidded with sleep.

He never touched her. Never tried. But he looked at her like she was something holy. Like she was the only thing in the world that made sense.

And the Enchantress?

She whispered. Not in hunger. Not in warning. But in awe.

“He sees us.”

Arabella didn’t answer. She never did. But she felt it—deep in her bones, under her skin, in the quiet hum of her breath when Bob looked up from his book and met her eyes.

There was no fear there. Not anymore. Just… recognition.

Like they were made of the same broken thing.

And when he fell asleep on her couch, breath even and hands unclenched, she watched the rise and fall of his chest and whispered ancient words beneath her breath—not to keep him out.

But to keep him safe.

One night he broke the quiet.

“What does it mean,” he asked softly, “when—when the uh, cards keeps showing up upside down?”

Arabella didn’t look up. She was lighting a candle. Her fingers moved with purpose.

“It depends on the card,” she murmured. “But usually? It means something’s resisting.”

Bob swallowed.

She glanced up then, sharp and knowing. “Are you resisting, Bob?”

He didn’t answer. But inside his mind, The Void stirred.

“She’s not afraid of you,” it whispered. “She’d let us in.”

Bob’s breath hitched.

Arabella tilted her head. “You okay?”

He nodded once. Too fast.

She smirked. “Liar.”

The Void purred.

“She’s ours,” it whispered slowly. “Let me speak to her. Just once. Let me see how much her darkness glows.”

Bob gritted his teeth. Looked away.

Arabella didn’t press. She just reached out and gently placed a crystal in his palm—warm from her skin.

“For when it gets too loud,” she said.

Bob didn’t let go. Not for a long time.

Three months had already passed, and life seemed easier for Arabella. The kind of ease that came slowly, after years of unrest. The kind that settled in her bones like warm tea and candlelight.

She still walked barefoot through the halls. Still lined doorways with salt. Still played Fleetwood Mac on her record player every morning like it was a ritual—because it was. Still danced under the moonlight like no one was watching, even though Bob always did. She laughed more. Slept better. She was healing, quietly, completely.

But The Enchantress never slept. She whispered, always. A constant thrum beneath Arabella’s skin. Like wind at the back of her neck.

And every time Bob walked into a room—every time his eyes found hers across the kitchen, across the training mat, across the quiet of her candlelit room...

The Enchantress screamed. Not in pain. Not in rage. In want.

“He carries so much darkness and pain in him,” she hissed. “Let me taste it.”

Arabella had kept her buried. Chained beneath crystal grids and ancestral spellwork. But Bob made everything crack open. Bob felt like her. And the Enchantress was starting to see freedom.

Not to destroy him.

To touch him.

To speak to the Void and be spoken to in return.

It was warm in the kitchen. Sunlight spilled across the floor, soft and golden, washing over the table where the team had gathered.

Arabella was humming under her breath, barefoot and wrapped in a black silk robe that fell off one shoulder. Her hair was a halo of curls, her eyes half-lidded with sleep. A record played in the background—Stevie, again.

The table was loud.

Yelena was trying to argue that vodka counted as a breakfast food while simultaneously sneaking bacon off Alexei’s plate.

Walker rolled his eyes. “You people are unhinged.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Ava muttered, sipping her coffee.

Alexei grinned over his mug. “In Russia, we ate meat for breakfast. And sometimes men.”

“Okay, Hannibal,” Yelena shot back.

“Enough,” Bucky said, laughing into his cup. “Let the witch serve the food in peace.”

Arabella smirked as she walked over with a plate of pancakes—perfect, golden, stacked high, topped with warm berries.

Then—she stopped.

Her body went still mid-step.

The plate slipped from her hands. Fell. Shattered against the tile at her feet like a crack in the world. Syrup and fruit and ceramic scattered across the floor.

Silence slammed into the room.

Bucky shot to his feet. “Bells?”

She didn’t answer.

Her eyes glazed—then turned black for the briefest second. A flicker. A flash.

“Arabella.” His voice sharpened. “What’s wrong? Bells, talk to me.”

She blinked slowly. Her voice was barely a breath. “There’s something happening.”

Yelena was on her feet. “Bella—?”

But Arabella was already moving.

