#was searching for influence flags...

[extravagantwolf]

So pumped! Got new skills to work, now it's just a matter of discovering where oh where-- wait, oh, here it is. I am a silly, silly goose.

[andloveistoolong]

So I made a dunmeshi sexuality headcanon chart?

Edit: I'm gonna list all the flags under a cut for anyone who needs that.

Senshi: MLM and Bear Brotherhood

Chilchuck: Bisexual

Marcille: LESBIAN OH MY GOD SHE'S SUCH A LESBIAN

Izutsumi: Aroace

Falin: Bisexual

Aaaand Laios: MLM on his chest; around his head, clockwise from the far left, are Asexual, Acespec, Aromantic, Aroace, Aego-aroace, and Demi-aroace. Just, lots of different possible aspec identities.

[myun-saidthoughts]

˗ˏˋ ⭐ ˎˊ˗ Astrology Observations ˗ˏˋ ⭐ ˎˊ˗

🌟 The placement of Pluto in your chart can reveal the theme of pain or transformation you might experience in this life—pain that serves as a catalyst for profound internal and mental shifts within yourself.

The depth of pain will be dependent on your own choices; if you choose to ignore red flags the harsher and more severe the wake up call would be.

Pluto in the 5th house: Struggles might emerge from overindulgence in impulsive or immature choices, such as gambling or seeking joy in fleeting pleasures (such as affairs or short term relationships). Poor choices may manifest because there's a need of deep inner child healing, which could cause deeper emotional wounds in the process. The extremes of choosing quick fun can lead into a habit of poor decision making.  Pluto in the 7th house: Challenges and transformative pain often arise through intimate romantic relationships, pushing you to confront deep-seated patterns and fears. If you keep choosing people who won't choose you or if you rely on others for a sense of self, identity or acceptance then the wake up call would be more prominent or severe. Pluto in the 11th house: Painful experiences may come through friendships or involvement in communities, leading to shifts in how you connect with and trust others. If you find yourself relying on others or seeking external validation through communities, friend groups, or social connections, the wake-up call may lead you to recognize your own worth and embrace yourself as you are, without needing acknowledgment from others. Pluto in the 12th house: Ignoring your psyche or mental struggles can lead to self-unraveling. The more you avoid or dismiss your internal mental health setbacks, the deeper and more painful the lessons will become. You may not even be aware of your emotional needs, but the longer you avoid confronting your sensitivity or past wounds—whether from childhood or relationships—the harder it will be to redefine your self-concept and belief system. You may even experience a revelation about yourself after overcoming depression or anxiety, which can help you understand yourself better. However, remember that being introspective and aware doesn't always mean you're truly feeling your feelings. You may know what to think or how to act, but it’s crucial to connect the emotions you've been holding onto with the feelings beneath them.

Pluto placed in less interactive houses may have a less intense theme, but if you also have Chiron in the same house, its influence can become much more prominent and life-changing, amplifying the potential for deep healing or painful growth.

🌟 If you have many inner planets in your 5th, 7th, or 8th house, you're more likely to seek out romantic connections, desire a partner, or long for one—even if you’ve experienced emotional turmoil in your childhood due to your parents or past partners.

🌟 If you have many inner planets in your 1st, 2nd, or 12th house, you’re less likely to be open to a connection. Subconsciously, you might desire or wish for someone to be “your person,” but you may never allow yourself to fully give in.

🌟 With 8th house synastry, the intensity of this connection swings between unspoken loyalty and complete avoidance—one extreme driven by the fear of showing disinterest, and the other by the fear of being a burden. If you’re not preoccupied with displaying your loyalty to them in a room full of people, you find yourself avoiding eye contact or minimizing conversation to maintain a facade of “normalcy”—a normalcy that doesn’t truly exist in this connection.

🌟 Pisces/Scorpio placements may have a strong tendency to seek deep emotional experiences during times of creativity. They often search for a specific feeling or emotional state as a catalyst to create art or writing.

🌟 Aquarius placements, especially Moon or Rising, often struggle with avoidance as one of their worst traits in any relationships they navigate—whether romantic, platonic, or even with themselves.

🌟 Scorpios are known for their extreme loyalty. Once they choose you, they are deeply committed and unlikely to leave unless a traumatic emotional blockage arises within the relationship.

🌟 Scorpio risings can have beautiful striking eyes, and because of that their eyes can heavily influence appearance. Their eyes may even become an ice breaker for conversations/be talked about a-lot.

🌟 Aries + Libra axis turnover rate when it comes to relationships is incredibly high. Moving on to the next can come naturally to them unless they have other placements that contradicts that tendency.

🌟 Air signs need intellectual stimulation; they need to feel excited and curious with you.

🌟 8th House placements (esp. Moon or Sun) or Scorpio placements are incredibly private towards the public. They naturally will not post on social media: no instagram stories, tweets, memes, their thoughts or feelings willingly and openly.

This is because

At a young age their needs, thoughts or wishes were ignored and pushed to the side for others sake and so they now have coped to never share their own inner thoughts or feelings to others.

They've been burned or hurt in the past by someone they've trusted, and now they don't share or openly state their true feelings outwardly towards others.

If they have a Taurus/Libra/Leo IC or Gemini/Sagittarius/placements then the chances of sharing themselves online is more likely.

🌟 In 8th/Pluto + 12th/Neptune house synastry connections, if you two are not on speaking terms sudden lows may occur when you're reminded of what was.

If it's been weeks or months since you've both talked and one random day they watch your story on your social media a sudden longing for them may come.

If you run into them and the conversation didn't amount to what you wished for, a low may come and you'll feel as if the relationship is completely over.

🌟 8th house synastry amounts to constant cycles and loops, if you're not wishing for them, you say you're over them.

There could be an emotional block between you two and the desire for them may diminish but If they look at you for one second the way they used too, the desire for them will arise as if the feeling never left.

🌟 In 12th house and Neptune synastry, you might covertly share song lyrics on your social media, hoping they’ll read them and sense that the lyrics are meant as a message for them. Instead of expressing your feelings face-to-face, posting these lyrics in a "hidden" way feels safer.

And if so, you yourself may wonder if anything they publicly post, say, or do is a secret message for you.

You may even go out of your way to somehow find a perfect song that depicts the relationship between you two and use that song as a indirect message to state your true feelings without having to outwardly verbalize them.

(The above statement is more true for those who have Pisces, 12th house, Neptune influence in their cart)

🌟 3rd house synastry creates ease with communication, especially if there's 4th house synastry as well, and if the planets involved are the Sun, Moon, or Venus.

🌟 For 12th house synastry to cause intense idealizations, thoughts, dreams, wishes or obsessiveness there has to be attraction involved, the more attracted you are to them the more you'll idealize them.

🌟 A Neptune/12th house person and a planet person can both experience intense desire, longing, or overthinking, but the way they process these feelings depends on their individual natal charts.

🌟 With 8th and 12th house synastry connections, you might never actually date the person, yet the emotions they evoke within you can feel as profound and intimate as if you had.

🌟 Neptune and 12th house synastry: "You are perfect for me; you feel like everything I could ever wish for in someone."

If you're avoidant, this feeling can be terrifying because it brings a sense of inadequacy, as if you could never live up to the idealized version of yourself they see. You'll long for them deeply, but the way they look at you may feel unsettling, foreign, or out of place. Even if they seem like your dream person, self-doubt can drive you to run. You might fear disappointing them or feel you’ll never measure up to the partner they deserve. You'll view them as some sort of prize from a distance and you'll search for them in other connections but you'll never allow yourself to choose them, not like they choose you.

If you're anxious, this feeling will strike a familiar chord, it'll resonate so deeply within and letting go will seem impossible. You'll feel this pull toward them, you'll feel as if they’re your muse, your catharsis, and you'll wish that they were your person. Even without words, you'll sense that they want you, and this silent connection will consume your thoughts. You’ll compare the way they make you feel to everyone else, and you'll search for that same intensity in other people's gazes. You’ll sit in your head, wondering if your wishes align with theirs, questioning if they feel the same. Over time, you’ll realize the emotions they stir in you are unmatched, which leads you to hold onto the connection longer than you should, you'll rather wish on the what could be's than accept what is.

🌟 Pisces or 12th house placements often turn to writing or art as a means of expressing their inner thoughts, feelings, and longings. The more they feel, the more their creativity flows.

🌟 If you have water placements or planets in water houses (4th, 8th, 12th), deep emotions are embedded within you. The more you avoid these feelings, the more likely physical symptoms such as anxiety or mental struggles will occur. It's your body’s way of processing the hidden emotions you’ve learned to suppress. These unaddressed feelings can manifest in subtle, physical ways, and it's a reflection of the emotional turmoil beneath the surface.

🌟 With 8th house synastry, the second and I mean very second there's a emotional block between you two the deep seated desire for them becomes less intense.

Ex: If you also share 12th house synastry with them, parts of their actions will feel like subtle hints that are meant for you, in essence you want to believe you are more important to them than others, and you feel like you are. But once something comes to light or if you were shown that what you thought to be wasn't the case, the realization creates emotional distance and the desire for them (in that moment) shrinks. It feels as if the importance that you thought your presence gave them suddenly means nothing, and from that feeling creates a instant "I'm never speaking to them again" mentality.

🌟 With the 12th house involved, their actions may reveal their actual character, and while you are able to clearly see these actions (in a objective sense), you might still feel deeply tied to the version of them you feel them to be exists. You’ll observe their behavior yet convince yourself that someone better lies beneath the surface.

🌟 With 8th and 12th house synastry, there’s a part of you that feels you’ll never compare to anyone else they encounter. Even if you two never dated, there’s a deep sense that the way they feel when they’re with you is unmatched and it's something you intuitively will feel. It's likely that there will be no set actions or verbal affirmations to confirm this knowing.

[almostempty]

psa clint isn’t joel miller and if you’re flattening him into a joel archetype we need to talk about race again

i’m aware they both wear plaid, have a daughter, battle with grief, and are hot covered in blood and enacting violence

this isn’t a callout i just don’t remember where i saw these specific posts about the red handkerchief and clint as a ‘blue collar’ man. but i know i’ve seen plenty of clint = joel posts floating around. 

AND i wasn’t going to say anything bc i thought i was just being gatekeepy bc i didn’t wanna see clint get the dbf treatment which would be my personal problem and i can happily write about him on my own blog how i want etc etc and i know i don’t have to read anyone else’s takes BUT then i thought about it and once again…it’s always about race…

edit: i apologize for using such a specific example without reaching out to the person that made the post—i could have taken the time to find it before using it as a launching point, that's on me. the handkerchief post wasn’t part of a huge fic or broader take on clint’s character (sorry for the jumpscare).

it did, however, stick out to me as a strong illustration of how important cultural context is. the issue is systemic not interpersonal. the rest of my examples weren't based on any one post—the blue-collar, marlboro man, works-with-his-hands, joel-coded/lana del rey-coded/ethel cain-coded vibes have been everywhere: fics, tags, comments, posts, tiktok edits. i know there’s nuance in fandom culture��tropes, memes like “close enough, welcome back joel/javi,” “____ coded” jokes, music, etc. and if we can understand that level of context for internet culture, we can understand the importance of racial context too, right?

i stand by the rest of what i said and will continue to argue that cultural context matters if you consider yourself an anti-racist reader or writer.* re: the post i saw somewhere about someone having a head canon about clint having a red handkerchief as a snot rag - sorry i forgot where i saw it and this isn’t an attack on whoever wrote that, but an fyi to anyone thinking about him the same way… if you’re writing a latino man in 1987 oakland—especially someone working street-level jobs or tied to criminal economies—and you think a red bandana is just a ‘snot rag,’ you’re missing major context

fyi, in 1987, color politics were not optional if you were a man of color in california. even though bloods (red) and crips (blue) originated in LA, their color codes and the larger gang culture around them were already known across the state. in northern california specifically, norteños (tied to the nuestra familia prison gang) wore red. their rivals, sureños (tied to the mexican mafia), wore blue. 

who cares? well, even though oakland wasn’t dominated by bloods and crips the way LA was (in part due to the black panthers), it had its own street crews, plus a heavy norteño/sureño influence by the mid-80s. even outside organized gangs, the association between red and gang affiliation was strong enough that wearing a red bandana could get you profiled, targeted, or attacked—by cops, by other crews, or by random people trying to read your allegiance.

if you were a latino man in oakland in the 80s—like clint—you wouldn’t carry a red bandana by accident. it would be flagging. even if you weren’t affiliated. as a street smart guy, survival would mean being hyper-aware of how you present yourself, especially in neighborhoods policed by gang dynamics and racial profiling. cops would use color displays like a bandana as probable cause for harassment searches or worse during the height of the ‘war on drugs’ and the crack epidemic. 

characters like clint—latino, working-class, street-adjacent—would have understood the consequences of being read wrong. this doesn’t mean no one ever had cloths, handkerchiefs, or functional rags. it means the color and the way you carried it mattered: what pocket, what visibility, how deliberate it looked.

throwing a red bandana in your pocket wasn’t neutral. it wasn’t folksy. it wasn’t just blue-collar roughness. it was a risk, and survival was about reading the street, not walking through it like color codes didn’t apply to you.

clint wouldn’t casually rock a red bandana like a cowboy. latino men have never had the privilege of being casual about how they're read in public, especially not in a city like oakland, especially not in the 1980s.

re: clint as a ‘blue collar’ character there’s a difference between being ‘blue collar’ and being trapped in criminalized labor. wearing a plaid shirt and working with your hands doesn’t automatically make someone a blue-collar worker in the traditional sense. 

blue collar historically refers to wage labor—construction, manufacturing, trade work—where the worker is paid (poorly) but still operating within the boundaries of legal employment. union jobs. often unionized labor, tied to systems that, at least in theory, protected workers through collective bargaining, benefits, and job security. those protections were never equally available, especially to workers of color, but they existed as part of the larger working-class structure. 

clint’s labor isn’t protected. it isn’t recognized. it’s criminalized. he’s not just a man doing rough work for low pay—he’s disposable labor, surviving in a system that sees him as expendable from the start. calling him ‘blue collar’ erases the fact that he’s not inside the working class safety net. he’s on the outside, paying off debt with violence he didn’t choose.

it carries a specific context of class exploitation, yes, but it’s still different from the kind of criminal coercion characters like clint are caught in.

clint is not a proud working man making an honest living. his entire arc in freaky tales is about being forced into violent labor to pay off inherited debt he had no choice in. he is not rough and gritty because he chose a rugged life. 

he is rough because he was born into a system designed to keep him indebted, desperate, and expendable. he’s not working a blue collar job—he’s surviving in a criminal economy that feeds off people like him, using violence he doesn’t even want to enact just to stay afloat.

flattening clint into a vague ‘marlboro man’ archetype (joel coded)—rough clothes, kind heart, good intentions—it strips away everything sharp and painful about his actual story. it whitewashes the complexity of being a latino man criminalized by birth and survival, not by choice. it reframes his struggle as a generic americana fantasy about working-class virtue, when what’s actually at stake is how structural violence forces people into roles they never asked for.

especially when it’s a latino character, this flattening isn’t neutral. it erases the realities of racialized labor, racialized criminalization, and survival. clint’s tragedy isn’t that he’s a gruff tough guy with a soft interior. his tragedy is that he was forced to become violent in order to pay off a life he was never allowed to own, and he carries that weight without any guarantee of getting free.

you can’t understand clint if you don’t understand that. and if you’re not willing to sit with that discomfort, what you’re writing isn’t really him—it’s just a projection of a character he was never allowed to be.

clint and joel might overlap in aesthetics, being single girl dads, and physical strength—but reducing clint to a copy of joel misses everything that actually defines who he is, and why his story matters.

joel miller is a texas man—a man shaped by frontier mythology, southern survivalism, deep mistrust, and violent individualism. he is, by his own admission, a man whose grief and guilt hollowed him out so badly that even his brother was scared of him. he’s not just traumatized; he’s actively dangerous, closed off, and isolated. his story is about losing his humanity and clawing parts of it back, maybe too late.

clint is not that. clint is an oakland man—east bay, west coast, working-class and criminalized, not because he chose violence but because he was born into debt he could never pay off. he’s an underdog, not an antihero. 

he’s soft with his woman, he lights up under her attention. he’s goofy in the video store with the clerk. he’s not some hardened loner who scares everyone around him. he’s just a man trying to survive a system that was designed to use him up.

when you flatten clint into joel, you’re misreading two characters with different emotional cores and fetishizing the aesthetics of pain and ruggedness while ignoring race, class, place, and survival context.

clint isn't a texas cowboy. he’s not steeped in frontier violence or manifest destiny myths. he’s a west coast underdog who knows every step he takes could get him crushed, and he still tries to protect the people he loves without letting it rot him from the inside out.

the tragedy of joel is that the world took everything from him and he let it turn him into something colder, crueler.

the tragedy of clint is that the world gave him no choice- he says he was born into breaking bones to pay off his father’s debt, and he still tries to hold onto his softness anyway.

if you can’t tell the difference, you’re not seeing clint, you’re just projecting a fetishized joel trope onto another character… 

[bluesidez]

The Love Lab presents:

Boyfriend is to Husband

pairing: Miguel O’Hara x gn!Reader

summary: How would Miguel react if you did the “calling my bf my husband” trend? 🤔

content warning: It gets a little suggestive, but other than that, it’s fluff fluff fluff. There are short mentions of food, but nothing too crazy. The Miguel in here is also not Spiderman. Just a little guy.

credit for art and dividers: Me! and @kimjiho1 (plus another person for the gif divider, if this is yours, lmk!)

a/n: This will be apart of a series called The Trendy Couple! This is the first installment ☝🏾😌. I’m not sure how long the series will be, but right now it’s just based off of cute couple's trends. My fyp has suffered trying to do research for this…

word count: 2.2k

I use the word "buggy" in here. Buggy = shopping cart or trolley. I'm southern so buggy just rolls off the tongue. ❤︎ Plus, it sounds cute!

