hey love! what does a Plutonian chart look like? i'm not sure if I have one. how would that affect me?
Strong influence of Pluto…
What a strong Plutonian influence of Pluto in the chart could look like:
Pluto in the 1st, 4th, 7th and 10th house
Pluto aspecting inner planets (Mercury, Venus and Mars)
Pluto strongly aspecting the moon and ascendant, especially tight orbs
TW: mentions of s*x and death!!
Being Pluto dominant or having a strong influence of Pluto means that transformations, ego deaths, feelings of death and rebirth will accompany you for a life time. From my experience, this will be especially harsh in the childhood, youth and maybe in your early adult years. As time passes and as you get older, you might develop self care habits and safety mechanisms to protect yourself and your inner peace. Practising self love, meditation and mindfulness could be important to these individuals, as they could underestimate their beauty and their outstanding personality.
I’ve also seen that most traumatic events happen in the childhood, youth or early adulthood. But that’s just my observation.
Feelings of being deeply misunderstood rise while you are young and this feeling might follow you for years. Constantly searching for someone to understand your complex mind and depth of emotions. These people could benefit from searching for a valve to turn pain, bad experiences and any form of built up emotion into art. Be it writing, drawing, making music…
A reoccurring theme for Plutonians is sexuality. There may be blockages in regards of the own sexuality or experiencing it, but once they overcome this, they literally start to bloom in that area. This could turn into being hungry for power in general (or simply being turned on by overpowering the partner) or in being lascivious. They can be pretty much extreme and freaky in bed, actually. Being intimate never gets boring with them.
I know, this is what you read everywhere, but plutonic people are deeply magnetic and will catch your eye with their intense aura. Even if they are not seen as traditionally beautiful, these natives exude attractiveness and charisma. You just can’t ignore them and they will even stand out in a crowd. BUT! A lot of them don’t have the sex appeal like (for example) Megan Fox has. A lot of them have such an innocence to their appearance, but if you take a closer look you’ll see that they’re like fallen angels.
From my experience, plutonic people will have a deep connection to spirituality or the occult and a profound interest in psychology (for good and bad). They usually get into these things after really hard times in their life. They will attract jealousy and hate like flies, unfortunately and this could take a toll in their self esteem. Even strangers tend to be very competitive and mean to them in some way, because most people simply feel challenged by their presence.
Dear plutonic people,
you ALL are wonderful and you deserve so much more. I feel for every single one of you and I hope you will find true happiness and self acceptance. You’ve been through so much and you deserve the world for all that. I’m sending you all the love you might need right now or later! 🩶
size kink but reader isn’t actually small. You’re small compared to him.
And it throws you off a little bit, because you know you’re about or above average in height. You have a little weight on you, and it all mixed together with that gorgeous face that makes the man swoon just from eyeing you up across the bar.
It’s maybe your first time dating a man who you really have to look up to. Hes tall, broad shoulders, a large chest and amazing muscles. He’s the type you can easily spot in a crowd, who will take your hand in his large one and lead you through the mess of a busy Sunday market. Loves looking down on you and rubbing at all your curves while hugging you from behind. He’ll whisper it while kissing along your neck.
“So fuckin small, so fuckin pretty.” He grumbles.
But you’re not small, but he makes you feel like it. Everytime he lifts you off your feet you get spooked because he sweeps you off your feel like you weight a crumb. How he towers over you when he flirts or reaches for something past you. His shirts actually going mid thigh and barely coving your ass. How he measures where his cock is gonna reach in your pudgy stomach—
you two play fight a lot because you swear you can take him on. He’s not that much taller than you. Do you end up getting bent in half, knees to your earlobes, like it’s nothing?
Every fucking time.
Everytime he has to break you in like you’re a born again virgin, his large fingers stretching out your dripping tight walls till he smacks his leaking mushroom tip against you, rubbing through your sloppy folds. He slowly ruts himself inside you, with the power of patience, till it feels like hes stuffed you full. It’s almost a disappearing act the way you take his thick veiny cock.
“ Hah- ‘s not all the way there Mama, come on baby, biiig stretch.”