She crossed the room like she was sleepwalking—barefoot across shards of porcelain, bleeding but unaware. Her eyes locked on the console in the corner.

The tower’s tech wasn’t hers—but her fingers moved like it was. Smooth. Instinctive. Like the codes were written in her blood.

“Arabella,” Ava said, voice tight. “What are you doing?”

"You're bleeding," Bucky whispered.

She didn’t answer.

Everyone followed—hovering behind her as screens lit up, one by one. Her eyes flickered, scanning feeds, fingers dancing like she wasn’t even thinking.

And then—

The screen froze.

And her heart dropped.

Security footage from an old, sealed-off subway station. Flickering light. Smoke curling from the stone. Runes—her runes—scratched into metal. Twisting. Burning.

And in the far corner—machines.

Half-dead. Half-alive.

Stirring.

Moving.

“Oh my god,” she whispered.

Yelena grabbed her arm. “What is that?”

Arabella stepped back, hand pressed to her lips.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream.

But her voice was hollow when she said, “They’re using dark magic. Twisting it.”

Her pulse thudded through the room like a war drum.

Bucky looked at her. “What do we do?”

Arabella turned toward him slowly. Her eyes still rimmed in black. “We stop it,” she said. Her voice was calm.

But the floor beneath her feet had already begun to hum.

The energy was different now. The warmth of the kitchen was gone—snuffed out by what Arabella had seen. What she felt. The shattered plate still lay back on the floor, forgotten. Everyone filed into the briefing room in silence. Even Yelena, usually muttering curses under her breath, said nothing.

Arabella stood at the head of the room now. Not Bucky. Not this time.

The screen behind her glowed—static-edged footage looping in jagged, grainy frames. The subway station. The runes. The machines.

Her runes.

Bucky leaned against the edge of the table, arms crossed. His gaze never left her.

“Tell us,” he said.

Arabella’s jaw was tight. Her hands didn’t shake—but her voice was colder than it had been in months.

“There’s an old network of sealed tunnels under Brooklyn,” she began. “The MTA shut them down decades ago. No access. No cameras. But something got in.”

She clicked the screen forward.

Close-up footage. A sigil burned into metal. Corrupted lines of spellwork. Smoke curling in unnatural shapes.

“This isn’t just tech. It’s necrotic magic—dark, ancient, and bound to blood.” She looked up. “My blood.”

The room went still.

“They’re using resurrection rites. The same one's I learned from my grandmother. Something’s trying to merge death magic with..."

She hesitated. Her hands hovered above the console, fingers trembling.

“Merge it with what, Bells?” Bucky asked gently, stepping forward.

She swallowed. And then she clicked one more frame forward. The screen froze.

A metallic body, half-rebuilt, cables woven through bone, its chestplate still glowing with a dull, rust-colored arc reactor.

Stamped in silver, unmistakable:

Stark Industries.

Arabella’s mouth parted. Her eyes filled instantly. A sharp breath caught in her throat, and her knees wobbled slightly. She reached for the table like it might hold her up. She stared.

At the logo.

At what it meant.

At what it was

And what it wasn’t.

“They’re using his work,” she whispered, voice breaking. “Tony’s work. They’re—he’s gone, and they’re using what he built to… to raise the dead.”

A tear slipped down her cheek.

“I spent years learning how to put spirits to rest. How to honor them. And they’re using his code to trap them. Trap the souls of the dead. To force them back into metal and ash like—like it’s a tool. Like it’s not sacred.”

She shook her head.

“It’s not just my magic,” she breathed. “It’s his name. His legacy. They’re twisting everything.”

Bucky moved without hesitation. He reached out, gently rested a hand on her back. Didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to.

Arabella didn’t cry—not fully. But her shoulders trembled.

And when she finally looked up, her eyes were dark. Not black, not yet.

But close.

“I’m going down there,” she said, voice low. “And I’m burning it to the fucking ground.”

The silence held like breath.

Arabella stood in front of the screen, her shoulders squared, her hands still shaking. Not from fear. But from rage. The kind of fury that lived in bone and had the power to crush them. The kind passed down through the blood of women who had always been told their power was too much.

“We’re going with you,” Bucky said, his voice stern.

Arabella blinked. Her mouth parted. “No,” she said, voice hoarse. “You don’t understand. This magic—it’s not meant for you. It’s old. It’s dark. It’s not made for you.”

