#glitched halcyon

[mar-the-magician]

MARRRRRR!!!!!!!!!! HIIIII!!!!!!!!!!! 💜💛💜💛💜

GLITCH!!! YOU’RE BACK!!

[robo-dino-puppy]

cauldron climber

[swtorpadawan]

When Corellan Showed Kira the Umbara Stronghold, there were some... Glitches

Someone will think these are funny.

[glass0milkart]

🧿️✳️ bad_choice 🧿️✳️

[toji-bunny-girl]

𝙎𝙖-𝙏𝙤-𝙍𝙪

CHARACTER— yandere!gojo x fem!reader CONTENTS— yandere themes, stalking, hidden camera bear thingy, slight angst? IDKK gojo is just gross asf, noncon, intoxicated!reader, worshipping kink, DELUSIONALL‼️‼️‼️, slight fingering idk, sex yuh A/N— enjoy this masterpiece I wrote months ago (I no longer have the ability to write as good as I did) kinda weird but I literally had this dream a few days ago of a guy kidnapping me and bruising my ass with his initials 💀💀 scary asf and I remembered it hurts like a bitch anyway I have an exam later on so wish me luck 🤩 (repost)

The lustre of his eyes glimmered against the reflection of the screen, his face turning rubicund was evidence of the blood rushing underneath his cheeks. Sweat flecked across his palms, marginally soiling his pants when he rubbed his hands on them.

Your eyes stared straight into his, and he thought your orbs must be of millions of blended colours for them to glint in iridescent. The sliver of rays from the screen pierced his irises, and he swore the sight of you must be cleansing his soul.

He sucked his lips as you played with the toy bunny’s hands, and a smile reached your face before you pressed the soft toy into your chest, clutching it in your arms as you sighed something. Something that started with Sa and ended with Ru. His mind must be playing tricks on him, right? It couldn’t be that—

Then there it comes again, the cadence of your voice, the shape of your lips, and his name that you whispered. Sa-To-Ru.

The Sa whose eyes would only trail behind your wake, the To that breathed just for the air that you exhaled, and the Ru that didn’t believe God lives in heaven, because there was you, his Goddess that walked the Earth amongst the sinful humanity.

Satoru. He thought he had never loved his name even more than that moment.

But he found himself wrong—oh so wrong.

You sounded even more euphonious sprawled out before him, intoxicated with alcohol on your tongue and in your veins—not a clue about where you are and what’s going on. All you could gather was the familiar mop of silver in your foggy sight, and how the world seemed to be on vertigo.

The bits and pieces of recollections you could grasp onto in your besotted state were the hours spent drinking bottles of liquor, giggling at the charming jokes and teases from Gojo. Then the clashes of teeth and his hands on your chest, the long ride up an elevator, and stumbling onto a bed that smelled like him.

“My name…” he panted when his head rose from your jugular—marked and claimed through teeth and tongue. “Say my name,” he repeated, pressing his lips against your jaw as he took in a drag of your ambrosial scent, long fingers pumping in and out of your squeezing cunt.

You frowned, moaning into the torrid air that bubbled around the two of you and arching your back when an orgasm tumbled through, warmth pervading through your core when pleasure glitched over your body like static.

His name doesn’t read past your lips, but your groan of pleasure was enough for him to render him halcyon. Lining his painfully pulsing head to your slick entrance, the dilatory push of his fat tip into your folds made a cry ripple through both of your throats. In you he found warmth that tasted like divinity; the forbidden fruit between the thighs of his Goddess.

He didn’t dare move, afraid that your grip would tempt an orgasm in him to soil your quim with his load. His thumb drew circles upon your clit, trying to mitigate the tight clench of your cunt in the wake of your previous orgasm.

Your muscles finally relaxed in a few rubs, and he let his length ease into you, your hole still pulsing and spasming as his cock filled your insides. Gojo’s chest fluttered with rapture as he groaned for your name, almost as if he was trying to have you look at him, fully sober instead of laying crumpled on his bed.

But you don’t, your eyes remained still shut, and only the little whimpers and cries that fell off the edges of your lips denoted your senses still awake yet torpor from the inebriation.

