#trigger warnings

[tobiasdrake]

Obsessed with what it means to be a follower of Junko's ideology of despair. Like. We all know and understand what despair is as a feeling. But. What is despair as an ideological driving force? What does it mean to create a world of despair - like, on the macro scale?

What is the culture of Ultimate Despair as a global movement?

"What is despair as an ideology?" is an incredibly complicated question to answer. So much so that Junko 2.0 herself, Monaca Towa, got twisted up in confused knots trying to answer it and wound up ragequitting the whole thing.

Because at the end of the day, trying to pin a legitimate philosophy to Ultimate Despair may well be an effort in futility. It's an attempt to interpret a consistent and credible belief system out of the impulsive ramblings of a self-destructive neurodivergent teenager chasing the most extreme possible stims. Ultimate Despair as an ideology defies rationality by design.

What does Despair with a capital D mean? I dunno. What does it mean to you?

Culturally, I think Ultimate Despair would be an onion. It would have a lot in common with other kinds of cults; There'd be layers to it. Various depths to descend into when you're ready for the next step of radicalization.

On the surface, the outermost layer of the onion, you have the recruitment and enabling layer. This is where everyone begins their journey into despair. The layer that takes you in and tells you it's okay. It's okay to be yourself. You don't have to pretend. We're not going to judge you. You can find a home here.

This is where recruitment begins, as vulnerable people are given a support network and social structure with one hand, while being fed rhetoric with the other.

On the next layer down, you'd have nihilistic vice indulgence. Nothing matters, there are no rules, so go ahead and do whatever you want. You want to eat the entire pizza? Gamble your savings away? Stab your asshole neighbor in the throat with a fork? You go do that thing. I believe in you.

The second layer is freedom from social consequence. It's where you're taught to stop trying. Stop trying to be better. Stop hoping for a better world. Just give up and indulge your base desires. Despair can be a force for empowerment. Just live in your feelings and do. It doesn't matter what.

At the third layer, you begin to understand what the others are talking about when they say hope is not the enemy of despair, but the fuel for it. It sounded like gibberish before. But you've been listening to podcasts and talking to other members and it's starting to settle in.

You're starting to look forward to things. Foolish, pointless, unnecessary things just to set yourself up for failure. You're playing tricks on other members, inventing lies to get them excited so they can feel the sting of disappointment right alongside you.

Rather than a means to the end of enjoying things, enjoying things is becoming a means to the end of experiencing despair. You're starting to play a trick on your own mind, reframing the hurt and disappointment as enjoyable. You're falling in love with being as miserable as the rest of your community, so you can all commiserate together.

You're learning to wear your misery as a badge of honor.

The fourth layer would then be self-harm. Once people become convinced that despair is empowering then the next step down is the active pursuit of despair. Emotions you depend on can become very addictive. This stage is where trauma becomes a drug.

This stage uses trauma as a ritual of group investment, the way other cults use toxic machismo or financial investment or acts of devotion to their cause. Break your childhood mementos. Shoot your dog. Stab yourself in the gut. Kill your parents. Post pictures of it online and tell your tale so all your bros know how epic of a true despair sufferer you are.

On the upper layers of the onion, they'll assure you that these guys aren't a real thing. Critics of the movement are blowing things out of proportion. But you hit this point and there's nothing better than the rush you get when you find a new form of despair to put on yourself, and everyone else gets to watch you do it and go, "Whoa, I want to get traumatized THAT hard!"

But. Once you've burned all your stuff and killed everyone you love, where do you go from there?

The fifth and final layer is where you receive your mission. You've chased group participation to its farthest possible extreme and nothing means anything anymore. You've desensitized yourself to the world so much that you've become numb to the idea of anything truly mattering. All you have left in front of you is to die for the cause. That's the only purpose your life even has anymore.

You're ready to put on a Monokuma mask and go deface the Statue of Liberty or blow up New York or something. Whatever the leadership structure of Ultimate Despair, which has been largely silent up until this point and allowed the community itself to mold you, now needs from you. You came into this to escape from the burdens of society and now you're ready to become a soldier.

And if they don't give you a mission then you'll devise one on your own. Your final hope is that you'll be remembered as a hero of the cause. Like all other hopes, it is a lie.

[neon-candies]

Happy Halloween!

Warnings for: Child abuse, emotional abuse, unhealthy relationship

Angel probably has this nightmare frequently after Annie was "born". And he probably tried to avoid talking about it at first. But it gets to a point where he can't even hide his fears and concerns. However that's a conversation for another time.

[roomwithavoid]

“dead dove” is not a warning. it has never been a warning. if you use “dead dove” as a trigger warning you are missing the entire point. the origin of it is that if you see a bag labeled “dead dove” and open it, you should expect to see a dead dove. that’s not how so many of you assholes use it. you expect me to know whatever secret code you came up with and then have the audacity to get upset with me for stumbling across something i didn’t want to see?

putting “dead dove” and nothing else on something is like putting “trigger warning” and not elaborating. you stupid dumb fucks.

[eternallovers65]

IMPORTANT QSMP DISC0RSE PLEASE READ ‼️‼️‼️‼️

Okay, for those who don't know, the last two days (even tho we have been complain for months) have been absolute hell for the Brazilian community, to the point that a lot of us are agreeing to drop the community as a whole, saying we will only watch our favorite Brazilian streams and that's it; we no longer want to interact or be a part of this server

The Brazilian QSMP Twitter community has been complaining about the fact that the Carnaval event, something that's ours and our creators were excited to share with the rest of the world, wouldn't have our creators be a part of it because of the time. We were complaining because we absolutely have the right to, since, as I said before, it's our culture, the most significant event in our country.

Because of that, a lot of international fans, and it hurts to say this, Latino ones, decided to make mass hate xenophobic tweets about us and our creators. Tweets that vary from saying we should be thankful Quackity invited us because no one knew about the Brazilian streamers (when actually the reality is we have about 8 Brazilian streamers as the most-watched streamers in LATAM) to saying Cellbit, Mike, or Pac should kill themselves, and finally, to bringing back the past relationship Cellbit had with his ex-girlfriend.

Because people who had no idea of the story caused a massive hate towards Cellbit and his girlfriend. So his ex-girlfriend used this opportunity to accuse him of a crime and later deleted the tweet, but the damage had already been done.

So international fans decided to use that as a way to be xenophobic towards us, calling us monkeys and many other racist things, plus mass reporting Cellbit to the point where he had to issue a response. I'll leave the English and Spanish translations here because it's something you all need to read, and beware because of the trigger warning.

The point is, we Brazilians are tired of this community. It no longer feels safe for us. It no longer feels fun for us, and it's absolutely ridiculous that a server that was created upon meeting and embracing new cultures would be so hurtful to us. And it hurts us a lot more, seeing as most of the hate is coming from Latinos themselves (especially toxic fans from quackity's community). French people have been the ones to defend us constantly, when our own neighbors have been nothing but racists to us.

