#anarchist weekend

[sassysophiabush]

[genekies]

tag vent

[twistedappletree]

lmao so i think the other girl working for my client is about to get fired for trauma dumping and making out of pocket passive aggressive comments constantly akdnakjds why can’t anyone just be fucking N O R M A L

**also pls excuse the typos in my tags omfg i’m so annoyed that i can’t type ahahahHAHAHA

[tomatoluvr69]

Survived 2/2 potlucks and also a radical death care workshop which also had a high concentration of harrowing acquaintance encounters so I actually have to not talk to another human soul for 6-8 days to recover im going to go live in a rocky crevasse for a week. Anyone need any cave dwelling insects lichens mosses or bats

[thebiballerina]

Not to mention, even with the most generous socially constructed stereotype of a definition, the English-speaking Tumblr population is heavily skewed toward the U.S.A. It's hard to say how much of the no vote is accounted for by people outside the U.S., but there's no way it is all of them. Which makes these numbers hard to believe given that the U.S. treats mass incarceration like a national sport.

Consider the drinking age alone. If you are under 21 years old, any amount of purchasing or publicly possessing alcohol is a crime in any state. It is also a very normalized thing to do, at least from ages 18-21. Do you really not know anyone who has done this? It's not even stigmatized enough for me to believe that many people are unaware of relatives doing that. Not to mention all people whose relatives offered them alcohol when they were under 21; that's also very common, and it's only legal in some states under some circumstances. The drinking age is basically a running joke, except the punchline is systemic discrimination, facilitating violence, and encouraging preventable deaths. (But that's a rant for another time.)

are any of your relatives criminals to your knowledge?

[problemsynth]

Oh boy a feature no one wants inflicted upon me. I fucking guess tumblr live has hit Canada. Time to. Delete the fucking app and only use the browser version where I can permanently disable it. Lamao.

[anarchopuppy]

FESTIVALS OF RESISTANCE: ORGANIZE TO OPPOSE TRUMP

January 11

Chicago, Illinois: A training about fighting deportations, as part of the week-long “Regroup and Strategize” series.

Sacramento, California: “Call to Action” conference and gathering, featuring a “day of skillshares and trainings” along with workshops, panels, and a keynote presentation from anarchist author Dean Spade. You can find more information and a full schedule here.

January 18

Atlanta, Georgia: A mass mobilization and day of resistance on the two-year anniversary of the murder of Tortuguita.

Brooklyn, New York: A community gathering including workshops.

Carbondale, Ilinois: A community event, currently in the planning stages.

Cleveland, Ohio: 3 pm Coventry Peace Park, 5 pm Rhizome House

Dayton, Ohio: 5 pm, Union Hall, 313 South Jefferson; a community discussion followed by music

Durham, North Carolina: The Triangle Festival of Resistance, a weekend-long festival focused on community defense, resilience, and liberation. For updates and information about how to contribute, consult Triangle Radical Events.

Gary, Indiana: A demonstration against mass deportations.

Milwaukee, Wisconsin: 6 pm at Nice Hair, with workshops on trans defense, migrant defense, self-defense, and movement defense

Minneapolis, Minnesota: A screening of Fell in Love with Fire with letter writing to prisoners and a discussion about the next phase of struggle at the Seward Cafê at 6:30 pm.

Portland, Oregon: A gathering in a COVID-safer, sober space. Families with and without children are welcome to attend. Food will be provided. You can also find updates about event organizing in Portland here.

Providence, Rhode Island: 3 pm - 9+ pm, AS220

Oakland, California: A march to a community assembly, departing from Wilma Chan park next to the Lake Merritt BART at 1 pm.

Olympia, Washington: The People’s March, 12 pm, departing from Heritage Park; followed by the Festival of Resistance.

Phoenix, Arizona: 3-8 pm, Margaret T. Hance Park, featuring a Really Really Free Market, food, literature tables, and a number of educational workshops

Richmond, Virginia: A community assembly involving panel discussions, workshops, and food, followed by a benefit concert.

Events are also being organized in Salt Lake City, Utah and elsewhere.

January 19

Chapel Hill, NC: The second day of the Triangle Festival of Resistance.

January 20

Indianapolis, Indiana: A Mutual Aid Convergence at Ujamaa Community Bookstore.

January 21

Arcata, California: A march departing from Arcata Plaza at noon—against Donald Trump, in solidarity with Palestine, and in memory of Tortuguita.

January 25

Tampa Bay, Florida: A community gathering and organizing fair for “politics beyond the ballot box.” “Organize with your community to fight for transformative change! Connect with a local project from anti-capitalist orgs, labor and tenant unions, mutual aid orgs, and more!”

Click here for the call to action and most up-to-date list

[miguelsslvt]

punk! miguel x innocent! reader

word count: 879

TW: nsfw, smoking, hair-pulling, corruption, swearing, creampie.

request: @sukioyakio ★

A/N: this isn't edited and is poorly made so i'm so sorry. also can i just say thank you so much for over 600 notes on my first drabble?? oh my gosh?? anyways, enjoy and welcome to the club! ^^

imagine punk! miguel being the 'bad rep' of the school. in the 3rd year of college, he took physics, chemistry and spanish language. he would smoke behind the science classrooms, refuse to wear clothes that he calls 'society norms' like a blazer or a button up, and instead wear a black leather jacket with pins like 'pink floyd', or 'anarchist' all around it. he would yell, slander and mock almost every teacher whenever he's in class (which is very rare).

most of the girls honestly adored him, apart from the odd popular girl or two finding him too 'annoying' or too 'muscly' for their liking. he didn't give two shits, he already knew his body count was probably higher then their grades.

but then there's you. sweet, innocent little y/n. where most college students spent their weekends partying, you spent it in your dorm room re-reading 'moby dick' for the 6th time. you took phsycology, english literature and spanish language. and if you were completely honest, the only reason you chose spanish language is because your boyfriend at the time (now ex) was spanish. god, did you regret picking it for him.

you noticed miguel, like every other person in the school would. but your first time was different. you were running late, extremely late for your first class of the day. damn you, alarm. that's when you noticed miguel, outside science block, groaning.

despite being late, you took a curious peek at what the man was groaning about.

'stupid fucking lighter..' he mumbled, trying to light his cigarette, but failing. you knew better then to interfere, to even speak to the most intimidating man in college. but, for some reason, you ended up giving him your lighter.

'thanks, you smoke? i can give you one for a trade.' miguel said, as you smiled so sweetly. you explained how you didn't smoke, or did anything like that, and that you only carried a lighter 'just in case of emergencies'.

that's when miguel's interest in you piqued. you were such a sweet, innocent girl, and that drove something in him. something that he didn't realise he wanted. he usually only went for girls with his taste and style, girls he'd meet at festivals or clubs and were either high as heck or sexy goths. but you, you were different.

soon enough, he realised you were only in his spanish language classes, and that you weren't the best at it. perfect. your weakness was miguel's strength.

that's how you ended up in this situation. bent over miguell's desk in his dorm, mumbling his name as hee proceeded to sbuse his way into your sweet cunt.

'you want to tutor me..? that would be so nice miguel!' you had said so excitedly, there was a spanish exam coming up and miguel so kindly offered to tutor you the friday night. and being so naive and quite desperate for the help, you happily accepted.

his room was filled with different posters and signs like his favourite bands, anarchistic posters, stickers saying things like 'fuck the government!'. his leather jacket was discarded somewhere on the messy floor, as his hands grasped your hips to push you even deeper onto his cock.

'm-miguel.. m-miguel please!' you whined, your mascara running down your face.

he just chuckled, as he pulled your hair lightly, moving you onto the bed as he laid you down on your back, as he started bullying into your pussy once again. he was so mean.

your light blue dress was somewhere on the floor, ripped to shreds. it was your favourite dress, but you had other things to think about at the moment.

'yeah.. you like that, cariño? you like being fucked like a slut? not used to being so used, are you?' miguel teased, as you just moaned in response. he hadn't realised that fucking a cute little angel could be this enticing. fuck, he could get used to this.

'i.. miguel! i-i've never-' 'shh.. i know, i know, a sweet girl like you hasn't ever been treated this way.. i'm sorry for being so rough, but i dunno.. the way you're tightening around me suggests you like the harshness..' he said, his hand wiping your mascara-smudged cheeks. your body was submitting to him in every way possible, and he felt like a starved predator being fed for the first time in years.

'i-is it normal to feel l-like this..?' you whimpered, eyes shut from the pleasure. 'yes.. yes my sweet girl it's very normal to feel like this.. let me give you all the pleasure you've missed out on.' miguel whispered in your ear, as he started thrusting faster and faster, pushing you over to the edge.

you let out a loud moan, your back arching as you came. the way you clenched onto him drove miguel over the edge too. his thrusts became erratic and sloppy, as he let out one more groan as he came deep inside you.

you were panting, your eyes still shut. he pulled out slowly, placing a sweet kiss on your temple. 'god you're so cute..' miguel whispered to you, as you just whimpered in response. he chuckled deeply.

god, he might just get addicted to such a good innocent little thing like you.

♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎

[curiouspupsicle]

Good Omens Fan Fiction Friday (1/31/25) - Resistance!!