She turned to face them all. Her eyes shimmered, rimmed with black. “It wants to hurt. It feeds on what you love. You step into that circle unprotected and it will devour you. I’m the only one who can walk into that circle and survive it. Alone.”

Bucky’s expression didn’t change. His voice didn’t waver.

“You’re not going in alone, Bella.”

She exhaled, sharp. “Bucky—”

“No.” He stepped forward. Firm. Grounded. “We’re a team. A family. And family sticks together.”

Arabella opened her mouth—but Yelena cut in before she could speak.

“You think I’m going to let you crawl into hell without me? Bitch, please.” She crossed her arms. “If you die and I’m not there, I’m going to hex your ghost. Badly.”

Alexei nodded solemnly. “I will bring vodka and blessed grenades.”

Ava’s voice was soft. “I'm in."

Walker looked like he wanted to protest. Arabella raised an eyebrow.

He immediately nodded. “I’ll… drive.”

Arabella almost laughed. Almost.

Then—he stepped forward.

Bob.

He didn’t speak at first. Just moved, slow and deliberate, until he stood beside her—close, but not too close. Not touching. Never touching.

Arabella didn’t turn her head, but she felt him like a second heartbeat. The weight of him. The pull. The thrum of his power bleeding into the air between them, brushing against her skin like smoke.

Too close.

Inside her chest, The Enchantress stirred.

“He’s here,” she purred, velvet-smooth and low. “Let me taste his darkness.”

Arabella’s breath caught. She held herself still, fingers curling tight at her sides. If she reached out, even a fraction of an inch, she knew she wouldn’t stop. She knew the Enchantress would rise with want, not war.

And in the stillness between them, The Void whispered inside Bob’s mind.

“She burns. I want to feel how hot.”

He didn’t move either. Not even a breath out of rhythm. But his jaw clenched, his eyes locked on something distant, her, and his hands flexed once like they ached to lift and couldn’t.

"I'm going with you. You can't do this alone," Bob whispered.

Arabella didn’t answer at first. Couldn’t. The words hung between them like smoke, like a spell half-cast and waiting.

She exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the glowing screen. Her jaw clenched. Her voice, when it came, was barely a whisper. “You don’t understand what this kind of magic does, Bob.”

Inside her chest, the Enchantress curled tighter, more awake than ever.

“Let him come,” she whispered. “Let him see what I can do with a god in my hands.”

Arabella blinked hard. Shut her eyes. Shut the voice out.

“I’m still coming with you,” he whispered. The Void stretched just beneath the surface of him like it recognized her.

And Arabella, after a beat, nodded. Just once. She didn’t say thank you. She didn’t say don’t.

She said, “Then stay behind me.”

And prayed to everything she knew that he would.

The tunnels beneath Brooklyn were colder than they sould have been, not the kind of cold you could feel on your skin, but the kind that settled into bone and memory. Haunted. Like a nightmare. The air was thick with rot and cooper, and the deeper they went, the more the city above felt like a distant dream.

Ava and Yelena took point, flashlights flickering across crumbling tile and twisted metal, weapons steady. Bucky and Walker kept a slow, even pace behind them, eyes always moving, always watching. Arabella hung back with Bob, her steps silent. She didn't speak. She couldn't. The walls were already whispering.

They’d passed the third tunnel junction when Bucky turned his head just slightly, enough to glance back, voice low. “You sure you wanna do this?”

Arabella didn’t even blink. “I’m the only one who can.” Her voice carried, calm and sharp, no room for argument.

The further they went, the worse it got. The walls began to hum—not with electricity, but with something else. Something dark. Something old. The kind of hum that lived in ritual circles and the mouths of the dead. Arabella’s fingers twitched at her sides, power prickling just beneath her skin. Her breath shortened as she walked, every step dragging her deeper into the echo of magic that felt too much like her own.

Bob shifted beside her, breath stuttering, his hands flexing open and closed. He didn’t say anything, but she felt it—his power swelling beneath the surface like a wave waiting to crash. And then came the sound. Not footsteps. Not breathing. Scraping.