I hope Quackity does something about this because we have been complaining for months, but he continues to be quiet about it, doesn't call out his fans, and pretends nothing is happening we will drop out of this server, even cc's commented how exhausting it is for us. This project was supposed to bring people together, but so far, we have been dealing with a lot of xenophobia, and we are tired.

I know this is more of a Twitter problem since everyone here is chill (even tho i have already seen some xenophobia in here), but I just wanted to fill you guys in on the news. And for those who watch Cellbit, we don't know when the next stream will be since he was just forced to talk about his sexuality and abuse. Please shower him with a lot of love and positive messages. For you guys to have any idea, he's trending #1 in Brazil, and even though the entire country used to hate him because of his ex-girlfriend's lies, everyone is apologizing and saying he's an incredible person.

[fraugwinska]

What about the reader found and old radio, they thought the radio was broken but it's not, it's just antique.. when they play it at night time alastor broadcast was heard first they feel something is odd.. but they love to listen to his voice, heck they even like talking to each other, because of this encounter alastor talk about it to rosie, she was happy hearing alastor telling her stories but she feel odd when alastor mention that the person he talks to is a human, Rosie giving him advice to not fall for human because they're different species, and it will make him weak etc.

Alastor feel guilty and agree with rosie advice so he's stop contacting the reader from the radio, he thinks that the reader will be fine but no the reader take it personally.. they thought alastor don't want to talk to them anymore.. it drive them mad and lead to suicide..

So yeah angst :D

Oh Anon. What have you done.

I cried while I wrote that - it took two very good friends of mine to encourage me to post it (Thanks to @macabr3-barbi3 and @mysterypotatoink). But I think it's tragic and beautiful, and honestly - I'm kinda proud of it!

TW: Psychological Trauma, descend into madness, loss of self care and suicide - please take care of yourself and do not read if you aren't comfortable with any of the mentioned! MINORS DNI

Here we go.

❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️

Leap of Faith

You carried in the last box from you banged-up minivan. The old thing barely made it to your new home. A little cabin in the outskirts of New Orleans, a little off the grid and surrounded by the peaceful and whirring bayous of Louisiana.

A fixer-upper, just like yourself.

The online auction had intrigued you the second you found it, the photos were a bit blurry and you knew it was a risk to buy a place you've never set foot in, but something in you called you to get it. The price you paid was laughable, barely making a dent in your savings. Moving states sounded scary and impossible, but you felt oddly calm about it.

You didn't have a lot of stuff to move anyway. After all, you only lived with your late grandmother, and she never really cared for material things. Your parents left you at her doorstep, never to be seen again.

Caring for her in her last, sickness-ridden years had been a no-brainer - it felt like nothing in comparison to all she had done for you - but it also had been a bit lonely.

You had your friends, if you could even call them that, but you rarely saw them - guiding your nan through the last months of her life had been demanding and time-consuming. It had left you exhausted and emotionally unavailable, and after a while, calls and texts ceased, until it was just you and her. You felt lost, as if the world was slowly pulling away from you.

When she finally died, peacefully in her sleep, you felt sad, relieved and drained.

Detached from the city you lived in.

Lost.

So you decided to sell what little you inherited, except for a few sentimental mementos, and move away from it all. To start a new life, a happier one, finally one that was truly your own.

You took the final box inside, setting it on the coffee table and wiped the sweat from your brow. You looked around the little cabin: The roof had some spots that needed a patch, and the wood floors were a bit warped, but it was all yours. No more having to share anything with anyone.

The cabin came furnished, a lot of the stuff was old, but still usable. You figured that would change once you settled in and had a vision of what you wanted and needed to buy. The thought of thinking about no one but yourself made you nervous.

But a little excited, too.

The old furniture would do for the moment, but there was a particular piece that caught your eye: an old, vintage cathedral radio, sitting nestled in between a cracked wooden box and a tarnished, bronze candle holder in a bookcase that was a bit out of place in the tiny space. With a tilted head, you stepped closer to inspect it, drawn to it by it's unique character and beauty.

It looked as well-loved as it looked well-used, the mahogany a bit scuffed, the knobs a little worn from years of being turned. But there were golden details etched into the front, and you traced them lightly with a finger, strangely touched and intrigued.

You were certain the old thing didn't work, but when you plugged it into the nearby socket, static erupted from the speakers, making you jump back. You had to smile, though.

Tonight, you wouldn't be alone. You'd have this little device and a little music for good company.

***

"I'm home!" you announced to no one in particular, as you closed the door behind you, your hands full with overfilled grocery bags full of necessities, waiting to fill your empty cabinets.

The day had been hot, but a welcome breeze of the impending night break cooled the inside of your little cabin a bit. With a quiet grunt you set the paper bags down at the small kitchenette. Your groceries were quickly dispersed, and you put on an apron you saved from your grandmother as you got started on dinner.

You hummed as you cut vegetables and boiled water. It had been a long time since you had cooked, really cooked, your nan wasn't much for eating and had no problem living off of simple soups and toast. When you opened your fridge to get some butter, your glance fell onto the radio.

A little music would be nice, you decided, and you walked over, cleaning your hands on the red, frilly cloth around your waist before you turned the dial. The soft sound of static made you hum in contempt - yup. Still works. A little turn to the left, and the room was filled with a soft jazzy tune, the melody a bit grainy, but you didn't mind that at all. You returned to the stove, swaying your hips to the beat as you worked. The music made you feel at ease, and for a moment, the world seemed to be just right.

Just as the onions began to brown in the pan, the song faded out to a voice. You turned your head to the radio, intrigued by the unusual, eccentric accent of the host. It reminded you of the old, vintage films and recordings your grandmother had been fond of - wasn't it called 'transatlantic'?. Whatever it was, it made you smile.

"Now wasn't that a kick in the head, dearest listener? I sure hope you enjoyed the little musical interlude, but it's time to return to the real show! As usual, my name is Alastor, and you are listening to the best jazz, blues and swing music that Hell has to offer!"

You blinked, a little puzzled and yet amused. "Sure is hot as hell today, strange man in the radio.", you mumbled, chuckling as you stirred the bell peppers under the caramelized onions.

"Today we have a very special guest joining my humble broadcast, it seems. Pleasure to meet you, darling, quite the pleasure!"

"Oh who? Me?" you asked, looking theatrically over your shoulder with batted lashes, shaking your head over your own silliness. You weren't used to talking out loud to yourself, or even really thinking out loud. You were always alone, after all, but the little pretend-play was fun. You laughed a bit, waiting for the host's guest to speak.

"Of course you, little dove. Who else would I mean?"

You gasped, and nearly dropped the spoon as you whipped around, eyes glued to the humming, orange glow of the radio in the dim darkness of your living room.

