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heich0e · 2 years

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polluted geto suguru, gojo satoru, ryomen sukuna, kamo choso/f!reader word count: 11k warnings: 18+ MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT, recreational drug use (weed), dubious consent, slight sexual coercion, sex under the influence, gangbang, oral sex (f! and m!receiving), double penetration (oral and vaginal), biting, spitting, creampie, snowballing, pussyjob, fingering, choking, squirting, hair pulling, generally rough sex, implication of non-consensual filming/photography, shotgunning, college!au, no curses!au, slight dumbification, ft a cameo from nanami. a/n: this is a continuation of a drabble i posted ages ago (the first few hundred words of this fic!) feel free to skip that if you've already read it. also these tags alone are sending me to hell. enjoy! never talk to me about this again! crossposted to AO3

"D'ya want some?" Gojo asks up at you, his head in your lap as you tap at the screen of your cellphone idly, leaving a heart on a friend's perfectly filtered photo that only makes you feel a little bitter when you look at it.

"Hm?" you ask, glancing down towards him as he peers up at your face. He has a bag of gummy candy resting on his tummy, and you part your lips and stick your tongue out slightly, asking for one of his sweets.

He lets out a little heh at your expression before popping a pink and blue candy–dusted with a sweet-sour crystalline coating–into your waiting mouth.

"I meant the weed," Gojo answers your earlier hum only once you begin to chew the treat he'd just fed you. He sticks his thumb in his mouth, licking it clean of the tangy sugar that clings to it. "D'ya want some?"

"Oh," you reply, eyes flickering to the other side of Gojo and Geto's dorm room where Choso is seated on the floor, a pillow on his lap and an old DVD case on top of it. He's diligently packing the ground up weed into a rolling paper–little bits of green clinging to the tips of his fingers like the sugar had to Gojo's. "I don't think so."

You really shouldn't.

"Why?" Satoru asks petulantly. He's not smoking either–isn't allowed to since the last time when he threw up in Geto's backpack and ruined his social anthropology textbook–but he seems indignant at your refusal.

Choso's dark eyes flicker up to you too, as though interested in your reply, but when he sees you looking back at him he busies himself with his rolling once more with a streak of pink curling across his cheeks.

He's still a little shy around you.

"Who cares?" Sukuna chimes in from where he's reclining in Gojo's desk chair at the end of the bed, tossing a miniature foam basketball up into the air idly before catching it in one large hand and repeating the motion. "Means more weed for us. Fushiguro said this is good shit when I picked up earlier, too."

"That guy with the scar?" Geto asks, peeking out from under his textbook and Sukuna grunts out some sort of affirmative.

Suguru is sprawled out across his bed directly opposite you now that Nanami left to return to his own room–finding the rest of you too distracting to get anything done during what was supposed to be a study session.

You feel something prod against your lips and look down to see Gojo attempting to feed you another sweet. You let him.

"You didn't answer my question," he singsongs as you bite down on the chewy confection between your teeth.

You push most of the rapidly melting, sticky-sweet candy into your cheek with your tongue to talk around it. "I get really.... annoying when I'm high."

Gojo stares up at you for a moment before pulling himself into a seated position at your side.

"What do you mean?" he asks.

A chuckle from across the room tears your eyes away from Satoru's inquisitive gaze, and towards Sukuna who has suddenly stopped tossing the basketball and instead has his attention fixed on you.

You glare at him weakly, knowing what he's thinking without him saying it. "Shut up."

It only makes him laugh again, a sharp smirk on his lips.

"What?" Gojo whines, missing the unspoken words you and Sukuna have exchanged.

"Weed doesn't make her annoying," Sukuna drawls, tossing the basketball up again, only this time away from him–you watch as it curves gracefully in the air, swishing through the little net Geto and Gojo have affixed to the back of their door. "She's always annoying."

"Kuna–" you mumble warningly, your cheeks flushing hot as you squirm nervously atop the rumpled sheets of Satoru's bed.

Everyone has stopped what they're doing now: Suguru's textbook set aside, Choso's fingers stilling with the edge of the nearly finished joint pinched between them.

Sukuna's smirk turns into something even sharper, a smile unfurling slow and wicked across his face.

"Weed doesn't make her annoying–it makes her into a whore."

Everything is hot.

The prickle of smoke in your lungs each time the joint is held to your lips—though you’ve lost track of whose fingers are holding it out to you now.

The flush that curls up your neck and through your face. It burns, almost; blood rushing too close to the surface of your skin to be comfortable.

The three sets of eyes you feel on your skin from various places around the room.

Sukuna’s mouth.

The dorm room smells unmistakably of weed–heavy, earthy, dank—even with the window open and a fan on to whisk the curling plumes of smoke outside. There’s a grimy old towel crammed into the space underneath the door to keep the scent from seeping out into the hallway, but the boys’ RA has let them get away with far worse in their time in residence. At this point you’re not exactly sure what it would take for them to earn a warning knock, much less any sort of formal reprimand.

You guess it pays to have your family’s name plastered on most of the buildings on campus like Satoru’s does.

There’s music playing in the room, bass heavy and slow, and you know it must be Geto’s doing even if you aren’t sure when he turned it on. You recognize the familiar sound from late night drives you’ve taken with him in his car—an old silver sedan that he takes immaculate care of, constantly tinkering away at it—and the songs he sends you to listen to from the other side of your table in the library while you study. The music, like the towel, serves its own purpose.

To mask the sound of you.

“‘Kuna,” you pant raggedly, fingers twisting into his blush pink hair and tugging. He sucks harder at the sensitive spot on your neck that he’s been lavishing with attention for the past few minutes—the one he’s more than familiar with from previous hookups—in retaliation. “Kiss me, kiss me.”

He chuckles, but indulges your desperation, mouthing his way back to your lips: up your throat, along your jaw, eventually slotting his soft mouth to yours.

“She’s so whiny when she’s high,” Gojo says breathlessly, but he sounds closer to you than you expect him to.

You peel your heavy eyelids open only to see him hovering just over Sukuna’s shoulder, blinking when you spot his unsettlingly blue eyes watching you raptly. You try to pull back from Sukuna’s rapacious kiss, startled by Satoru’s proximity, but the boy beneath you’s insistent hands hold you even more firmly to his lap in protest–earning him another needy sound from your throat as your hips grind down against his own. Your lips part in a silent cry of objection, and Sukuna takes it as an invitation to press his tongue even deeper into your open mouth.

“When’s someone else gonna get a turn?” Gojo complains, reaching out to tug on a bit of your hair beside your cheek childishly.

You’d chastise him if Sukuna’s tongue wasn’t mapping the depths of your throat.

“Relax, Satoru.” Geto snorts from his place on his dormitory bed.

Suguru’s textbook has long been discarded on the floor, the page he’d been reading marked but the time for revision evidently passed, and his hair has been retied into a neater knot at the top of his head, pulled back from his handsome face. His eyes watch carefully as Sukuna’s hands slip up underneath the hem of your top, thumbs dipping beneath the cups of your bra to sweep against the soft flesh. Suguru glances at the blonde still lingering over you from where he sits reclined–his legs crossed and body language apathetic though his attention feels anything but.

“We’ll all get our chance, so just enjoy the show.”

Sukuna draws back suddenly, lips parting from yours with one final wet smack.

He hums, nosing at your cheek as you try futilely to chase his mouth, whimpering as he denies you it. There’s a smirk curling, smug and cruel and sure, at the corner of his lips.

“He might have a point, y’know,” Sukuna drawls.

You make a little sound of confusion, your hands slipping from the back of Sukuna’s neck to the front of his t-shirt, pressing against the hard planes of his chest as you balance yourself atop his lap. The rolling desk chair you’re straddling him in really isn’t meant for two, especially not when you’re as dizzy as you currently feel, but Sukuna keeps you steady with his large hands braced on your hips.

He’d coaxed you over after your first few puffs and hadn’t let you leave his grasp since.

“Stop teasing,” you murmur, eyes tracing his pink, spit-slicked lips covetously.

“But if I fuck you first, that’s not really fair is it?—”

He tilts his face up and kisses you, deceptively gentle, and then pinches your bottom lip between his sharp teeth—pulling away until it slips from his bite and snaps back into place. You’re bewildered by his comment, peering at him curiously as your lip stings.

When has Sukuna ever cared about being fair?

He chuckles at your expression, as though he senses your thought without you saying it.

”—Not when I know just how you like it.”

“Do you two do this a lot?” Geto asks from his bed on the other side of the room, his tone level and impassive. Sukuna’s scarlet gaze flickers to him over your shoulder, and he grins—sharp and mean.

“Only when she begs for it.”

You’d refute the claim, but it has its grounds.

“That’s big talk, Ryomen,” Geto remarks, but there’s an unmistakably competitive undercurrent to his lighthearted tone.

“Too much talk,” Satoru interjects exasperatedly, cutting between the two men’s tense exchange and dragging you up to your feet in one swift motion. He’s at the end of his non-existent patience.

You move easily, pliably, under Gojo’s greater strength and imposing stature as he hauls you up; you stumble forward into his chest, unbalanced on your feet as your head swims. You’re dizzy, everything a little fuzzy around the edges, but he holds you steady with his palms cupping your cheeks and ducks down to crush his mouth to yours.

Satoru tastes sweet like the candy he was eating earlier, though you can’t honestly say how long it’s been since he’s polished off the bag, and he sounds just as tooth-achingly saccharine. Little moans and groans of praise slip from him unbidden as he topples back across his bed and drags you down with him.

“Toru, be careful,” you complain against his eagerness, the words half-lost to his lips, but he doesn’t seem to care.

He flips you over so you’re the one on your back, rising to his knees and pulling your hips down towards him so they rest atop his thighs. Your shoulder blades press into the soft give of his mattress, blinking up at him as he curls forward over your frame until the two of you are nose to nose. His breathing is notably faster, heavier than it had been before, as his hands trail up and down your sides, mapping every divot and curve of your thighs, hips and ribs.

“You’re so pretty,” he sighs infatuatedly, before locking your mouths together once more.

Satoru’s hands are greedy and relentless: pawing and groping at any part of you that he can reach. When he stretches his fingers wide, you’re almost startled by just how much of your torso they can span, digging into your flesh in fervent squeezes.

“I bet you taste good,” he breathes hotly against your mouth, pulling back to look at you with his pupils blown wider than you’ve ever seen them—it’s hard to believe he hasn’t taken a single hit from the joint at all with the way the inky black threatens to swallow the striking blue of his irises.

You hear a deep exhale, and the smell of smoke in the room thickens for a moment. Your head lolls to the side against Satoru’s soft cotton bedspread, and your unfocused eyes slide to Sukuna as he breathes out a wispy cloud of grey. His next words are directed to Gojo, but his attention is only on you.

“Why don’t you find out for yourself?”

Satoru heeds his advice zealously, and makes his way down your body while you writhe beneath him. It’s a little inundating, the way he touches you—the pressure of his body on yours, the heat of his big big hands, the praises that he whispers into every place his lips graze.

“Toru, I’m hot,” you complain, squirming as he kisses along your ribs.

He peeks up at you over the curve of your tummy, toying with the hem of your shirt between his fingers. His bright eyes are wide with excitement and his cheeks are flushed a pretty shade of pink. “I can help you with that.”

Eagerly he works to peel your top off over your head, it’s a little uncoordinated but you feel an immediate relief as the cool air from the fan meets your sticky skin. Satoru ducks down once your top has been shucked aside and you’re laid flat against the bed again, sucking a stinging mark into the swell of your chest that peeks out from your bra. He cups one palm around either breast to push them together and further into his drooling mouth. But still he doesn’t linger, frenetic in his avidity, moving quickly back down to the waistband of your pants and toying with the button of your jeans that holds them closed.

“Please, Satoru,” you mumble, almost shyly but undeniably strained, as his fingertips stroke the soft skin just below your navel.

He looks at you with a cheshire grin, pleased beyond anything to have you begging, and he needs no further encouragement to pop the closure open.

You lift your hips so Satoru can tug your jeans down your thighs, but he wastes no time in settling back between your parted thighs.

“Oh, look at her,” he coos, his thumb pressing against the damp patch of cotton between your legs. Your hips squirm at the pressure, but he keeps you pinned in place. “You’re so wet.”

With no warning, he dips down and sucks against the material lewdly.

“Toru!” you gasp, a hand flying to his hair and tugging on the impossibly soft white strands, though it does nothing to pry him away from his prize.

“Shh, shh,” he quiets you, pinching at your thigh punitively until your grip slackens, “I don’t wanna waste it.”

In seconds the cotton is soaked through with his spit, clinging to the lips of your cunt as he pushes it between your folds with his tongue. He hums happily with every debauched slurp.

“This is nasty,” Geto says with a laugh as he watches the spectacle unfolding from the bed opposite, sounding every bit as though he’s enjoying himself. “You’re always such a freak, Satoru.”

You’re a little too far gone to catch the implication that you’re not the first girl the two of them have shared. Probably not even in this very room.

“Give her another hit, Kamo,” Sukuna chimes in from his seat at the end of the bed, leaning back leisurely in his chair as he takes in the scene before him.

You’d almost forgotten Choso was there, honestly, especially with Gojo’s tongue toying with your clit through the thin material of your panties. You tilt your head to the side, looking through the hazy dorm room to see the youngest (and the quietest) of the four men watching you with pink in his cheeks, and another unlit joint between his fingers.

Another one? How many have you gone through now?

Choso approaches trepidatiously, and crouches next to the bed beside your head. He clicks the purple plastic lighter held in his fingers, sparking it to life, and holds it to the end of the joint pinched between his lips. He takes a small puff to start it off, pursing his mouth to the side on his exhale as he tries not to blow the smoke into your already teary eyes. He gently holds the unlit end to your lips in offering once it’s burning.

“Just a little one, okay?” you say warily, wrapping your lips around the little paper filter. He nods with his gaze on nothing but your mouth, and swallows thickly.

You feel the first prickle of smoke in your burning lungs at the exact moment Gojo wraps his lips around your clit and sucks hard.

You gasp, drawing in a breath too deeply, and immediately choke on the bitter, acrid taste that floods your throat. You cough and cough, smoke slipping from your mouth and nose while your back arches high off Satoru’s bed with every hack, and spit dribbles from the corner of your lips messily.

“Are you alright?” Choso asks, immediately tossing the joint aside into the grody, chipped ashtray resting under the window. He quickly wipes the saliva on your chin away with the edge of his hoodie sleeve, looking at you with panicked eyes.

“Oh, Satoru, that was mean,” Geto calls from his place across the room, but he sounds almost pleased.

“She’s not paying attention to me.” Gojo pulls back from between your legs, a pout on his slick, swollen lips. A long, viscid string of saliva stretches and breaks between his mouth and your throbbing clit.

Sukuna laughs, thoroughly entertained. “Maybe she’s tired of you sucking on her g-string like a perv.”

