#existence via One statement

[anghraine]

It feels extremely silly that only today did I realize that pantry and panadería are slightly similar-sounding for a reason >_>

(The English word pantry is one of the many, many common modern English words derived from Anglo-French: in this case, panetrie, from Old French paneterie, "bread room" ... Spanish panadería also has a complex etymology, but all are related to Latin panis, "bread.")

[reasonsforhope]

Federal regulators on Tuesday [April 23, 2024] enacted a nationwide ban on new noncompete agreements, which keep millions of Americans — from minimum-wage earners to CEOs — from switching jobs within their industries.

The Federal Trade Commission on Tuesday afternoon voted 3-to-2 to approve the new rule, which will ban noncompetes for all workers when the regulations take effect in 120 days [So, the ban starts in early September, 2024!]. For senior executives, existing noncompetes can remain in force. For all other employees, existing noncompetes are not enforceable.

[That's right: if you're currently under a noncompete agreement, it's completely invalid as of September 2024! You're free!!]

The antitrust and consumer protection agency heard from thousands of people who said they had been harmed by noncompetes, illustrating how the agreements are "robbing people of their economic liberty," FTC Chair Lina Khan said. 

The FTC commissioners voted along party lines, with its two Republicans arguing the agency lacked the jurisdiction to enact the rule and that such moves should be made in Congress...

Why it matters

The new rule could impact tens of millions of workers, said Heidi Shierholz, a labor economist and president of the Economic Policy Institute, a left-leaning think tank. 

"For nonunion workers, the only leverage they have is their ability to quit their job," Shierholz told CBS MoneyWatch. "Noncompetes don't just stop you from taking a job — they stop you from starting your own business."

Since proposing the new rule, the FTC has received more than 26,000 public comments on the regulations. The final rule adopted "would generally prevent most employers from using noncompete clauses," the FTC said in a statement.

The agency's action comes more than two years after President Biden directed the agency to "curtail the unfair use" of noncompetes, under which employees effectively sign away future work opportunities in their industry as a condition of keeping their current job. The president's executive order urged the FTC to target such labor restrictions and others that improperly constrain employees from seeking work.

"The freedom to change jobs is core to economic liberty and to a competitive, thriving economy," Khan said in a statement making the case for axing noncompetes. "Noncompetes block workers from freely switching jobs, depriving them of higher wages and better working conditions, and depriving businesses of a talent pool that they need to build and expand."

Real-life consequences

In laying out its rationale for banishing noncompetes from the labor landscape, the FTC offered real-life examples of how the agreements can hurt workers.

In one case, a single father earned about $11 an hour as a security guard for a Florida firm, but resigned a few weeks after taking the job when his child care fell through. Months later, he took a job as a security guard at a bank, making nearly $15 an hour. But the bank terminated his employment after receiving a letter from the man's prior employer stating he had signed a two-year noncompete.

In another example, a factory manager at a textile company saw his paycheck dry up after the 2008 financial crisis. A rival textile company offered him a better job and a big raise, but his noncompete blocked him from taking it, according to the FTC. A subsequent legal battle took three years, wiping out his savings. 

-via CBS Moneywatch, April 24, 2024

--

Note:

A lot of people think that noncompete agreements are only a white-collar issue, but they absolutely affect blue-collar workers too, as you can see from the security guard anecdote.

In fact, one in six food and service workers are bound by noncompete agreements. That's right - one in six food workers can't leave Burger King to work for Wendy's [hypothetical example], in the name of "trade secrets." (x, x, x)

Noncompete agreements also restrict workers in industries from tech and video games to neighborhood yoga studios. "The White House estimates that tens of millions of workers are subject to noncompete agreements, even in states like California where they're banned." (x, x, x)

The FTC estimates that the ban will lead to "the creation of 8,500 new businesses annually, an average annual pay increase of $524 for workers, lower health care costs, and as many as 29,000 more patents each year for the next decade." (x)

Clearer explanation of noncompete agreements below the cut.

Noncompete agreements can restrict workers from leaving for a better job or starting their own business.

Noncompetes often effectively coerce workers into staying in jobs they want to leave, and even force them to leave a profession or relocate.

Noncompetes can prevent workers from accepting higher-paying jobs, and even curtail the pay of workers not subject to them directly.

Of the more than 26,000 comments received by the FTC, more than 25,000 supported banning noncompetes. 

[circumpolarvampire]

The person who posted this is a TERF and is not Indigenous as far as I could tell so I am reposting it.

The remains of a second Indigenous woman murdered by a convicted serial killer have been found in a landfill in central Canada, authorities confirmed Monday, after another victim's remains were  identified earlier this month .

Marcedes Myran was one of the Indigenous women  slain three years ago by Jeremy Skibicki , who is serving multiple life sentences after being convicted of four murders last year. Skibicki met his victims in homeless shelters, in a case seen as a symbol of the dangers faced by Indigenous women in Canada, where they disproportionately fall victim to violence, termed a "genocide" by a national public inquiry in 2019. Testimony at Skibicki's trial said he raped, killed and dismembered Myran and another woman, Morgan Harris, in 2022.

Authorities believed their remains were dumped at the Prairie Green Landfill site, north of Winnipeg, the capital of the province of Manitoba. They had been searching the site for months.

On a tree out front of Camp Marcedes, located next to the Canadian Museum for Human Rights, a photo and red dress signify the loss of Marcedes Myran with a call to action in searching the landfills for her remains from Downtown Winnipeg, Canada on September 27 2023.Shay Conroy for The Washington Post via Getty Images

Last month, Manitoba authorities announced the discovery of two bodies.

Morgan Harris's remains were identified on March 7. Federal police in Manitoba  on Monday confirmed  the other set of "human remains found in the Prairie Green Landfill search have been identified as those of Marcedes Myran of Long Plain First Nation," a statement said. The families of Harris and Myran had pushed authorities in Manitoba to search for the bodies.

The body of another of Skibicki's victims, Rebecca Contois, was found in a separate landfill and in a garbage bin, while the remains of a fourth unidentified victim in her 20s are still missing.

