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yuanology · 2 years ago

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this is what being gojo satoru's weakness feels like—

the door to your apartment creaks open at precisely three in the morning; the witching hour. it's terribly fitting, you'd like to think, with how satoru has a tendency to flit in and out of your life with minimal warning, sporting new bruises and scars every time he comes back. it has become something you learn to expect, so you always leave the door open for him.

he says nothing when he approaches you, footsteps light against the hardwood floor, but he knows you are awake. you know that he knows this because the bedroom door soon slowly gets pried open as well and there is an added weight on the mattress next to you. satoru still says nothing, and you still pretend to be asleep.

after this, comes the following routine:

one, satoru will turn you slowly on your back (if you are not already on your back), and then he will;

two, sling his leg over your waist, moving to straddle you. his ass is flushed against your pelvis. after this, he will either do the following;

three, he will rest there, his hands either framing both sides of your face and pressed against your pulse over your throat and over the beating heart over your ribs. or, he will be impatient, desperate to wash away the thoughts of today's sins and he will directly move to;

four, grind his hips slowly, rolling it in a way that he knows you would enjoy if your eyes were open to watch him. here, he is always languid no matter what tension builds underneath his skin. oftentimes, you're already awake for this part, but you always allow him this moment of false privacy. after this, he will;

five, he will lean close, his mouth pressing open mouthed kisses over your throat and collarbone where the skin is visible from above the fabric of your shirt. here, is the part where he slowly lets himself get caught in the rush—all wandering hands and panted breaths and a kind of vulnerable boldness that he will never allow anywhere else.

this is where the routine ends. this is where you decide what you wish to do with the god begging for a glimpse of his own humanity in your hands.

your eyes will flutter open slowly, drinking in the sight of the moon's rays casting pale shadows all over satoru's skin. there is a halo borne around his head— creased and warped and ruined by the touches of the people who is supposed to take care of him. it is in this moment you will always realise the sheer gravity of your situation, the implicit trust pushed into your hands, the explicit faith he instills in your kindness.

"satoru," you murmur, soft and slow. your hands move to rest on his waist, never quite guiding him to move faster or to stop, merely ever grounding him into the moment. "what do you need?"

because this arrangement is never about what you want, only ever about what he needs. because you only ever want him to feel safe, and he only ever needs you to make him human.

for a moment, you are almost certain that satoru will say nothing. this has happened before in the past, when satoru will climb into your bed wreathed in the shadows of the early morning and he will say nothing as he allows you to guide him through his own thoughts. during these moments, you must always treat him with utmost care; fine porcelain and delicate china designing the bones and structures that crafts the body of the god the shaman world reveres so cruelly.

but tonight is not one of those nights.

he blinks at you slowly, like a cat, like a ghoul, like a boy reawakening from a day filled with haze. he whispers your name, his voice hoarse as if unused. your hand inches higher, moving up to rest on his sides, feeling the rise and fall of his ribs accompanying each of his breath.

"satoru," you try again, because you are relentless when it comes to satoru. because for a man who saves so many people so many times, people rarely ever come around to save him. "look at me, sweetheart. what do you need?"

his breath shudders, his eyes falling shut. he leans forward, his face finding itself a home where it is buried in the crook of your neck. his response is soft, quiet, nearly inaudible if you are not listening to him. but you are always listening, because satoru always has something worth saying and no one else will listen to him.

"please," he murmurs, and you can feel him falling apart in your arms in real time. "just take it all away."

and your heart breaks a bit for this man, because you know what this entails. because you know what it means when he wants the world to be stolen clean from his hands.

"alright," you say in response, your nails digging into to scratch at his back. welts immediately begin to bloom all over his skin, but satoru is shuddering in your embrace and you already know that it is the right thing to do. "get on your knees. i want to fuck your face."

satoru scrambles quickly to comply. he slides off of you like oil off ice, even when infinity is nowhere to be found, and he gets off the bed. he moves to kneel on the floor instead, over the soft carpet that you had installed after you realised how much satoru liked simply staying on his knees, simply lazily sucking you off as he allows himself to drift off and away from all of his own thoughts. you shuffle to the edge of the bed, sitting with your legs parted so that satoru can move to settle in between them.

