#mild incel behavior

[the-grungler]

kaito fuji on: two minutes of his balls finally dropping, a lifetime of dropping the ball

a/n: short romancebiguous OOC slice of life/fluff cringe for our resident pissboy (why are his legs spread so wide in his new cards what is this cunty ballerina doing)

warning - this bitch is so uncooked its still shitting salmonella on the barn

-------

There is no joy without misery. Simple fact of life.

"I'm so glad to have a friend like you!"

His laugh was shrill through the pain. At least cardiac arrest would never friend zone him (technically, right? No, that was 100% what it was. She hated his sad little guts, for sure). Of course, likewise, the conversation always swiveled into something of the sort.

Kaito Fuji was a man of great inaction. In other words, he did not get that - in either combat or women.

Really, he was happy with this, anyway.

"SHHHHHHHHHHHHIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!!" he slammed his fists against the porcelain of his sink, glaring holes into the eyes of that bleach blond bitch on the other side of his mirror. Water soaked his face to his collar, continuous splashing through his face to pretend he was pulling himself together.

"This is it... I'm gonna fucking die alone! And poor! What kind of pathetic loser does that!?"

The face in the mirror passed him a solemn, knowing look.

He grit his teeth. It wasn't like he wasn't prepared for this on a day to day basis. Kaito was nothing if not a veteran of rejection. And so, he took deep breaths until he was limp enough to swallow the truth. Couldn't feel bad about an outcome if you were always prepared for the worst one, after all.

"That's right!" He creepily grinned at himself. "I knew this was gonna happen all along, anyway! Just gotta move on..."

He macho'd up a determined glare into his own freckles. "Who needs women, anyway? Pshhhh! That's-That's right! I can be a cool, independent man who don't need no girl! Kaito Fuji always just gets over it."

His smile slowly fell.

"...What the fuck am I doing?"

---

He was rejected, that was fine. He was rejected, that was fine. Four hours of drilling it into himself with a cheap tub of mint ice cream. Two hours of actual sleep. At least he had a new playlist of rabid cat videos.

"Hey... o... you... doing okay?" A soft finger poked his cheek.

He leapt out of his seat like the very same cat on his phone at odds with a cucumber. His chair clattered so loudly everyone in the room jumped. "EEEK!? AH-! UH- Heyyy, Honor Roll!" Real smooth, Kaito.

Wait, why does that matter? I've already been rejected. I'm a free man.

Sunrise filtered soft under the windows. It was a very not romantic scene where the guy never sexily caught the girl mid trip with the curtains fluttering and rose filter forming between their eyes.

He took a deep breath. What did they say helped with anxiety? Imagine the other party as a naked potato?

He offered the sweet little angel in front of him a mental apology for what he was about to do to her image.

He blinked, gears halting. "What're you doing here so early anyway? Class starts in fourty five minutes."

"Hm?" She dragged a playful grin. "I could ask you that very same question. Maybe I'm just a top notch student?"

He laughed - too tired from the previous night's endeavors to remember how soprano he normally sounded. "I'll bet - surviving in this hellhole itself should be its own degree, or something. If punctuality could dictate our lives, I'd be camping out here all night. ...Which is sorta why I come here every morning. This is my normal routine."

"Oh?"

He laughed sheepishly, "Poor guy's gotta do something to match up with the rest of these monsters of classmates, you know?" He sighed pitifully. "Remedial's are definitely teaching me a lesson, at least..."

Her mouth parted wordlessly.

"W - What's wrong?"

"Nothing! Nothing at all. You just seem a little different today, is all." She had a contemplative tilt to her head. "I mean, it is a special one, isn't it?"

"Is it?" He blinked, placing his chin between his fingers. "Like, one of those Instagram posts? 'Treasure each moment like a gift... that's why we call it the present'."

She let out a chortle and a scoff. "I didn't mean it that cheesily, I swear."

His grin went crooked. "I could. I mean, you're here now, aren't you?"

"...oh. R-Really?" She blinked, shyly burying her cheek in a tuft of hair. "...I didn't realize you had a side of you like this, y'know."

He let out an abrasive snort. "Like...complete cringe? I do it all the time, Honor Roll." He puffed out his chest. "You just don't see cuz I always make sure to show you my coolest."

She giggled, slowly devolving into soft laughter she had to press in with her hands.

"...What? Did I say something funny?"

"Sorry, I think I'm just... Still processing your studious side," She broke out into breathy chuckles.

"Heh, nah. It's not like I actually do much, anyway. If the teacher isn't here I just go roam the cafeteria for cool food snaps." He said. "Looks like that time's about here, too. You interested?" He thumbed a smug finger at himself. "On me, of course."

She smiled. "I really do hope to repay you one of these days."

They made light small talk as they rounded the corner to the staircase. A fresh Caution: Wet sign was left in that (disturbingly attractive) janitor's morning rounds, which could never be choppy foreshadowing for anything extremely cliche about to happen.

Kaito would never admit it to anyone, but he felt badass in these mornings. Like these hours were a completely separate world from the mortal plane, so casually ethereal.

That was probably because his preferred routine was waking up at noon, though.

A scream had him jolting in his skin, as he watched Honor Roll scrabble and slip on the top stair. She flailed for the railing, slipping coarsely through panicked fingers.

"SHIIIIIIT!" he leapt forward, just barely managing to tug her into the less medically damaging direction. This didn't manage to apply to him, though, as the awkward, unfamiliar motions had his foot jerking down the step in the wrong way, his torso quickly following into a concussive tumble down the whole stairway.

She winced he made a collision with each step, leaving him sprawled out on the landing with a miserable hand against his skull. She cursed, cautiously speeding down with a touchingly panicked call of his name.

She knelt by his side, propping him up by his spine with awkward, lost hands. "Jesus, I'm so sorry... Your face is all beat up and bruised...!"

"...Nah. I'm a ghoul, at the very least. Better me than you, you know?" He found himself throwing his head back with a bark of a laugh. He wasn't sure how long it went on for, just that he must've looked ridiculous right now.

"Are... you sure? That looked painful..."

"Hahaha! Yeah, it hurts like a bitch. But just let me have this one - I'll probably cry and snivel later." His grin was luminescent under the sunrise, softening the harsh edges that usually came with it. "...I know I'm just a coward, but I still have pride. What kind of guy would I be letting you see me lose to a flight of stairs?"

"Ha!" Her lips curved in careful tenderness. "...You're such a dork." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a cleanly ribboned handkerchief, undoing it with slow fingers.

Kaito froze in headlights as she dabbed the grime off his cheek in careful strokes.

"I - you- b - but-?"

"Happy birthday, Kaito. Sorry, it's not as fancy as the stuff the others gave you... But, at least we know it'll be useful, huh?"

The air was electrically still.

But - rejection - ? Hold on - she remembered - I - she's giving me uh aE uh uh -?????

Fire bursted under his skin.

Girl - touching me- handkerchief present??? Feelings??? Could it be? Doki doki????

Was his sad excuse of a college kid romance finally getting some action?

"LISTEN - I - UH I-I'M STILL - WAIT I JUST UM - "

He bluescreened.

"P-PLEASE BE GENTLE...?"

The girl's face grew jaded.

"...What."

---

---

i'm notoriously shit at fluff but i love this loser (sigh)

other tokyo debunker brainrot works for those who like dumpster fires and feeding my maniacal ego:

(u should comission me for smth teehee [<broke asf]):

[obsessivevoidkitten]

Sicko

Male Yandere x Gender Neutral Reader

CW: Noncon, sick reader, fever, underwear sniffing, underwear stealing, breaking in, imminent future kidnapping, general yandere behavior

Word Count: 566

(Silly idea that popped in my head, was originally only going to be a couple hundred words, sorry it was so delayed. Got really busy plus my hand hurt for a few days. I hope you guys love it 🥺)

You felt pretty rough. You had a mild fever, and your thoughts were fuzzy and all over the place. And that was before you took medication that made you even loopier.

You had to call off from your job as a cashier at a locally owned convenience store. Something you had never done before.

Your boss, Simon, was obsessed with you. He was a greasy nerd with medium length brown hair, thick glasses, in his mid-20s.

He unsettled you, but the job was just down the street, and the pay was good enough.

Simon was both worried and suspicious about you calling off. To make sure you were okay and actually sick and not with some asshole, he decided to take an extended lunch break and walk over.

He peeked in your window and saw you writhing in a fitful sleep. You really were ill. He couldn't resist the urge to get a closer look. Maybe take a trophy.

The window was already open to let in a breeze to keep you cool, so it was easy for him to slip in.

He tiptoed in and made a beeline for your dirty laundry hamper, picking a pair of underwear out and inhaling deeply before stuffing his newfound treasure in his pocket

When you sat up, his heart almost leapt from his chest.

"I can explai-"

"Don't let the invisible elephants eat the cosmic diamondszzz," you mumbled deliriously before laying back down.

A huge smile crept over his face as he walked over and loomed over you.

"Aww, my poor love, you can't even think right now, can you? You're lucky some criminal didn't find you!"

He brushed the sweat from your forehead.

"But I'll help you feel better."

He got a cool rag for your head and helped you sip some water when you slipped back into half consciousness. Taking care of you made his heart swell.

Simon was about to leave, but as he stared at you, a wicked idea came to him. You weren't really aware of what was going on… he could do much more than just hydrate you.

Simon disrobed, his cock already fully excited. He found some lube in your night stand and applied it liberally to his long cock. After rubbing your thighs he pulled your shorts to the side and massaged lube into you with a finger.