In December 2022, Winnipeg Police Chief Danny Smyth  wrote an open letter  to Indigenous leaders, acknowledging the "unimaginable" pain surrounding the case. "The investigation involving the murders of Rebecca Contois, Marcedes Myran, Morgan Harris, and Buffalo Woman has been one of the most complex and important homicide investigations during my tenure," Smith wrote. "I have heard the calls from the families, the Indigenous leadership, and the community. I understand your calls; the pain and sorrow is unimaginable."

Indigenous women represent about one-fifth of all women killed in gender-related homicides in the country -- despite comprising just five percent of the female population. A similar crisis exists  in the U.S. , where Native American women  are disproportionately targeted  in murders, sexual assaults and other acts of violence, both on reservations and in nearby towns. 

There were more than 5,700 reports of missing Native women and girls in 2016, according to the  anti-sexual assault organization RAINN , which cites statistics from the National Crime Information Center. The Bureau of Indian Affairs estimated more recently that roughly 4,200 cases of missing and murdered Indigenous people  remain unsolved .

[gatesofminrathous]

There is debate amongst Rookanis fans about what the best outcome is for the couple and whether that involves Lucanis giving up the title of First Talon at some point post-Veilguard and walking away from the Crows. Some of the discussion around this centers on whether people think Lucanis would reform the Crows, and if so to what degree. Veilguard touches on this concept of reform via Teia's rather romantic outlook on the organization and Jacobus' personal quest about forming his own house.

But here's the thing. I'm not actually sure it matters if the Crows reform, because at the end of the day I'm not sure an organization like the Crows can meaningfully reform.

When we talk about reform, what do we mean? Sometimes I think we get so focused on the characters themselves that we forget that the Crows are at their core killers for hire. They are the mob. They kill, steal, blackmail, spy, anything you need done can be done for a price. How does one "reform" that into something less destabilizing? Even if they no longer abused their recruits, even if they recruited in a more "fair" way (which what does that even look like), even if being part of the Crows wasn't a one-way ticket to trauma town, how do you create an organization that isn't inherently destructive at its very essence?

The Crows may claim to "rule Antiva," but that's more a statement of political influence than it is of actual governance. The Crows are not doing the business of governing, not in any way that is bettering the lives of the average person. Now, it's debatable whether the Antivan crown is doing that either, but that's beside the point. The Crows are, in the absolute most generous interpretation, vigilante justice for hire. At worst, they're basically just hitmen. A society in which murder for hire is accepted and even used as a tool of political threat does not create the environment for the development of more just or equitable governance. The ever-present threat of violence is the tool of totalitarianism, no matter how nice the assassins might be or how evil their targets are.

So will Lucanis be a reformer? I'm skeptical, but at the end of the day I don't think it matters. Because there is no universe in which the world benefits from the existence of the Crows, so the question is really just how many of its members can get out alive and with scars that can be healed.

[failbettergames]

Fallen London Player Survey Results 2024/25

We put out a player survey in December that was taken by just under 8,700 of you.

To the half a dozen people who suggested that we open a communications channel via onlyfans, may god bless and save you. Our apologies to the individual who asked that we ‘do less;’ unfortunately we are bound only ever to do More, and Worse. One person asked for more ways to not be an awful person, but sadly we’ve spent fifteen years writing Awful Person Simulator and we’d find it hard to stop now.

The word 'love' was used in the responses 16,687 times. An order of magnitude more than all of the expletives combined! So we must at least in part be on the right track.

We hope you found it valuable to take part. We’ve already picked off some of the notes we received, where these were tiny things that took moments to fix. As to the rest, here’s a non-comprehensive breakdown of what we heard and what we’re planning to do with it.

There are two main things we want to look at in the coming six months or so:

Recaps and Journal Changes

The overwhelmingly thickest thread of feedback was about remembering what you’re doing in the game when you come back to it. This came from a breadth of players: from people returning after a break of years, to people coming back a few days or weeks after an intensive play period only to wonder why they were collecting so many Counterfeit Heads of John the Baptist.

We’ll be working on improvements to help you return to the flow of gameplay without difficulty after a period away. This will probably include (but not be limited to) more recaps in serial stories, and a rework of the Journal. (We undertake that it will not mess with your existing Journal entries. That would be madness.)

This is our first priority from the survey feedback; thank you very much if you gave details about your experience.

Click-finger Saviour

Chief among the reports from the most committed players is that there are places in the game where their clicking fingers particularly suffer. We can appreciate this, given the depths and lengths that the game has grown to! We have a few things in mind to offer respite, among them being: a version of the Perhaps Not button at the top of the page as well as at the bottom, some streamlining of content, and additional outfit slots, which will reduce some of the click burden of outfit switching.

From today, there will be a maximum of four additional outfit slots available in total: one more unlocked during game progression, one more for Exceptional Friends, and two more for Enhanced Exceptional Friends. This is an increase from 13 to 17 potential slots.

All that and more

Looking further ahead, we also have our thinking caps on regarding:

Additional cameos!

Making Lodgings prettier

A review of Port Carnelian

A way to make a sample Exceptional Story available to non-subscribers, so you can get a better idea of what to expect from one

A persistent place to find news and patch notes within the site

New, different social features

A way to be married to the zee, aka non-romantic spousal options

Finally, some feedback questioned whether we have been using generative AI in our games: we don’t. We wrote an AI transparency statement to make this clear; it’s at the bottom of the credits page for your reference.

Thank you again for completing the survey, if you were able to. We may well do another one. It was lovely to read what you think, especially those of you who aren’t commonly found in our community spaces. Until next time!

