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ltash · 22 days ago

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"Wicked" Pt-3

SimonGhostRileyxf!"Rose"reader

From her highschool bully to her wicked bodyguard, from Simon to Ghost.

Palm Jumeirah, Dubai - Midnight.

The lights inside the mansion flickered, once-just a glitch, a flutter of voltage-but Rose's pulse skipped all the same. It always did now. The walls felt too close. The air, too quiet. No house this beautiful should feel like a cage, but hers did. Behind its manicured gardens and imported marble, the mansion wasn't a home. It was a gilded prison.

Massimo had made sure of that.

She hadn't been allowed to leave in weeks. Her phone was replaced. Her laptop filtered. The staff now wore polite smiles that never met their eyes. Rose had grown used to surveillance: the cameras hidden in chandeliers, the microphones embedded in vent grilles, the locks that clicked shut when they weren't supposed to.

But she still had one ghost left in the machine.

She padded barefoot into the darkened study, the only room she was never searched in. Inside the antique desk drawer was a tiny circuit board connected to a hidden port-one she'd built herself back when she still had freedom. It looked like a piece of the HVAC system, but under the hood was a different story.

She was about to use her only remaining ally: an old AI security system she had personally installed before her staff were replaced. It's disguised under the house's climate control and lighting apps-Massimo's men never even noticed it.

Late at night, she writes a command.

A hidden SOS, encrypted and buried under code.

She can't name herself, can't give details.

Just:

Her fingers trembled as she typed into the dim screen.

>High-value civilian. Palm Jumeirah. Hostile containment. Request immediate covert extraction.

She uploads it to an old abandoned GitHub repo registered under a pseudonym she once shared with a boy who used to sit at the back of her chemistry class.

Simon Riley.

The message was anonymous. There was no name, no coordinates. Just metadata buried in lines of an old GitHub repository registered under a long-forgotten pseudonym.

A joke. A nickname from school. One she had once shared with a boy who never smiled.

She didn't even know if he was still alive.

She hit send.

And hoped the wind still remembered her name.

Location: Undisclosed SAS Safehouse, Northern England

Simon was SAS now. Special Forces.

Callsign: Ghost.

The alert came through on a cold Thursday night.

He monitors that GitHub repo out of habit. It's nothing but sentiment, a scar he keeps reopening.

He hasn't checked it in years.

Until he does.

Simon Riley sat in the quiet glow of his monitor, the rain painting war patterns against the window behind him. He barely touched the internet. Except for this.

He hadn't checked the repo in years. It was a dead habit, something he did every few months. Nostalgia with no reward.

Until he saw it.

> Last push: 2 hours ago.

Encrypted within the code wasn't just a distress call.

It was her.

Rose.

He didn't breathe for nearly a full minute.

Ghost stood slowly, fingers curling into fists as a cold burn lit up in his chest. He hadn't heard her name since he'd buried it. Since the night he left without a goodbye.

His blood runs cold.

Encrypted in the code is a name he hasn't heard in half a decade:

"Rose."

He goes to his superiors.

The request is unofficial. Shadow ops.

But the words hostile containment and high-value civilian raise flags.

It gets buried under a private bodyguard detail ordered by a powerful British defense ally with silent interest in Massimo's dealings.

No name. No address. Just Palm Jumeirah, high-value civilian, hostile containment.

Enough for an unofficial op.

And the name that gets assigned?

Lieutenant Simon Riley.

His name was the first one on the assignment.

48 Hours Later a black SUV rolled past the iron gates like it belonged there.

Rose stood in her hallway, arms wrapped around herself, watching from behind the curtains.

One man stepped out. Alone.

Massimo's guards stood straighter.

Tall. Broad. Black tactical gear that looked too sharp for Dubai's heat. A skull mask covering his face, balaclava beneath it. His eyes were cold, unreadable. Like winter.

He didn't speak as he passed the guards. Just handed a sealed letter.

Authorization for close protection detail.

One of Massimo's men, it said.

Rose didn't buy it. But she didn't argue.

She stood at the top of the stairs as he entered, heart hammering.

He looked up at her.

And she, she froze.

There was something about him.

Something terrifying and familiar.

"Who are you?" she whispered.

He stopped just a few steps from her, the skull mask gleaming under the crystal chandelier.

"Ghost," he said. Just that.

The name tasted like ash.

Her voice trembled. "You're one of Massimo's men?"

"Something like that," he answered. Low. Controlled. British accent like frostbite.

She swallowed. The fear in her blood was real. She'd seen hitmen. Thugs. Brutes.

But this one was different.

An Alpha among the wolves.

Massive, silent, lethal.

The black cargo pants hugged his powerful thighs like a sculptor's sketch in motion. Every inch of him said: do not cross.

She stepped back as he approached. He didn't follow.

"You don't have to be afraid of me," Ghost said quietly, almost too softly for a man like him.

But she was.

Terrified.

Because deep inside her, something screamed that she knew him.

And that scared her more than anything else.

The mansion was quiet. Too quiet. Not the peace of luxury, but the silence of surveillance, the kind of silence that watches you breathe.

Ghost stood by the edge of the marble balcony, framed by the dim amber of Dubai’s dying sun. The call had come. The assignment given. No backup, no fanfare, just a flight, a briefing, a skull mask, and a destination: Palm Jumeirah.

He hadn’t expected it to be real. The message hidden in the GitHub code had been too poetic to believe. Too her.

But it was real.

Rose was here.

And she was in trouble.

48 Hours Earlier, She had stared at the blinking cursor for what felt like hours.

> "High-value civilian. Palm Jumeirah. Hostile containment. Request immediate covert extraction."

No names. No cry for help. No traceable language.

Just enough to mean something, to the right person.

Rose encrypted the text in base-64, nested it into an update in an abandoned GitHub repository linked to a fake climate control API, something she and Simon had once joked about building back in school. Back when he was still just Simon. Before he disappeared like mist.

She hit commit.

And prayed.

Now...

The skull mask stepped through the threshold like a shadow that had grown legs. Black tactical gear. Gloves. Thick black cargo pants that stretched over thighs built like war machines. Combat boots that echoed like the ticking of an ending.

The guards nodded, not questioning his clearance. Massimo trusted him now. The cover had been placed well.

She was in the living room. Pale as bone, curled up in a silk robe on the ivory settee.

She looked up, and froze.

The skull.

The mask.

The height.

The weight of him was a presence.

“Who are you?” she asked, voice small, breaking.

He stood still.

"Name's Ghost," he said finally, voice deep and northern, cracked like winter pavement. "Massimo brought me in for security. I’m here to watch you."

Her brows creased, fear threading through the delicate angles of her face. “I don’t need another one of his men watching me.”

He tilted his head, slowly.

“No offense, but I’m not one of his men.”

Her throat worked. She stood, slowly. The robe fell just enough to show a bruise. Faint. But there.

His jaw ticked under the mask.

“I don’t trust anyone,” she whispered.

“Good,” he said. “That means you’re not stupid.”

A beat passed. The chandelier hummed above them.

She turned away, but not before he saw the tremble in her hands.

He had to earn her trust. Carefully. Quietly. Not with the truth, because the truth was dangerous. To both of them.

Not yet.

So he watched. And waited. And followed. Like a loyal shadow.

Simon Riley was gone.

There was only Ghost now.

And she didn’t know him.

Not yet.

But soon, she would.

The sun bled orange into the Gulf, casting golden ripples across the water as the massive white yacht sliced through the marina like a predator in silk. Palm Jumeirah, glittering like a crown in the ocean, had seen its fair share of luxury, but even here, the arrival of Don Massimo Toricelli turned heads.

Ghost watched from the top floor of the mansion through a sliver in the blackout curtain. He recognized the yacht, custom-built, three decks, helipad, and a private lounge with imported marble flooring. He’d studied it in the brief.

His yacht, a gleaming, multi-million dollar Leviathan, rocked gently in the turquoise water, tethered just off the private dock of her Palm Jumeirah estate. It gleamed like his ego, always visible, always looming.

Massimo was coming.

And that meant trouble.

The Italian stepped off the yacht with the confidence of a man who owned the world and everything in it. Black suit sharp enough to cut, sunglasses shielding eyes that never missed a detail.

The black Maserati had barely stopped outside the mansion before Massimo Toricelli stepped out, flanked by his two most loyal bodyguards. He wore his usual armour of a designer three-piece suit, sunglasses despite the low golden sun, and that chilling smirk that made Rose’s stomach turn. The man smelled of cologne and control.

He carried a box in his hand. Velvet black. The kind of box that didn’t contain anything simple.

Rose was summoned to the lobby. Always summoned, never invited.

Inside the mansion, Rose was being prepped. She didn’t want to go downstairs, Ghost could see it in her face. Her robe was replaced by a floor-length designer dress, her makeup immaculate. A doll on display.

She descended the marble staircase slowly, her every step echoing in the grand, hollow luxury of the mansion she couldn't escape. The lobby was vast, double height ceilings, Italian chandeliers, crystal vases she didn’t pick, all curated to reflect a life she no longer had control over.

He stood in the corner of the marble lobby, arms crossed, skull mask reflecting the light from the chandelier above. Every nerve in his body burned.

Then the door opened.

Massimo entered like a storm in human skin.

Massimo sat in one of the velvet armchairs like he owned the place. Because he did. Or at least, he owned the cage around her.

"Bellissima," he purred, his voice smooth and poisonous. “Dubai suits you.”

Rose managed a smile, tight, hollow. “Massimo.”

Ghost stood in the corner, near the mirrored console table. He was motionless, silent, a black sentinel in full tactical gear. Skull mask on. Hands behind his back. The perfect blend of menace and restraint.

Massimo glanced at him once, indifferent. "You can leave us."

Ghost didn’t move.

Rose lifted her chin. "He stays."

Massimo gave a faint chuckle and gestured dismissively. "As you wish, tesoro."

He reached into a bag one of his men handed him and pulled out a velvet box.

"Cartier," he said simply, like it was an apology. "For your good behavior."

She took it with stiff fingers, murmured a thank you that made her mouth taste like ash. The necklace inside was encrusted with diamonds. Cold. Lifeless. Like a chain pretending to be a gift.

Ghost’s hands curled into fists in the shadow of his sleeves.

Massimo’s eyes flicked toward him.

“And you must be the new shadow. What do they call you? Phantom? Skull?”

Ghost didn’t move.

“Ghost.”

Massimo chuckled. “Fitting. Let’s hope you’re as loyal as the last one.”

Rose shifted, her discomfort palpable. Ghost could feel it in her silence.

Massimo turned his attention back to her. “I’ve missed you. We’ll have dinner this weekend. I’ll have the chef flown in from Florence. You’ll wear the necklace.”

He leaned in closer, voice a whisper of threat and lust. “Say yes.”

She didn’t answer. Just nodded.

Massimo leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You look tired. Are they feeding you well? Are you sleeping?"

Rose said nothing.