Being a well informed American living under an administration determined to dismantle our democracy (already stressed) and cause as much damage as possible has even my comfort moments turning to resistance. After all, evil people have always existed. And good people have always resisted. So is there anything my Good Omens fixation has to say about resistance? Given Terry Pratchett's moral universe, we could argue that all of Good Omens is steeped in resistance. But I'm going to limit myself to a few specific favorite fics that highlight different forms of resistance.

Let's start with the series that got me thinking in this direction: Demon and Angel Professors (G) by Ghostinthehouse (@ineffableghost). This is 200 ficlets, each exactly 666 words, hanging on a silly premise. Everyone loves literature Professor Fell who goes on regular tangents about his sweet husband Anthony. Everyone fears grumpy botany Professor Crowley who treats his students like he treats his plants. And anytime Crowley goes near Fell, the first-year students go into protective mode. Because surely Crowley must be up to no good and a potential harm to dear Prof Fell and his precious Anthony. But beyond that bit of fun repeated every year with a new group of incoming students are amazing stories of resistance against those who would cause mental harm or physical violence to disabled people, folks with a variety of gender identities and presentations, queer individuals, people dealing with trauma--basically anyone who might be vulnerable in a thoughtless and even wicked society.

Sometimes resistance is persuading someone to do better. Other times it's offering a hint that makes someone think. It may involve a hands-on approach to someone who only knows violence. Or it may be getting someone to a safe place as quickly as possible.

I read it over a weekend. But I think there's a better approach to reading this long series--bookmark it in your phone when you are doing a hurry-up-and-wait activity (jury duty, medical treatments, picking up kids at school, etc.). The short length of each fic makes it easy to pick up and put down. The variety of "ducklings" tales (what the ineffable pair call the students they help) will keep you interested. And the sense of joy and hope will make it a good way to spend time on a challenging day. Resistance fics aren't all human AUs. Check out The Last Angel (E) by @bellisima-writes. For millennia, Crowley has been Hell's Grand Inquisitor. He never served on earth. After Hell won their war against Heaven, they finally track down the last remaining Angel, Aziraphale. Crowley's given the job of torturing him for information. I don't want to give too much away. But Crowley's form of resistance involves being true to himself no matter what Hell demands. And Aziraphale has a more direct form of resistance planned. It's an exciting read as well as thought-provoking.

@snae-b writes the kind of fics you don't want to start reading before bed--at least not if you plan on getting up early the next day. Echo (E) is no exception. Each day, barista Aziraphale wakes up and goes into work. He serves a chauffeur, Crowley, who seems strangely familiar. Asking questions like "what makes one human" and "how do you fight against an evil activity that no one knows about," Echo is also just a plain old compelling story. And a resistance tale that, despite its futuristic setting, would not feel out of place beside a tale of the French underground resisting Nazis.

Mutual Aid (T) by malicegeres predates the Good Omens tv show. So presumably that makes it part of the Book!Omens universe. In it, radical bookseller Ezra Fell ends up hiding anarchist Crowley from the police after he's injured by skinheads. As the title indicates, they find a common cause and start working together. Loved the depiction of Adam as a leader. And the fic includes a listing of leftist political resources at the end.

Many consider The False and the Fair (E) by @princip1914 to be one of the best human AUs in the Good Omens universe. I certainly do. Aziraphale Wright's family runs a coal mine. Anthony Crowley, his former best friend, is the son of a mine worker. I don't want to spoil the story if you haven't read it. But what appears to be a story of regrets and making amends has a strong thread of accountability that results in wrongs being made right after a powerful act of resistance (with some help from the press). If you haven't read it, check it out. And if you have, read it again--with an eye towards resistance.

Finally, I'll end with a WIP, Good Works (E) by @majnoonathelibrarian. Set in 1987, Aziraphale is an assistant parliamentary secretary in the Thatcher government who finds something strange in the documents he's handling. Crowley is a mysterious "fixer" for a consulting firm who finds himself drawn into queer activism. Both of them have to navigate their day jobs along with increasing activism in a couple of different streams. The characterization is fascinating and the writer strings out the mysteries through the tale. This WIP is regularly updated and nearly complete. Remember, the fan fic community is a COMMUNITY. So don't forget to encourage writers of works underway by leaving kudos and comments. Writers are a gift to fans and we need to show them our appreciation. Finally, I'll give my pitch as someone who has been around much longer than most of you reading this. The yucky things happening in the world can be overwhelming. But it's a backlash. Because we've already made so much progress (both The False and the Fair and Good Works are good reminders of just how deadly the 1980s were for queer people). So resist. By making art and telling stories. By protesting. By contacting the people in power making decisions you disagree with. By caring for the vulnerable. By speaking out at local political meetings. By amplifying the voices of marginalized people. By using any of your unearned benefits to advocate for others. And by just existing as the beautiful and unique individual you are.

[sassysophiabush]

[bao3bei4]

why zines? how zines?

i was on a panel at fanworks con 2023 about zines today. it was a lot of fun! i decided to turn my portion of the talk into a post for my friends who couldn’t make it to the panel. 

this post includes my thoughts on: 

why make a zine

how to generate ideas for zines

how to finish your zines

how to build an audience for your zines

so why zines? what are they? [ZEENS, rhymes with beans], pronounced that way because it’s a shortened form of the word magazine, are basically just that: self published magazines. but why make a zine over, say, a blog post? or any other piece of art. 

i have basically three reasons. the first is that making little books is cool. it’s genuinely awesome to make physical zines and have the product of your labor in your hand. it’s a great feeling to finish a project and feel a concrete reward, and a lot of times we don’t get that in our lives.

the second reason is that zines give you absolute editorial control. you can put anything you want on a page. whatever layout, whatever order, whatever fold, whatever content. you name it, you can do it. this is something other venues rarely give you. for artists, it’s phenomenal. and for the rest of us, it gives us the ability to become artists for a little bit, as we lay things out.

the third reason is that zines can be absolute shit. in fact, the more shit they are, the more diy and punk they are. they have an incredible lineage of stolen copy paper and anarchist politics. all that to say, is that there are no standards. the zine ethos is say what you wanna say. it’s tremendously freeing to go fuck polish and respectability, i’m making my project.

because of these three reasons, i want to encourage you to get started making zines by describing common challenges and worries and giving you several practical tips for each on working past them. so, in order, they’re “i don’t know what to make a zine about,” “i struggle to finish projects,” and “no one will read my zines.” let’s get into it.

first up, “i don’t know what to make a zine about.” i think this one is pretty common, even for experienced zine creators. sometimes you’re in the mood to make things but you have no clue what. a lot of people suggest to just go with random words or whatever pops into your head, but i’m picky! i find that unsatisfying! so here are some tips for people in the same boat. 

ONE: what’s distracting you? work with it. because anything can be a zine, let the things you’ve already done serve as inspiration. photos you’ve taken can be formatted into a zine. is there a game sucking up your attention? make a zine about it. the song stuck in your head can turn into a lyricbook, forgotten works in progress or sketches can be resurrected, cannibalized, or even published as incomplete zines. if you’ve been busy with real life, maybe the recipes you’ve been making—even if, especially if, they’re struggle meals, can turn into zines. interview your most interesting friend. summarize a book you read recently. even if you’ve just been doomscrolling, that’s a zine too! i got a zine last weekend called bay area newsreel which was collecting recent articles about local news from leftist perspectives gathered up into a handy volume. your attention is a gift, so look at what zine fodder it’s accumulated for you naturally. 

SECOND: add a twist. sometimes i have an idea but it isn’t quite right. it just seems too straightforward. so i try to develop along a single axis of content or form. what this means is basically go against your instincts, or rather, your first impulse. that first idea is very hard to walk away from, but doing so often gives you an idea that gets you unstuck. so for content, add a different perspective. for me this is often a theoretical approach. when i was stuck on my scum villain zine, turning it into freud zine let the words start flowing. next, on form: present it differently than your first instinct is to. if my first thought is “essay,” i try to figure out how to chunk out the information into modules or how to add interactivity or what kind of illustrations to add. if my first thought is “this could be a fic or comic,” i try turning it into an essay. saying things a different way often gives you a new perspective on the content as well. 

THIRD: copy! make your take on the same thing as someone else. it’s not stealing—well, ideally it isn’t. make your original take and give credit where credit is due and ask permission if necessary. but engage with the medium!!! making zines without reading zines is the same thing as trying to write a paper without citing sources, or a novel without reading your contemporaries. that is, you can do it, but it’s hard. zines are a genre into themselves so figure out how to situate yourself in their ongoing dialogue. an example of this from my own practice is that i own a zine about queer gods and mythological creatures from chinese history. reading it i was like. why don’t they talk about this. why don’t they talk about that. and that became the basis for my own zine, guaitai the strange and the queer which focused on queer chinese history and literature instead. different zine, same inspiration. 

all of my ideas suppose you have SOMETHING going on. what if you truly have nothing. my advice? adapted from my “how to write an essay” blog post, is to read a book. read an article. read something. and then post about it. and then turn your posts into a zine. don’t start entirely from scratch — give yourself a scaffolding. so first. read something and tell someone about it. i wasn’t lying about calling myself a consummate poster. it’s a big part of my thought process. 

second up, what if “i struggle to finish projects.” i’m no stranger to having a bunch of half finished half started projects lying around. but here are some zine-specific tips i have for addressing that.