“Please, look at me?”

You groaned when he benignly lifted your jaw, his sense of deify for you felt through his cold fingertips before his lips meld into yours. Your mouth lax open, letting his tongue taste the heaven off of yours and swallow your saliva of ambrosia down his throat.

When he withdrew from your face with a dense cloud over your heads, he found the hues of your orbs peering into his summer’s blue sky, your eyelashes fanning the heat over his cheeks. His heart jumped and paced, and he was sure you could hear his heartbeat. Could you?

“Satoru…?” you whispered. The tang of liquor blazing strongly in your system, but you still managed to recognise him. “Wha–Where are we? And wha—”

You were cut off from your words when his lips crashed into yours, and his hips began pistoning in and out of you, your moans jumbled between your dancing mouths before sizzling in the hot air. Your walls tightened around his girth as he pumped deep into you, his cock throbbing and threatening ejaculation, but he would rather abnegate himself from pleasure if you hadn’t succumbed to it.

Every stroke of his swollen head against the bump of your g-spot made you gasp and cry with the stimulation, palms desperately attempting to push the weight of the male off, but it simply came to piteous futility.

At his last stroke, your squirting cunt squeezed his cock tight and wet his pelvis, and his load began filling your inside to the brim, thick spurts of cum shooting at your cervix as you screamed his name.

The Sa who you could taste on your tongue, the To who swore you’re the lone fire to his loins, and the Ru who promised to never let your divinity step a single foot out of his door—your temple, to walk the earth soiled by sinning humans.

Satoru—the priest to your Holiness.

[theweeklylight]

thank you to everyone who makes this paper possible! including you all reading this!

and thank you to the great team

@rainbow10508

@locallygrowndaikon

@jackal-watercarcass

@cloud-of-corvids

@pikerthedog

@valleyofgays

@m00nvale

@capngoosey

@plutos-thoughts-and-sketches

@9yroldmoldycornbread

@multigrainbreadbread

@imfineanddandy

@iveneverbeentothestars

@baudshaw

Justdandyy

cool frappè connoisseur™

Thatskykid

@halcyon-xxy-art

Endersketch

@lotus-lamps

@exoni

@afroskykid

@useless-prophet

@marsnoodlesoup

@sodapop-glitch

@Nebulapaws

@hweatskybox

The D.C.

@ebi-skycotl

@princessjadyn15

@yolkyweichei

@mozi-skysideblog

Want to help make the paper? join the discord! https://discord.gg/GJFfkFS8Pv

[astorythatwritesitself]

Kiss meme: Shrios for 39 because I want you to hurt me.

39 - A kiss because… time's run out.

(Ao3/bonus version here)

@ me: hey why the fuck'd you write this

Breathe, it's over now, over now.

It's been six months, since the war's end.

Five, since the prognosis.

'A matter of weeks,’ the doctor had said. 'Months, if you're very lucky.’

Adrian had taken it fairly well, all things considered. Vanished for a few hours, along the beach trails near their home, but there had been no tears. Hardly even a tremor in her voice, when she'd said: 'we always knew we were on borrowed time.’ Thane is simply grateful for each day that passes without incident.

It's been small things, mostly. A misplaced item. More notes around the house - reminders of appointments, when to feed the fish, where things were. Tasks left undone, things dropped because her hands won't cooperate. Her biotics failing, once again. Longer pauses in conversation, where she struggles to find her words. Worse - he knows he's not seeing all of it, nor the worst of it. Had she simply been so caught in her own mind? Or had it, like so many things, slipped, when he would be home? Regardless, Thane can't bring himself to rob her of that illusion - but he remembers those long hours on the Normandy. The strange, hazy warmth in her voice as she recited her favorite poems for him, the words flowing like swift waters, her love for them sweeping him along even when they did not translate so well. To hear those same words just the other day, clipped and faltering, incomplete...

'She could be wrong, siha-’ Thane starts. Starts, but the words catch in his throat as Adrian presses closer, arms tightening around his waist. Her lips brush his shoulder - or so he chooses to believe. He can't bring himself to look, to see if she is crying.