[pickingupthepunchlines]

2x07 feels like severance’s thesis statement. all of mdr’s hijinks and journeys, all of the goats and the paintings, they exist as ameliorations of the beating heart of the show: there are people who can and will stop at nothing to make their own lives just a tiny bit less uncomfortable. they have the resources to create an underclass in their own bodies, and they do not care about the consequences.

mark has been consumed with grief (& likely targeted by lumon), and, at first, seems to view severance as a gift to his innie: a version of himself with the grief removed. dylan clearly does this for financial reasons — he’s got kids to feed. at the end of the day, they (and irv, and presumably most of the severed workers) are already laborers, already under the boot of capitalists (yes, professors count. they generate value for institutions over which they have little to no say).

in s1, this theme, the blatant disregard of capital for anyone, even the capitalists themselves, is shown via helly and gabby. helena allows helly to be tortured, driven to the point of suicide. when we all saw devon meet gabrielle after she’d given birth, we all thought, “what a horrible thing to do; severing yourself during labor. how awful it must be for gabby, to live only during those painful moments.” and then other stuff happened, and our collective focus drifted.

we cannot look away from 2x07. gemma and her various innies are tortured in the name of research & development. the rooms are full of labor that one cannot outsource: dentist appointments, physical travel, going to the gym (gemma briefly wears gym clothes & we see mauer in a coach’s outfit). you can hire someone to do your taxes or move your belongings or even inflict the kind of cruelty that milchick, cobel, and mauer do every day. an eagan or a rich state senator can eliminate almost all discomfort and unpleasantness from their daily life. almost. because the answer to all of their problems thus far has been the subjugation of others, the building of an increasingly powerless underclass, this is the only solution they can see. they have no interest in developing dental tools that are less painful, workouts that are less laborious, ergonomic pens that write quicker and cause fewer cramps. why would they, when they can just outsource the labor to another self? they don’t care about the costs — not the fact that they are creating another person who will experience only the things they want so desperately to avoid, not the fact that it’s literal brain surgery, not even the fact that severance leaves their bodies open to exploitation by basically anyone (see helly’s speech & dr. mauer’s creepy vibes) — they just don’t want to have to do anything they don’t want to do

if this is how people are willing to treat themselves, their own bodies, the show asks, how will they treat you?

[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

previous | series masterlist | playlist | next

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

[ducksido]

Hai! I’m evily here to request another rook because French solitaire (once again, I’m betraying Idia😖😖), imagine this😈, rook with a partner who has problems with scratching their hand (basically they’ll scratch their hand bloody and raw if given the chance), so they’re always wearing gloves but never tell anyone why, so the fic would basically be rook finding out via stalking them until he witnesses them scratching his hands one day and tries to stop them

Inspired off of my hand scratchy scratchy problems😝😝😝

(tsk tsk betraying Idia once again)

Rook prided himself on his keen eye. Nothing escaped his notice, no matter how small or insignificant it might seem to others. It was his passion, his obsession, to observe beauty in all its forms. And you—ah, you were an exquisite mystery.

You always wore gloves. Soft leather, lace-trimmed, sometimes even silk, depending on the day. It was a charming quirk, one that only added to the enigma of your presence. Others dismissed it as a simple fashion statement, but Rook knew better.

He had watched you for weeks, observing from the shadows, unseen yet ever present. He noted how you flexed your fingers anxiously when you thought no one was looking, how you tugged at the gloves' edges as though seeking reassurance from their presence. But the true revelation came one evening when he trailed you after class, ensuring you reached Ramshackle safely—only to see you pause under the dim glow of a streetlamp.

Your fingers, bared for the first time, dragged harshly across your palm, nails digging into the tender skin. The scratching was relentless, desperate. He watched, frozen, as crimson welled beneath your fingertips, staining the creases of your hands.

The sight was like an arrow through his heart.

Before you could do further damage, Rook moved. Silent as the wind, he grasped your wrists, stopping you mid-scratch. His grip was firm yet gentle, his fingers cool against your fevered skin.

"Ah, ma chère colombe, why do you wound yourself so?" His voice was soft, aching with unspoken worry.

You jolted, eyes wide with shock and a touch of embarrassment. You tried to pull away, but he did not let go. Instead, his grip softened, thumbs tracing delicate circles over your wrists, soothing yet unwavering.

"Rook—"

"Non, do not retreat from me, mon amour." His gaze, usually brimming with mirth and mischief, was filled with something heavier now. "This is not a mere habit, n'est-ce pas? You hide your hands away, not for fashion, but to conceal the pain you inflict upon yourself."

You swallowed hard, shame burning in your throat. "It’s nothing. Just a bad habit."

Rook exhaled, the sound almost mournful. "A habit born from what, mon ange? Suffering? Worry? A mind that does not still even when the body rests?" He lifted your hands to his lips, pressing the gentlest of kisses against your marred skin, his touch reverent despite the wounds. "Non, I will not allow this."

"You can’t just stop me," you murmured, voice small. "I don't even realize I'm doing it half the time."

"Then I shall remind you," he declared, unwavering. "I will hold your hands when you falter. I will kiss them when they ache. If I must tie ribbons around your wrists or lace your gloves with golden thread to make them too beautiful to mar, I will do so. But I shall not stand idly by while you harm the very hands that craft such wonder."

Your breath hitched. It was too much, too tender, too overwhelming—but Rook was relentless in his affections, his devotion unwavering. He guided your hands back into your gloves, his fingers lingering as he buttoned them carefully, sealing away the evidence of your struggle but not its existence.

"Come, ma lumière," he murmured, offering his arm. "The night is too beautiful to be spent in sorrow. Walk with me, and let me remind you of the poetry of existence."

And though you knew the battle was far from over, for the first time, the weight of your gloves did not feel so suffocating.

[transhanniday]

Adapt. Evolve. Become.: The Genderqueer Fandom of NBC's Hannibal - SECOND EDITION!

In 2023 we released a fan-led volume of fanworks by and about trans non-binary, genderqueer and otherwise non-cis Fannibals. Now we're back by popular demand, to create a second edition and YOU can be involved!

We've extended submissions! You can now submit until February 28th 2025!

We'd especially love to see more:

Essays

non-fiction

personal pieces

memes

cosplay

fanart

We're still open to fanfic but as we have quite a lot on that front, we'd love to see other types of submissions.

SUBMIT HERE

NBC's Hannibal has resonated with many queer fans, and we know that being in the Hannibal, Hannigram and Hannibal Extended Universe fandom, and the support of Fannibals, has been part of many people's gender identity journeys. We want to capture that in a fandom led volume of non-fiction, featuring essays, creative nonfiction, personal accounts and art.