"What's that? You're surprised, my dear? Don't worry, you're not the only one! This is a first for me, too. Never had a human join my program. I must say, I'm quite intrigued! Tell me, what is your name?"

Your eyes grew wide, and the hairs at the back of your neck stood up. You took a hesitant step backwards and hit the hot stove, making you curse under your breath. Was the heat finally getting to you?

"Don't be shy now, darling. I'm not gonna hurt you, cross my lil' old, blackened heart."

"I-I'm..." you began, swallowing as your fingers tightened around the wooden spoon. "My name is..."

"Yes?"

"I'm... crazy.", you mumbled, rubbing a hand over your face and chuckling a bit. You were just going insane, that's all. Must be the stress, combined with the intense heat. And lack of a companion, a tiny voice reminded you. Yes. Must be.

"Hello crazy, this is Alastor." The host laughed, together with a canned audience.

"Alastor...", you repeated, realization settling in - this wasn't a joke, or a trick of your mind.

"At your service, my dear.", the voice cooed. "Now, I believe you still owe me your name..."

***

You weren't crazy.

Or if you were, you didn't mind. Not with Alastor by your side - or, to be exact, in the radio on your bookcase.

After two weeks of ignoring the cursed radio after unplugging it in a wave of panic on your first night, your morbid curiosity got the better of you. You plugged it back in, and turned on the dial. Just once, you told yourself, then never ever again.

And that's how the two of you got in contact with each other once more. Alastor was as chipper as the first time you heard him, and after a bit of back-and-forth, he promised once again not to harm you, and you shared your name with him. The rest was history. He was very pleasant company. For a demon from hell.

You wouldn't classify the conversations you had with him as a real friendship in the beginning, but you did talk. Occasionally. Mostly in the evenings, when you cooked dinner: He'd ask you about your day and would pry eagerly for a little bit of gossip or new information about the modern New Orleans. When he let it slip that he lived in this very cabin in the 1920's, you weren't stopping with questions about what it was like back in his days, which he, in return, answered generously and enthusiastically.

The first few times he would try to coerce you into making a deal for your soul, casually sprinkling the offer into his small talk, but with enough blunt refusals and a few more days of radio silence (pun intended), he dropped the topic and seemed content on just talking. You, in return, found yourself relaxing into his charming company, your brain happily engaged with trying to wrap your head around him, or better, you tried to come to terms with it.

Weeks passed, and turning the radio on in the evenings became less of an occasional lapse of judgment but more of a routine you were looking forward to. You could tell the Alastor felt the same, his banter became less tense and acted, and a little more genuine.

It made your heart swell in happiness, that someone out there seemed to appreciate your company – even if that someone wasn't human.

Apprehension became amusement, and fascination became friendship. Oddly enough, you found common grounds in a lot of things: A love for cooking and good music. Preferring books over films. Red wine over white. A shared aversion of vulgarity, and appreciation for good manners.

Your nights were cut shorter and shorter, you would spend hours chatting on and on, until the deep darkness of night disappeared into a shade of blue on the horizon. Neither of you minded, at least that was what you thought. Alastor never ended the conversations with you. Either you had to say your goodbyes, or you would just fall asleep after hours of talking on your couch, and awake with a pained back to a shut-off radio. Then, after you'd realize that you would have a whole day ahead of you without hearing his voice, the loss would make your chest ache.

Two months into the 'thing', which was still a strange concept you could barely comprehend, the truth of the matter dawned on you: You liked him. Not just because he was a surprisingly amicable voice coming out of your vintage radio, a lively constant in the uneventful life you had made for yourself in Louisiana - he had become important to you, irreplaceable, even. An essential element to your life. You couldn't imagine how you'd gone so long without him, and yet, here you were, lost without him, scrambling through the hours until you could talk to him once more.

"Something on your mind, darling? You're awfully quiet today."

You held your fork and knife still above the salmon you had just been about to eat. It was the first meal of the evening in a long time where you weren't spending the entirety of the preparation time speaking to him, lost in thought about your blossoming feelings. He had gotten excellent at reading you like an open book - you should've gotten used to it after a couple of weeks of him catching on to every little change in your demeanor and knowing just what to say, when you were feeling happy, upset or nervous.

"Oh, um... no. It's nothing Al. Work had me in a wringer today."

"Is it your co-worker Susan again?" You could basically hear his eyes rolling, making you chuckle. "That name must be cursed, every single soul with that name is a menacing pain."

"Maybe,", you muttered, nibbling on a piece of the roasted fish. "This one is mostly just an ornery old bitch."

"Taking the words right out of my mouth, dear." he laughed.

There's was a comfortable pause, with just a gentle background noise of his ever-playing static and an easy, melodic tune coming from his program.

"Is that really all that preoccupies that pretty little head of yours?"

You blushed, picking at the food with your fork. "Bold for a guy who's never seen me to assume my head is pretty."

The radio crackled with pops and feedback. "Bold to assume I can't see you whenever I want, little dove." he said, his voice strangely deeper, tinged with something you didn't catch at the shock of his words.

"You... what?"

"And I can most assure you,", he purred out of the speakers, "pretty is a well fitting word to describe you."

He hummed in approval when your cheeks gained color, as if he knew his comment threw you off guard and made you turn a lovely shade of pink, but it didn't make it any less enticing.

***

"Alastor, if I didn't know better, I would say you have become smitten with this mysterious gal you're blabbing on and about."

Rosie giggled, hitting his shoulder in a playful, friendly swipe. "When will I meet her? Come on now, you can't hide her forever. Or are you afraid she'll like me better?"

She laughed, and Alastor forced a toothy grin. His long time friend was the only one he talked about you with, and he knew she was intrigued whenever she could smell a blooming dalliance, especially with a notoriously abstinent bachelor like himself. Normally, he would laugh at that thought with a healthy dose of mockery, but he found himself to be less and less aversed at the thought - if it would be you. Impossible, of course.

"Nonsense, Rosie dear, nonsense,", he chuckled, taking a large sip from his coffee cup, a heavy hand bringing up a plate stacked with finger sandwiches. "And I'm afraid you won't meet her for a long time, maybe never. Humans seldom traverse to hell in their lifetime, and who knows if the little darling will take on the trip downstairs?"

Rosie coughed in her tea, her blackened eyes wide in shock. "Human? It's a human girl you've been courting here? Oh, Alastor, you old fool."

Alastor scrunched his nose, "Talking, Rosie, talking is all we do. And yes, she's a human. I don't see the quandary in that. It's just a little fun."

"Well,", she huffed with a small, thoughtful frown. "I would've hoped for a little more sense in you." The tall demonesse set down her teacup with nimble fingers.

"You may not call it courting, but if it quacks like a duck, it's a duck, love." Rosie ignored the indignant look Alastor gave her. "You know as well as I do that such a connection is dangerous to entertain. Humans are fragile and fragile things tend to break. And when they do, the owner mostly follows. You need to break this connection off."