Your insides were so hot, your fever warming you up hotter than normal.

He slowly sunk his dick into, savoring every second of entering you for the first time.

"Fuuuuccckkk. So fucking waaarm."

He kept his pace even and steady, losing himself a few times and really pounding into you before remembering you were ill and slowing back down. You occasionally babbled out an incoherent sound of pleasure.

His nuts plopped against you audibly with each thrust, he couldn't last long in you at all, filling you up very quickly. But that was okay, he made up for it by going several rounds.

When he was finally too tired to keep going, and after you both climaxed several times, he cleaned you up carefully, made sure you took some more water, and left.

As he walked back to the store the incel whistled happily, filled with joy that he finally got rid of his virginity inside of you and thoughts about how he could trap you in his home above the store.

[deconstructthesoup]

One thing I really liked about the Scott Pilgrim anime is that Gideon is the only one who remained evil.

Yeah, he got a depression arc, and he got a girlfriend who's scary enough to not take his shit and for him to actually respect her, but he's still evil. He still fully intended to blow up a theater to get back at someone. He got his CEO position back, and we all know that that's only an opportunity for him to be more evil. And if the end credits scene is to go off of, he's got plans.

But the other exes? They got closure. They got character development. They got to move forward. Because they honestly... weren't that bad.

Matthew Patel, who had the biggest glowup, was literally just a middle school thing. Yeah, Ramona ditched him and was kind of sucky, but it probably wouldn't have lasted anyway. And like she said, he didn't really get "evil" until high school, and by then he'd already moved.

Lucas Lee? Maybe he had some mild toxic tendencies when he and Ramona dated, but from what he saw, he was actually pretty sweet during their relationship. In the comics, he's honestly the most reasonable of the exes, deciding to actually have a chat with Scott before Scott convinces him to grind to death. And he didn't do anything to Ramona to make her break up with him---she just dumped him for Todd.

Todd Ingram, while being a little bit obsessive---and based on the comics and the anime, a compulsive cheater---didn't seem that horrible when they were dating, either, unless you count the "punch the hole in the moon" thing. He and Ramona broke up because of a long-distance thing. She went off to college, he went back to Envy. Bit of a douche? Yeah. Actively horrible to her? Not really, honestly.

Roxie Richter, our incredible half-ninja lesbian, is arguably the best out of Ramona's exes. She and Ramona had a genuinely healthy relationship, they actually got along great, and Roxie deeply cared about her... and Ramona straight-up broke her heart. When you look at it, Roxie really is the only ex who fully did nothing wrong. No erratic tendencies that caused Ramona to decide to cut her out, no behaviors that Ramona probably knew would become problematic unless she split. Roxie was sweet, she was Ramona's bi awakening... and Ramona didn't like her as much as Roxie liked her. The whole situation was just mass miscommunication, and it's totally understandable why Roxie is still bitter down the line. Unlike with the others, Ramona's fully in the wrong, which is why they need to reconcile first.

Kyle and Ken---okay, in the comics, they were amazing villains, and it's kind of a crime that they keep getting shafted, but honestly... I get it. Their relationship with Ramona wasn't actually that complicated. They were players, she played them back, they resented her for it until they got over it. Of course they're the exes that are kind of the masterminds in the anime---along with Old Scott---and of course they're the exes that are the most chill.

Gideon, on the other hand, is the only ex who can only be described as a full-on bastard. Out of all seven of the "evil" exes, Gideon's the only one who Ramona outright says was abusive. In the comics, beyond just starting the league, he controlled her and Scott's mind and straight-up imprisoned his own ex-girlfriends, fully intending to do the same to Ramona. He's also the only ex who was defeated by both Scott and Ramona, and it's the most satisfying thing to see him fully get his ass kicked. It's fully unsurprising that his backstory in the anime was that he was an incel who nobody liked, and he got dangerous once he got money.

So of course, when all of the other exes are getting cool redemption arcs, moments of self-actualization, coming-out moments, and instances of actually befriending the heroes, Gideon's the one who stays an asshole. He has a fall from grace and becomes a loser, the girl who he winds up with is also evil and thinks him being evil is hot, and at the end of the series, they're a villain power couple, emphasis on villain. Gideon learned to treat his girlfriend with respect, and probably moved on from Ramona... aaaaaaand that's it. He's still a dick. He's still an evil mastermind.

So... yeah. The Scott Pilgrim anime is great, as are the comics. Check 'em both out.

[pollsonmorenichetopics]

Disproportionate Retribution Poll Round 1 Side B:

Ali Hakim's (Oklahoma!) Disproportionate Retribution:

"Crime: not wanting to get married to Ado Annie and just wanting to have uh... Fun (😏) with her

Punishment: was threatened by Ado Annie's dad with a gun so he had to marry her."

Ted Spankoffski's (Hatchetfield/Nightmare Time) Disproportionate Retribution:

"In the episode "Time Bastard," he gets stranded in the past, has his mind broken, gets murdered, and has his soul trapped in a box forever, all for mild incel-ish behavior."

*into

[goontownonline]

today my hand brushed against someone else's as they were handing me a bag with my food in it lol, shook me to my core tbh

[heresathreebee]

Kurt Kunkle | Spree (2020) || Fisting // Love Bites/Marks

No Murder AU; 2.2k words; NO BETA/ SELF- EDITED, Perverted Behavior (extreme), Swearing, Roleplay (Enemies), Name Calling, Exhibitionism, Dysfunctional Family, Your Dad Has A Nickname, Voyeurism, Male Masturbation, Rough Play, Humping, Almost Caught (repeatedly), Slapping/Punching

Previous | Masterlist | Next: Walter McKeys Overstimulation

You are assisting the Kunkles (who are old family friends) as they pack and clean their place up to move from their nice (but now unaffordable) LA house to the apartments closer to where your folks live. There's just one glaring problem that causes constant frustration and distraction for you. Their perverted incel of a son. 

The minute you first walked into their house, Mr. Kunkle– who insisted you call him Kris– called Kurt down from his room and introduced you jokingly as his new babysitter. You hated him from the moment he appeared wearing a hoodie with the hood up in the middle of July (as if the air conditioner isn't busting its ass to maintain a livable temperature against the assault of the Cali sun). And when his mother told you Kurt was an ‘aspiring online influencer,’ you made sure he saw as you rolled your eyes so hard that you almost caught a glimpse of your own gray matter. 

And then you gave him a mild concussion by conveniently forgetting your underwear at home during dinner the next night (the pizza was delicious by the way, you're not sure what the fuck he was doing that required him to have a fork, let alone drop it). Because, yeah, he's the lamest loser on two legs to ever walk this earth. 

And you were totally going to fuck him senseless. 

On Kurt's behalf, he caught on to your game beautifully. In the light of day, you treat him like a nuisance just like everybody else, but when no one’s looking? When heads are turned and doors are closed? It’s a whole different narrative. There are moments when you would stop to watch him masturbate in an empty room with the door cracked open and call him a disgusting little pervert (but only after waiting for him to finish first and keeping an eye out for his parents). 

He rarely did any of the work packing or cleaning. Every day, he is given one task, and it would take him all day to complete it because he was simply using that time to either fuck with you or play videogames. It pissed you off (and made you violently horny). 

You would catch him following you not-so-inconspicuously without offering to lift a finger to help, or positioning himself in every doorway so you would have to forcibly squeeze your way past him (and brush against his obvious boner, and hear him sniff your hair or neck), or just find him laying on the floor for no reason other than to look up your skirt (which you always wore almost every single day, no matter how many times Kris tells you it would probably be safer to help if you just wore jeans). And whenever Kurt was caught or scolded for real by his parents, he would usually find whichever lacey scrap of underwear you had on that day somewhere in his room, still slick with your arousal (as an indirect apology, how sweet of you). 

He never failed to give them back to you, always absolutely covered in his cum. Sometimes they were still wet and he'd say something gross like, "this load's a fresh one," and giggle as you almost lose your temper. The vulgarity, the audacity of it all. You would give as good as you got and reply, "fucking animal, dude. Seriously. I've met dogs with better manners than you." 

The game cooled off when Kris started noticing how Kurt was acting around you. He was becoming increasingly uncomfortable and concerned for your safety (mind you, Dad has no idea about the cum covered panties or the secret watch parties, he just keeps catching Kurt sneaking around when he should be cleaning and hearing you repeatedly telling him off). 

And like any quasi-responsible father would do, Kris tries to protect you (which you don't actually need. Also he's not your father so…). He does this by giving Kurt a task and then standing over his son with his arms crossed until he starts actually doing it. Scrubbing the tile grout in the bathrooms, marking out and replastering holes in the walls, moving furniture for his mother Angela as she goes room to room repainting everything. You almost feel bad for Kurt with his sad but angry puppy dog face and longing, apologetic glances when he sees you walking by. Almost. 

Kris gets bored after a few days (enforcing discipline and teaching boundaries for his 23-year-old son? Utterly exhausting) and goes back to moving boxes to the rental truck and either driving them to storage, the new apartment, or the dump. 

You think you hear Angela talking on speaker phone with some gal pals in the master bedroom, and you quietly head downstairs to switch the laundry to the dryer when a hard body is suddenly crushing you into the washer. 

Kurt's hands are surprisingly soft and devoid of calluses, but they still deliver some sliver of pain as they curl around your forearms and twist your arms behind your back. You gasp as you feel his strong thighs part your legs and groan as he rolls his hips up against your sex. Goosebumps form on your shoulders as you feel him lean down and growl in your ear. 