You may have even seen that Hugh Dancy was gifted a copy and had a very thoughtful conversation about the interpretation of Will Graham as a trans man.

IF YOU WISH TO SUBMIT WE URGE YOU TO READ THE EXISTING EDITION FIRST! You can read or download free here!

WHO should submit: Please ONLY SUBMIT IF:

you are aged 18 or over. For the sake of legalities, we are only accepting submissions from those legally considered adults in the region of publication - UK.

you are transgender, non-binary, genderqueer or otherwise non-cis. 

OR you have a close relationship (sibling, partner etc) with someone who is transgender, non-binary, genderqueer or otherwise non-cis.

NB: The reason for the edition of cis creators is as a result of the feedback on the first edition regarding how much it spoke to people who had trans relatives or a trans partner and how it resonated with them and their (often) non-fandom partner/relative. We wanted to give them a chance to voice the impact of the show and fandom on their lives as people with close relationships with trans people.

WHAT submissions do we want:

Fanfiction (100 to 5000 words)

Fanart (including comics)

Personal piece / statement / testimony (pref. under 3000 words)

Creative non-fiction (up to 5000 words)

Essay (up to 5000 words)

Cosplay (photos of yourself in cosplay and/or instructions/tips on how to make trans friendly cosplay)

Other (any form of art, photography or writing not covered here including crafts, memes, playlists???)

Theme:  Via one of the above mediums, we want you to share with us in as much or little detail as you’d like, your journey as a non-cis Fannibal in the Hannibal fandom, and/or the impact NBCs Hannibal has had on your gender journey. 

A few points for consideration you may wish to explore: 

Has the show and/or being part of the fandom helped you explore your gender, or made you feel more confident in expressing it - even if only online. 

Has the fandom helped you with your transition and/or medical needs, such as donating for trans-clothing or surgeries? 

Do you want to write an essay exploring the connection between NBCs Hannibal and non-cis fans? Or explore the trans-coding of Francis Dolarhyde?

Do you want to submit fic or art of Hannibal, Will or another character that expresses how you feel about your own gender identity?

PLEASE NOTE: if your submission is successful you are welcome to use your real name or an online handle for authorship, but you will have the option to publish anonymously or under a pseudonym if you would prefer. 

YOU CAN submit multiple works. We may publish up to two pieces from each person if they are different types, e.g. one fanart AND one essay.

Timeline:

Submission period: ENDS 28 February 2025

Editing: March 2025

Final edited copies for proof by 31st May 2025

Publication: July 2025

Compensation: As a fan-led project we do not have any funding and so cannot offer monetary compensation. All contributors will receive at the least an e-copy of the collection. If we are able to establish funding (potentially via Kickstarter) we may be able to send each contributor a print copy, but will not be able to confirm until further in the process and cannot guarantee this.

If funding is not available, we will be able to offer contributors reduced cost print copies by charging only cost price. However, given the quality of the art printing of the print copies, this will still be a significant cost.

Content Restrictions: 

Contributors must be transgender, non-binary, genderqueer or otherwise non-cis, OR in a close relationship with someone who is transgender, non-binary, genderqueer or otherwise non-cis.

Contributions must relate to NBCs Hannibal, HEU and/or the fandom

The contribution must be original. Previously published works may be considered, such as existing fanfic and fanart.

ABSOLUTELY NO GENERATIVE AI.

Explicit works welcome, but please give details in the sign up form, especially for any visual media.

It should go without saying, but we will not accept bigotry and hate speech: We may consider works that feature these things but do not glorify them. For example, we will consider works that discuss transphobia but not works that are transphobic.

FAQ under the cut!

What is Trans Hannigram Day? Trans Hannigram Day or TransHanniDay is a day of celebration for trans* fanworks and creators in the Hannibal, Hannigram and Hannibal Extended Universe fandom. On this day, old and new fanworks are shared with the intention of filling the timeline with trans* love!

Originally this event was Transcendence Fest, first held in December 2020. The first TransHanniDay was held on 8th April in 2022 in reaction to the release of a certain movie on that day.

Is this edition also for charity? We were thrilled to donate the profits from the 23-24 fiscal year to The Okra Project, and we're already on track for a similar donation to this year's nominated charity - Gendered Intelligence.

Will this collection only be focused on Hannigram? Technically the focus is on the fans, but we know the influence of NBCs Hannibal and the fandom itself goes beyond Hannigram. Both in written works and in art, other characters are accepted including those from NBCs Hannibal and those from other Mads and Hugh projects (Hannibal Extended Universe). 

For example, if Bedelia De Maurier or Adam Raki resonated with you as part of your gender journey, we’d love to hear about it. 

How can I prove I’m Trans*? We aren't expecting you to and in no way expect you to out yourself either online or in real life. We will take on trust that you are who and what you say you are, including if you are questioning, between labels or do not like to use labels. 

As noted above, those who would feel more comfortable doing so, can have their work published under a pseudonym or anonymously. 

Who is publishing this collection? This collection will be edited and published by Max Turner. Max is a gay transgender writer based in the UK, a Fannibal and the publisher of small indie press A Coup of Owls Press. This publication will not be associated with A Coup of Owls Press directly. 

[max1461]

One thing that was hard for me to get used to when I started learning math was what I call "static thinking". Math doesn't have any time evolution; everything either is or it isn't.

When non-mathematicians think about operations like addition, they think of them as "processes" that "occur": you take 2 and 8 and "combine them" to get 10. The expression "2+8" is like a sort of command, telling you to perform this process of addition. People think of math this way because it's basically how math is presented in schools.

To a mathematician, the expression "2+8" is not a command and it does not signify a process. "2+8" is merely another way of writing "10". They are two expressions with identical meaning. That's what "2+8=10" means, it means "these two expressions signify the same thing". There is no "process of addition" which "happens" and "results in 10". "10" and "2+8" are just alternate spellings of the same number.