FIRST! go smaller; go shittier. reduce the scope of your projects. make one pagers, lists. once when i was feeling stymied, i made a physical zine about movies i’d watched that month, just listing them with a couple bullet points on each film. i eventually turned it into a bigger digital zine where i listed movies i’d watched over the past several months with more thoughts on them, and nicely formatted. but that was something that came out of reducing my scope from “i need to write a manifesto on a movie i’ve watched recently” to “well i can just tell people about it” to “i can say two things about it.” and something actually got finished.

SECOND. your friends are a great tool for accountability. something i like to do is zine jams with my friends. nothing fancy, it’s just we’ll sit down for an hour and go we’re going to make something in this hour. or, for a bigger scope, we might work separately but commit to making a zine that weekend. it’s nice to have community and it’s nice to feel a little bit of a friendly deadline. i recommend this even if you DON’T have problems finishing zines. it’s a good time. 

THIRD. a lot of times if the words aren’t coming easily, it’s because i’m not trying to say the right thing. keep in mind that your zines don’t have to be “content.” this little paper zine i made about movies wasn’t made to share online; in fact, it’s not available online. i didn’t make it according to what other people would see or be interested in. you can and will burn out on making “marketable” content. corollary to this: sometimes what i have to say is something i DON’T want to share online. it might not be that it’s boring, it might be that it’s too personal. and i share a lot online, i write personal essays after all. but some projects i stall on because they’re really just for me, and i’m again, focused on making content. so this piece of advice is about rejecting the tyranny of the imaginary audience. 

and the next challenge is about embracing that audience! what if no one reads your zines, something that’s entirely possible. well there’s plenty you can do about that.

FIRST. cultivate zine community. read other people’s zines! talk to them about their zines! this greatly increases the chance that they will do the same for you. don’t go in expecting reciprocity; do it for its own sake, but it’s a great place to start. try asking people at zine fests if they’d be willing to trade with you, for instance. 

SECOND. write for yourself. it’s cheesy but it’s true. you really have to. if you’re not proud and happy with what you’re making on its own merits, what’s the point. now because this is a cop out tip, i’m not counting it as a tip on its own. 

so SECOND PART TWO. make your zines more accessible. if they’re not free, make them free—yes, you deserve to be compensated for your work, but it’s up to you to decide if you want a bigger audience first. if your zines aren’t short, make them shorter. make them short enough that you can post their entirety on social media or something else easy for your audience to consume. it’s a big ask sometimes to get someone to download your pdf! if they’re physical, hand them out to people you meet. remove all the barriers to entry.

THIRD. related to this, change medium. if you’re not making physical zines, try printing them out. if you’re not making digital zines, try digitizing them. both of these offer access to new audiences and new people who might be more interested in one form than another. 

i hope these thoughts encourage you to make a zine! if you do, please let me see it. i love reading zines. 

[nanamineedstherapy]

The Symphony of Spite

Ryomen Sukuna x GN!Therapist Reader x Nanami Kento

Gojo Satoru x ..... (he's after one of your manz)

Also Crybaby!Gojo getting backshots from his Yandere

Summary: No summary. Read at your own risk. Because I don't even know what a good summary for this would be. A/N: I wrote this for fan-service. The fan was me.

Warnings (May Contain Spoilers): Crack Fic, NSFW Content, Explicit Language, Manipulative Relationship (just one, & it’s not yours—so relax), Toxic Dynamics (again, not yours—seriously chill), Office Romance, Love Triangle, Yandere (not your husbands, so breathe easy!), Corporate Shenanigans (think “The Office” but with more messy), Jealousy (why would you think yours? Do you not want a healthy relationship?! Let someone else have fun for once, please!), Mild Dub-Con (but only if you squint really hard), Possessive Behavior, Power Dynamics (because we’re all about that corporate ladder climbing), Modern Corporate AU, Gojo is not all mighty here—just the office bimbo (yes, you read that right), you are a therapist married to Sukuna & Nanami (because... I honestly don't know), Satosugu genuinely hate each other (it’s not a enemies to lovers rom-com & has more punches), everyone wants to beat Gojo up (you'll see why), & yes, Haibara (the third wheel in your own marriage-one) is here for some reason winks. No use of y/n but you are referred to as wife once. Also, dycraphilia, fuckbuddies, & eventual smut—so if you’re underage or have a blog that’s ageless, please DNI. No, you can't skip it because they are talking during & it's essential to the plot. Enjoy the mess & remember: it’s all fun & games until someone gets a stapler thrown at them!

Nanami Kento and Ryomen Sukuna were two sides of the same corporate coin. Both had impeccable work ethics, immaculate wardrobes, and zero patience for corporate buffoonery. Their days were spent navigating a gauntlet of coworkers who couldn’t meet deadlines, bosses who made PowerPoint presentations last longer than historical eras, and HR seminars that reeked of faux positivity. And you? Their doting, mildly chaotic therapist wife, who absolutely did not have them as patients. That would be unethical, of course. But boy, did they unload their workplace woes at home as if you were billing them hourly.

It routinely started over dinner. Nanami was delicately slicing his steak while Sukuna gnawed on a chicken drumstick like he had a vendetta against poultry.

“Today,” Nanami began, his tone weary, “Kusakabe spent thirty minutes explaining why we don’t need to update our software, only to accidentally delete half the department’s spreadsheets because he clicked ‘yes’ on a pop-up without reading it.”

“Amateur,” Sukuna snorted, reaching for another drumstick. “I had to sit through three meetings about synergy today. Three! Do you know what synergy is? Nothing. It’s a fancy word for ‘waste Sukuna’s time.’”

You took a sip of your wine, your ears tuned in to the cacophony around you. It was as if a perfectly dysfunctional symphony of grievances had taken the stage, each voice blending into a chorus of disdain for corporate absurdities. Seriously, could someone just ask about your day? But of course, sharing anything meaningful was off the table, thanks to that pesky confidentiality clause.

---

A week later, you had a plan.

The idea struck during a particularly gruelling session with a patient who wouldn’t stop playing victim to her own bad decisions. You needed a release. No, they needed a release. Something cathartic but harmless. Something that could channel all their workplace frustrations into an outlet that wouldn’t get them arrested for arson.

You spent the weekend hunting for the perfect gift, eventually finding it in a quirky little music shop downtown. The shopkeeper had described it as “an instrument for anarchists.” Perfect.

That Monday evening, as Nanami and Sukuna returned home, you greeted them with an unsettlingly bright smile.

“What’s that face for?” Sukuna asked, suspicious.

“I have a gift for you both,” you announced, producing two brightly wrapped packages.

Nanami raised an eyebrow, his wariness palpable. True to form, Sukuna tore open his package without hesitation.

“What the hell is this?” he asked, holding up the obnoxious plastic horn.

“It’s called a vuvuzela,” you explained, barely containing your glee. “It’s an instrument. Well, sort of. It makes noise. Awful, horrible noise. Think of it as a stress reliever.” It was the infamous "instrument from hell,” notorious enough to be banned for its ear-splitting sound from hell.

Nanami opened his package with the resigned grace of a man who knew chaos was inevitable. His gift was a slightly different model, a kazoo. He held it up, inspecting it like it might bite him.

“You want us to... play these?” He asked, skeptical.

“No,” you said, grinning. “I want you to weaponize them.”

The next day, chaos reigned in their respective offices.

---

Nanami waited until Kusakabe began another ill-advised rant about company expenditures. He pulled the kazoo from his pocket, raised it to his lips, and unleashed a tuneless, nasally wail that drowned out Kusakabe’s voice.

The room fell silent. Kusakabe blinked. Nanami calmly put the kazoo back in his pocket and resumed taking notes as if nothing had happened.

Sukuna, predictably, took a more aggressive approach. During the fourth meeting of the day, as Fushiguro Toji, Chief Sales Officer (CSO) , droned on about “leveraging assets,” he stood, raised the vuvuzela like a battle horn, and blasted a deafening note that shook the windows.

“Consider that leveraged,” he growled before storming out.

When they returned home that evening, you were greeted by two men who looked far more relaxed than they had in months.

“You’re a menace,” Nanami said, setting his briefcase down.

“Best. Wife. Ever,” Sukuna declared, pulling you into a bear hug.

You smiled innocently. “So, how was your day?”

“Peaceful,” Nanami deadpanned. “Kusakabe hasn’t spoken to me since.”

“Same,” Sukuna added. “They’re terrified of me now. It’s glorious.”

You couldn’t have been prouder.

In the end, the vuvuzela and kazoo became permanent fixtures in their work lives, an ever-present reminder to their coworkers that some battles were better left unfought. And you? You had achieved the impossible: turning corporate hell into a symphony of spiteful joy.

---

Nanami had long accepted that Kaisen Publishing wasn’t a company—it was a living, breathing disaster. As the Chief Finance Officer (CFO)—a position he’d achieved through sheer competence, meticulous planning, and the soul-crushing acceptance that mediocrity often reigned supreme in corporate life—his role demanded precision and discipline, qualities he wielded with brutal efficiency. Yet, despite his best efforts, he often found himself surrounded by chaos personified by Ryomen Sukuna, the Chief Visionary Officer (CVO), a title as nonsensical as Sukuna’s presence in the corporate world.