‘You can rebuild a lot of things, but a brain's pretty high up there in ‘experimental’,’ she replies, only the faintest of tremors in her voice. ‘I'd… always wondered. If it wouldn't burn out fast, or break down - and that's on its own, being around that much Reaper crap? If they were trying to indoctrinate me or anything…’

That's as far as the conversation goes. The next day - week, ultimately - will be for shoring up what she'd prepared during her arrest, handling any other affairs. What remained of the night was simply to be enjoyed, to commit to memory all they could, before the chance passed by.

—

He's steeled himself as best as he can, to spend no time mourning now, not when there's still more good days than bad. More days than they'd dreamt of having when they'd first met, more days than seemed possible, during the war. A day like this, where Shepard is already awake, taking over the kitchen table with her latest ship model, and Thane almost believes that their future stretches out far and away, beyond whatever either of them could imagine. Her hands are steady, and he can almost forgive the faint, burnt odor lingering in the air, because it means she's remembered to eat on her own. He sits beside her, and they talk for a while - about Vega's upcoming visit, the inaccuracies of the Normandy model strewn before her, Kolyat's last message; and all the while, her words come without trouble, with no grasping or fumbling to recall this detail or that.

—

“We don't have anything else going on today, right? I was thinking, maybe we could go to the beach,” Shepard says after a while, as she starts cleaning up her workspace. “It's beautiful out there.”

Thane hums a brief agreement from where he stands, just behind where she sits, clearing up the last of the dishes of his meal. “That would be lovely, siha,” he replies. Sets the plate aside and turns, resting a hand on Adrian's shoulder. Is about to say something, when she looks up at him, a faint and fretful half-smile on her lips.

“I think my translat-”

Her expression falters - confusion and then a slow, horrified comprehension. (’I think my translator just glitched. What did you call me?’)

She grips his hand, as if it were the only thing keeping her tethered to this world. He leans down, pressing a light kiss to the top of her head, all the while reminding himself, there will be more good days ahead.

But there's no denying now, that they are numbered.

[wordsonly]

Halloween Queen

At minds edge

The ravings of the damned

Echo

Through the flat,

Out-cut

Graceless

Land.

Bunny girls

Satin, peroxide

Roll heart-sliced

Candy

Perlesant eyes

Fizzy-pop American whiles

Tickle the mind

Suck hard or blow

Or run and hide

From her

Queen of midnight diamonds

The emerald footed swinger of hips

Red lips, pressed to finger tips

Flashing flame-hot Lanolite

More than delicious

Every bite

Countess blood lover

Of erotic dream

Bites down hard this Halloween

To steal that rubber ghoulish heart,

Within reach

Though a world apart

Her beauty gleams

Terrifying

Glamouring

Glitching

Truthfully lying

Cherry, pomegranate, orange crush

For mere mortal

Her sublime smile,

Is quite enough

To evaporate a soul to mist

It is utterly pointless to resist

For her necklet of trophies,

Of fresh cut wins

Will lasso your mind and draw it in

Til

Lost, it is

In the endless universe

Behind her eyes

To wander

Halcyonic,

Captured,

mesmerised.

[wri227philomena]

Solidarity Forever! - Journalism Unions, The Impact of Twitter on Journalism, and Unpaid Content Moderation - Class 11

"Motivation" from New Media Unions: Organizing Digital Journalists by N. Cohen and G. de Peuter

"There’s no way to be safe or secure in this business,” says Kelly. “Because you could wake up one day and the billionaire who owns the company could be in jail, or decide to sell, or decide that everyone needs to do video.” (Cohen et al., 5)

Ain't that just the funniest thing. It's almost as though cycles of anti-union sentiment in the digital age--the Third Wave, thanks Alvin!--will always come down as a working collective resisting the deranged machinations of whichever billionaire manchild holds the reins.

One thing I find interesting about the content of this article is what Cohen and de Peuter cite from Melissa Gregg as "presence bleed" (Ibid.) The Province of Ontario has, in recent years, attempted to staunch the flow, so to speak, with legislation aimed at limiting how and when employers can contact employees outside of the workplace.