For a more advanced example, consider the formal definition of a finite state machine. Intuitively, we think of a finite state machine as a network with various nodes and directed edges and so on, into which we input some string in the machine's alphabet. After inputting the string, it travels around the machine according to the transition functions before finally arriving (or not) at a final node, and by this process a computation is performed. Of course, mathematically, this is nonsense. A finite state machine is a network with various nodes and directed edges and so on, but the notion that you can "input a string" and it will "travel around the network via the transition functions" is bullshit. A string is recognized by the machine if and only if there exists a valid path for that string via the transition functions from an initial node to a final node. The string never actually travels the path, because such a notion does not exist in mathematics.

A finite state machine is not a machine, it never actually does anything. It sits there in the realm of abstractions, unmoving and static. Every string which it "recognizes" it recognizes by dint not of things that it does but of facts that simply are; every string recognized by the machine is so and has been so since the dawn of time, without the machine ever in fact going about the process of recognizing it.

This is philosophically a little bit trippy, but it can also confuse early math students in practice, too. As I mentioned at the top, I was very confused by it. For instance, in the finite state machine example, a perfectly ordinary statement to encounter in a proof might run something like

[Block of reasoning establishing that some string w is recognized by the machine M] [Block of reasoning establishing that all transition functions into a final node F of M have label x] ...since w is recognized by the machine M, there must exist a transition function T whose target is a final node and which sends w to that final node on the last character of w. Thus, since T must have label x, the final character of w is x.

To a mathematician this seems perfectly trivial. To me as a young math student, this kind thing seemed almost miraculous. We don't even know what w is, and yet we can run it through the machine? And from the fact that the machine recognized it, we can conclude things about what w is? We can tell its final character? How is that possible? I felt like this kind of thing involved "reaching into the future", reasoning about processes from the end when we haven't even begun them yet.

But, of course, we can do this, because there is no past or future in mathematics. The machine is simple there, the string is simply recognized or not, its last character simply is x or it isn't x. Nothing has to "happen".

[illuminatedquill]

Dichen Lachman has graced us all with some more of her thoughts via this interview. Love that she nails what makes Mark and Gemma’s relationship so compelling and why they’re both still fighting for it after everything that’s happened. There’s history there and a bond that refuses to be broken.

These two statements further cement, in my opinion, why Gemma Scout needs to be the main character going forward into season 3. It would be so interesting to have a main lead who doesn’t have an antagonistic relationship between their innies/outies.

I do think Gemma, despite her experience of Lumon’s cruelty, would approach the existence of her innie, Ms. Casey, with a sense of compassion and empathy. Gemma has the unique experience of not having chosen to birth these innies - it’s all been done against her will, just like her innies.

Gemma and Ms. Casey would also have something that Helena/Helly and Mark S/Mark Scout don’t have - they’re on the same page about one thing.

Their shared love for Mark.

It would such a refreshing dynamic to have a character actually work to understand and work with themselves in Severance and I think Ms. Casey is a hugely underrated asset in saving her friends on the severed floor. We actually don’t know too much about her - or Gemma, for that matter, outside of her relationship with Mark - and season 3 would be the perfect time to shake things up with Gemma taking the lead in figuring out a solution to this entire mess.

Also I really want to see a conversation between Gemma and Ms. Casey. I think it would be so cute and endearing, which we need after being forced to watch Mark’s diva off with himself.

[reasonsforhope]

"Almost all new homes in England will be fitted with solar panels during construction within two years, the government will announce after Keir Starmer rejected Tony Blair’s criticism of net zero policies.

Housebuilders will be legally required to install solar panels on the roofs of new properties by 2027 under the plans.

The policy is estimated to add between £3,000 and £4,000 to building a home but homeowners would save more than £1,000 on their annual energy bills, according to the Times.

Labour has set a target of building 1.5m homes by the end of the parliament [May 2029]. The party has promised to decarbonise the electricity grid by 2030 and cut household energy bills by £300 a year.

Ministers are also preparing to offer government-funded loans and grants for the installation of solar panels on existing homes.

The move is a sign that the government will press ahead with its net zero agenda after Starmer rejected criticisms of climate policy from Blair.

In a high-profile intervention days before the local elections, Blair said there needed to be a radical reset of “irrational” net zero policies that were “doomed to fail”.

The former Labour prime minister argued that the public was being asked to make “financial sacrifices and changes in lifestyle” that would have “minimal” effect on global emissions. He said the drive to phase out fossil fuels in the short term was “doomed to fail” because their production and demand were rising.

His remarks angered government figures and triggered a response from senior No 10 officials, who called the Tony Blair Institute for Global Change (TBI) and urged it to address the fallout. The TBI issued a clarifying statement on Wednesday morning saying it believed the government’s net zero policy was “the right one”.

Blair’s remarks were interpreted as an attack on Starmer’s policy agenda after the prime minister said last week that tackling the climate crisis and bolstering energy security were “in the DNA of my government”...

Campaigners have welcomed the news that the government is going to mandate solar panels on new homes.

Lily-Rose Ellis, Greenpeace UK’s climate campaigner, said: “For too long we’ve wasted the free energy that falls on the roofs of houses every single day. Now, people living in new-build homes will save hundreds of pounds every year on their energy bills, thanks to this commonsense decision from the government.”

A government spokesperson said: “We have always been clear that we want solar panels on as many new homes as possible because they are a vital technology to help cut bills for families, boost our national energy security and help deliver net zero.

“Through the Future Homes Standard we plan to maximise the installation of solar panels on new homes as part of our ambition to ensure all new homes are energy efficient, and will set out final plans in due course.”"