Rosie gave him a sad look as his ears flattened against his head. She would've been more than happy for her oldest and dearest friend to have a partner on his side, someone good and honest who really cared about him, maybe loved him even, as unlovable as he was. But she had to protect him from the silly idea of possibly falling for a living, breathing and supposedly untarnished soul, and the heartbreak that would surely follow. "Don't make the mistake of breaking your heart, dear friend." she smiled, a tint of melancholy hidden in the red of her lips.

"I think it's far too late for that."

She offered a handkerchief, but Alastor waved her off, his smile more faint and close to a frown than she's ever seen.

***

The first day where nothing but static noise came out of the radio, you were irritated but just thought: 'Maybe Alastor has something to do'.

The second day of static you grew concerned. 'What if something happened to Alastor? Was he okay?'.

On the third day, you were panicked. 'Maybe he doesn't want to talk to you anymore! Maybe he met someone in hell, someone that he could talk to whenever he wanted and not through an old, dusty radio?'.

"Please talk to me.", you whispered into the empty room. Your knees were pulled to your chest, and you sat on your couch, eyes fixed on the radio in the bookcase. Your eyes stung with the tears threatening to spill. "Please, Al. I miss you." You shook your head, chuckling sadly. It had only been 3 days, but they'd felt like an eternity. The world had seemed silent without Alastor's constant chatter.

When night fell for the fourth day, you were half asleep, eyes red and burning and tears still staining your cheeks. You talked for hours into the void of your house, the radio now moved to sit in front of you on the coffee table, growing more and more desperate as hours passed. Talking faded into pleading, and pleading into begging.

"Please, I'm sorry, if I did something wrong, I'm sorry...", you mumbled into the wooden furnishing, resting your cheek against the top of the machine, eyes slipping shut with fatigue and defeat. A dry sob slipped past your trembling lips, as your hands desperately grabbed the sides of the antique device.

"Alastor please, don't leave me alone here...", you whispered with the last of your strength, before your body succumbed to your exhaustion, your unconscious mind welcomed the darkness.

If you had stayed awake for just a moment more, you would've, maybe, heard the faint shuddering breath beyond the static rumble. But you didn't. So you had no chance at knowing that, Alastor, listening to every word, saw and heard you at your weakest, and all it did to him was stir the embers and give the blaze an opening for the flames of his anger at fate to rage.

Work had called, again. Susan of all people. Threats were made - either come back to work, or don't come back at all. You smashed your phone. It was useless anyway. What was the point without...

Alastor wasn't here, hadn't answered for seven days now. And you had spent the whole time talking, begging him to show himself, just show himself and tell you what you did wrong, just talk to you one last time and then you'd stop, if that was what he wanted. You became obsessed with the orange light of the illuminated screen, imagining the flickers were maybe signs from him.

You stopped eating, stopped drinking, stopped almost anything, you just sat, in front of the radio, unmoving and unwilling to miss the smallest sign of his return.

Every single minute stretched into agony, and every breath that left your lips made a fresh tear roll down your paling cheeks, until your body couldn't produce them anymore. Then, you cried wordless whimpers and moans, even started praying to an unknown entity.

It wasn't as if Alastor owed you anything. It's not as though you thought the two of you were anything other than two kindred souls, one human, one demon, talking to each other. As a result, it wasn't like you had the right to anything from him.

It was strange to consider the connection the two of you shared: Something more than acquaintances, something closer than friends, and yet never fully crossing the line beyond it. The unpenetrable boundary dividing life and death in between.

Your eyes fell on a large, old crucifix on your wall, staring back at you with pity.

For the first time in days, you left the sofa, took it from the wall and burned it on your gas stove, watching the face of the nailed figurine slowly melt in the fire.

***

It had been eight days of excruciating, one-sided silence.

Eight days Alastor cursed his cowardice as he sat, red eyed with claws digging into his scalp, as he listened to you plead for him to talk - To answer. To do anything. Anything, but leave you alone, he heard, as if the words were spoken right in his ear.

Eight days of watching you slowly detriment from the eyes of the shadows he was able to manifest above, tugging on the very fabric of the world to move you, to keep your mind from going where it shouldn't go.

He kept telling himself it was for the better. His shadows murmured persistent reminders that he should find entertainment in your growing lunacy. He was the radio demon, after all. He shouldn't care if this wisp of a human were to perish, should laugh at your wails of agony and despair.

But Alastor never felt less like laughing. Your dried sobs and pained apologies for things you never did wrong in the first place filled his head, taunting and gnawing on him with feelings he thought he was unable to feel: Guilt and Regret.

It was as Rosie had predicted - he was becoming weak. But weakness was something that should be avoided. Had to be. He knew. Being weak, being feeble, would make him vulnerable, make him into the prey his cruel from already portrayed to the world he had to inherit. He couldn't allow it. Couldn't let his feelings for you bring him down to the levels of the sinners in hell he would tear apart and laugh while he did it.

That's why he stayed silent. Endured it, all of it, every word, cry and plea. Stayed invisible and silent, waiting for you to move on, forget him, shut off and leave the radio, never to turn the dial again. For your sake and his.

When the connection broke, on that eight day, Alastor could feel your resignation, your peace with which your pale hands gripped the electrical cord at it's base to pull. And he was suddenly filled with the awareness of something horrible, like a premonition. It set his already battered, aching heart in an ice cold grasp of dread.

His room exploded in green light as he expanded into his full demonic form, his limbs threatening to pull and burst at the stitches and his smile splitting his face almost entirely in half. He had to reach out, had to reform the connection to the radio one last time, even though nearly impossible.

You were about to do something he would never be able to forgive himself for.

***

Your car broke down just where it needed to. You took the radio out of the trunk, knocking the hood two times for a goodbye, the key safely in the ignition. Maybe some other poor soul would find and repair it, make happier memories with it.

You clutched the wooden device closer and started to walk. Indigo blue faded into black as you looked up to the sky that was sprinkled with glowing, shimmering silver dust, stars blinking in the unimaginable distance. There, but out of reach.

Just like him.

Your dry sob stung in your throat, but you didn't really feel the pain. Your eyes were fixed on the path to your final destination, right in front of you.

The Crescent City Connection Bridge was mostly abandoned by traffic at this time of night and provided just enough covered spaces to hide you from some foolish saviors eyes.

You didn't need to be saved.

You didn't want to be saved.

Because you were about to save yourself.

There was nothing waiting for you in the other direction than the one you were going. So, with slow but steady steps, you walked towards the middle of the bridge, settling on a place next to a metal pillar and looked over the railing onto the shimmering waters of the Mississippi River.

Alastor had told you about the river, how he loved to watch the steam boats floating on it from the radio station where he worked at when he was alive. The station was long gone, you didn't even find out where it had been in the first place, but you liked to imagine that you were looking at the same scenery now that he had been looking at when he peered out of his booth in his radio tower.