“Is that true?” Gojo asks you, sounding almost wounded as he drags you down towards him across the mattress. You’ve still barely caught your breath, your head spinning in a way you don’t quite like as he drops to his knees on the floor. He positions your hips at the very edge of the bed and hooks your knees over either one of his shoulders, your thighs parting further to accommodate his broad frame.

He doesn’t bother to wait for a response to his own question as his lithe fingers pry your soaking wet underwear down your thighs, and the tell-tale sound of cotton tearing tells you that you won’t be putting them back on again. He tosses the tattered remains towards Choso who catches them in confusion, glancing between the sopping scraps in his hand and the man who had thrown them at him.

“You can play with those while you wait your turn,” Gojo says to him, his voice shifting from the cloying, petulant tone he’d used with you into something low, firm, and warning. He suddenly sounds every bit the young scion you know him to be.

Satoru’s blue eyes flicker back to you, as if to make sure you’re watching, and then he dips down and seals his mouth against your bare pussy.

It’s hot, wet, and overwhelming—a sound not dissimilar to a squeal is torn out of you as Satoru’s tongue moves, messy and relentless, between your legs. You’d almost call his technique uncoordinated if it wasn’t so disastrously effective; pleasure curls tight in your belly with every slick suck against your clit, though it’s a mounting burn like panic.

“Toru, I—ngh, haa—s-slow down please I—“ you’re babbling and you know it, barely coherent as your head swims. Before you can even formulate a complete utterance, each fleeting thought less tangible than the last, Satoru’s teeth bite down into the flesh of your inner thigh and you shriek.

“So fuckin’ noisy,” Sukuna muses flatly from his chair at the end of the bed. He’s got a front row seat to watching Gojo devour you—and to the angry red imprint of teeth he’s left burning on your thigh—but he stands, shuffling across the room towards the window by your head. You’re too distracted to keep track of his movements as he plucks your panties from Choso’s hand and approaches the bed where you lie defenseless under the ministrations of Gojo’s tongue.

Sukuna stares down at you for a moment, but you can barely keep your eyes open to meet his gaze.

“Open up,” he says, tapping your cheek with the knuckle of his crooked index finger.

You oblige without thinking, lips parting and tongue pressing forward slightly between them. Without any warning, he stuffs the remnants of your undergarment into your mouth.

The fabric tastes of your slick and Gojo’s spit, sticky and tangy and obscene, and it makes your already dry mouth feel even more desiccated as your moans bleed into the material.

Satoru whines into your cunt, a thoroughly pleased sound at the debauched sight. He grinds shamelessly against the end of his bed as he kneels at the foot of it, his hands holding your hips even firmer against his face as his tongue laps against your twitching hole all the way back up to your clit.

“You gonna cum for him?” Sukuna asks, watching the way your eyes are fighting to stay open, the way your fingers are gripping weakly into the blankets beneath you.

You nod, your mouth stuffed too full for anything else, with tears burning in your bleary eyes.

He smirks. “Give ‘em a good show then, will ya?”

He takes his seat again, knees spread as his hand passes lightly over the half-hard swell of his own cock, ready to watch you fall apart.

Your back bows on a particularly enthusiastic suck against your clit, your thighs clamping down hard over Satoru’s ears. Electricity thrums live through your veins, crackling from one end of your body to the other until you see it spark behind your eyes, and the sound of your desperate voice stops registering in your empty mind as your own as your muffled cries turn rapturous.

“Wow,” you distantly hear Geto—at least you think it’s Suguru’s voice—remark approvingly, watching the way your thighs twitch around his best friend’s neck as your orgasm rips through you.

Your muscles go slack as your clit throbs dully, still victim to Satoru’s insatiable tongue, your legs nearly slipping off his shoulders as your pulse thrums in your ears. Your trembling fingers reach up to fish the panties out of your mouth as you pant desperately for breath.

Satoru’s bed is surprisingly comfortable, you can’t help but notice as you fight to draw in air. It’s way more comfortable than your own standard issue dorm mattress, and you wonder if he’d brought his own to furnish the room on move-in day as you sink back into it. Your eyes are shut, and you feel like you could slip away to the call of sleep if you just—

“That was so pretty, you’re so pretty, god you taste so good,”—Satoru scrambles up, leaving you no time to recover from the sedulous talents of his overactive mouth, pulling his hard cock out of his jeans and shucking them down to mid-thigh hurriedly—“you’re so perfect.”

Your eyes flutter open and down to watch as he runs himself through the mess he’s made, rutting just the underside of his cock against you as precum oozes from his slit. Your breath hitches as you catch sight of him for the first time.

“Satoru–”

He holds both of your knees together with a single hand, twisting your hips slightly to one side and grinding himself against the wet heat of your pussy, but never sinking inside. You’re not sure you could even take it, he’s so big; anyone else’s dick would look small in comparison to Satoru’s hands, but his is perfectly, terrifyingly proportionate to the rest of him.

Fortunately for you, he seems content to fuck himself against you like this– or too desperate to do much of anything else—the patch of neatly trimmed white hair at the base of his flushed cock brushing against the back of your thighs on every frantic thrust.

“Your pussy is so soft, so wet,” Satoru prattles on incessantly as he grinds against you, his hips clapping against your ass with every rut, “so good. D’you know that? You know that, right?”

You don’t answer him. Can’t answer him. Struck dumb by the ebbing glow of your orgasm, the sight of his enormous cock, and the THC flooding through your bloodstream. Your silence doesn’t seem to bother him in any case—he seems far more interested in the sound of his own voice than in anything that you might have to say in reply.

Satoru stays vocal as he chases his own pleasure, moaning and praising you blindly as he humps himself between your thighs. It doesn’t take much longer until he cums across your stomach with a blissed out keen that puts every pornstar you’ve ever seen to shame. His hands hold you tight against his twitching hips as he cock kicks and gives one last long splatter of white across your tummy, all the way up to the valley of your ribs.

The room is quiet in the aftermath, save for the steady buzzing of the fan, the music playing from the speaker on Suguru’s desk, and the sound of you and Satoru’s laboured breathing.

But not for long.

“Jeez, do you always have to be so messy?” Geto asks, rising from his place across the room. But there’s no real bite in his comment—and there never is when it comes to Satoru. “You really need to learn to clean up after yourself.”

Gojo grabs your discarded panties from beside you on his bed and swipes them through the cum drying to your skin with a little giggle, barely cleaning you up at all.

Geto gives him a harmless little knock against the back of his head, but doesn’t truly seem to mind.

“You know, I really didn’t take you for such an exhibitionist,” he says to you as he pries your limp body up off Satoru’s bed, weak-kneed and unsteady as you may be, and helps you across the room towards his own.

Suguru leads each of your wobbly steps like a dance—one arm wrapped snugly around your waist, and his other hand clasped around yours as he steers you across the narrow strip of floor between their respective halves of the room. He pulls you down to straddle his lap, your knees sinking into his mattress (not nearly as plush as Satoru’s) on either side of his hips as you bounce lightly on the creaky springs, while he rests with his back against the dorm wall.

“I’m not, Suguru,” you mumble petulantly, fisting his t-shirt as he holds you flush against him. He smells good, even through the stench of the weed clinging to him and you and everything else in the room—like new paper, laundry detergent, and the conditioner you’d bought for him once that he never stopped using—and you nuzzle instinctively into his neck to get closer to the scent. You must be making a mess of his grey sweatpants, but he doesn’t complain.

“Sure, sure,” he says breezily, and you feel the gentle warmth of his hand on your chin as he tilts your face up towards him.

He kisses you and it’s hungry.

Tongues sliding, mouths parted, teeth nipping at your already sore lips.

Kissing Suguru is nice, you think. It feels familiar even in its foreignness. Welcome even in the head rush. You’d be lying if you said you’d never thought about it before, even if your relationship has only ever been platonic: in quiet moments in his beloved car, late night study dates in isolated corners of the library, midnight walks across campus to the convenience store to sate an ill-timed craving. His lips had always been tempting, but it’s even better than you may have hoped.

You lose yourself in it, a little bit—whatever is left of you to be lost, anyway.

You barely notice as his nimble fingers undo the clasp of your bra, easing it away until you’re completely bare against him; too preoccupied to piece together that you’re the only person in the room who isn’t fully clothed. He tilts his face away from you for a moment, leaving you to kitten lick at the corner of his mouth distractingly.

“Pass me the joint,” he grunts out towards Choso, tossing your bra aside as haplessly as Gojo had discarded the rest of your clothes, and his junior hands the half-burned spliff to him obediently.

“Don’t want any more,” you murmur against Suguru’s cheek, dipping down and tucking your face into the crook of his neck again.

He laughs, and you feel the sound reverberate through his chest and into yours.

“Just a little bit?” he urges you, an affectionate arm snaking around your waist and squeezing. “For me?”

You shake your head as much as you’re able with your burning face hidden against his throat.

“Here,” he coaxes you out with a gentle knead of his fingers into your thigh, and you find yourself peeking up at him against your better judgement. “You’ll barely even get high from this, it’s just to keep you feeling good.”

You don’t know if what he says is true, but you let him do it anyway. He takes a long drag from the joint, his serpentine eyes watching you carefully as the cherry flares bright red and angry, and then he seals his mouth over yours and exhales.

You breathe in the heavy, polluted air from his lungs like a reflex.

“There you go,” he says, drawing back and watching contently as you exhale a little cloud of smoke. It’s fainter than if you’d taken the hit yourself, and burns less in your chest, so you think he must be right. “Easy.”

Things get fuzzier after that.

Suguru has you on your hands and knees, though you don’t quite know how you got there. Maybe you’d moved yourself, maybe he’d instructed you, or maybe he’d maneuvered your pliant body with the force of his own two hands. But here you are, your face pressed into a pillow that smells of him, his body curving over yours from behind.

You feel his bare chest against your back, and wonder when he’d taken off his shirt. Wonder if it’s the only thing that’s bare. Suguru mouths at the nape of your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

“Y’know, I’ve been waiting a long time for this,--” he whispers the words so softly that you’re sure only you can hear them. They rattle around through your brain for a moment, incoherent in the buzz.

Once they finally do register, there’s a part of you—a distant, more sober part, that’s watching things unfold warily—wonders if he means longer than just the time he’d watched Sukuna and Satoru play with you. His fingers trail down your sides, and you shiver.

“--but it’s okay. I’m patient.”

“Suguru!” you cry out as he slips the head of his cock inside of you without warning. You aren’t ready, even though you’re wet—Gojo hadn’t stretched you out, and Suguru’s fingers, for all their teasing and toying, had never pressed inside.

“God, how’s your pussy so tight?” he hisses through his teeth, the stifling heat of his body fading as he draws himself up to rest on his knees. He has one hand on the small of your back holding you down, while the other is on your ass–spreading you apart so he can see the way he’s pressing into your pussy.

He’s still barely inside of you, but his hips still as he takes in the way your walls are stretched around him, sucking him in. He takes a moment to collect himself, then glances over his shoulder at Sukuna.

“You must not actually be fucking her as well as you think you are.”

Sukuna scowls. “Fuck you.”

“Bit busy right now,” Suguru replies, feigning flippancy as he snaps his hips forward harshly, sheathing himself all the way to the hilt. He grinds against your ass as you whimper into his pillow, the sound muffled beyond recognition by the cotton of his pillowcase. “But hit me up later.”

Geto is brutal in the way he fucks you: unyielding, rough. But he touches you tenderly. Praises you gently under his breath after every thrust. It’s almost confusing; his hips at war with his hands, his actions at war with his words.

The initial pain and discomfort subsides quickly, thanks to Suguru’s fingers carefully rolling against your twitching clit. Every time you want to complain, he compensates his cruelty with something so pleasant that the protest dies on your lips.

“Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight right now,” Suguru groans, fingers skirting up to pinch at one of your pebbled nipples. You clench down around him instinctively at the sensation. “You want to cum?”

There’s too much saliva in your mouth to answer him properly, too much blood rushing to your head to do anything more than whimper and nod as your fists twist into his blue bed sheets.

“Do you deserve to cum?” Suguru asks, his hips easing to a torturous grind behind you, dragging slow against your fluttering walls. “Gojo already made you cum once, and you didn’t even thank him for it.”

“Suguru, you’re being a bastard again,” Gojo laughs brightly from the other side of the room, though you can’t see him from where your head is pressed into the pillow.

“If you could feel how tight her little pussy just clamped down around me you’d know she likes it,” the man inside you laughs, something mean and manic in the sound. He curves himself over your back again, brushing a bit of your hair away from your face. “You tell Gojo thank you, and I’ll let you cum, how about that?”

Geto’s fingers wrap themselves around your throat, pulling you upright with a hand cupped under your chin. There’s spit and tears on your face, and you feel them cooling against the breeze of the fan on the other side of the room as you blink against the brightness of the fluorescent light overhead.

You turn your head slightly with Suguru’s help, meeting Gojo’s eye from across the dorm. He’s got a cherry-red lollipop in his mouth now, staining his swollen lips. He’s seated with his legs crossed at the end of his bed, and he’s watching you intently as you peer over at him.

“Thank you, Toru,” you rasp, moaning when Geto’s hand squeezes a little bit tighter around your windpipe.

“For what?” Suguru urges you to continue, lips pressing against your hairline. He gives a slow, tantalizing roll of his hips, and he feels so much deeper at this angle–like he’s pressing right up against the inside of your stomach.

Your eyelids flutter, and you struggle to swallow under his grip.

You meet Gojo’s eager gaze again.

“Thank you for m-making me cum, Satoru.”

Gojo grins ferally around the candy in his mouth, and Geto hums, appeased. Goosebumps prickle across your skin as he presses a kiss to your sticky temple.

“Good girl.”

The hand not loosely cupping your throat snakes down between your legs, orbiting your tacky clit in quick, vicious circles—your reward.

You cry out, nails scrabbling against his forearm near your throat blindly, your body slackening against the sudden onslaught of pleasure building in your core. Geto strength is the only thing keeping you upright as your body trembles.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. Let everyone see how pretty you are when you cum on my cock.”

And you do.

You cum so hard under the relentless swipes of Suguru’s fingertips that it almost hurts. Your thighs shake as you come undone, the tightness in the centre of your core snapping like a cord wound up too taut. His hips don’t stop fucking you through your peak, your chest bouncing on every thrust, even as the pangs of overstimulation begin to twist the pleasure into something painful.

You hiccup over a sob.

“Please, please,” you beg him, watery and desperate, slumping even further forward against his hold. “Suguru, s’too much, I can’t.”

He relents, mercifully—letting go of your throat and wrapping his arms around you from behind, pulling you upright against his chest again and pressing kisses to your neck. His tongue flicks out to taste the perspiration on your aching throat.

“You’re so good to us, aren’t you?” he murmurs into your skin, and you feel yourself nodding as his arms tighten around you.

Choso is still sitting on the floor beside the head of the bed, and his dark doe-eyes blink at you in surprise as your dizzy gazes meet—almost like he’s not anticipating being seen. He’s running his hand along the visible swell of his cock in his black joggers absentmindedly, but his touch is featherlight and barely there. He watches you watch him through a heavy-lidded gaze.