It's unfortunate that not much in this article feels novel to me. Workers are constantly being exploited, globally. What these journalists are describing; of being hospitalized by stress, of being made to feel ephemeral, or made to feel marginalized by their gender or race, these are not new issues. I will say, the direct reports from journalists of colour, and from female journalists in majority-male workplaces, are compelling and novel due to the lack of representation of their voices in previous reporting on labour advocacy issues in an official capacity.

I do think it's compelling to read about previous union action while other unions are attempting to advocate for fair deals in their industries.

2. The Impact of Twitter on Journalism | Off Book | PBS Digital Studios

So. Twitter.

Speaking of the Arab Spring: What would have happened if that glitch removing media and breaking links from before 2014 had stuck? Unfortunately, the @acarvin Twitter account mentioned in PBS's video does not seem to have any tweets containing media from before 2013, so I can't check to see whether any pertinent information was lost from 2010-2012 on that account, but the sentiment remains. Evidence of massive geopolitcal upheaval, entirely wiped from the internet's memory. In the previous article, one of the journalists discussed how "the internet ain't going nowhere" (Cohen et al., 6). The thing is, the internet is so thoroughly ephemeral. That is precisely why scraping archives such as Archive.org exist. To preserve webpages before they are wiped off the face of the Earth.

Every discussion about Twitter as a "source of information" (PBS, 1:50) has been irreparably damaged by Elon Musk's fuckery. 'X' is no longer a useful website, it is an experiment in autofellatio.

Speaking of autofellatio, it is absolutely wild to see a video from 2012 featuring a newsroom analyzing Trump's tweets. (PBS, 3:15) What halcyon days were those, when the @realDonaldTrump Twitter account was spewing relatively mundane levels of filth into the greater internet ecosystem, as opposed to encouraging domestic stochastic terrorism. I really appreciate one of PBS's speakers for their follow-up here: "Is it actually newsworthy?" (3:19)

"There isn't always a golden age, and sometimes we can hurt ourselves by imagining there was." (4:29)

This statement is profoundly compelling to me, given my thoughts from Class 2. The idolization of any given period of time, as opposed to the period we currently occupy, is dangerous, because it neglects to acknowledge the dark underbelly now shielded from view by the passage of time.

P.S. It feels weird to me, that there seems to be a pro-Israeli occupation stance in this video. I was pretty ignorant of the occupation when I was, *checks notes* 14, at the time of this video being published, but it feels super strange to me that there's this background noise of the Israeli-Palestine conflict, but with this subtle framing of Israel as not being a colonial aggressor on Palestine.

3. Journalists Are Not Social Media Platforms’ Unpaid Content Moderators by Jason Koebler and Joseph Cox

"It is not reporters’ jobs to work in service of cleaning up the platforms of some of the most powerful companies on the planet." (Cox et al.)

First of all, I'd like to say FUCK Alex Jones, and all of the fascist horses he rode in on.

It's absolutely insane to me that Facebook has such a massive issue with allowing hateful trash on their platform that they have a direct escalation chain specifically to deal with journalists reporting on the trash that they refuse to moderate otherwise. WILD. "Many of the highest-profile content moderation decisions seem to be made only after there’s publicity around them." (Ibid.) I mean, on one hand, I'm not surprised. As I mentioned in my response for Class 2, it is a product of globalization that Facebook and other social media are permitted to export moderation labour to countries they do not hold their home office in, and if they don't export human moderation labour, do away with in entirely in favour of algorithmic moderation, which consistently fails to be sufficient. They are, as Vice puts it, offloading the otherwise expensive labour onto journalists, so that they can benefit for free. In addition, the fact that Vice's reporters have had to being making their reports to Facebook and other social media websites more vague, specifically so they can't do this, is astonishing.

"For example, when Motherboard wrote code to monitor how long trivial-to-find neo-Nazi propaganda remained on YouTube, we declined to provide the company with any links to particular examples." (Ibid.)

Insane!!! Absolutely fucking crazy!