Sukuna was a walking HR violation, somehow both loathed and revered. His title was a sham, a position created purely to keep him from actually burning the office down. He spent his days offering “visionary” ideas like turning the break room into a paintball arena or replacing desks with throne room-like chairs. How he landed the role remained a mystery, though most suspected it involved intimidation, bribery, or sheer dumb luck.

Their hierarchy wasn’t just about titles—it was about grudges. Higuruma Hiromi, the Chief Legal Officer (CLO), had made it his life’s mission to bury Sukuna under an avalanche of formal complaints. “Improper use of company funds,” “harassment of legal staff,” and “general misconduct” were regular entries on Hiromi’s weekly HR reports.

Shoko Ieiri, the Chief Human Resources Officer (CHRO), was Hiromi’s closest ally. Where Hiromi wielded legal jargon like a sword, Shoko was the sniper, striking with pinpoint precision. She could cite obscure clauses from the employee handbook with terrifying speed, and her ability to weaponize HR policy was unmatched.

Sukuna, naturally, responded with equal malice. “You’re like cockroaches,” he told Hiromi and Shoko during one particularly tense meeting. “Impossible to kill and even more annoying to deal with.”

Hiromi adjusted his cuffs. “And you’re like a plague—persistent, destructive, and entirely preventable.”

Shoko simply smiled. “We’re just doing our jobs, Sukuna.”

“Your jobs are ruining my life,” Sukuna shot back.

“Correct,” Shoko said, her grin widening.

---

Nanami’s greatest regret was hiring Gojo Satoru. It had seemed like a good idea at the time—Gojo had potential, an impressive academic background, and a confidence that bordered on arrogance. Nanami thought he’d mold him into a competent executive assistant (EA). Instead, he got... this.

Gojo was, in many ways, the embodiment of corporate absurdity. His filing system was an enigma (folders labeled “stuff” and “more stuff”), and his scheduling skills were so bad they bordered on sabotage. Once, he accidentally double-booked Nanami for a budget meeting and a Zumba class. Nanami still hadn’t forgiven him for that because he'd never even taken a Zumba class to begin with.

“Satoru,” Nanami said one morning, staring at a calendar filled with overlapping meetings. “What is this?”

Gojo peeked over his shoulder, his blue eyes wide with feigned innocence. “Your schedule?”

“It looks like a Jackson Pollock painting,” Nanami deadpanned.

“I thought it’d be more efficient to, uh, multitask?” Gojo offered weakly.

Nanami pinched the bridge of his nose. “Satoru, if incompetence were an Olympic event, you’d not only take home the gold medal—you’d set a world record for sheer stupidity. Your talent for failure is truly unmatched.”

Later that day, Nanami would find Gojo crying quietly in the break room. But to his credit, Gojo showed up the next morning, ready to mess up all over again, still chasing the impossible dream of Nanami’s approval.

If Nanami’s life was an exercise in patience, Sukuna’s was an unrelenting storm of his own making. Geto Suguru, Sukuna’s EA, was the only reason Kaisen Publishing hadn’t imploded.

Geto Suguru was the miracle worker. If the company were a body, Sukuna was the ruptured artery, and Geto was the overworked surgeon keeping the patient alive with duct tape and sheer willpower.

Sukuna’s visionary ideas were like abstract art—vague, nonsensical, and utterly useless in their raw form. But Geto, with his near-superhuman patience, could transform them into actionable strategies. He charmed investors out of their skepticism after Sukuna’s profanity-laden tirades and even managed to prevent most board meetings from devolving into WWE matches.

But for all his professionalism, Geto had one vice: bullying Gojo Satoru.

When Gojo had first joined the team, Geto had felt immediately threatened, not just by his impressive academic pedigree but also by his striking looks. With that tousled hair and captivating features, Gojo was undeniably attractive. But his endless blunders quickly overshadowed any initial worry, making him seem more like a crybaby than a competent assistant. Geto had breathed a sigh of relief when Gojo’s probationary period ended, but the incompetence persisted, even after six months. It was as if Gojo had a talent for turning every simple task into a disaster, and Geto was all too happy to remind him of it at every opportunity. Geto knew Gojo was harmless—a pretty face with no bite—and he took full advantage of it.

“Hey,” Geto had said one day, leaning casually against Ijichi’s cubicle wall, sipping tea like it was a spectator sport. “Did you manage to file those reports yet, or are you too busy giving the CFO more wrinkles?” Yes, they were not friends by any stretch of the word. Not in this life.

Ijichi didn’t even look up from his screen, muttering, “Leave me out of this.”

Gojo, caught mid-fumble with a stack of papers, flushed from humiliation. “I—I filed them!” he stammered, clutching the documents like the last Horcrux.

“In the right Google form this time?” Geto’s smirk widened, his tone dripping with mock concern.

Gojo’s voice dropped to an inaudible mutter as he stared at his shoes.

“Don’t be too hard on him, Suguru,” Sukuna interrupted, striding past with the air of a man who owned the universe—or at least the vending machines in the break room. He cast a lazy, disdainful glance at Gojo. “The kid’s got a real talent for screwing up. It’s practically a superpower. Almost admirable, really.”

Geto snorted and followed Sukuna, leaving Gojo stewing in the ruins of his confidence.

His shoulders slumped under the weight of their mockery, but a flicker of defiance ignited within him. Maybe one day he’d prove them wrong.

Who was he kidding?

Gojo wasn’t just bad at his job—he was transcendently bad.

Every quarter, Geto tried to have him fired, but Nanami’s pesky kindness kept Gojo’s name off the termination list. One time after too many drinks at a company event, Nanami had described Gojo as “a lost puppy with a degree from Tokyo U,” and though the description fit, it didn’t make him any less insufferable.

All Gojo was now good for was being the office eye candy that no one took seriously.

What baffled everyone was Gojo’s persistence. After five years as Nanami’s executive assistant, he still couldn’t properly file an expense report. His "innovative" solutions caused more problems than they solved, like the time he scheduled a board meeting in the break room.

Sukuna had been there, loudly devouring a double cheeseburger while Toji, the CSO, and Kusakabe Atusya, the Director of Customer Experience (DCE) , lectured him on “professional decorum.” The lecture ended abruptly when Sukuna offered them half his burger.

Meanwhile, Hiromi Higuruma, the CLO, had stormed into Shoko Ieiri’s office to debate whether Sukuna’s habit of blowing a vuvuzela during lunch breaks qualified as workplace harassment. Shoko had suggested they would add it to the HR policy under “miscellaneous noise violations.”

And Nanami? He was in his office, typing a scathing email to the COO. He wasn’t defending Gojo because he believed in his potential anymore. That ship had sailed after Gojo accidentally attached a frog meme to a quarterly earnings report.

Now, Nanami’s argument was simple: “Firing him would violate our commitment to inclusivity. He’s… special needs.”

Despite the madness, Kaisen Publishing somehow continued to function. Hiromi and Shoko kept the legal and HR departments running like well-oiled machines, albeit fueled by spite. Geto ensured Sukuna’s chaotic energy didn’t destroy the company, while Gojo... well, Gojo tried his best.And Nanami? He soldiered on, kazoo in hand, ready to face another day in the madhouse.

---

The next day, Nanami arrived early, as always, to find Gojo already there. The younger man was standing in front of the coffee machine, staring at it like it had personally murdered his parents.

“Satoru,” Nanami said, exasperated, “what are you doing?”

“It’s… it’s broken,” Gojo sniffled, holding up a coffee pod. “I think I jammed it.”

Nanami sighed. “How do you jam a coffee machine?"

“I don’t know!” Gojo wailed, his silver hair catching the fluorescent light like some tragic anime protagonist.

Nanami sighed and pulled out the kazoo. He didn’t plan to use it, but just holding it gave him a sense of power. “Fix it, or you’re fetching coffee manually.”

Gojo’s lip quivered. “Y-Yes, sir.”

Despite his constant failures, Gojo clung to the job with a desperate determination that was almost admirable. At night, he cried over Nanami’s stern lectures, but every morning, he showed up, sky-blue eyes shining with a mix of hope and masochism.

His crush on Nanami didn’t help matters.

In Gojo’s mind, Nanami was the epitome of competence and discipline—everything he wasn’t. Every scolding felt like a dagger to his heart, but it also fueled his ridiculous fantasy that one day Nanami would notice him as more than just a walking disaster.

He did not know Nanami was married, let alone with Sukuna in the same boat.

Speaking of Sukuna, his morning was less composed.

“Mr. Sukuna, you can’t just ignore CLO’s emails,” Geto said as they walked into the office.

“I can, and I will,” Sukuna growled, swinging the vuvuzela over his shoulder like a baseball bat.

“You do realize he’s filing another complaint with HR?”

“Good,” Sukuna smirked. “Keeps them busy.”

As if summoned, Hiromi appeared, clutching a thick stack of papers. “Sukuna,” he said icily, “you can’t keep calling mandatory meetings and then not showing up.”

Sukuna raised the vuvuzela . “Mandatory this,” he said, blasting a note so loud it set off the fire alarm.