"Fuuuck," he purrs, and does not stop or slow the sweet assault of friction he creates between your legs. "Been missing your pretty face, babe. I can't even come anymore without you watching me jerk off– it's been days." 

You feel the exact same way and relish how fucking good it is to have him so desparate and needy, rubbing himself between your legs recklessly. It's almost embarrassing when you come just like this, toes curling and panting like a bitch in heat. Kurt doubles down, pushing you harder onto the top of the washer, biting down on your bare shoulder and humping faster and harder. He wants to come so bad, it's kind of adorable. 

You lift your head at the sound of the front door unlocking just as Kurt lets out a pathetic whimper and stills, signalling that he finished inside his shorts. You tense up while he relaxes against your back, oblivious (and inadvertently showing you he's a cuddler). You want to let him rest, but there are a lot of footsteps and voices approaching and the laundry room door is wide open. 

Instead, you slide off the washer and stuff him unceremoniously behind the door just as Kris and his older male friends appear in the hallway. One of them is your fucking dad. 

"Hey!" Your voice actually cracks. 

"Hey yourself," Kris cuffs right back, chirper as hell for a Sunday afternoon. "Lars, you remember I was just telling you that Angie and I had help with the move? This is Cab's daughter!" 

The unknown man pats your shoulder, and your father (whom everyone but your family calls Cab for some ancient unbeknownst to you reason) sweeps you up into a one armed hug with a beer in his other hand. You try to keep your face neutral as he pulls away with a question in his eyes. 

"You ok, sweetheart? You're shaking…" 

You laugh abruptly. "Don't be ridiculous! I probably haven't eaten in… god knows how long. Yeah, that's all…" 

Kris looks at your dad and shrugs. "I'll feed her. Promise. Have you seen Kurt anywhere?" 

"Kurt?" You gulp. "No, not at all. Why, what was he supposed to be doing?" 

"Oh, I can't remember, but I'll give him a call and see if he can bring home some take out." 

Kris deciding Kurt was probably out driving really saved both of your asses when the dumbass behind the door sneezed (and bumped his head on the corner of the frame). All three grown men looked at you for an explanation. 

You smiled like a crazy person. "Excuse me. It's the dust." 

Lars, Kris, and your dad seem to buy it and begin to gruffle about making their way down the hall to the man cave, but you celebrate your victory a little too early by wiping the sweat off your neck and accidentally drawing attention. 

“Oh my god, what’s that?” Immediately you stiffen as Kris points to your shoulder, even making you turn a little bit sideways for the other men to crowd a look. Ice drips down your spine as you face the wall opposite where Kurt is hiding behind the door. 

“What?! What is it?” 

Kris’ light touch makes you shiver again. “It looks like… teeth marks?” He pauses to confer and the other men agree. “Oh my god, how did that happen? Who did this to you?” 

Instantly, you know this is Kurt’s fault (you are so going to kick him in the dick and this time it’s going to be on purpose). Kris is going to know it was him, and then he’s going to blame Kurt and tell your father who’s standing right there, and then the dads are going to start screaming and yelling and you’ll be forced to go home and never see each other again, all over a fucking (consensual) bite mark. 

You turn around determinedly and can already see Kris’ face begin to pinch in contemplation. You can’t let this happen. 

“Teeth marks,” you feign ignorance just to buy a little more time. You reach back, rub it, make distracting noises of contemplation and screwing your face up this way and that all while four men (yes counting Kurt, the absolute useless mongrel) wait with baited breath. “OH! Oh my gosh, I know what happened! You guys are totally gonna laugh!” 

Well? Go on. The stage is yours and everybody is watching. Make them laugh, funny girl. 

“It was my… cousin!” You hide your panic behind a painfully wide smile. “Baby cousin! Not like, like a big one. D-dad you remember Elia!” 

Your dad pitches his head 10 degrees to the right. “Elia bit you?”

“What? No. Elia’s baby– the toddler!- she bit me. I mean HE, HE bit me! Cassius. His first set of teeth just came in a-and we were sitting on the floor, uh shooting the shit when he just kinda came up and… bit me.” 

You cleared your throat to cover the sound of Kurt choking on his spit. “I think he was, like, teething…”

Three silver haired heads nodded incongruously with one another. If the strength of the grip you had on the doorknob was applied to Kurt’s neck, you would have surely snapped his spine, or at least caused irreversible damage to it. Freedom from this hell is almost at hand, but of course your clueless father has some more questions. 

“I thought Elia was in Balta this summer?” 

“Don’t be silly,” you grind your teeth and maintain a manic smile, “Jack’s in Balta by himself. How the hell are two new parents gonna have fun with a toddler in tow?” 

Blah blah blah, you are lying (duh) and your dad has no idea about anyone or anything– if it doesn’t immediately concern baseball or the hall of fame, he simply does not know. 

“OK,” he shrugs. “Come on, Kris, show us where the goddamned Jack is and we’ll pour one out, for old times sake.” 

Lars chugged his can of beer and loudly burped his agreement before the two of them made their own way down the hall. Kris, however, lingered a moment longer. He had no reason to think you were lying… did he? You hold the door and pray Kurt holds his tongue for just a little longer…

“Are you sure you haven’t seen Kurt around?” Kris leaned on the door, unknowingly squishing his son who makes a muffled sound but holds as still as possible and hopes his dad doesn’t notice it isn’t touching the wall. “You know, if he’s still bothering you, you can tell me and I’ll kick his ass right out the door.” 

You calm yourself with a deep breath. “I’m fine, Kris, really! Kurt’s probably out streaming his rides or getting a speeding ticket right about now. And if I ever feel like he is bothering me, I will kick his ass myself.” 

Kris chuckles (and doesn’t notice the door tremble). “So, you are absolutely sure you’re ok? He’s not been, you know… making any advances on you, of a sexual nature?” 

Oh, if only you knew…

“‘Cause you know how kids his age are… guys mostly…” 

Yeah, mostly…

“I’m fine. Seriously. Got bit by a toddler. Haven’t seen Kurt since I left home last night.” 

Finally, Kris drops it. “Ok, just let me know. I’ll keep you safe, I promise.” With that, he pats you on the head and disappears. 

You try to stop yourself from fainting with some circular breathing exercises. Then you punch Kurt square in the chest as he’s slipping out of hiding. He oofs, doubles over and looks up at you in disbelief. You shove an accusatory finger under his nose and waggle it threateningly. 

“Never. Again. Do you hear me?” Kurt nods furiously, so fast the image of you blurs for him and he looks genuinely sheepish. “You are a sick little dog who doesn’t understand any command except come, and the next time you get me in trouble like that, you will be your fucking last breath. Capiche, pervert?” 

Kurt knows that language means he’s not really in trouble, and he smiles. “Yes ma’am…”

Previous | Masterlist | Next: Walter McKeys Overstimulation

I really almost forgot to post this one today 😂 this ones for my absolute sickos out there

[fishstyx]

featuring. college au!gojo satoru x fem!reader x geto suguru

wc. 9.2k

genre. dark/taboo, smut, angst

tw. 18+ nsfw, non/dubcon, toxic/abusive relationships, manipulation, victim blaming, dry humping, penetration, masturbation, irresponsible practice of bdsm, hair pulling, mild exhibitionism, size kink (both 6’3”, gojo can lift you), implied corruption kink, degradation, creampie, intoxication/alcohol, incel behavior, misogyny, dacryphilia

synopsis.

“Parading around as my personal fucktoy get you that excited?” he starts with a smirk, wide eyes drinking up your sharp inhale as if it were his own, inspiring pinpricks of heat to rise to your cheeks.

He hooks the hem of your skirt with his thumbs when he’s met with silence, pulls you from the doorframe just far away that he can release the elastic with a snap, silent snigger on his lips when it elicits a small sound of surprise from you. You nod in response, frantic bob of your head drawing a low growl from his chest and a “that’s right, I know what’s best for my pet,” as he lifts you off your feet and carries you to the bedroom.

notes. title inspo: love the way you lie (eminem, rihanna). you’re dating gojo, a charming, manipulative, self-entitled bastard. geto is, of course, his best friend, written as an aloof, self-righteous, bitter incel. please stay safe, read all the warnings, and enjoy. this is the most personal fic i have to offer. it draws from not-so-savory past relationships... i hope it remains the only testament to them. <3

links. broken toys. (sequel)

You were stunned into silence when he first suggested it.

And how couldn’t you be? Any sane person would, or at least should, have recoiled at the proposition. Isn’t that right?

But he makes it seem so harmless, so innocent, somehow. Like it’s no big deal, far from uncharacteristic for either of you—just a walk around campus, nothing new there. He tells you this like you’re overreacting, slow on the uptake, taking far too long to reach a final decision. The rational part of your mind says it’s out of the option. But the irrational part is louder, all-consuming, domineering.

The irrational part says, out of all your options, it’s the only viable one.

“Come on, babygirl. What’s the harm of trying it out once?”

It’s always this way, always has been. He takes your hands in his with a dramatic swell, the sparkle in his eyes big and bright and gleaming, and you bite back the urge to pull away. You would break your gaze if you could, if he didn’t look so determined, if that twinkling blue galaxy wasn’t sweltering with hope and adoration. But you can’t, and he does, and it just about swallows you whole. 

The fact of the matter is, Gojo Satoru wants to take you out on a leash today.