And he fills you to the hilt, till he feels his balls smack against you, covering your body completely, his large weight pressing against you ever to perfectly. your eyes rolling to the back of your skull, letting out a pornographic moan. You clench around him making him his. He presses into your stomach with the bass of his fingers, riiiiight where he can feel his tip kissing your cervix and you cream around him from that alone, sobbing at how big he is, how much he stretches you out.
insecure!nanami kento after you compliment him once ˚.✦
You don’t even remember saying it.
It was weeks ago, after a joint mission that left everyone bruised and bleeding. You’d both ended up in the infirmary, him sitting on the edge of a cot while Shoko stitched a gash across his ribs. You’d watched him peel off his ruined shirt with the mechanical efficiency he always has, and the words had just slipped out:
“You’re really beautiful, Nanami.”
He’d frozen. Just for a heartbeat, shoulders locking, fingers curled tight around the hem of his undershirt. Then he’d given that small, polite nod he uses when he wants to end a conversation, and you’d thought nothing more of it.
But Nanami remembers.
He replays it at 3 a.m when the apartment is too quiet and the sheets feel cold against skin he’s never quite liked looking at. He replays it when he catches his reflection in the dark window of the train and hates the way the scars pull, the way his shoulders are too broad, the way his hands look too rough for anything gentle. He replays it when he’s alone in the shower and the water is too hot, trying not to think about how long it’s been since anyone touched him without clinical detachment or violence.
You said he was beautiful, and the sentence sits under his ribs like a live wire.
He starts noticing you more. The way you laugh with your head thrown back. The way your cursed technique leaves faint static in the air that makes the hair on his arms rise. The way you always seem to stand just close enough that your sleeve brushes his when you walk side-by-side.
He catalogs every accidental contact like a starving man counting crumbs.
He starts finding excuses to be near you.
He offers to drive you home after missions even when it’s out of his way. He lingers in the break room when you’re making coffee, pretending to read reports while watching the way your fingers curl around the mug. He volunteers for joint assignments he used to turn down, telling himself it’s efficiency, not the way his pulse spikes when you smile at him across the briefing table.
He starts wearing the sleeves of his shirt rolled higher, just once, just to see if you look. You do. Your gaze lingers on the faint scars across his forearms and he feels it like a touch.
He starts dreaming about your hands.
In the dreams you’re gentle in a way no one ever is with him. You trace the burn mark on his shoulder blade like it’s precious. You press your lips to the jagged line across his collarbone and tell him again that he’s beautiful. He wakes up aching, hard and ashamed of how much he wants it.
He starts touching himself to the memory of your voice saying those words, hating how quickly he comes, how desperately he whispers your name into the dark like a prayer.
He starts writing your name on the margin of papers and then immediately crossing it out, terrified someone will see.
He starts standing closer to you in elevators, close enough that he can smell your shampoo, close enough that if he just shifted his weight your shoulders would touch. He never does. He’s terrified you’ll move away.
He starts hoping, in the shameful part of himself he never lets anyone see, that you meant it. That you saw something in him worth wanting.
And every time you look at him now, every time you smile that soft, tired smile and say “good work today, Nanami,” he feels the live wire spark again, impossible to ignore.
the image of Robert pulling aside Punch Up to tell him about Toxic is so funny to me because the way Punch Up squared up to that guy was way too arranged for it to be a coincidence
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Your boyfriend cries at kids’ movies, and you fall in love a little more each time.
Pairing: Gojo Satoru x Reader
The first time it happens, you think he’s messing with you.
You’re sitting in a mostly empty theater, paper bucket of popcorn between you and massively oversized soda cups balanced in the armrests. It’s Sunday afternoon, and the movie is meant to be background noise. Something soft and harmless to fill the space between brunch and bedtime.
But somewhere around the part where Miguel sings “Remember Me” to his great-grandma, you glance over and catch Satoru swiping at his eyes.
“Are you..” you whisper, leaning in.
He turns just enough for you to see his lashes, wet and catching the light. “Shut up.”
Your lips twitch. “You’re crying?”
“I said shut up.”
Except his voice cracks on the last word, and now you’re laughing quietly, clutching the armrest like it’s keeping you grounded.
“Babe,” you murmur, fiddling through your purse to get him one of those compact tissues you keep on hand. “It’s rated PG.”
He sniffs. “I’m a kid at heart.”