4. Lecture, Part 1 - What is good journalism?

I cannot explain the strange sensation I feel whenever something in my studies brings me back to The Pilgrim's Progress by John Bunyan. It is simultaneously delightful, because it gives my corusework greater meaning and context, but also a bit frightening, because it makes my world just slightly more interconnected with this one work. Muckraker, a term we studied during this lecture, comes from a turn of phrase in Bunyan's text, recontextualized during a speech made by Theodore Rosevelt. Muckrakers, as we studied them, are political agitators and activists, who use their chosen medium of journalism to improve the material conditions of the society that they occupied.

I agree with the sentiment that "journalism is essential for democracy to work" (Lecture material). In addition, I appreciate the stance that this course has taken on the political position of journalism. Alex Jones is, in fact, a right-wing journalist. With that said, his work is factually eggrigious, and he has been removed from a great deal of polite society for his bigotry and bloodthirst quite reasonably. Journalism is a radical tool for social change. Good journalism seeks to, as discussed in relation to the operating philosophy of AOC, improve the material conditions of marginalized members of our society.

5. Lecture, Part 2 - Time for brass tacks.

Going to be honest, I always sort of lose myself when it comes to formalized writing. I have an extremely bad habit of slipping into a more conversational prose style, and enough people have let it slide for the sake of a unique literary voice that I am now cursed to avoid meticulous syntactic execution. LOL. With that said, in being introduced to the AP Stylebook, I can see why a profession such as journalism would benefit from a certain level of meticulousness when it comes to uniform delivery of information. I do not personally believe that journalistic objectivity should be located in platforming 'two sides' of any given argument--that shit is stupid. I do believe that, if there is objectivity to be found, it should be located in the style through which one delivers their information. The page on the AP Stylebook linked in our course material is a bit telling on this front, given it's reference to "a new chapter on inclusive storytelling" in the most recent edition.

Here, inclusive storytelling--however AP chooses to define it--is an integral aspect of objective journalism. Ain't that a treat, compared to the dreck InfoWars is spitting out!

TLDR: To be a journalist is to wield radical power. Use it wisely.

[reginrokkr]

Astral tempests peer attentively upon the pointed stall in quiescent wait, patience made manifest as events unfold as al-Háitham has described they would happen. Dáinsleif is no stranger to being a bystander and witness to predestined fates meant to happen byproduct of spiritual seeds planted since halcyon times. Just as he said would happen, the children fail to choose the correct option: fourth.

One thing in common has everyone whom he has laid eye upon, the fact that they all wear their Akasha Terminal. A most ingenious invention from the late Greater Lord Rhukkadevata for that which people do not know: to heal the earth from poisonous void that could devour this star anytime if left unchecked. While benign, it connects to everyone's consciousness to make use of mankind's erratic dreams and transform it into Jnana energy for the cause.

Being in possession of such strong artefact and bearing naught but ulterior motives can lead to grave consequences. As it can be used for noble purposes, it can become one's worst nightmare were they learn that it is adept for mass control. This is the result of when those soulless sages have all the minds' control, they may manipulate them as they wish for their goals. As for what goal that is, Dáinsleif knows exactly what they are trying to attempt by plunging all these people in a limitless Samsara.

So that time is already upon us...

❝If what you suggest is that everyone whom wears the Akasha Terminal is affected by this samsara-like effect, then that leaves us with one option to exhaust.❞ Swift steps lead the fallen luminary to a stall of spices among which freshly ground coffee of a variety of kinds rests amongst the others— he must interact with one of them to clear any ounce left of doubt. ❝I would like to buy some coffee.❞ His voice is low and deep, it is the first time Dáinsleif mutters a word since they exited the Akademiya.

Glitch-like phenomenon occurs in the wake of an otherwise harmless conversation when the vendor turns to respond to Dáinsleif, only to disappear as if he was never meant to interact with him. Silence ensues thereafter, Sumerian denizens resume what they were doing like nothing happened. ❝So this is what happens when one of them interacts directly with someone whom is not affected by this phenomenon.❞ He voices within their shared device. An empty space appears in its place to replace the emptiness that man left behind.