Never mind today; he wanted this yesterday, the day before that, and the day before that, never one to shy away from his desires as you deliberated the entire time. By now he’s asked you to do this one, single thing for him far more times than you can count—initially playing it off as a joke, slowly feeling you out, gradually seeing how far he could push and pull until you explicitly told him no.

Except it’s never just one, single thing with him, and you—with the way you dance around the topic, hoping to give him the illusion that you might give in, or perhaps yourself the illusion of control—you never say no.

A simple line of defense, yes. Even you agree with that. But its execution? Around Gojo, it seems anything but.

Geto would beg to differ.

Geto.

The only other person privy to your latest concerns. The only other person you can bear knowing. And he’d be disappointed if only he could see you now.

Who are you kidding? He’s already disappointed.

A vague outline was all you gave him. A vague outline, you knew, not-so-deep down in your heart, was all you dare tell him—or anyone at all, really.

Because, sure, you’ve adopted a rather experimental lifestyle around Gojo, but that was supposed to be private. Reserved for behind closed doors, you thought, until now.

You were right in that the brooding brunette didn’t need every last grueling detail of Gojo’s newest request. He’s his best friend; he’s seen you at every single step of your whirlwind relationship together. The fervid beginnings, when the two of you couldn’t be physically separated, let alone in different rooms from each other. The ups and the downs, each one more intense than the last, each one blowing up in your faces before you ran back into each other’s arms and kissed and made up. You knew that much.

What you didn’t foresee, however, even as you recounted your latest grievance to him, was that nothing you were saying was new. To Geto it was regurgitated rhetoric, distorted and distressed, yesterday’s news—whereas you saw it as a unique conquest, a new hurdle to overcome.

“It almost amazes me how you can come up with so many new ways to say the same old thing,” he said, slanted eyes dull with apathy as they panned away from yours. “Almost.”

You could only choke on your words in response.

What Geto told you next is now a hushed murmur in the back of your head. It reverberates against your skull, pinballing against the walls of all that empty space and showing no signs of slowing down. It tells you to just say the magic word and it’ll be over, every last bit of Gojo’s borderline demands, washing away all of that white noise if only you’d breathe some life into it. That one word, the one that plagues your mind night and day, it begins to materialize upon your lips, poised and ready to spring into action, flexing on the tip of your tongue as if it were a wind-up toy. 

Just say it already.

Just say no.

But you’re always holding your tongue around the both of them, together or alone, whether on the bony roof of your mouth or its flexible, fleshy floor, biting your words back for an eternity and more. Perhaps you were only faking yourself out, simply going through—no, barely feinting at the motions so you can come back to this chapter of your life and say that you tried. The moment passes, the pause your boyfriend gave at the sight of your mouth ajar long over, his words beginning to bleed into your reality once more.

And he’s saying, “I bought such a cute collar for you, too,” voice rising and falling with lovelorn disappointment. You can’t help but wince at his gentle timbre, all too painfully aware that such a small investment is far from the root of Gojo’s displeasure. You can hear it in his tone, too, how his carefree singsong runs steely as his thoughts begin to wander, settling on a resigned indifference.

So you wander, too. Tear your eyes from his in search of something, anything that might lend a reason to divert your gaze. Your fingers encircle white leather before you realize it, turning the thin strip over in absentminded idle, silver o-ring jingling in place. The metallic clank doesn’t go unnoticed.

“You should at least try it on before I return it, don’t you think?” 

And you can’t find it in your heart to disagree, stiff choker tightening around your neck as he fumbles with the clasp. You trace the sanded edges before latching a finger—two fingers—beneath the leather material. 

Perfect. 

Perfectly irritating. Irritatingly perfect. It sits in the center of your neck without slipping, just snug enough that you can still breathe easy, comfortable and almost disturbingly so. 

“Well?”

White lashes flutter idly as he considers your reflection as if studying it. And with the hint of a smile behind you, large hands on your waist in the mirror’s image, you start to think for the first time that the collar really is a pretty number, and a shame and a waste to throw away. 

Because he looks so pleased now, creased cheeks and crinkled eyelids as he smooths his palms over your hips, like maybe you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever held. Because instead of the pouting you’ve come to expect, the declarations that you’re “no fun,” or that you’re “overreacting,” or that you need to “relax” you’ve come to accept, he simply brushes your hair to the side and rests his cheek against yours, warm breath just about tickling your chin.

It begs the question.

“Will you love me more if I do this for you?”

And it sends his eyes into a frenzied state, hungry void for pupils swallowing crystal irises with unabating greed, all frisky lashes and overeager ridges. 

Ideally, he’d take your hands in his, tell you that that wasn’t his intention at all and beg for your forgiveness. Ideally, he’d hold you close, say that he loves you no matter what and promise to never push you this far again. You know all of these self-evident truths and more, yet you still can’t stop your heart from skipping a beat when he tells you, voice hushed in awe, triumph washing over you in spite of yourself:

“Of course I will.”

It’s different when you actually go through with it.

You try not to regret your decision immediately when you’re chained to Gojo’s hand in public, dog leash swinging in the wind as you round the campus loop. What a waste of a beautiful day for you to be hanging your head low, tips of your ears burning with shame. You don’t even believe that you’ve agreed to this yourself as you search the faces ahead of you for a trace of anyone you might know, pushing down the urge to cross your fingers behind your back.

But Gojo himself? He loves the lingering stares to tiny little pieces, practically basks in the attention as he pushes his sunglasses back so they rest above his hairline. Airy tufts of white spill over the tinted lenses, billowy strands coming to rest upon his forehead. When you think of it as your gorgeous boyfriend showing you off, it makes it all a little more bearable, has you standing up a little straighter. But your heart nearly stops every time you think you recognize the passerby, and eventually you dread the sight of absolutely anyone in the distance, for fear they will finally be a person who knows and calls you by name.

Gojo takes quick notice, realizes you hardly want to take another step in this undignified manner, and thinks to himself that there must be a better way to go about the arrangement.

His solution is to turn your walk of shame into a crawl of shame.

“On your fours,” he says, delighted when you actually crouch to the pavement, thankful for an excuse to hide your face. He ruffles your hair and slaps your hand away when you try to pull your skirt down, enamored by the way it rides up and reveals the lacy material below. You suppose it’s a trade-off you’ll just have to take, and in a confession that gets caught up your throat, you don’t wholly mind it: the pairs of eyes you can feel burning through you, though real or imagined you can’t be entirely sure. It makes you wonder if anyone wishes they were Gojo. It makes you wonder if anyone wishes they were you.

In the corner of your eye, you think you see someone sneaking a picture, but you don’t dare lift your head for a closer look. Instead you track the ground for rubble, hoping you’ll get away without scraping your knees, shaky line for a pair of lips as micro cuts come to crisscross your legs.

The rest of the walk is spent with you crawling the ground, light breeze tickling your backside, every part of you flaunted as if you’re Gojo’s most prized possession. You had better be, you think to yourself as you circle back to his building, and luckily enough, he’s about to make good on that expectation. 

Maybe it’s the collar around your neck, or maybe it’s the surge of relief you get from returning, but by the time you meet the first glass door, you’re aching for whatever Gojo’s planned next.

He’s moving on predatory instinct the second you’ve set foot in his apartment, flushed lips curling around your own as soon as he pulls you up from all fours. A hollow knock sounds behind you as your heels strike the door, lower lip traced with a wet warmth until you’re gracious enough to grant him full access. He easily cages you with his entire frame, pressing that cute pink muscle in your mouth flat before writhing his own to the rhythm of his heartbeat, booming and ricocheting and alive.

It’s not nearly enough for either of you, of course, his hands beginning to roam all over your pliable form, all over his property, skirting along your outline and creeping closer still to the innermost curves of your contour cutout. Flitting fingers brush against your navel, dancing lower as you suck your tummy in by reflex, stopping right before the tingling bundle of nerves that just might explode as soon as he touches them. 

But he takes pause instead, presses his forehead flush against yours, jewel colored eyes waiting on you with intent. You swear they can see right through you, even sheathed behind a cluster of wild white lashes, gauge everything there is to know about you faster than you can say “blue.” The moment freezes over, two bodies still and unmoving until you suddenly remember your need for air, gasping when you realize you’ve been holding your breath. 

“Parading around as my personal fucktoy get you that excited?” he starts with a smirk, wide eyes drinking up your sharp inhale as if it were his own, inspiring pinpricks of heat to rise to your cheeks.

He hooks the hem of your skirt with his thumbs when he’s met with silence, pulls you from the doorframe just far away that he can release the elastic with a snap, silent snigger on his lips when it elicits a small sound of surprise from you. You nod in response, frantic bob of your head drawing a low growl from his chest and a “that’s right, I know what’s best for my pet,” as he lifts you off your feet and carries you to the bedroom.

Your body bounces back from the force with which he tosses you into the mattress, giggles erupting from your throat when he climbs atop of you, tugging at your leash. A thin stripe of saliva trails up and down the column of your neck, laving intermittently over the leather that encases your flesh. A coppery taste, of earth and salt and smoke, dances on his tongue as his front teeth sink into the stretch of your collarbone, nipping and sucking at the delicate flesh. You sink into the bed as you ease into his touch, but he doesn’t give you much time to get comfortable.

“Touch yourself, then,” he says, “if you like to be watched that much.” 