“You’re up, Kamo.”

Suguru sounds warm, gregarious even, in his invitation, and it takes both of you by surprise. He shuffles away behind you, drawing back and leaving you terribly empty. You whine, falling forward to your elbows and narrowly avoiding landing on your face now that he’s not there to keep you upright.

“Su’gru, wait,” you slur needily, reaching behind you with your hand to grasp blindly where you expect him to be. You wiggle your hips in search of him, and feel your pussy fluttering around nothing.

Suguru’s fingers dance teasingly across your palm and then over your spine, down to your ass. He grips the soft give of muscle and fat, squeezing down into the flesh as laughter bubbles up in his throat.

“Make a bit of room, sweetheart. Choso needs a turn too,”—he gives you another squeeze, this time insistent—“you’ll let him use your pretty mouth, won’t you?”

You hum some sort of agreement.

Choso stands and approaches the bed, watching your expression carefully. He’s intrigued, undeniably, but seems poised to flee at the slightest indication of uncertainty on your part.

“Hi Choso,” you say as you blink up at him, sniffling as you push yourself weakly onto your haunches, your hands resting atop your knees. He’s blushed down to his throat as he dips his head at you in quiet greeting. Your hand reaches up to trail against the prominent outline of his cock below his waistband. “Can I?”

He nods, but it’s hesitant. “If you’re sure.”

Choso lowers himself into the bed, making sure not to jostle you too harshly as he finds his place with a leg on either side of your body, propped against the headboard.

You crawl forward towards his lap, nuzzling against the tent in his joggers and mouthing at the tip until you can taste the salty tang of his precum seeping through the fabric. He brushes some hair back from your eyes as you peek up at him.

His gaze is heavy, like the droop of his eyelids, and this close to him you see just how warm the deep brown of his eyes really is. So dark they almost look black, from this angle you can see the honey that runs behind the stygian surface.

He’s really very handsome in his own strangely delicate way, you can’t help but think.

Your hand creeps slowly below the waistband of his joggers, fingers following the little trail of coarse hair below his navel until you wrap your hand around him. His cock is hot and heavy, and you can feel it give a palpable little twitch as your fingers circle the surprising girth. Gently, you pull him out.

Even Choso’s cock is pretty. Long, curved, with purpled veins that run the length of him all the way to the flushing, leaking tip. He’s so hard. Achingly hard. You can’t believe how lightly he’d been touching himself when you see just how desperately aroused he is.

You dip forward and take the head of him into your mouth, suckling around him. Desperate to give him some sort of relief. Choso hisses in surprise as your lips seal themselves around the flared head, tonguing at the slit—almost like he hadn’t been expecting you to touch him at all.

Your eyes watch him intently, your brow quirking in curiosity.

“S’hot,” he explains, his deep, raspy voice incongruously diffident. “Your mouth is hot, s’all.”

You focus your attention on Choso’s tip for a while, because he seems so sensitive there—little gasps and twitches of his hips giving him away. Your drool drips slowly down to his balls, the waistband of his joggers tucked beneath them catching it, and you use your hand to slowly stroke the slickness back up from the base towards your mouth.

It sounds messy–it is messy–but no one vocalizes the slightest bit of complaint.

Behind you, Suguru’s fingers dip just barely inside of you–twisting, curling and scissoring before they withdraw and roll slowly over your neglected clit. You’re not as sensitive as you had been, and the sensation is nice but never enough. Your hips cant back unconsciously towards him as you chase his touch for more, and it makes him laugh, but never quite indulge you.

Choso shifts slightly, taking the hem of his t-shirt that’s rucked up over the bottom of his tummy obstructing his view of you and bringing it up to pinch it between his teeth. As he lifts his shirt to expose his skin, he reveals two pink pierced nipples that make you keen in interest.

You pull yourself off of him with a lewd slurp.

“Those are pretty,” you say with a breathy sigh as you admire the little piercings, stroking his cock languidly in one hand. It makes a wet shlick shlick sound with every slippery pass.

Choso lets out a garbled little sound of thanks around the t-shirt in his mouth. You reach up to brush over the metal, curious and experimental, and his thin frame is wracked by a shiver at your gentle touch—the muscles in his abdomen tightening before your eyes.

“Take him in your mouth again, baby. Deep.” Suguru’s voice urges you from over your shoulder, reminding you of the task at hand.

You obey, though you’re a little disappointed to have to tear your attention away from the stainless steel barbells on Choso’s flushing chest.

There’s a bit of discomfort as the fat tip of Choso’s cock squeezes its way past the entrance to your throat, but it’s nothing you can’t handle as you dig your fingertips down into his thighs to ground yourself. He groans, spit soaking into the material of his t-shirt held between his teeth, his eyes so heavy-lidded that they’re barely open as he watches you swallow him down. His cock gives a palpable twitch on your tongue as the pressure of your throat welcomes him in.

You moan around his length at the sensation.

With no warning at all, Suguru presses inside of you again from behind, stretching you open and filling you full full full. You might panic if not for the haze of your mind, but not even that delirious calm can keep you from involuntarily gagging around Choso’s cock as it nestles itself more firmly into the very back of your throat.

“Oh, you tightened up even more,” Suguru says happily, squeezing one of your ass cheeks as he rolls his hips into you, suffocating you even further on Choso’s cock, “do that again.”

You can’t breathe with Choso this deep, especially not with Suguru fucking into you from the other end, forcing any meagre amount of air you do manage to take in through shaky breaths promptly back out through your nose. Your lungs burn. Your jaw aches.

“Gojo, think you can get it up again? There’s a whole other hole going empty back here.” You suddenly feel a hot trail of spit drop against you, and Suguru’s slick fingertip traces teasingly around your rim.

“Ngh—”

You rip yourself upright, desperate and frightened, saliva flying from your mouth as you cough now that Choso’s cock is no longer carving its way down your esophagus. You push yourself up onto your knees with your hands on Choso’s trembling thighs and instinctively try to crawl towards him, away from the man behind you.

You toss a panicked glance over your shoulder.

“—Suguru, no. I-I don’t like that.”

It’s the first time you’ve made eye contact with Geto in some time, and definitely the first time you’ve denied him anything. His skin glistens with perspiration, hair slightly messy as it hangs around his shoulders from where half of it has fallen out of his bun at the crown of his head. His eyes are a little wild, but he softens at the sincere look of upset in your tearful gaze–using his grip on your hips to drag you back into his arms.

He presses little kisses across your face, as familiar and comforting as a lover might.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he soothes you, pecking his way along your cheeks to your quivering lips. “You know I’d never do anything you don’t like, right? I’m too crazy about you to ever do that.”

Something twists in your gut that doesn’t feel nice, though you can’t quite put your finger on why.

The song playing in the room trails off, and there’s a few beats of silence before the next kicks in.

“You trust me, don’t you?”

Do you?

You let him kiss you into submission once more, held tight in his embrace.

Geto’s hand finds yours and slowly guides your touch back to Choso’s cock, encouraging you to pump your hand up and down the slick length as he continues to kiss you senseless—he’s moving in time like a rhythm you can’t quite follow, resigning yourself to being swept along with the motions. Suguru’s hand around yours grips Choso so tight, and the boy laying on the bed grunts but doesn’t complain, and you realise that he likes it a bit rougher than you’d been with him.

“You’re not gonna break him,” Geto encourages you, mirthful even in the quiet tone of his voice, and it bolsters your confidence to wrap your hand a little bit tighter around the girth of his throbbing cock of your own volition. Choso moans prettily into the hem of his t-shirt, his hips lifting up off the bed.

“I don’t think poor Choso’s gonna last much longer, are you gonna help him cum?” Suguru murmurs into your mouth, and your foggy gaze slides over to the young man in question, writhing on the bed as Geto grips him even tighter on an upstroke with his hand still clasped over yours.

“Mmmhmm,” you agree, and Geto smiles into one last kiss before pulling away.

You get back down on your hands and knees between Choso’s parted thighs, continuing to stroke him with the same intensity that Geto had set. He’s slick not only with your saliva but the liberal amount of precum beading at his slit now and dribbling down his length, and the bitter taste blooms across your tongue as you lick a long stripe from the base to the top. He whimpers as you press the very tip of your tongue just underneath the sensitive head.

“You gonna cum in her mouth or on her face, Kamo?” Sukuna drawls from his seat across the room, and the reminder that he’s still there—still waiting for his turn—makes your thighs press together as your pussy gives a needy throb. “She looks good both ways.”

Choso finally lets the sopping hem of his t-shirt slip from between his teeth, staring down at you with shiny lips and flushed cheeks as his chest heaves.

“Mouth?” he asks raggedly, forming the request like a question—like he’d let you say no. You smile softly.

You like how sweet Choso is with you. How he treats you like you’re delicate.

You stroke his weeping cock once, twice, three times more, and then wrap your lips around him and swallow him as deep as you possibly can.

Choso cums with a beatific moan, his narrow hips jumping up off the creaky mattress of Suguru’s bed. His hands twist into the sheets beside him like he’s trying not to thread them through your hair and hold you flush against him, and you appreciate the courtesy. Once he paints your mouth white, a few hot spurts slipping down your throat, you pull away and make a show of letting your tongue loll out so he can see what’s left of him clinging to it.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, fighting for breath, and you nod—coy and demure like you don’t have a stomach full of his cum.

He cranes up towards you, pressing his lips to yours gently. You kiss him with his cum still in your mouth, his tongue sweeping forward to taste it off you.

“Damn, you might be nastier than I am, Kamo,” Gojo cheers from the other side of the room in absolute delight.

“Fat fuckin’ chance,” Sukuna snorts.

Choso kisses you until you can’t feel any more of his spend lingering in your mouth, though the salty, bitter taste still faintly remains. Your fingers creep up under his shirt to brush over the warm metal of the barbells pierced through his skin as the two of you explore each other’s mouths. You pinch down gently and it earns you a little groan of pleasure as the tip of his tongue traces against your palate. You kiss him–lazy and messy and gentle–and it feels so good you momentarily forget you have an audience.

“How sweet.” There’s something condescending about the way Geto coos it, patronising even. “So good to our shy little junior.”

You pull away from Choso—a long strand of saliva stretching and breaking between your kiss bruised mouths, remnants of it landing on your chin. Geto’s poised on his knees at the other end of the bed, watching you with a smile that makes his eyes narrow and curve into half-moons. There’s nothing kind about it.

He runs a hand along his still stiff cock as it stands proudly between his legs.

“I’d say that’s enough now, wouldn’t you?”

Choso pulls himself up out of the bed without complaint, his fingertips grazing your chin as he cleans the spit from it for the second time that afternoon—though this time the mess is his, at least in part, instead of only yours.

Once it’s just the two of you left atop the bed, Suguru flips you over and presses your legs back. He kisses up between the valley of your breasts as he slots himself between your legs, dragging the flared head of his cock between your soft, sticky folds. He’s already made you cum once, but he hasn’t yet reached his limit.

Part of you wonders if he’s been holding off for this.

“Did you put on a condom?” you ask, the thought appearing suddenly and starkly. You hadn’t thought about it before–hadn’t had the presence of mind to do so–but now it seems the only thought rattling around in your hazy, delirious brain.

“Oh, I forgot,” Suguru says, though he doesn’t sound remotely apologetic as he sucks against your pulse-point. You’re sensitive there, and it makes something flutter in your tummy that threatens to distract you from the topic at hand. “That okay? You’re on birth control, aren’t you?”

You nod, because it’s true in part—the latter part specifically.

You don’t have time to bring up the former issue before Suguru is fucking himself inside of you again—a thrust so hard you slide a little further up the bed. You gasp at the sudden stretch and claw at his back, your nails dragging against the musculature of his shoulder blades as he fucks you down into his mattress. He bites and tugs at your lips, kissing you meanly, his hips jackhammering as he chases the release he’s denied himself up until this point.

His dark hair falls completely out of the knot it had only loosely been holding onto, falling in a curtain around both of your faces. For a moment it’s just the two of you. Laboured breaths. Skin on skin.

Suguru swallows your needy mewls with his esurient mouth, drool spilling down your chin with how messily he’s kissing you.

“Take it, take it,” he rasps, a fissure crackling through his carefully maintained composure as he nears the end of his fraying rope. “Show them all how you were made to take my fucking cock, baby.”

Your thighs shake where they’re pressed up to your waist, his fingers digging into the soft flesh behind your knees as he pushes them even higher up. He uses his grip as leverage to swing his hips down even harder against your own, your jaw going slack on a wordless wail.

Suguru watches the way his cock is carving into you for a few thrusts more, and then he snaps–burying his face in the crook of your neck and clamping his teeth down viciously at the juncture where your throat slopes into your shoulder.

Your back bows off the bed and you scream at the exact same moment that Suguru pitches over the edge, your nails clawing down his back blindly as he stuffs you full with rope after rope of hot, sticky cum—fucking you through his peak with lazy, arrhythmic thrusts that grow sloppier with every throb of his spent cock buried inside of you.

You collapse back onto his bed, boneless and aching. You don’t even know what you feel, how you feel. It’s all just a bit too much to sort through in your addled mind, dulled to an incoherent cacophony of sensations all fighting for attention you don’t have the wits to give them. It’s all out of focus, warped beyond comprehension and only partially due to your inebriation.

Suguru slumps on top of you, your chests meeting. You smell his conditioner again. Familiar. Nice. He’s heavy, but you almost welcome it–it distracts you momentarily from the throbbing in your neck.

“C’mon, Suguru, you almost broke her and now you’re gonna squish her too?” Gojo jeers from the other side of the room, and Suguru laughs as he pushes himself up, the tacky skin of your chests peeling away from each other.

You blink up at him tiredly as he holds himself over you, his dark hair hanging in his eyes. His lips quirk, cupping your face in his hand. It’s tender until it’s not, his fingers pressing into the fat of your cheeks until your lips purse.

“She liked it,” he tosses over his shoulder towards his best friend, sitting up on his knees. He brushes his hair back from his face with one hand, and spreads your quaking thighs with the other. He laughs, his thumb tracing the bitemark Satoru had left for you there, watching the way his cum drips out of you as you clench weakly around nothing. “At least this part of her did.”

You reach up to hide your face under your hands, letting out a plaintive little sound as your cheeks burn. You feel the bed shift as Suguru gets up.

“What are you being shy about now?”

You pry your hands off your face and let your heavy eyelids flit open, though it takes a concerted amount of effort, only to see Sukuna standing above you with a brow quirked. He perches himself on the edge of the bed and swipes a warm, calloused hand over your tearstained cheek.

“You look out of it.”

“Kuna,” you murmur weakly, pouting. You’re grateful to see him in spite of his snark, and when you nuzzle your nose into his rough palm he chuckles. There’s something comforting about his presence, though you may be the only person on earth to ever think that.

“Still got one more in you? For me?” he asks, running his thumbnail–painted black though the polish has long begun to chip–along the edge of your bottom lip.

You nod.