And you? You were at the club with your friends, chugging espresso martinis, unaware of the havoc your gifts were causing.

---

The next day, Nanami’s day started with a knock on his office door.

It was Gojo, holding a bouquet of flowers.

“What is this?” Nanami asked, already annoyed.

“I’m sorry for jamming the coffee machine,” Gojo said, eyes glistening. “And to schedule that meeting in the break room. And for... just everything.”

Nanami stared at him, torn between frustration and pity. “Gojo, you can’t fix incompetence with flowers.”

Gojo’s shoulders slumped. “I just… I just want you to not regret hiring me.”

Nanami sighed deeply. “Gojo, do your job, and maybe I will be.”

“Go easy on him, Kento-kun,” came a smooth voice from the corner of Nanami’s office.

Gojo was startled and whipped around his head. He hadn’t even noticed Haibara Yu, the Chief Editorial Officer (CEO), lounging there like a king holding court.

Nanami grumbled something under his breath, refusing to look up from his laptop.

Gojo blinked, his surprise melting into pure joy. “You’re back, sir?”

“Of course,” Haibara said, his lips curving into a slow, knowing smile. “How have you been, Satoru? Hope Kento hasn’t tortured you too much in my absence.”

Gojo beamed, practically glowing under Haibara’s attention. “Oh no, he’s a good boss,” he said, glancing nervously at Nanami.

“I’m hard on him because he’s incompetent,” Nanami muttered, still not sparing Gojo a glance.

Gojo’s smile faltered, the corners of his mouth trembling.

“Don’t say that, Kento. He’s trying his best, and he’s loyal to you,” Haibara said, his tone dripping with a faint undertone of righteousness.

Haibara was one of the few people in the office who was genuinely kind to Gojo. He never joined in the teasing, never snapped at him for his constant mistakes. Nanami was kind too, in his own brusque way, but Haibara? Haibara felt like safety for Gojo.

Nanami murmured something under his breath that Haibara didn’t pay attention to.

He turned fully to Gojo. “Give me those flowers if he won’t take them.”

Gojo walked over and handed him the flowers with a smile, trying his best to hide his broken heart.

“They are beautiful, Satoru.” Haibara eyed them with a smile. "Kento, please have Ino move them to my office. Also, I’m borrowing your assistant for coffee; I hope it’s ok.” He asked, already rising to his feet.

Nanami waved a hand dismissively, still typing. “Borrow him permanently if you can.”

Haibara smirked. “You know Ino would kill me.”

---

They were out the door before Gojo could process what was happening.

Haibara made small talk as they walked, his tone light. “How’ve you been holding up while I was gone?”

Gojo ranted a little as Haibara listened with a quiet intensity that made Gojo feel seen.

And then, without warning, Haibara shoved him into the private bathroom adjoining his luxury office and locked the door with a soft click.

“Sir?” Gojo started, his voice trembling, but he didn’t get to finish.

Haibara’s mouth descended on his with a ferocity that stole the air from his lungs.

Gojo hesitated for half a second, his brain scrambling to catch up. Then a soft mewl escaped his throat as Haibara’s hand cupped him through his pants. It was as if that sound broke the dam. Gojo’s hands flew up, tangling in Haibara’s hair, pulling him closer as they kissed with a desperation that bordered on violence.

It felt like drowning and breathing for the first time, all at once.

Haibara broke the kiss only to bite Gojo’s neck, his teeth sinking into the delicate skin. Gojo gasped, his breathing ragged as Haibara turned his jaw to the side, exposing more of his neck.

“I asked you a question, princess,” Haibara murmured, his voice low and commanding.

Gojo blinked, trying to form a coherent thought through the haze of sensation. "I... I messed up again,” he stammered. “They hate me. The reports had errors, and the budgets—Geto explained the formula to me many times, but I still... I’m sorry.”

Haibara hummed, his lips trailing down Gojo’s throat as he unbuttoned his shirt.

“I broke the printer,” Gojo confessed, his voice breaking. “Shoko, Ijichi, and Hiromi fined me. I don’t even make enough.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Haibara said, his voice a velvet promise as he undid Gojo’s belt. “I’ll take care of it.”

Gojo whimpered as Haibara’s hand wrapped around his dick, stroking with a deliberate, almost punishing rhythm.

“I’m sorry, I’m so stupid,” Gojo babbled. “Sukuna, Toji, and Atsuya threatened to report me to HR because—because—”

“Because what?” Haibara asked, his tone gentle.

“Because I accidentally flashed them my waist during off-day tennis,” Gojo admitted, his face burning with humiliation. “I thought polo shirts were fine, but they said HR mandates suits, even off-duty. Did I do something wrong?”

“They’re messing with you,” Haibara said, his voice reassuring now, though his hands gripped Gojo’s slender waist possessively, almost bruising him as he placed him on the sink counter. “You’re not stupid.”

Gojo barely registered the words, his mind a blur of shame and pleasure. “Takuma’s trying to take my position,” he gasped. "Please... please take him back. I—I can’t lose this job.”

Haibara’s eyes darkened, a flicker of something dangerous flashing across his face.

“Don’t worry about Ino,” Haibara said, his voice soft but carrying an unmistakable edge. “He was only reporting to Kento because I was on the business trip overseas.”

Gojo shivered, closing his eyes as Haibara’s fingers, slick with Gojo’s precum, traced circles around his rim.

For a moment, everything else faded—the humiliation, the fear, the endless cycle of mistakes. All that remained was Haibara, his touch, his voice, his overwhelming presence.

Sensing Gojo’s silence, Haibara reassured him again. “He’s not going to take anything from you. Keep talking.”

By now Gojo’s suit was rumpled, shirt open-untucked, and hair sticking up in all directions. By contrast, Haibara’s suit remained pristine, not a single strand of his neatly styled hair out of place.

Gojo grabbed Haibara by the collar, dragging him down into a kiss that was all teeth and tongue. He bit Haibara’s lower lip, desperate, breathless. “I can’t wait anymore. Please...”

Haibara chuckled, low and indulgent, his fingers trailing down Gojo’s chest. It seemed Gojo’s masochistic tendencies under Nanami’s berating also extended in the bedroom, where he’d take all of Haibara right now with barely any prep. “You’re so impatient, Cupcake. Are you sure? I don’t want you crying about it later.”

Gojo nodded furiously, his hands clutching at Haibara’s shirt like he was clinging to a lifeline. “Yes, Mr. Yu. Please, sir.”

Oh, how Haibara loved it.

And Haibara would give anything those big, watery doe eyes begged him for.

Freeing himself from his pants, Haibara gave himself a few slow pumps, his eyes never leaving Gojo’s flushed, needy face.

Gojo was trying his best not to drool because just looking at Haibara’s cock was making him dumb dicked.

Then, with excruciating deliberation, he pressed into him, inch by inch, watching as Gojo’s mouth fell open in a soundless cry.

“What else happened?” Haibara asked, his voice calm and almost conversational, as though they weren’t in this compromising position.

Gojo struggled to answer, but his thoughts scattered the moment Haibara moved, his hips pressing forward, slowly. Gojo’s hands flew to Haibara’s hair, tugging as if he were going to fall. His voice cracked when he finally spoke, “Nanami-san... still hates me—ahhh!” Then cut himself off when Haibara pushed into him to the hilt, making Gojo’s back arch and eyes water.

Haibara wiped away a stray tear from Gojo’s cheek and licked it off his thumb as he started a slow, punishing rhythm. “Poor thing. Can’t even handle a little dick without crying, huh?” He teased with a smirk. “Keep going, sweet Satoru.”

Gojo whined, his voice trembling. “I mixed up the Compliance and Risk Management files with the Financial Forecasting ones... and sent them to the client by mistake. It cost the company so much money. Nanami didn’t talk to me for a week. I—I hated myself so much.”

Haibara kissed down Gojo’s chest, nipping at the sensitive skin of his nipples. His lips curved into something resembling soft, soothing coos. “Don’t hate yourself. It’s okay. It was an innocent mistake.”

Gojo was struggling to focus on Haibara’s words while he rearranged his inside by bullying his G-spot.

“No,” Gojo whimpered, his head falling back against the mirror. “Geto warned me what not to mess up, and I still did. I knew better.”

Haibara was at a loss for words now; he really dug himself there, but his rhythm didn’t falter. “Still, Kento overreacted. He’s always been stuck up like that.”

Gojo’s cries grew louder, his fingers digging into Haibara’s shoulders. “I just want him to see me as competent. I want to make his life easier, but I only make it worse—for him, for Geto. He humiliates me every day, and I deserve it. I’m useless. I make him feel like he’s doing two people’s jobs.”

Haibara stilled for a moment, his hands tightening on Gojo’s hips. “Do you want me to fire him?”

Gojo’s eyes widened, panic flashing across his tear-streaked face. “No! No, Mr. Yu, please, sir. Sukuna won’t let it happen, and I don’t want you getting hurt. He’s... he’s violent.”

Oh, his office bimbo—his crybaby. He hadn’t realized Haibara could fire anyone, even Sukuna if necessary. But as he considered it, keeping Geto around might not be so bad if it meant having the little crying angel all to himself. “Fine. I won’t touch him. But don’t just listen to him. Stand up for yourself. Or tell me, and I’ll talk to HR.” His thrusts grew faster, rougher, each movement a reminder of his control.