You and Miguel have been out since 8 am running errands and grabbing supplies to fill up the new apartment. 

After a year of your dresser being full of his sweatpants and hoodies and his furniture hosting several of your blankets, his fridge being stocked of your favorite fruits and your shower caddy holding his body care, you both decided it was best to live together. 

Towel sets, bed sheets, comforters, silverware, curtains. This was only the tip of what you and Miguel had managed to stuff inside the car.

After hitting five shops just that morning, you opted to stay in the car while Miguel went and handled a pickup order from the hardware store. It was getting closer to lunchtime and you didn’t want to become irritable because of the long lines. 

To pass the time, you decided to scroll on TikTok, watching video after video, reacting to each accordingly. 

First, it was chatty kitties begging for food. Then, it was edits of hot wrestlers. Next, it was ramen recipes to cook at 2am. There were even a couple of NPC lives even though the trend was nearly dying at this point. 

Finally, you scrolled to a video hosting a girl and her boyfriend huddled together in a car over the console.

She’s leaned up against him, her smile beaming, “Today I’m going to be guessing my husband’s favorite things!”

“I’m not your husband,” are the words that shoot from her boyfriend’s mouth, fast as lightning. Cold. Unkind. Callous. 

You watch as the girl’s smile drops and the video cuts, her laughing out of shock beforehand, evidence of her trying to stamp out her embarrassment. 

You watch more as his grin widens and she gives him this awkward glance. 

“Not yet,” he adds, seeing how quiet she was. 

The video ends with her jumping at him playfully, trying to play the situation of. 

“Jesus,” you sigh, mouth turned sideways as you pause the video and open up the comments. Thousands of people were telling her to dump him, others questioning why he would say what he said in the way that he did. 

Your heart went out to the girl who clearly wanted to do a harmless joke that completely backfired. 

You liked a comment about this being a possible red flag. Although he could have responded that way because he wasn’t ready for marriage, his response was so quick and distant that it was like he was disgusted at the possibility of being with her that long. 

After working yourself up by scrolling through the comments, you decide to go even further by pressing the “calling my boyfriend ‘husband’” search at the top. 

There were so many stitches to the original video with people giving their own thoughts about the situation. Some people were proclaimed dating coaches, others psychologists, and a few influencers. 

You even see a follow up video from the original couple with the guy giving a shitty excuse as to why he was so quick in his response. 

“Yeah right,” you mumble, watching the girl snicker at her boyfriend’s pouts. You agree with the comments that his response makes the original video even worse. 

Still scrolling down, you find another video featuring a new couple. 

They’re at a table eating donut holes out of a hat, and when the girl calls her boyfriend “husband”, the guy’s entire body lights up. He’s grinning, cheeks rosy, and can’t stop staring back at his girlfriend. 

From there, you were able to see countless other couples with cute videos, all of the guys radiating at the word “husband.”

Biting your lip, you wondered how Miguel would react if you called him your husband. 

You loved him with all of your heart and you were sure that he loved you. You guys are literally moving into an apartment together. But the thought of him being unsettled by you calling him your husband weighed on you. 

Just as you were deep in your thoughts, you heard a knock near the trunk of the car startling you. Looking up in the rearview mirror, you see Miguel standing with a few bags and wood planks in his hands. You reach over and press a button to pop open the trunk. 

“Got everything?” you ask, turning to watch as he drops items in the back. 

“Yeah, I think so. Although there was almost a brawl over some potted plants,” he said. ��Some older lady just came up to this guy and snatched his monsteras.” 

“What?” you respond, watching as he closed the trunk and walked around to the driver's seat. “Out of his hands or the buggy?”

Miguel laughed, both recalling the scene and finding your terms adorable. “She just came up and snatched it out of the cart while he was waiting at the end of the line. She swore that she saw it first.”

You listened to him retell the story, hand under your chin as you leaned closer. He was cute, lilt in his voice to make an impression of the plant thief. Thinking to yourself that you liked this little moment of playfulness, you take your phone out to record. 

Placing your phone in a case attached to the dashboard, you smile at the camera while Miguel’s still going. 

“‘You youngins think the world owes you everything, and that’s just not the case!’ And the poor guy is standing there going ‘ma’am, I just want my plant back.’ He looked so distressed.”

“I would be too! A random lady just shopped from my buggy. It’s like, why are you this close to me to see what I’m trying to buy?”

Miguel turns the car on and buckles up. “It started to escalate when the lady’s friend came over. Then there were two shrill voices fussing at this guy.”

He started to back the car out of the parking spot, hand behind your seat and head turned towards the back window. 

You slowly glanced at his arm, eyes tracing a vein up his shirt. 

Too bad you were in a car right now or else you’d let his arm wrap around you elsewhere. 

You tune back into his words, silently scolding yourself for letting something so simple get you to fold. 

“Luckily, I was able to calm them both down. All it took was me showing them some dasheen leaves,” he said, driving the car closer to the exit of the parking lot. 

You came to a conclusion. There was no better time than the present. 

“Aw, look at my husband. Saving the day with his genius,” you say, hand reaching out to pat his chest. 

Then you feel your body jerk to the right. The seat belt tightens as the car jerkingly swerves in between two parking spaces. 

You stare in a panic at Miguel who puts the car in park and turns his entire body towards you. 

“What did you just call me?” he asks, eyes searching yours, a little startled but mostly hopeful. 

You decide to keep the charades going, “I was just praising my husband for stopping the creation of another Karen video. Why did you turn the car like that?” You’re still looking at him as if he has two heads. 

“You just-!” Miguel takes your hands into his and places his forehead on his fists. “Baby, you know what you just said.” 

You laugh, a little giddy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Miguel leans back against his seat and closes his eyes, reaching down to take his seatbelt off. His eyebrows scrunch up as he brings your hand to his chest, “Feel my heartbeat.”

Your mouth drops as you feel his heart rattling against his chest. He really wasn’t being dramatic. 

“Baby look at me,” you grab his hands and hold them tight. “You did a good job today.”

His breath stopped, as he looked at you. His face was tinted from the whole fiasco. 

“Husband.”

Miguel’s entire body slumped as he grinned wide. He nearly jumped over the console to sag his body onto yours. 

His shoulders were shaking and you heard his laugh muffled by your shoulder. You wrap your arms around him and make a face at the camera. 

“What’s up, Mig?” you say, trying to get him to talk. 

He mumbled into your clothes, shoulders still shaking. 

“I can’t hear you, you gotta sit up.”

He sits up and sniffles, turning his head toward the backseat. 

Looking at his profile you can see a few streaks down his face. 

“Are you crying?” you ask, turning his face towards yours. 

Miguel swipes his wrist across his cheeks, “Stop, this is extremely embarrassing.”

“No, it’s not! I promise it’s not,” you say, rubbing your thumb across his ear. “Talk to me.”

He chuckled, eyes looking down, “It just feels really good to know that you think of me that way. We don’t have to ever cross that line, but one day, if you would like, we can make that title true.”

“Is this a pre-proposal?” you ask, heartbeat in your ears. You went out on a limb to follow a trend, not knowing how it would end. Now you’re staring at Miguel’s flushed face with his heart pouring out into your lap. 

“Maybe,” he whispered, grabbing your hands. “Possibly a promise for what could be.”

You bite your lip to hold back a grin, “Can I know what could be right now?”

“And expose my plans? Not a chance,” Miguel smirked. “Besides, a husband knows what’s best for his partner, right?”

“He does,” you quip, rubbing your hand in a circle on his chest. “He also apparently forgets that SUVs can flip very easily.”

“Lo siento, mi amor,” he says, looking sheepishly at the placement of the car. “Did I startle you?”

You just giggle at his concern and give him a quick peck on the mouth. “Yeah, I wasn’t expecting that big of a reaction.”

“How would you react if I casually called you forever mine? While driving!”

“Go 90 in a 70,” you joke. “Maybe pull over and do a little more than make out.” You rub your hand down his chest, and squeeze playfully at his pec. 

Miguel stared back at you, body instantly reacting to the shift in conversation. “We can actually do that right now.”

He leaned forward and brought your lips to his. You could taste the mint from the gum he had earlier, humming when he pushed further into your mouth. 

He started to reach for your hips, ready to pull you over onto his lap. 

Your stomach let out a loud grumble, making you jump. 

“Ok, let’s try this again after we get you some food,” Miguel says, plastering kisses on your face. 

The day moves on smoothly with Miguel not letting you out of his sight, hands itching to hold you in some way. 

He also never lets the husband thing go. 

As you’re ordering lunch, “One lemonade for my baby. And a water with lemon for me, the husband.”

As you stop in a clothing store at the mall for a small break, “These say boyfriend jeans. Do they have any husband jeans?”

As you’re trying to reach the top shelf to grab the last of your favorite detergent, “No, cariño. Let your husband get it for you.”

As you’re looking for throw pillows and towel sets for the apartment, “You think they have a couple’s set? I want something that says ‘Mr.’ on it.”

As you stop at a gift store, looking for something extra to give to the movers, “Look, this shirt says it’s made of ‘hubby material.’ Should I get it?”

This feeling is only amplified when you post his initial reaction online. The comments were full of people yearning to be in your predicament. 

“If my boyfriend doesn’t crash the car when I call him husband, THROW HIM AWAY. 😒”

“Does he have a brother….asking for a friend”

“I needed this after the “I’m not your husband” he in LOVE”

“If your bf doesn’t cry at the thought of you, what are you doing”

“He was blushing HARRRRD 😭😭😭”

“So when’s the wedding? 🤨”

“He was literally cheesing and crying omg”

“Get you a man that stops the car to declare his love”

“What if I did a five mile marathon on i-55”

“He’s so in love with you that it’s palpable”

“He was ready do a lot more than make out 😭”

Miguel saw most things, a little embarrassed but mostly happy that so many people found him to be genuine. 

You laid on his shoulder as he checked the comments, liking the funny ones as they passed by.

“Do you want to make a response video?” you say, liking a comment going ‘he’s a good man, Savannah.’

“No, I think this is enough,” he replies, handing the phone back to you. “Let me keep a little mystery. At least until I actually propose, of course.”

You looked at him with stars in your eyes.

“A mysterious husband. I kind of like the sound of that,” you say, wrapping your body around his side. “Maybe I can be nosy, find out his secrets.”

“I bet you would, cariño,” he voiced, nuzzling his chin on top of your head. “After, everything is planned and done.”

You laughed and snuggled closer, happy to be with him.

Once again, I hope you enjoyed reading! ❣️

Any likes, reblogs, and comments are appreciated and welcomed.

I'm excited for the future of this series and I hope you guys are too. When I finish the series masterlist, I'll link it here. If you guys have any trends that you want me to include, then just let me know and I'll see what I can do!

- Blue ♡

[sixeyesonathiel]

a guide to ditching the world’s most persistent nerd!

CH05 – scientific method: be vanilla, observe gojo, spiral

pairing - nerd!gojo x baddie!reader

summary : gojo satoru has been the bane of your existence since kindergarten. you invited him to play during recess? he chose studying instead. you tried to give him chocolates? he rejected them for the sake of your dental health. you called him boring and never looked back.

years later, you’re a party girl with daddy issues, and he's the smartest, richest, greenest green flag at your elite university. when you're paired up for a project worth 60% of your final grade, you think you can slack off—except gojo keeps finding you at every exclusive club, dragging you back to work like the menace he is.

you flirt to distract him, he humors you. you push, he pulls. you seduce, he tucks your hair behind your ear and makes it your move.

oh no.

tags -> modern au, university au, tooth rooting fluff with a side of light angst, unresolved romantic tension, suggestive themes, gojo satoru is a green flag menace, reader has issues, power struggles but gojo is unaware he's in one, forced proximity via group project, reader tries to ditch gojo satoru and fails spectacularly, pining disguised as irritation, rich kids and their rich kid problems, the art of denial, humor (i hope), eventual happy ending

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chapter summary : step five in ditching the world’s most persistent nerd: do not spend 50 million yen on an elaborate disguise. do not let him see through your every move like it’s a mildly entertaining game. and absolutely do not, under any circumstances, let him call you cute.

the moment you step inside your walk-in wardrobe, a cold wave of realization crashes over you. racks upon racks of luxury pieces gleam under the warm downlights, their fabrics whispering wealth, seduction, and power. bold reds, deep blacks, striking whites—everything tailored to make a statement, to command attention the second you enter a room. there isn't a single piece that says sweet, nothing that murmurs innocent, not even an outfit that pretends to be soft. your fingers skim over the silk, the lace, the fur-lined coats, searching for something—anything—that fits the brief. but the deeper you dig, the more suffocating it becomes, a graveyard of high fashion swallowing any hope of blending into the aesthetic of a delicate, vanilla girl.

your manicured nails grip the nearest hanger like it’s personally offended you. a fitted black dress, sharp at the waist, plunging at the neckline, dangerously slit along the thigh. it is undeniably stunning—you are undeniably stunning in it—but it doesn’t fit the image you need to craft tonight. with a sharp exhale, you shove it aside and move onto the next. the next is no better. nor is the one after that. everything screams influence, confidence, the kind of beauty that does not ask for attention but demands it outright.

your stomach knots as you retreat a step, surveying the battlefield of failed options. you could just go as yourself, abandon the plan, let satoru deal with whatever version of you he gets tonight. but no—no. that would mean letting him win, and after everything, you refuse to let him have the satisfaction. he wants vanilla? he’ll get vanilla. even if it kills you.

frustration bubbles up as you snatch your phone off the nearby vanity, nails tapping aggressively against the screen. soft girl outfits aesthetic. vanilla girl fashion cute but hot but innocent but classy???? HELP. pinterest floods your feed instantly—beige, florals, delicate bows, ruffles so sickeningly sweet they make your eyes burn. you grimace, thumb hovering over the screen, hesitation sinking its claws into your resolve.