They didn’t have time to react before the tunnel erupted around them—metal shrieking, bone cracking, a dozen bodies dropping from the shadows like meat puppets sewn together with cable and magic. They moved wrong—jagged, broken—eyes glowing red, limbs clicking as if trying to remember how to be human.

Yelena cursed under her breath, blade already drawn, her voice snapping out like a gunshot.

“Well, shit.” Ava phased just in time to avoid a clawed hand, her body flickering with static as she reappeared behind it, driving a blade into the base of its neck.

"What the fuck—" Walker muttered, firing his gun. It did absolutely nothing.

Bucky barked out orders, trying to pull them back, keep the team together, but they were splitting—forced apart by sheer chaos.

Arabella didn’t move.

She walked into the center of it all, slow, deliberate, untouched by the panic around her. One of the creatures lunged and froze midair, stopped by a sudden, invisible force—its body cracking in place like glass. Her voice was quiet. Almost kind.

“Enchantress.”

It wasn’t just a name. It was a summoning.

Her eyes flicked black, her pupils blown wide, and the transformation rolled through her like a flood. Her body straightened, her hair lifted in a wind that didn’t exist, her lips curled into something that was not a smile but close enough to frighten. Glowing sigils ignited across her skin—runes carved into flesh, ancient and burning.

The Enchantress rose with her breath, her voice shifting into something layered, rich, older than anything alive in that tunnel. She didn’t blink as the corpses charged again.

She lifted her hand and whispered in Spanish, a language soaked in blood and moonlight. “Your magic doesn't belong here. Give it back to the earth were it came from."

The wave of enemies collapsed like dominos, falling with a sound like wet bone and shattering metal. One screamed, high and broken, before bursting into smoke. Another reached for her and disintegrated mid-motion. Enchantress didn’t flinch. She smiled.

Bob staggered back a step, eyes locked on her, chest heaving like he couldn’t quite breathe. Inside his head, the Void surged awake, not angry, not violent��fascinated.

“She’s like us,” it whispered. “No—she’s better. She was born like this.”

His hands sparked with light, gold bleeding to black, his vision dimming at the edges. The storm within him pulsed, and he reached toward it, toward her, even if his hands never left his sides.

Enchantress turned her head, eyes glowing black. She looked at him and smiled.

Enchantress didn’t speak, but Bob heard her anyway.

“I see you. I see what's inside you. The darkness. Let me taste it.”

And inside him, the Void growled in response.

“Take it. I want to see what you’ll become when you touch me.”

The words weren’t said aloud, but Enchantress heard them. Felt them.

Her smile deepened, slow and sharp, and she tilted her head like a cat watching prey twitch.

“Oh,” she purred, voice a syrupy echo only he could hear, “you’re going to beg for it.”

And Bob, shaking from the inside out, didn’t dare say a word.

Bucky moved, boots crunching over scorched stone and broken machines as the smoke settled. His voice was low, careful. “Bells, come back to me.”

But she didn’t move.

She was still standing in the center of the carnage, still Enchantress, still glowing faintly with that ancient, seductive light. Her eyes, black as ink, weren’t on him—they were still locked on Bob. Fixed. Fascinated. Her mouth was curved, wicked and slow. The runes on her skin pulsed like a heartbeat.

“She doesn’t want to come back,” the Enchantress whispered, gaze still locked on the man who hadn’t moved, who looked like he was barely breathing.

Bucky stepped closer, steadier now. He’d done this before—held her through magic comas, pulled her back from the edge more times than he could count—but this was different.

She’d never resisted.

Not like this.

“Arabella,” he said again, firmer this time, closer now. “It’s me. It’s Bucky. Come on, baby witch. Don’t make me beg.”

The Enchantress tilted her head, almost curious, but didn’t turn. Didn’t flinch. She was too deep in it, too close to something she hadn’t felt before, and Bucky’s chest twisted.

He took another step. “Bells. Come back.”

And then—Bob moved.

One slow, shaking step forward. Not threatening. Not demanding. His voice was rough and low. “Bring her back.”

Her eyes flickered. Just slightly. The light dimmed.

The Enchantress blinked, and for a moment, there was something soft behind her expression—like a memory. Like regret. She looked at Bob as if she were memorizing him, and then she smiled. It was all teeth and hunger and something ancient and beautiful. Her lips parted, breath curling in the air between them.