Gojo clung to Haibara like his life depended on it, sweat-drenched hair plastered to his forehead. His wide, glassy eyes fixed on where Haibara disappeared and reappeared into him over and over again, his lips parted in broken gasps.

“Agreed?” Haibara asked, his brows furrowing as his voice dropped to a low, commanding tone. He yanked Gojo’s hair, compelling him to meet his gaze.

Gojo, still being impaled, couldn’t help but let out a soft moan. He hid his face in Haibara's shoulder, his voice breaking with a choked moan. “Yes, sir…. Thank you,” he sobbed, his voice trembling. “But I feel so bad for Nanami-san. He’ll never see my love for him. I’m just so useless to him.”

Haibara leaned in, his tongue tracing the tear-streaked paths on Gojo’s flushed cheeks. The way Gojo’s dick twitched against his stomach told him he was close, teetering on the edge. But Haibara wasn’t done. Not yet.

He pulled out abruptly, ignoring Gojo’s whimper of protest, and dragged him down from the sink counter.

Turning him to face the warm-lit, golden-bordered mirror, Haibara pushed into him again, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth motion. Gojo’s fingers tangled in Haibara’s hair, clutching desperately as Haibara licked, bit, and sucked on the delicate skin of his shoulders and back.

Haibara’s smirk darkened as he watched Gojo’s reflection—flushed, tear-streaked, and trembling under his touch.

His crybaby. His alone. The thought of Gojo’s unrelenting admiration for Nanami sent acid through his veins, but the jealousy only fueled him. He’d make sure Gojo stayed this vulnerable, this wrecked, for him and him alone.

Without warning, Haibara grabbed Gojo’s neck, holding him still as he reached for the small velvet box on the counter. He placed a custom Hermès necklace around Gojo’s neck, the gold gleaming against his sweat-slicked porcelain skin.

Gojo blinked, dazed, too overwhelmed to notice until Haibara whispered, “Look.”

"But... but what’s the need?” Gojo stammered, his voice cracking as his eyes flitted between the mirror and the necklace. “I already barely get to wear the Bulgari Serpenti Viper one you gave me...”

A smile tugged at his lips despite his protest.

Haibara chuckled, tightening his grip on Gojo’s neck just enough to make him gasp. He adjusted his angle, thrusting harder, deeper, drawing a strangled cry from Gojo. “It’s to remind you,” Haibara said, his voice a low growl, “that you’re not as much of a fuck-up as you think you are. I don’t spend a week hunting down the perfect necklace in Paris for just anyone.” He punctuated his words with sharp thrusts that made Gojo’s knees buckle.

“But Nanami-san…” Gojo’s voice was barely audible now, his legs trembling, threatening to give out. He was pent up after months of dry spell.

“Don’t worry about him when I’m making you feel this good.” Haibara pinched Gojo’s ass, grinning wolfishly as Gojo let out a high-pitched cry.

“Ahh, Mr. Yu!”

Haibara’s pace stayed unrelenting, his stamina endless and the dick to back it up with the way it bullied him in the right places.

“Now, I’ll ask again,” Haibara said, his voice dark and firm, “do you understand?” He gave a particularly hard thirst because he knew Gojo was close with the way his body was trembling.

“Y-yes, Mr. Yu,” Gojo sobbed, his voice cracking as he gripped Haibara’s arm and the counter for dear life. “Harder, please.”

Haibara’s lips curled into a satisfied smile as he watched Gojo unravel, each tear and whimper intensifying the dark, possessive hunger within him. His crybaby was so easy to break. He obliged, his movements rough and unforgiving.

The necklace brought him immense joy; unbeknownst to Gojo, it concealed the initials H.Y. and G.S., visible only under a microscope.

This was his. His crybaby. His angel. And no one—no, one—was going to take him away.

“Cum for me, Pumpkin,” he ordered, stroking Gojo’s cock, his tone leaving no room for disobedience.

Gojo’s lips trembled. “Are you calling me fat?” His voice wavered, and fresh tears welled in his eyes as he looked down at his chest and stomach.

Ah, this was also one of his annoying habits—to overthink everything.

“No, I just find you cute as a pumpkin with a pretty bow on top.” But Haibara was nothing if not his good yandere.

Gojo let out a choked laugh, his cheeks flushing deeper.

“Now cum for me, Sweetheart,” Haibara commanded, his voice dripping with authority.

Gojo’s legs would have given out if not for Haibara’s arms holding him, trembling violently as he fell apart, making a mess of himself. His cries echoed in the mirror, raw.

Haibara followed soon after, burying himself deep as his release tore through him. His grip on Gojo’s waist tightened, keeping him steady as both of them tried to catch their breath.

He pressed a soft kiss to Gojo’s shoulder. “Mine,” he thought to himself—against Gojo’s skin, the word more a promise than a statement.

Haibara gazed at the tear-streaked, thoroughly wrecked man in his arms, possessiveness tightening in his chest like a vice. No one—not even Kento—would take Gojo from him. Ever.

Gently, Haibara began fixing Gojo’s disheveled shirt and straightening his hair. If he left it up to Gojo, his clumsy ass would walk back into the office with something glaringly out of place, and the whole roaster would piece together what they’d been doing behind closed doors for over a year.

It had all started when he’d found Gojo crying alone in Nanami’s office after everyone had left, his resignation letter in his shaking hands.

That night, Haibara hadn’t just talked him out of it but also fucked him brainless until Gojo couldn’t move and forgot everything—Nanami, the resignation, his doubts—until all he could do was cling to Haibara, unable to think, or even breathe without him.

But what Haibara wouldn’t admit to anyone—not even Gojo—was that it wasn’t luck that led him there that night. He’d spent months trying to get close to him, memorizing every detail of Gojo’s life, from his coffee order to his laundry instructions. He’d followed him for months after hours, cataloguing every habit, every vulnerability, and beaten the shit out of those print factory workers harassing Gojo, catcalling him on his way into the building. Haibara made sure they never showed up to work again.

Now, they were office fuckbuddies, not that Haibara wanted it this way. Gojo still had that infuriating crush on Nanami, still sprinted off to fetch his lunch or his coffee like a lovesick puppy. But Haibara wasn’t worried. He was patient.

For now.

He caressed Gojo’s cheeks as the latter giggled, his fingers brushing over the gold custom Hermès necklace. His eyes sparkled, oblivious to the weight of Haibara’s stare.

“Wanna grab dinner tonight?” Haibara asked absentmindedly, smoothing the collar of Gojo’s shirt. He was ready for the usual rejection.

Then something shifted—just for a moment. Gojo looked at him differently, as though he was almost seeing him.

Haibara’s chest tightened, hope flickering dangerously.

But then Gojo’s phone buzzed, and he gasped. “Oh my god, I’m late to get Nanami-san’s lunch!” He spun, ready to bolt out the door.

Haibara’s hand shot out, catching Gojo’s wrist mid-step. His grip was firm but gentle, his thumb brushing over the delicate pulse point inside. Gojo froze, his breath hitching as Haibara leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss there.

Haibara’s dark eyes locked onto Gojo’s wide, cerulean ones.

Gojo’s cheeks flared red, the blush creeping up to his ears. He stammered something unintelligible before taking his hand back and sprinting out the door.

Haibara watched him go, his lips curling into a slow, satisfied smile.

---

Meanwhile, Sukuna was dealing with HR.

“This is the fifth complaint this week,” Shoko said, leaning back in her chair. “You can’t keep terrorizing the office with that thing.”

Sukuna smirked, spinning the vuvuzela in his hands. “Prove it’s me.”

“We have video evidence,” Hiromi snapped.

“So?” Sukuna shrugged. “I’m a visionary. Visionaries disrupt.”

“You’re disrupting my sanity,” Hiromi muttered.

By the end of the next week, the vuvuzela and kazoo had become infamous. Employees fled at the sight of Sukuna, while Nanami’s kazoo had become a symbol of silent ‘fuck you’ to corporate overlords. Even Gojo seemed to improve, if only slightly, terrified of losing Nanami’s approval.

---

Next week, it all came to a head when Sukuna proposed a company-wide retreat at a remote hot spring. “We need to boost morale,” he said, grinning like a man with ulterior motives.

“What you need,” Hiromi snapped, “is to stop submitting reimbursement requests for your vuvuzelas."

Shoko added, “I think we should approve the retreat. The HR department could use a break from writing up Sukuna’s infractions.”

Nanami sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Somewhere in the background, Gojo tripped over his own foot, spilling coffee all over the floor. Geto muttered something about bringing bleach to the retreat—“for the stains,” he clarified when Hiromi raised an eyebrow. Toji and Kusakabe almost got written up by Shoko for laughing.

As the meeting dissolved into a podium fight, Nanami reached for his kazoo. Sometimes, it was the only thing that kept him sane.

And you couldn’t be more proud. After all, corporate life was all about making your mark—and thanks to you, your husbands were leaving theirs in the loudest, most obnoxious way possible.

---

Later that day, the boardroom was uncharacteristically quiet, the air thick with confusion and the faint hum of the overhead lights. No one had any idea why they’d been summoned.  