It made you smile through the tears... You were glad the end was somehow connected to him, even if it was most likely just your naive imagination.

It felt like the device in your arms was emitting static energy, prickling over your arms, hands and fingers as you caressed the mahogany wood gently, feeling as though the radio was shaking in your hands, trying to pull you back from the fenced ledge.

A quiet sob escaped your lips, turning into a giggle and into hysterical laughter. You sat down between the railing, and hugged the radio close, trying to breathe as you closed your eyes, resting your temple on the worn, warm wood.

"It'll be okay, Al.", you said quietly, your voice unnaturally hoarse and rough from lack of use and dehydration. "I'm coming. I'm coming to you.”

With one arm around the radio, holding it tight against your chest, you turned to stand on shaky legs, gripping the railing with one arm and, with one final glance at the stars above you you smiled. You heard sirens in the distance, and some people shouting from a sparkling streamliner passing under the bridge. Time was running short, so you didn't wait to put first one foot over the fence, then the other, taking a deep breath.

"I guess doves were always meant to fly."

And, with that, your body twisted, turned and leaped, falling as the light on the radio, firmly pressed against your heart, began to glow in deepest crimson and swirls of green.

Falling like an angel would descend from grace.

Part 2 for closure

[joannechocolat]

Content Warning: contains scenes of graphic kindness; wokery; tolerance; profanity.

A few days ago, I posted a little Twitter poll, asking readers (and authors) what they thought of trigger warnings. I followed this up with a short thread, outlining my own thoughts on this, and how they have changed over the years.

The Daily Mail immediately seized the idea, and without contacting me, or asking for further clarification, published an article quoting my words, under a headline that was both inflammatory and untrue: Trigger warnings should be put on EVERY book to make readers feel 'safe', Chocolat author Joanne Harris says.

Predictably, this caused a frenzy of reaction from Daily Mail readers and Twitter trolls, including accusations of censorship and “pandering to moronic snowflakes”. Several people (who I suspect, have never even picked up one of my books) swore never to read them. One charmer wrote: “Fucking pathetic. What a dick the author must be.”

I don’t blame the writer of the article; most clickbait headlines are added by someone else - in this case, by someone who couldn’t even be bothered to read the article, let alone my original thread. It has since been quietly changed, presumably in response to my comments, although once again, without any communication with me. But as a result of these comments (and some more polite ones from people asking about the poll), I think it’s time I made it clear, both where I stand on trigger warnings, and why the public perception of them, fuelled by culture wars debates, is both skewed and inaccurate.

First, the result of my poll: about 35% of the people who answered were in favour of some kind of content warning. About 30% were against, and the rest were undecided, curious about the result. To me this suggests that most people are generally positive or undecided on the subject. From the comments, it seemed to me that many of the people who were against trigger warnings were afraid they might lead to censorship, or spoilers, or editing of the classics, or stopping people from reading the classics, or authors losing the right to free speech.

But here's the thing. Trigger warnings are nothing to do with those things. Here’s why people have been misled, and why it matters to put things straight.

First, this expression; “triggered.” Like “woke” and “snowflake” it has been weaponized to mean something like “upsetting the libs.” Reader, that's not what it means. The concept of triggering only applies to someone with PTSD or some kind of serious psychological trauma. That makes it irrelevant to politics. Anyone can have trauma. Anyone is potentially vulnerable to mental illness. And that’s why trigger warnings exist; to warn people who might suffer a relapse, or some other kind of serious harm, if exposed without warning to certain images, scenes or narrative strands. Some of the obvious ones might be sexual violence; graphic images; mental illness; eating disorders; suicide. I’m sure there are lots more. But we’ve had content warnings (if you prefer) on films for decades without any resistance, and TV shows routinely flag up scenes with flashing images, etc. that might trigger (that word again) an epileptic seizure in anyone susceptible.  

And yes, it makes sense. I mean, why would you want someone to have a seizure if you could just warn them against it? Who but a sadist would argue that people with epilepsy should be forced to have seizures, or that having regular seizures will make them more resilient somehow, or that people afraid to have seizures should just stop watching films and TV altogether, or that warnings against flashing lights would somehow spoil other people’s enjoyment of the show? And yet those are all things that people have said to me recently about content warnings.

To me content warnings in books are like content warnings on packaged food. Most people don’t read them, unless they have a special interest or need to know. Why do they need to know? There might be any number of reasons. Maybe they’re vegan, and want to avoid eating animal products. Maybe they have a religious dietary restriction. Maybe they have a mild allergy to peanuts or to shellfish. Or maybe it’s a more a serious allergy that could even result in their death. Either way, details are useful. Content warnings in books are the same, except that instead of triggering a physical attack, certain things trigger a mental one.

I'm not talking here about things that might simply cause offence. I sometimes use profanity in my books; I sometimes write about topics that people may find challenging. That's not going to change. I won't add content warnings for swearing, or nudity, or paganism, or LGBT issues. None of those things cause trauma, though I'm willing to believe they may in some cases cause offence.

But mental trauma is just as real as any physical injury. It’s not just “in your head”. It requires adjustments in the same way that any other condition may require adjustments - whether that's a wheelchair ramp, or subtitles on TV, or studs on the pavement to help the blind.

And yet, the culture wars narrative – led by a right-wing media - is leaning increasingly towards a “survival of the fittest” mentality; repeatedly encouraging able-bodied people to question disability, white people to question racism, rich people to question poverty, and urging those who have never experienced mental trauma to dismiss the needs of those who struggle with it daily. Empathy and kindness are presented as political gestures, earning “woke points” (whatever they are), rather than the elements of basic human decency. And of course, people who talk about “decency” in the context of nudity, LGBT issues and profanity often see no problem in labelling themselves “anti-woke”, or sneering at the “Be Kind brigade”, or making dismissive judgments about the lives of people they will never know. Somewhere along the line, somehow, basic human kindness has been reframed as a tool of the left, and those who hold right-wing opinions are encouraged to reject it.

Well, fuck that. People are better than this. Some people need content warnings, and it’s not up to you or me to decide whether their need is valid or not. That’s why, from now on, I’ll be adding including content warnings to my books, and to my author website. Ignore them or not, as you choose.

But to those who are offended by the concept of inclusion, here’s a trigger warning just for you: Contains tolerance; scenes of moderate kindness; depictions of graphic wokery. Read my books at your peril. Or don’t. Isn’t freedom marvellous?

[kadextra]

Now’s a good time as any to give a content warning

q!Forever’s POV is continuing to show manipulation, the effects of drugs, derealization, and auditory hallucinations in his character- q!Pac’s POV will likely show the same thing tomorrow. q!Bad’s POV is starting to show the character doing more obvious sh & self destructive behaviors. and of course, the undercurrent of horrors and possible child death in every creator’s stream

if any of these things make you uncomfortable, pls mind your viewing! the ccs are very dedicated to their characters, roleplay in the qsmp has been intense lately, there’s nothing wrong with taking a break or choosing to not watch, so take care of yourselves if you need to <3

[jazeswhbhaven]

Trigger Warnings in WHB?