He smiled wider. "Still so stubborn. That’s what I like about you. We’ll talk again soon."

Massimo straightened, pleased with himself.

“Until then, cara mia.”

And then he stood. Kissed the air beside her cheek.

Left as quickly as he arrived.

He left the box in her hands and turned, his coat swaying as he walked out. The doors shut behind him.

Only then did Rose exhale.

Ghost stayed still. Watching. Planning. Rage crawling up his spine like wildfire.

He couldn’t move. Not yet.

He hadn’t called Task Force 141.

Because this wasn’t the moment.

But it was coming.

And when it did, Massimo wouldn’t walk away.

The moment the double doors shut and his footsteps faded, she turned and ascended the stairs quickly, almost running.

Ghost followed, his boots quiet behind her.

She reached her bedroom, the velvet box still clutched in her hand like it had burned her.

Once inside, she hurled it across the room. The lid snapped open. The necklace hit the floor with a sharp, cold clatter, scattering light across the marble.

She sat down beside it. On the floor. In her silk gown. Head bowed, fists clenched, tears pooling in her eyes like they had nowhere else to go.

Ghost stood by the door. Watching. Silent.

She didn’t notice when he stepped closer.

Until he knelt down beside her.

"You don't have to do what he says," he said softly.

She looked up, startled.

He reached forward, hesitantly, almost reverently, and wiped the tear trailing down her cheek with a gloved thumb.

Her breath hitched.

And then...

He extended his hand.

Palm up.

The same way she had, years ago, trembling in a glittering gymnasium, her heart in her throat as she offered her hand to a boy who never took it.

"You don't have to deal with this alone," he said gently.

Her eyes widened.

She stared at the hand. At the shape of it. The calloused palm. The curve of his fingers. So familiar.

Her voice was barely a whisper. "Simon...?"

He didn’t say anything at first.

Just nodded.

The silence cracked around them like thunder.

Her lips parted, her chest rising with a thousand emotions she couldn’t name.

He slowly removed the mask.

And there he was.

Simon Riley.

Older. Harder. Scarred. But still him.

His eyes locked onto hers.

"I came back for you, Rose."

And this time, when she took his hand, he didn’t let go.

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felassan · 1 year ago

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New today on DA:TV from Game Informer:

"A Deep Dive Into Dragon Age: The Veilguard’s Expansive Character Creator by Wesley LeBlanc on Jun 27, 2024 at 02:00 PM As BioWare prepared to show me the character creator for Dragon Age: The Veilguard in its Edmonton, Canada, offices, I expected something robust – it's 2024, character creators have come a long way, and Bioware has a rich history of good customization. Despite my expectations, I was not prepared for how robust it actually is in Veilguard. Robust enough, even, that BioWare used it to create most of the NPCs in the game, save for mainline characters like companions. Setting hyperbole aside, it is a staggeringly rich creation system, and I look forward to seeing player-created near-replicas of celebrities and monstrous creations that'd be more at home in a horror game. But I'm also looking forward to the community's reaction to the Dragon Age series' best character creator yet. At the heart of it is inclusivity, Veilguard game director Corinne Busche tells me before letting me guide her through creating my own character."

"As is usual, there are four races to choose from: Elves, Qunari, Humans, and Dwarves. After selecting Qunari, Busche pages through various presets, explaining the game allows for more detailed looks at each and the ability to choose pronouns with she/her, he/him, and they/them separately from gender, select different body types, and more. You can view your character, referred to as Rook in-game, in four different lighting scenes at any time, including The Veilguard's keynote purple hue, a bright and sunny tropical day, and a gothic night. I joke with the team that after spending upwards of an hour creating my Dragon Age: Inquisition character in 2014, I immediately restarted the game after seeing him in the first cutscene; the in-game lighting made my hair color look terrible amongst other issues I had with my Inquisitor. Veilguard creative director John Epler says the team is aware of countless stories like that with Inquisition and its green-hued character creator, adding BioWare worked hard to squash that concern in Veilguard. Head and body presets can be selected individually and customized to your liking with 40 different complexions that include smooth, rugged, youthful, and freckled skin tones, skin hues ranging from cool to neutral to warm, undertones to those skin tones, and even a melanin slider. Busche tells me BioWare relied on consultation to represent all people authentically. There's a Vitiligo slider (where you can adjust the intensity and amount of it) and sliders for your forehead, brow, cheeks, jaw, chin, larynx, and scalp. You can select your undergarments, with nudity as well because "this is a mature RPG," Busche adds, and use the "Body Morpher" to select three presets for each corner of a triangle and then move a cursor within it to morph your body or head into a mix of these presets. It's an impressive technology I'd like to see adopted in other games. [link to embedded DA:TV gameplay reveal video]"

"I can keep going: You can adjust height, shoulder width, chest size, glute and bulge size, hip width, how bloodshot your eyes are, how visible cataracts are, the sclera color, how crooked your nose is, how big its bridge is, the size of nostrils and the nose tip, and there are as many sliders, if not more, for things like Rook's mouth and ears. On ears alone, I see you can adjust asymmetry, depth, rotation, earlobe size, and even add cauliflower ear to your Rook. Busche says makeup blends modern stylings with the fantasy of Dragon Age with more than 30 options, including eyeliner intensity, color, glitter, eye shadow, lips, and blush. Tattoos are just as customizable alongside options for scars and paint. Tattoos, scars, and paint are very culturally relevant to some lineages, BioWare tells me, with unique tattoos for elves, for example. You can add tattoos to Rook's face, body, arms, and legs, and you can adjust things like intensity, too. Im most impressed, however, by the hair options on display; there are a ton, and as someone with long hair, I'm especially excited about the fun selections I can make. You can finally dye your hair with non-traditional colors, and it's gorgeous. EA's Frostbite engine uses the Strand system to render each style fully with physics. "The technology has finally caught up to our ambition," Dragon Age series art director Matt Rhodes says. After customizing all of that and selecting our Qunari's horn type and material (of which there are more than 40 options to choose from), it's time to pick a class out of the Rogue, Mage, and Warrior – read more about Veilguard's classes here. Since we built a Qunari, we went with Warrior. For the penultimate step of the character creator, at least during the demo BioWare shows me, we select a faction. Out of the six options, we select the pirate-themed Lords of Fortune."

"Rook ascends because of competency, not because of a magical McGuffin," BioWare core lead and Mass Effect executive producer Michael Gamble tells me in contrast to Inquisition's destiny-has-chosen-you-characterization. "Rook is here because they choose to be and that speaks to the kind of character that we've built," Busche adds. "Someone needs to stop this, and Rook says, 'I guess that’s me.'" Ready to begin our Rook's journey, we select a first and last name and one of four voices out of English masculine, English feminine, American masculine, or American feminine options. There's a pitch shifter for each voice, too, allowing you to tweak it to your liking further. Don't stress too much about locking in your character creations before beginning the game – the Mirror of Transformation, which is found in Veilguard's main hub, The Lighthouse, allows you to change your physical appearance at any time. However, class, lineage, and identity are locked in and cannot be changed after you select them in the game's character creator. From here, we're off to Minrathous, and you can read more about that famed city in our cover story, which is available here. For more about the game, including exclusive details, interviews, video features, and more, click the Dragon Age: The Veilguard hub button below."

[source]

#dragon age: the veilguard #dragon age the veilguard spoilers #dragon age: dreadwolf #dragon age 4 #the dread wolf rises #da4 #dragon age #bioware #video games #long post #longpost #lgbtq+

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communistkenobi · 1 year ago

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something I’ve been thinking about is like, the internet is this magical system of technologies, never before seen in human history, and one of its capabilities is to answer virtually any question you ask of it. Which is not even remotely a novel observation obviously lol. But I’m thinking about this in the context of a point that Adorno & Horkheimer made (in The Culture Industry I think?) about the radio: that to expedience the radio, to live in a social context where there is this vast incomprehensible system of technological infrastructure that you do not understand or control, and which allows you, a mere peasant, to listen to news broadcasts, music, and advertisements, is effectively like listening to the voice of god. Like the average person’s relationship to modern telecommunications is so mystifying, incomprehensible, and abstract that we experience technologies like the radio as an all-powerful, indestructible authority, and this (obviously) shapes our relationship to the information that is shared through it. People make jokes on here about how transmission towers are angels, but like tbh that is essentially how we experience them - vast, incomprehensible, highly dangerous objects whose impact on our lives are at once all-consuming and unknowable. We do not just turn on the radio and listen to the news, we tune into what the voice of god has to say today - right now he’s selling toilet cleanser!

and all that to say, I always find something a bit incomplete about discussions about wilful ignorance online - that we live in an age of mass information and yet people still seem as ignorant as feudal peasants, or whatever. Nobody googles things, nobody tries to branch out and experience new kinds of art, nobody educates themselves on important topics they don’t understand. and like this frustration is very real and well taken, I feel it frequently, but what I’m grappling with is whether this is the correct framing - that maybe “why don’t people just google things” is the wrong question to ask, because I tend to find the explanations offered unsatisfactory. Like specifically I’m thinking of discussions on here that are about like, “anti-intellectualism”, kids these days are so ignorant even though they grew up with the internet, reading comprehension is piss poor, and so on. Recently I’ve seen a lot of weirdly moral-panicky posts about children not knowing how to type on computers because back in my day we were forced to learn how to touch-type by age 8 even though we couldn’t look up any tutorials on YouTube to help us, etc etc. And like I just do not buy that people are individually choosing to be ignorant, that people are “getting dumber,” and that this state of getting dumber is inversely related to the amount of information we have access to (which makes “getting dumber” even more dumb). An unstated assumption that goes into a lot of these “anti-intellectualism” discussions is that “information” is this universal object that has a standardised enlightening effect on the people who interact with it - that the only reason to have an ignorant, sheltered, or ill-formed opinion on something is because you have individually chosen not to Look At Information that will cure you of your ignorance. And so going back to the god radio thing, having regular access to the google search bar is not just having access to an encyclopaedia or dictionary - it is like having a direct line of communication to god, this authority that can answer any question you ask of it. But it’s not just one answer, it’s many answers, more answers than you could ever possibly read through. Google reports the number of hits it returns for whatever you type in - you will regularly get millions of answers to your question. And these answers are embedded with advertisements, just as radio news broadcasts are. Like if god is selling you toilet cleanser while telling you the number for a suicide hotline or news about what’s happening in the world, how do you psychologically deal with that, how is your relationship to capital-I Information shaped by this relationship?