❝It would seem that any exterior influence that was no recorded in whatever reproduction this is affects its functionality.❞ An exterior reality where only one's consciousness remains while body's prison lingers elsewhere, Dáinsleif knows this feeling well. Certainly, he has subjected himself to a nigh-endless Samsara centuries ago to see if there was anything he could've done to save Khaenri'ah only to come to the realization that there was naught. However... when the purpose, so it does the nature of its birth.

❝A dream.❞

Wherever he looked left or right, al-Háitham could not shake off the feeling of being watched, no different of the gut when people lied in wait for an ambush. Dáinsleif should've helped assuage that feeling, he did. Maybe it was the added burden to look after him and protect him that had him so over the edge unlike previous moments when he felt the same. The knight's acute sense to read the room and the accuracy he showed rips a sigh away from the Scribe's in relief. Good, it would be easier to explain later.

"Your keen sense for perception beyond the surface is commendable as always." He didn't falter to praise. Going out of the Akademiya was somehow less suffocating, although not any different than walking from a smaller prison to a bigger, arguably more dangerous one. "There is something you must see. That will spare us explanation time." Instead of touring the city towards his mansion, al-Háitham touched the small of his back to catch his attention and follow him elsewhere: towards the Bazaar.

Everything looked rather robotic as Dáinsleif pointed out, this perception only strengthened the closer they walked to the location in question that seemed to be the core of whatever was currently occurring in Sumeru City. Weren't for the fact that al-Háitham had already noticed a few details here and there that were amiss and the Dendro Archon's warning to take heed, it would look no different in the eyes of whom didn't spend much time outside except for what it was needed.

Conversations repeated over and over, events became the exact same with no room for fate to dictate what was meant to happen but the sense of Samsara that wrapped the location like a veil. "Indeed. That's my guess since I noticed their predilection to cease wearing their Akasha Terminal." His gaze turned towards the King of Flowers-to-be stall where he let a few children choose the candy flavor hidden. The one he asked should be fourth starting from the left.

"As for what they are scheming exactly, I am still on it." Al-Háitham wondered in if was an act of kindness from the Dendro Archon to not give him all the details about what was currently taking place or it was a means to blend more easily with the rest in all the feigned lack of knowledge on the matter to not rise any suspicions among the sages. Whatever the case was, he couldn't care less so long as he was shielded from that to affect his person or Dáinsleif now that he was back. "From my own observations, everything seems to revolve around the Sabzeruz Festival in the name of Lesser Lord Kusanali."

Quite the contradiction for all their disdain towards her and their incapacity to accept that Greater Lord Rhukkadevata has passed away five centuries ago— may she rest within the spiritual veins that lead back to Irminsul. "By everything I mean an endless cycle that repeats around the same days that encompass a couple of them before the festival including the marked day."

Whatever it was that they were planning to do, one thing he could admit is that they had the patience to go through something they couldn't fathom or bear as it contradicted with their own ideals. "For example that man with moustache." He prompted him to look towards the same direction with a quick rise of his chin. "The candy flavor he's asking the kids to guess is the fourth."

[mar-the-magician]

If you could be a vampire or a werewolf, which would you be?

Follow up question: if vampires weren't immortal, would your answer be the same?

Werewolf, definitely. I cannot live without the sun. And no <3 lol— as cool as vampires are, I’d definitely much rather be a werewolf

[swtorpadawan]

Some Jedi Knights have to kill TWO Jurgorans at the Forge

The game glitched, and i had to take BOTH of them. Me and Teeseven had it, though.

[r00ib0s]

okay this is lude but it's also a masterpiece so you're welcome

[athenacodes]