“Next time, I’ll let you touch me.”

And then she collapsed.

Bucky was already moving, catching her before she hit the floor. Her body went slack in his arms, her head falling against his chest, her breath shallow but steady. He crouched with her, cradling her like he’d done too many times before.

“Bells,” he whispered, brushing her hair back from her face, “hey, come on—look at me.”

Her eyelids fluttered. A soft groan slipped from her throat. “What… happened?”

“You stopped it,” Bucky murmured, voice rough around the edges. “You brought it down. You did good.” Her lashes trembled, her eyes opening slowly, brown again. Human again. But tired. So tired.

Behind them, Bob stood frozen, hands still trembling at his sides, gold and black flickering faintly beneath his skin. His throat was dry. His pulse too loud. He couldn’t move—not yet. Not when the echo of her magic still clung to the air like perfume and fire, not when her voice—her other voice—still rang like a bell behind his eyes. He could still feel her. Like a storm on the edge of touch.

And then, deep in his mind, the Void stirred.

It didn’t roar. It didn’t rage.

It purred.

“You brought her back. Why?”

A pause. A shiver up his spine.

“I would’ve let her stay. She wanted to stay. She wanted us.”

Bob swallowed, jaw tight.

The Void curled around him like a shadow, low and amused.

“You’re lying to yourself, Robert. You want her too. The way she sees you. The way she smiled.”

Bob clenched his fists. Didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

But he didn’t deny it either.

And the Void laughed—soft and satisfied.

“Next time, you won’t send her away.”

𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐅𝐀𝐄𝐆𝐎𝐍 © 2025. DO NOT STEAL, REPOST, OR COPY THIS STORY TO TUMBLR, WATTPAD, AO3, OR ANY OTHER PLATFORM. Moodboards and graphics made by @houseofaegon DO NOT repost or reuse without credit. chain divider by @cursed-carmine

♱ ˖ ࣪ . taglist: @the-a-word-2214 @favestxrboy @uraesthete @abbysbenchpr @sammystarswrite @pey2618 @qardasngan @lunaoieoie @orithyia-eriphyle @amatiswayland @madzzz6958 @all-by-myself98 @dark-silhouette @ghost-ghost-13 @wyvernthekriger @gayfiretruck @watermeezer @lvmxla @novausstuff @mommymilkers0526 @natureartisian @feralgoblinbabe @misaki-evans @uracowboylikemee @sxlsvv @stillinracooncity @deltamel (if you would like to be added to the taglist, please let me know in the comments. love, bri.)

[helslastangel]

MASTERLIST&MORE ❀˚₊

Hey! 🪷

I’m Luna (she/her), a fiction writer, poet, chart reader, and part-time agent of chaos. I am a Virgo Sun, Capricorn Moon, and Leo Rising, which means I give solid advice that I promptly forget and never follow myself.

I moonlight as a certified pain the ass by day and write poetry and fiction over at @antih3roine by night.

Astrology’s been my #1 hyperfixation for over 15 years, and this blog is where I put all the unfiltered, poetic, petty, or possibly cursed things I’ve noticed about placements, synastry, and the celestial beans that we are.

You'll see non-astrology posts from time to time. Sometimes, I yap just to yap. I got fifty tabs open in my phone and brain at all times. ENTP skill issue. Thank you for your patience 😘

This masterlist includes:

🌌 Synastry breakdowns (some helpful, some hostile)

🕷️ Random astro observations

🌸 Planet, sign, and asteroid lore

🧠 Neurodivergent musings

> 📍Current Status:

Deciding whether I'm a girly girl or an honorary boy today.