-via The Guardian, May 1, 2025

[lexirosewrites]

for slick sunday, i've been thinking about this very specific idea for the last two days (it's been adjusted slightly to fit the "new" theme for this week just bc i think it's fun :) )

thinking of alpha eddie and omega steve in a secret relationship. they've been courting for ages, on the cusp of mating, but they've been waiting for the right time. neither of them were quite ready to take their relationship into the world, and that's exactly what would've happened had they mated. see, eddie is very much in the public eye. his band is, like, really out there. not quite world famous, but they do a lot of press and a bunch of different projects and such. eddie was recently featured on a relatively popular song, and the others have been in movies/tv shows as one-off side characters here and there. point is, people know who they are. and the paparazzi knows nothing about privacy.

it's not exactly easy to hide a mating bond (tho it is possible), so they just decided together that they would wait.

and then steve gets pregnant.

they still don't mate yet, but it changes everything for them. they know they're not going to be able to hide it for long. part of steve is a little relieved, honestly. he'd never say it out loud, but he missed the days before eddie got famous. when they could go out on dates and grocery shop together and just generally exist together in public, even though they were still keeping it pretty low-key back then too.

steve mostly stays home during the first several months of his pregnancy. it's hard on him, and there are days he can barely get out of bed because he feels so sick. he gets lightheaded easily, and he's constantly nauseous. the doctor said it's normal. he just needs rest and fluids. so that's what he does. and they talk, a lot. about everything.

eddie never makes a formal statement about their relationship, that's never been his vibe. he does, however, hard launch their relationship via one photo on social media. it's of him and steve on new years, standing in front of the christmas tree they hadn't taken down yet. they're wearing those headbands that have the year in giant, flimsy, gold numbers, facing each other. they're foreheads are pressed together, and eddie is grinning like a goddamn idiot bc of how in love with steve he is. steve's six-month baby bump is between them, and eddie's got his hands over the sides. it's captioned with a simple, "new year, new adventures with the love of my life"

obviously, that photo practically breaks the internet within two hours. it's everywhere. everyone is talking about it. the band doesn't say a word, outside of gareth logging into the band account to share it on their story, and the others sharing the post on their own accounts. they all just go on as normal, like nothing ever happened. they don't answer any of the comments. the band is seen coming and going from the studio a few times over the next month and a half, and then nothing. radio silent on all fronts. everyone wants to know what's going on.

it's at the end of april that people finally get their answer, in a series of photos posted to eddie's account. photos of a tiny baby; some with steve in them, some with eddie, but mostly just the baby. hailey jo munson (jo, after wayne, who's middle name is joseph; he definitely did NOT cry about that, thank you very much) was born on april 5th, happy and healthy and loved.

four months after that, eddie is seen leaving a grocery store with bags of baby supplies in his arms, a wedding band on his finger, and a fresh mating bite. no one is the least bit surprised by that one.

and no one is surprised in the slightest when a year and a half later, after corroded coffin's probably most successful album is released (there's a couple songs that are not-so-secretly about hailey, tho eddie really did try to be subtle), another pregnancy announcement goes live on eddie munson's account.

happy slick sunday my friends :)

i know slick sunday has ruined me because i kept waiting for something bad to happen😅 thank you for the fluff!!!

[angelshizuka]

"Verosika has every right to be angry at Blitz" and "the anti-Blitzo party is extremely unhealthy and Verosika is a hypocrite for telling Blitz to move on when she clearly can't do that herself" are statements that can co-exist. I love Verosika, but acting like she did 0% wrong isn't good either.

This entire show and the relationships between the characters are build on nuance and complexity. Even characters who are mostly right will always have a little bit of wrong in them. And during AT Blitz is mostly wrong and a little right, and Verosika is mostly right and a little wrong.

And this applies to literally every character. Acting like they have literally 0% blame in 100% of the things they've said and done makes them extremely boring and bland at best. Characters need flaws and things they technically shouldn't have said or done to be well-rounded and interesting.

Speaking of, this is one of the reasons I love the Stolas and Via scene in Sinsnas so much. Though Via is mostly right and is justified to feel the way she feels, it was still wrong of her to use someone's medication against them and that's a mistake she seriously needs to learn from.

[visualtaehyun]

TNP EP.4 language annotations & novel extras ✨

I'm finally back to posting from desktop!! As always, all pronouns are presented in an "I/you" format. Words and expressions that I've previously explained in my EP.1, EP.2 and EP.3 annotations won't be explained again so please refer to those posts if need be 🙂‍↕️

Disclaimer: not a native Thai speaker, I am very much still learning 🙏

Calvin & Nin

Nin: [omitted]/เจ้าชายคาลวิน /#, jao-chaai Calvin/ + พ่ะย่ะค่ะ /pha-ya-kha/

Calvin: เรา/ท่านชายคณินทร์ /rao, than-chaai Khanin/

- เราเจ้าชายคาลวิน /rao jao-chaai Calvin/ - ยินดีที่ได้รู้จักเจ้าชายคาลวินเช่นกันพ่ะย่ะค่ะ /yin-dee thee dai ruu-jak jaao-chaai Calvin chen gan pha-ya-kha/

Short explanation: Calvin is higher in status than Nin. We even see Nin giving a hint of a bow, actually.

Long explanation: Calvin is a Prince, เจ้าชาย /jao-chaai/, on the same level as Emmaly's four Princes but higher than Nin who is also a Prince, yes, but his title is ท่านชาย /than-chaai/. Some of the promo material actually tried to translate this distinction by adding "His/Her Royal Highness" in front of Nin, Ramil, and Ava's Prince and Princess titles. You can't really compare fictional Emmaly's royal titles with British or Thai or any real life ones, of course, but neither can you divorce the existing terms from their original context. In Thai, they aren't even technically royal titles, they're what you'd call styles - for example, ท่านชาย /than-chaai/ and ท่านหญิง /than-ying/ are styles of address for princes and princesses, respectively, of the หม่อมเจ้า /maawm-jao/ rank which isn't a thing in fictional Emmaly. Ignoring the complexities of real life Thai royal titles and styles, TNP uses the following ones so far (from highest to lower):

เจ้ามหาชีวิต /jao ma-haa chee-wit/ -> King Thipokbowon

เจ้าชาย /jao-chaai/ ♂ / เจ้าหญิง /jao-ying/ ♀ -> Prince Tharin, Prince Rachata, Prince Chana, Prince Wasin, Princess Khunita

ท่านชาย /than-chaai/ ♂ / ท่านหญิง /than-ying/ ♀ -> Prince Khanin, Prince Ramil, Princess Ava

...hence Nin in the trailer saying he intends to become the next เจ้าชาย /jao-chaai/:

เพื่อจะได้เป็นเจ้าชายคนต่อไป /pheuua ja dai bpen jao-chaai khohn dtaaw bpai/

Ava & Nin

Nin: พี่/น้องหญิง /phi, nong ying/

Ava: [omitted]/ท่านพี่ /#, than phi/ + เพคะ /phe-kha/

Last week, I wrongly assumed that these two are the same age, based on how Nin and Ramil speak to each other and also based on how casual Ava's one line directly addressing Nin sounded:

วันนี้ thank you นะ /wan nee thank you na/

I need to rescind that statement though. Nin may be younger than Ramil but Ava is younger than Nin still!