“no,” you whisper, horrified. “no, no, no—”

your grip tightens around your phone as you glare at the pastel-infested pinterest board before you. bows. lace. ruffles. it’s an assault on everything you’ve carefully curated, an aesthetic so far removed from your own that it feels like a personal attack. but you refuse to falter. if satoru wants vanilla, then vanilla he will get.

steeling yourself, you toss your phone onto the vanity and square your shoulders, turning back to the daunting expanse of your wardrobe. you’ve built your image on power, on allure, on the kind of beauty that dominates a room without effort. but tonight isn’t about you—it’s about strategy. a game. and you? you always play to win.

with newfound resolve, you reach for the nearest dress that even remotely fits the brief. it’s a disaster. but so is the next one. and the next. until you stand in front of the mirror, fists clenched at your sides, glaring at your reflection like it personally betrayed you.

the first dress you actually try on is a catastrophe. the fabric clings to your curves like it was made for sin, the neckline dipping just a little too low, the fit sculpted to perfection. standing in front of the mirror, you turn slightly, assessing the damage, and instantly shake your head. no. absolutely not. this isn’t vanilla, this is devour them whole and leave no trace, and while that might be your natural state, it isn’t the disguise you need tonight. with a sharp exhale, you yank the zipper down, stepping out of the dress and tossing it onto the bed without a second glance.

the second dress has potential—soft florals, delicate lace, a silhouette that skims rather than suffocates. you almost let yourself feel relief until you catch the mirror at a different angle, and the truth smacks you across the face. an open back, a perfectly placed cutout, a subtle yet undeniable whisper of rich girl on vacation, sipping champagne on a yacht. you groan, dragging a hand down your face, cursing the day you ever trusted your fashion instincts. this should be easier. it should not be this hard to find one outfit that doesn’t scream wealth and power.

by the third attempt, you’re starting to lose hope. the dress looks innocent enough at first—modest neckline, soft fabric, pastel tones—but the second you move, the betrayal reveals itself. the slit—the unforgivable, thigh-high slit. you freeze mid-step, eyes locked onto your own reflection as a slow, pained realization creeps in. there is no winning here. no matter how much you try, your closet is not built for innocence, and you are not built for restraint.

you start pacing, fingers twitching at your sides, the mountain of discarded outfits growing higher with every failed attempt. your reflection watches, unimpressed, as you mutter under your breath, frustration curling into every syllable. “why do i own nothing vanilla??” despite the ridiculous amount of money spent in your room, it offers no answer, only the overwhelming silence of luxury failing you for the first time. "this is a hate crime against my entire closet." another glance at the pile of rejection confirms it—this is beyond repair. “utahime is dead to me for making me do this.”

the thought slithers in then, quiet at first, almost reasonable. you could cancel. send satoru a last-minute excuse, claim a migraine, a scheduling conflict, a sudden and overwhelming disgust for social interaction. you could just go as yourself—let him deal with the sharp edges, the undeniable presence, the you that refuses to be anything less than commanding. but then you remember the way he smirked earlier, the way he always expects you to push back instead of play along, and something in your chest tightens. no. no, no, no. he will not win.

if shoko was right—if satoru really has a weakness for vanilla girls—you are going to drag him through hell with it. and for that, you need a whole new wardrobe.

the moment you step inside the luxury mall a wave of unease settles in your chest. the mall is luxurious, yes—polished marble floors, glimmering chandeliers, soft classical music humming from hidden speakers—but it lacks the exclusivity you’re used to. there are no private shopping lounges, no pre-arranged selections waiting for you upon arrival, no personal stylists greeting you by name with curated ensembles. instead, the boutiques here are open to the public, their doors wide for anyone who can afford them, but still restrained, catering to the wealthy enough. rich, but not your kind of rich. your fingers tighten around the handle of your bag, nails pressing into leather as you force yourself forward.

your usual boutiques stand proudly among the others—chanel, prada, dior—familiar, gleaming, calling to you like old friends. their displays are immaculate, their garments pristine, the kind of luxury that fits you like a second skin. you slow, just slightly, gaze flickering toward prada’s newest collection, the temptation curling around your resolve. one step. one moment. that’s all it would take to slip inside, to sink into the comfort of what you know, to let the attendants fawn over you instead of navigating this battlefield alone. but no. no, you can’t.

“don’t look at chanel. don’t look at prada—”

you look.

you suffer.

your exhale is sharp, controlled, forcing your shoulders to relax as you turn your focus back to the task at hand. the boutiques surrounding you are still luxury, still refined, but their purpose is different—designed for the kind of rich that still checks price tags, that considers budgeting, that hasn’t reached the level where money is merely a concept. a part of you recoils at the thought, but you push forward, determined. if you’re going to do this, you have to commit.

step one: find something vanilla.

step two: survive.

you hate this. everything is too soft, too delicate, too boring. the fabrics lack weight, the silhouettes lack edge, and the colors—god, the colors—are an endless sea of beige, pastels, and florals that make your skin itch. you aren’t just choosing an outfit; you are standing at the edge of an identity crisis, staring into the abyss of vanilla and feeling it claw at your very existence. your wardrobe is built on dominance, on presence, on the kind of beauty that leaves no room for interpretation. but here, in this carefully curated battlefield of innocence and sweetness, you are drowning.

your fingers twitch as you flip through the racks, skimming over soft-knit cardigans, frilly blouses, and dresses that look like they belong to women who giggle instead of smirk. the fabrics are light, breathable, wholesome—everything you are not. you pick up a cream-colored sweater, feeling the softness under your fingertips, and immediately recoil. this isn’t you. this isn’t anything like you. your stomach twists as you push deeper into the store, searching for something, anything, that won’t make you feel like you’re shedding your skin.

a store associate approaches, all bright eyes and perfect customer-service warmth, her hands neatly folded in front of her. “are you looking for something specific, miss?” her voice is polite, professional, but something about the genuine friendliness in it makes your eye twitch. you want to say yes. yes, you are looking for a personality reset, for a lobotomy, for an alternative reality where you don’t have to do this. instead, you force a pleasant smile, voice smooth as glass. “just browsing.” which, in this case, translates to actively losing your mind.

you pull a white, flowy sundress from the rack, holding it up with a deep sense of unease. the fabric is airy, the design innocent, the silhouette made for a girl who probably spends her weekends baking cookies and sighing dreamily into the wind. you stare at it. it stares back. a long, drawn-out silence stretches between you and the offending garment before, with a quiet shudder, you drop it like it personally insulted you.

you leave the store, your steps brisk, your patience fraying at the edges. the next boutique offers no salvation—just more pastels, more lace, more delicate little bows tied onto sleeves and collars like some kind of personal attack. your hands flex at your sides, the sheer injustice of this entire situation making your jaw clench. this is not just a shopping trip. this is psychological warfare. and you are losing.

eventually, you manage.

except, ‘manage’ is a generous word for what actually happens. because what happens is a complete and utter annihilation of your dignity, your self-respect, and—most critically—your bank account. at some point, you stop thinking, stop hesitating, stop fighting the growing pit of despair in your chest. you just buy. every pastel dress, every soft cardigan, every demure, heartbreakingly vanilla piece of clothing in sight.

you don’t even check the price tags.

but the sales associate does. and she sees an opportunity. her eyes flicker with the kind of predatory excitement usually reserved for jackpot lottery winners, her polite smile stretching just a bit too wide. “oh! this dress would look perfect with these ballet flats. should i add them to your pile?” her voice is honeyed, but her eyes gleam dangerously, like a shark that just scented blood. you nod. dead inside.

her grin widens. “and maybe this sweater? it’s giving cozy first date vibes.” her tone is casual, but there’s a sharpness in the way she tilts her head, already holding the sweater against you as if daring you to refuse.

nod.

“ooh, you’ll need accessories, right? how about a delicate pearl bracelet?” this time, her voice takes on an innocent lilt, like she’s merely making a friendly suggestion—not executing a masterclass in high-speed commission farming. her fingers are quick as she plucks the bracelet from the case, the glint in her eyes now unmistakably ravenous.

nod.

“what about this makeup set to complete the look?” her expression is impossibly pleasant, but the sheer giddiness hiding beneath it is almost terrifying. she’s barely restraining herself now, hands moving with the precision of a seasoned con artist, slipping the set onto the counter before you even process what’s happening.

nod.

at this point, she is practically vibrating, her sales instincts on overdrive, eyes darting wildly around the store for one last kill. and then, like a divine blessing, she spots it. “you know what? let’s throw in a scented candle. vanilla sugar. really gets the vibe across.” her smile is so radiant, so victorious, that you almost admire her dedication to the craft.

you nod again.

you have completely disassociated.

the mountain of bags in front of you is obscene, an overwhelming pile of soft fabrics and delicate accessories suffocating you under a weight of beige betrayal. and then your total flashes across the screen—a number so outrageous it would make most people gasp.

fifty. million. yen.

the sales associate visibly struggles to maintain her composure, her hands folded neatly in front of her, but her eyes—her eyes—are practically shimmering with triumph. she looks like she just paid off her student loans, put a down payment on a luxury condo, and secured early retirement all in one transaction.

you don’t flinch. you swipe your black card without blinking, your soul already halfway to the afterlife.

the sales associate beams, voice dangerously sweet. “thank you for shopping with us! should i send these to your car?”

you blink. then, slowly, your head tilts, expression smooth, controlled. “no need.”

she falters, confusion flickering behind her perfectly trained smile. “…no need?”

you sigh, feigning mild impatience. “no car.”

a beat of silence. her brows lift just slightly, eyes flickering to the absurd number of shopping bags now surrounding you. her expression wavers between impressed and mildly horrified as she hesitates. “do… do you need a ride, then?”

your lips part—before you remember that you did have a driver. briefly. except he was a boy toy, not an actual chauffeur, and he had served his purpose the moment he dropped you off. you had shooed him away with a lazy wave of your hand, not even sparing him a second glance.

which means you are now stranded in a luxury mall, drowning in fifty million yen worth of pastel suffering, with no actual way to get home.

your fingers tighten around the receipt.

and then.

voices—loud, familiar, male—drift from the hallway just outside the boutique. you glance up, and there they are—the university basketball team, a cluster of tall, broad-shouldered figures making their way down the mall, their conversation casual, easy. they must have just come from the food court or some sporting store, half of them holding protein shakes, one of them lazily spinning a basketball on his fingertips.

your gaze drifts, scanning their faces, noting the way conversation slows as they pass by the boutique and see you—framed by designer bags, dressed like a walking privilege complex, standing in the aftermath of what must look like an absurd shopping spree.

perfect.

you move with purpose, slow and deliberate, every step a silent command that draws their attention like a gravitational pull. the shift in the air is immediate—conversation dulls, movements slow, postures straighten, as if some unspoken instinct demands their focus solely on you. their eyes flick to the mountain of shopping bags framing you, then back to your unreadable expression, and you can already see the gears turning in their heads. this is their moment. this is their chance. the first one reacts without hesitation, shoulders squaring, voice eager. “hey, you need help with those?”

another one steps forward before you can answer, his arm shoving the first guy aside with casual force. “don’t be stupid, of course she does. here, let me—” his fingers are already reaching for the bags, confident, assured, like touching your things is some divine privilege. but before he can claim his victory, another one cuts in, scoffing under his breath. “no, i got it—” he’s taller, broader, flexing just enough to make a statement, fingers twitching like he’s prepared to fight for the honor of being useful to you.

“you guys are pathetic,” a fourth voice sneers, stepping in like he’s already won. he doesn’t wait, doesn’t hesitate—just lifts three of the heaviest bags in one smooth motion, barely acknowledging the weight, gaze flicking toward you for approval. “i can carry more than all of you.” it’s a challenge, a declaration of superiority, but no one backs down. within seconds, hands reach, arms extend, and before you can even feign reluctance, your burden is gone. divided amongst eager, competing hands, shuffled and redistributed like a prize to be won.

you exhale, slow, calculated, your amusement hidden beneath a well-practiced air of indifference. of course they’re fighting over your things. of course they’re tripping over themselves, desperate to be of use to you, eager to carve a space into your world—even if only for a moment. the weightless relief in your arms is almost laughable, but the true victory lies in the way they look at you. like you are untouchable. like you are something to be pleased.

one of them hesitates, shifting slightly, an ounce of regret creeping into his expression. “uh, we were supposed to go to a movie, but—” the sentence barely escapes before another cuts in, smooth, immediate, certain.

“cancel it,” he says, adjusting the weight of your bags in his arms, as if the decision had already been made long before this moment. “we’ll drive her home instead.”

a chorus of agreements follows—unquestioning, effortless, their priorities shifting in real-time, restructured entirely around you.

you hate the clothes. you hate the concept. you hate satoru gojo.

but you love winning. you have to.

you stare at the ridiculous amount of shopping bags scattered across your bedroom floor, arms crossed, expression murderous. you spent fifty million yen on this—this farce—and now you have to wear it. the thought alone makes your skin itch, but you’ve come too far to back out now. with a sharp inhale, you kneel down and begin your suffering, sifting through the carefully folded garments, grimacing at every delicate fabric that passes through your fingers. soft pastels. fragile lace. silhouettes designed to whisper rather than command. disgusting.

after what feels like an eternity of self-loathing, you pull out the final choice: a pastel midi dress, flowy, feminine, with just a hint of lace trimming along the hem. you hold it up, inspecting it under the light, hoping—praying—that it will suddenly become unbearable so you’ll have an excuse to throw it across the room. but it doesn’t. it remains innocent, demure, sweet, and that realization alone makes you scowl. still, this is the most tolerable option among a sea of floral oppression, so with a defeated sigh, you peel off your robe and step into it. the fabric is light against your skin, the fit annoyingly comfortable. it’s a nightmare.

and then come the shoes. flats. the ultimate betrayal. no heels, no satisfying click against the floor, no added height to tilt your chin even higher. you slip them on, and the absence of power in your stride makes your body physically reject the experience. your lip curls in disgust, arms outstretched as if the shoes might somehow infect you. “this is a crime.” your voice is flat, resigned, but the only judge and jury in the room is your reflection, and she is already condemning you for every choice that led to this moment.

you grab the matching shoulder bag next, small and pastel, still designer, because you refuse to let yourself completely suffer. you sling it over your shoulder, feeling its weight—or lack thereof—and your fingers tighten against the strap. even your accessories have been stripped of their usual sharpness, reduced to something delicate, something sweet. the thought alone makes your jaw clench, but the real final blow comes when you sit in front of your vanity and pin your hair back with a dainty little clip. this is where the urge to scream truly sets in.

the last step is the perfume, the final nail in the coffin of your identity. you reach for your usual scent—bold, sultry, commanding—only to stop yourself at the last second. no. if you’re going to do this, you have to commit. with slow, begrudging movements, you swap it out for something lighter, something delicate—floral with hints of vanilla and white musk. the scent settles around you like a cage, gentle, inoffensive, wrong.

you step back, taking in the reflection staring back at you.

innocent. sweet. soft.

you inhale slowly, forcing your expression to remain impassive. it's almost funny. almost.

your head tilts, gaze narrowing. you look right, in the way that little girls in perfect families should. in the way your mother used to dress you—delicate, lovely, a porcelain doll for the world to admire. back then, pastels weren't a costume; they were second skin. love was pink ribbons in your hair and kisses on your forehead, and you thought—naïve, blind, stupid—that it would always be like that. that the smiles at the dinner table were real, that your parents’ murmured conversations were nothing but soft reassurances in the dark. that love was something true, something lasting, something that didn't unravel the second no one was watching.

but then you grew up. and you learned.

your father came home with lipstick stains that weren’t your mother’s. your mother left in the middle of the night with perfume that wasn’t for your father. the walls of your pristine, picture-perfect home echoed with silence, with forced laughter, with empty pleasantries exchanged over candlelit dinners. they were still together, still playing house, still pretending like the whole damn thing wasn’t a farce. you were the only one suffocating in the lie, watching the threads fray while they smiled through it, unbothered. and so, you adapted. you shed the pastels, traded lace for silk, ribbons for diamonds. if love was nothing but performance, you would outperform them all.

so why, then—why—do you look at yourself now and feel something twist in your chest?

your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag, nails digging into the soft leather.

no. you were that girl once. but that girl is dead. she died the moment she realized her family’s love was nothing but a well-rehearsed act.

you exhale sharply, forcing the thought out of your head.

this is just a role. a disguise. nothing more.

therefore, if you’re going to do this, you might as well commit to the bit.

but let’s get one thing straight—you are not baking. absolutely not. the last time you poured your heart into something for satoru, you were five years old, gripping a box of carefully wrapped chocolates with all the hope in the world, only for him to crush it beneath the weight of dental hygiene. you learned your lesson. never again. instead, on your way to the café, you swing by a small, homey cake shop—the kind with handwritten labels, tiny ribbons on the boxes, and an old lady behind the counter who probably invented love itself.

you stride up to the counter, nails tapping against the glass display as you scan the selection of delicate pastries. after a moment, you exhale sharply, tilting your head toward the woman. “i need something that says ‘i made this with love’ but also ‘not too much love’ because he doesn’t deserve that much effort.”

the old lady blinks at you. then, very gently, she asks, “ah, young love?”

you recoil. violently. “no.”

but it’s too late. the grandma’s eyes twinkle, her hands clasping together with the kind of delight only an elderly woman with a lifetime of wisdom and absolutely no fear of being corrected can possess. “you remind me of my husband when we were younger,” she sighs dreamily, already lost in nostalgia. “he was the most frustrating man alive. always unpredictable, always unreadable—but i adored him.”

your face twists. “that’s tragic. i’m so sorry.”

the old lady just waves you off, smiling like she didn’t just say something horrifying. “oh, no, dear, that’s how you know it’s real. the best love stories are the ones that keep you on your toes. why, when we first met, he used to steal my hair ribbons just to hear me scold him. it was his way of flirting.”

you almost bite your tongue. because wow. wow. stealing? that sounds way too familiar.

you shift, arms crossing, eyes narrowing. “uh-huh. did he manage to be infuriating for years? pop up wherever you went like a bad omen? make you want to throw a shoe at his face every time he opened his mouth?”