Sukuna kisses you even though you’re messy, crawling over you on Suguru’s rumpled bedspread. He pulls off his t-shirt and kicks his sweatpants and boxers gracelessly off the end of the bed to deal with later.

Your body feels funny, like it’s yours but not quite. Tangible and yet somehow shapeless—given form only in the way that Sukuna’s hands trace it.

The tip of his cock catches on your puffy, slick hole, and you wince.

“Sensitive,” you murmur against his mouth, wriggling underneath him in discomfort, and he nods because he knows.

It always surprises you how gentle Sukuna is as he eases inside, and this time is no different. Your head spins at the familiar, toe-curling stretch, and he curses lightly as he seats himself balls-deep inside of you.

“Best pussy on campus, I swear,” he groans against your stinging lips, squeezing your tits which he has cupped in each hand appreciatively.

He pulls out slowly, making sure you feel every curve and ridge of him as he withdraws—like he wants you to feel how empty he’s leaving you before he’s bullying his way back inside of you again. He begins to rut into you in slow, agonizing strokes, all with near impossible accuracy. The pace he fucks you at is deep and unhurried, just like he’s had practice to know you like it.

Sukuna links your fingers together as he presses both of your hands up over your head.

“Feeling good?” Sukuna laughs against your clumsy tongue, seeing the way your eyes are crossed and barely open.

You nod, beyond the point of saying anything that isn’t his name as your fingers tighten minutely around his own.

“Fuck, you sound sloppy,” he breathes and you whine, your legs squeezing around his waist in warning. He clicks his tongue at your indignant little sound, but he’s still indulgent as he fucks into you–careful and slow. “Y’know I like you like this.”

Sukuna frees his hands from yours so he can pry your legs from their cage around him, pressing them back into the mattress so your knees are butterflied apart. Your fingers tangle into the hair at the nape of his neck as the bed shakes–the rickety old frame rattling as it knocks against the dorm wall when his hips pick up the pace, the rhythm of his thrusts building in speed.

“Gettin’ pretty tight,” he grunts, his voice more strained now than it had been only a moment prior. “You wanna cum?”

You nod frantically, tears of exertion welling in your eyes.

“Gonna, hnn haa–Kuna, I’m gonna–!“

He hums, understanding your garbled pleas even though they never take shape into anything articulate. He presses down on the bottom of your stomach with one hand, an almost blinding pressure panging in your core.

“Let go for me then, princess.”

It all goes white.

“Oh fuck, did you guys see that?”

You fight to gather your bearings as your pulse pounds viciously under your tongue. Your head rolls to the side in Suguru’s bed, a tear dripping down towards your temple, only to see Gojo staring at you in wide-eyed astonishment, his sucker hanging out of his mouth.

What does he have his phone out for?

The bed is still knocking noisily against the dorm room wall, but it’s surprisingly well in-time with the beat of the music that’s playing.

It smells like sex, and sweat, and weed.

And everything is so, so wet.

Your eyes flicker down your body towards Sukuna. It’s slick along the bottom of his tensed abs and both of your thighs; dripping down your skin and seeping into the duvet on Suguru’s bed.

Oh.

You’re not even sure if you properly came or not, but everything is light and heavy at the same time, torturous and divine. Your walls flutter around Sukuna’s cock all the same, and it leaves him stumbling over his words.

“Fuck,” he rasps, his hips slamming down into yours. “So. F-fucking. Messy.”

He yanks you up into his arms, bouncing you on his cock as your arms wind themselves weakly around his neck. You have no strength in your grip, but he holds you tight. The loud lewd slap of skin on skin fills the room as he pummels into you relentlessly.

“Fuck, fuck.” Sukuna thrusts up into you one last time as he cums, holding you down at the same time that he humps against your ass–his hips twitching as his cock gives a heavy throb buried inside of you. You feel hot and almost uncomfortably full; spend drips filthily out of your cunt around the base of his cock, though you can no longer tell what’s his, yours or Geto’s anymore.

It’s a finish befitting the show that you’d promised.

Sukuna sets you down gently, grunting slightly as his flagging cock slips out from the vice of your cunt. He rearranges your legs into a more comfortable position, and with a final affectionate pat on your ass, he stands from the bed.

Gojo whistles appreciatively as you recuperate, tucking his phone back into his pocket and shooting you a wink as your tired eyes flicker over to him. His glossy lips wrap around his lollipop, pushing the candy from one side of his mouth to the other with his tongue, as he watches you fight to keep your eyes open.

You lose the battle against your fluttering eyelids quickly, your vision going dark.

“Didn’t know she could squirt,” you hear Suguru say icily—but he sounds far away, like you’re overhearing the conversation from underwater.

Gentle hands ease your aching body up off of the bed, and something soft is wrapped around your shoulders. You burrow into it, eyelids fluttering but never quite lifting, as someone slips into place behind you, propping you up against their warm chest. You rest slack in their hold.

Your eyes peel open to see Sukuna pulling on his shirt on the other side of the room, his shoulder blades flexing as he lifts the tee up and tugs it over his head. He laughs, but it’s not a particularly friendly sound, as his head pops out through the neck hole. He claps a hand on Suguru’s shoulder, who stands beside him with his arms crossed over his chest. The gesture is fraught with tension.

Sukuna shows a sharp, smug flash of teeth.

“Yeah,” he says, “and she lets me fuck her ass, too.”

The corner of Suguru’s nose twitches like he’s trying not to sneer.

You let your eyes close once more, though if you had the energy you’d be rolling them.

There’s a sudden knock at the boys' dorm room door.

It’s a single rap. Sharp. Irritated.

They don’t even bother trying to hide the weed, Sukuna—brazen as he is—actually tucks an unlit joint behind his ear as he kicks the towel away and pulls open the door.

“Yeah, what?” he asks the unsuspecting knocker brusquely, leaning indolently against the doorframe on one arm.

A tut of admonishment comes from the other side of Sukuna’s frame, followed by a beleaguered sigh.

“Do you guys mind? Some people in this building are trying to study while you’re in here—”

The familiar voice falters to a stop.

Sukuna laughs, nudging open the door a little bit wider so that the man on the other side can get a better view at what exactly it is that’s caught his attention.

Nanami’s eyes widen as he takes in the scene before him. You’re only half-conscious sprawled across Suguru's bed, naked save for Choso’s unzipped hoodie wrapped around you. Your head rests against the aforementioned man’s chest as he quietly strokes your side, trying to get you to take a drink from the room temperature bottle of water in his hand– though you’re more preoccupied with playing with his long, elegant fingers wrapped around it.

“Hi Ken,” you giggle weakly as your head lolls in his direction, perking up at his unexpected appearance.

Choso sets the bottle aside on Geto’s bedside table and holds your waist carefully as you push yourself up, like he doesn’t quite trust the way your limbs wobble underneath you as you shuffle towards the end of the bed near the door. You lean towards the two men in the doorway on your hands and knees, the hoodie on your frame falling open.

Kento swallows, not sure where to look, and the tips of his ears go pink.

You sit back on your haunches, knees parted, and you feel the slow ooze of cum as it drips out onto Suguru’s stained bedspread between your legs. You smile at him dazedly, titling your head to the side so the imprint of Geto’s teeth are on full display on the side of your marked up throat.

“Is it your turn now?”

#gojo x reader #geto x reader #choso x reader #sukuna x reader #gojo satoru x reader #geto suguru x reader #ryomen sukuna x reader #kamo choso x reader #choso #gojo satoru #geto suguru #ryomen sukuna #jjk fic #jjk writing #writing

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wifeofasith · 5 months

Text

Warnings — Dead dove - do not eat, psychologist!Anakin x reader, manipulation, coercion, captivity, blindfolding, tying up, drugging, loss of consciousness, both Anakin and reader are mentally ill, scissor play, undressing, dub-con, implied murder, hinted homicide, hinted torture, stalker behavior, implied APD, implied suicide, Stockholm syndrome? Generally a messed-up piece of work.

Word count — 3k

Notes — A small project for my friend. Not something I'd normally write, but I took it as a challenge. Not exactly smut, but it's hinted & characters make out. Make sure to read the warning list and be mindful. Wrote it in a different point of view to make it as gender neutral as possible. NOT PROOFREAD.

After seven visits and a night of consideration, I've come to the conclusion that Doctor Skywalker wasn't the correct mental health specialist for me. And it wasn't because he was bad at his job, no, quite the opposite. Anakin Skywalker was an attractive male in his forties. He never shared details about his personal life, and despite that, he managed to create an impression of a person I've known for months, if not years, of my life.

Anakin scared me. Not intentionally, of course. It was what he's supposed to do — pick up the details of me, the patterns of my brain, my movements, and my involuntary fidgeting. He was a modern mind reader, and I couldn't help but wonder if he's aware of every thought I've had when he sat in front of me, with his legs crossed, glasses hanging on the very tip of his nose, a linen button-up with the last button left free. Could he hear what my inner voice was saying during those stolen stares? The gentle tapping of a fountain pen on his notebook told me he could.

He wasn't the only one digging for specifics, though. His purposeful, secretive behavior made me want to figure him out. As if he were my medical project and not the other way around. I knew that it wasn’t ethical; part of his job was to keep the outside world, including his own, off his patients' brains to avoid influencing them. But I needed to know more. Anakin Skywalker was my psychologist, and I was utterly and entirely obsessed with him. Maybe that's exactly why I should stay in therapy. For one reason or another.

It was Tuesday morning, and I woke up especially early for my supposedly last appointment. I wanted to take a longer way to his office and connect all the pieces of private information my ill brain gathered and processed about Anakin. There were plenty of assumptions, facts I couldn’t know for sure, and guesses about his life that were possibly altered by whatever’s been lurking in my brain. However, I loved the image. In my head, Anakin was divorced. The absence of an expensive stone on his ring finger forced me to come to that conclusion. A glimpse of his phone wallpaper portraying two toddlers told me he was a father of two — a boy and a girl with the same gentle but intense stare he wore. The bundle of keys on his office desk told me the kind of car he drove, how many locks his house had, a keychain of his assumed favorite hockey team hinted at what he enjoys doing in his free time. Oh, and he was a smoker, that’s for sure. You could never miss the smell. No matter how many mints he swallowed before my visits or the scent of soap he used to wash his smoke-stained fingers, the cigarette trace was always obvious. But I didn’t mind it, not one bit. His natural smell mixing with the dirt of an addiction on someone who’s supposed to be an example of a perfect intellectual man was like knowing his dirty secret — it was arousing.

I came fifteen minutes early. My doctor worked on the third floor of a five-story commercial building; it was an environment I deemed to be perfectly suitable for a man such as Anakin. Modern architecture surrounded by enough green to not appear like a dystopian haven. And it was an excellent choice for a psychologist office, initially. Personally, however, I thought it was too perfect. Everything surrounding Anakin was a bit too perfect, from the way he carried himself to the choice of his work spot — it always rubbed it in for me that there are people doing okay, people who aren’t chained with the issues of their own heads, uncaged, people who can enjoy that perfect organic modernist dream.

I was going to spend the punctual sixteen minutes outside on a bench before stepping inside and greeting the doctor with a new wave of depression to discolor some of his lively world; after all, that’s what he’s signed up for. I sat down comfortably, not too far from the main entrance, admiring the surrounding park while judging parents chattering around while their strollers were left unattended near the children’s playground. It was enjoyable to see and possibly figure out the mindset of all the strangers and passersby. I felt like my own kind of psychologist, but I never had any intentions to help the people I marked as dysfunctional in one way or another. I lacked some empathy, yes, but that only made my life easier; I wasn’t as attached to problems that weren’t my own, and I could analyze people without their lives influencing mine. My doctor’s fairytale was unfortunately disturbed by the raspy voice greeting me.

“Good morning. You’re early.” Anakin greeted me with a welcoming yet slightly surprised tone. “I’m glad.”

The coffee in his hand told me otherwise; I could only assume though, but he probably expected to spend a good ten minutes alone in his office, enjoying the morning with a hot latte and with no bothering from his patients before his workday even started.

“Good morning.” I nod too nonchalantly for my own liking. It was obvious I was forcing the tone, and if someone is to pick on such a small detail — it’s him.

“Let’s go; I don’t mind starting early.” He smiles, and I can once again can tell what a liar he is.

I follow him inside a white-lit lobby area, where he’s greeted by a few people he’s familiar with. He walks with masculine confidence, and I find myself feeling so disgustingly small beside him, small and insignificant. I wonder if he’s ever aware of the effect his demeanor has on people. It pisses me off and excites me further. It’s a case of mental masochism, and I’m a pathetic victim.

After a few second elevator ride, spiced with his initiated small talk, we enter the office. He offers to make me a cup of tea, giving me a choice of peppermint and lavender. I was about to decline when I reminded myself that it was my last time here and that I had never drunk lavender tea before. So I agree, encouraging him to be generous with sugar.

“Can I assume you being oddly early to come means an improvement in your mood?” He asks as he brews my beverage. It’s almost as if he’s not even working yet, not taking notes and analyzing me, but I know it’s just a facade to make me feel more comfortable.

“Perhaps. More so that I don’t think I’ll be visiting anymore.” I confess and go along with his play.

“Can I ask why?” His broad back turns from me, and I’m greeted with his handsome face. There was no hint of confusion or surprise; you would think he'd expected me to say that.

I shrug my shoulders, following his hands as he stirs my tea and pushes a delicate porcelain cup forward. His voice is nice, but I would much rather stare at him than watch his miserable attempts to help me.

“I don’t think therapy is necessary. Not anymore, at least.” I take a sip of a hot lavender drink, my hands taking the cup involuntary to avoid speaking further. The brim touches my lips, and I hiss in pain from the burning liquid. I swear he chuckles at me.

“I would like to continue seeing you.” He crosses his legs and leans back in his chair. The gaze he’s fixed on me, mixed with the weird silence after he stops asking questions, is making my insides squirm with anxiety. It’s never like that around him.

“You see, y/n, you are an interesting case…” Anakin pushes his glasses up with his index finger, rocking his chair slightly. “You’re an obsessive stalker.” He blurts out as a wide grin spreads across his face. “And I dislike misbehaving patients.” His face is becoming more blurry as we speak, and I feel myself sinking into the velvet cushion of an armchair.

Fucking lavender tea...

I couldn’t tell if I was out for days or mere minutes, but I’m pretty sure if the familiar smell of cigarettes hadn't reached my nostrils, I’d still be asleep. I opened my eyes only to be met with a dark cloth concealing my sight. I know I’m still in Anakin’s office because the sensation under my restrained wrists is of the same velvet chair. I remained still, in hopes of figuring out what’s going on. Only one thing was clear: I shouldn’t have came today yet alone drank tea. That's a gut feeling for you. The blindfold is weak around my eyes, and I guess it’s less for hiding the view and more for intimidating me. Good job, doctor.

“Oh?” Anakin gasps mockingly. “You’re up early, little bird.” He’s standing behind me; one of his hands snakes up my neck, fingers twisting into my hair. “Good.” He tightens the cloth around my eyes.