Part 3

f - k

THE FACILITATOR

THE FAITHFUL

THE FALLEN

THE FAMOUS

THE FANATIC

THE FASHIONISTA

THE FATEBREAKER

THE FEARLESS

THE FEMME FATALE

THE FENCER

THE FEVER

THE FIEND

THE FIERCE

THE FIGHTER

THE FIREBIRD

THE FIREBRAND

THE FIREFLY

THE FIREHAWK

THE FIST

THE FIXER

THE FLAMESEEKER

THE FLEET-FOOTED

THE FOOL

THE FOOTPAD

THE FORGER

THE FORGOTTEN

THE FOUNDER

THE FOX

THE FREE RUNNER

THE FREELANCER

THE FROZEN

THE FURIOUS

THE FURY

THE GARGOYLE

THE GATE KEEPER

THE GATECRASHER

THE GATEKEEPER

THE GENERAL

THE GENEROUS

THE GENIUS

THE GENTLEMAN PIRATE

THE GENTRY

THE GENUINE

THE GHOST

THE GIFTED

THE GIVER

THE GLADIATOR

THE GLADIATRIX

THE GLITCH

THE GLUTTON

THE GODLIKE

THE GOLDEN CHILD

THE GOLDEN DUSK

THE GOLEM

THE GOOD SAMARITAN

THE GOUGER

THE GOVERNOR

THE GREAT

THE GRENADIER

THE GRIFTER

THE GRUNT

THE GUARDIAN

THE GULLIBLE

THE GUNFIGHTER

THE GUNNER

THE GUNSLINGER

THE HACKER

THE HALCYON

THE HALLOWED

THE HAMMER

THE HARBINGER

THE HARD-BOILED

THE HARD-HEARTED

THE HARDHEARTED

THE HARLEQUIN

THE HEALER

THE HEART

THE HEARTLESS

THE HEIR

THE HELLEQUIN

THE HELLHOUND

THE HELLION

THE HELPER

THE HERALD

THE HERBALIST

THE HERDER

THE HERMIT

THE HESSIAN

THE HIDALGO

THE HIGHLANDER

THE HIGHWAYMAN

THE HIPSTER

THE HIRED GUN

THE HOARDER

THE HOLOGRAM

THE HOMEWRECKER

THE HONOURABLE

THE HOST(ESS)

THE HOWITZER

THE HUNTER

THE HUNTSMAN

THE HURRIED

THE HYPOCRITE

THE ICONOCLAST

THE IDEALIST

THE ILLUMINATED

THE ILLUSION

THE ILLUSIONIST

THE ILLUSTRIOUS

THE IMITATOR

THE IMMORTAL

THE IMPALER

THE IMPASSIVE

THE IMPERSONATOR

THE IMPROVISER

THE IMPULSIVE

THE INDEPENDENT

THE INDIGNANT

THE INDIVIDUALIST

THE INDOMITABLE

THE INFAMOUS

THE INFILTRATOR

THE INITIATE

THE INNOVATOR

THE INQUISITOR

THE INSANE

THE INSPECTOR

THE INTIMIDATOR

THE INTREPID

THE INVENTIVE

THE INVENTOR

THE INVESTIGATOR

THE INVISIBLE

THE IRRATIONAL

THE JACKAL

THE JAGUAR

THE JESTER

THE JUDGE

THE JUSTICAR

THE KEEPER

THE KILLER

THE KILLING MACHINE

THE KIND-HEARTED

THE KING

THE KINGMAKER

THE KNIFE THROWER

THE KNIGHT

Character Titles

Please keep in mind this was originally written in 2017, and is being moved as is from Caution as it closes. That said, feel free to read it below.

Keep reading

[toji-bunny-girl]

𝙎𝙖-𝙏𝙤-𝙍𝙪

CHARACTER— yandere!gojo x fem!reader CONTENTS— yandere themes, stalking, hidden camera bear thingy, slight angst? IDKK gojo is just gross asf, noncon, intoxicated!reader, worshipping kink, DELUSIONALL‼️‼️‼️, slight fingering idk, sex yuh A/N— someone requested 4 sum more yandere jjk so here’s him 😇😇 might do the others when I feel liek it (ok I’m sorry this kinda gross, it’s literally 3 am rn)

The lustre of his eyes glimmered against the reflection of the screen, his face turning rubicund was evidence of the blood rushing underneath his cheeks. Sweat flecked across his palms, marginally soiling his pants when he rubbed his hands on them.

Your eyes stared straight into his, and he thought your orbs must be of millions of blended colours for them to glint in iridescent. The sliver of rays from the screen pierced his irises, and he swore the sight of you must be cleansing his soul.