his hand moves to your thigh, a visible swallow tracking a long line along the column of his throat. "may i?" he whispers, his tongue darting out to lick at his lower lip. satoru blinks up at you with wide eyes, pleading at you as if he is afraid of being pushed away, and there is a part of you that wants to cry for him.

but you don't. instead, your hand finds purchase in his hair, running through the soft strands, and you tell him, "go ahead, baby." because there is nothing better than you can do for him than this.

he smiles at you; none of that bright as the sun grins that he would give to the rest of the world. no, this one is more muted, desaturated, but no less genuine. this is gojo satoru at his softest moments, at his most honest. you follow his guidance as he gently manoeuvres you so that he can pull off your pants and boxers.

when you are once again situated on the bed, the both of you finally comfortable and pleased by the situation, does satoru begin to lean in. it starts slow, at first; kitten licks on your tip as his head begins to bob. he takes in your length slowly, bit by bit with all the hesitance of a virgin.

you both know better, though; all of this is part of a show, the one where satoru acts all innocent and boyish and oblivious so that you can take him by his hair and teach him how to take you properly. it's the same game you have been playing with him since the day you first took his virginity.

"is that all you've got?" you murmur, your voice mocking in that now familiar lilt that always spurs satoru on. this time is no different as he keens around your cock in his mouth, pulling off so that he can pout at you with pretty pink, spit-slick lips.

"i don't—" he cuts himself off with a soft whine, his knees shuffling forward so that he can get closer to you. you cup the back of his head in appreciation, twisting a strand of his hair between your fingers in a subtle act of approval. satoru immediately goes lax, all of the tension accumulating on his shoulders finally bleeding out as he simply looks up at you with wide, lost eyes.

"you're too big," he tells you, a familiar script. the corners of your lips twitch; into a frown or a smile, you could no longer tell. "i don't know if i can take it."

"shh, baby." this one is a little different, but the glaze in satoru's eyes at the sound of your falsely-comforting words is all the same. "don't you want to be my good boy?"

"yeah," he breathes out. he shifts closer, always so eager. "wanna be your good boy."

you hum, tapping the head of your cock on his lips. "then open your mouth, and take what i give you like a good boy, alright?"

it's easy, after that. satoru no longer plays any games. instead, he lets his jaw drop open easily, his lips parting to take in your cock. you slide yourself into the velvety warmth of his mouth inch by inch, watching his face swiftly acquire that dazed, fucked out look as you stuff him full on your cock. pretty, you think to yourself as you stroke his hair gently.

"see," you whisper, bending over so that your mouth was hovering over the shell of his ear. "you can take it. good boy."

satoru whimpers around your cock, nearly choking on it as he does, but his eyes are rolled back to the back of his skull already, and you know he's most pliant like this. you straighten as you push yourself off the bed to stand properly. the change in angle has the tip of your cock meeting the back of his throat, and you both let out a choked moan at the feeling.

you look down at satoru, your hand tightening its grip in his hair in warning. "i'm gonna fuck your throat," you tell him again, a second warning, and you begin to thrust into his mouth shallowly. "and you are going to take it, yeah? you're gonna be so good for me, won't you, baby?"

if this isn't what he wants, satoru knows that this is the time to push you off. just three repeated taps on your outer thigh and you will pull off immediately. you don't want to hurt him, not when he is already hurt so often.

but satoru's eyes meet yours, summer seas filled with determination, and his hands only move to cross behind his back, wrist caught in his hand. like this, he looks like the perfect image of subservience. no longer gojo satoru, the god, but rather simply satoru, a boy eager to please.

you roll your hips once, twice, experimentally to gauge out satoru's reactions. when he lets out a low moan, a muffled consent, your hand temporarily leaves his hair to thumb at his slick lips, drool slipping out of the corners of his mouth, leaving a mess all over his face.