So, I've noticed on Twitter and Reddit that players are getting upset with unlocking the angel stories due to the content (SA, dubcon, coercion).

Do you all think PB should start adding written warnings about the themes in cards/stories? I worry that this will still not be enough and people will report the game anyway and PB will be forced to remove the game from the Appstore/Gplay platforms and have the only available platform on Erolabs.

Of course, my opinion on this is...not trying to be rude but the game shows the card art, the character personality of the angels is evident especially Gabriel, where he hates MC. There's no affinity for his S-card possibly for the same reason. Satan has kissed and groped MC without consent. In Beel's selfie story he straight up says that MC isn't allowed to ask him to stop before they start having sex, Levi in his selfie story is forcing MC to bruise him up and lewd him. Mammon was rubbing MCs butt while they were sleeping. The devils do whatever they want, and MC just has to roll with the punches in Hell.

There are plenty of fluff/mild romance otomes and hybrid gachas if this sort of thing bothers you. This game was marketed as being unapologetic with its themes and kinks. I mean if you look at most of the devils and angels kinks...they are not by any means standard.

It's okay to not like the angel card stories. But from what I'm seeing here folks are trying to boycott it over the stories.

Well.....I guess these ppl won't be playing DOL (degrees of lewdity) then 😶‍🌫️

[kevindavidday]

idk if anyone's mentioned it yet but please read the trigger warnings for the sunshine court before diving in! there are some descriptions that even i had to pause at so just a heads up to everyone! be careful lovelies <3

[star-trek-fandom-confessions]

#572

"I remember seeing another confession on here about how the person wished that Pike’s fate would be retconned and I feel the same about Kirk’s fate in Generations. Like just let him leave the Nexus sooner and grow old with Spock and Bones. They can just say that there was an echo of him left behind in the Nexus like there was with Guinan and that’s the one Picard found and took out of there when he did"

[skrifores]

I have seen the point being made that you don’t have to be in a romantic relationship for some behaviour to constitute domestic violence. I’m seeing this said with regards to Our Flag Means Death and what some people perceive as domestic abuse on Ed’s part - that him not being romantically involved with Izzy shouldn’t mean behaviour between can’t be considered domestic abuse.

It is an excellent point that in many places, the definition of domestic abuse isn’t restricted to intimate partners! It is often widened to consider any violence, coercion and emotional harm taking place within a home environment. Under this definition, children can be victims of domestic abuse by their parents, it can occur between siblings, even roommates - especially with a live-in landlord situation. And of course, the Revenge as well as being a workplace is ultimately where the characters live.

I think it’s very clear that the show is a workplace comedy about pirates, but if you want to apply the definition of violence, coercion and emotional harm within a home environment to your reading to the show, that can be done.

Of course, I would be surprised if you genuinely view it that way and still made it as far as even watching Season 2, given the way what you consider to be domestic abuse in this fictional setting happens so very often with little to no moral consequence, and is often intended to be taken as a joke.

I mean. In the very first episode, the crew talk about killing Stede, and begin to plan for this, including lighting him on fire.

Jim threatens Lucius and actually physically locks him in a small wooden box in the second episode for what seems to be quite a long time.

I think in 4, Izzy pulls on Fang’s beard and it really upsets him. He also talks pretty openly about the intention to kill the Revenge crew, though I’ll let that go at this stage since he doesn’t really live there so much as being there for the purpose of murdering them and stealing their stuff. Still, poor Fang, that looked like it hurt.

While we’re on Izzy, he does also actively try to kill Stede by stabbing him, and he then he goes and does the olde worlde equivalent of calling the cops on him on the intention of having him executed, which seems pretty fucked up on the ‘violence’ part of our DA definition but also hits pretty hard on coercive control since he’s doing this to get Ed to behave differently.

He does prevent the Navy from executing Ed, which is nice, but he does point out that he regrets this, which, ouch, emotional harm. If we’re doing real world definitions, “I should’ve let the cops I called on you murder you” is the sort of thing that would make me feel pretty fucked up. And we all know what it means when someone tells you to watch your step.

But it’s not all about Izzy! (It’s really not, guys, there’s a whole TV show here!) Buttons bites Lucius - who ends up needing the whole finger gone! And he’s a visual artist!

Even my darling man Roach tries to eat the Swede, and I’ve gotta say, I don’t think they were on that island long enough to justify murder.

And who could forget Mary?? Wonderfully written character, love her, but, she does with malice aforethought attempt to kill her spouse in his sleep with a skewer. She was right to do it, in my opinion, but y’know, even without broadening the definition beyond partner relationships, murder of your spouse is pretty classic domestic abuse.

So, y’know, the point I’m getting at really is that if your definition of domestic abuse is violence and control wherein the perpetrator and victim share a significant aspect of their lives like living space - that’s a fine definition in real life. It is the one I use, in real life. But if you apply it to Our Flag Means Death, I really don’t understand how you stomached watching the first season or why you came back for more.

And if you only apply this definition with regards to Ed’s behaviour, but not the rest of the characters, I do wonder why that might be.

[beanarie]

i'm seeing a lot of people riding the current wave of toby stephens infatuation (welcome to the club) by recommending black sails

friends, this is a very different type of show. please check out the trigger warnings before jumping in.

meanwhile! he also played a dad in netflix's lost in space, which is much closer in tone to percy jackson, completed their story in three seasons, and was a lot of fun to boot.

[random-introverted-blog]

His Star - His Queen [Longfic of Across Stars and Time] - Chapter Index

Yes, a full story, not a Part 2. There was just no way in my head I could cram all of this into a Part 2 and justify it to myself. You will get your fill of Ascended vs Spawn fighting over Tav, with plenty of plot twists.

My editing/photoshop skills are barely passable you get what you get and you don't get upset

Summary: When Ascendant Astarion intercepts you and Your Astarion on your way to murder Cazador, he steals you away to his world. Where your other self has perished, and it doesn’t take you long to see why. He makes it clear you will rule at his side, his obedient, loyal queen. And he will “train” you until you comply.

But not all is lost. Already in pursuit with the aid of a mysterious Elven man and woman, your vampire spawn was coming to the rescue. Without you, his newfound freedom from Cazador was hollow. You were more than a treasure. You were his star. And he was yours. You’d done more for him than you would likely ever realize. You saved him from himself. Now it was his turn to save you.

His Star.

His Queen.

Whichever one will you be?