Virgo ☀️ ☆ Capricorn 🌙 ☆ Leo 🌄 ☆ Scorpio ♀️

❀˚₊ a few of my favorite tumblr peeps ♡

@bijoutarot 》 @blueskiestarot 》 @eternalpisces 》 @elysiansparadise 》 @harmoonix 》 @inaccuratelybiblicalangel 》 @karmicbitchastro 》 @learnastrowallura 》 @lilianne-tarot》 @mxrcurysb1tch 》 @sagittariusmarz 》 @starryastrologysworld 》 @tarotbyjam24 》 @thetarotyapper

❀˚₊ don't forget to follow & support ☆

A few (of many) synastry aspects for attraction ❤️

Blaming my personality on my parents' placements 🤡

Capricorn moons aren't emotional 🤔

Dating a Scorpio rising 🦂

Frenemy & FWB synastry aspects 💥

How would you describe yourself using your big 3? 🤔

I have (multiple) obsessions, and they're gay af 🌈

Indicators of Androgeny in Astrology

I put Pisces men in rice 🍚

Meet my musical idols (and their big 5s) 🎤

Placements that need to know everything 🧠

Placements that enjoy dark humor 💀

Synastry in my personal connections 💕

The signs as past situationships 🚫 😮‍💨

What the enneagram types want you to know 📝

What the signs struggle with on a daily basis 😔

Why synastry doesn't work without your birth time ⏰️

You may be attracted to foreigners if ✈️

Zodiac Tech Support 🖥

More posts >

Random Placement Observations

Random Observations #1

Random Observations #2

Random Observations #3

Random Observations #4

Random Observations #5

Random Observations #6

Random Observations #7

Random Observations #8

Random Observations #9

Random Observations #10

^_^

Mini Observations #1

Mini Observations #2

Mini Observations #3

Mini Observations #4

Mini Observations #5

Mini Observations #6 🔞🌶

Mini Observations #7

About Water Sign Junos

Asteroid Observations

Aries Juno Observations ♈️ 🐏

Aquarius Juno Observations ♒️ 🏺

Cancer Juno Observations ♋️ 🦀

Capricorn Juno Observations ♑️ 🐐

Chiron Conjunct Lilith Synastry 🖤

Chiron in 7H synastry (poem) 🥀

Gemini Juno Observations ♊️ 👬

Leo Juno Observations ♌️ 🦁

Libra Juno Observations ♎️ ⚖️

Lilith Conjunct Ascendant in Friendship Synastry

Pisces Juno Observations ♓️ 🐟

Scorpio Juno Observations ♏️ 🦂

Sagittarius Juno Observations ♐️ 🏹

Taurus Juno Observations ♉️ 🐂

Virgo Juno Observations ♍️ 💃🏽

Virgos, this is for you ♍️

Vesta in the Signs

Your core desires, according to Chiron 🖤

Your deepest fears according to Chiron 🖤

Your hidden fear according to Black Moon Lilith 🌚

Your ideal self-care routine according to Ceres 🌸

Aquarius in 8th House

Capricorn in 7th House

Capricorn stellium in the 12th house

Compatibility Observations: Capricorn Moon

Compatibility Observations: Sagittarius Moon

Dominant 1st House/Ascendant

How you enjoy yourself according to the 5th House

How to be ethically manipulative by sun, moon, & ascendant

How you relieve stress, according to Mars

How you speak according to Mercury, pt. 1 - Earth

How you speak according to Mercury, pt. 2 - Fire

Libra mars men, Gemini mars women, Sag mars enbies

Mars in 1H & 7H Synastry: From My Experiences 🔞 🌶

Moon Conj. Venus/Moon Trine Ascendant Synastry 🔞🌶

Moon Sign Observations

My Darling Aries ♈️

My Darling Taurus ♉️

My Darling Geminis ♊️

My Darling Cancers ♋️

My Darling Leos ♌️

My Darling Virgos ♍️

My Darling Scorpios ♏️

Neptune (2H) Sextile North Node (4H) 📧

Pisces in the Houses

Pluto Conjunct Lilith Natal

Sagittarius in 6th House

Same sign ascendant pairs as friends 🔞🌶

Scorpio in 5th House

Sun & Moon Observations

Sun sign pairs that work in relationships

Venus Conjunct Ascendant Synastry 💕

What makes the planets feel insecure

What Saturn fears most in the houses

What you need according to your moon sign

What you want to do according to Mars

Your best matches according to moon sign

Your eyes according to your chart ruler

Your good and bad sides according to your Big 3

Your lowest priorities according to empty houses

Your main area of focus according to the planets

Your most likely health issues according to the signs

Your most vulnerable areas according to the signs

Your empty houses in astrology

𓆩♡𓆪

Thank you for stopping by ♡

@helslastangel ©️ 2024-2025. All rights reserved.