"keep your eyes on me, pretty boy," you tell him, your voice low and heated. "i want you to watch me as i make a mess out of you."

satoru makes an aborted motion, the familiar buffered movements of a nod interrupted, and you smile. your precious satoru is always so damn eager to be good for you, to be good to you, that you can't help but wonder if perhaps this is your greatest blessing or a premonition for something worse.

your hips rear back, and you fuck into his mouth in earnest.

satoru's eyes immediately widen at the feeling of your cock filling up his mouth at rapid speed, the head bumping the ridges of the back of his throat. a high whine slipped out of satoru, the sound watery as it was muffled by your girth.

your hand once again finds purchase in the soft strands of his hair, but you no longer card at it gently. rather, you gripped at it; holding him upright by only his hair as you use it as leverage to make his head meet your every thrust.

choked, garbled sounds escaped satoru's throat, and you kept the sound of your own groans and moans to a minimum so you could enjoy the sound of satoru's aborted attempts at telling you how good you felt. satoru has never been quiet, not when you are involved, and even as you fuck his face, he will always, always try to tell you how good you're being to him.

"you look so pretty like this, baby," you coo, your voice breathless. "so goddamn gorgeous."

and satoru is. he's so beautiful, even out of bed, casted by rays of sunlight, untouchable in the daylight, but there is something almost otherworldly in the beauty he emits when he is yours. because here, on his knees, satoru is a different sort of gorgeous—he is stripped of his godhood, of his title, of his crown, and he is reduced to being just your good boy, your pretty, pretty satoru, your satoru. no matter how briefly, no matter how ephemeral.

but that isn't the most important factor in what makes him look so ethereal. no, it's the fact that for a man forced to be on his knees, satoru never once looks out of place. he looks up at you, long lashes revealing summer blue, and there is a dazed smile on his lips even where it is being wrapped around your cock prettily. it's the fact that gojo satoru, for all his pride and arrogance, will always willingly get down on his knees for you and he will enjoy having your presence be lorded over him. because satoru, your satoru, knows that you are his just as much as he is yours.

even on his knees, even when he is relinquishing all power into your hands, he still conquers.

fucking beautiful.

satoru constricts around you when you shift the angle ever so slightly to reach deeper into his throat. for a moment, you almost falter as you watch his hands closely. but they don't move, remaining where they are positioned behind his back, and you take that as your cue to keep things going at that steady pace.

tears begin to cloud satoru's beautiful eyes, clouds dotting at warm, clear skies, and you have to stop yourself from fucking him deeper, fucking him rougher, because even satoru has his limits and your job is to bring him to those limits, but never beyond those limits.

the sight, however, admittedly brings you close to your high. you feel warmth beginning to pool in your gut, steadily building as you guide his mouth to take you in further, deeper, until there is a bulge forming in his throat, matching the shape of your cock.

satoru keeps his eyes on you the entire time, the good boy that he is, and you know that he can see that you're close, because he starts doubling his effort. no longer does he simply take you, he begins to hum around your cock as well; the vibrations sending electric thrills running up his spine. low pants begin to escape your lips as you tug at his hair.

he whines.

"i'm gonna cum in your mouth," you tell him, feeling yourself getting closer and closer. "and you're gonna swallow it all like a good boy, is that right?"

satoru's eyes glaze over, and he moans around your cock. you feel your composure breaking, your movements growing erratic. with the purchase you have in his hair, you bring his face close to your hips until his nose is buried in your pelvis, nestled amongst your happy trail, and you're spilling down his throat.

satoru fucking swallows it all like a goddamn champ. he doesn't even struggle, choking on it at first but quickly finding rhythm like the damn prodigy that he is. he keeps his eyes trained on you the whole time, you know he does because you can feel the burn of his gaze on your skin even as you tip your head back, a guttural moan escaping your lips.

you make him stay like that for a moment longer, choking on your cock and your cum, before you finally pull out. his lips were shiny with spit and dribbles of cum, his eyes still glazed over by pleasure and tears, his face looking like a fucking mess and his hair sticking up in every direction.

"come here," you say as you fall back onto the bed, and he scrambles to follow.

he climbs into your lap and his lips are on you immediately, his hands scrambling to pull you closer to him. satoru's actions are filled with anxious energy, one that you recognise immediately. this is beyond just his desperation to feel you close to him after you've fucked his throat, this is satoru seeking repentance.

"what," you start, your head still feeling light. "what'd you do?"