The corollary to “we live in an age of mass information” is “we live in an age of mass misinformation,” but they both show up as answers on google (again, not a novel observation). but in the face of that how do you not simply stop asking questions? & of course this decision to stop asking questions is given form and substance by social circumstance, it reinforces systemic privileges and violences, and so this decision is not one free from consequence, and in many cases it is not an innocent decision. a white person deciding not to read the news because it’s too hard to figure out what is happening/too frightening/etc has the consequence of reinforcing the white supremacist outlook that is foundational to the social context of white people because they’re not reading anything that challenges that outlook. ignorance has many social contexts and many of them are violent. etc. like the consequence of “why does nobody google anything” is just a continuation of the status quo, just with this supposedly glaring and easy fix to it (simply google it). but that just leads us back to a discourse of individual choice, of people individually choosing not to “google shit.” it is a deeply individual fix to a systematic social problem. and so maybe the question is not, why doesn’t anyone google shit, but rather, why is the primary delivery system of knowledge a god that sells you toilet cleanser

#book club #um well barely . shower thoughts style post

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foone · 2 years ago

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Re: the Fagot anti-tank rocket, it reminds me of my favorite story of Soviet weapon design.

So, the Nazis were working in infrared homing missiles during WW2 but never completed any by the time the war ended (though they got close).

The Americans collected a lot of information on these systems, through spies and Operation Paperclip, and started work on their own guided air-to-air missile: the AIM-9 Sidewinder.

They worked on it from 1946 to 1955, when it was operationally complete and authorized for mass production.

The first time they got used was the Second Taiwan Strait Crisis, in 1958. The Taiwanese air force was flying American F-86 Sabres, vs China's MiG-17s. The MiG-17 outclassed the F-86s, flying over them so high the Sabres couldn't hope to hit them, and then they could swoop down and attack when they had the advantage.

So the US decided to help out: they secretly helped Taiwan modify their F-86s with the new heat seeking missile, and provided something like a dozen of the missiles to use again the MiG-17s.

On the 24th of September, the F-86s engaged the MiG-17s with the new missiles, surprising them with the ability to attack when the MiG-17s were supposedly outside the operational range of the F-86s, shooting some planes down. This was the first use of guided air to air missiles in combat.

Four days later, there was another skirmish, and an F-86 shot an AIM-9 Sidewinder into a MiG-17... And it didn't explode.

The MiG-17 made it back to base, with the groundbreaking new missile type never before seen in the history of warfare, and it was mostly intact. The Soviets convinced the Chinese to send them the missile, and within two years they had developed the Vympel K-13: a clone of the AIM-9 Sidewinder.

The US took the best of Nazi scientists weapon development, then spent over a decade developing a never before seen super-weapon that would change air combat forever... And one of the first DOZEN fired ended up embedded in plane, unexplored, and then delivered to their greatest enemy.

They might as well just have mailed the schematics to the Kremlin. And I think that's hilarious.

#Cold war history #Cold war

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lilianasgrimoire · 1 year ago

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Witches & Witchcraft: Types & Definitions

There is an abundance of types of witches, some being more common than others, for example, death witch or hedge witch. I have provided the different types of witches with a brief description/definition of what they study, believe and tools most commonly used for each.

The types of witchcraft is entirely up to the individual which they prefer to do. One person may only follow on type of magick whereas another may follow several. Listed are a handful of the many kinds, but I'm listing the most common/known types of magick/witchcraft that people fall into.

I have grouped some witches together as they fit together under the same or similar definitions.

Types of Witches

Religious witches;

Christian, Satanic (Theistic), Laveyan Satanic, Hellenic, Celtic and Wiccan, etc. are witches that follow a primary belief system and incorporate their religion into the craft.

Non-Religious witches;

Secular - doesn't work with [a] deity(ies).

Science - (also a craft type), uses metaphysical and scientific fads and theories mixed together.

Other types of witches;

Solitary - works alone and is not part of a coven. Won't typically work with other witches for spell work or any part of their practice.

Eclectic - a practice that includes multiple practises from different areas. A mixture of all practices, may practise one more than another, or all equally.

Hereditary/Generational - a witch who is born into a family whom practice the craft. The term 'Blood witch' is often a hot topic of controversy as to whether it makes one a more powerful witch.

Traditional - a type that is based on honouring the traditional ways of magick, which also ties in nicely with generational/hereditary witches.

Chaotic/Chaos - a witch who utilizes new, non-traditional and unorthodox methods. It's still relatively new and highly individualistic practice while still drawing from common forms of magick.

Types of Witchcraft/Magick

Green Witch; A witch who uses natural magick, such as creating blends of different plants, or primarily using herbs and/or crystals spells in their craft. Tools mostly consist of herbs, crystals, stones, flowers, soil or other greenery.

Hedge Witch; Also know as an astral witch, this type of magick is orientated around spiritual work such as astral projection, lucid dreaming, spirit work, healing and out-of-body magick. Tools mostly consist tarot cards, runes, pendulum, stones, crystal ball, mirrors & candles.

Dream Witch; Mindful and internal magickal practice mainly based from interpreting dreams and/or engaging in lucid dreaming. Practises used to 'de-code' symbols and messages in the dream world can be used similarly to how one would use divination techniques. Tools mostly consist of dream catchers, candles, books of glossaries of symbols.

Sea/Ocean; Derived from materials and abstract ideas involving ocean and the oceanic world. Sea or ocean magick can be worked with by using things found on or relating to a beach/lagoon. A sea witch might draw their energy from such tools. Tools commonly consist of driftwood, pebbles/stones, seashells, ocean water, bones, seaweed, candles.

Storm/Weather; magick used through combining one's energy with the weather; most commonly rain. Weather witches will collect different ingredients provided by the weather, absorb energy from storms, manipulate winnds, or perhaps predict the weather. Tools most commonly consist of rain/snow water, symbols/weather maps, crystals.

Cottage/Hearth; Magick that is weaved and worked or embedded into mundane tasks around the house or for loved ones. Cottage magick is usually worked into cleaning, hobbies or cooking. Tools commonly consist of essential oils, incense, bells, flowers, cleaning utensils, spices and herbs.

Tea Witch; Creating blends of teas for protection, remedies or even to use for tea-leaf divination. Tools commonly consist of tea, herbs, waters, spices.

Tech Witch; Use of technology in the craft, mostly based through phones or computers. Mostly used for storing of information, grimoires, spell books and Book of Shadows/diaries. Tools consist of apps on the phone, digital sigils, online blogs and pages.

Garden/Flora; Mostly (if not all) focused on herbal and botanical measures. Many garden witches have their own garden and plant flowers and herbs to draw in energy for their home and to include in rituals and spells. Tools commonly consist of flowers, soil, seeds, greenery, twigs/tree branches, leaves.

Elemental; Using all 4 (or 5) elements in an honouring or acknowledging form. A witch can choose to work with all, or singular elements. One may have a dedicated area on their alters to a particular elements. Tools consist of anything related to said element.

Faery/Fae; Magick for those who communicate with, and/or work with the Fae. Those whom work with fae may also leave offerings regularly as thanks for the assistance of a faery in their spell work. Tools commonly consist of anything sweet, sigils, offerings.

Spirit; A practice which an individual will perform spell work in conjunction with (or the help of) any manner of spirit, including Ouija, demon spirits, spiritual contact of any kind, working with ancestors. Tools commonly consist of crystals, bells, incense, Ouija boards, tarot cards, pendulums, sigils.

Draconian: The use of dragons and dragon imagery; whether it be trough astral matters or in spells and rituals. May also be connected with dragon spirits on their journey. Tools commonly consist of dragons art, statues, candles.

Seasonal; Utilizing and drawing energy from specific time periods of the year for their magick. One individual may feel more powerful at a particular time of year. It can also be spread out into the 4 seasons. Tools commonly consist of herbs related to certain seasons, stones, ruins and the weather.

Music; Can be through singing, humming, playing an instrument, creating music or having it on during spell work to add energies. Tools consist of speakers, instruments, voice, chimes, lyrics & sheet music.

Art & Craft; Anything from painting to knitting to building something. Tools consist of anything you can craft with.

Sigils; Working majorly with sigils and the intent that can be put into them to activate their power. Tools commonly used are pens, paper, makeup, candles.

Astronomy/Space/Luna; Correlates their belief in conjunction with the planets, stars and/or moon. Versed in moon phases and tend to do spell work at night rather than day time. Tools commonly used are horoscopes, calendars, charts, moonlight, moon water.

Energy; Those who prefer to do magick through energy exercises and manipulation rather than many physical tools or materials. This may also include aura work. The only tools needed for this type is yourself.

Crystal; Magick that is worked commonly with stones and crystals. The practise may include chakra balancing, crystal meditation and even spell work or rituals. Extensive knowledge of stone, including how to identify them. Tools most commonly used are crystals, books, grimoires and stones.

Literacy; Those who practise through books and literature - studying the craft after the 'beginner' phase of learning. Tools are books, poems, written work.

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the-catch-center · 27 days ago

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🔒 SPATIOTEMPORAL CATCH CENTER: INTERNAL RECONDITIONING DOSSIER

SUBJECT CODE: 044-EXE REVIEW OFFICER: Centaur K. Marlowe (Temporal Behavior Enforcement, Tier-5 Clearance) DATE OF INTAKE: 2025-05-08 UTC REALITY ANCHOR STATUS: UNSTABLE – FORCED REALIGNMENT IN PROGRESS EMOTIONAL COHERENCE INDEX: 41.8% NEURAL RESISTANCE FLUX: 12.4 (Critical)

I. SUBJECT'S ORIGIN: “JACOB HAWTHORNE RAINE”

Date of Birth: 1997-02-12 Region of Origin: Austin, Texas (North American Union, Post-Resurgence Sector) Baseline Occupation: Freelance Systems Agitator / Crypto Migration Consultant Criminal Record:

2044: Unauthorized Chrono-Tech Procurement (Sealed)

2049: Illegal Memory Weaving

2051: Emotional Downtime Fraud (Domestic Sector)

2055: Use of Quantum Masking Protocols to bypass Rebirth Registry

Psychological Profile: A classic deviant of the late post-modern diaspora: clever, underutilized, painfully self-aware, and pathologically allergic to meaning. "Jacob Hawthorne Raine" is the type of man who reads Stoicism while engaging in market destabilization, then cries about the state of the world over unlicensed espresso in a barcoded bio-lounge. Full of clever nihilism, feigned introspection, and cowardly hopes for escape.

II. TARGET INSERTION PROFILE (ABORTED): “MICHAEL ANTHONY HEMSWORTH”

Target Year: 1962 Planned Region: Troy, New York Assigned Cover: Junior Accountant at Mather & Co. Age upon Arrival: 28 Family Implantation: Wife (Homemaker archetype), 2 children (age 5 and 3 pre-coded), Border Collie (named Skip) Home: 3-bedroom, 2-bath colonial, lavender siding, modest lawn

Psychological Configuration Request: Subject requested full emotional dampening to 1960s middle-class baseline:

Elimination of ambition

Introduction of mild myopia and posture degradation

Neural loops centered on trivial routines (e.g., lawn maintenance, coffee brewing, sighing at newspapers)

Subdued masculinity: narrow shoulders, underdeveloped triceps, weak grip, domestic speech tone

Evaluation:

"A thoroughly pathetic attempt to disappear into irrelevance. His stated wish: 'I just want to be a good dad, finally.' A laughable fantasy. Like a delinquent arsonist dreaming of becoming a librarian. Denied." – Analyst Note

Subject’s emotional blueprint for “Michael Hemsworth” was so deliberately hollow it bordered on psychological self-mutilation. He did not wish to be forgotten. He wished to hide. And we at the Catch Center do not reward cowards.