“oh, constantly!” the grandma laughs, as if this is the most romantic thing in the world. “he used to read me poetry but only the worst ones he could find, just to make me suffer. and when i finally fell for him, he acted shocked—like it wasn’t part of his master plan all along!” she shakes her head, still fond despite the betrayal.

you nod slowly, eyes dark. “right. master plan. men are actually the worst.”

“they are.” the grandma hums in agreement, then pats your hand, voice softening. “but if he makes you feel like the world is brighter when he’s near, like you could push him away a thousand times and he’d still be there, smiling at you like you hung the stars—then maybe, just maybe, he’s worth keeping around.”

you stare at her.

then you think about satoru. about the way he always finds you, always pulls you back in. about the way he looks at you sometimes, like he knows something you don’t.

your stomach twists. your eye twitches. you clear your throat.

“yeah, no. i think i’ll just take the cupcakes.”

the grandma chuckles but doesn’t argue, already packing up a box with delicate care. “of course, dear.”

before leaving, you toss the receipt and the bag, making sure to completely erase the part where you trauma-bonded with a sweet old woman over the single most annoying man in existence.

…except you forget to check the bottom of the box. (critical mistake.)

of course, satoru's already secured a private room.

you step inside, carefully, deliberately, every movement rehearsed down to the placement of your fingers against the strap of your bag. and there he is—leaned back in his seat, effortlessly put together, the picture of practiced ease. his button-down is slightly loose, sleeves rolled up just enough to be infuriatingly intentional, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose like he’s been waiting for you all day. his gaze flickers up the moment you enter. slow. deliberate. like he’s taking his time—like he’s assessing, analyzing, already trying to get ahead of you before you’ve even had the chance to open your mouth.

and then—

“…huh.”

your entire brain short-circuits.

for a split second, your carefully crafted persona wobbles, the saccharine sweetness cracking at the edges as your body tenses instinctively. what does huh mean? huh is too vague, too unspecific, too—too much. your heart kicks up a beat faster, pulse drumming against your ribs as you force yourself to stay calm, to stay in character. focus. science. this is for science.

your lashes flutter, expression smoothing over as you lower yourself primly into your seat. “excuse me?”

satoru leans in slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching up in something that is definitely a smirk. “nothing. just… not your usual look.”

his voice is smooth. unreadable. too unreadable.

your fingers twitch against the table. the back of your neck prickles. for someone who never shuts up, he’s saying far too little. his expression is amused but otherwise unbothered, gaze dragging over you like he’s filing away every detail for later use.

you force a smile, light, easy, as if you aren’t hyper-analyzing his every microexpression. “i thought i’d try something new.”

satoru hums, tilting his head, gaze still lingering, still watching. slow, lazy, measured, like he’s picking apart every piece of this transformation and cataloging it for later. but there’s nothing—no narrowed eyes, no suspicion, no telltale flicker of what the hell are you up to this time? it’s infuriating, the way he doesn’t react, the way he gives you nothing to work with. satoru is always smirking, always pushing, always ready to pry into your motives with a teasing lilt and a knowing look—but right now? nothing. it’s as if this version of you doesn’t surprise him at all.

your grip tightens around the edge of your dress, nails pressing into soft pastel fabric as something unsettles in your chest. but then his gaze dips lower, trailing down, assessing, and for a split second, anticipation coils in your stomach. and then—his lips twitch, the barest upward curl at the edges. slow. deliberate. smug.

“flats?”

your eye twitches. oh, so now he’s paying attention to details? now he decides to notice? as if the fact that you’re drowning in frills and softness wasn’t already an earth-shattering revelation? heat simmers under your skin, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface, but you refuse to crack. not here. not now. not when the game has barely begun.

you inhale sharply through your nose, a carefully measured breath, voice smooth as glass. “yes, satoru. flats.”

he leans back, all ease, all enjoyment, watching you like you’re the single most entertaining thing to happen to him all day. “never thought i’d see the day.”

you are going to kill him.

but you do not break. you will not break. instead, you smile—sweet, vanilla, effortlessly composed. legs crossed, hands neatly folded, posture the perfect imitation of someone soft, someone sweet, someone who does not spend every waking moment plotting this man’s demise.

satoru blinks. once.

that’s right.

you tilt your head, expression just shy of concerned, like you’re the one who should be questioning him. “is something wrong?”

he exhales, slow, measured, tipping his head back slightly, gaze flickering over you one last time before settling, unreadable. “nope.”

your stomach sinks.

nothing. no smirk twitch. no furrow of his brows. no flicker of confusion or oh god, is this woman scamming me?

no. no, no, no.

he’s… unfazed?

not even a little bit weirded out? not even mildly confused about why you’re suddenly dressed like someone who makes her own jams and says oopsie daisy unironically?

your fingers tighten against your lap, nails pressing into the soft fabric of your dress as you steady yourself. okay. fine. phase two. you can do this.

you exhale slowly, just enough to smooth out any lingering tension, and soften your expression. widen your eyes—just a little. tilt your head at just the right angle, the way you’ve seen other girls do when they bat their lashes at satoru like he personally put the moon in the sky. everything is calculated, precise, carefully controlled. your voice, when it comes out, is feather-light, saccharine-sweet, soft in a way that makes your stomach churn.

“it’s nice to sit down with you like this, gojo.”

you want to die.

it’s painful. nauseating. every instinct in your body is screaming at you to stop, to drop the act, to throw a drink in his face just to purge the sickly sweetness from your system. but no. you have to do this. if his eyes twitch, if his lips quirk, if he reacts at all, you’ll know. you’ll have proof.

satoru pauses for a fraction of a second.

his glasses slide down his nose ever so slightly, catching the dim glow of the café lights, the reflection obscuring his gaze for a beat too long. and then he only grins. “it is, huh?”

your soul leaves your body.

this is wrong. this is very wrong. there should be something—a moment of hesitation, a flicker of what the hell is going on, a single sign that he’s thrown off his axis. but instead, he looks amused, pleased even, like this is exactly where he expected this conversation to go. he shifts, adjusting his glasses with his index finger, the motion slow, precise, and way too composed for your liking.

your stomach sinks further.

this was supposed to be a test, and yet somehow, you’re the one being tested.

but alas, this operation requires no room for hesitation. you cannot hesitate.

onto phase three.

you slide the box across the table with both hands, placing it directly in front of him with a shy, almost bashful smile. it’s careful, intentional—your fingers linger on the lid just long enough to suggest hesitation, as if you’re nervous about his reaction, as if this moment matters. your head tilts ever so slightly, lashes fluttering just once, voice feather-soft when you murmur, “i made these for you, satoru.”

soft voice. delicate hands. wide, innocent eyes. vanilla.

satoru, ever skeptical, lifts an eyebrow. “you baked?”

your stomach tenses, but you do not falter. you have trained for this. “mm-hmm.” you nod, smooth, effortless, exuding nothing but the confidence of a woman who definitely spent hours in a kitchen, flour-dusted and glowing with domestic bliss.

his head tilts, amusement flickering across his face, sharp—too sharp. his gaze drags over you, slow, assessing, like he’s already figured you out but is entertained enough to watch you squirm. you hate that. satoru likes his conclusions quick, his reactions effortless—but this? this isn’t hesitation. this is confidence, the kind that comes from knowing he’s already won.

and then, to your absolute horror, his lips curve.

“aw,” he croons, resting his chin on his palm, “you made these? just for me?”

your stomach twists.

oh, you hate that tone. that slow, syrupy, indulging tone. the one he uses when he knows you’re full of shit but finds it infinitely entertaining to let you dig your own grave.

your fingers tighten around the menu, nails pressing into the laminated surface, but you do not break. instead, you nod, lashes fluttering just slightly, letting your lips curve into something warm, sweet. “of course,” you murmur. “i wanted to do something special for you.”

satoru hums, dragging his finger along the edge of the box. his smirk is lazy, his eyes sharp, watching you too closely, gaze too knowing. it makes something in your chest clench.

“that’s so sweet,” he sighs, flipping open the lid. “so thoughtful.”

he looks down at the cupcakes—perfect, pastel, borderline obnoxious in their homemade aesthetic. then, too casually, his fingers curl around the box, and with an obnoxious amount of patience, he lifts it over his head to check the bottom.

your stomach plummets.

no.

because right there, on the bottom was a price sticker.

no, no, no.

you feel the blood drain from your face, fingers twitching slightly against the menu as you fight the urge to launch yourself across the table and rip the box from his hands.

satoru tilts his head. “huh.” a pause. then, insufferably casual, “2,800 yen. expensive for homemade.”

your jaw locks.

but you do not falter. oh, no. you have committed too much to this bit to go down now.

so instead—you gasp. softly. delicately. the perfect picture of distress. “oh, no.” your eyes widen just the right amount, a hand fluttering up to your lips. “i must have grabbed the wrong box! i always reuse packaging—sustainability is such an important initiative in our family’s conglomerate, you know?”

you sigh, shaking your head, exuding just the right amount of gentle disappointment. “it’s so easy to overlook these little details when you’re focused on making something with love.” your lashes lower, voice dropping into something almost melancholic. “but of course, you’d never doubt me, right, satoru?”

your eyes are wide, shimmering. your voice, just the tiniest bit wobbly. a damsel in distress, tragically wronged by the evil forces of capitalism.

satoru leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, his movements slow, intentional, like he’s settling in for a show. his smirk is lazy, almost languid, the kind of expression he wears when he’s far too amused but hasn’t decided if he’s going to let you know just how much fun he’s having yet. the dim glow of the café lights catches on his reading glasses, a flicker of reflection obscuring his gaze for half a second before he tips his chin, looking at you with something dangerously close to delight. the way he’s watching you is unbearable—too sharp, too knowing, like he’s waiting to see just how deep you’ll dig yourself into this hole. then, with a voice so smooth it makes your stomach tighten, he hums, “…of course.”

your pulse stutters.

he picks up a cupcake, turning it between his fingers with deliberate ease, thumb brushing idly over the edge of the wrapper. he doesn’t look away from you—not even for a second. “so, just to be clear—” his head tilts, reading glasses sliding down just slightly, revealing the glint of sharp blue beneath. “you mixed the batter? sifted the flour? cracked the eggs all by yourself?” his voice is light, too casual, but there’s something just beneath it, something waiting, pressing, like he’s toying with a puzzle he’s already solved.

you nod, ignoring the way your palms start to sweat, ignoring the way your heartbeat has kicked up just a little too fast.

he peels back the wrapper, slow, deliberate, movements unrushed like he has all the time in the world. “and you piped this frosting by hand? swirled it into these perfect little peaks?” his fingers are precise as he traces the frosting, a slow, idle movement, gaze flicking between the cupcake and you, as if he’s comparing, measuring.

“obviously,” you say, batting your lashes, voice steady, perfect, practiced.

satoru chuckles, low and quiet, the sound curling around the space between you like smoke—thick, insidious, cloying. “huh.” just one syllable, but it lands heavy, weighted, knowing. the kind of sound people make when they’ve figured something out but want to let you stew in the tension of not knowing how much they know. he doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t press—not yet. he just watches, gaze lazy, comfortable, dragging over you like he’s measuring every tiny shift in your expression.

your stomach twists.

why did he say it like that?

your fingers curl against your lap, pressing into the soft fabric of your dress as you force yourself to remain still, to breathe, to not react. but before you can decide if you’re spiraling or if he’s actually drawing this out on purpose, he moves. finally, he moves—brings the cupcake up to his lips, takes a slow, deliberate bite, the motion so unhurried it feels intentional.

the moment stretches as you watch him chews.

his jaw shifts, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek as he swallows, throat bobbing in one smooth motion. his fingers tap against the wrapper, slow, rhythmic, like he’s thinking, like he’s considering. his expression doesn’t change, not even slightly, and it makes something tighten in your chest. it’s the silence that gets you, the unbearable, crawling silence where you should have won something—should have seen a flicker of hesitation, of confusion, of anything.

“delicious,” he declares, licking a stray bit of frosting from his thumb, voice smooth, unbothered, infuriatingly indulgent. “i had high expectations, princess, and somehow, you still managed to exceed them.”

your eye twitches as you watch him reach for the menu, mimicking his action.

because he knows.

he knows, and he’s indulging you anyway, letting you keep up this ridiculous charade just to see how far you’ll take it, how long you’ll dig yourself deeper.

and what’s worse? he’s enjoying it. so instead on glorifying him with an answer, you double down.

your posture shifts—prim, delicate, legs crossed just so, hands resting lightly against the table, every movement slow, controlled, the picture of soft, demure femininity. it is an art, a careful craft, and if he won’t fall for it, then you’ll force him to. you soften your gaze, let your lashes lower, let the corners of your lips curve just slightly. then, with the sweetest, most gentle tone you can manage, you sigh, “gojo, isn’t this such a lovely place?”

satoru doesn’t even look up from the menu.

his lips twitch. “hmm. very romantic.”

your lashes flutter. perfect. “isn’t it?”

“mm. makes me want to settle down. buy a house in the suburbs. maybe get a golden retriever.”

your grip tightens around the menu.

this is fine.

this is fine.

you inhale, re-center, refuse to let him win. the act is still in play, the performance still running, and if there’s one thing you refuse to do, it’s let gojo satoru make you break character first. when the waiter arrives, you smoothly hand over your menu, voice pleasant, poised, as you say, “i’ll have a croissant and a vanilla latte—”

“she’ll have a chamomile tea,” satoru interrupts, handing the menu back without even looking up.

your entire body stills.

“excuse me?”

“no caffeine after two pm,” he says, too casual, still not bothering to meet your gaze. “your circadian rhythm is already ruined.”

your what?

“my what?”

he finally glances up, tipping his head, glasses catching the soft café lighting in a way that makes it impossible to read his expression. “your sleep cycle,” he clarifies smoothly. then, with an air of pure, faux innocence, he adds, “unless you like looking exhausted? in which case, carry on.”

your fingers tighten around the tablecloth, the fabric crumpling under your grip as you fight every single urge in your body not to break character.

soft. you have to be soft. sweet. agreeable. not the kind of girl who flips a table over utter audacity.

“satoru.”

he doesn’t even flinch.