“There’s something about you. You’re as annoying as you’re pretty, and I can’t decide if I want to keep you as my little pet or get rid of you and mask it as the tragedy of a weak-minded person.”

I can sense him walk away and then make his way back into his chair in front of me. I sat up straight, settling my head towards him to show how little his words were frightening me. My mind’s been playing games on me since I can remember myself, and a mere human couldn’t scare me with ropes and threats when my own head was a prison of torture most of my life.

“I urge you to make that decision now before your next patient finds us in this roleplay of yours.” I tug the restraints on my hands.

Anakin laughs; I can hear him light a cigarette.

“Yeah?” He pauses, probably taking a puff. “You’re stupid. You don’t think you should be scared?”

I know I should be; in fact, I am not mentally ill enough to be oblivious to how messed up my situation actually is. But I’m not scared, and that scares me way more than being held hostage by my own psychologist.

“So what then, doc? Don’t keep me waiting.”

I can feel Anakin rise from his seat and slowly make his way to stand in front of me. I can’t see him, but as he towers over me, I lift my head up. There is that sense of feeling small again. Maybe it’s less about his confidence and more about how twisted his mind is to lure in people like that.

“Do you think I haven’t noticed? You… Digging through me, trying to figure me out... Watching me. You’re sick.” He grabs my chin. ”You’re sick, and it pisses me off.”

“So you decided to tie me up?”

He sighs, and I’m pretty sure he’s fed up with my poor sense of judgment.

“No, I decided to tear up your dignity piece by piece to show you who’s the real maniac between the two of us.” He yanks the blindfold off my face, and I can’t help but wonder if the initial purpose of it was to do just that. It's as if he’s planned every single second of our sick encounter.

His piercing deep blue eyes star into mine intensely, filled with overwhelming emotions of visible hatred and lust, and I am no longer sure if I want to scream into his face or bite his lips off in an intense session of kissing. I want to make him bleed through both pain and pleasure. Can he tell what I think this time too, or is he sane enough to be unaware of the disturbing thoughts spiraling in my scrambled brain?

“Don’t look at me like that.” He says it with a disgusted tone.

“Do you not enjoy my stare, doctor?"

I don’t know why I said that. I don’t know why my tongue moved in such a seductive manner when I spoke to him. Maybe it was the fruit of his manipulation, making me feel safe, making me trust him, and then turning me into a mindless vessel that craves his approval. Or maybe my problems dive deeper into my body, and it’s just who I am. Maybe sickness excites me.

Whatever the reasoning, it seemed to amuse him. Though I still couldn’t read if his amusement was based on hatred for that twisted attraction he obviously felt towards me, part of me wished it was later.

“You’re a masochist.”

“And you’re a sadist.”

Anakin raises his eyebrow. “So you agree?”

We were both right, but I wasn’t just going to sign up for him hurting me. Or at least not this easily. As I wonder how this is going to go, he leaves the room.

I like to think he’s keeping me because he finds me desirable. It doesn’t exactly make the whole captive situation better, but hell, it’s satisfying when you’re entertaining enough for a man such as Anakin to consider not murdering you instantly. For other eyes, it would make his image less perfect, but to me, he’s becoming better by a second.

Anakin comes back with a pair of metal scissors in his hand. He towers over me again, this time raising my chin with a cold blade.

“You’re not letting go of that stare, are you, darlin’?” He bites his lip, looking down at me.

The stinging blade traces down my neck, sliding over my right collarbone. The thicker skin he reaches, the more pressure he’s applying, yet he's not breaking the flesh, only leaving a red, tingling line. It drags over my clothed shoulder and down the sleeve of my shirt. He does it slowly, not breaking eye contact, as if he’s done it a thousand times before. I question if I am as special as I thought I was.

“You have no idea what I am going to do to you.” He leans down to whisper as he hooks the cutting edge under the cuff and cuts into it.

A cold sensation sends shivers up my arm when he lets the two blades rip through the material all the way up to the neckline, leaving my left limb completely free of clothing. The dust particles tickle my nose, causing a sharp inhale, which he mistakes for fear.

“Scared?”

Not a chance. It’s better than just undressing me; it gives a sense of foreplay, whether before sex or murder. He repeats the same process on my other sleeve.

“You like playing with your food?”

Anakin grins widely. I think he’s liking me more and more. "Oh, how I’ll enjoy devouring you, my sweet dessert."

He drops down to his knees, placing his hands on my thighs to keep them apart and give him more access to be closer to me. He cuts into the hemline of my shirt and rips it across the middle, parting it and exposing even more of me for his eyes to eat. He doesn’t stop there and digs the point of the scissors into my chin, causing a painful sting. I look into his eyes, clouded with darkness, biting my teeth together to avoid hissing from the ache.

“Mouth.” He says that, and my lips part involuntary, as if he had control of my own body.

He slides the scissors fully into me, leaving only the rings hanging out.

“Bite.”

I clench my teeth against the metal to prevent myself from choking. Anakin looks at me proudly, as if saying how good I am for listening to his orders. He grabs the waistband of my pants and commands again.

“Hips.”

I lift myself up, and before I know it, I’m almost entirely naked, tied to a chair, with scissors digging into the back of my throat. And I don’t think ever in my life I’ve been this turned on by a mere thought of being hurt.

He stands up, grabbing the tool out of my mouth and yanking it out without any consideration. With trembling hands, he starts cutting the ropes off my wrists.

“I’m about to die from the feelings you make me feel.” He groans.

Once my hands are free, I clash into him like an animal freed from a cage who’s been deprived of meat. His lips lash onto mine, and his arms grab my thighs and lift me up against him. He’s kissing me, and my body’s burning with sickness and desire. Anakin carries me to his desk, sweeping all the papers and stationary on the ground with a loud, crashing sound, breaking whatever’s fragile and unlucky enough to interfere with our twisted fantasy.

Anakin’s teeth graze the skin on my neck as he throws me to lay on the wooden tabletop. He digs his teeth into my flesh, making me gasp. He’s marking my body with deep red bruises, and I wonder if it’s to hurt me, taste me, or make me see the sars. I’m pretty sure all three things are happening at the same time, though.

He pulls away for a second just to force his tongue into my mouth. And I kiss him. I crave him. I want to make him feel weak for not killing me; I want to make him feel vulnerable for giving into his desires, but the only one who’s feeling small is me. Just like every other time. I keep kissing him, tasting his spit in my mouth as it smears over my chin from how hungrily he’s working. And he keeps devouring me. He keeps devouring me, and I can’t force myself to stop him.

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neonghostlights · 6 months

Text

Actress!Reader x rockstar!OC, Rockstar!Eddie Munson x Actress!Reader (best friends to lovers-slow burn)

★A/N: Please read the warnings I am begging you. This chapter has a follow up news story that will be posted soon.

★ Series Summary: It’s the ‘90s in LA and you and your best friend Eddie have both made it big. The following is a series of Interviews, News Reports and One Shots showing you and Eddie’s story throughout the years.

★ Chapter Summary: Things fall apart even more than they already have.

★Warnings: 18+ only, Minors DNI. ANGST. Domestic Violence-Reader is in a very abusive relationship that includes physical, emotional and mental abuse. Some of the abuse is described in this chapter. Reader has injuries from her abuse such as bruises and a busted lip. Some of her past abuse is described as well. Coercion. Drug use is described. Alcohol consumption and driving under the influence. If any of this is triggering to you then do not proceed in reading. 18+ only, Minors DNI.

★Wordcount: 1.5k I'm keeping this one short due to the amount of angst.

Series Masterlist

Chapter Nine: And It All Falls Apart

November 1992

The lights in this club were making you dizzy. You had never been one to like strobe lights or any flashing lights at all.

Hence another reason to hate the paparazzi.

They were lined up outside the club the second you pulled up. They could have been here for someone else since you were far from the only celebrities here but they sure did snap pictures in rapid succession as you walked in holding onto Collins arm for dear life.

He made you let go of him the second you crossed through the tinted glass doors.

He was sitting beside you, not paying you any attention as usual. In public you didn’t speak to him unless he spoke to you first. You posed for the pictures, smiled and nodded when needed but other than that you just sat back and let him do his thing.

Everyone here that knew how Collin was knew not to speak to you either. It was the unspoken rule of anyone that you two regularly interacted with.

Sometimes you wondered why he made you come out to places like this just to be ignored. You wondered if it was a control thing, just a way for him to push you even more into your anger.

And you had been so damn angry lately. You wanted to take your arm and smash this glass table. You wanted to send the white powder and pills flying before anymore could make it up his nose.

You wanted to stand in the middle of the lit up dance floor and scream louder than the music being played. You wanted everyone in this room to know what was happening to you.

But you couldn’t.

You learned to let him have his distractions while you sat there quiet and still. That way he wouldn’t remember you were there and make you snort that shit up your nose too.

The last time you told him no infront of his friends you left the club with a busted lip. No one helped you, none of them even batted an eye. It was dark and secluded enough in the VIP section for no one else to see it happen. That's how he kept you, dark and secluded. You felt like you hadn’t seen the light in years. Sometimes you dreamt about what it would feel like to be free, to walk through a field and feel the sunshine on your skin.

You were embarrassed to have an audience to your downfall.

You weren’t sure if that time was when the anger started. You think that it had been brewing inside of you since the first time he grabbed you too hard or maybe the first time he raised his voice so loud it made you flinch.

There was a time when you lived in denial, wanting to be right for once. No matter how many times you told yourself that you were happy it didn’t make it true.

You wondered if time would make the bruises fade. They felt like they were now tattooed on your skin. Even if you left he would be etched onto your body forever. You would feel his presence in every loud noise or every random ache of your body.

You blinked a few times, letting the tears flick off your lashes.

You felt a hand grip your thigh under the table and you tried to swallow down the creeping pressure in your throat.

He didn’t look at him but you knew he had noticed that you had let a few tears slip.

You would pay for that mistake later on.

The vodka burned as you took a shot, draining the glass. Another would be placed in front of you until you drank enough to his desire.

You could feel the fuzziness start to take over your mind. You welcomed the escape, letting it numb you as you closed your eyes for a moment and swayed slightly, offbeat to the fast music.

When you opened them again the world was a little less clear.

You let your eyes trail across the room until they focused on a mess of curly hair. You couldn’t even tell what color their hair was but in the lighting it looked dark enough if you squinted your eyes.

You hated when you did this, latching onto any sign of him when you spent so much time avoiding him. You didn’t even allow yourself to think his name, let alone listen to his music or read his interviews.

You knew the curly haired stranger across the club wasn’t him. They were too short, shoulders too narrow, and hair too curly to be the person you were thinking of.

Your eyes narrowed down at the hand that hadn’t let up on its grip. You hummed lowly to the loud bass as it shook the ground under your heels.

He finally let go when a pretty waitress walked up with some more bottles. He wasn’t fast enough to move his claws off you before her eyes caught the death grip his hand had on you. She was professional though, smiling and batting her eyes at him like she never saw anything at all. Collin eyed her and you felt your stomach turn. He leaned over and said something to her that made her giggle as she set the bottles down.

She turned and looked at you, recognition in her eyes before she shot you a concerned look. You gave her a small smile and wave before she turned and walked away.

You didn’t let yourself relax as he lifted the glass to his lips and took a deep drink, draining it completely. He had no issue with draining drinks and your bank account. You were sure it was your money that had paid for this night out.

It was his sixth one, you had learned to count how many he had in order to predict what would come next. It was one of your defense mechanisms.

If you saw things coming maybe they wouldn’t hurt so bad.

You wished you could be good enough to where he didn’t have to drink or do drugs to be around you. You longed for the happiness you pretended to have when you were acting.

Collin slammed the glass on the table and you jumped.

He slapped your thigh once and you immediately started scooting to get out of the booth.

“We’re gonna head out,” he slurred before pressing his face against the table for one more hit.

His buddies all complained as he took your hand and led you out of the booth and towards the doors.

You kept your head down as he led you through the front doors with a tight grip on your hand. Your fingers protested against the pressure being placed on them but you knew better than to try to pull away, especially in front of the cameras.

Collin stopped to speak to the valet as you eyed him curiously.

“I thought the driver was taking us home,” you said in a light tone to make it seem like you weren’t questioning him.

“We’re going for a drive tonight instead. I had someone drop off the car. You must’ve been too drunk to notice,” he said as he pinched your cheek tightly.

You winced, that side of your face still sore. You wanted to argue, to tell him that you thought he liked you drunk. Besides, he was way more fucked up than you were. He was just better at hiding it than you. You wondered if that was some weird superpower he had.

The brand new sleek red car came around and before you knew it you were being pushed into an open door.

“Wait,” you stumbled out, backing away from the door.

“Get in,” Collin snapped in your ear, trying not to let the paparazzi standing nearby hear.

His hand pushed on your back, your knee hitting the side of the car. There would be a knot there in the morning.

“You’re too drunk,” you said, loud enough for someone to look between the two of you with concern.

“I said get the fuck in,” he said, louder this time.

You looked to the paparazzi whose attention you had caught. He stared at you both, mouth pressed in a tight line like he wasn’t sure if he should step in or not.

You hoped that the man had a family, maybe a daughter or sister or wife. Some woman that he loved. Maybe he would see their face in yours and his protective instinct would kick in for him to save you from the bad guy.

Now would be the chance, someone to pull you to safety. Maybe the man could call Miles to come pick you up. He had to be asleep right now but you knew he would come to pick you up even if he was angry at you right now.

The man stepped forward, pushing against some of the others that were pressed against the protective railing tightly, competing for the best angle.

And right when you thought he might say something, he raised the camera up and snapped a picture instead.

Collin took advantage of your stunned disbelief as he pushed you into the car fully, slamming the door shut behind you.

You were still blinking away the tears and blindness from the camera flash as the car took off into traffic too fast.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson au #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson x you #eddie stranger things #eddie munson series #eddie munson angst #rockstar!eddiemunson x actress!reader #rockstar!eddie x reader #rockstar!eddie munson x reader

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ineffable-endearments · 4 months

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I always felt like Good Omens was about free will not only as an individual thing, but as a systemic issue. Since it was first published, there was always an aspect of the story that explored systems and how they exert pressure on people. This flowed into an exploration of ways people can take responsibility even when everything is too big to handle alone. A lot of it seemed, to me, to be about just showing up and doing your sincere best even when you weren't quite sure how it could all work out.

All this to say that I don't feel that the...pressure? coercion? Aziraphale may have been feeling about going to Heaven can be handwaved away entirely. There is a System and the pressure it is putting on him is real, not just fluffy nonsense in his head. He knows what Heaven does to dissenters. He knows what they were ready to do to him. Seventy-five percent of the time, he chooses to ignore it, but he knows. In fact, I think it's a bit of a feedback loop in which the fear of consequences leads Aziraphale to believe Heaven has to be right after all because the alternative is intolerable.