"i'm sorry," satoru rasps out quickly, sounding so guilty that you can't help the frown that creases your expression. it's the wrong thing to do because the anxious energy increases and satoru is scrambling closer to you, hands grabbing onto your shirt. "i'm sorry, i didn't—"

"satoru," you say, not reprimanding, simply grounding, as you force him to still by grabbing his hips. "what happened?"

satoru swallows, looking at you with lost eyes. "i didn't mean to cum," he whispers. "i'm sorry."

for a moment, your head is entirely empty. satoru is still gnawing his lower lip nervously as he looks at you, watching you, anticipating your next move. but you honest to god can barely even think because you were watching satoru the entire time. his hands were behind his back and he barely even grinded against the floor, so how could he have—?

your hand moves to cup him, your thumb brushing over the wet spot. satoru stiffens, even as a weak whimper escapes him. "i'm sorry," he tells you again. "i didn't mean to."

fuck.

"it's okay, baby," you tell him hurriedly. your hands move to cup his face, feeling your brain come back to life. you wipe the tears out of his eyes, the clouds once again clearing to reveal cerulean blue. "i never told you that you couldn't cum. it's alright, baby. you did a good job."

he sniffles. "i'm still your good boy?" he asks, his voice so quiet that your heart breaks for him.

"yeah." you press a kiss to the top of his head, wrapping your arms around him to hold him close. "you're still my good boy."

and satoru is looking at you now with wide, guileless eyes, looking so much like a lost boy that you feel something splinter within your ribs. how terrifying it is, how something so seemingly simple can destroy satoru in an instance.

you tilt your head back, gently slotting your lips over his in a delicate kiss. there is none of that earlier hunger in the way you kiss him now, merely a softness that makes satoru loosen even if he does not melt yet in your arms.

just as he always is after an orgasm, satoru is pliant as you guide him onto your bed. you kiss him slowly as you take his clothes off, cleaning him of his sweat and drool and cum, before you redress him in a loose t-shirt and a pair of well-loved sweatpants that you had tucked away in your closet just for him.

once the both of you are clean, you situate yourself in bed next to him. your arms come to wrap around satoru where his face is tucked into the crook of your neck, your legs tangled as you hold him close to you. with this proximity, you can feel the way your heartbeat aligns with one another; beating the same rhythm, slow and steady and alive.

he mumbles your name into the silence, looking hesitant and shy all at once. "i'm still your good boy, right?" he asks you, his voice quiet as if he's afraid of the answer.

you swallow past the lump in your throat, distracting the momentary silence by leaning your faces close to each other; foreheads pressed together, noses brushing against each other. "always," you tell him, because it's true. "i'm glad you enjoyed yourself, baby."

and then, and only then, does satoru allow himself to go lax as if he finally believes you. he sinks into the warmth of your embrace, his eyes sliding shut at long last when you press a kiss to the side of his head and tuck him close to you.

because—

because there's a delicate line you have to toe when you're dealing with one gojo satoru; too much of something and you will crush him entirely in your hands, too little of something and he will believe that you do not want him anymore. satoru is a delicate game to play, a fragile person beneath all of his strength and glamour who simply yearns for a person to see him and hold him.

this is what it's like to be gojo satoru's weakness; in your hand resides to power to make and break a god, a boy, a lover.

#the ending part does not make sense probably #but it is what it is #gojo satoru x reader #sub gojo satoru #sub jjk #male reader #top reader #dom reader #( thirsts. )

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extremely-judgemental · 7 days ago

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As heinous as the initial sexual assault UtM was, the reenactment of it is worse. Feyre never exhibits any response to this trauma in any way throughout the books. Rhysand spent the most time with her, Rhysand abused her the most, Rhysand put her in most of the dangers, and yet, it’s interesting the ones that haunt her are the cruel creatures and the imprisonment.

Reminders before you continue. Trauma manifests in different ways and there is no concrete manual to determine when or how it happens. We are not debating or refuting if the characters were truly abused. We are looking into Feyre’s reactions and choices rather than her words as people can’t/don’t/won’t explicitly state them. Given the context in the books, this is more of a speculation on how it would/should have impacted her and if this reflects in her behaviour. And reiterating so there are no idiotic comments later: If someone drugged another in real life with the sole intention to touch them in any way without consent, they’d be registered as a sex offender and be in prison.

Unlike other violence, sexual abuse is a conscious choice. There is no losing control, there is no unintentional inflicting of pain, there is no misunderstanding.