And maybe that’s the moment. The one that melts itself beneath your ribs and attaches to your heart. Because Satoru Gojo, the strongest sorcerer alive, absolute menace of a man, is crying over a boy playing guitar for his great-grandmother.
And you’re not even surprised. Not really.
Not when you know the way he talks to old women like they’re royalty. The way he puts your phone on the charger when you forget, or leaves painkillers beside a glass of water when he hears you muttering about a headache. Not when he insists on holding your hand through every flight, even though he doesn’t mind turbulence, just because he knows you do.
He does plenty of grand gestures, too. Stands on the street outside your apartment window, waiting for you to look outside and see the absolutely gigantic bouquet held in both of his arms.
But it’s more than what he does. It’s who he is.
You lean over and kiss his cheek.
He lets out a shuddering exhale. “If I die, promise me you’ll remember me. And you’ll write me a song with a guitar that people will listen and cry to so I’ll remain super popular forever and ever.”
You snort.
On the ride home, he asks you to play the song again.
You make a habit of it after that.
Once or twice a month, when the world gets too loud or his shoulders start to carry too much, you buy tickets. Always animated. Always sweet. No gritty realism, no grey areas. Just magical families and memories and robot hugs.
He plays it cool in line. Wears shades like he’s not going to stack 3d glasses on top of them in five minutes. Acts like the arm around your waist is for your protection, and not to guide you to the concession stand.
Acts like he's not going to cry. He will. He does.
Sometimes, it’s a single tear, rolling down his cheekbone like it has somewhere to be. Sometimes it’s a slow unraveling, a shaky breath, a hand that searches for yours in the dark. One time it’s full-on sobs, shoulders trembling while Bing Bong fades into the nothingness of the Memory Dump.
You squeeze his hand. He squeezes back without a word.
But on the drive home, he’ll talk about it.
“He let himself disappear so Joy could get back,” he mutters, eyes on the road.
You glance at him. “Did you like it when he said ‘Take her to the moon for me’?”
He shakes his head, brow furrowed as if he’s processing a detrimental, life-changing development. “No. Because what kind of animated fever dream has the audacity to hit you with a cosmic metaphor for life, death, and self-sacrifice disguised as a pink elephant in a cotton candy wagon? What were the writers smoking and where can I get some so I can finally understand my feelings?”
You laugh and take his free hand, intertwining your fingers, arms resting on the center console. “You’re soft.”
“You love me.”
You do.
He hesitates, then speaks again, quieter. “You’re the Joy to my Bing Bong.”
You turn to him, eyes trailing over his expression. “..you’re Sadness, Toru.”
“Hey!”
You start to notice it after the third or fourth movie.
The way he sighs a little too long at the happy endings. The way his hand lingers on yours just a second more than usual when the lights come up. The way he stares straight ahead without a word when the credits roll. No laughing. Not even a tear. Like he’s trying to memorize the moment, the feeling, before it fades.
“Hey,” you say once, nudging him gently. “You okay?”
He blinks, smiles, and holds your hand a little tighter. “Yeah. Just.. thinking.”
“About?”
He shrugs. “Time. People. Stuff.”
You raise a brow. “Ominous.”
“You’d hate if I got specific.”
You don’t push. You figure it’s just a bad day. One of those lingering shadows from missions he never talks about.
But later, when you’re back home and he’s watching the city lights through the window instead of sleeping, you hear him whisper, like it’s not meant for you at all. “I wish we could stay like this forever.”
You don’t understand what he means. Not yet. But you feel the same way.
Sometimes, when you have free time and don’t want to go to the movies, you sit on the couch with him and put on his favorite. Big Hero 6.
He tries to hold out. Really, he does.
But the moment Baymax says, in that soft, robotic voice, “Are you satisfied with your care?”, and is left in the portal, Satoru lets out a broken little hiccup that turns into a full-body sob.
You blink. “Babe–?”
He lifts a hand to cover his eyes, the other still wrapped tightly around you. “He just wanted to help.”
You bite back a smile. “I know.”
“That’s all he wanted,” he says, voice thick, and now he’s sitting up and wiping his face with the hem of his hoodie. “That’s literally the only thing he was made for, and he still– he still–”
“Died,” you finish gently.