“also, swap her croissant for the yogurt parfait.” he tells the waiter, still maddeningly at ease, as if this is just another natural law of the universe—gravity, time, and gojo satoru dictating her breakfast order.

your jaw locks. your nails dig into your palm under the table. “i wanted a croissant.”

he barely even looks at you. “and i ignored you,” he replies, flashing an infuriatingly easy smile before turning back to the poor, unfortunate soul standing beside the table. “we’re good, right?”

you stare at him, fingers twitching against the tablecloth, the effort of maintaining your soft, vanilla-girl persona weighing heavier by the second. the room around them is warm, filled with the gentle hum of low conversation beyond the wooden partition. the soft glow of string lights casts a golden hue over the space, making the whole setting feel too cozy, too comfortable—completely at odds with the absolute rage simmering beneath your carefully crafted exterior.

somewhere in the café, plates clink, a faint laugh carries from another private room, and the air is thick with the scent of fresh pastries and brewed coffee. the atmosphere is deceptively peaceful, a stark contrast to the silent battle waging at your table.

and then, mercifully—the drinks arrive first.

the waiter sets them down carefully—his glass of milk, your infuriatingly caffeine-free chamomile tea—and vanishes before you can contemplate dragging him back and demanding your croissant by force. across the table, satoru lifts his glass with a smug, slow ease, fingers tapping idly against the smooth surface. he doesn’t say anything at first, just takes a long sip, obnoxiously casual, like he knows exactly how much he’s getting under your skin and is savoring the moment. you inhale, steadying yourself, refusing to engage, forcing your shoulders to relax as you pick up your own cup. the steam curls up softly, floral and warm, but the taste is bland, utterly unremarkable, a reminder that you are suffering, and it is his fault.

and then—out of nowhere—he hums, setting his glass down with a quiet clink, and says, “as i've mentioned, i met with our professor earlier.”

your fingers twitch against the delicate porcelain of your cup. of course he did. of course he used consultation hours. of course he went out of his way to have a chat with your professor like some insufferable academic try-hard. you barely refrain from rolling your eyes, instead lifting your tea to your lips, taking a slow, measured sip.

“he said our intro was weak,” satoru continues, swirling his glass like he’s leading a business meeting. “something about needing stronger market segmentation.”

your grip tightens around your cup.

this is it. this is another test. if he even hesitates, if his expression shifts—even slightly—you’ll know. you keep your face carefully neutral, letting your eyes soften just a touch, keeping the performance intact. and then, just as planned, you tilt your head ever so slightly and murmur, "you always know best, satoru."

his gaze sharpens.

not noticeably, not in any way someone else would catch, but you see it—the microsecond of stillness, the almost-imperceptible flicker of amusement in his eyes.

he knows.

he knows you know exactly what market segmentation is.

and now he’s testing you.

because here’s the thing—he might beat you on numbers, but when it comes to people, to reading them, to handling them, to winning them? that’s your domain. and yet, right now, he’s flipping the board, turning the strategy against you, waiting for you to break character, waiting for you to get frustrated and snap back with something too sharp, too you.

he raises an eyebrow. “do you want to know what that means?”

your stomach tightens.

he’s baiting you, dangling it in front of you like he wants you to fold, like he’s waiting for you to slip. because satoru knows you. not just this version of you—the carefully constructed softness, the vanilla girl performance—but the one underneath it. he knows you’re smarter than the version of you that laughs at dumb jokes and pretends to be charmed by men who don’t deserve your time. he knows you dumb yourself down even outside of this act, that you play a different kind of game—one where you let people underestimate you before tearing them apart.

he knows you can tear through people as easily as you can tear through him when it comes to social maneuvering. but if you call him out, if you drop the act now, you’ll lose.

he leans in slightly, smirking. “want me to dumb it down for you?”

you almost tense. almost.

instead, you exhale slowly, control seamless, and match him.

your lips curve.

you lean in too, slow, deliberate, eyes half-lidded, gaze locking onto his like you’re sizing him up, like you already know how this is going to end.

“sure,” you whisper, voice light, lilting. “use small words, professor.”

his smirk twitches, just the slightest tell, barely there—so small that anyone else would have missed it. but you see it. you catch the way his fingers tap once against his glass, the way his jaw shifts, the way his amusement flares, barely restrained. he recovers fast, too fast, and it sends something sharp curling in your stomach. you almost got him.

almost.

before you can push further, the soft clatter of plates interrupts the moment. the pasties arrives next.

you inhale slowly, steadying yourself, and pick up the small glass cup placed in front of you. layers of yogurt, granola, and an insulting amount of fruit stare back at you, mocking you with their nutritional value. your jaw tightens as you exhale through your nose, setting it down with controlled precision. “…this really isn’t what i wanted.”

satoru, completely unbothered, picks up his strawberry shortcake, fork twirling idly between his fingers. “i know.”

you slowly, painstakingly force your expression into something soft, something sweet, something that won’t immediately give away the absolute rage simmering beneath the surface. your lashes lower, your smile curves just so, your voice dangerously pleasant as you murmur, “satoru, you didn’t have to do this.”

“of course i did,” he replies, utterly smug. “someone has to look out for your nutrient deficiencies.”

your eye twitches.

briefly, violently, you envision flipping the table, sending his milk flying, watching his stupid glasses slide down his nose in sheer shock. instead, you inhale again, slow and measured, hands folding neatly in your lap, the picture of composed gratitude. “you’re so thoughtful.”

satoru hums, tilting his head, the corner of his mouth twitching—like he knows exactly how much this is killing you. “aren’t i?”

your jaw tightens, but you do not break. instead, you exhale softly, lashes lowering just slightly, and murmur, “so, so thoughtful.” sickeningly sweet. perfect.

he lifts his glass, taking a slow, deliberate sip of milk, watching you over the rim. “well, eat up, princess.”

your grip on your spoon is deadly

satoru hums, eyes flicking down to his plate, fork sinking into the soft layers of sponge and cream. you seize the opportunity, lips curving into something saccharine, something sharp. “cute choice,” you say, voice syrupy sweet. “very pink. very you.”

he doesn’t even flinch. doesn’t smirk, doesn’t gloat, doesn’t so much as blink. just meets your stare with that same effortless confidence, utterly unshaken. “you’re just mad because mine’s better.” his tone is obnoxiously certain, like he’s already won, like this isn’t even up for debate. the sheer audacity of it makes something in you tighten, irritation curling at the edges of your already-frayed patience. because the worst part? he’s not just saying it to mess with you—he genuinely believes it.

your eyes narrow. “that’s a big assumption.”

his gaze flickers to your stupid yogurt parfait, utterly unimpressed, a silent judgment passing over his face as he gestures toward it, utterly smug. “yours is healthy.”

“and?”

his expression remains steady, voice smooth, patient, like he’s stating the obvious to someone who should already know better. “and you hate healthy food.”

you stare. for a moment, you actually can’t argue, because—fine. fine. he’s not wrong. but you’ll be damned if you let him have this, if you let him sit there looking so pleased with himself, as if he’s cracked some grand mystery instead of just pointing out something extremely rude and inconvenient. you exhale sharply, blinking slowly, the weight of your suffering pressing against your ribcage. “wow,” you deadpan, voice utterly flat. “so romantic of you to insult my entire diet.”

his grin widens, like your misery is his favorite entertainment, his blue eyes practically glowing with amusement as he lifts his fork, a perfect bite of cake balanced on the edge. “try mine.”

you stare at it. at the impossibly soft layers of sponge, at the thick, fluffy cream, at the single perfectly placed strawberry sitting atop it like an insult. he holds the fork aloft, patient, expectant, as if there is any universe in which you would accept such an obvious trap. your jaw tightens, fingers curling slightly against your lap as you inhale, slow, composed. then—deliberate, measured—you lean back, tilting your head just slightly.

“no.”

his brows lift. “no?”

you keep your expression smooth, unbothered. “i don’t want it.”

his lips twitch. “you sure?” he shifts slightly, letting the fork hover just a little closer, like he’s offering some grand, once-in-a-lifetime experience.

your eyes narrow. “positive.”

he shrugs, like it’s no loss to him, like he hadn’t expected anything different. then, still infuriatingly casual, he takes a slow, exaggerated bite, eyes fluttering dramatically as he hums, dragging out every second of the experience like he’s performing it just for you. the fork lingers at his lips a second too long, his tongue flicking out to catch a stray bit of frosting before he sighs, deeply, like this is a spiritual revelation. “mm. wow. so soft. so moist.”

your glare sharpens. your fingers tighten around your spoon.

and then—aggressively, defiantly—you take a bite of your stupid parfait, stabbing the spoon into the granola like you’re personally avenging your dignity.

you won't lose again. 

you refuse. refuse to crack, refuse to let him get the upper hand, refuse to let this ridiculous battle of pastry dominance end with gojo satoru walking away victorious. so you hold your ground, meet his obnoxiously pleased gaze head-on, and take another slow, pointed bite of your parfait. the granola crunches aggressively between your teeth, the texture dry, unimpressive, but you swallow it down without so much as a twitch. your grip on the spoon is steady. controlled. unyielding.

the tension lingers, but the conversation begins to drift.

the banter slows. the teasing quiets. for a moment—just a moment—the game pauses, and the space between you both settles into something almost easy. you stir your tea absently, watching the way the steam curls up from the cup, dissipating into nothing. it’s comfortable, in a way that feels wrong—too still, too quiet, like the moment before a storm.

“you sure do this a lot.” satoru muses, voice lazy, but not quite teasing.

you blink, glancing up. “do what?”

his gaze flickers, studying you, something unreadable behind his glasses. “act like you don’t care when you do.”

your fingers still around the spoon.

absolutely not.

you let a slow breath slip past your lips, steadying yourself before tilting your head ever so slightly, feigning mild amusement. then, voice smooth, light, just a touch condescending, you murmur, “or maybe you overestimate my humility.”

his lips twitch.

so you take a slow sip of your drink, gaze leveling with his over the rim. “not everything is that deep, satoru.”

satoru, unbothered, tips his head back against his seat, sighing like this is all so easy for him. “not really,” he muses, one hand idly tapping against his glass. “just calling it like i see it.”

you exhale slowly, resisting the urge to glare. “congrats, satoru. you can observe things. your kindergarten teacher must be so proud.”

his grin widens, slow, lazy, pleased, like a cat watching a cornered mouse finally realize there’s nowhere left to run. he tilts his head, glasses slipping down just enough to let sharp blue peek through, gaze steady, unrelenting. “aww, you don’t like being read, princess?” his voice is light, teasing, but there’s something else underneath it—something certain, something that says he’s not just guessing, not just throwing words out to get a reaction. no, he’s sure.

your pulse jumps—and not for any of the reasons you’d like.

so you do what you do best. you pivot.

your lashes flutter as you lean in, slow, deliberate, tilting your head just so, letting your lips curve in a way that has always worked before. your voice drops, smooth, lilting, sweet as honey. “so attentive. such a keen eye for detail. you must be amazing with girls, satoru.”

he doesn’t even blink.

“oh, i am.”

your smile twitches, just barely, just enough for him to catch it.

he lifts his glass, takes a slow, measured sip of milk, like he has all the time in the world, like this is easy for him. the smugness radiating off him is unbearable, thick enough to choke on, but worse than that—worse than the way he leans back so casually, worse than the way his fingers tap idly against the rim of his glass—is the way his lips curve, knowing. “but that’s not going to work on me, princess.”

he knows.

you hate that he knows.

so you lean back, exhaling dramatically, waving a dismissive hand like this entire conversation has bored you. “then stop psychoanalyzing me and focus on being my eye candy instead.”

satoru snorts, shaking his head, but there’s something lighter in his expression now, something amused, “that, i can do.”

the conversation between you shift afted that, the tension dissolving before it can linger, before it can settle into something you’re not ready to touch.

yet the damage is already done.

the check arrives.

immediately, you move.

two sleek black cards hit the table at the exact same time, a perfect synchronization that might have been impressive if it weren’t the opening move of what was about to become an unnecessarily competitive battle.

the waiter pauses. blinks. glances between the two of you with the cautious hesitation of someone who definitely doesn’t get paid enough for this.

“i’ve got it.” you say, tone light, casual, like this isn’t a battle to the death, like you aren’t already bracing for the inevitable argument.

satoru hums, entirely unbothered, nudging his card just a fraction forward, an unmistakable power move. “honorable,” he muses, tone amused. “but unnecessary.”

your fingers tighten slightly around your card as you push yours forward too, refusing to back down. “i can pay myself,” you counter, smooth, confident, meeting his gaze head-on. “im the one who asked for this date.”

“nope.”

“yes.”

the waiter, visibly uncomfortable, starts sweating.

your jaw tightens. fine. if he wants to be difficult, then you’ll just play a different game. “then we’ll just split it,” you declare, tone sharp with finality, ready to snatch the bill and end this entire ordeal.

satoru immediately looks offended. “that’s inefficient.”

your brow furrows. “what?”

he gestures lazily toward the waiter, who is standing there, smiling awkwardly, clearly regretting every decision that led him to this moment. “why are you giving minimum-wage workers more workload?”

your lips press into a thin line. “it’s not inefficient,” you argue, fingers drumming once against the table. “it’s fair.”

“oh?” satoru leans forward, slow and deliberate, resting his chin on his palm, his smirk widening just slightly. the light catches the lenses of his glasses, obscuring his eyes for a fraction of a second before they sharpen back into focus—sharp, knowing, infuriating. “so is it fair if i tell you that, given our current financial standings, letting you pay at all is mathematically unreasonable?”

your stomach drops.

“gojo—”

he doesn’t let you finish. “fact one,” he announces, casual, unbothered, as if he isn’t about to make you violently ill. “my net worth is higher than yours.”

your fingers twitch against the tablecloth. “shut up.”

“fact two,” he continues, way too smug now, swirling his glass lazily. “my liquid assets alone could cover this bill a thousand times over without making a dent in my quarterly earnings.”

“oh my god.”

his smirk deepens, practically glowing in self-satisfaction. “fact three—”

you know what’s coming. you feel it, deep in your bones, in the unbearable smugness radiating off of him, and yet you still aren’t prepared for what leaves his mouth next.

“by splitting the bill, you’d be covering 50% of the cost when, proportionally, you should only be covering—”

“take his card,” you snap, cutting him off violently, gripping your empty teacup like you desperately want to throw it. your voice is sharp, edged with barely restrained suffering. “just take it before i kill him.”

the waiter, visibly relieved, snatches satoru’s card and flees.

satoru leans back, all smug satisfaction, swirling the last bit of milk in his glass before taking a slow, obnoxious sip. then, setting it down with an infuriating clink, he tilts his head at you, grin widening.

“good choice, princess.”

you cross your arms, seething, your entire body wound tight with irritation. your jaw is locked, your shoulders tense, and the absolute smugness radiating off of gojo satoru is making your blood pressure skyrocket. he’s leaning back, comfortable, entirely too pleased with himself, and it only makes you want to flip the table that much more.

he hums, eyes flicking over you, taking in every small tell—the way your fingers curl slightly against your sleeves, the way your brows twitch, the way your lips press together in frustration. then, with the kind of lazy amusement that makes you want to commit a crime, he muses, “you look like an angry rabbit. very on-brand for the vanilla look.”

your jaw tightens. “you are actually the worst person alive.”

“and yet,” he hums, tipping his glass of milk toward you, “here you are, having a date with me.”

your glare sharpens, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “because you weren’t even supposed to agree!”

silence.

a beat.

satoru's smirk widens, slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring the moment, stretching it out just to watch you unravel. there’s a flicker of something sharp behind his glasses, something too knowing, and it makes your stomach twist before he even speaks.