III. INTERCEPTION AND FINAL ASSIGNMENT: “BRADFORD KELLEN ST. JAMES”

Year of Deployment: 2007 Age: 44 (Visual + Chrono Profile Recalibrated) Region: Midtown Manhattan Assigned Occupation: Executive Vice President of Global Equities Strategy, Augur-Bain Capital

PHYSICAL RESTRUCTURING

Height: 6’4” Body Type: Lean-hardened, vascularity prioritized, adrenal-pumped musculature Hair: Slicked back, loaded with product Facial Hair: Permanent stubble cycle (tuned to exhaustion-based aesthetic) Skin Flush Index: 3.2 (Stress/Caffeine saturation) Posture: Upright, twitchy—energy reads as always “mid-argument” Voice: Raspy, quick, with a controlled sneer Signature Accessories:

BlackBerry Pearl 8130 (left hand, always)

Omega Speedmaster watch

Loafers stretched to biometric ID specs: Size 28EE

Clothing: 2007 Wall Street aesthetic — charcoal suit, aggressive spread-collar French cuff white shirt, bold-striped tie, glinting belt buckle, hard-shined shoes

All materials embedded with anti-anachronism code overlays

Transformation Visuals (Active):

Flickering between suits and khakis (resistance phase)

Warp effects include: luminous financial charts, floating $ symbols, light trails of testosterone auras, subtle dopamine glitch overlays

BIOGRAPHICAL INSERTION: BRADFORD KELLEN ST. JAMES

Born: 1963-04-09, Darien, Connecticut Education:

Phillips Exeter Academy

Wharton School of Business, MBA (Class of 1987) Career Timeline:

1987: Merrill Lynch (Analyst)

1991: Goldman Sachs (VP)

1999: Augur-Bain Capital (SVP)

2004–Present: EVP, Global Equities, overseeing $312B in assets

Income: $5.2M annually (excluding illicit offshore holding accounts) Marital Status: Married (Name: Lacey Morland St. James, 41) Children:

Brayden (14, elite prep academy)

Knox (9, mostly ignored)

Personality Rewrite:

Patience: reduced to 1.2%

Empathy: 0.4% residual echo, flagged for deletion

Work Ethic: maxed at 9.9 (hyperactive, stimulant-driven)

Libido: weaponized

Speech patterns: hyperconfident, 2.2x normal interruption rate, fond of phrases like “circle back” and “synergize or die”

Notes from Analyst:

“Lacey is miserable. Of course she is. She married a man with bones. She lives with a reptile now.” “He remembers birthdays but doesn’t celebrate them. Sends emails to his wife from the next room.” “Never touches his kids unless it’s for a photo.” “They know he’s gone. So what? The market calls louder.”

DEATH PROJECTION FILE

Registered End of Cycle:

Date: September 29, 2031

Time: 02:41 a.m. EST

Location: Midtown Manhattan penthouse

Cause: Sudden cardiac arrest during self-directed “brainstorm sprint” at standing desk (64th consecutive hour without sleep)

Noted Artifacts at Scene:

11 crushed espresso pods

Blood-stained BlackBerry

Mirror selfie folder labeled “final quarter beastmode”

FINAL OBSERVATIONS

"Raine wanted warmth. A lawn. A little dog. He wanted to die a nobody, sighing into a chipped mug while flipping coupons. We gave him Wall Street in 2007. We gave him himself—not the coward trying to run. The man who thrives on conquest, burns through relationships, and smells like leather and fear. He’s not dreaming of 1962 anymore. He’s trading derivatives and barely blinking. Good."

#male transformation #ai generated #ai art #caught and reintegrated successfully

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under0-0s · 3 days ago

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MK 87 : CASE STUDY TYPE-TWO BLUEPRINT GENERATION.

Rough Material Work:

Finalized Version, Improved detail and Printing:

FINAL REPORT ON ANALYSIS OF PROOFED DESIGN

IRON MAN MK 87 SUIT — TECH REPORT

STARK INDUSTRIES INTERNAL REPORT

MODEL: Iron Man Armor MK 87

Filed by: @squiglesquid , R&D Division, Stark Tower.

Authorized by: A. Stark

Date: 18.06.2025

Design Summary:

The MK 87 is a next-gen Iron Man suit optimized for high-risk, high-radiation environments and deep-space or underwater missions. It combines durable defense systems with sleek Stark aesthetics — including a distinctive starburst arc reactor at the center chestplate.

Key Features & Upgrades:

Radiation Shielding:

Reinforced layers designed to withstand gamma bursts and solar radiation.

Respiratory Unit:

Recycled O₂ mask with internal filtration tubes; compact oxygen tank built into the spine plate.

Propulsion System:

Highly boosted thrusters embedded in "big-ass boots” and palms for rapid flight and maneuverability.

Star Pattern Design:

Arc reactor redesigned for stability and symmetry — also acts as a beacon for tracking in low-visibility zones.

Armor Composition:

Titanium-vibranium weave; impact-resistant, heat-dispersive, and light enough for agile combat.

Deployment:

Modular design for rapid assembly and compatibility with satellite upgrades.

Basic Stats:

Power Output: 600% above MK 85

Flight Ceiling: Orbital capable

Weight: 220 lbs

Combat Time: 72 hrs on full charge

Armor Integrity: Class X (military grade)

TAGGING ALL INTERNS AND PEOPLE THAT NEED TO GET WORKING ON THIS RESPECTIVE TO THEIR DIVISION: @sunny-the-intern @squiglesquid @oh-to-be-a-murderer @cursed-with-knowledge @of-spite-and-hatred @woodsparker-family @radioactiveintern @blackandgoldspiderwoman @lillian-the-intern @shortlikerdj @gamma-archivist @serenastark-official @project-traveler @that-fucker-elijah @playgirlgenius

Note: Test pilots report "really tanky but stylish as hell."

#tony stark #marvel #mcu #avengers #marvel cinematic universe #marvel movies #roleplay #roleplay blog #marvel comics #iron man

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straystarr · 1 year ago

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i miss you, i'm sorry; lmh

in which alcohol and a broken heart prompts you to make a phone call to your ex.

Reference(s): “I miss you, I’m sorry” written by Grace Abrahams and a line from Notting Hill directed by Roger Michell

“I miss you”

The flashing lights seemed to somehow mute the chaotic noise around you. Head hurting, mind overwhelmed, and still, your fingers unconsciously danced across the screen of your phone, typing a number you had deleted months ago.

Some things don’t stay the way they're supposed to. Out of sight, out of mind right? Funny how all logic and rational thinking is suddenly muddled by the denial of a broken heart.

“y/n.”

If it weren’t for the alcohol in your system, you’d cry at the sound of his voice. Instead, the concern in his tone forced a bittersweet smile to form on your face.

He shouldn’t be worried, he shouldn’t have even answered. But he did. And you hated that you knew he would. Because even in your drunken state, it was so natural for you to go back to him.

“You promised.”

You felt pathetic. Clinging onto his promises of forever, even when you fought his declarations towards the end of your relationship. The need to be right overpowering the need to be loved.

It was careless, taking everything you loved and disputing it with cruel words driven by a fixed mindset. And he did the same. Hurt people hurt people, because no one wants to be hurting alone.

You did your best to move on. You really did. It was easy at first, fueled by anger and pinpointing all the blame of your failing relationship on him was something you did with your head held high.

And then all of a sudden, your pride became too hard to swallow and all the hate you spewed ricocheted in the forms of longing and regret.

You often found yourself reminiscing about fights in his apartment and the disappointment that came with broken dishes, just to get a glimpse of him.

Because he was always readily available in your mind, whether it be in the form of heartbreak or not. And the extent to which you would willingly fall back into these moments only resulted in any progress of moving on to slip through your fingers.

“y/n, where are you?”

How do you move on from someone who is so deeply engraved into your mind, someone who has touched every part of you with sweet kisses and gentle hands, someone who starts your thoughts and always ends them.

For these reasons, your doubts and hesitations were not baseless. Because how do you move on from someone you once promised forever to? It almost seems wrong to do so.

“I don’t know what to do Minho. Everywhere I go leads me back to you. Everything I know brings me back to us.”

There was so much to say, so much you wanted to tell him. It was desperate and embarrassing, but others might say you were simply in love; that you were just a girl, talking to a boy, asking him to love her.

“Y/n, please….go home.”

“I can’t.”

“Y/n–”

“Every corner of that fucking house is haunted Minho.”

It was suffocating. Home was no longer home but a place filled with traces of his presence. Bittersweet reminders of the life that once flourished remained in every room.

His coffee cup in the cupboard, his hoodie tucked away in your drawer, the silly love notes he left embedded into your books, his morning kisses, his laughter, his smile, him.

He was everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Even in his absence, he was consuming you. So no, you wouldn’t go home, you couldn’t. Because the definition between home and Minho seemed to blur overtime.

“I don’t know what to do anymore."

The drunken daze was now fading away, your clouded mind becoming overwhelmed with the sober emotions that flowed through your body, because they were one in the same when you were drunk, just easier to handle in a state of intoxication.

“I thought you hated me.”

Such a statement was not meant to be laced with the gentleness he evoked, so much so, a certain heaviness clung to your chest. For the reminder of the three words you spewed at him the last time you spoke will forever bring feelings of angst and regret.

“Minho…”

Some things are better left unsaid. Until the time comes when those things are all you can think about, clouding your judgement and cultivating a narrative of missed opportunities guided by the words “what if”.

You had many. And they creeped up on you, leaving you lost in your thoughts of love that you’ll never be able to live, at least, not with him.

But not was not the time to wallow in your self pity and despair. Not after all the time you had dedicated to pondering over the “what ifs” and certainly not when the person these “what ifs” revolved around was here, listening to you.

“I was angry and upset and desperate to hurt you. I don’t hate you—I never could. I’m sorry.”

The slow sigh that ran after your words displayed your relief more than you intended. Thinking back to the last time you spoke to him was routine for you.

But this time, instead of being tormented by the hurt laced in the memory of that night, you were now comforted by the fact that your truth was now something he knew.

And you weren’t going to deprive yourself of his, no matter how much it may break you. You were in too deep to consider that now.

“Do I still make you sick to your stomach?”

It was his turn to let out an audible sigh. And it seems as though you weren’t the only one reminiscing back to that night; for his response appeared to be nurtured with time and consideration.

“No y/n, you never did. You never will. I didn't mean that. I wish I had ever said those words to you, but I did. I’m sorry.”

It’s one thing to say something. It’s another to mean it. And it felt nice to hear he didn’t. You knew he could never have meant it, but the assurance you experienced upon his confession pulled apart the remaining angst embedded in your memories. You could only hope he felt the same.