- ท่านพี่คณินทร์ งานใหญ่มากเลยเพคะ /than phi Khanin, ngaan yai maak loei pheh-kha/ - มาน้องหญิง เต้นรำกับพี่น่ะ /maa, nong ying. dten ram gap phi na/

Thipokbowon & Nin

Nin: หลาน/เสด็จปู่ /laan, sa-deht bpuu/ + พ่ะย่ะค่ะ /pha-ya-kha/

For most of EP.3, Nin was struggling with how to speak to everyone in the palace and using a default ผม /pom/ for himself regardless of who he spoke to. Now though?

เสด็จปู่ หลานกับคุณชรัณเพียงแค่สนิทกันเท่านั้นพ่ะย่ะค่ะ /sa-deht bpuu, laan gap khun Charan phiiang khaae sa-nit gan thao nan pha-ya-kha/ = Grandfather, I and Khun Charan are merely close [to each other].

Ava & Chana

Ava: หญิง/[?] /ying, #/ + เพคะ /pheh-kha/

Chana: พ่อ/ลูก /por, luuk/

หญิงขอตัวก่อนนะเพคะ /ying khaaw dtuua gaawn na phe-kha/

I was surprised to hear that while her dad addresses her quite affectionately and normally, Ava herself speaks pretty distantly to him here. She isn't calling herself ลูก /luuk/ as we've heard in the trailer and which would sound more familiar. Maybe it's because they clearly don't see eye to eye...

Paytai & Charan

Paytai: [?]/อาจารย์ or คุณชรัณ /#, aa-jaan or khun Charan/ + ครับ /khrap/

Charan: [omitted]/[?] + no particles 🤡 this man, I swear to god 🤌 I'll get back to him later though!

Surprise~ Paytai knows Ran via Morpheus School of Art! I can't wait to see what they kept and what changes they made with these two.

While we're talking about Paytai though: there's this one line where a Bhuchongpisut palace staff addresses Paytai with a choice of particle that had me go Huh?

พ่ะย่ะค่ะ /pha-ya-kha/

-> In the novels, Paytai is 'just' the son of the Minister of Defense. But being Ramil's chosen companion affords him a higher status, akin to royalty - I guess it makes him some kind of nobility? That still doesn't explain why he's being addressed with พ่ะย่ะค่ะ /pha-ya-kha/ here though. Hmm.

Ramil & Nin

There's one addendum or change compared to last week. Nin largely omits any 1st pers. pronouns when talking to Ramil but in front of Rachata? Nin once curiously calls himself Nin นิน:

นินต้องขอรบกวนท่านพี่รามิลด้วย /Nin dtawng khaaw rohp-guaan than phi Ramil duay/

Rachata & Nin and Rachata & Ramil

Nin: หลาน/เสด็จลุง /laan, sa-deht loong/ + พ่ะย่ะค่ะ /pha-ya-kha/

Rachata: ลุง/หลาน /loong, laan/

-> In the novels, Rachata is the youngest among the 4 Princes. Here though, he's clearly older than Tharin at least, considering both Nin and himself refer to him as ลุง /loong/.

Rachata when talking about Nin while he's present:

ขอโทษน้องหรือยัง /khaaw thoht nong reuu yang/

Rachata when talking about Nin while he isn't present:

แกอย่าทำอะไรโง่ ๆ แบบนั้นกับไอ้คณินทร์อีก /gae yaa tham a-rai ngoh ngoh baaep nan gap ai'Khanin eek/ = Don't you do anything dumb like that with/to that damn Khanin again!

Ramil: [?]/เสด็จพ่อ /#, sa-deht por/ + พ่ะย่ะค่ะ /pha-ya-kha/

Rachata: ฉัน/รามิล /chan, Ramil/ but as he's chastising Ramil and Paytai, we hear that it's actually ฉัน/แก /chan, gae/ (as in the last screenshot ↑)

-> ฉัน /chan/ is an informal 1st pers. pronoun which, in this case, is used by a senior or superior when speaking to a junior or inferior.

-> I've mentioned before that แก /gae/ is the lowest in terms of impolite pronouns that the royals go in the novels. Yes, Thipokbowon also calls his son แก /gae/ but for himself he uses พ่อ /por/ which gives it a familiar vibe. Rachata however? The combination of ฉัน/แก /chan, gae/ is giving authoritarian parent 🥴 (not that we couldn't tell by the blatant abuse...)

-> ฉัน/แก /chan, gae/ is exactly how novel!Rachata speaks to both Ramil and Paytai.

Ran & Nin

Nin's default: ผม/คุณ /pom, khun/

Nin, in public or when Chakri seems to be in hearing distance (?): เรา/คุณ /rao, khun/

Ran's default: กระหม่อม/ฝ่าบาท or ท่านชาย /gra-maawm, faa-baat or than-chaai/ + พ่ะย่ะค่ะ /pha-ya-kha/

Ran, when dropping formalities with Nin: ผม/คุณ /pom, khun/ + ครับ /khrap/

The way Ran kept going back and forth between speech levels drove me crazy while watching. It's really indicative of his internal struggle though - his duty vs. his heart. So instead of this section being endlessly long, I decided to compile (most of it) into a video for a change!

Explanation of my color-coding: - gold = ราชาศัพท์ /raa-chaa-sap/ - red = recurring or important - orange = Nin - blue = Ran

Let's talk about how incredibly high Ran's emotional walls are, shall we? Just last week, New was still getting mad at how cold Ran was while confronted with Nin breaking down--

--and now look at how Ran has to touch Nin to confirm that he's safe and to comfort both him and himself:

He's really come to care (เป็นห่วง /bpen huuang/) so much about Nin! This boy is relentlessly breaking those walls down one brick at a time and I cannot wait to see Ran's true feelings and desires come to light!!