“Why are we even here?” Shoko leaned toward Hiromi, her voice low and tinged with boredom.  

“To meet the elusive COO,” Toji replied with a shrug, stretching his legs under the table.  

Ino, perched nervously next to Haibara, was painstakingly organizing a pile of notes into immaculate fonts on his tab. Geto had his arms crossed as he watched Ino’s note-sorting with mild disdain.  

Kusakabe adjusted his coat and looked around. “Seriously, though, how come we’ve never met this COO? It’s weird.”  

“Germophobia,” Ino offered matter-of-factly. “Someone in HR said he avoids public spaces entirely.”  

The sound of a door creaking open cut the conversation short.  

“Sorry to keep you waiting.”  

The voice was unfamiliar yet strangely resonant, coming from the far end of the room.

Everyone turned to see a figure stepping out of the shadows—a tall man with striking white hair, his suit sharp enough to cut titanium.  

For a moment, no one spoke. The employees exchanged puzzled glances, and Shoko tilted her head in confusion.  

“Gojo?” Geto broke the silence, his voice laced with disbelief. “Did you screw up another meeting schedule? We’re supposed to be meeting the COO, not—”  

“No, Suguru.” 

Geto bristled at Gojo's use of his first name; one time he nearly received a ticket from HR for threatening violence over it, while Gojo sniffled near the ferns.

But this time, the voice was steady and calm, a whiplash from the bumbling tone they had come to expect from the clumsy assistant as the white-haired man stepped fully into the light, exuding an air of confidence and ownership.  

Nanami’s expression shifted from tired annoyance to something closer to alarm. “What… is this?”  

Gojo—or whoever he was—smiled faintly, but there was no warmth in it. “Allow me to formally introduce myself. I’m Gojo Satoru. Chief of Operations (COO) of Kaisen Publishingbarely. ”  

The room froze.  

“Excuse me?” Hiromi’s tone was accusatory.  

“I understand this might be a bit of a shock,” Gojo continued, his voice perfectly even. “But the truth is, I’ve been observing all of you from a different perspective. And now, it’s time for me to take a more active role.”  

Geto’s jaw tightened, his composure cracking. “You’ve been... what? Playing the fool? For five years?"  

“Precisely.” Gojo’s smirk widened slightly, his icy blue eyes scanning the room. “I needed to see who I could trust, who would rise to the occasion, and who would crack under pressure.”  

“Trust?” Sukuna growled, his tone low and dangerous. “You mean to tell me you’ve been watching us like lab rats?”  

“I prefer the term ‘case study,’” Gojo said, his voice as smooth as olive.  

Shoko let out a low whistle, breaking the tension enough to speak. “This is some next-level corporate psychodrama. You’ve been playing dumb for years just to—what? Test us?”  

Gojo’s gaze landed on Nanami, who looked like he’d just been handed a live grenade. “And you,” Gojo said, his voice softening just slightly. “Thank you for your patience, Kento. You believed in me when no one else did.”  

Nanami’s face hardened. “I believed in someone who didn’t exist.”  

The room fell silent again, the weight of the revelation sinking in. Gojo adjusted his cufflinks, the faintest trace of a grin playing at his lips.  

“Well,” he said, stepping back toward the door. “I hope this clears up any confusion. From now on, you’ll be seeing a lot more of me. Let’s make sure Kaisen Publishing continues to thrive.”

Before leaving, he stopped and turned, “Also, Haibara, a word?”

Whatever was going on in Haibara’s head, he didn’t show, just followed.

And with that, Gojo walked out, leaving the boardroom in stunned silence.

A/N: I swear, this started as a cute little fic about the reader giving Nanami a kazoo, & somehow it spiraled into corporate angst, smut, & crybaby gojo for some reason. Like he's the office bimbo who no one takes seriously, truly a man in women-dominated fields. haha.. I’ve only written smut four times, & yet TWO of those have Nanami topping & Gojo being a bottom in two, while Haibara & Sukuna top somewhere in there. I'm baffled! Like… how did we get here? I’m confused because canon Gojo radiates I’m-the-top-but-I-cry-after energy, yet here I am, dragging him into bottom hell AGAIN. (Honestly? No regrets; all of us would lick his tears too, SHAMELESSLY!) Haibara, though… HAIBARA. Listen, I gave myself whiplash writing him. He’s my own OC from my fic 'Third Wheeling your own Marriage," & yet I’m feral for him. You guys hyping him up like he’s canon-validates every single unhinged decision I made there. We never saw adult Haibara, but I was like, "What if he was hot, obsessive, & dom-coded?” And here we are. This man fights for Gojo, literally & metaphorically, while Nanami sighs in the background with his kazoo. Quick sidebar: Tumblr, confuses me. For an app full of people who swear they don’t self-ship, why is every other post a “x reader” fic? No hate (I’m guilty too), just an observation. Shoutout to my AO3 gang, though—we ride for our ships. Nanago nation, rise up. I said what I said: Nanago makes more sense for adult Gojo. Don’t agree? Go argue with a wall. I love Satosugu; I do, but Nanami is just… superior. (Maybe because I, too, am a corporate baddie barely holding it together. We’re twinning.) Anyway, sorry for the rant. Toji & Kusakabe backtracking on Sukuna mid-lecture because they wanted his burger was comedy gold, btw. Did you check the links? Bonus points if you did!

Oh, & about the ending… what do you think Gojo called Haibara for? Did they agree to date, or did Gojo threaten him with something? Let me know, because even I’m questioning their dynamic at this point. Okay, bye for real this time! 💕

Next Chapter 2 - The Symphony of Stress-Relief (Tumblr/Ao3)

All Works Masterlist

[trans-axolotl]

anarchist healthcare workers conference this weekend I am. SO excited for it and so excited to present about psych abolition and anticarceral care for suicidality but there is a million things I need to do before tomorrow

[klabauters]

So a friend of mine works at a youth center that occasionally organizes youth larps. The kids are all between 12 and 17, and usually the folks from our larp group will show up and play some npcs. We've also showed up as a pirate crew once which caused exactly the type of mayhem you'd expect if you set a bunch of teenagers (notoriously dramatic anarchists) loose on a bunch of pirates (notoriously dramatic anarchists)

This weekend we're npcing again, and while the original plan was to just assign us some quest-giving roles, my friend texted me last night to announce a change of plans:

"hey the kids want the pirates to come back. bring Lutz?"

So now instead of just handing out tasks to some children, me and a disgruntled cannoneer will take two dozen bloody theatre kids on a treasure hunt. What the fuck am I doing with my free time

[madschiavelique]

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ . ★ . ჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻

Chapter 1 : First Day

pairing : teacher!miguel o’hara x student!reader summary : you visit your new university with the help of Hobie, and when coming back to your new apartment you meet your charming neighbour Miguel. turns out, he is not only your neighbour, but your teacher. (not proofread) content warnings : none word count : Route A : 4,2k | Route B : 4k masterlist of the fic : here.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ . ★ . ჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻

Your lungs fill with the cool air of mid-September. The leaves are beginning to turn brown, a few falling onto the perfectly cut green lawn of the campus park. You can't wait to walk on them and hear them crunch under your shoes.

But for now, the sky remains blue on this late afternoon, dotted with a few cottony clouds, the gentle caress of the sun's warmth licking the skin of your cheeks. You breathe softly, calming your excited little heart for the new terrain that now stretches out before you.

At the end of this weekend, you'll begin your new year at the Academy of Science and Polytechnics, otherwise known to its students as ASP. Your previous university didn't live up to your expectations, nor did the one before that, but as they say, third time's the charm! At least, you hope so...

You're expecting to have a little more experience on various subjects than your future comrades, and you're quite happy to be starting out with a head start. Not that it's a competition, but the comfort you have with certain subjects is reassuring.

You're a little worried that the age gap might divide you from them, but you try to reassure yourself that, just in case, other people your age who want to change course will be along for the ride?

You give a quick nod, in the hope that it will give you enough courage and uprightness not to stumble and spread yourself like a pancake in a profoundly ridiculous fashion anywhere on campus, and start your walk to its entrance.

You're supposed to meet up with a certain Hobart Brown, who's supposed to be your guide for today - perhaps he's a student representative? 

Whatever the case, you hope the visit won't be too long. Because not only is today your visiting day and the first time you've set foot in your new college, it's also the day when a good deal of your belongings are moved into your new apartment, which is located just a few blocks from the campus.

You'll receive several boxes containing, among other things, your books and the few manuals you've bought in previous years, clothes, your hygiene kit and a mattress to inflate. The apartment would be empty, with nothing but a refrigerator already installed as furniture.

You'd be on the third floor, the last one, as the building isn't very big or wide, with only two apartments per floor. You just hope your next-door neighbour won't be unpleasant. The reason you're hoping the visit won't be too long is that you'd like to take advantage of the delivery men’ presence to help you get everything up to your floor. Since the building is small, it lacks an elevator.

When you arrive at the large, imposing door of your university building, your gaze inevitably falls on a young man with an atypical style leaning against the wall right next to the entrance. Piercings, free hair, punk clothes and an aura of I-don't-give-a-shit to match, you wonder what degree he must be in.

With a toothpick wedged between his lips, he looks up at you, a shiver running down your spine as he tilts his head to the side.