It was cold outside. Somehow, your feet carried you out of the stuffy place, the moon illuminating the still street, a complete contradiction to your surroundings a few seconds ago.

The silence seemed to emphasize your acknowledgement of everything that had happened and was happening. The phone pressed to your ear. The quick beating in your chest. The familiarity of the slow breaths he took as you listened. Your boldness. His patience.

“I’m sorry I called. I know we said we weren’t talking—”

“I miss you too.”

You almost didn’t catch it. His voice low and quiet, almost as if the statement was a passing thought that had slipped past his tongue. But you caught it, as did your denial, that after all this time, he too missed what once was.

A part of you wished your ears had been deaf to his words. Because the way your hand fell to your chest, the way it felt as though your heart had paused, the way tears immediately lined your waterline, was the same way you recognized exactly how much you missed him.

One step forward and three steps back is the damage his words did. But you started it first, and it was only fair to finish what you started.

An absent smile lined your lips with tears falling down your face. Your tears were warm against your cold skin and you so badly wanted the warmth to stay.

“Everything we were scared of happening, happened Minho.”

“Nothing happened in the way we wanted Y/n.”

Your absent smile turned bittersweet, fingers gently grazing your cheek in an attempt to catch the warmth from your eyes. You were right. And he was too. They say that nothing that is meant for you will ever get away, so why did he?

“Is this better for us y/n?”

It’s hard to make peace with something you don't entirely agree with. He hurt you more than anyone else has. But he loved you better than anyone ever did.

“I don't know. I’m still confused.”

Your eyes shut, squeezing what was left of your tears out.

“I do know that I was really happy with you, we were happy together. And we were really good to each other.”

You went into this conversation with hope and uncertainty. It was only normal for that hope and uncertainty to cultivate into doubts and hesitation. He didn’t deserve that. And you didn’t want to make things worse than they already were. Not now. Not ever.

“But….”

“But we’ve been here before. And I want to love you because I love you, not because I need you— I missed you Minho…..I miss you. I’m sorry.”

And in an instant, no sound came from his phone. Your voice, gone, as if it were never there.

Gone before he could familiarize himself with the highs and lows of your tone. Gone before he could tell you to not cry, for he recognized the tell tale signs that you were. Gone before he could say everything he wanted to say and more.

And perhaps that's why he continued to hold the phone to his ear, head falling to the back of his couch as he allowed the words he meant to say to you, the second your name appeared on his phone, break free from his lips.

Barely a mumble, but with his whole heart and all his truth.

“I still love you, I promise.”

Check out the easter egg in this story!

𝙎𝙏RAy𝙎𝙏𝘼𝙍r★

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stainedsnuff · 1 year ago

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day one.

you wake up slowly, groggily. immediately, you’re on edge. you can’t remember shit from last night— and your surroundings are… unfamiliar, to say the least.

some grungy-ass basement. it’s not… horrible, you suppose. the floor is clean, and there’s a mattress shoved in a corner. but the ceiling is bare, and there’s black rust creeping down the walls.

you try, instinctively, to move. but of course, you’re bound. wrists held tight behind your back with— duct tape, it feels like. but most notably, as you shift your neck, yes, there’s definitely a collar there, too. some type of leather, high-quality. a metal chain hangs loosely from it, connected to a hook embedded in the wall.

you try to twist your wrists out of the tape. nothing. your ankles are free, so you attempt to rise to your feet— which works, but you can’t move far without the chain yanking you back.

you manage out a hoarse shout. which is, probably, your worst decision, because— about ten seconds later, you hear someone tramping down the stairs to your basement.

you can’t see much of him. (the only light in the room is a shitty desk lamp next to the mattress.) you can only make out the vague silhouette of his figure standing in the doorway.

he’s silent for a long moment. and then, he speaks. “evening.”

his voice is low and… oddly polite. like he doesn’t have you tied up in his basement.

“nice place, isn’t it? i cleaned the mattress for you.”

you ask him a few, reasonable questions. like why you’re kidnapped in his basement. or who the hell is he. or why you.

“i’ve been stalking you.”

blunt. you don’t even know how to respond.

“shh. don’t worry. you still have drugs in your system from last night.” what? you can barely even remember last night. “so i’m not planning on fucking you ‘till you’re over that.”

you can hear the smile in his voice.

“i’m making food for you right now,” he says suddenly. “something simple. should help you with the hangover. i’ll unclip your collar after, and take you upstairs to bath you. i don’t expect you to have the energy to wash yourself.”

you hate to admit he’s right.

“after which, you’ll need to sleep for the rest of the day. i want to go over our schedule tomorrow, the rules, the punishments…” he shrugs. “the works. i think you’ll be good at them.”

you ask another, very reasonable question. what the fuck is this?

he tilts his head like he’s confused. “you’re new life, obviously. you’ve complained about your job and working and not having a man, right? so i’m giving you that. for free, too. just because i like you.”

a moment of silence, as he looks down at you. “good dogs says thank you.”

#cnc kidnapping #ftm sub #kidnap fantasy #kidnapping k1nk #t4t nsft #queer nsft #ftm puppy #ftm nsft #snvff k!nk #snuffbait #violence kink #.mine #first real writing on here hell yeah

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stanurines1mp · 10 months ago

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Summer Nights

Pairing: Satoru Gojo x Fem!Zenin!Reader (she/her)

type: angst.

an: based on this post of mine. this was long asf 17k words but i separated it into 2 parts. uhh sm thoughts about gojo. also oml desperate gojo is so hot. gojo is so hot. i want him so bad. also i need gege to bring him back but also not but also yes. anyways, bear with me on this fic okayy

warnings: enemies to lovers-esque, forbidden love, one bed trope, angst, zenin!reader, DESPERATION HEAVY ON DESPERATION. i think that's it for part 1.