Since abuse is too strong a word for this fandom, Rhysand chooses to violate Feyre physically, sexually, and mentally. Night after night. It is a deliberate act that serves no purpose in his grand schemes to free Prythian.

His reason falls short as well since Tamlin—known for his unrivalled temper—is preyed upon by Amarantha since his youth, carries the guilt and burden of being the only one who can undo the curse, chooses to sacrifice his court for his love, and is forced to watch his partner go through impossible trials to save him and his people. He has plenty to be enraged about without this hideous show.

At this point, Rhysand already suspects Feyre to be his mate. This treatment of stripping her naked and parading her in front of an audience shows his lack of respect for her. Even without that little detail, it shows how little he regards one’s body and dignity.

These shadow the two other key moments in his abuse. After the second task, when the reality sets in and Feyre spirals from the pressure, Rhysand forces himself onto her and kisses her. He ‘distracts’ her from the pain with more trauma. Which is repeated when Amarantha finds them alone the night before the third task. Over and over again Rhysand pushes Feyre’s boundaries with her body.

The sexual abuse Feyre suffers is seen along the same vein as physical abuse when the former is more profound and leaves deeper roots. It’s how Rhysand has been getting away with it in the narrative.

This is also treated as a one-off experience in her life that doesn’t affect her psyche which is funny because sex is one of her coping mechanisms since the beginning. She has an intimate relationship with an engaged man without emotional attachment, using him as an outlet for her frustration and pain during the poverty days.

Feyre never had a healthy relationship with anyone. The only times she had a genuinely loving experience was with Tamlin—once before he sent her away, and once right after her transformation.

Now, this very medium is turned against her and wielded by Rhysand to exert control over her and Tamlin. However, when she turns into fae, Feyre easily falls back into her old patterns and escapes her problems through sex. Moreover, in less than a year, she moves onto another partner instigating sexual encounters with none other than her abuser and this relationship begins with replaying her abuse.

The moment in CoN is meant to mark Feyre’s transition from a lost, traumatised individual to a confident woman worthy to be Rhysand’s counterpart. It’s anything but that.

Feyre is drugged UtM to ensure she doesn’t remember the events that follow. The pieces she remembers are being dressed and escorted to the court room and paraded until she drinks the wine.

The same sequence of events happen now. The premise is same. Rhysand wears the same mask. Feyre is in similar clothing. Feyre is escorted by Rhysand. UtM was modelled after CoN. The people of CoN react the same way, looking down on her and judging her. The only changed factor, Feyre is conscious through the entire ordeal this time.

The similarities in the situations should be jarring, triggering even, but Feyre shows no signs of it. She kneels for Rhysand, lets him pleasure her, and she reciprocates the desire and lust. She doesn’t have to fake it. (IIRC she even admires herself in that dress)

Minds are fickly, especially traumatised ones. They will constantly try to fill the holes left by their past. As someone who doesn’t remember a single moment of her abuse, to relive the same instance but devised as her own consenting scheme, Feyre’s mind will confuse the two. By the end of the night, she feels empowered. The very things that traumatised her for two months is imprinted in her brain as her claiming her own life. Over time, with more consequent role plays, it will be cemented as her only reality.

Though she consents to it, this prevents Feyre from coming to terms with her trauma on her own in her own time.

By reenacting the scene, Rhysand normalises and trivialises the assault. In doing so, he denies Feyre the mere comprehension of what she endured. It’s also interesting it’s after this show that she learns of the mating bond and receives an ‘apology’. But she won’t be associating it with her real pain or confusion she felt UtM instead what she lived in CoN.

Even if the memories are erased, the feelings should remain with her. The dread, the shame, the sinking feeling that something wrong is about to happen. Trauma lives in the body until it’s addressed. It should trigger some sort of pavlovian effect since the torture repeated like clockwork for two months. The moment she sees herself in the dress, her body should be anticipating the hit of drug. Her mind is awaiting the reward that follows the humiliation, only this time instead of wine, it’s sexual pleasure. (Feyre should’ve been addicted to it since faerie wine is more potent for a mortal. Or she shouldn’t be enjoying it at all since it would signal impending doom but she indulges in it as much as Morrigan.)

On another note, this might have also triggered the habit of shutting her mind off whenever Feyre is forced to confront difficult situations. She exhibits this behaviour often after she was turned. Not saying she wasn’t egoistical to begin with but this could’ve worsened her.