It almost sounds like a suggestion, especially with the way in which he uses the lightest touch to brush the stray hairs from your forehead, but you know better than that. Your fingers fly to the wet patch on your panties, thin material almost see-through with your slick, working the fiber flat against dampened skin. An echo of a chuckle reverberates throughout the room as he watches you, undoubtedly pleased by the way in which the fabric clings to your already dripping folds. 

Large hands have your legs spread wide open by the time you’ve traced the outline of your clit, your little show put on full display for him. They stay pressed against your thighs as you venture loose, round motions around your sensitive nub. Too timid. You tighten the circles into a coiled spiral, mustering the courage to go harder, faster, the friction of cotton against delicate skin drawing small mewls and sputters out of your trembling form. The delayed relief is sweet, your arousal crying into the pads of your fingers as you pick up the speed. The image burns itself into his brain, watchful eye unfaltering as you play yourself to your heart’s content.

The very air itself seems to buzz as you hold the other end of his gaze, thick fingers running along your sides as you start to roll your hips into the palm of your hand. He’s bent over you with the twitch of his pants, too worked up to remain a bystander any longer as he blows and sucks up your neck. The open-mouthed kisses only hasten the buildup, sensation shotgunning down your body from the surface of your nape.

But the coil in your core knots itself far too early for your taste, and you reel your hand back right before you can realize your peak. You opt to drag a lone finger down your slit instead, afraid that with too much pressure, you’ll come undone before Gojo has the chance to get his fill. 

Too late, too slow; he takes notice of your negligence immediately, eyes darkening at the pitiful way your hand skitters with abashment. He pulls away from the crook of your neck to get a good look at your dwindling handiwork, smirking to himself when you shrink in response.

“Having a little trouble there?” 

His voice is deceptively singsong as he takes your sluggish hand in his, guiding your knuckles back to that aching button that has you arching your back and curling your toes. He repeats the motion, half a mind to force an orgasm out of you right then and there when suddenly, a whimper—yours—sends his eyes darting back towards your own.

“No, not like this,” you say with strained breath, and he quirks an eyebrow in response, working your fingers into the fabric despite the interruption. “I want more, I need…” your voice trails off, a sorry attempt at stalling.

“Need what?” he asks as he catches on, shit-eating grin somehow audible without you even looking. You don’t know how he does it, how he locks his desires up as you squirm underneath him, waiting ever so innocently for a proper response.

“Need, need you,” you say under your breath, and he cocks an eyebrow, a clear sign of an underwhelming response. 

“Oh? I couldn’t quite catch that, princess.”

As if.

“I need you inside of me. Please, claim this filthy cunt,” you whine, determined to play, determined to win. Your hips buck into your interlaced fingers, searching desperately for the one word that’ll send him over the edge and finding it as the leather accessory rides up your neck—as if to remind you of its existence—“Master.”

And it does, it sends a jolt of heat to his groin, has him kicking his pants off and pinning your wrists into the sheets. It’s got him surging with primal need, tugging the pathetic mess of your soaked panties to the side with limitless hunger.

Because even though he’s drawn many names from your lips before, they’ve always been ones he’s insisted on, ones he’s downright pestered you about. Even the simplest “Satoru” was, admittedly, a struggle to pry out of you the very first time you got tangled in his sheets; you shielded your eyes then, cheeks burning and voice low as you whispered it in his ear. And look at you now, sprawled out beneath him as you edge yourself with a hand steeped in your own concoction, begging for his cock with that delicious nickname of your own admission, and it rings throughout his head like an addictive melody.

Master.

Master.

Master.

You can hardly recognize the noises he fucks out of you for the remainder of the night. He showers you with an unsavory slew of awful names, phrases you’ve never even heard aloud before, tells you that you’re his “freaky cocksleeve” and a “bitch in heat” as he jerks your leash without warning. And that’s exactly what you are, twitching for him like an animal as he screws you senseless, the most guttural of responses rising from your throat as he asks:

“Who do you belong to?”

And of course you respond, between labored pants, “You, master,” muscles taut as you fight for air, fingernails scrambling for purchase on his back but finding absolutely none.

It’s not until you’re entangled in a breathless mass that he pulls your head into his lap, strokes your cheeks and coos that you’ve been a good fucking girl, a thick mixture of his seed seeping from your gaping hole.

Morning always comes when you least expect it, sneaking up on you and peeking through the blinds before you’re ready to get going.

Gojo’s still passed out cold when you creep out of bed, only the most languid of movements used to pry yourself out of the mattress as your arms and legs ache for need of rest. The dull pain humbles you, delayed post-nut clarity finally hitting as you rub into your bleary eyes.

It feels like you’ve been struck by a train.

Your gait is but a tiptoe as you stalk towards his dresser, trembling hands slowly rummaging for something, anything that can provide you some cover. Your classes are starting soon, and whether his are, too, or whether he’s simply skipping out today, you know better than to rouse him from his toil-induced slumber. 

It’s nearly inaudible, the sound of the door closing behind you, clank of metal but a whisper as the soles of your shoes kiss up carpeted floor. You’ve left it unlocked, just the way your boyfriend likes it, a small assembly of what you hope he’ll recognize as breakfast perched upon the kitchen table—the last traces of your visit left behind in a neat and tidy little package.

Your eyes find Geto’s once you turn down the hallway, small black beads peering into yours before taking a lap around the block to assess the damage. He must not like what he sees, this tousled morning-after apparition, faint patches of indigo and violet creeping out from under your—no, Gojo’s—oversized sweatshirt, because it’s a solemn sigh that hits your ears next and not a “good morning” or even a simple “hey” that acknowledges you. 

Because he knows your average person wouldn’t notice the marks, too sheltered by all that thick cotton riding up your neck, purposefully pulled up just far enough that you wouldn’t see them unless you were looking. He knows your average person couldn’t have the slightest idea how you really scratched up your knees, pointillistic constellations of reddish purple threatening, however empty that threat is, to inch up your thighs. He scoffs.

“What do you even see in him?”

The words cloud the air before he’s completely aware of them, surprising the both of you as they surface.

You open and close your mouth like a fish out of water: for starters he’s charming, engaging, lively and free-spirited. He’s beautiful and he adores you, you want to say, but even though you have all the correct phrases picked out, all strung together in the same time and place, they don’t seem to roll off your tongue quite right.

You seem so tired, forced laugh falling short where it should flutter out of your mouth, the usual cotton candy you spout crystallizing before it can materialize.

“I could ask the same of you.”

It traipses out of your mouth before you can give it permission, easing itself into the atmosphere before sinking like a stone. Truthfully you don’t care to hear an answer, if only to avoid giving your own. You usher yourself out, pushing yourself past the towering wall of a human and stalking down the nearest stairwell. 

Gojo knows just how to toy with your pride. But Geto? Geto knows how to slash it down to shreds. 

The silence is deafening.

Geto sighs once you’re out of earshot, turning his heel to continue his trajectory. If anything, he didn’t want to run into you today, either. He cringes at the small collection you’ve no doubt assembled yourself, of iced matcha and a granola bar, staring him in the face as he stalks into the apartment. For some reason it only feeds into his mounting dread, the rising unease of what he might find waiting for him in the bedroom. 

So he raps the bedroom door with his knuckles instead of barging in like he normally does, hoping in vain that he can get its sole inhabitant to lumber out himself. But of course Gojo doesn’t make it easy, letting out an obnoxiously loud yawn before stretching his lanky limbs with an equally obnoxious groan.

“You said to swing by this morning,” Geto half-yells, half says to himself, already prepared to turn tail and leave. He’s honestly surprised when he gets a legible response instead of the hungover mumbles he’s grown used to.

“Oh, that? Come in, it’s unlocked,” Gojo calls out, each syllable punctuated with tardiness. So Geto braces himself, puffing his chest out before giving the doorknob a firm handshake, stepping deeper into the belly of the beast. 

Geto was prepared to see many things when he walked through that door. Something like lipstick stains and flavored condoms, S&M paddles and ribbed dildos. Instead he’s met with something completely other, the evidence already cleared away. Whatever late-night exploits you enjoyed are long gone, not a trace left behind by now, privy only to a grown man slumped over the edge of his mattress, grabbing around under the bedframe. 

“Ahh, got it!”

With sleepy eyes Gojo lifts his head and presents to Geto the chrome colored box he’s fished out. It’s small and compact and ridiculously outdated, a conspicuous red button jutting out of its interface. He holds it up to his friend’s face, and the device finally registers.

A voice recorder.

“What, they still make those things?”

Geto schools his features easily, wiping the shock off his face before it can even materialize. It’s not exactly a lie; he knows he shouldn’t be surprised at all that Gojo has kept such an antiquated device for the occasion. 

“You act as if you’ve never seen one before.”

It’s a smirk that’s plastered all over their faces now, one that nearly matches the one across from the other, and knowingly so. The two burst into laughter at the ridiculousness of it all, Gojo slapping his knee and Geto clutching onto his sides. They’re not sure who starts it, but one of them high fives the other.

Girls like you are oh so naïve.

Your wish is granted for about a week total.

Gojo keeps his promise, of loving you more and loving you better, throughout the remaining weekdays. 

He takes you out for brunch, picks you up after class, and best of all, doesn’t ask anything more of you, doesn’t ask for anything better.

He opts to shower you with gifts instead, of stuffed animals and chocolates and bite-sized amenities, insisting that you take them all, no strings attached. Your nightstand overflows with his presents, mismatched tokens that remind you of his affection even when you’re not together. And although neither of you explicitly verbalize it, it seems like his way of apologizing. Silently.

You whole-heartedly accept.