He indulged himself once, admitting to Nin that he cares/worries about him, and that immediately ended in trouble and got them both admonished by the King. And yet he keeps on defying the King: looking into what became of Thatdanai behind the King's back, sharing his findings with Nin before anyone else, trying to keep secrets from the King, allowing himself to be affected by Nin, and his remarks in the gemini painting scene!

The face of a man who's realizing that his favorite dog's leash is slipping his control...

Misc. notes

The gemini painting and how the King and Ran talk about the myth of Pollux and Castor are show originals that I find quite fitting with 1) how they chose to focus on the perceived familial relationship between RanNin since Ran has been raised by the King, and 2) how it evokes the title and this episode's recurring themes:

ถึงแม้จะอยู่เคียงคู่ในฐานะกลุ่มดาว /theung maae ja yuu khiiang khuu nai thaa-na gloom daao/ = Even though [they're] side by side as a constellation of stars, [...]

-> เคียงคู่ /khiiang khuu/ = paired next to/beside [each other] -> TNP's native title: ข้ามฟ้าเคียงเธอ /khaam faa khiiang ter/ = Across the Sky, Beside You or Crossing the Sky [to be] by Your Side

-> ฐานะ /thaa-na/ = status, situation, or position in relation to someone or something -> ในฐานะ /nai thaa-na/ = as [...], in the position/capacity of [...]

In the novels, there is a scene in chapter 22 where Ran delivers a new painting to the palace that the King had commissioned him for. Ran first runs into Paytai who's waiting for Ramil so the scene establishes these two being acquainted with each other as they talk about the painting. It depicts the Garden of Eden so they mention human greed vs. human desire, suffering, love. Upon handing the painting over to Thipokbowon, he doesn't show any reaction beyond appreciating Ran's art:

"Tell me, what were you thinking when you painted this?" "I was just reading a book and came across an article about the Garden of Eden, Your Majesty." It was a truth mixed with a bit of a lie. Charan knew that the kind was just making casual conversation as usual, but because his heart wasn't as untouched as it used to be, he felt more awkward than ever. "It's beautiful. Thank you very much. It really brings this room to life." Fortunately, the elderly man didn't seem to question anything. Thipokbowon appeared satisfied with admiring the art in front of him. And that was the best outcome... in Charan's mind. "If it pleases Your Majesty, I'm happy to serve." The king's conversation continued, and Charan responded, keeping everything as normal as possible. But inside, his mind was drifting, much like someone else.

I previously answered an ask (spoilers ahead!!) about in how far the show's gonna deliver on RanNin's service top x power bottom dynamic. At the time, I was like I dunno man, that's not how I perceived novel!RanNin to begin with. But with this adaptation? 👀 I guess we'll see if it'll play out similarly to the novel after all but in this early stage of their relationship it certainly feels a lot more like service top!Ran and power bottom!Nin than the novels ever did to me (but maybe it's just because their later dynamic is far more present in my mind?).

We got three more cameos this episode:

- influencer, CEO and socialite Aon Somrutai as Lady Aon (หญิงออน /ying Aon/) - songwriter Amp Achariya as a singer - influencer Kati Katiya as a youtuber

And two (!) new OSTs, with the ballroom dance one being sung by P'Amp 🥰 I was overjoyed to see her sing another beautiful song for a ZNN series! While we're on the topic of OSTs: here's Daou and New singing "I trust you" together :>

Expectations for EP.5:

introduction to Jay and Calvin, introduction to Mira

Nin confronting Ran about distancing himself and not doing his duty of protecting and looking after Khanin (which was already part of my expectations last week)

no clue otherwise! I'm not entirely sure where we're at plot-wise so I'm mostly expecting the side couples to get more focus or to possibly get more of a Charan-centric episode, considering we'll get to see him as a professor at Morpheus~

⇒ emblems, territories and royal houses of Emmaly ⇒ royal family of Emmaly + other character bios ⇒ relationship chart ⇒ characters and cast of TNP ⇒ all my TNP posts

[fantastic-nonsense]

I'd love to hear you Jace Fox rant. I fond him conceptually interesting but poorly handled in some very distinct ways. And I would be interested in hearing criticisms from someone else that aren't just "eww black Batman"

an incomplete list of why I dislike Jace Fox's existence:

1) He's a discount Tony Stark personality in a franchise where that instantly makes him an irrelevant archetype and an unnecessary addition who sidelined Luke out of actually being relevant and got Tam fridged (again).

1.5) Ridley's multi-year writing monopoly over the Fox family has effectively erased the entire family from the Bat books, not just Luke. We get Lucius showing up once every blue moon to remind us he's still technically running WE and that's it. It sucks! I miss them being relevant and showing up in things!

2) Jace's existence was used as a tool to character assassinate Lucius via both Jace's accidental murder incident and "he cheated on his wife and Jace was the result." That plotpoint also had as many stereotypes as possible packed into it (mean black woman, cheating black man, asian mistress, boss-employee affair, etc).

3) His books are literal copaganda. This is not hyperbolic.

4) He has zero connection to Bruce or Gotham outside of his family living there and seemingly has no personal love or admiration for either one, so why is he fucking Batman. There were at LEAST five other infinitely better candidates for the mantle in front of him, and now he's not even living in Gotham anymore. Go get your own ID you loser!

5) He's completely irrelevant because Bruce is back, Ridley gave him no real goals beyond "finding himself," and honestly wtf does he think he can do for NYC that the Titans and Nightwing and the other heroes who live there can't already handle?

6) ....also John Ridley is a bad writer who's made Jace's books very boring, but that's a significantly lesser sin since that statement also applies to so many other characters who actually have a ton of potential. The actual problem is that most of the things I can think of to make Jace interesting are far better served by being Luke stories instead.

Am I a hater? Absolutely, he deserves it. DC needs to make Jace irrelevant and give Duke and Luke the solo attention that he's gotten, set Tiffany up as a Batgirl-side supporting cast member and potential future Batgirl instead of whatever she's doing in NYC right now, and bring Tam back as a civilian supporting character in the Bat books.