I've never seen any satisfactory explanation for what Heaven would do if Aziraphale insisted on saying "no" to the Supreme Archangel thing. As we see from Crowley's trip up there in disguise, the very best Aziraphale and Crowley could hope for would be to be left alone for a little while until Heaven destroys the world, except in that scenario, they wouldn't know anything about it until it started happening because they'd be off being clueless. This is Good Omens, so humans would almost certainly save the world again, but with all his anxiety around control this season, I don't think Aziraphale is in the headspace to be placing that bet right now.

And where did that anxiety around control come from? Heaven, of course.

I don't love the idea of dismissing the coercion of a system as massive as Heaven because Heaven feels like an analogy to real-world structures. Like, are we going to suggest that people can just magically break free of their religious/cult/authoritarian influences and face no serious repercussions from the people around them? That is usually not the case, and in many situations, those repercussions are so bad that people don't actually have a choice but to stay silent.

I can definitely embrace the idea that Aziraphale has actively decided to put on a happy face and believe the best of Heaven because of the sunk cost, the need to feel good and useful, and the fear of punishment, but I can't embrace the notion that he has a real, free choice.

I'm working on a long, long post about this, about the real central issues I believe Aziraphale is facing and how I think the primary mistake the narrative wants him to address is the manner in which he talked to Crowley during the Final Fifteen, and the complicated stuff he's going to have to disentangle before he can figure that out. This post didn't exactly fit there, but I wanted to post it separately because of the amount of chatter I've seen lately about Aziraphale.

Anyway, getting in that elevator most likely wasn't the mistake. How is it a mistake if you probably don't have a choice in the first place?

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vasito-de-leche · 25 days

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Hiii! I hope you’re doing well!! I’m just wondering if i could request some yandere Forget Me Not headcannons? If not, some general romantic hcs would be fine!

That said, don’t overwork yourself and feel free to decline this if you feel like it!

;R1999 FORGET ME NOT - Yandere Headcanons

Compilation of headcanons about Forget Me Not as a Yandere.

I am doing well, ty for asking! and ty for the yandere request, I love writing this type of stuff <3

warning for yandere content and everything it entails. as well as self-harm and suicide themes

Forget Me Not as a Yandere would be pretty standard, I think─at least from the beginning.

I want to say that his lack of experience and proper, healthy examples when it comes to relationships and interpersonal skills is the basis of his Yandere profile: he's hindered by even more twisted impulses and intrusive thoughts, and thus would cling even HARDER to his self-imposed restraints because the stakes are higher now. The consequences would be even more severe should he lose control.

From an outsider's point of view, perhaps he appears to be meaner than usual, there's more bite behind his words as opposed to his elegant way of serving backhanded compliments. While those who spend more time with him would notice that he's unbelievably tense and high-strung. Essentially, it's the same fight between indulgence and restraint that I've been portraying in previous FMN posts, only ramped up to 200%.

The thing about Forget Me Not as a Yandere is that he would be extremely malleable and reactive to his darling. He's so very easy to influence, for better and for worse─the attention he pays to every single detail about you, your habits, your gestures and every little "tell", borders on predatory. It's very ironic, the way he can't understand his own feelings nor thoughts but he actually can read you crystal clear, that he may know you better than you know yourself. The dynamic of your relationship would be determined in your first interactions with him, and it AAAAAALL depends on you. But it's not as binary as who gets to be the "dominant" party and who gets to be the "submissive" party!

When I say Forget Me Not is malleable, I mean it.

In the context of entering a relationship with him, yes, there is the chance that, if you show any signs of "submission" (a more timid and meek personality) Forget Me Not will take advantage of it to the fullest─either through force, coercion or manipulation. We all know he's not below playing dirty and acting to get what he wants, after all. And there is also the chance that, if you show the opposite (a more stubborn and combative personality, to go against him whenever possible) that he will meet you with as much vitriol as you show him, or that he will become even more obsessed with making you submit to him, to blur both love and hatred together as mentioned before. You know, all these classics traits in Yandere content!

But the secret third option is that, if you play your cards right, he will be at your absolute mercy as well.

You can play the exact same mind games he plays and have him eating out of the palm of your hand. After all, he's just looking for ANY excuse and justification to unravel and let loose─you taking the reigns is just as good as him taking the lead. At the end of the day, as long as he gets your undivided attention, the dynamic doesn't matter. We're talking about a guy who pretends to be a poised gentleman and a functional member of society. A cowardly snake who doesn't want to face the consequences of his actions and would absolutely prefer to double down on his awful behaviour and then die at the end than think of apologizing to a single person.

This guy? As a Yandere? Yeah, he will adapt to you, but he will also allow you to manipulate him if you have the courage to reach out and tug at his leash, to take advantage of his obsession. I would even go as far to say that THIS outcome would be the best one for him, as it means that he doesn't have to take responsibility for his own life: that burden is now on you, you own him now. Good luck!

For this post, I'll talk about this secret third option since it's the most interesting in my opinion!

I'm not sure how to format my headcanons and thoughts properly, so I'll do something new and rate the general Yandere traits I think are relevant for him! Obsessiveness is one I specifically left out because it's the most basic requirement for Yandere characters, it feels unnecessary to discuss it. That shit must be cranked up to the highest setting or else there's no Yandere in the first place!

Possessive: ✦✦✦✧✧✧

In this context, he perceives his life to belong to you and only you─the nuance of the situation and whether it gets worse or a better for him are up to you, there's literally endless possibilities─and so it makes sense for him to be possessive, but not in the traditional sense that we're used to, so to say?

Because one of the important aspects of Forget Me Not as a character is the self-loathing. To me, this is one of the few core aspects that must remain in every AU or iteration for him to feel in-character. He's defined by revenge, self-loathing and a delusional mind. And it's this self-loathing that leads Forget Me Not into a very, very insecure mindset─because he's fully aware that YOU could aim for a better lifestyle, a better partner, someone who wants what's best for you instead of wanting to drag you down, deeper and deeper into the mess that is his life. Of course, this is something he won't allow now that you've so gracefully let him latch onto your side like a parasite, but it's a possibility that will continue to haunt him forever.

And so, he's possessive of your ownership and control over him, what he perceives to be the bond that ties you to him or viceversa. It's not quite "You're mine, and no one else's", it's more of a "I'm yours, and no one else's".

No matter what you do to him, he will remain by your side. The idea of you favouring someone else, or choosing to be with someone else and keep him by the sidelines, well, it will ruin him, of course! But Forget Me Not has been waiting for the other shoe to drop his whole life, and so NOTHING you can do can convince him to leave or do anything to "get back at you" in a direct way─aside from manipulating the world to leave you behind instead, perhaps. I like to think he'd still be a pretty pathetic, soggy and miserable guy. Desperate to prove to you that he's going to stay no MATTER what you do or say to him.

It's fine if you hate him, it's fine if you love him. But at the end of the day, you should at appreciate his loyalty and treasure him. Forget Me Not wants YOU to be the possessive one, to want him despite how awful he is, all while accepting the fact that you will never truly be his, because he doesn't deserve you.

Not to say that you keep the guy on a literal leash 24/7, of course! But to if you were to flirt with someone else in front of him, chances are Forget Me Not won't move a single finger. He would stay there, glaring daggers at the perpetrator, and then whine and guilt trip you into paying attention to him. But if someone were to flirt with him instead, he would be pretty ruthless in his rejection, proud and loudly declaring who he belongs to.

Perhaps it would be better to describe him as clingy instead? I think as indulgent as Forget Me Not can be when it comes to his vices, being by your side would be his utmost priority in this context. He won't follow you around like a lost puppy like other characters might do, but he would instead pull a few strings here and there behind the scenes to ensure you always happen to be within his line of sight.

Actually, now that I'm thinking, Forget Me Not as a Yandere would have EXTREME separation issues. This guy would ABSOLUTELY be the type to watch you sleep, because he just can't fathom the idea of being, what, 8 hours away from you? All of this being tied to his anxieties and codependency. I don't see him being very vocal about his love for you, or if he is then the sort of shit he spouts could easily be misinterpreted as thinly veiled threats, or just self-affirmations for himself.

Delusional: ✦✦✦✦✦✦

I'm giving him full points in this section because aside from the aforementioned anxieties, paranoia and self-loathing that gets him to be so, so very miserable, Forget Me Not is pretty much Delusional with a capital D.

Regardless of the path that led you to him and this situation, Forget Me Not would cling onto the fact that you currently own his heart, his mind and his entire life─this OBVIOUSLY means, in his book at least, that you care or love him just enough to take on such a burden. It's pretty much everything I discussed up until now mixed into one big cocktail of delusion and desperation. There's no takebacksies now!

Regardless of your treatment of him, Forget Me Not wholeheartedly believes that you love him to some degree, and that is more than enough for him to fuel his delusions, to overthink every action and every gesture as an act of love. He can still read you like an open book, he knows whenever you're nervous, whenever you're scared, whenever you get angry at him─how else can one explain such reactions, if love isn't at the center of it all? If you didn't love him, you would treat him with indifference, you would discard him like a broken toy!

Of course, if you WERE to treat him with indifference or attempt to discard him and get him out of your life, he would just find more and more ways to come back, to twist your words and their meaning to something that fits his narrative, to worm his way into your life the same way you've done, worming into his own heart. There's no point in trying to make sense of his logic, there is none, it's just the nonsensical, lovestruck fantasy he's built for himself.

Whether you kick him in the mouth or hold him close to you, the only truth Forget Me Not will stand for is your love for him.

But I think it would be fun if this is something he only made known to you? To the outside world, he makes them believe what they want to believe, make whatever assumption about your relationship with him─the muddier the truth becomes for the rest, the easier it is for him to trap and isolate you. Forget Me Not has a talent for acting, to play every unassuming role required for whatever schemes he's got under his sleeve, he might be a pathetic, desperate excuse of a man, kneeling and clinging onto you, but he still retains his cunning mind when it matters. And when you're not around to cloud his vision, he's dangerous.

No matter what others might think, Forget Me Not would find a way to profit─it doesn't matter if your best friend has an inkling about the true nature of your relationship, he will capitalize on it to ensure they remain far, far away from helping you escape. If your coworkers or classmates or what have you believe you two are an odd couple? Then that's what you two are! It's not like they know any better!

Forget Me Not knows more than anyone that there is no fighting the perception of others. There is a group of humans who simply decided he was the Devil himself, based entirely on his heritage rather than his actions. So he plays his part and lets their own biases do their thing, easy.

In that same vein, if you've indulged or pampered him a lot, then he would be more ready to believe anything you say. Sure, Forget Me Not knows that you may lie to him, you might've done that already many times before, but how can he say no when you've been so sweet to him lately?

Manipulative: ✦✦✦✦✦✦

You know what. Self-explanatory, I don't even have to ramble about this because I've talked about how manipulative Forget Me Not is in pretty much all of his posts. He rarely chooses direct confrontations,

I'm inclined to believe that he would only do so in extreme situations, and even so, he would only dirty his hands and confront whatever obstacles in his path─but confronting you? He's too much of a coward, he would never dream of confronting you without ensuring that you will deliver the answer and reaction he seeks, out of fear of hearing the truth from your own lips. I insist, he's not afraid of digging himself into his own grave with his schemes and manipulations if it means maintaining this whole status quo.

So, instead let me talk about how you can manipulate him instead, to level the field a little!

Physical touch in any way is the easiest way to force Forget Me Not to listen. From pulling on his hair to caressing his cheek─I don't think he will ever get used to having you touch him. Again, he thrives with whatever you throw at him, so it's up to you to choose.

I think lying to him and getting away with it is very difficult. In fact, if you think you've successfully lied to him, it's probably because he decided to let you believe he's none the wiser. so instead you would have to appeal to his emotional side. It's as easy as bringing up the whole ownership/possessive aspect, any reminder that he's all yours is enough to get Forget Me Not to comply after some minimum reluctance and pushback from him. It doesn't matter if you're guilt tripping him or threatening him, he thinks it's so romantic that you would go out of your way to reassure him of his position.

Sadism ✦✦✧✧✧✧ / Masochism ✦✦✦✦✧✧

Lately, I've been seeing Yandere content being slowly portrayed as a watered down version of what it used to be, like, to call a character who is just possessive a Yandere and that's it.

But I'm a fan of dark content, and to theorize about everything that comes with these themes─this includes physical harm, something that people are more sensitive towards, which is fair and I understand if this isn't everyone's cup of tea!

So far, most of the violence towards the reader has been emotional and psychological, with physical violence being directed instead to third parties. Here, there will be discussions of potential physical violence towards the reader and Forget Me Not.

That's why this section is at the bottom, so that you can opt out of it!

Something I forgot to bring up directly is the themes of idealization and religious parallels when it comes to the way Forget Me Not interprets his relationship with you.

Despite all these things, he still considers you way above him, a holy figure deserving of everything he can offer─so I don't think he would be physically abusive nor be threatening in this way either. He finds zero pleasure in the idea of physically harming you, and would very much prefer to chip away at your mental stability and vulnerability by hurting himself. Hell, he would prefer to have YOU hurt him instead, to have physical proof of your influence on his body. It aligns perfectly with his self-loathing. If you could scrape off all of his scales with your nails and replace when with the scars you leave him, he would be so, so very grateful.

Or to have you pluck his scales off one by one as punishment, he would absolutely love that. I think that, in those days in which he cannot tolerate nor deal with himself, when he cannot drown his sorrows in alcohol, he would become an active nuisance for the very small and off chance that you lash out at him. It's very cathartic to him.

This post focuses on a very specific outcome of the whole Yandere situation with Forget Me Not, but even so, I believe that every other version in every other situation would still have Forget Me Not being more of a masochist than a sadist. At least when talking about his darling. Given the type of person that he is and all, he would still prefer more mental games.

#reverse 1999 #reverse 1999 x reader #reverse 1999 forget me not #forget me not #yandere #this feels a little like yandere x yandere #but thats partially bc FMN is a fucking freak #phew i think i got the whole dark content for FMN stuff out of my system now

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howlingday · 2 months

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Could we get more of your Dark Jaune being the only one surviving the emerald or the au we're Grimm are actual threats in single digit numbers.

Not sure what you mean by the second one, so here's more of Jaune being the only survivor of the Emerald Forest.

----------------------------------------------------

"Can I get you anything to drink?"

Jaune sat quietly, eyes glazed over and glued to the floor in front of him. Yet he wasn't sure what he was looking at. It was more like his mind was in a fog, and the only pleasant view that didn't disturb the fog was the reflection of the whirling gears above his head. The slow, dull tick and tock dulled his senses like a lullaby.

"Mr. Arc? Jaune?" The headmaster gave a sigh and stood from his seat and walked in front of the young man. He carefully brought his cane down into view. "Jaune Arc?"

"Huh? What?" He blinked a few times before realizing where he was. "Oh, right. Sorry."

"It's quite alright, Mr. Arc." He nodded. "I was simply asking you if I could get you anything to drink."

"Oh, um, no thank you."

"Very well." He returned to his seat. "Now, of course, this means we must hasten to discuss your... enrollment at Beacon."

"Right." Jaune nodded. He felt his body tense, like his throat was going to close up. Was he being kicked out? Was he going to jail? What was going to happen to him?