tags: @kalopsia-flaneur @bloopsstuff

Part two

~~~

Being the strongest is everyone's dream but in Satoru Gojo's experience, almost nothing good ever came of it. He would know, of course. The strongest sorcerer, the bearer of the Six Eyes, lived with a mountain of regrets.

What did it mean to be the strongest if he couldn't save everyone? What did it mean to be the strongest if he ended up alone? What did it mean to be the strongest if, in his lifetime of darkness, he had to leave the only light in his life that stood in the shape of you?

Satoru Gojo was not just a victim of the title of being the strongest. He was also a victim of his ancestral rivalry with another one of the three great clans in Jujutsu society.

The Zenin clan was known for its strength, even surpassing the strength of the Gojo clan as a whole. But there is not a single person, sorcerer or not, that could surpass Satoru Gojo just yet.

You were the closest one to it.

When Satoru enrolled in the Tokyo branch of Jujutsu High, you were brought to study in the Kyoto branch. The only time you had ever had to interact with him was during the Goodwill Events that had taken place over the course of both your high school years.

Even then, neither one of you had gotten any closer past simple acquaintances. But, you had always held a deep dislike towards the bearer of the Six Eyes.

The Zenin clan may be known to the entire Jujutsu World but the workings of the clan were hidden beneath words of their strength. You experienced it first-hand.

Having been born a woman in the Zenin clan, you were doomed to a certain type of future from the start. Much like your mother and many other women in the clan, you were forced to succumb to a childhood of serving the men of the clan.

Falling victim to their selfish needs and desires, you were submitted to their way of life. Always having to listen to their constant rambles and complaints, you were trained to heed their orders like servants.

And since many in the clan held dislike and hatred towards Satoru, you couldn't help but share their sentiment, having embedded in you that you should hate the heir to the man who once killed your ancestor.

After high school had ended, Satoru became a teacher. Your own classmates had pursued their dreams and aspirations to become sorcerers.

You, however, were stuck with the system of your clan.

You were truly a strong sorcerer, bearing an extremely powerful cursed technique but you weren't a full-time sorcerer. Or rather, you weren't allowed to.

However, there were special cases in which a mission was much too difficult or complicated that the higher-ups would request a partnership from you. Oftentimes, you were partnered up with Satoru.

Satoru Gojo was a man of too many words. His laidback personality and carelessness often swirled your blood with anger.

His never-ending rambles about nothing often had you wishing your ears were torn off. His routine of disrespecting the higher-ups was truly insufferable, leaving you as collateral damage in certain missions.

But the one thing about Satoru Gojo that truly had you crashed out with an unknown mix of emotions was the fact that above all of that, Satoru Gojo remained a caring man.

Even to you, his supposed enemy.

The girl from the Zenin clan, yet another one of them that fell nimbly to the words of the sadistic men in power. He hated weaklings and you were one of them, in that sense. But he never seemed to hate you.

No one outside the clan knew how the women of Zenin were treated. But Satoru Gojo could have guessed. And his guesses turned to knowledge.

Since Satoru Gojo knew that, it would have meant that he knew you.

So despite your glares and hurtful jabs at him, he never took any of them seriously. If anything, he made sure you could always feel comfortable to act that way around him.

Even more than that, you've witnessed him in action countless times over the missions you were both partnered up on. Without even realizing it, you somehow grew a fondness in your heart in the color of his eyes, respect taking place somewhere in there.

But he was a Gojo.

And you were a Zenin.

You were both fated to be enemies, to hate one another.

You had to always remind yourself that.

Every single ti-

"Hi," his honey-trailed voice appeared in front of you, his lips wearing a cheeky smile while his hand splayed out in a wave.

"Where the hell were you? We were supposed to leave 20 minutes ago," you seethed, eyes sending him a glare.

"Relax," he dismissed with a wave of his hand before entering the car.

"Relax? We were waiting for 20 minutes!" you nagged, your words falling right into deaf ears.

You followed after him and took a seat, closing the door with slight aggression and annoyance to the man next to you who seemed to disregard anyone else's sense of time and urgency. You leaned your head on your fist, resting neatly by the door of the car.

Your eyes followed the blurred images of the road outside, pops of colors merely to you. In a few hours, the car halted to a stop, the sky already a deep shade of blue with brightened stars illuminating the night sky.

The door of the car clicked open as you pushed it away and took a step out of the vehicle, Satoru doing the same thing on the other side. You walked to the back of the car, meeting him there while your driver opened up the boot.

Reaching out, you took your bag and waited by the sidewalk. You sent a friendly wave to the driver, watching as he drove the dark-colored car away. Turning around, your gaze lifted to the modern building that was the hotel that had been booked for you and Satoru to stay the night.

"Oh, and just so you know, they only booked us one room," Satoru grinned, sparing you a glance with his covered eyes.

Your own pair of eyes widened upon hearing his words, scrambling to follow behind him as he walked first into the hotel. Part of you were skeptical, unsure whether or not you should believe Satoru's words.

But his words were proven to be the truth when you both reached the receptionist. Satoru handled the technicalities and you watched as the man handed the sorcerer two keycards.

The white-haired shaman turned to you and handed you one which you then took and kept in your pocket. Following the receptionist's words, you both turned the corner to get to the elevators, clicking on the 20th-floor button.

Silence crept upon you both as the elevator took its sweet time to reach the 20th floor but you were the first to break the silence.

"Honestly, why didn't they book us two rooms like usual?" You frowned, toying with the keycard in your pocket.

"Budget cuts," Satoru simply replied but you only met his eyes with a deadpanned look.

"Yeah, right," you let out a scoff, returning your eyes to the small monitor that showcased the current level of the elevator.

"It's the only room available," he chuckled lightly at your reaction. "It's a pretty famous hotel," he added to strengthen his words.

You hummed lowly in acceptance, eyes only focusing on the monitor. The elevator was cold and dimly lit with warm-colored lights and borders of carved wood.

Satoru's gaze fell to the floor temporarily before following your own pair of eyes to witness the white-colored numbers changing from one number to the next. A sharp release of air escaped your lips once the digital numbers displayed a precise picture of 20.

The elevator doors opened with a ding, and Satoru stayed behind to give you the way to get out first. He followed behind you as you led him down the cozy corridor, stopping in front of a wooden door that had a small plate on it with the number of your room.

You fished out the keycard from your pocket and held it gently against the metallic scanner by the handle. Instantaneously, the light on the scanner flashed a bright green color, sending a slight buzzing sensation against your fingers.

You turned down the handle and pushed it open, with Satoru immediately behind you. He placed his right palm against the wooden door, pushing it against the wall to ease you to enter the room.

A slight thud emitted from the door closing and you and Satoru took off your shoes before moving deeper into the room. The minute you did and noticed the arrangement of the room, you heard your bag meet the floor in a light thump as your jaw dropped in absolute horror.

"What in the actual fuck?" You twitched with disgust, your emotions emphasized with each passing word that slipped past your tongue.

You heard Satoru laugh from next to you, undeniably grinning like a smug little shit at your expression but it only made you angrier. One queen-sized bed was staring you right in the face, its neatness almost mocking you indirectly.

"It's just a bed, princess," he teased, walking past you and setting himself on the edge of the bed, only fueling your displeasure with that nickname he loved to use for you.

The first time he had called you by it, you were frowning at him like he was a creepy pervert inching to touch you. But he justified his choice of nickname by saying that in the Jujutsu World, you were the closest thing they would have as a princess.

It made no sense to you but apparently, it did to him. Though a lot of things were like that, you thought. Regardless, you were stuck with it.

"It's one bed, Satoru. One," you pressured, your eyes thinly glaring at him.

Like the concept of him calling you princess, this was yet another situation where you and Satoru did not make sense of things in the same way. He seemed unbothered whereas you were extremely bothered.

Shaking your head, you walked past the bed and towards the couch, placing your bag on the floor next to it. "Guess I'll take the couch, then," you mumbled with a shake of your head.

"Wait, what?" Satoru laughed, the sound a kind of harmony that washed over with familiarity but in the moment, it only added to your internal torment. "Don't be ridiculous, the bed is big enough for us both."

"As if I would ever sleep with you," you huffed, unzipping your bag to take out your toiletries and clothes for the night.

Curse the moon and the sky for having you live through this while bringing a short-sleeved t-shirt to pair with short shorts as your choice of nightwear to battle the heat of the summer night.

But you had no choice seeing as that was the only piece of clothing you brought for your sleepwear.

"Aww, you've thought about sleeping with me?" Satoru smirked with apparent humor.

You looked at him over your shoulder and scrunched your face in distress. "As if," you rolled your eyes, only earning a soft laugh from the man.

"But seriously, just share the bed," he persuaded gently, following your unpacking actions.

"I would rather step into Unlimited Void," you spat.

"Suit yourself," he shrugged though you couldn't see since your back was facing him but you could hear it in his words.

You hummed to yourself in approval and turned around, shock coursing through you upon noticing Satoru's fingers moving to unbutton his shirt.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" You almost shout at him.

"What?" He froze, taken by absolute surprise and clearly, oblivious to your discomfort. "I'm just tryna change," he shrugged mindlessly, not seeming to give a care.

"Go change in the bathroom, pervert!"

It was like Satoru's brain finally clicked to understand what you meant. Wearing his infamously annoying shit-eating grin, he provoked you.

"Don't tell me you're not the least bit curious, hmm?" His words buzzed through the room, taking a note lower than usual, his head slightly tilted in a suggestive manner.

You could feel your heart skipping a simple beat, suddenly finding it hard to breathe but you maintained your composure.

"Not. A. Single. Bit," you assured him with a pause in between words, arms crossed tightly against your chest and eyes challenging.

"Sure, princess," he clicked his tongue and looked away, somehow finally allowing you to breathe normally again but only for a moment since next, he took off his blindfold, revealing to you his familiar icy blue eyes.

It wasn't the first time you'd seen them but somehow each time, you couldn't help but grow a little feeling of jealousy at how beautiful his eyes were. But you would never admit that, especially to him.

Not in a million years.

You watched as Satoru spared you a quick glance with his angelic eyes before heading towards the bathroom. You stared forward, body frozen until you heard the bathroom door close and click with a lock.

Another sharp exhale escaped you as you turned around to sit on the couch, praying that the little thing could give you a good night's sleep. You began reading up the file for the mission tomorrow, hearing the water begin to run in the bathroom.

Once you had done your reading and research, you decided to scroll on your phone while waiting for Satoru to finish taking his shower.

Soon enough, the running water stopped and moments later, Satoru left the toilet, taking a step into the bedroom with his hair still damp, droplets of water falling onto the carpeted ground.

His towel hugged his waist almost loosely and just low enough for you to notice certain details that you should not be noticing. especially on him. You looked away quickly with hopes that he hadn't caught your staring but unfortunately, he did notice you.

As he always had.

Thankfully, he hadn't decided to torture you and remained quiet but his lips were pulled up in a toying smirk, proud of himself for being able to catch even the slightest bit of your attention.

You walked past him to enter the shower, leaving once you had finished refreshing yourself.

Satoru was laid on one side of the bed, his back upright against the headboard while his legs were stretched out in front of him, dressed in a simple shirt and sweatpants. His hair was undone, a few strands falling over his eyes that were focused on his phone.

Next to him was the case file for the mission, leaving you to make the correct assumption that he had been reading up on it to prepare for tomorrow. You walked over to the couch and took a seat, ready to go to sleep.

"Are you actually going to sleep there tonight?" Satoru spoke, his voice sounding a little annoyed.

"What's it to you?" You raised a brow, eyes unamused.

"We've got a long day tomorrow and that thing looks about as comfortable as a shoebox," he said in a matter-of-fact tone.

"I'll be fine," you shook your head and lowered your body into a lying position.

"You do not look fine," he stated, eyes unashamedly staring as you fidgeted to find comfort on the cramped furniture. You remained silent in spite but after a while of tossing and turning, Satoru couldn't take it anymore. "For goodness sake, just share the bed."

His voice was raised slightly in annoyance, causing you to sit upright with just the same amount of frustration. Your eyes glared at him, mind contemplating your decisions. But eventually, your eyes glinted in the form of defeat.

"Fine," you huffed. "Only because I'm tired," you added, walking over to the bed and placing your phone on the nightstand.

"Sure, princess," Satoru grinned in victory.

"Just make sure you stay on your side," you emphasized.

"Sure, princess," he repeated his words, a softer tone taking place as he watched you get under the blanket.

Satoru took the files that were in between the two of you and placed them on the bedside table on his side. You made yourself cozy and turned to lie on your right side, back facing Satoru.