This is the Satoru I fell in love with, you think to yourself as he pets your head one sunlit afternoon, grogginess setting in after a particularly big meal. You nuzzle into his lap and relish in the soft filtered light, sprawled out on your side on the living room sofa. He has you gazing upwards at a tap of the shoulder, all softened eyes and unkempt locks of hair, the smell of sandalwood and fresh dry cleaning enveloping you entirely as he leans in for a faint forehead kiss.

“What’s up?” you half ask, half mumble, eyelids heavy with sleep.

“Just wanted to see my princess’s face,” he says, a fleeting grin on his rosy lips. A hollow thud sounds as you play-punch him in the chest, but you roll over from your side to look up at him anyway.

“You happy now?”

“Overjoyed.” 

The two of you lock eyes, slivers of white hair undoing themselves from behind his ear as your breath syncs up slowly, gradually. He stares at you with such longing that you would think you weren’t laying right atop of him, and you struggle to hold your ground. 

“Are you—”

“Yup.”

You groan, eyes overcome with on demand prickling. “No thank you,” you proclaim as you squeeze them shut, uninterested in indulging him a staring contest. Moments pass and your eyes stay closed, a tide of tiredness washing over you. You loosen up, head rolling back as you allow yourself to relax. 

Big mistake. He takes it as an invitation for his hands to descend upon you, attacking your sides in an attempt to tickle, and you jerk away instantly.

“What the—Sato, cut it out!” You bat his arms away, one eye open as uproarious laughter fills your ears.

“If you’re gonna fall asleep then at least let me lay down too,” he says, drawing out the last word as he props your upper half up. He takes your place on the sofa before pulling you on top, and you huff as you fall into a pile.

“Jerk.”

“Your favorite jerk, though.”

Oh, he definitely feels it when you smile into his chest.

The weekend arrives without issue.

Wednesday night you’re watching the sunset over melon sodas.

Thursday night you’re falling asleep on Facetime.

Friday night you’re in the midst of downtown Tokyo, multicolored lights casting your faces in ethereal glow as you work against the hustle and bustle of regulars and tourists. Karaoke songs eat up the most of your visit, Gojo’s voice slowly going scratchy until the crowd finally works the nerve to drag him offstage. You spend the remaining time hopping restaurants, ordering exactly one dish at each location, slowly working your way through a full course meal. The waitress who serves you nothing more than a plate of gyoza gets an especially generous tip.

Dessert is by far his favorite dish: a deluxe parfait, served in a tall, American-style glass and filled to the brim with sorbet. You can still taste the fruit toppings, fresh and fragrant and honeyed on your tongues as you swap saliva in the back of his car. He cups your face with one hand and holds the small of your back with the other, pressing dangerously close against your body. When you finally have the chance to breathe, a thread of spit trails between your lips, in memory of your union. It glistens in the color of the muted city lights, persevering through the window tint in all of their electric might. A mischievous glint reaches his eyes, and all of a sudden he’s pulling you on top of his lap.

“We can get away with this much, can’t we, princess?”

And you oblige, patch of wetness already creeping through your panties as he starts to move, clothed cockhead grinding against the curve of your ass. He’s louder than usual, quivering groans crumbling as they reach your ears, his hips rolling in stuttering motions. You feel as if you’re aflame, pulsating with need, decadent sweetness enveloping your senses every time he pulls in for a kiss, every time he grazes you with his pubic bone. Your clit sings with praises as he pushes you down by the hips, whispering how good you’re being for him, how gorgeous you look in the dress he bought you, and you make a silent wish in the faint moonlight that the moment will never end.

But it seems that good things always meet their end, and come Saturday night, the monster rears its ugly head again.

Because on Saturday night, Gojo’s got you hanging on his arm, the two of you ascending concrete steps to the usual place. Same group of people, different game every week. The two of you are greeted with sweet sighs and boozy smiles, clink of bottles surrounding you as they prepare this week’s drinking game. Gojo’s a lightweight and Geto sticks to designated-driver duty, so it usually works out just fine.

Just not this week.

If Gojo was the sun, then Geto was the moon.

It always seemed to Geto that his best friend had everything in the world he could possibly need: looks, charisma, and status, all readily available to him without much effort of his own. And honestly? He loathed him for that.

As soon as the clock strikes midnight, Geto knows there’s absolutely no way he’s making it to the party. Instead he opts to spend Saturday night alone in the comfort, or perhaps the prison, of his own room.

Because the sun is a star that births brilliance, instilling vitality and inspiring vigor wherever it goes. Whereas the moon only picks up in the after hours, left to guide the lost and the wandering in the nighttime. He feels like he’s always scraping the bottom of the barrel, the pool of women he can choose from limited to the gaggle of bumbling stragglers who lament, still, the absence of the blinding sun. And for the past twenty or so years of his life, those bumbling stragglers have not so much as glanced back at him, too enchanted by the liveliness of day.

Worst of all is that softheaded people, scatterbrains just like you, they think they can fix Gojo, super-fucking-nova Gojo who burns it all up, destroying everything in his course of direction. Part of Geto thinks it’s absolutely deplorable, the way in which pea-brained whores throw themselves at him, hankering for his attention and jumping through all the hoops necessary to get just that. But part of Geto also wants to have his own stake in the fun, and Gojo—pretty boy, genetic-lottery winner Gojo knows this all too well.

The glint of the moonlight taunts Geto as it reflects off the silver-toned box in his hand, bold “STOP,” “REC,” and “PLAY” lettering practically chanting his name in the dim illumination. He was told that the handheld device was safer with him, well out of your reach in the confines of his single dorm, and he supposes that’s the truth, what with the lack of foot traffic in this cramped room that lacks of fresh air and sunlight.

It’d be doubly safer if he’d just tuck the abomination away, stick it deep in the corner of his sock drawer or perhaps somewhere underneath the bed frame, but he’s kept it well in sight ever since he first laid hands on it. He clutches it tightly as if it just might disappear when he lets go; chances like these are rare for him, to be so close in proximity to the wanton whines of someone he knows and sees almost daily. And if it’s anyone’s fault that you’re still fucking an immature bastard, a privileged manchild who gets pretty much everything he wants, it most certainly isn’t his own.

It’s just so exhilarating, to be able to cradle the cool metal in one hand, throbbing cock in the other, drawstring sweats already halfway down as he thumbs at his flushed, pink head. He’s kicking his pants off as he leans into bed, flat of his slicked-up fingers laving over the sopping tip that cries and weep for release. He’s already imagining it, the kinds of o-shaped faces you make with a leash dangling from your neck, bubbling with excitement and intoxication and jealousy at the mere thought. But he doesn’t start the audio yet, fumbling for his stash of lotion before moving to fist his cock in its entirety, twitching creature red with excitement as he jerks it up and down.

It feels so intimate to him, the fact that you’re so close yet so far away, musical mewls available on demand whenever he so pleases. He quickens the pace, palm of his hand practically flattening the vein on the underside of his cock as he starts to buck his hips into his tightening fingers. He’d just love to ram his dick down your throat one day, but for now he’ll have to make do with his hands.

He hits “PLAY” with bitter determination.

The very first sound of crumpling bedsheets has him curling into a full-body tingle. He’s close, so close he can almost taste it, but he keeps his concentration on the audio speaker, waiting for something, anything to heighten his arousal. He sucks in the cold air between his teeth, curses threatening to pour from his lips at how right, how wrong it all feels. The anticipation is short-lived, however, broken by the sound of Gojo’s voice, just barely recognizable in the speaker’s tinny, superficial quality.

“My, my,” the silver-haired deviant says, corners of his mouth undoubtedly upturned as he leans into the microphone.

“Just what do you think you’re doing, Geto?”

The voice recorder hits the floor at the sound of his own name, blood pressure rising as his arms and legs tense up in disbelief. His own orgasm slips away and out of reach in an instant, petering out in wretchedly slow motion as his stiff cock throbs with pitiful languor. He wants to laugh, he wants to cry, wants to curse the world for ever thinking you were actually within his reach, wants to chuck the accursed gadget across the room and watch it scatter across the floor in glittering smithereens. Or maybe he just wants to cradle his head and sink into the ground, face his back to the despicable device for the rest of the night as the cold seeps into his sides, but he’s not even sure where the damn thing skittered off to and his head is spinning and his eyelids clench shut and the world just grinds to a halt.

Gojo doesn’t take the news well.

Gojo doesn’t want to take it at all.

You’re chatting up the party’s host, a premed student in the same year as him, when you first notice him glancing at his phone.

“So how are things? Between you two, I mean,” Shoko asks as she follows your gaze. 

“Couldn’t be better” is your absentminded answer, and she stifles a laugh—a perfect relationship with the Gojo Satoru? But you’re only half listening as she expresses her disbelief, eyes never quite leaving Gojo’s back as he shifts away from the mass of people and shuffles towards the windows, cell phone in balled-up hand.

The first call is inconspicuous enough—Geto has a habit of running late, after all. But when you excuse yourself to the bathroom and come back find to Gojo still holding the phone to his ear, half crouched with his lips screwed up in a pout, you know something’s off. Part of you doesn’t want to take your place beside him, but he pulls you down by the wrist, grip strong enough to leave dime-sized bruises.