"It's you? [Name] ?" he asks, calling your name, taking the toothpick from between his lips with his fingers.

It's at this precise moment that the realization hits you that the Hobart Brown you're supposed to find was this young man.

"Hobart?" you ask, raising both eyebrows.

"It's my name, but I prefer Hobie. Well," he nodded, rolling his eyes, "Hobie's a derivative of the one I was given at birth. Let's not get into the habit of names please, it's bad."

The scent of the anarchist anti-system was a perfume he nonetheless seemed to wear gracefully.

You pout understandingly, your lips forming into an inverted smile as you answer simply.

"Gotcha."

He smiles, nodding.

"Well, you're here for a tour," he says as he starts walking towards the interior of the building and you follow him, "but that's a particularly broad and useless term in this context. A tour only lasts once, and you discover things. But since you're going to be coming back here frequently, and you're still likely to discover new places, you could say I'm introducing you to the building."

"Are you in Arts?" you suggest as he walks down a corridor which you look at on either side where classes with their numbers are inscribed. "No, let me guess, you're in Philosophy."

"And you're perceptive." he smiles. "I like you, you seem to catch on quickly."

The university is, after all, home to the vast majority of the sciences, including the humanities. So Hobie is in philosophy, which is not surprising. It's interesting that he was the chosen student for your tour - sorry, introduction to the academy.

"Here's a typical corridor, nothing special, you'll come across lots of them," he sighs as he swings his hand in the air as if chasing a flying insect around him. "On the other hand, on this floor there are a few empty classrooms that we use from time to time, and obviously without the knowledge of the professoriate."

"Makes perfect sense," you say with a shrug.

"It's very useful for the meetings we hold about blockades," he informs, turning to you while walking backwards. "FYI," his ring-fingered hand rests on his chest, "I'm kind of the leader of our blockade committee, although being a leader or having one at your head isn't something I endorse. You could say I'm... the spokesman, the one who makes the speeches at our rebellion events, because let's face it, when you get tear gas thrown in your face, it can be confusing."

He seems to look you up and down, weighing up the pros and cons for a few seconds.

"Would you like to join us?" he finally said, with a jerk of his chin in your direction.

You crossed your arms, looking up at him.

"I'll think about it," you reply simply.

He smirks before turning again and walking straight ahead.

"Now, let me show you what will really matter here for you. You're in 'real' science, aren't you? You like playing chemist? Toying with vials?"

Hobie's little prejudices make you smile and laugh slightly.

"If you're nice, the one who toys with vials will show you how to make a better assortment of components to respond to tear gas."

He turned to you, laughing heartily and pointing at you as he walked to the staircase at the end of the corridor. 

"I like you," he repeated as he led you upstairs.

"This is the second floor, in case you can't count. I don't know all your stuff and your complicated scientific words for this or that or such-and-such subject," he says, his head tilting this way or that, "but one thing's for sure: this is where you'll have most of your classes."

In the hallway in question, coming from a room that had just been locked by her, a lovely dark-skinned lady with gorgeous afro hair was walking towards you.

"And you may well find yourself in class with Mrs. Drew," he said, almost raising his voice and smiling as you walked towards her.

She walked slowly, unhurried, chin high as she smiled at the young man's call.

"Hobie, convincing one more person to tag the campus lawn with a capital A?" she said in a voice that was half sigh and half sneer as she came up to your level.

"You know me at this point, you know I never do the same thing twice," he says with a shrug before plunging his hands into his back pockets. "But for once I'm bringing in a bright element that will go into your side." he turns to you.

"A new student?" asks Professor Drew as her eyes settle on you.

"Nice to meet you, I'm [Name]," you smile simply.

"Welcome, miss." she says, inhaling heavily. "I hope you'll get used to the rhythm here, it can sometimes prove to be merciless."

"Jess, don't be so hard on a new arrival, you'll scare her away," warned a new voice.

A slightly disheveled man with light brown hair came towards you.

"This," Hobie began, "is Professor Parker. You're going to have to put up with him too."

"Eh, I'm not someone you 'put up with'," commented the aforementioned Parker, imitating a finger-crunching reaction to the use of words, "it's not my fault your religion is Spinoza and mine is Mendeleev."

"It's crazy how you're both so distinctly the same mental age," Jess sighed. "Anyway, welcome to our midst miss." and she headed off down the hall.

"Oh, so you're new!" realized Peter, "welcome to ASP."

"Stands for Appearant Soporiphic Problem," Hobie sneers.

"Does Freud have an acronym too?" puffs Peter.

"Of course," he says before raising his hand as if viewing an imaginary title in the air, "MI."

"Mission impossible?" asks Peter, frowning.

"Mommy Issues." corrects Hobie.

"Very funny," laughed Peter falsely, "I hope that as a reconversion option you've chosen the circus?"

"I'm already there. "

"I am fully convinced you never graduated kindergarten." This little chat lasted a few more minutes before Peter in turn left to go home and the visit continued. Ten minutes later, the visit was over.

You told Hobie that you were new to the city, and that everything was a bit of a discovery. You learnt that the building was very old, just like a few others in the town, and that many changes of direction had led to it being rebuilt over the years, while preserving its charming, slightly old-fashioned setting. "Well, I've shown you the parts that are important to you here," says Hobie as he descends the few small steps leading to the building's main entrance. "You mentioned that you were new to the city, so do you need a mini 'tour' of it too? Just the surrounding area, to familiarise yourself a little", he suggests.

Here's your first choice! Select the option you want.

Choice A: Decline and go straight to your flat. Choice B: Accept and take a short tour of the surrounding area.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ . ★ . ჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻

tag list : @deceitfuldevil @allysunny @zkelecr0w @chichimisaki @luvrdonny @oooof-ifellforyou @aisyakirmann @carelesswister @jojos-wife @akiras-key @love4saturn @simpychaotic

[thedreadvampy]

I do not understand subcultural politics discourse and at this point I don't know how much is differences in the national scenes and how much is that we just have very different ideas of what these scenes are.

cause like. Punk I get. Punk is not always left wing (there has always been a Nazi punk problem) but punk IS always inherently and actively political as a definitional factor. Punk is foundationally anarchist, counter-hierarchical, and centred on anger and community cohesion. If you approach punk as apolitical or centrist you are Doing It Wrong. Nazis and right libertarians have always made up a small but vocal chunk of the community, and that's a problem punk has to address in its own ways (ideally with steel toecaps). Punk is definitionally political and has a couple of extremely foundational sets of political beliefs.

Or like, hip-hop. More complicated case cause there's even more corporate cooption involved in shaping the modern genre but hip-hop has a foundational political position. Hip-hop is focused on Black pride and power, and on addressing African-American trauma and injustice, and so it's historically working-class, anti-racist and anti-cop. It means something politically as a genre.

But some stuff people say just Does Not Jam with my experience of subculture. Like people KEEP saying 'you can't be a right-wing goth, goth is radically left wing' and all I'm saying is a) we have spoken to some VERY different elder goths bc as much as I was lucky enough to grow up in the scene, going to the goth weekends, etc, my god did some of those 60 year olds vote Tory or BNP with their whole chest. and b) as far as I'm aware the main thing that goth stands for politically is countercultural provocation and a kind of nihilistic disengagement. like Siouxie Sioux habitually used swastikas and Nazi paraphernalia to demonstrate distance from her parent's generation. a lot of the foundational Goth musicians are either right-wing or prefer to keep their politics private because they consider them separate.

like most of the goths I know are left-leaning, because there are foundational philosophical beliefs attached to goth culture and a lot of those, like fluidity of expression, resistance to established power, and celebrating marginalisation, appeal to a lot of lefties. But frankly I've known a lot of goths who are reactionary right-wingers or full on Nazis because, well, other precepts of goth culture can include stuff like nihilistic individualism and glorification of death. Plus the Nazi iconography thing, plus the widespread racism in the community. and those weren't like 'i found goth on TikTok' goths, these are like 'committed to the lifestyle since 1979' goths.

Like goth is not particularly a RIGHT-WING movement, but I have never experienced it as an explicitly political musical/subcultural movement at all? Certainly not the way that punk or reggae or outlaw country or something is.

(and speaking of reggae. I was watching Anthony Fantano and FD Signifier talking about this whole idea and FD said something as a 'isn't this a silly example' about a white nationalist looking for white nationalist reggae. and they were both laughing about what a silly idea that was

and I'm sitting there like...But that's literally exactly what happened with ska in the UK? like ska is obviously an afrocaribbean genre made by and for Black communities and uhhhh by the late 60s in Britain ska was the white nationalist sound. like skinheads love ska and in particular there are a bunch of neonazi/white nationalist ska acts. not all skinheads are far right but if skinheads have a dominant political identity it is probably more far right than far left.

and that did raise the question of differences in national scenes. like I know that behind the Iron Curtain a lot of punks were using UK and American flags the way Western punks were using Soviet iconography, and Caribbean music has a very different cultural association in the UK than in the US, and British rap has a different political outlook than American rap.

and so maybe American goth is a lot more political than British goth? but I kind of think of goth as a European subculture tbh like I think goth I think England and Germany, and the European goth music and goth scenes I've been in are......not explicitly political?)