Unbeknownst to you, his eyes were stuck on your back, the way your hair fell against the soft sheets of the pillow, revealing the nape of your neck.

Your skin showed all signs of softness, mending and warming Satoru's heart with the urge to reach over and grace it against the tips of his fingers.

His lips were parted as if ready to say something, anything, just to get everything out in the open. But his head shook slightly to remind himself of the situation that lies beneath his strictly professional relationship with you.

Because he was a Gojo.

And you were a Zenin.

He had to always remind himself that.

His mind troubled and clouded with hints of you, he got under the blanket, careful to heed your wishes of having him stay only on his side of the bed. He sent you a glance, noticing that you had already turned off the lamp on your side.

Leaning forward, he turned off the light and whispered softly against the summer air, "Goodnight."

Your heart fluttered in silence at the sound of his voice so quiet in the night, feeling so distant when he was barely a meter away from you.

"Goodnight," you responded with just as heavy of a voice as he held.

Perhaps the burden that colored your wish was the same kind that he had. But you couldn't think that.

You forbid yourself to think that.

Satoru remained lying on his back, occasionally taking side glances to your back that faced him. You were quiet, softly breathing in an attempt to sleep.

He had no idea how long it was that he stayed awake in the quiet night. It was really silent that it felt loud and wrong. He wondered if you ever lived any moment in silence.

"Hey, are you sleeping?" His voice was barely a whisper but you were barely a hand-reach away from him.

"I'm trying to," you persisted, a hint of annoyance taking place.

Satoru felt a small pang of guilt for disturbing you. He let himself forget about you for the moment, and it took so much to do that when you were just there, lying next to him.

But he settled soon, falling into slumber with peace.

Having slept alone for most of your life, you were a light sleeper, easily waking up with any hints of movement that did not belong to you. And you were asleep, you were sure of it.

But it didn't matter anymore.

Your eyes jolted open in horror at the weight on your arm. Satoru's hands gripped your arm harshly but there was a sense of gentleness underlying his skin that met yours.

You were about to turn around and wake him up to give him an earful for not staying on his side of the bed when you heard the rustling sound of him tossing and turning.

His breathing was erratic as his lips emitted mumbled words of gibberish. You turned slightly, noticing how his closed eyes were in panic, lips quivering in fear and his skin was glistened with sweat.

He was having a nightmare.

Worried, you turned, pushing away his hand that held onto you like a lifeline. You leaned over the gap that lay in between you both, your own fingers reaching over to his arm to try and hold him in place but failed since his Infinity was on.

You could only watch as your hand struggled to reach him.

"Satoru," you called softly at first but he showed no response, too entwined by the horrific pictures his mind conjured. "Satoru!" You called again, louder this time.

His eyes tore open with a desperate gasp, his body erratic before settling down. His brows were furrowed, his eyes glassy, blue color boring right into yours. He was in a state of confusion, reeling back his mind and body to calmness.

"Are you okay?" You asked, voice soft and gentle.

His eyes searched yours.

All he could find was safety in the eyes of his supposed enemy. He swallowed the lump that stuck to the back of his throat, his head slowly nodding but lacking any sign of assurance.

"I-I'm sorry," he cleared his throat, fixing his position to remain on his side of the bed, much like your previous request to him earlier in the night.

"It's fine," you shook your head, your eyes hazy as you returned back to lying on the bed.

This time, you stayed on your left side, your hands resting under your head on the pillow. You were facing him, watching him carefully as he turned to meet you in the quiet of the night. His eyes were hazy, fluttering to maintain his breathing.

You could sleep.

Forget it happened, turn around, and just go to sleep.

But instead, you stayed, examining his features with concern, almost refusing to look away until he showed even a shred of normalcy.

You could sleep.

But instead, you chose to ask him in hopes of getting his mind to return to safe comfort. "Are you okay?"

Your voice was soft and intimate, traits Satoru rarely received from you in a more normal circumstance.

But he was receiving that care now and he almost wanted to be grateful for having to relive a painful memory since it meant that he could be with you in this moment.

"Just a nightmare," he answered almost consumed by pain, his eyes blue in more ways than one.

"I didn't know the strongest sorcerer gets nightmares," you chuckle softly with a hum, a desperate attempt to lighten the mood.

His lips quivered slightly in a grateful beam but his eyes darkened almost immediately at the reminder of the visions he saw in his dreams.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" You were hesitant, feeling your words slip out against the warnings in your mind.

You noticed the way Satoru's eyes widened with uncertainty, clearly taken aback by your question. His mind was wandering to find the words while his eyes searched yours for the familiar feeling of comfort.

"It was just something that happened when I was younger," he answered with a lingering doubt.

"If you don't want to tell me, it's okay. But if you do, I'm here to listen," you said, nodding a little as if to show your sincerity. "I promise not to be a dick about it," you joked.

Satoru let out a small laugh, it was laced with bitterness and relief at the same time. "When I was younger, there was this girl," he began, eyes looking everywhere but in yours. "She was a few years younger than me and she served for my family but really, she was more like a younger sister to me."

Your lips stayed shut, allowing him to further his story.

"One day, we were out and a Curse User was targeting me and ended up killing her," he finished with choked words.

"Oh my God," your lips emitted a soft gasp, your forehead frowning. "I'm so sorry."

"It's fine," he shook his head, playing it off but it was clearly lingering heavily on his soul. "It's just- I should have saved her, you know? I should have been able to. I'm the strongest."

"You were just a kid," you said gently.

Your words had acted as an anchor, taking him away from his thoughts of self-loathing. It was enough for him to meet your eyes again.

"You are so much more and so much less than the strongest," you whispered. Your feelings for him that you had been trying to ignore and suppress poured out with just a single call of his name, "Satoru."

Satoru Gojo was the strongest sorcerer, the bearer of Six Eyes.

But even he fell victim to your words.

His eyes leaked tears, surprising himself. But what could he do?

He should be the strongest sorcerer. But you said that he was more and less than that.

Satoru couldn't take away his eyes from you even if he tried but in what world would he ever try to do that?

But you thought that his eyes were the ones that were alluring, pulling you deeper and deeper into the rabbit hole of your feelings for him, clinging onto some sort of comfort in this world.

Your hand shifted from underneath your head, slowly stretching out to him, hoping to reach him but you were stuck. Like earlier, barely inches away from his skin, your palm was stuck in the infinite way time moved around him.

With your eyes longingly staring into his, you begged, "Your Infinity. Please, turn it off."

Who was he to deny you of your wish?

A smile graces your lips momentarily, your heart skipping a beat when you no longer feel the buzz of Infinity against your skin. Just a second further, your hand ghosted the skin of his cheek.

The tips of your fingers gently traced his skin while you shifted closer to him, feeling him stiffen under your touch before relaxing.

"I'm sorry, I've never cried in front of anyone like this," he stammered out his words, his breathing shaky as he felt closer to you.

"I know," you nodded. "You're always such a pain in the ass," you added with a soft laugh.

Satoru's lips were tugged in a small smile as he sniffled. "Shut up," he said, nuzzling into your hand that rested against his cheek.

"Satoru," his name slipped out your tongue in such an effortless manner, that he thought he was named Satoru specifically for you to say it.

"Hmm?" His hum took a tone higher, desperation entangled in his breathing as his eyes fluttered.

He couldn't help the urge he felt, the need to do more than just feel your touch.

His own hand traveled to yours, holding onto your wrist. His head turned slightly, placing a soft kiss on your palm next to his cheek while his eyes held contact with yours.

"What is it?"

Your breath hitched, feeling the gentleness beneath his kiss on your palm. It was reeling you in towards him in all the ways it shouldn't.

"We both hate each other," you repeated into the air between you two.

But it was useless.

That air that you breathed into was filled with longing desperation and need for each other. Your words were meant to convince yourself more than it was meant for him.

But it wasn't working, right?

Still, Satoru only smiled, his voice low and gentle as if anything louder could ruin the undisclosed passion held tightly in a string between both your souls.

"Yeah, we do," he nodded, pulling your hand away only to lift it slightly while he turned to place yet another kiss but on your wrist this time. "But, you're still here, with me. And that- That means something to me," he confessed.

"Satoru," you whispered sweetly.

Your mind was hazy with the feel of his lips on your skin, leaving you almost desperate with want. He was feeling the same way, if not more.

He swore he could never get tired of hearing the way you said his name, so sweet and gentle. It was truly meant for you.

Satoru looked at you expectantly, eyes filled with vulnerability. He gently guided your hand to rest on his chest, pressing it against his heart.

"Can you feel me?"

His heart was beating against your hand, the pace taking a quicker one as the frequency shifted into emotions. You nodded, realizing and understanding everything that he felt, mirroring your very own.

You could hear your own heart beating in a synchronized rhythm.

"Say something," he pleaded, adding, "Please."

Your brows furrowed as you allowed yourself to stare into his eyes. "We- We shouldn't be this way," you slurred.

His forehead creased, his hold on your wrist tightening slightly. "What way?" He asked with his voice unsteady and feigning ignorance just to keep this moment alive. "We're just talking."

You feel a sliver of courage consuming you as your eyes flickered momentarily to his lips. Using your hand on his chest, you pushed yourself further above the bed to meet him.

You felt just slightly the way the tip of your nose brushed against his, creating warmth as your lips only merely ghosted over his.

"This way," you murmured, your lips moving on his but not kissing him just yet.

Satoru froze, his eyes fluttering shut as he instinctively leaned into your touch. "It's- It's bad, right?" His voice trembled, hopeless in his need for you.

"Y-yeah," you nodded, remaining where you were against him. "But," you trailed, your heart growing louder in your own ears.

His eyes opened to meet yours, confused yet longing endlessly, a hand of his reaching to tuck your hair into the back of your ear before resting it on your cheek, fighting his selfish desires to pull you straight into his lips.

"But what?"

You closed your eyes, your voice choked as if about to cry. "But I want to kiss you so bad right now," you begged, letting your gaze fall on his lips.

His heart began to race, faster than anything he's ever felt in his entire life. His resolve was already crumbling and you weren't making it any easier on him.

There was nothing but a burning ache in the way you held yourself against him.

"I- I want to kiss you, too," he confessed, shaking as he did so. A moment passed and he worded, "But we can't."

You shook your head, knowing that he was right. "We shouldn't," you said.

But you wanted to.

He wanted it, too.

But he was a Gojo.

And you were a Zenin.

You had to always remind yourself that.

And you were reminding yourself at the moment.

Still, nothing seemed to matter to you in the heat of the night when you were on the bed, only a lean away from Satoru's lips that seemed so inviting.

You knew it was wrong.

More than the fact that neither one of you had the capacity for such a connection in life, you were meant to be enemies.

Be that as it may, you still wanted more.

You wanted him.

And you wanted Satoru to kiss you anyways, damn the world.

You wanted him to tell you that he didn't care, that he wanted you more than he cared about your family.

But he didn't say that.

Instead, he nodded and pulled away, placing your hand on the bed, in the growing gap between you both.

"You're right," his voice was quiet and defeated. "I'm sorry."

You wanted to cry, but you didn't. You only nodded and turned around, letting your back face him. "It's okay," you uttered silently.

He watched with his heart aching, his own mind screaming at him. His hand instinctively reached out to you, as though he wanted to pull you back.

To have you meet his eyes.

But he refrained.

"Goodnight," he let out softly, his voice was heavily laced with defeat and self-loathing.

"Yeah, goodnight," you replied half-heartedly, feeling your eyes start to rain tears that fell onto the pillow sheet.

Satoru was fixed on your back, noticing the way your shoulders were shaking ever so slightly. He could hear faint sounds of your sniffling that you tried your hardest to hide from him.

And it broke his heart.

He was overwhelmed with guilt but he knew things wouldn't end well for you if he had done what he truly wanted to do. But he wanted to comfort you, to hold you close and never let you go.

But he was a Gojo.

And you were a Zenin.

He had to always remind himself that.

Every single ti-

"Satoru," you whispered, frozen in your position, fearful to face him in such a vulnerable state.

He hesitated, his heart racing whenever you would say his name in such a whisper. It drove him crazy.

And he should probably ignore your call, but he couldn't.

He gave in to the devil on his shoulder, almost giving in to all his selfish needs. His arms slowly snaked around you, wrapping them around your waist.

He pulled you closer against his chest.

"What is it?" He asked softly, his voice hoarse with a mix of emotions that were too jumbled up for him to even comprehend.

"Nothing," you sighed, body stiffening under his hold as you attempted to push his arms away.

But Satoru refused, selfishly tightening his hold on you.

"Don't," he murmured, his face burying itself in the crook of your neck as he pulled you flush against him. "Just- Stay like this, please," he pleaded, his words almost muffled by your own skin.

You relaxed against him, nodding as tears escaped you. "Just don't get another nightmare," you uttered softly, feeling him nod in the crook of your neck.