They’re explaining the game of the night before you can ask him what’s up: a  pitcher of beer will round the group of players, all sat in a circle on the carpeted floor, each and every one taking turns trying to steal the last drop. It’s a familiar setting, the music but a hum in the background as the participants buzz with idle chatter, but the person beside you feels alien somehow. The woolen material pills underneath your toes as you curl them into little balls, eyeing him with a sideways glance. You know better than to raise the issue when his foot’s tapping the floor with such force, rapid rhythm almost matching the incessant pace with which he thumbs at his phone. He’s calling Geto three, four, five times before changing tack, demanding an explanation through text.

Shallow breaths are all that fill your lungs as you keep as still as possible, trying your best to get a good read on the screen. If the slump in his shoulders is any indicator, you’re sure he’s seething at the words that light it up. But before you can make out a single phrase, he’s slamming the phone down with one hand, clenching the pitcher of freshly poured beer with the other.

His turn to take the first swig.

He ends up gulping until you’re sure he’s out of breath.

“Whoa there, Satoru,” the person next to him says when he sets the pitcher down, nearly emptied. “What the fuck was that?” 

His wrist rises to wipe the corner of his mouth and he exhales sharply, as if his simple reply requires strenuous effort.

“DD bailed on us,” he announces, “fucking flake.”

“Maybe we should have you sober up, then,” someone else, likely Shoko, calls out from across the room.

The change in his demeanor is instant.

“Ah, we’ll make it back in one piece, won’t we?” Gojo’s glance darts sideways, playful lilt betraying the ice he has for eyes.

The room hushes, waiting for an answer, and you sit up straight when you realize who he’s asking. You quirk an eyebrow, amused. With his cheeks already flushed, what seems to be a pointed gaze unfocused and glassy, you can’t help but beg to differ. You know the answer he wants to hear with every bone in your body. But every fiber in your being knows the truth.

“Bullshit.”

The entire room erupts and it’s decided, against his will, that you’ll be spending the night.

Everything falls apart from there.

Shoko shows you to a guest room once the others begin to clear out, dark circles carved out by cool white fluorescents that cast shadows behind her puffy eye bags.

“Sorry it’s so small,” she says, gesturing at the lone mattress, creeping moonlight like a spotlight on its linen-lined surface.

“It’s everything we could ask for,” you say as Gojo falls into bed, sprawling out against the twin sized sheets. “Thanks for letting us crash.” She shoots him a tight lipped smile before placing a deft hand on your shoulder, brown locks cascading as she leans into your ear.

“Let me know if you need anything, okay?” 

The night is long and never-ending. 

Teeny tiny bits of skylight taunt you from above as Gojo proceeds to keep you awake well past twilight. He’s tossing and turning in the guest bed, kicking the blanket off the both of you with spiteful purpose, inviting in the cool night breeze. It nips you from your face to your toes, colder still even as he tightens his hold on you, and you decide to finally break the silence.

“You still mad about that one thing I said?”

He scoffs, huff of breath like a shot to your neck.

“You seriously have to ask?”

You tense up immediately, spine straightening flat against his chest as he continues, edge to his voice swelling as it looms behind you. “Honestly, who do you think you think you are? Always acting like you’re better than me.” Razor thin needles lodge themselves into your scalp as he pulls your hair back, your chin meeting chilled air as you offer up a whimper. 

“It’s not like that.” 

He only tightens his grip on your hair, pulling it back harder still.

“Think I need to remind you of your fucking place,” he mumbles as he presses into you, something stiff rocking against the fat of your thighs.

“Not here,” you breathe, eyes widening as you realize his intent, the alcohol in your system seeming to swirl in your head. He staggers his hips in response.

“Wasn’t a problem in the car.” 

“Satoru, they might hear us,” you say, the steel in your voice cracking as his free arm snakes around your side, searching for the hem of your pants. “Mercy,” you try again, the familiar, agreed upon safe word sounding foreign and unfamiliar when it comes out but a croak. It hurtles from the shelter of your lips, forever lost as the strain in his pants only grows, breath going ragged as he ruts into your hips.

“Just let me have this.”

And he revels in the way in which he easily overpowers you, enamored in how his towering frame nearly swallows you whole. When a particularly loud groan—one you’re sure anyone in a neighboring room can overhear—escapes his lips, you blister with shame, burying your face in the pillow, limbs aching for need of sleep.

And then his breath hitches as he chases after fireworks and explosions, captivated by the way that you squirm in vain. His palms claim your hips as his own, cockhead grinding behind you, servicing himself with feverish concentration. He presses your side into the mattress, ass cheeks squeezing together like a homemade fleshlight, and you arch your back in a sorry attempt at evasion. 

He groans in response, knees buckling together as he brushes up against the makeshift curve, and you stop struggling altogether. Your body buzzes from the touch, head swelling like a balloon, skin crawling from the jerky movements as you go limp as a ragdoll.

“God, you’re so good to me,” he says, praise anything but endearing when it hits your ears. It’s the same kind of acclaim he gave up just the night before, but it cheapens as he repeats it, banal phrase playing over and over in your head. He’s still humping your butt when he cums, shaky and delirious as he rides out the high, profanities rolling off his tongue until he’s shuddering himself to sleep. All is still once he’s blacked out from the stimulation, pitter patter of salted frustration the only movement left over as it soaks the pillowcase through and through.

You lay awake, caged by his toned muscle, trapped by his carbon curses, praying for sleep until the birds begin to chirp. They sing a song that they borrowed from the night, a harrowing lullaby that has you in a panic, slipping out of his grasp as you crawl out of bed. 

By the crack of dawn you’ve tiptoed into a cab, belongings clutched tight to your chest, apartment complex shrinking in the distance, but it never seems to get further away.

Geto hasn’t breathed a word about the voice recorder.

Geto doesn’t want to think about it all.

He’s paying for it now with a barrage of daily phone calls from none other than Gojo himself, who dials him day and night and morning, no regard for moderation. Geto regards the fallout as both of their instant karma, still miffed by the prank he’d just fallen for, but unwilling to reveal his folly. He fills the role of trusty confidant nonetheless, his betrayal as M.I.A driver long forgotten. It’s a spectacle, the frenzy Gojo is bound in, and he might as well watch from a front row seat.

But he hasn’t made a full recovery yet, forever irked at the pretty privilege Gojo takes for granted, the privilege he downright hoards for himself, barking into the speaker when he feels his blood begin to boil.

“Seriously, what did you do this time?” He wants to tear his hair out at Gojo’s stupidity, his utter lack of tact, wants to pull out his front teeth and pulverize the dental tissue into a fine powder when he’s met with momentary silence. 

It’s been a few days since you left the guest bedroom alone in the wee hours of morning, and Gojo hasn’t been able to get ahold of you since. You haven’t been answering his texts, his calls, Christ, he even tried your personal email, and now Geto finds himself shouldering the brunt of his correspondence, trying everything in his power to get him to calm the fuck down, albeit fruitlessly.

“Nothing we haven’t done before,” Gojo insists once he’s found his choice of words, spitting them out one by one, raking stiff fingers through colorless locks. “I got a little handsy, but it was seriously nothing.” Geto shakes his head and rubs his temples; nothing isn’t enough to make you walk out on him. 

“If you’re telling the truth, then stop worrying already.” A stray section of his bangs fall forward, sweeping over his eye as he slumps over in his chair. “But if you’re lying—” he starts, cut off by the sound of chaste knocks, an unassuming 1-2-3 kissing up at his door before he can finish. 

Saved by the mystery visitor.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d sigh relief, eager to break away from the droning and moaning of the spoiled brat on the other line. Instead he gives pause, as if weighing the cost of answering the door against the merit of staying put on the phone, moment’s hesitation only giving way to a guaranteed getaway.

“Hold on, I need to get this,” is all Geto says as he hangs up the phone, equal parts appreciative and skeptical of the person at his door. He isn’t exactly friendly with anyone on his floor, and few would show up here without asking first, so he peers through the peephole, curiosity getting the better of him.

And lo and behold, speak of the devil, it’s Gojo’s missing girlfriend, standing alone with her hands twisted together.

Amazing. You’re quite literally the very last person he wanted to see right now.

“Do you have any idea how worried he is?” Geto snaps when he answers the door. You have no idea what kind of mess he has on his hands. “Go and make up with your boyfriend already.” He moves to close the door but you react quickly, wedging yourself before the doorframe, eyes wide and pleading.

“I’m in trouble, so please...” You scramble for something half believable. “I can’t turn to anyone else.” He laughs in your face, eyebrows quirked with mirth at how genuine it almost sounds.

Almost.

“Don’t give me that.”

“No, I mean it,” you press on, unwilling to admit that anyone else who’d listen to your cries for help, from trusted family to doe-eyed friends, would undoubtedly have you in a beeline for the authorities. “You—you’re the only other person who can put up with Gojo.”

That gets him stopping in his tracks.

“Barely,” he scoffs, but the pressure on the door lets up. He hates that you have a point there. Hates that he can’t look away from Gojo and his silly antics and his daring ploys and especially hates that he has that in common with you. He wants to turn you away but you look so hopeful, ignoring the dulling pain of the door trying to crush your foot flat.

He bites the bullet.

“You know he’ll be pissed if he finds out you came to me first, right?” You screw your lips together when he cracks the door slightly.

“Well, he doesn’t really have the right at the moment,” you sniff, barging in when he lets go of the door completely.

The room is impossibly smaller than you ever imagined, in direct contrast to all the empty space in Gojo’s rental. It’s a wonder how all his necessities fit in the cramped shelves and tiny drawers, and you almost marvel at the scale of it until the sound of wood on vinyl tiling snaps you back to focus. A few stray articles of clothing are plucked from the ground and chucked to the corner before he’s pulling two chairs up, one for you and one for him. Once he’s sitting, you have his full, unadulterated attention.