There is no blatant signs of this but the lack of discomfort or repulsion towards Rhysand’s touch shows she could be dissociating. Feyre has always seen her body as a weapon to be used. She is so disconnected that she doesn’t see it as a part of herself. Being unaware of the true extent of the torture on top of its psychological impact, she might have started seeing it as a vessel for others’ pleasure.

This explains why she is unfazed when Rhysand makes a crude comment in front of Tarquin, agrees to play the same role again without any of the negative triggers, and every other sexual fantasises.

For someone whose body is constantly reduced to a sex object which can be exploited by anyone, starting with her partner, it’s not surprising Feyre wasn’t furious when Rhysand kept the truth about the pregnancy from her.

This applies to her child as well. Though she carried him, their fate was Rhysand’s to decide. Nyx is and never will be his own person, instead an extension of her mate in more ways than one since Feyre wanted a child only to keep a part of Rhysand alive.

Her sense of identity is severely damaged and she is deriving her worth from how she benefits Rhysand. (I know there’s proof for this somewhere, I’m just too exhausted to dive deep into this)

The problem is not whether Feyre is experiencing trauma in this specific way, but it’s that she isn’t affected at all. Her only response she openly admits to is her deep fear and hatred for enclosures when she lived through so many horrors, all inflicted by the same man she calls her mate. With her memory erased, she is stripped off the ability to ever process it, let alone heal from it.

One of the main reasons their relationship works is Feyre sees the absolute worst of Rhysand first. His words and actions after that—taunting Tamlin, treating Nesta poorly, the state of Hewn City and Illyria—will still be perceived as his compassion and leniency. And any doting she receives from him is pure love. The standard is so low that not being abused is kindness.

It’s quite sad Feyre never had the chance to sit with her pain and accept what she was subjected to and by whom. She never learnt what she lived through and what was being asked of her in CoN. How can she forgive someone when she doesn’t know what they did to her? Saying she does isn’t equivalent to doing the actual work of healing.

The act in CoN is not a reclamation of her power, that’s another coping mechanism seen in SA victims as some tend to hypersexualise themselves as a means to gain control over her body and life.

Rhysand also exhibits this behaviour in his monologue when he recounts his experience with Amarantha. Given he craves control over every aspect of his life, framing the narrative in his favour is the only way he can convince himself that he wasn’t a complete victim and helpless. Had his victimisation for fifty years warped how he saw someone’s agency or approach to sex itself, his actions would be understandable. But he claims to know the pain and consequences as he lived it himself.

And when Rhysand shares his side of the story, he doesn’t even say the words. He doesn’t directly acknowledge what he did. He denies her the courtesy to have all the facts laid out for her so Feyre can decide if she truly wants him in her life.

It’s disrespectful to both these characters and their journey who have deep wounds around how their bodies were perceived, to be exploited in the most vulnerable way possible. CoN severely affects how they connect with each other and form a meaningful bond. They don’t and never will have an honest love as the foundation of their relationship is denial of their past.

Rhysand isn’t a mastermind who created a perfect wife with his elaborate strategies. However, he is a liar whose goal is to escape any immediate consequences and Feyre is more than willing to go along with it as it allows her to bury her pain instead of facing it.

Also, these align very well with the misogynistic values perpetuated throughout the books and so it’s almost indistinguishable. These could very well be Feyre’s beliefs from the beginning or an aftermath of her experiences. Either way, Feyre is not healed. She only locked away her painful memories. And when she finally addresses them, her perfect life will fall apart so much so she’d wish she was still living her poverty days with her sisters.

If this seems like an exaggeration, most of the readers fell for it too. So, clearly, it works. I wouldn’t credit SJM for all of this as she definitely didn’t plan this out this well. But the scene in CoN was not just her kink, it was necessary to gaslight the readers. If Feyre enjoyed it when she was conscious, she must have enjoyed it while drugged too, right?

#i went full psychoanalysis on this #not really #i toned it down for you guys #probably not the kind of analysis y'all were expecting #but it is what it is #too much going on for edits #judging an author for what they write is unfair but this woman pisses me off so much #anti feyre #anti rhysand #anti feysand #anti acotar #anti sjm

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