He sucked his lips as you played with the toy bunny’s hands, and a smile reached your face before you pressed the soft toy into your chest, clutching it in your arms as you sighed something. Something that started with Sa and ended with Ru. His mind must be playing tricks on him, right? It couldn’t be that—

Then there it comes again, the cadence of your voice, the shape of your lips, and his name that you whispered. Sa-To-Ru.

The Sa whose eyes would only trail behind your wake, the To that breathed just for the air that you exhaled, and the Ru that didn’t believe God lives in heaven, because there was you, his Goddess that walked the Earth amongst the sinful humanity.

Satoru. He thought he had never loved his name even more than that moment.

But he found himself wrong—oh so wrong.

You sounded even more euphonious sprawled out before him, intoxicated with alcohol on your tongue and in your veins—not a clue about where you are and what’s going on. All you could gather was the familiar mop of silver in your foggy sight, and how the world seemed to be on vertigo.

The bits and pieces of recollections you could grasp onto in your besotted state were the hours spent drinking bottles of liquor, giggling at the charming jokes and teases from Gojo. Then the clashes of teeth and his hands on your chest, the long ride up an elevator, and stumbling onto a bed that smelled like him.

“My name…” he panted when his head rose from your jugular—marked and claimed through teeth and tongue. “Say my name,” he repeated, pressing his lips against your jaw as he took in a drag of your ambrosial scent, long fingers pumping in and out of your squeezing cunt.

You frowned, moaning into the torrid air that bubbled around the two of you and arching your back when an orgasm tumbled through, warmth pervading through your core when pleasure glitched over your body like static.

His name doesn’t read past your lips, but your groan of pleasure was enough for him to render him halcyon. Lining his painfully pulsing head to your slick entrance, the dilatory push of his fat tip into your folds made a cry ripple through both of your throats. In you he found warmth that tasted like divinity; the forbidden fruit between the thighs of his Goddess.

He didn’t dare move, afraid that your grip would tempt an orgasm in him to soil your quim with his load. His thumb drew circles upon your clit, trying to mitigate the tight clench of your cunt in the wake of your previous orgasm.

Your muscles finally relaxed in a few rubs, and he let his length ease into you, your hole still pulsing and spasming as his cock filled your insides. Gojo’s chest fluttered with rapture as he groaned for your name, almost as if he was trying to have you look at him, fully sober instead of laying crumpled on his bed.

But you don’t, your eyes remained still shut, and only the little whimpers and cries that fell off the edges of your lips denoted your senses still awake yet torpor from the inebriation.

“Please, look at me?”

You groaned when he benignly lifted your jaw, his sense of deify for you felt through his cold fingertips before his lips meld into yours. Your mouth lax open, letting his tongue taste the heaven off of yours and swallow your saliva of ambrosia down his throat.

When he withdrew from your face with a dense cloud over your heads, he found the hues of your orbs peering into his summer’s blue sky, your eyelashes fanning the heat over his cheeks. His heart jumped and paced, and he was sure you could hear his heartbeat. Could you?

“Satoru…?” you whispered. The tang of liquor blazing strongly in your system, but you still managed to recognise him. “Wha–Where are we? And wha—”

You were cut off from your words when his lips crashed into yours, and his hips began pistoning in and out of you, your moans jumbled between your dancing mouths before sizzling in the hot air. Your walls tightened around his girth as he pumped deep into you, his cock throbbing and threatening ejaculation, but he would rather abnegate himself from pleasure if you hadn’t succumbed to it.

Every stroke of his swollen head against the bump of your g-spot made you gasp and cry with the stimulation, palms desperately attempting to push the weight of the male off, but it simply came to piteous futility.

At his last stroke, your squirting cunt squeezed his cock tight and wet his pelvis, and his load began filling your inside to the brim, thick spurts of cum shooting at your cervix as you screamed his name.

The Sa who you could taste on your tongue, the To who swore you’re the lone fire to his loins, and the Ru who promised to never let your divinity step a single foot out of his door—your temple, to walk the earth soiled by sinning humans.

Satoru—the priest to your Holiness.

© toji-bunny-girl― all rights reserved. do not modify, translate, plagiarise or repost my work

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