"First and foremost, I want to make it especially clear that I nor the rest of the Beacon faculty have any intention of influencing your choice of enrollment at Beacon, or anywhere at all."

"R-Right."

"And while we are flattered by your choice to enroll here, we must ask, given the... unfortunate tragedies that occurred during initiation, I can understand your decision to rescind that choice, should you desire to do so."

"Uh, okay?"

"So, if I may ask, do you still intend to enroll at Beacon?"

Jaune's body continued to tense as he felt the weight of the question press heavily on his mind. If he said yes, then he'd have to continue attending classes until he graduated or failed, the former taking years and the latter coming from a horrible death like- He mentally shook himself, remembering he could still choose to say no, and give up. Like he always did. And he'd come back home to his parents and go back to being a waste-of-space do-nothing like he was before.

But the decision he made was the worst one of all; making none. So he sat there, jaw tight as he twisted his lips to feign deep thought. But that wasn't going to save him for long. He'd have to give his answer, either by coercion or by force, and neither option interested him in the slightest.

"If I may, Mr. Arc," Jaune looked up to the headmaster, relieved of his stewing in his thoughts, "the decision doesn't have to be made right here and right now. If you'd like, you can hold off on your answer and continue to attend Beacon until you have made your decision."

"For how long?" Jaune managed to ask, finding his jaw not as tight as he thought.

"Until the end of your first semester. By that point, you will be made part of a team, or you will be transferred out of Beacon Academy and return to your life as a civilian."

"I... I'm not sure." He didn't expect he'd be getting more time at Beacon. "Will I still attend classes?"

"You will be required, yes." The man nodded. "This is an academy after all."

"But what if..." He swallowed. "Nevermind."

"...Very well." He stood from his seat. "Should you have any questions, feel free to contact the faculty or myself."

"Thank you." Jaune stood from his seat and left the headmaster's office. Opening the door, he found Professor Goodwitch standing there with a clipboard in hand. There was a brief dialogue between them that could be summed up as 'Did you finish talking?' and 'Yes.' He then followed her down the elevator and to his dorm room.

His empty dorm room with only one bed. When she left, she'd informed him when classes would begin and then shut the door behind her. It was at this point he realized how big and empty the room was. How alone he felt.

There was a pain in his heart, and he didn't know how to make it stop.

#rwby #dark au #my answer #my answers #rwby au #jaune arc #ozpin #glynda goodwitch

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pikahlua · 15 days

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I was wondering your thoughts on my misgivings with the reveal that AFO meddled in Tenko’s life from birth. I’ve been struggling to understand this direction for the story for a long time because it implicates AFO too much. He made Kotarou abuse Tenko, he made Nao give birth to Tenko, he goaded Tenko’s friends to play heroes with him, he put Tenko in the perfect spot to kill those thugs…at this point you can’t even blame anyone else but AFO for how Tenko turned out. I’m really bothered by this because it dampens the whole bystander effect of Tenko’s arc for me. The only way I can see this making sense is if AFO is somehow exaggerating or acting as an unreliable narrator somehow, but I’m not banking on that happening. Please can you help me? Is there some Japanese context I’m missing or something?

Okay well first of all I think you're thinking about this a little too black-and-white. AFO didn't *make* Kotarou abuse Tenko, he encouraged Kotarou's strict mentality indirectly. He certainly didn't MAKE Nao birth Tenko XD The whole point of that reveal was that he said he couldn't do anything too obvious, it all had to be subtle nudges. It was manipulation, but it wasn't coercion. Those characters still had some agency in what occurred, even though all people are influenced by others, they just didn't realize one of the people influencing them had ulterior, nefarious motives.

"at this point you can’t even blame anyone else but AFO for how Tenko turned out" see the thing about this is, Tenko himself BELIEVED he was born this way, not that anyone else was to blame for how he turned out. THAT'S the thing that just got turned on its head. AFO is saying "You weren't born this way, this is how *I* made you. This wasn't random chance at all. You don't have free will, you never made a choice to begin with. I just let you think that."

As far as Japanese context goes, the Japanese are much more communalistic. People have some pretty heavy social pressures. AFO used that social pressure dynamic to influence Tenko's family. There is this concept in Japan called giri which is a social obligation. What sort of giri you owe to others plays a big role in how you behave and whose advice you take and such. It's all predicated on the idea that everyone in this system has good intentions, and AFO as someone who has BAD intentions could exploit that system.

There's only so much we can take away from this right now. Tenko will surely show up with a new conclusion about all this once he's had time to contemplate this revelation. Or maybe Izuku will have an answer to AFO ("Tenko isn't you!") We just have to wait and see.

#ask pika #signed ask #dirt-apple-productions #my hero academia manga spoilers #final arc spoilers #tenko shimura #tomura shigaraki #all for one

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theoreticallysensible · 9 months

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The Power and Purpose of Strikes

Simone Weil, the philosopher/anarchist/mystic, describing an ideal political future for France after WW2, lamented that trade unions have become primarily concerned with wages. This might seem strange to us now, when even this activity is so contested by conservatives, but Weil saw it as playing too much into the capitalist spirit.

She saw this as just one of trade unions’, and the worst of the lot, because it encourages workers to think about personal monetary gain rather than justice, solidarity, and even their own needs beyond the material. It also risks the union becoming institutionalised through frequent direct interactions with established economic forces. Again, this will sound weird today, given how unions fighting for wages represent one of the few remaining avenues for working class justice, and yeah Weil was a Catholic with strong convictions about the importance of moralism, but I think fundamentally she had higher hopes than we can easily imagine today.

I think a lot of people sense the truth of what she says today - though unfortunately it’s usually conservatives, who would turn back on it immediately if they recognised what it was they were saying. You see it when they say “Why are train drivers striking? Why are writers striking? Why do they think they deserve more than nurses, or posties, or actors?” And of course, the answer is: “They should strike too!” (As some of them now are 🎉). But it’s true that the narrow focus on wages does foster a sort of competitive individualism which can undermine solidarity with other industries. This means that a more revolutionary conception of unions is needed, which is not what these critics have in mind, but it is what Simone Weil has in mind.

What Weil sees in trade unions is the potential for fostering community, freedom of intellectual and spiritual thought, and a degree of independence from capitalism, all of which amount to a greater degree of what she calls ‘rootedness’ - something involving confidence in truth, having material needs met, security in community, and relative freedom (among other things). She saw them as being able to foster solidarity to meet workers’ need for community, free them from the corrupting influence of monetary concerns, and fight for justice as a group. She also hoped that they could provide a space for freedom of thought, to avoid the fetishisation of community she saw in both the French and Russian revolutions.

Trade unions then should not merely concern themselves with accumulating resources, but also with accumulating time and freedom - with the expansion of what Henri Lefebvre called everyday life, the time in which we are free to do what we want and create new types of experiences. When we have enough of it, we can build our own institutions free from capitalist influence which can form the infrastructure for disruptive situations. This can be mutual aid groups, creative projects, intellectual and spiritual communities, and reimaginings of what it means to work, through permablitzing, learning crafts, and starting co-operatives.

The ideal version of this is the general strike. Walter Benjamin described the general strike as a form of divine violence, violence which acts instantaneously, bloodlessly, without coercion. Rather than sort of blackmailing capitalists, as most strikes do, the general strike is (ideally) a complete disengagement with the entire capitalist system. It asks nothing of it, and simply makes it irrelevant by building entirely new social relations in its place. This is not at all feasible with where we are at the moment, but I like to think that it can be used as an inspiration for incorporating more utopian ideas into our more limited actions, all of which are still so radical in this current climate.

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galaxythreads · 6 months

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To be honest, I don't know. If you'd asked me a few years ago I would have honestly said no and been kind of offended anyone could hold Loki accountable for anything. But the thing is - now, after a lot of therapy, I don't think that mental illness or distress is an excuse for hurting people unless it is a genuine psychosis. If I was Loki's lawyer, which I'm not, I would say he was experiencing temporary insanity (a type of psychosis sort of) at the end of Thor 1.

But here's the thing, even if Loki wasn't really aware that what he was doing was wrong - did he still hurt the people around him? Yes. He did. Thor will carry lifelong mental scars from that fight. So to me, it's a gray area. Loki may not have understood what he was doing was wrong per se, but Thor was still hurt anyway. And this is not, in any way, a trade-off. Thor has hurt Loki in the movie, so Loki gets one free pass for all that he did to Thor? No. Not how this works. You don't get to hurt someone just because they hurt you. Like that works in fiction as motivation because it's fiction. Thor was hurt, and Loki was hurt. Their relationship is a mess and that was the point of the movie. They both hurt each other.

In the Avengers, Loki's official, MCU given body count may be 80-160ish people, but what about injuries? Mental trauma in the aftermath? Grieving loved ones? That's a minimum of 1000+ people affected.

And here's a not-so-secret secret: I don't think Loki was mind controlled in A1. I don't.

I know MCU has said Loki was being influenced by the scepter, but what does that even mean? They've never explained and Loki doesn't behave the same way that Clint or co did when they were mind-controlled. The scepter clearly has WEIRD effects on people, but what that means for Loki is ?????? They've never explained that further than a couple of sentences and before I accept this as being like canon-canon, I have to know what that means.

I will happily die on the hill that he was tortured by Thanos -- you will pull that from my dead, rotting fingers -- and that is a type of coercion that would absolve a lot of guilt, but I do and don't think Loki bares some responsibility for the invasion. I don't know. It's a gray area. I like the idea that Loki was tortured and then he agreed to attack New York to escape it. Mostly because I'm not afraid to wrap characters in darkness. I think Loki is allowed to have done something awful to escape something equally awful. Gray area. I'm not afraid to poke at the gray area.

But the thing is? Even if Loki 100% absolutely bares blame for Thor 1 and Avengers 1, canon matters very little to me in MCU anymore. They haven't given me anything I was happy to accept into my personal canon since Infinity War. I write fics with whatever now. I characterize Loki off of OG Loki and will continue to do so until I die, sometimes I put in that he was mind-controlled, more often than not I don't. I write Loki as a good person who did an awful thing to escape a worse thing that defines the rest of their existence but they're still trying to be a good person anyway. When I engage with Thor 1, I write Loki as having gone through a massive psychosis, but still having hurt Thor. I write Thor and Loki's relationship as both of them having hurt the other but still willing to burn down worlds for each other. Y'know, just a tad (lot) unhealthy. (But in a fun way because this is fiction and no one is hurt by it). Like my version of canon is slightly detached from canon and I know that, but like? I don't care. No one cares? Do you know the amount of comments I've gotten about a character being ooc in the last 1-2 years in MCU?

Because what even is canon at this point? I could write Loki as literally anything and there would be a canon justification for it because Loki's canon characterization is such a mess now that there's no "correct" version of him anymore.

Like guys -- I write about Hela being a good sister. Do you think canon backs that? Absolutely not. Do I care? No?????? no I don't. She, Thor, and Loki are the best siblings in my heart and I will continue to write about that despite what canon says.

Once I let go of the idea that every character I like is secretly a 100% moral human being who is free of any guilt or terrible things, it relieved a lot of guilt and expectations I have for the characters. One of my main characters in my original book series has a body count in the actual millions and I absolutely adore them, okay? Because it's fiction. No one is hurt by me liking this character. I'm not going to start advocating for death. I've liked Loki since I was 15, and I didn't grow up to be a murderer. Honestly, now I kind of prefer the little bit of darkness because redemption stories are just my Thing TM. I love, love taking the dark or dark-adjacent characters and then dragging them into a found family against their will.

So I don't need Loki to be free of all guilt in order to like him. But I'm also happy to explore the idea that he is because it's fun either way. Darkness or less darkness, he's still just Loki.

(That's why I'm having fun with the Loki season 2. Because to me it's like a fic that took one interpretation of what happened and rolled with it. Because canon is whatever at this point. Loki in the series did attack New York by choice. Does that strictly agree with canon of A1? No. Absolutely not. They're ignoring so much, but the series isn't about that event specifically even as much as I wish it WAS, it's about Loki's relationship with the other characters. Idk. It's complicated.)

Fics are often a love letter to canon, an exploration/extension of what canon is, but other times they're someone looking at canon and going "WHY." and then rewriting it. I'm in the latter part now. I used to be the former, but MCU is just. MCU now. So I kind of looked at Loki and Thor, took a cookie cutter to both of them and then left with that. There's still other dough, but I don't care about it.

So yes I hold him accountable. And no. And kind of both?

#loki #thor #loki and thor

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that1videogameplayer · 7 months

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SDJ Theory

It's no secret that Jack is manipulative, but I have a feeling once he makes MC's guards fall down, and MC feels safe and happy he will ask MC to do something that MC would automatically say no to in the beginning. If MC doesn't comply, like all manipulators Jack could say something like "But I did all this for you, and all I'm asking from you is to do is this one tiny thing for me." Prehaps when MC breaks down Jack's "sunny personality" and straight to Joseph, I think there will be a part of "Oh poor guy, he's just a broken man that just wanted to be loved and to love". But also if the child-friendly gloves are off, Joseph practically has free range in doing what he wants to. Maybe if he had a motive from the very beginning (i.e keeping MC in a relationship and getting rid if rivals in a darker way) he can complete now. But faster and easier because he is not binded to any rules to follow, like manipulation but he also uses mind games, sexual consensual coercion, supernatural influence, soft dubious consent, and persuasive seduction as written on the game's warning list, so prehaps Joseph will go about these things in a slightly adult only way. I doubt Joseph would come back as a human with a physical body, I think he would be like Jack, can't interact with anybody but MC. And let's be real here, no writer wants to write a character to be jealous, posessive, manipulative, and gaslighting especially for a Childrens T.V. Show, so those qualities are definity from Joseph, but since the child friendly glove is off, and with his knowledge on psychology and how the human brain works (in behavior) I believe Joseph is going to be worse than Jack. Joseph didn't all of a sudden become manipluative when he was trapped in a tape, he was manipulative from the start as Joseph, he just didn't have to be manipulitive because people was doing what he wanted them to do or people just didn't catch on that he is a manipulator. Jack knew what he was doing deep down. If you have to contantly self justify everytime on why doing x, y, and z is good and that you shouldn't have to feel bad about it. High chance, what you did was not a good idea and you're just saying that so you don't have to feel guilty about what you just did, also just having yourself as an input on why you x, y, and z is not be bad and to not feel guility about it, is an unreliable source of information. And yes, Jack does care and love about MC, but how he is going about it is not a good way to love someone and yes people can change. But I doubt Jack/Joseph would change over night, and since Jack is willing to make someone go insane or to off them, there is a high chance he is deep and stuck in his yandere ways and that it'll be harder to change him (if he even wants to change).