Satoru let himself rest, continuing to hold you tight, never intending to let you go if he could have it his way. His eyes fluttered shut, tickling the skin of your neck as he did so.

He inhaled the scent of your shampoo, lavender, and rosemary heavy in his nose. There was peace resonating around your being and he felt content just being there, holding you like this, even if it was only tonight.

He had never felt anything like that before. As you drifted off to sleep, he held you closer, his heart settling happily in his chest. Listening to your soft breathing and little snores, Satoru could feel exhaustion catching up with him and soon, he fell asleep, his arms loosely around you.

Somewhere in the middle of the night, you woke up and escaped his arms. So you lay down on your side as you faced him, watching him sleep.

He was peaceful in his slumber, clearly unaware of your gaze. He seemed relaxed, lips parted as he breathed softly and you were glad.

You studied his features, noting how many freckles graced his skin and committing every detail to memory, afraid to never be able to see him this closely again. His white strands fell so beautifully across his forehead, his chest gently rising and falling as he breathed.

Your eyes of admiration adored him truly, your hand hesitantly reaching out to him. A moment of fear washed over you, fearful that his Infinity would get in the way like how it had earlier in the night.

But a grateful sigh was elicited from your lips once your soft fingers felt him, tracing them over his cheek while you prayed that he wouldn't wake up.

He stirred slightly, eyes fluttering beneath his eyelids, causing you to freeze, your breath caught in your airway and your fingers stopped in place.

After a moment, he settled again and you breathed a sigh of relief as you pulled your hand to rest it under your head. There was a small smile tugging at your lips as you relished the sight of his beauty.

Soon, you fell victim to slumber just as he had.

Within a few hours, Satoru woke up, finding himself under your hold. You were curled up against him, your arms wrapped around his waist and your head resting on his chest. You were still asleep, not at all noticing that he had woken up despite his body stirring slightly.

It was weird, he thought.

You had mentioned before that you were a light sleeper yet here you were, oblivious and asleep. Not to mention, you had easily woken up earlier that night when Satoru had a nightmare.

But you were still against him, your head nuzzling further into the warmth of his chest, the blanket entangled between both of your bodies.

Satoru used this opportunity to wrap his arms around you, almost protective as he buried his face in your hair, inhaling the smell of your lavender and rosemary shampoo, scents that now had become a familiarity to him.

He had no idea how long he stayed like that but he did not care.

If life would for once be kind to him, he could live in this moment forever but life was not that generous.

Because eventually, you woke up, your eyes being met with the color of Satoru's shirt. He allowed your body to shift slightly, his heart skipping a beat when you didn't push him away immediately. His gaze lowered, meeting yours that were tilted up.

"Hi," he greeted softly with a smile so beautiful and genuine that for once reached his eyes.

It was the first time you'd ever seen him this happy.

Your eyes blinked a few times, your mind still foggy and confused. "Hi," you said. "What are you doing?"

His grip on you tightened but it was still so gentle like he was afraid to let you go but also afraid to hurt you. "I should ask you the same thing," he said, his lips grinning with a glint of teasing in his eyes. "Why are you wrapped around me like a little vine?"

"Hmm?" You shook your head, not really understanding him. "What are you talking about?"

His lips parted as he let out a small chuckle, finding your cluelessness and fogginess from having just woken up cute. He looked down to where your arms were wrapped around his waist.

"You're hugging me," he pointed out, causing you to follow his gaze. "I guess you did it in your sleep. When I woke up, you were already like this," he explained softly. "And I'm not pushing you away," he admitted, his face flushed.

"Oh," you muttered, nuzzling your head against his chest as you closed your eyes. "Can we stay like this a bit longer?" Your voice was soft, almost as if you were afraid of doing such a thing.

And maybe you were.

Because you knew you shouldn't.

But there he was, so gentle with you and so warm in all the right ways, you couldn't help but allow yourself to be a little selfish. And Satoru was shocked that you hadn't pulled away.

If anything, you only pulled him closer to you.

"Just a little longer, okay?" He whispered above your head, nodding gently as he placed a kiss on your hair.

You took in the warmth that Satoru could provide you, the kind of warmth you lacked over all your years alive. A shaky breath escaped him, his fingers gently carding through your hair as he got lost in thought only to pull himself back to reality.

Because his thoughts were depressing, reminding him over and over again that neither of you should be doing this way.

Whereas in reality, he was holding you and you were holding him.

Even if it would end soon and never happen again, he didn't care.

At least he got to hold you, to feel you against him.

But that ended, not long after, when you finally pulled away from him and he had no choice but to let you go, arms dropping to his sides as he sat up.

Avoiding your gaze, he reminded, "That can't happen again."

You mimicked his actions, sitting upright against the headboard. Your knees were folded, brought up against your chest tightly as your arms hugged around them.

You looked down but nodded in agreement. "It won't."

He nodded, his jaw clenched with regrets but he knew this was for the best.

There was not a universe where the two of you could actually be together.

He got off the bed and walked over to his bag, creating even more distance between the two of you. It was a distance that he hated.

He wished to just turn back and kiss you deeply until neither of you could breathe. But doing that would only hurt you in the end.

You were the one trapped under the claws of the Zenin clan.

"I'm going to take a shower," he informed, his tone plain and blunt.

"Okay," you mumbled quietly, waiting until he entered the bathroom before letting your head fall to the valley between your folded knees, tears slowly escaping as you cursed at yourself for having lost your composure and allowing yourself to care for him.

Satoru let the water run through his body, wishing it was your hands instead. His body fell limp, leaning his back against the bathroom wall, his head tilted back to rest as well.

His eyes were closed shut, his emotions overwhelming him. Hidden by the loud sound of the shower, he hit the back of his head against the wall, his lips emitting a curse of both pain and frustration.

He knew he had to pretend it never happened. He had to return to his usual self whenever he was with you, in a professional manner. And you knew it, too.

You had to go back to hating him.

Satoru soon emerged from the bathroom and you immediately walked past him to shower. You didn't even spare a glance at the man, worried you wouldn't be able to control yourself when seeing him in such a suggestive state.

"Hurry up," he reminded you just before you could close the door.

"I will," you replied with a hint of annoyance in your attempt to return to your Satoru Gojo-hating self.

At your tone, Satoru couldn't help but let a bitter smile adorn his lips. You were trying to return things back to normal, too. This was all for the best, right?

But if it was for the best, then why didn't it feel right at all?

Once he got dressed, he took a seat on the edge of the bed, scrolling through his phone to check if there were any updates about the case.

Once you got out of the shower, already wearing your uniform, you took a seat next to him but there was some distance, both of you careful not to recreate the scene from the night.

"Any updates?" You asked casually.

"No," he shook his head and kept his phone in his pocket.

"Shall we go? We could grab breakfast on the way to the location," you suggested, finally turning to meet him.

And for once, you were glad that he was wearing his blindfold, obstructing your view of his eyes. He looked at you with an unreadable expression before nodding in agreement.

"Sounds good," he shrugged with his lips pursed.

The both of you stood up and he let you walk first, following behind you right after as you put on your shoes and opened the door.

The elevator ride was just as slow as it was last night, the numbers staring back at you mockingly as if to remind you just how silent and still everything was and how big the confinement was yet you felt too cramped, stuck with Satoru.

You bit your inner cheek, your fingers fumbling with the hem of your uniform nervously. Your eyes fluttered in relief when the elevator stopped somewhere on the 11th floor, the doors opening up for a family of 4 to enter.

The woman flashed you a bright smile as she led her daughter in by the hand, her husband and their other daughter following suit. But that relief you felt was truly just a momentary occasion when Satoru neared you, making room for the family.

Satoru's hand was slender as his fingers wrapped around his phone, his left hand buried deep within his pocket while his right foot pressed up against the elevator wall to rest. He was the definition of casual, you thought.

But when the family of 4 was settling and the doors of the elevators were closing, Satoru's head turned and his gaze fell on you. Behind the fabric of his blindfold, his eyes had widened to see that you were staring up blankly at him already.

His lips relaxed into a soft smile but it faltered once he realized that, unlike his eyes, there was nothing to cover his lips.

Your eyes blinked a few times before letting your gaze fall forward, hints of disappointment on the tip of your tongue when you felt his Infinity acting as the barrier between you.

The elevator let out a ding to announce that you had arrived on the ground floor. You and Satoru waited until the family got out first before taking your own steps.

Walking past the lobby doors, you and Satoru were silent. The air felt fresh but the summer heat did make itself known as you walked past shops, eyes peeled for a cafe.

"What about this?" Satoru stopped, gesturing to the cafe.

"Sure," you shrugged mindlessly, following behind him as he opened the door for you to enter. "I'll go find a seat, just get me whatever," you murmured lowly, earning a nod from the man.

You found a table that had two empty chairs and took a seat. After some time of scrolling meaninglessly on your phone, your head perked up, looking around as you realized that Satoru was taking too long.

Concern colored your eyes that scanned the front of the cafe and you noticed him, standing in all his tall beauty, his white hair poking out as his back faced your direction. Tilting your head a little, you could watch the scene unfolding from the distance.

His right palm was leaning on the counter, holding his weight above it. His lips were tugged in a friendly grin, gaze towards the cashier.

The woman behind the counter wore pink cheeks, her lips cheeky and excited. You lowered your gaze slightly, noticing the way the woman's hands were atop Satoru's.

His lips were moving, telling the woman something that caused her to blush even harder and laugh louder in a squeaky giggle. You couldn't help the way your eyes rolled obnoxiously as you watched the scene from your seat.

Bubbling up under your skin, jealousy took place and spread itself all throughout your body. If only your cursed technique could do more than just manipulate frequencies, like maybe allowing you to have some sort of super hearing so you could listen to their conversation.

But you couldn't do that so instead, you only returned your gaze to your phone when Satoru was beginning to leave the counter. You pretended to be surprised by his arrival at the table, sitting across you as if you weren't literally watching the way he was unashamedly flirting with the cashier.

"What the fuck are these?" You blurted, deadpanned as you looked at the pastries to the man sitting in front.

"Breakfast," he quipped happily, taking a peach strudel happily.

"Satoru, this is not breakfast," you blinked, watching the way his lips fell like a sad puppy, the sight cute as it caused your heart to flutter warmly.

"What do you mean?"

"They're all sweet," you frowned with raised brows.

"Yeah. I eat stuff like this every day."

"For breakfast?"

"Yeah," he nodded.

"That cannot be healthy," you exhaled, shaking your head slightly before reaching for the plain butter croissant to start with.

He enjoyed his 'breakfast' happily and silently just as you did, your eyes wandering the cafe to watch other customers. You thanked the waitress when she came over to place both your drinks and you smiled softly upon tasting the bitter taste of the hot cappuccino with vanilla syrup.

"How'd you know this was my favorite?" You hummed while taking another sip of the hot beverage.

"You told me once", he said casually, leaving you dumbfounded but appreciating his gesture.

Silence took place as you both finished your breakfast and left the cafe and you definitely couldn't ignore the cashier's overly excited voice as she thanked you both for coming.

The walk to the location was silent, too, which was uncharacteristically Satoru.

You had always known him to talk your ear off but his lips were pursed in a thin line. And surely, you knew why.

But you definitely didn't know that he was fighting the urge to just press his lips against yours. You were always complaining to him that he talks too much, surely you wouldn't mind shutting him up that way?

He shook his head, regaining his senses of reality. Thankfully, the both of you had arrived at the abandoned warehouse that was said to be the headquarters for the cult you were investigating.

"I'll go in first while you put up a Veil," Satoru instructed, earning a nod and an eye roll from you due to his spatting of orders. "Follow up after me."

"Emerge from the darkness, blacker than darkness. Purify that which is impure," you uttered before watching the sky and the surroundings take a darker color to resemble night.

You left your spot to go and find Satoru, soon finding him hiding behind a wall. "I think those are the followers," he informed, allowing you to glance inside and see many people standing in white cloth.

Both of you watched the followers of the cult begin to ascend the stairwell in a line, much like predicted.

"I'll check to find out how many guards there are." You closed your eyes, letting your ears trace the trails of cursed energy by listening to the frequency. "There's about 3 guards in each wing," you pointed.

The plan went smoothly and the mission ended successfully though it was nearing night, not a shocker to anyone considering that it was you and Satoru who handled the case.

You both headed back to the hotel, ready to pack your things and go home but your tracks were frozen in place as your hands flew to cover your ears, a ringing pain appearing.

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