Link to AO3 page here

Chapter 1 [Originally a One Shot] - Across Stars and Time

Chapter 2 (more of a prologue) - You Beckoned the Stars and they Beckoned Back

Chapter 3 - Tithes To The King

Chapter 4 - What Was / What Is / What Will Be

Chapter 5 - A Lesson in Submission

Chapter 6 ‐ Your Eyes–My Mirror

Chapter 7 - Impromptu Rendezvous

Chapter 8 - Changes

Chapter 9 - Think Twice

Chapter 10 - Hunted / A Heart of Darkness and Shadow

Chapter 11 - [Drafting/Outlining]

A friendly heads up that if you're actively reading here on Tumblr, or are from AO3 and following/checking for updates, to bookmark or save the link to this post. I use it like an order tracker and will update/edit it to keep you up to date on where progress on the next chapter is

Warnings/Advisories: Violence, a ruthless, sadistic joker level tyrant, ascended astarion will do a lot of questionable/noncon/straight up wrong things because he believes he has to "teach you" and "show you sense", references to prior suicide, references to prior SA, implied SA, suicidal ideation (did your past self leave a spare disintegrate scroll behind for you to use too?), this will be less "scary violent smack you around" Ascended Astarion and more a twisted, creepy, "cute little princess, thinking you can say no" soft yandere

Hope this lives up to the high expectations. I'm posting it now because I'm an impatient undercooked, plain with no syrup pancake

[thecuriousquest]

You Know You Love it Part Four

Yandere!Bully KiriBaku x Reader

Warnings: Bullying, sex, spanking, slapping, degradation, masochism, sadism

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Five

Checkout my Master List here.

————————————————————————

As the class files out of the room for the day, you lean over your desk to grab your bag. Your glasses fall off of your face, and you mutter a curse.

Your face blushes bright red as you jerk up in response to someone raising your skirt to your hips. Turning around, Eijiro has that signature shit eating grin.

“Nice panties. Blue. It’s cute on you.”

You struggle to see more of his facial expression without your glasses, but you know he’s smirking at you. It’s blurry, but you can just make it out.

He grabs you by the hips when you try to pick up your glasses from around the desk by your book bag. His muscular form easily lifts you up onto the wooden surface.

“Let me get my glasses,” you demand in a small voice.

“Oh, someone forgot their manners.”

Katsuki is the one who picks up your glasses and holds them just out of your reach. “What? You want these? Are these the glasses you want?”

Anger bubbles just beneath the surface, but something begins to mix with it. “Yes, I want those glasses.”

“Well, what are you gonna do to get ‘em back?” Kirishima asks this time.

You feel the redhead nudge his way in between your legs. You grow hot when his thigh bumps that sweet spot at the apex of your thighs. You bite back a moan, not wanting him to know that you want more.

You couldn’t help but want them. You hate them, but your mouth waters when you see them shirtless. Your wanton sex dripping like a juicy peach, ready to take both of their cocks and deliver satisfying speed.

The bullying is something you can’t live without. It’s part of your whole dynamic. Something within the bullying lies passive aggressive dominance. It’s the way the duo marks you as theirs. Kirishima and Bakugou honestly treat you like a rag doll. They taunt you, degrade you, treat you like absolute trash, but it just makes the inside of your thighs slick with lust.

You hope they haven’t caught on. You hope they never do.

Trying to fake a protest, you shove at Kirishima’s chest. You don’t really want him and Bakugou to go away, you just want their reaction to you putting up a fight.

“Leave me the hell alone, and give me back my glasses!”

Katsuki reaches out and slaps you. It’s not enough to send you falling off the desk, but he does cause your head to turn. A hand instantly flies to your cheek to soothe the redness, and you feel heat rising in your womb. You’re needy. You want more, and you’re gonna fucking get what you want.

“It really does look like our little mouse forgot her manners and all of her lessons,” the blonde teen says to Kirishima as he glares at you.

“We oughta do the right thing and re-educate her. What do you say, Bakubro?”

They talk about you like you’re not even there, and by God do you love it.

Kirishima pushes your thighs farther apart and cups your cloth covered cunt. You can’t help but gasp as you welcome the invasion, not doing anything to stop him. It’s the first time he’s touched you like this, and you hope it’s not the last.

A devilish smirk appears on his face. Your panties are absolutely soaked with arousal, and he can feel it. “I think someone’s enjoying this.”

“Holy shit, really?” Bakugou questions.

“Yeah, man, she’s fucking dripping. Feel.” He moves his hand and lets his best friend have a turn feeling you up.

He feels your southern zone and mutters, “No way…” Raising his red eyes to look into yours, Bakugou’s smile is sardonic, sinister even. “You little whore. What? You really get off to the shit we do to you?”

You bite your lip and shake your head, lying to yourself and them. Trying to anyway.

The ashen blonde moves your underwear to the side and sticks two fingers in your soaked pussy. He rubs his digits along your wet walls three times before pulling out and shoving his slick fingers in your face. “What the fuck is this then?”

When you keep your eyes closed and shake your head again, he slaps your bare thigh. The sound is just as bad as the pain, but you relish in it. You can’t help but open your eyes and let out a gasp.

“I asked you a question, bitch!”

You look at his fingers covered in your juices and moan. “I don’t fucking know. Let go of me!”

You want to fight. You want to be fierce, but you also want them to force your submission. You want the feeling of someone not giving up on you. That’s another reason why you’re so attracted to them. Despite all of your rebellion, they never walk away.

“Like hell we will,” they both say at the same time.

You still don’t have your glasses, and you think the world is spinning as you’re tossed over one of their broad shoulders. You can’t tell who it is until they start walking out of the classroom with an arm wrapped around your thighs to keep you steady. You push yourself up and see red hair walking right behind you.

You let out a whine, and Bakugou smacks your ass. “Be quiet, slut.”

You whimper and let your cheek rest against his lower back.

Kirishima stands right next to his best friend. “Your dorm or mine?”

“Eh. Yours.”

———

You arrive to the dorm room faster than you thought it would take. Bakugou dumps you onto the bed unceremoniously. Your head bounces against the mattress before your body settles, and you try to push yourself up only to have Kirishima pull you onto his lap. He pins you with a strong headlock. You can just barely manage short breaths. It feels so good.

Bakugou works on removing your skirt and blue panties. He even unbuttons your shirt, sliding the long sleeves down your arms. He wraps his arms around you, hands going underneath your back to unclasp your bra, discarding it on the floor with your pile of clothes.

You wriggle, trying to fight your way out of Kirishima’s strong grip, but it’s a fruitless task. There’s no way to get out of those strong arms. They laugh at you for even trying.

“That’s your problem,” Kirishima starts. “You think you can do all sorts of things. You’re school smart, but you’re one stupid fucking bitch if you think you can beat me in a strength match. You can’t stop thinking. What you need to do is just let us think for you.”

Bakugou begins rubbing that little clit of yours. You release a sharp breath as his fingers work you into a climax. Hunger. Pure unadulterated hunger lingers within your needy cunt. You’re not even ashamed as you grow wetter by the second.