“oh?” he drawls, tapping a finger lazily against his glass, the sound light, rhythmic, calculated. his voice drips with amusement, low and teasing, like he’s already won a game you didn’t even realize you were playing. “so you admit it?”

your stomach drops.

your back straightens, a little too stiff, a little too reactive. “admit what?” you say, too quickly, too defensive, the words snapping out before you can stop them.

his grin stretches, slow and pleased, and you know—you know—you’ve already lost. “that you keep trying to trap me,” he says smoothly, tilting his head, mock thoughtful. “but i never fall for it.”

your face heats, warmth creeping up your neck, pooling under your skin in a way that only fuels your irritation. “shut up.”

satoru laughs, stretching his arms above his head, every movement obnoxiously slow, infuriatingly at ease, like this is all so easy for him. “maybe one day you’ll learn your lesson, princess,” he muses, dropping his arms with a sigh, voice almost fond. “but knowing you? probably not.”

your arms tighten against your chest, frustration bubbling under your skin, simmering. “why do you even indulge me, then?”

he shrugs, expression unchanged, voice effortlessly light. “because it’s fun.” his smirk curves, lazy, amused, and it makes something in you itch. “and as long as you’re not running off to party instead of contributing to our project, i don’t mind.”

then, offhandedly—like it means nothing, like it isn’t about to send your entire nervous system into shock, he adds with an appreciative hum, “plus, you’re cute.”

you freeze.

your brain stalls, like a system overload, like an error message flashing behind your eyes.

your grip on your sleeve tightens, fingers curling instinctively around the fabric, like anchoring yourself to something physical will keep you from completely short-circuiting. “don’t call me that.” the words snap out, sharp, too fast, too reactive.

satoru tilts his head, blinking at you, slow and deliberate, as if studying you, as if memorizing every microexpression. “what? cute?”

your jaw clenches. your fingers curl tighter. “i am not cute.”

his smirk returns, smooth, easy, like he knows something you don’t. “sure you are,” he says, completely unfazed. “all wide-eyed and pouty, like a little rabbit. it’s adorable.”

you nearly choke.

because—no.

no one calls you that. no one has called you that since childhood. not in years, not in this version of your life, not in the world you’ve carefully built around yourself.

hot? of course. gorgeous? obviously. stunning, breathtaking, irresistible? those are the words you’re used to—the ones murmured into your ear at exclusive parties, whispered against your skin by men who don’t even know you, by people who see you as nothing more than something to be admired, desired, owned.

but cute?

absolutely not.

your eyes narrow, irritation sparking, a knee-jerk reaction you can’t suppress, sharp and immediate, fueled by something you don’t want to name. “you’re deranged,” you snap, voice edged with far too much indignation, because this isn’t just about the word—it’s about him, about the way he says it, like it’s some obvious, undeniable truth. “i am literally the furthest thing from cute.”

satoru simply shrugs, still impossibly unbothered, like he didn’t just drop a grenade in the middle of the conversation and walk away from the explosion. “if you say so.”

your glare sharpens, but he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t waver.

why is he so unbothered? why does he look so entertained?

the ride back to your condominium is quiet. well—almost. satoru has the radio on, some soft jazz station playing low in the background, the kind of music that belongs in an overpriced cocktail lounge, not the interior of his sleek, sports car. your head rests against the window, the cool glass grounding you as your mind races, dissecting every moment from dinner like an unsolved mystery. he indulged me, you think, fingers curling slightly against your arm. that much is clear—he let you bat your lashes, let you tilt your head, let you serve up the most sickeningly sweet performance you could muster. but then again, he always indulges you.

so the question remains: was it the act? or was it you? your reflection stares back at you through the darkened glass, expression unreadable, a mirrored version of yourself picking apart every interaction with a precision that should concern you. every move you made—every calculated glance, every softened word, every ridiculous, vanilla-infused attempt—he saw it. but he didn’t fall for it. he smirked, teased, let his eyes linger just long enough to make you second-guess yourself, but that’s just him, isn’t it? gojo satoru, the most insufferable, unreadable man alive, amused at your suffering but untouched by your tactics.

the cupcake stunt should have been the turning point, but instead, it was just another game. he knew. he knew, and he let you flounder, let you scramble, let you weave your desperate little lie just to see how far you’d take it. and even when you leaned in, voice soft, eyes lidded, practically purring his name—nothing. not a slip, not a falter, not a single moment of hesitation that proved you had gotten to him. your jaw tightens, fingers drumming against your thigh as frustration settles heavy in your chest. what the hell does he even like?

before you can stop yourself, the words slip out. “satoru.”

he hums, lazily, like he hasn’t just been given a pop quiz, like he’s completely at ease behind the wheel of his ridiculously expensive car, the city lights reflecting off the windshield in a soft, rhythmic glow. one hand is loose on the steering wheel, the other resting comfortably against the console, fingers tapping idly to the slow, steady beat of the jazz station he still hasn’t bothered to change.

you turn to him, dead serious. “are you gay?”

the car stays perfectly steady, but his hands flex over the wheel, the only sign of reaction he gives you.

he blinks. once. “what.”

“it makes perfect sense!” you insist, sitting up abruptly, ignoring the way the seatbelt strains against you. the pieces are clicking into place now, and you can’t stop. “you never flirt back. you always evade. you are completely unfazed by me.”

satoru exhales through his nose, long and suffering, like he’s trying to breathe through a migraine. “so your first conclusion isn't that i'm picky. or that i'm immune to your charms.”

“obviously not.”

his fingers tighten around the wheel, grip flexing. “it's that i'm gay.”

“obviously.”

he nods slowly, the kind of nod that comes with a long, deep internal sigh, like he’s calculating exactly how much patience he has left. he keeps his eyes on the road, gaze steady, but you can feel the exasperation radiating off of him. “okay.”

your eyes narrow. “so?”

he doesn’t look at you. “so what?”

“are you?”

he clicks his tongue, shaking his head in pure disbelief. “you are, without a doubt, the dumbest smart person i’ve ever met.”

you cross your arms, unimpressed. “that’s not a no.”

his chest rises and falls in a sharp, deeply irritated sigh. “no, i’m not gay.”

your suspicion lingers. “bi? pan?”

“still no.”

you squint at him, narrowing your gaze like you can force the truth out of him. “satoru, look, i know things have been awkward between us after i rejected your carrot apology but this is a safe space—”

he physically flinches, muttering, “oh my god.” his head tips back for half a second, and his free hand drags down his face, fingers pressing into his temples like he’s warding off an oncoming stroke.

you watch him carefully, hyper-analyzing, waiting for any crack, any tell, anything to suggest he’s hiding something—because if he’s not gay, if he’s not bi, if he’s not pan, then that means—

nope.

absolutely not.

your thoughts halt so violently you feel it in your spine, like hitting an invisible wall at full speed, the impact rattling through you before you can stop it. because this isn’t that. this isn’t you sitting in a car, overthinking a man’s every move, picking apart his reactions like they mean something, like he means something. that is not what you do. you don’t play those games, don’t ask those questions, don’t give yourself room to consider possibilities that lead nowhere.

you do not do this.

so you won’t think about it. you won’t think about what it means that satoru never crosses the line, that he teases but never pushes, that he indulges but never wants. you won’t think about how, despite all his smirks and smug comments and exhausting, infuriating presence, he has never treated you like anything other than someone worth understanding.

because that would mean—

no.

your jaw tightens. the seatbelt strains against your chest as you shift, staring hard out the window, shutting it down before it can breathe, before it can exist. “never mind.”

he glances at you, slow, assessing, something too knowing in his expression, like he’s already figured you out. “what?”

“drop it.”

he glances at you, slow, assessing—not with any grand realization, not with any deeper meaning, just acceptance. because, honestly? he doesn’t care what ridiculous conclusions you come to, as long as you’re not calling him gay.

so he doesn’t press. doesn’t push. just shrugs, loose and easy, like this has been nothing more than a mildly entertaining detour in his day.

“whatever helps you sleep at night, princess.”

your jaw tightens.

you turn your gaze back to the window, arms crossing, shutting the conversation down entirely. the neon lights of the city blur past, casting streaks of color across the glass, but you don’t really see them. your mind is still racing, looping through the night, picking apart every moment, every interaction, every single time he indulged you without actually giving anything away.

because that’s just it, isn’t it?

satoru lets you play your games, lets you push and prod and bait him—but he never falls for it.

so what does that mean?

tag list : @s4ikooo1 @gojoswaterbottle @blubearxy

comment to be added on the tag list! xx

[dontforgetukraine]

Ukrainian Art HIstory's Twitter Thread on Alla Horska

[On November 28th in 1970] Ukrainian artist and civil rights activist Alla Horska was killed by the KGB. She lived only for 40 years but did a lot for Ukrainian culture. A thread about her life and art. I would appreciate it if you share this amazing art.

Sketch of Mosaic Panel Work “Flag of Victory”

Alla came to her Ukrainianness at a mature age. She was born in Yalta in a Russian-speaking family. Her father worked in management positions at various film studios. Alla had no problems with admission to the art institute in Kyiv.

"Prypiat. Ferry", 1961

She was working in a social realism style, but everything changed after she with her husband Viktor Zaretsky spent some time in the Polissya region near Chornobyl. They saw true Ukrainian traditional art and were impressed.

Dance (1963)

In the 1960s ghostly feeling of freedom appears. Together with Vasyl Stus, Vasyl Symonenko, Ivan Svitlichny, and other dissidents, Horska organizes the Creative Youth Club in Kyiv. It becomes a place of the strength of real Ukrainian culture.

Boryviter

Sketch of a mural (1967)

Horska was also friends with Maria Prymachenko and was inspired by the works of Sobachko-Shostak. The influence of the latter can be seen in many sketches and monumental works of Alla Horska, such as "Boryviter" and "Tree of Life" in Mariupol.

"Shevchenko. Mother"

In 1964, Horska together with famous artists Opanas Zalyvakha, Lyudmyla Semykina, Halyna Zubchenko, and Halyna Sevruk created the stained glass window "Shevchenko. Mother". It was censured and was destroyed because the soviets were afraid of this image.

Mosaics from Donetsk

Together with Vasyl Symonenko, they searched for the burial places of those shot in Bykivnia by NKVD. Corresponded with those who were in the camps. Signed letters against unjust sentences. Hosted people who returned from the camps.

The Spirit of Alla Horska (1980) by Viktor Zaretsky

The Soviet authorities could not tolerate such a strong figure as Horska. On November 28, 1970, the artist and her father-in-law Ivan Zaretskyi were killed in their own house in Vasylkiv, near Kyiv.

The largest number of Horska mosaics in pre-war Ukraine were in the east - in particular, in Donetsk and Mariupol. Unfortunately, in Mariupol, the mosaics were almost destroyed by the Russian army. We will find out the real state of these monuments only after the victory.

I told her story at the Radio Culture in my program "Ukrainian Art in the Names". You can hear it here (in Ukrainian).

[woso-dreamzzz]

Sleep II

Katrina Gorry x Teen!Reader

Summary: You forget your medication

The first and only warning flag that Mini needed was you and Kyra pulling pranks.

You'd always been a bit easily influenced by the older girls but you usually didn't get involved with pranks unless you hadn't done one thing that was meant to be second nature at this point.

So, as Mini watches you run your laps as punishment, she sighs.

"She's off her meds," She says in explanation to Charli, who is sitting nearby.

"Huh?"

"Her adhd meds," Mini elaborates as she watches Kyra try to trip you. You just barely keep your balance and immediately try to get revenge by shoving her over.

"Is she allowed to be off them?"

"I mean, technically, yes. It doesn't really matter if she misses a few doses but I don't think she's taken any this entire camp." Mini sighs as she stands, stretching out her leg before grabbing you by the back of the shirt as you jog past.

"Hey!" You complain," I still have two more!"

"Nope. Back to your room, please." She keeps her orders short so you can follow along. "Go straight in and shower. I'll be up to see you shortly."

"But-"

"Into your room," Mini insists," And shower. I will up soon."

"Fine."

You'd grown accustomed to listening to Katrina's orders. As soon as you came to live with her and Clara, you'd been put into a routine that you hadn't ever had before.

Your parents were always working and rarely home. You'd grown used to doing what you wanted, when you wanted. You hadn't even had a bedtime before moving into Mini's house and it came as a shock to you when she began to enforce one.

It had been extended a little during camp but not by too much and you were usually in bed way before anyone else in the team. It was a little annoying and everyone teased you but you didn't mind.

You didn't really cling to your routines as much at camp and really, that should have been the other sign that told Mini what she needed to know.

She's not at all surprised when she sees you lounging on your bed on your phone with no indication that you had even thought about showering.

"Shower," She says to you," Go on. In the shower."

You nod. "Yeah. Just one sec-"

"No," She insists," Now."

"But-"

"You need to shower before dinner. You know this. If you don't do this now then you won't do it later."

You frown. "I thought you wanted to talk to me."

"I do," Mini says plainly," But you need to shower first." She jerks her chin to the bathroom. "Go on. Wash you hair too."

You make a face. "I don't like wet hair."

"We've got plenty of time before dinner. Wash you hair and I'll dry it for you."

"But-"

She gives you a pointed look and you nod, shuffling into the bathroom with a towel and a change of clothes.

Mini waits briefly before relaxing when she hears the shower start running, digging around in your drawers for where you've stashed your hairdryer. You swear that you always know where it is despite it always being in a different place when Mini looks so after several minutes of searching, she manages to find it and plug it in.

It takes a while for you to return but when you do, you sit in front of her as she blow dries your hair, brushing it through once it's all dry.

"So," Mini says finally," You haven't been taking your medication."

"That's scary," You reply," Do you just know everything?"

Mini laughs. "It's the mum instincts but, really. What's up with that? Did you forget to grab a refill before we left?"

Usually Clara is the one to take you to refill your prescription but she had been busy during the week before camp and you hadn't really thought about it until a few days before.

You shrug.

"Camp isn't that long," You explain," I didn't think it would matter."

"You don't have to take your medication if you don't want to. We can find alternatives," Mini says with a hum as she pulls the brush through your hair again," Do you want to come off your medication?"

"No." You shake your head, turning it so you can look back at her. "I just forgot. Promise. It won't happen again."

Mini searches your face for a lie but it's clear to her that you're being truthful.

"Okay," She says," But stick close to me this time. I don't want Kyra being a bad influence.

"Why not?" You whine.

She grins at you. "Because you're entirely too susceptible to joining her schemes."

[lotties-ashwagandha]

I THINK IM BEING STALKED…

valeria garza x fem!reader

you’re being stalked, and valeria is the only one who believes you (bc she’s the stalker!!!). this fic is part of the red flags look pink event. 1.5k words. NSFW at the end but I lost the motivation to get too crazy bc im sick.

Not that there’s a way to bring it up, but this certainly isn’t it.

“I think I’m being stalked.”

She shifts beside you in bed, but you keep your eyes trained on the ceiling. Her voice is groggy with sleep when she speaks – it’s one of the few mornings you have woken up together, since the nature of your relationship is usually devoid of any emotional attachments. You come and go, off and on, and it is a harmless escape for the both of you. Casual. “Stalked?”

“I’m being stalked. Someone is stalking me,” you state again. You turn and meet her eyes — tired yet always alert even in the early hours.

Valeria lies on her side facing you, processing your statement with unabating intensity. “What makes you say that?”

You hesitate. It all sounds a bit silly when you say it aloud, but there’s no going back. “I saw someone outside my house the other night. It has happened a few times. I see cars I don’t recognize parked nearby, I always feel watched.”

She waits. “Is that it?”

“I keep finding things outside my front door. Expensive things, gifts, things I want that I haven’t told anyone about. There are pictures of me at the most random places, pictures of me at work. And there are these notes…”

“What do they say?”

“They say I should keep it between us,” you shake your head. “That I shouldn’t tell anyone.”

“And you’re telling me?” Valeria asks. Her gaze is sharp, reflective of her tone.

“They’re blackmailing me, Valeria. Digging up things from my past ages ago to try to keep me silent.”

She sits up, pulls the covers over her bare form and shrugs. “What do you want me to do about it?”

You hadn’t considered it. You know about her line of work, that her cartel has given her unimaginable power. Perhaps you thought she would offer you protection. That just being around a woman of such influence would give you a sense of safety – but if that has been what you’ve been searching for this whole time, you’re in for a disappointment.

Valeria is strong – she is sturdy, unwavering. Yet she is volatile.

Meekly you ask: “Do you believe me?”

Valeria considers it. She’s quiet, but after a moment she nods. “Of course I believe you, cariño.”

“No one else does,” you murmur. You’ve tried telling your friends, everyone close to you, everyone short of the police that you firmly believe you are being watched. But so far no one has believed you – no one but Valeria. They laugh it off, tell you that you are being paranoid.

Her voice rings with concern. “How many people have you told?”