He wails. “And he didn’t even get to finish his sentence, are you kidding me?”
You press your hand to his forehead and lie his head down on your lap, fingers threading through his hair. “You’re gonna short-circuit if you keep crying, Toru.”
He settles into your lap before responding. “That line should be illegal.”
“It should, Toru.”
A beat passes. Then he whines. “Like, am I satisfied with my care? No! I’ll never be satisfied again! He was a robot, baby! His brother made Baymax for him to help, and he just– he kept helping, he went out helping–”
You smile and pinch his cheek. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You’re ridiculous for making me watch this again.”
“You asked me to put it on.”
“Because I forgot how much it hurts.”
You laugh. “He’ll rebuild Baymax, babe.”
“..I know.”
And maybe he’s still blubbering a little, and maybe you’re still laughing. But the way he clings to you, like the ache of the world softens when you’re close, is the real ending. The quiet epilogue.
So when he mutters, all teary and trembling, “I just want to help, too,” you whisper, “I know.”
Because he does.
He always has.
And when he leaves for that Shibuya “work trip” – the one he swears won’t take too long, the one he jokes about, promising to bring back weird vending machine snacks – you still play the songs. Still buy the tickets. Still keep the tissues in your purse, even if the reason for the habit is gone.
The theater lights go dim. The screen glows to life. A boy strums a guitar, or a robot hugs a child, or a princess finds her way home. You watch and smile, just barely, like you're saving the moment for his hiccuped sobs. You like to imagine he's somewhere in the emptiness of the seat beside you, somewhere you can't reach or see.
Sometimes, you reach over anyway. Just in case. Hoping your hand will catch something, anything, to prove he's still right beside you.
And when the movie ends, you stay seated.
A part of you hopes that if you wait long enough, he'll turn to you again, eyes shining as he says something like "the pink elephant is a metaphor for self-sacrifice."
But he doesn't.
So you whisper it for him.
Because now, love is nothing more than a lingering echo of his voice in the dark, asking are you satisfied with your care?
And no, you don't grab a guitar. You don't write a song.
But you remember him. You always will.
And when the lights come up and no one's there to squeeze your hand, you cry. As if the grief can bring him back, somehow, somewhere in the breath between the last scene and the credits.
could be they got a little too enthusiastic about the water bowl. could be they got in the sink somehow. could be from grooming. could be just so so much piss. they could be empissened and I don't like that is the thing and the problem and the issue as well
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i LOVE fics where eddie’s like “i’m a virgin… nobody wants to fuck me EVER… i’m a bitchless loser… never even had my first kiss… woe is me😔” and steve, vibrating with poorly restrained lust, is like “so i have this crazy idea”
fuck it, i never ever do those “reblog for X, this one really works!” posts, but this one doesn’t have any of that BS, this is just straight up wishing us good things; and then the comment doesn’t even say any of that either. Zero claims on this post, all positive vibes
May you end this week feeling ever more certain of a future you’ll love
Ok but like if they all came back to life, I feel like it could go one of two directions with how the choir reacts afterward
They could either never bring up what happened with Karnak because it was like too painful or something
Or it could go in the complete opposite direction with them constantly bringing up what happened, usually to make fun of each other
Like one day this one teacher is being a huge jackass so when the teacher asks if they have any fun facts they’d like to share with the class Noel just stands up and goes “When a lioness has children-“
Ocean and Constance are desperately trying not to laugh
Mischa makes it a personal game to call as many people as possible a spielverderber
Somebody is talking for a really long time during a presentation and when it’s over Ricky just signs “And that is why not everyone should have a library card!” while Mischa just tries to not burst out laughing
Penny will sometimes recite Ricky’s Silver Surfer speech just so she can laugh about it later when people are like “Wow. So deep 🥲”
Sometimes you’ll just hear one of them humming everyone’s songs
The funniest time this has happened is when Noel caught Ocean humming “This Song Is Awesome”
Constance bakes everyone Zolar themed cupcakes and they’re so good
"It gets weird now." Oh really Ricky? It gets weird just now? Not any time before Ricky? Not maybe when you were fucking the alien cat girls? Hmm Ricky?
turnnoffyourmind
andulkaphoto
tangentwithtanner
blakekathryn