Kirishima holds you tightly against him as he plays with your bare tits, whispering salacious things into your ear as if they were sweet nothings. “You’re being such a good little whore for us. Listen to you, moaning. Where is your place? Tell us where your place is.” He nibbles on your ear, waiting for your answer.

You, however, haven’t been tamed yet. You still want to be a defiant little brat. You bite your lip and shake your head as much as you can in his stiff headlock.

Bakugou chuckles and removes his hand from your stimulated bead. It takes you a second or two to notice what’s missing. Opening your eyes, you look at him with desire and impatience. You’re practically drooling with lust.

He pays your low growls no mind and simply pats your thigh where he smacked it earlier. “Kirishima gave you an order. What do little sluts like you do when someone gives you an order?”

‘Follow it…’ Just say the fucking words! “Fuck you!”

Bakugou looks at Kirishima. “She’s gonna take a while to learn her lesson.”

The redhead looks down at you and tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear. “That’s okay. It’s the weekend, and we don’t have anywhere to be.”

The explosive blonde grabs your ankles and pulls them up with one hand. You wriggle as your ass is vulnerable to his touch. You squeal when his palm cracks down upon your bare backside.

“I can do this all day, Little Mouse. Go ahead and push us as hard as you want. We’re not going anywhere.”

His words don’t come off as threatening as he intended. They come off as comforting. A part of you wants to cry at his promise, but you swallow your tears and moan when his heavy hand crashes down upon your tender skin.

He makes quick work of beating your flesh, striking you until you’re a crying mess and apologizing, all the while you’re loving how red he marks you.

Putting your legs back down, he leans over you with his hands on either side of your hips and looks you in the eyes. “Now, tell us where your place is.”

“Underneath the both of you.”

You feel Kirishima’s erection poking your back, but you don’t mind how hard he is. If anything, it makes you even wetter.

Bakugou lightly slaps your face. “Good girl. You can listen. It looks like there actually is something in between those ears after all. Might not be much, but it’s something.” He smirks at you.

Kirishima pinches your nipples roughly as Bakugou begins to delight in your pussy again. You feel something wet chase your clit. Something slippery swirling around it. You look down to see his mouth pressed against you like he’s eating his last meal.

Nobody has ever done that to you before, and you want him to do it over and over again. You can’t help the squirming. It’s so good that you can’t stay still. Your loud moans fill the room, and you barely register Kirishima’s grunts as your writhing creates friction against his hard cock.

When you come, you come hard. Your orgasm is sticky and tastes wonderful on the ash blonde’s lips. He cleans you up with his tongue and smacks your pussy. There’s nothing he likes more than seeing you get off, but he loves the fact that he made you get off.

Your eyes begin to close. You feel so tired, like you could drift off into a good sleep for a few hours.

“Alright, our turn.”

And suddenly your eyes shoot open. You look up at Kirishima as he releases you.

“I wanna stuff her mouth.”

“I’ll take her cunt. We can take that cute ass later. A slut like her is probably used to it though.” Bakugou tells his friend.

You sit up and shake your head, denying that anyone has been…back there.

They don’t pay any attention to you as Kirishima and Bakugou strip in front of you. The muscle. Oh Christ, the muscle on these beautiful bastards! You could come again just by looking at them. Your thighs quake with lewd suggestion.

Kirishima chuckles as he kneels on the bed on your left. That leaves Bakugou to manhandle you so that you’re on your hands and knees.

Already soaking with anticipation, Bakugou sticks his hard cock between your slick folds. He buries himself inside of you, pumping you with a mind blowing speed. Your jaw goes slack, giving Kirishima the opportunity to sheath his sword with your mouth.

Everything you want to say becomes muffled. “Oh, fuck, I’ll be a good girl. I’ll be such a good girl for you. You won’t even recognize me. Please, don’t stop!” Your words are incomprehensible, though.

Your bullies grip you in different ways, smack you in various spots. Kirishima gropes your breasts, clenches your hair in his fist. Bakugou leaves punishing bruises on your hips as he rocks you backwards and forwards. He has full access to slapping your ass, and he takes advantage of it.

Tears of pleasure fall down your cheeks as they fuck you stupid. That’s all you are. Their stupid little slut. Your place is right here: under them, between them, getting railed by them. It doesn’t matter. As long as you have their cocks in you, you’ll be on your best behavior.

It seems as though Kirishima is trying to specifically torment you further as he comes halfway in your mouth before pulling out and squirting jizz all over your face. The thick liquid fills up your mouth, but he orders you not to swallow until Bakugou comes.

He holds you by your hair firmly, making sure that you look at him to know how serious he is. You nod with understanding.

Bakugou releases his seed into you. He rests on your back, needing a moment to collect himself as he huffs with relief. Giving your ass a good smack, he stands up.

“Okay, you can swallow now,” the redhead tells you.

Obeying immediately, the thick fluid goes down your throat smoothly. You kneel on the bed, feeling Bakugou’s come dripping out of your soft cunt.

“We’ll have to get the whore a pill.”

“That’s okay. There’s a pharmacy not too far from here. We can go there once we get her all cleaned up,” Kirishima suggests.

“Yeah, but first…” Bakugou pulls out his phone and captures a picture of you kneeling naked on the bed with come coating your face while feeling your drenched pussy.

———

On Monday in class, you take your seat next to Izuku. You say a quick “hello” to him.

Your bullies saunter in, looking for you. You shrink down a bit, but it’s useless. They see you and walk over to your desk.

Standing in front of you, Kirishima and Bakugou look at you expectantly.

You know what you have to say, but here? Really?

You look up at them with pleading eyes, but they don’t budge. They have that picture of you, and they’re willing to share it with everyone at UA if you don’t follow their new rule.

You sigh and look at Kirishima mumbling, “Good morning, Daddy.” You look at Bakugou. “Good morning, Master.”

Bakugou grabs you by your chin. His gruff voice grumbles in a warning, “What was that?”

Your voice only goes up a few notches as you try again. “Good morning, Daddy. Good morning, Master.”

Satisfied, they return the greeting with a “good morning, Little Mouse” before going to their seats.

Izuku gives you an odd look, and you slump your shoulders. “Don’t even ask, Midoriya.”

[garnetrena]

Everyone, I know that this meme is fun but please tag your posts about Goncharov with the "unreality" tag so people with dissociation issues, derealization, psychosis, etc. can filter them out!!! It also affect some autistic people, who have trouble to understand what's a joke and what's not (not all of them, of course, but some are).

Don't tag the explanations posts, though. Some people really need to be able to figure out what's real and what's not, otherwise it can trigger a crisis.

It's a funny joke, but please don't be ableist and don't trigger people on purpose. Thank you.

[murasaki-cha]

Sloane: *mouthing across the table at Rowan while pointing at the serial k!ller's servant* LO-BO-TO-MY!

Rowan: *drunk, delusional, helplessly in love, golden retriever idiot mouthing back* You love me?!