“A few…”

“The notes say not to–”

You sit up. “Are you really agreeing with my fucking stalker?”

“No,” Valeria huffs. “I’m only saying that if the notes say to keep quiet about it, then maybe you should– or you should have come to me first.”

You sigh, swinging your legs over the bed and finding the energy to get up. You need some time alone, even if you are never truly alone anymore.

Valeria’s brows furrow. “¿Adónde vas?”

“I have to work,” you lie.

“Fuck your work. Stay with me.”

You hesitate. “And do what? Talk?”

“Are you so averse to talking to me?”

You shake your head and gesture around her bedroom, set on the highest floor of her mansion. “Unlike you, some of us can’t afford a day off.”

“I’ll pay you instead,” she offers. “How much is your wage today?”

While you know her intent isn’t to offend, it’s the last straw. You stand, get dressed, and grab your purse.

“That’s not what I meant,” Valeria attempts, cursing under her breath as she hurries to get dressed across the room. “Wait a second before you–”

You’re already out the door.

When you get home a few hours later from a day out, a small gift bag is at your door. You stand frozen in front of it, hardly able to breathe. It is disgusting in your view, disturbing even to be around, sickening like the bag itself is laced with poison.

You look back. You don’t see anything out of the ordinary, anyone who doesn’t belong on your street. You are still uneasy — your repulsion lingers as you take the gift bag and head inside.

An unsigned Valentine’s Day card, a circular gold locket with your initials engraved. A few thousand dollars in the bottom of the bag like an afterthought. Picture after picture of you – at stoplights, at work, having drinks with your friends.

This time, though, there is no letter. No blackmail, no threats. That – above all – is what has you unnerved. You have nowhere to hide, either. Your stalker knows where you live. They know where you work. They know every detail about your life from all angles and you have no escape.

You can’t call the police. Your ties to Valeria are too strong, it would be more dangerous than beneficial to draw attention to yourself. You call the next best option: Valeria herself.

“I thought you were sick of me,” she says when she answers the phone. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you for a few weeks.”

“I need you to come over,” you tell her quickly. “They came back, they left something else. I don’t feel safe here alone.”

There’s a brief silence on the other end, and then you hear her grab her car keys. “Stay there. I’ll be right over.”

“Sit down,” Valeria urges. She has made herself at home on your sofa as she watches you pace the room. “I’m here now. No one is going to fuck with you.”

You do feel safer with her here, but the threat still lingers. You can’t distract yourself from the fact that someone is stalking you.

“Come here,” Valeria urges. She reaches for you and you let her tug you down onto the sofa next to her. “Calm down. No one is going to hurt you.”

“How do you know?” You snap. “They could be anywhere. It could be anyone.”

“And if anyone tries to harm you, I’ll shoot them in the fucking face,” Valeria gestures to the gun on your coffee table like it’s a box of candy. “Mírame. You have nothing to worry about.”

You meet her eyes. You take comfort in the sureness in them. Valeria is completely certain of your safety, and you feed on it. You need it.

“You have to take your mind off of all this,” she says softly, shifting to be closer to you, knee bumping against yours and one of her hands taking yours to idly trace patterns on the back. The softness is more domestic than you’re used to, more caring than you ever thought was in bounds. Less casual, yet you know her — you’re well aware of what she’s trying to achieve. “Let me help.”

You will indulge her, always you will, because you can never deny her when she looks at you with such admiration — such need, and she is only satisfied with your closeness. You test her, leaning in slightly and resting a hand on her thigh to gauge her reaction. Yet as soon as you start you give up on timidity — you pull her in to kiss you.

You witness it again, the way she hungers for you. She is insatiable, grabbing at you with a roughness that has you feeling wanted in the best of ways. The way she holds you is nearly in worship, the pride she takes in every gasp she elicits from you, the firmness after she repositions and holds you down onto one of her thighs once your clothes have been almost completely discarded.

Moaning against her lips, you start to grind on her thigh. You’re growing impatient. You crave her, desperate for the attention she is so apt to give, but somehow she is still holding back. To test you, to see how much you really want her.

Your movements falter when her hands find your chest, kneading at your breasts and running her thumbs over your hardened nipples.

Then she stops. She reaches for the bag you found on the porch that you have put on the table beside the sofa.

“What are you doing?” You breathe, letting out a dramatically impatient sigh.

“Put it on,” she holds up the locket, circular and golden, your initials carved in dainty cursive. “I want you to wear it.”

You’re wary, but your hesitation disappears when she grabs your jaw and forces your gaze to hers. “You’re mine.”

She releases you. At your confirmation she fastens the locket around your neck. Not because she gave it to you, you tell yourself. You twist it in any way you can. She’s using it to show that whoever is your stalker can’t have you, and any other excuse you can come up with — because red flags look pink, and all that matters is that you get your release and she gets you.

“¿adónde vas?” = “where are you going?”

“mírame” = “look at me.”

tags: @webism @szczurkanalowy . comment to be tagged in the other days of the event!

find my masterlist here and the red flags look pink event here. as always, comments and reblogs are appreciated! :)

[harmoonix]

Moving my body like a

nympho

⚸°Lilith Astrology Observations°⚸

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*This post includes more types of Lilith's energy in your natal chart. These are

Lilith (h12) Mean Lilith ⚸ (this is the most common Lilith we find in our charts astro.seek or astro com)

Lilith (h13) True Lilith ⚸

Lilith asteroid (1181) ⚸

Lilith's DARK Moon (h58) ⚸

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(Some observations can be 18+)

⚸-> Lilith (h12) harshly aspecting Jupiter are crazy in bed, these can be the type of people who often go for more rounds. Just because they cannot hold it themselves

⚸-> Lilith (h12) or (h13) in Water/Earth signs indicate dark feminine energy, which is not bad at all because often this energy is send to the native by their ancestors/ or by their higher self

(And yes Lilith can also indicate things you gained from ancestors or being protected by ancestors)

⚸-> Lilith (h12) or (h13) in Fire/Air signs indicate the light feminine, which can be easier felt because of their personality. Natives with these placements can often have a big ego and likeable personality

⚸-> Lilith (h12) - in 6th/11th house love to praised for their work, these people have a big influence in their workplace

⚸-> Lilith (58) - in Scorpio/8th house > My Lord, these people are dark, they can be very revengeful/evil if someone does them dirty, also their sexual energy, Lorddddd >>>>>

⚸-> Lilith (58) aspecting the Sun > They embody the dark nature of their higher self easier, these people are full of intensity and power, these people can often attract powerful people in their lives

⚸-> Lilith (h12) - conjunct/square/opposite Moon > one of the most powerful aspects to have in your chart, they have an specific magnetic 🧲 field around, something that makes people to wonder about them.

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D E V O U R

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⚸-> Any of these Lilith in the sign of Leo ♌🦁 > they have a big pride and they are very confident. Loyal and appreciated by others

⚸-> True Lilith (h13) - aspecting Mars > Literally demon/angel of sex vibes, thet dream about it, they seek it, they desire it...They just want to eat your soul at this point

⚸-> True Lilith (h13) in Taurus Degrees 2°. 14°, 26° > They embody so much feminine vibes. Their true nature is feminine/no matter in the gender, these people are feminine inside 💠

⚸-> Lilith Asteroid (1181) in the 5th house > These natives are looking for intensity in love at every corner, i tell you this placement makes people to wife you up

⚸-> If Lilith asteroid is aspecting the asteroid Aphrodite (1388) the native has a very dark beauty > meaning they're majestic wearing dark colors/dark makeup 💄, and omg they're so sassy

⚸-> Any of these Lilith's in the signs or Gemini ♊ or Virgo ♍. The native has an seductive voice And people often ignore that. But they forget these Lilith's are ruled by Mercury

⚸-> Lilith (h12) aspecting the ascendant is so intense that most people with these aspects attract so much envy and hate from others

⚸-> Lilith (h12) or True Lilith (h13) in the 7th house can attract toxic partners in their relationships, be aware of people who show toxic behaviors at the first meeting cus' it may be a big red flag

⚸-> Lilith Asteroid (1881) trine/sextile Moon > it may be easier for them to be in their feminine energy. Because the energy here is calm and in harmony with their aura/personality.

⚸-> Lilith (h12) conjunct Saturn might be so though, people with these placements are so rebel. They're very dominant and don't want to listen to anyone just them. They may often have scandals with older people than them or with authorities

⚸-> Any of these Lilith's in the sign of Sagittarius ♐ are very carefree and in searching for their own freedom, most people with these placements could've raised in strict families. So their freedom was banned pretty much

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S E X • P O I S O N

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⚸-> Lilith (58) in the 6th house/Virgo can often end up to use sex as a key to something they want, which is not 100% positive, either way they're very practical during the act and they're have an unique duality between their personality

⚸-> It may be hard for people with True Lilith (13) - Venus aspects to find a partner, because they can often met people who want only sex and one night stands

⚸-> Any of these Lilith's in the sign of Aries ♈🐏 can indicate a big rebellious nature. A true leader and someone very powerful in terms of stability. They're also very dominant in most aspects in their lives > Men with these aspects please marry me..🫶🏼

⚸-> Any of these Lilith's in the sign of Aquarius ♒🏺 are very humanitarian people and they cannot stand for people who do others wrong, or for people who hurts others. They hate conflicts and they hate the chaos that is upon earth

⚸-> True Lilith (h13) - Eros (433) aspects > Oh Lord, they're extremely sexual and beautiful, I always imagined this energy as an angel of sex/demon of breaking beds, kind of thing

⚸-> Lilith (h58) aspecting Pluto > Oh my, this aspect embody the Phoenix archetype, rising from the ashes when they're hurt and come back wayy stronger

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F E M M E • F A T A L E

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⚸-> Asteroid Lilith (1881) opposite/square Mercury can be great at lying though, they can lie people as a key to get what they want and to make others to believe their lies

⚸-> True Lilith (h13) in Cancer Degrees > 4°. 16°. 28° give an "innocent" vibes to others. Sometimes they can have that "holy" vibe and that can make attract more people

⚸-> Any of these Lilith's in the sign of Pisces ♓🐟 have to use intuition as a key to make themselves more aware of the people around them, they're so dreamy and hypnotic though. one touch and you dream about them all night

⚸-> Okay here it comes THE MOTHERRRRR, Any of these Lilith's in the sign of Cancer ♋ 🦀 (THEEEE MOTHERRRRRRR PURRR). Their nurture energy makes people to be into them instantly. no wonder why men with these Lilith signs have boobs kinks... People with these placements be like "come here let me hug you, 2 seconds later they're hard/wet"... (😭)

⚸-> Lilith (h12) or Lilith (h13) aspecting MC (Midheaven) or in the 10th house, can manifest an sexual energy the way people see them. They be like "Omg you saw that person? Omg yass they're so hot"

⚸-> Asteroid Sirene (1009) aspecting the True Lilith (h13) or Lilith (h12) > You're the mermaid who wants to f*CK with pirates. And then you drown them in the ocean, so cute 🥰 first you sing to them then you say "Sikeeeee" 😇

⚸-> Any of these Lilith's in the sign of Capricorn ♑🐐. Show a lot of respect and success, they're may have been raised in traditional ways with strict/though parents with hard lessons. And that's what made them who are they today. An powerful human being

⚸-> Lilith (h58) at 3°, 15°, 27° degrees can cuss a lot or talk dirty when they're mad, one thing is clear they can get so sassy and they have the words at them always

⚸-> Any of these Lilith's aspecting the Chiron indicate. A wounded feminine. Their energy is to heal their wounds and to be back again in their feminine aura, push away the people who throw you out of your feminine energy though

⚸-> Lilith asteroid (1181) opposite/square Venus. May be the type of person who's always hurt by lovers/relationship or hurt by fact that some of them may be single, on the other hand they have so much love to give

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V E N O M

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⚸-> Lilith (h12) and True Lilith (h13) in the 4th or 8th house can have an karmic family life, for example an generational curse that they may need to break

⚸-> Speaking of karmic life Lilith (58) in the 8th house has to break all the things that keeps them to suffer/to feel bad/hurt, it's not an easy placement but is powerful

⚸-> Any of these Lilith's signs in the 9th house may have suffered from religious traumas/for example people forcing them to believe in a certain religion,god etc.. they can often be attracted into cult

⚸-> Lilith (h12) or True Lilith (h13) in the 11th house may have been betrayed a lot. Or backstabbed by their friends/lovers/people they care about, yet they don't always show that because they don't like to show weakness

⚸-> Lilith (h12) in the 2nd house can be the type of person who's always hungry for something, they're hungry more times a day and need to fulfill that

⚸-> Lilith in Leo Degrees 5°. 17°. 29° > May have a kink for worshipping their partners of vice versa. They also loved to be praised in bed and in their everyday life together with their partners

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PROMISCUOUS

MOTIVE

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⚸-> Good day for everyone. Is a new week in the last days of October 🎃⚰️ the most spooky month flies away with us leaving just the memories behind ⚰️🎃

Anywayssss today the theme was kind of spooky/crazy I can say, I liked it to be honest, my fingers kinda hurt from so much editing and writing 🎃⚰️, it was wait the worth for the post tho💅🏼

I want for everyone who watches this post to have a very good start of the week. Full of blessings and good news around the corner, bless everyone ❤️❤️❤️, and prayers for those who are struggling with certain things in life ❤️❤️❤️

Yours truly, Harmoonix

[enemymine2000]

It's official, US TikTok is going dark right now. Lives vanish bit by bit, East to West.

So time for the Tumblr house rules for those few, who'll find their way here:

Before everything else, personalize your blog! Put a different picture up, write a bio and/or make your first individual post, or people will think you are a bot. Then it's on sight. We block and report those immediately, thanks to the great porn bot wars.

Once that's done:

1. Speak clear and freely. Say what you mean, we don't do that 1984 Newspeek and emojis instead of words here.

2. Tags are a way to sort your stuff AND to communicate. But stay on topic. No spam tagging. And no censoring words or no one will ever be able find anything. Search system is shot enough to hell as is.

3. Don't like, don't read. The block button is your friend.

4. Reblog, don't repost. We don't steal content here. Always give credit. Which is also the reason for...

5. AI is not liked here. It is trained on stolen content. Just don't.

6. There is no such thing as a Tumblr influencer. Even our big names are just normal people, who just stick out due to longevity and/or weirdness.

7. Follower count doesn't matter. No one can see who has what amount of followers and we don't care.

8. Our "viral" posts are our heritage posts. Some might have breached containment and have been shared to other sites. We keep them going because we genuinely like them or want to keep the ancient magic alive.

9. Which leads to likes. They are nice and you obviously are not supposed not to give them, but they don't really matter apart from spamming the notifications of the OP. Reblogging keeps Tumblr alive.

10. We have our own holidays. Don't worry, you will not be forced to partake, but you will be confronted with them. Unless there is another round of The Boopening. Sorry, but no one escapes The Boopening! (Many prefer it to the Mishapocalypse, but this the SPN site, so never discount a Mishapocalypse. Or getting your news via Destiel meme.)

11. Our lore (Tumblr history) is wild. Stolen bones, human pets, dashcon, crucifix nail nipples, the bullying of John Green off the platform (the totally unrelated intern of a coffee company has forgiven us), female presenting nipples, Goncharov, crab raves... This site has been around for a very long time and a lot of us have been around for most of that. We are proud to have remained "ungovernable" and are unapologetic about it, thus we celebrate our history. Even the failures.

12. You can use the "discover" feed of course. But we basically only ever use the "following". No algorithm, just an endless reverse chronological scroll.

13. There is no verification system. We know that people like Wil Wheaton, Lynda Carter and Misha Collins are the real deal, because they verified themselves through other official means. Otherwise everybody can be whoever they want to be. Meaning also that you always should use common sense before chipping in with donations.

14. It's your blog, not some social media account. If you change interests (however often you want), just post about those. Your followers mostly won't care. Hell, about 90% of the blogs I follow have changed names, themes and topics so many times, I don't even remember why I followed in the beginning. (The amount of second hand knowledge about shows/movies I obtained...) If it gets too much, unfollow or block relevant tags.