#sdj #sunny day jack #something's wrong with sunny day jack

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dipperdesperado · 10 months

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Notes Towards Anti-Authoritarian Victories: Distributed Resistance

TLDR: Distributed communities are a way to create a more equitable and sustainable society. We should decentralize and distribute power, resources, and decision-making. This comes from an emphasis on cooperation, restorative justice, and dismantling oppressive structures. Part of this process is honestly and earnestly exploring the role (and necessity) of the dialectic between violence and nonviolence in social change. There has to be a genuine embodiment of solidarity and diverse tactics. Two strategic frameworks for organizing resistance to explore and expand upon are encircling campaigns and the Fabian strategy. The overall goal is to build autonomous, resilient, and ethical movements. We have to challenge the status quo to create a more just world.

Distributed Communities

One of my main goals for how I interact with the world is to be a source of joy and hope for myself and others. Part of that is creating spaces for joy and hope. To create those spaces, we have to eradicate institutionalized spaces of despair and sadness. I’m not looking for a world without challenges…I’m just interested in finding realistic utopias, as opposed to the dystopic conditions we currently reside in. So, how do we get there, to a solarpunk world of dreams? First, let’s talk about where we are.

Centralization: The Anti-Life Equation

I’m not sure if you all are into comic books or anything like that, but I’ve always loved animated superhero shows and movies. Back when I was young, there was a DC show with a character called Darksied. His whole villainly motivation is to find the Anti-Life Equation. This is a math proof that essentially is meant to take away free will from living beings. Something about it is to prove the futility of living, therefore saying that people should just be controlled. Sound familiar?

Most people, especially from a Marxian tradition/understanding (so most sociologists and leftists), would say that this describes capitalism. Capitalism, as a reminder, is a system that functions most commonly off of two maxims: Private property rights (most notably towards the means of production, and as opposed to personal property) and wage labor. Many folks have argued, and I’d agree, that this system of withholding access to resources and goods across enforced property lines is bad, and stifles self-actualization. I want to go a bit further, though. I think that the underlying tendency that motivates capitalism, the imaginal cell spurring all of the negative emergent behaviors we see now is centralization.

Centralization is, as it sounds, about bringing “something” towards the center. In our case, that is power and access to resources and decisions. Centralization runs counter to nature. Though we apply our ideas of centralization onto nature, there is no true king of the jungle. Lions don’t “command” gazelle. And even if they did, us, as more conscious beings, can do better. Centralization is deterministic and linear instead of pluralistic and dynamic; it assumes that since people have differences that there have to be power distributions based on those differences. It’s Social Darwinism at its finest. Command-and-control social organization is pyramidal, and, no matter how “representative” the structure is, it inherently reinforces power distribution along lines of difference, creating and reifying social hierarchy.

Decentralization: A Light at the end of the Tunnel

Something that I and other folks struggle with is the pervasive nature of centralization. If it sucks for most people, as we know, then why is the entire world’s levers of power and influence pointed towards that? It seems like it has to be this way, otherwise we would be doing something else, right? Sadly, no. We, as people, are very susceptible to the systems that we interact with. We all live under centralizing systems of domination, coercion, and oppression, so our version of reality is warped by those experiences. But, just because we’re in a bad situation, doesn’t mean things have to stay that way. We’ve grown around these systems, and while they shape our thinking, they also create the fertile ground for their undoing. Subjects tend to not enjoy subjugation.

Decentralization is the antithesis of centralization. Decentralizing radically reorients power and access from a competitive, zero sum game, to a cooperative game. Even if you like competition, and you think it’s a necessary part of human nature (which it isn’t), we’re way past the point where stuff like that is useful. That’s assuming that it ever was, which I am skeptical about. The dog eat dog mentality, if nothing else, is destroying the Earth for profit. That alone, since we all need a functioning biosphere to…function, should be a searing indictment of the logics that underscore nation-states and capitalism.

By operating in a decentralized way, where we reorient our organizations to have power flow from the bottom up, we can enable more agile and resilient communities. It’ll not only give people more power to steer their lives (as opposed to hoping their boss or representative government official is a “nice guy”), but will allow society to continue existing, albeit in a new form.

Distribution: A Strong Network Flexes its Muscles

Decentralization is great, but if we’re not careful, it can just become like ancient times, where little city states have conflicts with each other, acting as little centralized pockets of power, even though they don’t have as much power over society as a whole. We want to be able to have connections with other communities and parts of society, without resorting to domination, coercion, and oppression. This can happen through distributing power across the network of communities, focusing on the goal of giving each individual the maximum autonomy in their lives. It looks like this: each person can live their life however they want, as long as it doesn’t impede others from doing the same. The same can be said on every level, from the block, to the neighborhood, to the city, and beyond.

This necessitates cooperation, as no one can provide all of their needs and wants by themselves. It also necessitates being militantly against domination, oppression, and coercion…people who are looking to cause harm do not get to claim that they are practicing autonomy. We have to do the hard work of practicing restorative and transformative justice. When people violate the autonomy of others, there has to be a victim-led response process, with a goal towards healing the victim, and supporting the betterment of the perpetrator if possible.

How we get there

Now, I haven’t gone in a ton of depth, since I don’t want to be super prescriptive as to what this new space could look like. That might leave a lot to be desired, in terms of a framework from how to get from here (a crumbling, decaying society that is looking to centralize more before it implodes) to there (a decentralized-distributed society where everyone’s needs and wants are met in an ecologically and socially harmonious way). My short answer is…power distribution. If we use this idea as an imaginal cell in our process and as the road on which we travel, we have a chance to create a situation where we can get the benefits of the olden days of city states (if you don’t like a place, you could just dip!), and most of the benefits of modern society, but spread out to each person. We probably won’t be able to see the levels of luxury of billionaires, or maybe even the lower end of the capitalist class, but we will all have a much, much better shot of living our lives in an actualizing way. Who knows what we can discover about ourselves in that kind of space?

Distribution as resilience

One of the great things about moving power away from central nodes is that it makes the system more resilient! A great example would be power grids. Imagine if your power grid for your town or city was centralized in one big plant, and everything was powered from there. If someone wanted to destroy your city’s electricity, they would just have to be able to take out the hub. Then, your city is blacked out, and there’s not a lot of ways to get that kind of critical infrastructure back.

Decentralization is a step better, but it can repeat the same things on a smaller scale. The most resilient option is for there to be a distribution of power generation (in the most sustainable way possible). We should always tend towards distribution—as much as reality would allow us.

What should be distributed, what should be decentralized?

Going back to the question of how we get from here to there, we have to face the reality that social change movements face repression from the status quo. Also, given the history of these movements, there are a lot of cases of co-option, and an incomplete version of the goal. In other words, we may not have the chance to prefigure the world we want to build before it is threatened by the old world. So, how do we uphold our values, while being strong enough to survive?

An important thing is to see this for what it is, a conflict. We have to engage as if we are facing an enemy, because we are. We also have to realize that, especially in a centralizing structure, our ire, in general, should not be for the foot soldiers but for structures and ideologies. We have a chance to win people over. It’s a lot harder for folks who are benefiting from the machine. This is not to say that we don’t acknowledge the harm that they cause. I mean to point out that if we get stuck in conflict with oppressive people and we don’t attack oppressive structures, we lose out on the ability to get decisive victories.

Another important piece is to not be dogmatic. We have to figure out our foundational principles and values, be honest about what we’re doing, and work hard to ensure we orient around short term gains that lead to long term successes, rather than quick fixes that endanger our progress in the long run. We want to know what works, but not be married to something. By thinking systemically, we can approach things in a diversity of effective tactics. This may mean that we occupy multiple parts of the centralization-distribution spectrum, depending on the area of focus.

In general, the more clandestine the operation, the more distributed it should be. Clandestine operations tend to be centralizing, so if we approach them from the opposite end of the spectrum we could potentially avoid the pitfalls. We also probably should never tend towards centralization, because that is a surefire way to destroy anything we create. Powermongers should just go work in the mainstream system if that’s their desire. Places where power tends to centralize, we should distribute, while being open to and welcoming of decentralization where it makes sense. An example could be: instead of every household having a personal car and coordinating sharing with each other (distributed), we could have car libraries that people check cars out from (decentralized). The most important thing to remember with any initiative that the goal is to make sure that power is not centralizing, even if there is a central place where resources exist.

Distributed Resistance

Violence

I want to switch gears and lean more into a side of world-change that people either knee jerk towards (”capital R” revolution) or away from (3.5% nonviolent resistance to social change nonsense). Let’s talk about violence.

Violence, as the state defines it, is something like physical force used to damage or destroy someone or something. That seems…reasonable, maybe, but let’s go a little bit deeper. Is it violent to commit non-physical harm, such as repeated verbal accosting? Is it violence to commit physical harm, when it’s on a time delay? It’s easy to point out immediate violence, like punching someone or burning something. It’s a lot harder when it’s a company putting carbon in the air, causing respiratory issues hundreds of miles away, the symptoms of which don’t show until years after the factory shut down. What about self-defense? How do we define that? Can violence be justified? Should justified violence even be labeled as violence?

There are a lot of questions to answer, but one thing is clear—a diversity of tactics is important. There also has to be solidarity. MLK and Malcom X understood how important each other’s tactics were to the success of the movement as a whole. Even if they didn’t reach the heights of their desires, that is an important lesson we can take away. If we act like nonviolence is unimportant, or act like “violence” is too far no matter what (like saying that hitting a nazi makes you no better), it makes our movements weaker. Like any tactic, it should be used tactically, not wantonly. We shouldn’t encourage fighting if its very unlikely to win (unless we have no other choice), and we shouldn’t encourage pacifism because of some short-sighted and self-defeating moral high-grounding.

An Occupying Force

A way that helps me think of our situation as people who want to help bring about new paradigms that directly conflict of the prevailing ones is framing it as if we are under military occupation. I mean, that’s basically the primary function of the state…that monopoly on violence. In my view, framing it like this makes a lot of the tactical orientation that I was discussing before make sense. When you are an occupied community, you very clearly see the subjugation that’s taking place. How “nice” your occupiers are is of little import; the fact that they’re there is transgression enough. Since we don’t have access to the “legitimate” flows of power (and if we did, we couldn’t use them to liberatory ends), we have to think differently. This is where operating as guerrillas comes in.

OODA Loop

Guerrillas are small groups that fight asymmetrically against a more powerful opponent. With us being tiny right now, it’s worthwhile to figure out how to fight in a way that makes our weaknesses into strengths. One method into this is the OODA loop. OODA stands for observe, orient, decide, and act. It’s a method for making strategic decisions in an iterative way. We observe our surrounding, circumstances, and current data. We then orient ourselves to our situation, making judgements based on that information. We decide what to do based on those judgements, and then we act upon those decisions, constantly iterating to make new decisions. The size and structure of decentralized and distributed organizations allows for iteration to happen more quickly, leading to an advantage over slower centralized structures.

Generally, the path I see to success is through operating via a distributed model of autonomous units, coordinating only when necessary, while also keeping the information network alive as is pertinent, and an alignment on vision and values. By any means necessary, but not all means. Especially if the group is operating as a singular organization, a la the ELF or ALF, ideally there would not be people that do tactics that violate that maxim. Means-ends unity is how we create the world we want. We can’t get liberation by exuding oppression.

Formations for Resistance

Before I leave, I want to list a couple strategic frameworks for organizing. The ones I’ll focus on are:

Encircling (i’ve discussed this in another post)

Fabian Strategy and Ethical Guerilla Warfare

Encircling

Encircling is when you surround an enemy in a way that doesn’t allow them to escape. You leave them two options: surrender or defeat. My conception of how this relates to organizing is that you take an issue that you’re trying to respond to (usually a system of oppression), and you encircle it with campaigns running in parallel. A campaign is like a series of actions/tactics, employed over a period of time. Since systems of oppression are…systemic, you would take a systems approach. You would work cross-functionally, looking for leverage points to exploit, and exploit those. My basic outline is that you’d have a campaign that starts off very non-confrontational, making appeals to the system of authority, and as that doesn’t yield “capital S” success (you can’t vote in socialism or decentralization), you ratchet up the confrontation, though only to the level that you can handle. It acts as a radicalization pipeline, strengthened by the results of the other campaigns. There would also be an extreme campaign, where folks are doing as confrontational of actions as they are willing to do. The rest of the campaigns would be in the middle, where they are relatively confrontational, moving towards heightened confrontation. Everything is moving into a more militant direction, where people are learning their power.

Fabian Strategy and Ethical Guerrillas

The Fabian strategy gets its name from Quintus Fabius Maximus Verrucosus, a dictator of Rome. His army was fighting against the much more well-equipped army of Carthage, so he opted for fighting a war of attrition. This sounds a lot like the situation social movements are in. It can be easy to think we have to fight might with might, but it’s a senseless and undesirable approach to try to outgun the state. We can use a guerilla orientation to organize in ways that highlight our strengths while exploiting their weaknesses. Building on this strategy will allow us to grow our movements and continue to fight, while simultaneously making it harder to put the movement down.

I also advocate for an ethical approach to this fight. By any means necessary, but not by all means available. There are certain actions that won’t yield us the results we want, and there are other actions that can only be useful in concert with other actions and campaigns. Broadly speaking, we want to minimize the harm caused to folks while maximizing the disruptions to the status quo. Here are some ways we can do this, some of which intersects and overlaps with the encircling framework:

Focus on grassroots organizing and building community power from the ground up. We have to think like stewards and coordinators rather than leaders; our strength comes not from a being a tiny centralized group, but an autonomous network of agents.

We build up our capacity, by creating multiple levels of engagement into the movement. we can combine non-confrontational tactics where we gradually increase disruption as support grows with giving support to more militant segments. This leads to a continual, dynamic (see nonlinear) process of education, advocacy, construction, and disruption.

Think about how to disrupt the status quo in a way that doesn’t target the oppressed. Instead of prevent public transportation or emergency vehicles from being able to travel, maybe focus on lavish events where some really terrible decisions are being made by oppressors at the expense of the oppressed. Actions can simultaneously be symbolic and direct.

Plan targets systemically. Keep the guillotine away. We don’t get our problems solved just by attacking elements within a system. If a leverage point ends up being a specific person… be very sure about understanding how to interact in a way that gets you the results that you want. Tactically and ethically, it becomes very hard to justify targeted attacks.

Uphold solidarity and mutual support among allies while respecting a diversity of tactics. Our analysis should be expansive enough to allow any tactics that could work within our ethical framework to be permissible, even if we personally don’t feel comfortable doing those tactics. As I said before: it’s not “anything goes”, its “we have to be willing to do anything we can that doesn’t violate our ends to achieve our means”.

If people can’t get behind your ideas, then your ideas need to be reexamined. Everyone has a horse in this race. People have to be able to understand that they have power as individuals and collectives, along with how to use it in non-coercive and non-oppressive ways. Meeting people where there at, showing up in real solidarity, and putting your ideas into practice goes way further than an isolated philosophical conversation.

We also have to keep fighting. This doesn’t mean that we are constantly ourselves fighting—through building distributed movements, we can take breaks and be sure that the network still functions. We won’t be able to create a new world in a single move, but through persistence, critical review, and intelligent strategy, we can grow and tend the seeds of change.

I hope this was interesting to ya. It’s a little different topically and format-wise than what I usually do, so let me know if this was interesting or useful. Solidarity forever 🙂

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