15. Pixelated icons indicate that the blog has been flagged/self-reported as containing adult themes, mainly nudity. Goes back to great porn purge (see female presenting nipples). It's also why sometimes posts have pictures removed for going against Tumblr's content policy. There is still enough nudity going around.

Welcome, have fun, look around, find your niche, and don't worry. We don't bite. Much.

[stovetoast]

pillow tpot headcanons (long ramble expanding on the ocd part under the cut)

ok so first warning: i am not a psychiatrist. this isnt a super educated essay on ocd, just me projecting my lived experience onto an object show character. this is just an observation. if i get something wrong feel free to correct me, ill add it here. (its also worth noting i am self diagnosed. not "quick google search" self dx though, ive gone over it with a therapist and everything)

and that leads into the second warning: this ramble will get a tad bit personal sorryyyy

and finally the third warning: i put she/it on the ref but im just using she/her for simplicity (+ i forgot LOL(

anyway so yeah i think that pillow has ocd and is basically the embodiment of "letting intrusive thoughts win" except like. actually. this headcanon didnt stem from the killing or the strange impulses though, i think she has it because of her fixation on good and bad luck in tpot 10.

for me it manifests in a few different ways. my main one is counting—i have good luck numbers and bad luck numbers. i need to take a specific number of snacks every time i have a bowl of them. i have to shake medicine bottles a certain amount of times before taking them. i am always counting the "syllables" of whatever im doing, and it always has to land on a multiple/factor of my lucky number. and if i break any of this, i (generally, if i cant convince myself its fine or if i dont notice) have to count to my lucky number otherwise something bad will happen. hell, i added more flags to this ref because the number of them was my unlucky number.

i have a few other things that affect it that are completely unrelated to counting, though. like a particularly bad one is that i straight up cant wear certain articles or clothing anymore because theyre bad luck. or my ungodly long night routine (which is probably more of an autism thing tbh. but certain parts of it are absolutely influenced by the ocd, like having to say goodnight to my dog).

that ^^ is what i saw in pillow. she was distraught that her team lost in 9, because not only did she think she was doing the challenge right, but killing people (bringing death) was good luck for her.

i think her killing people was a compulsion, and her whole thing in 10 was her scrambling to find a new one after that stopped working.

and before anyone tries to be all like "oh thats fucked up why would they portray ocd like that," one: i dont think this was on purpose this was just an observation, two: i mean..... fuck dude if i lived in a world where revival was incredibly accessible and one of my compulsions were to kill people, id do the same thing. death is fairly normal in bfdi, to the point everyone literally has a kill count on the fandom wiki (hers is 13 as of tpot 11 btw, a commonly unlucky number ironically enough. if she gets eliminated in 12 with an unlucky kill count thatd be so funny). once they get past the pain, its. really just an inconvenience to them.

when it comes to ocd, you. HAVE to do these things. its not a choice until you can get some outside help with it, and oftentimes its an inconvenience to those around you. i dont think its right for her to be going around killing her team, but when i get past the fact that is literally what made her my favorite, i get where shes coming from. shes trying to help in a way she "knows" will work.

or maybe shes just silly idk

[gallifreyanhotfive]

Random Doctor Who Facts You Might Not Know, Part 20: Academy Era Edition

Please note that some Academy Era info is dispersed throughout the other parts as well; I just wanted to make one dedicated to these nerds. I am not repeating stuff from other parts (purposefully, there may be some accidents, but I'm trying not to repeat things like Koschei teaching Theta hypnosis or like the hyperball team) or including some basic info I think are decently well known (like Torvic or the Gallifrey Academy Hot Five). ;)

The Master's real name is 32 letters long.

As students, Theta and Koschei enjoyed building time flow analogues to mess with each others experiments.

Koschei once gave Susan a toy which was actually a communication node that he could use to find the Doctor and Susan if they ever left Gallifrey.

Theta and Koschei also used to sneak out of the Academy to drink with Shobogans. On one such occasion, Koschei picked a fight with six drunk Shobogans.

Theta's name day and Otherstide are on the same day.

Koschei often hypnotized people as a joke. He was never punished for it.

Drax had a home-made skimmer that he would often use to go to his House rather than stay in the Academy dormitories. He'd also give Jelpax rides home because they lived close by.

Koschei was in charge of organizing the end-of-term parties, but the Eighth Doctor remembers that they weren't very good.

While at the Academy, Theta and Koschei traveled to Gallifrey's past in search of Valdemar, an ancient entity and Old One, but they found nothing of Old Ones. Theta was horrified by Valdemar's power while Koschei was fascinated.

When Vansell broke his leg while climbing Mount Cadon, Theta created a localized time bubble with a sonic wrench and two lengths of twine. This accelerated the healing process, and it was healed in two minutes.

Koschei and Theta also once traveled to Machasma and used sonic agitation to get out of a tight spot.

Theta Sigma came fourth place in the Time Lord Academy Sprint Championship.

Millennia had a natural gift for temporal engineering, and Theta believed she would one day make great intellectual achievements.

Tebediatroculozan attended the Academy at the same time as the Deca. He was incredibly clever but also envious of the Doctor for the adventures he had. The Eighth Doctor helped him move past this jealousy.

When Koschei stared into the Untempered Schism, he noted with much contempt that the Time Lords who had taken him there all refused to look at it themselves.

Mortimus is likely about 50 years younger than Theta Sigma.

The Second Doctor recalled that Koschei enjoyed being scared of the dark too much.

The Toymaker had Theta play Capture the Flag and thought that Theta had cheated.

When the Toymaker was using Rallon's body, Rallon had enough influence over his personality that the Toymaker had a sense of "good and evil." When the Toymaker went against the Fourteenth Doctor, he was no longer using Rallon's body, so this was not the case.

Theta was Borusa's teacher's pet, and Borusa favored him over other students. Later on, the Doctor would believe this was why the Master was bitter towards him.

In fact, an unproduced story's original script originally had the Doctor’s grandfather be named Borusa, but it was later changed to Pandak.

While at the Academy, Koschei befriended Salyavin and manipulated him to gain access to the restricted libraries. He wanted to steal The Worshipful and Ancient Law of Gallifrey but could not find it, and Salyavin took the blame for his wrongdoing.

Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28

[unlikelyjapan]

Full disclosure: I wasn't a Syd/Carmy shipper until two weeks ago. Hell, I don't think I've ever been a shipper of anything up until this moment - but I've been happily married to my slow-burn best friend for eons, so this all struck a deep, nostalgic chord for me. Consider this post my coming-out party:

This whole thing came about from that well-worn Freud quote that "friendship is the art of distance while love is the art of intimacy" that I recalled from a crude psychology class.

From the most shallow, birds-eye POV, Carmy achieved intimacy with Claire (while maintaining distance/friendship with Syd) by disclosing details of his family situation, his panic attacks, expressing romantic affection, and establishing physical intimacy with someone.

He even seemed more eager to relay and express these experiences to his friends (see the cannoli conversation with Syd and Marcus) as he went deeper into the relationship. From this perspective, I empathize with people when they say they see his relationship with Claire as real personal growth, followed by a steep regression.

Claire seems to pantomime someone who is secure, but is actually pretty anxious in matters of the heart - the idealized projections she places on Carmy based on her proximity to him a decade ago, her unwillingness to walk away from the red flag of the 'wrong number' fiasco, and her unrelenting insistence to know why he tried to dodge her in the first place. I'll say nothing of the constant placating.

Claire is a sort of a faux 'sword of destiny' for Carmy - he yearned for her attention in his youth, it was loudly proclaimed to be "the good thing" by his abusive family, and so it's the only logical choice in Carmy's mind once he's beaten over the head with it for the umpteenth time - it's the love chosen for him by his family and his past self before he pieced together ways to partially escape, it's fatalism, it's the end of the weary search for "fun" and happiness.

He's never truly happy or having "fun" (as he doesn't know how to define that in his mind - that's why we're tortured with 5 grueling minutes of Logan), but he feels cared for and is going through the motions of being "that guy who is fun and in love".

Love even had to be defined for him by his inherited family friend/handyman who he didn't even know was his "best friend" until Claire relayed it to him - he blindingly accepted both assertions from Fak, falling back into his family's narrative that he can't survive or be normal without their collective help.

By contrast, Sydney is probably the first thing Carmy has ever chosen for himself without outside influence from family or employers. She was his first hired employee, his first true friend who wasn't a blood relative, and probably the first person he feels mirrors his passions without a need to compete with her over them.

Sydney is a choice - she is happiness (in whatever shape or form that you choose to define it, it can be aromantic if you'd like) that Carmy found all by himself, without the narrative being driven by outside influences. They have fun together on their own frequency, but Carmy's black-and-white thinking can't recognize it for what it is - he's still reaching for a sense of "fun" that was repeatedly sold to him as his family tried to push him along the path of normalcy (an impossible feat for a Berzatto).

Syd and Carmy share a brand of maternal grief/strife and a profound love of service that breeds a slow intimacy. By saying "you deserve my full focus" Carmen is saying that Sydney's happiness is more important than his own, which can sound abysmal in type, but is also a natural pre-req for love when given willingly - which I think he is giving willingly for her, just not willingly for the anxiety and minutiae that comes with actually running a fine dining restaurant. He needs someone he can have absolute trust in to hold his hand through that part.

That's why he could only create The Bear with her, and why he says he wouldn't want to do it without her.

They're both fearful and avoidant, which is a fatally-wounding powder keg if they were to connect this instant, but with ever-growing intimacy and self-work (which Claire - however insufferable her dialogue - probably planted seedlings in with Carmy, and his openness and absolute trust in Sydney could drive her towards, too) their coming together could heal many of their longstanding wounds.

This was more of a meandering walk than I hoped, but I think it all comes down to actively choosing happiness vs. passively chosen happiness - Sydney is the first thing Carmy has ever chosen for himself, and we were beaten over the head with depictions of how much he cherishes that agency and Syd this season. I really hope S3 is a big mess of mirroring and sharing for them.

[jellybean1927]

(I still don't know what to name this AU)

I'm gonna share some headcannons and thoughts because why not?

So Gigacorp is pretty much the same as Canon, except they've become more power-hungry over the years, searching for more ways to "learn" about the universe. This basically creates the idea of world-hoppers.

World-hoppers are people who can travel from server to server with or without being white-listed. It's hard to learn, but once you can, it's relatively easy to get where you want to go. However, you do need a certain device, similar to a communicator, in order to get in safely without tearing yourself apart in code. Most world-hoppers don't work for Gigacorp, though, and usually manage to escape the Watchers' grasp. They just kinda do their own thing. (Martyn, Oli, Sausage, and Scott are all world-hoppers, but Martyn's device was stolen by the Watchers when they threw him into the datastream, so he can't do it without hurting himself.)

Doc (Vtuber lore) is the Gigacorp employee who was assigned to keep Martyn in the datastream. The L.O.O.T. crystals Martyn's been collecting are actually ancient portal shards that Gigacorp is collecting to help "unbanish" the Watchers from the void as part of their deal. Martyn is not aware of this fact since the Watchers are kind of influencing him to believe what they want him to believe.

Ren found Martyn's world-hoppers device (haven't come up with a name for it yet) in The Hub when he went looking for him after Limited Life, recognizing it by the green color, dogwarts flag sticker, and sapling swirl charm on it. The Watchers didn't need the device and just needed to get it away from Martyn so they chucked it, thinking it wouldn't be found for a while.

Ren tried to ask Grian if he knew anything, but every time, Grian would make some sort of excuse and fly off.

It was Jimmy that told Ren what had happened having last seen Martyn during Rats and how... odd he was acting. That and the Listeners told Jimmy what happened.

(Feel free to ask questions, guys. I'm still trying to work out some of the details, but I'll answer to the best of my abilities)

[reverieparacosm]

hi! could you please write yandere!sauron x fem reader hcs? maybe sauron had a dream of this woman who fulfills a prophecy he read that would make him more powerful so he sends his minions to bring her to him and when he meets her there is a magical bond between them and he is obsessed with her

Prophecy: Yandere!Sauron x F!Reader

Warnings: Yandere, possessive behaviors, manipulation, gaslighting, kidnapping, slavery, (Sauron is already a red flag -)

Note: Your wish is my command! I am weak for Yandere Sauron.

Remember kids - please do not enslave people just because you saw them in dreams

Sauron's thirst for power is unending

As the Dark Lord of Mordor, he is always on the lookout for ways to increase his influence and rule over Middle-Earth

One night, he is visited by a vision of a woman who would help him fulfill a prophecy that would grant him even more power. This vision ignites a fiery determination within him, and he sets his minions on the task of finding her and bringing her to him

His servants search far and wide, but the woman is elusive and hard to find. Months pass without success, but finally, one of his minions stumbles upon her during a routine scouting mission

He brings Sauron the news, and the Dark Lord is overjoyed. He immediately orders his minions to keep a close eye on her and bring him regular reports

But Sauron's desire for this mysterious woman grows stronger with each passing day. He wants her for himself, and orders his minions to bring her to him

She is everything he has hoped she would be - powerful and capable of fulfilling the prophecy. The moment they meet, Sauron feels a magical bond between them that he has never experienced before. He is immediately obsessed with her, unable to tear his eyes away from her

With a single glimpse, he is captivated by her beauty. So much so that he takes her face in his hand before she has even noticed his presence. His ice-cold mental glove caresses her cheeks and he absorbs every delicate detail, leaving her with an unsettling sensation

When she turns her head to the side, Sauron becomes more aggressive. He grabbs her chin with one hand and held her neck with the other, forcing her to look into his eye

Despite being an evil, dark lord with a reputation for cruelty, he develops a soft spot for her

He tells his minions not to harm her and threatens those who do with severe punishment. He does not want to lose her or drive her away, for he knows that she is the key to fulfilling his ultimate goal - becoming the most powerful being in Middle-Earth

"I would rather burn the world than see it harm you."

Sauron spends every waking hour with her, pouring his heart and soul into their relationship. He is desperate to learn everything he could about her, her abilities, and her place in the grand scheme of things. He is certain that she is the one he has been seeking for so long, the one who would help him achieve true greatness

As the days pass, the bond between them only grows stronger, and Sauron's obsession with her only deepens. He knows that the prophecy is within his grasp, and he would do whatever it takes to fulfill it with her by his side

The woman is initially reluctant to trust Sauron. But as he charms her with his words and gifts, she begins to fall under his spell

Sauron soon begins to see the woman as his property and becomes increasingly possessive and demanding. He expects her to devote all of her time and energy to him, and becomes violent when she tries to resist

"Your heart beats in harmony with mine, the two inextricably linked in a bond so strong that no other force can break it. You are mine, and I am yours, our destinies intertwined forevermore."

Sauron is constantly monitoring the woman, using magic to invade her thoughts and dreams. He knows her every move and thought, and he uses this knowledge to control her

Sauron revels in her obedience, especially when she sits at his feet as he holds court with his many war generals. It is a constant reminder of his power over her, and he loves having her as his symbol. Even when he is deep in conversation, he still takes a moment to stroke her hair, relishing in her submission. He senses the tension in her body, and it only increases his satisfaction

"There is no one like you, my beautiful darling. The way you bend to my will pleases me greatly. You are a constant reminder of the power I have over you, and it thrills me to no end. Even in the midst of battle, I cannot help but take a moment to stroke your hair, relishing in your submission. Your body trembles with tension, and it only increases my satisfaction. Never forget who you belong to. I am your master, and you will forever be my symbol."

The woman is conflicted about Sauron's behavior, but she is unable to resist the powerful bond between them. She tries to convince herself that she can change him, but as time goes on, she realizes that he is too deeply engrained in his dark ways to change

If she tries to escape, Sauron would likely use his powerful magic to track her down and capture her

He would stop at nothing to keep her under his control. If the woman manages to escape his grasp, Sauron would likely become more obsessed than ever, and he would use all of his resources to find her and bring her back to him. He would stop at nothing to keep her by his side, even if it meant using his most dark and nefarious tactics to do so

"You are my most prized treasure, my greatest possession. No one on this earth or beyond it will ever take you away from me. Our love is eternal, a bond that cannot be broken or tarnished by any force in existence."