Not that you know what to do with it.

It takes a while to find your voice, fiddling with your fingers as you try, unsuccessfully, to hold his gaze. There’s no clock but you swear you can hear the second hand ticking. The curtain’s closed but you’re sure you can feel the heat of the sun disappearing. You’re certain that it ebbs below the curve of the horizon as you watch, timidly, the tap of Geto’s wooden sandal. It remind you of the clack of Gojo’s dress boots, impatience slowly exceeding its carefully drawn bounds.

You time out a moment of silence.

And then another.

And then another, until Geto is staring you down expectantly, pinpricks for eyes. You take the hint.

“I said it.” You look down, fidgeting with your shirt. “I said no.”

His eyes soften immediately, struck by the raw edge of your voice, your inability to look him in the eye.

“And he didn’t respect that?”

“He touched me. When I asked him to stop.” The words have to force themselves out your throat, the little bit of courage you have all that keeps the walls from collapsing in completely. You take as deep of a breath as you can manage when the memory flickers through your mind, clear as yesterday. “He—he fucked me through his clothes.” Your head’s buried in your hands as you fold into yourself completely, rocking in place, and something rages inside of Geto.

“Wait, what?” Geto looks at you incredulously, disbelief scrawled all over his face, eyes narrowing when you keep your head down. “Through his clothes?”

You nod slowly, knowingly, and he feels as though the world is spinning all over again. The ground seems to shift beneath him as your face contorts in pain, saltwater already beading up along your lower lashes. That’s it? That’s what this entire circus is on about? He cards his hands through his hair as he tries to process it, shaking his head when you fail to respond. That’s all it takes for your whole body to quake, hard lumps bubbling up your throat at the bite of his words, breath stuttering irregularly as your windpipe starts to clench up. 

And then you’re crying, body wracked with hiccups as you try to quell the chills crawling up your skin. Your chest heaves in a sorry attempt to keep up with the lurch of your lungs, sputtering as you try to suppress your voice.

“God, you’re all so fucking annoying.”

He watches you bubble over, feeling his own emotions swell as they hit a critical mass, stomach churning at the sight. You couldn’t manage a comeback if you wanted to, a blubbering mess as you try to wipe your eyes dry. The small bit of composure that’s kept him whole these past few days finally snaps when the tears trail down your hands, no end in sight in the onslaught of waterworks.

“I bet you wanted it,” he continues, unfazed by the fattening tears, fingertips digging into his thighs as he spots the yellowed bruises he jacks off to at night. He leers at the fading brown and imagines them overlaid with fresh, new marks, gleaming blush and fiery crimson. “I bet sluts like you don’t care what happens as long as they get dicked down in the end.” A quiet sob tumbles out of you and your cheeks tingle with hurt, like you’ve been backhanded once, then twice.

“It’s n-not like that,” you finally manage to say, gasping through choked noises as he creeps closer, cloaking you in shadow. He stares vacantly from his vantage point, as if looking at an ant on the tiles.

“Then why don’t you walk away for real?” 

And that’s exactly what you should be doing right now, cornered by a large man in his dark, dingy room, but by the time you think to stand up he’s grabbing you by the wrists. He sends you barreling into the desk, spinning you around so your hands clutch the edge, chest pressing up against the surface. He pins an arm behind you with ease, kicking your legs wide open, and you flail the other in no particular direction.

“You secretly enjoy all of it, don’t you? You secretly get off on the idea of being raped by your boyfriend.” He sneers as you buckle underneath him, grazing his growing erection. “All worked up over a little dry humping? Get over yourself already. You females want to be hurt so bad.”

“Fuck you,” you manage between muffled sobs, chest feeling as if it’s about to break in half. “You’re j-just like Gojo.”

“Just like Gojo?” Geto echoes, free hand coming to snake between your thighs, voice catching as he speaks. “You’re sorely mistaken.”

You fall limp as he draws a single finger under your panties, tracing your hipbone as he muses. He imagines their contents, imagines how easy it would be to take you by force, sighing aloud at the prospect of doing it without.

“I can never be him.”

fishstyx © 2021 ✸ all content and their rights belong to me. do not repost, reproduce, or modify anywhere.

[sd1d-enthusiast]

Eren and Normalizing Selfish Death Confessions

An analysis on Death in AOT by u/GibbyGG16 that was made here. I thought to share this analysis because too many people in the AOT fandom have completely missed the entire point of Eren’s breakdown in chapter 139. Eren is not an incel or a simp. He is human. Post begins here:

Background: There's a lot of criticism about Eren's words to Armin about him secretly wanting to be with Mikasa forever and that he would hate for her to move on and forget him. Many people have called him possessive, a simp, or an incel. However I don't think these selfish feelings make him any of those, nor do they diminish the act of sacrifice he does. In fact, despair in the face of one's death for the strong & selfless, and the need to be remembered is a recurring theme throughout Attack on Titan. In this analysis, I'll look to use examples in AOT to layout why this scene is natural.

Part 1: How does one react to one's own death?

Example 1: Carla Yeager

We don't get to know Carla too well, except that she deeply loves Eren and that her death is arguably the catalyst for Eren's rage against the world. However while she is a loving mother, she is still human. When the Smiling Titan attacks, many will remember Carla pleading with Hannes to make the safe choice and flee with Mikasa and Eren. Despite her selfless sacrifice and words, many likely forget that she covers her mouth so as to not scream "Don't leave me". Despite her motherly love for Eren, even she can barely resist screaming the selfish words that would have likely killed her son. Her most selfish desire is to live yet we do not condemn her for being a coward. Instead we praise her for her strength and courage in spite of such fear. Death is scary, and it's action in spite of fear that defines courage.

Example 2: Mike Zacharias

Though a minor character, Mike is likely remembered by hardcore fans as humanity's second strongest. Despite no Ackerman blood, he is considered a near peer to Levi in combat abilities as a human. Simply put, his combat prowess is likely near unstoppable. He meets his tragic fate in Zeke's first appearance, where is caught off guard in a combat terrain unfavorable for ODM gear, the abnormality of a Shifter Titans behaviors and being greatly outnumbered.

Prior to his death, Zeke strips his ODM gear leaving him immobile and vulnerable as his legs had just been crushed. Despite his lack of options, Mike gathers the courage to fight to his death. How does he die? He screams in anguish and dies a horrifying death, being ripped apart by multiple titans. Despite the power of humanity's second strongest, he is still human. He cannot hear but scream in pain, showing to us even the strongest fear death. Being strong does not make you immune from the pains and anguish of dying.

Example 3: Marlowe Freudenberg

Many will remember another minor character, a former Military Police turned scout Marlowe. Marlowe joins the scout after the events of Historia's ascension to the throne to help retake Wall Maria. Prior to his joining his friend Hitch tries to talk him out of joining the Scouts. Unknown to the oblivious Marlowe, Hitch clearly harbors romantic feelings for him and is worried about his safety.

In Erwin's death charge against Zeke, Marlowe is amongst the many recruits asked to act as diversion for Levi to attack the Beast Titan from behind. This guaranteed suicide charge results in Marlowe being crushed and killed by a boulder. In his last moments, the brave and naive Marlowe, the one who tells Hitch off for thinking about personal safety over the importance of the Scout's mission thinks of only two things:

Hitch

The thought of being safe

Marlowe's last thoughts do not make him a coward. He is a simply man asked to die. Even knowing he is going to die, he cannot help but let his mind wander. Wanting to be with your loved ones instead of dying is not cowardly, it's human.

Example 4: Bertholdt Hoover

The infamous original holder of the Colossal Titan, is a mild and meek man which contrasts greatly with the most fearsome and destructive power of all Titans that is not the Founding. In the introduction of Bertholdt, we know him as someone who cares for Annie, does not have initiative, and is conflicted by his mission to kill those in Paradis.

However in spite of his misgivings, Bertholdt resolves to see his mission to the very end, killing his precious nakamas. One quote truly defines how resigned Bertholdt is to his fate: "I feel like, no matter how this all plays out, I can accept whatever happens. That's right, nobody's in the wrong. There's nothing we could do. Because this world... is just... that cruel".

Though Bertholdt reaches inner peace and acceptance for both the cruel actions he must take and his potential death in this decisive battle, his stoicism is not unshakable. In an effort to save Armin's life, the scouts transform Armin into a pure Titan which proceeds to devour Bertholdt. Despite his seemingly new resolve, Bertholdt's last moments are now that of a man accepting his death peacefully. Instead he screams and begs for his friends to save his life. Resolving and accepting your death does not mean going into it quietly.

Part 2 - The desire to be remembered

Example 1: Erwin's speech

As Erwin prepares his scouts for a suicide charge against the Beast Titan, Erwin must convince his soldiers of the utility of their sacrifice. His speech is: "Does that mean life is meaningless? Was there even any meaning in our being born? Would you say that of our fallen comrades? Their lives Were they meaningless? No, they weren't! It's us who gives meaning to our comrade's lives! The brave fallen! The anguished fallen! The ones who will remember them are us, the living! We die trusting the living who follow to find meaning in our lives! That is the sole method in which we can rebel against this cruel world!"

Erwin's motivational speech is interesting because it does not guarantee victory nor does it guarantee survival. In fact Erwin is letting everyone you will die. However it's not fame, heroism, nor glory that Erwin uses to encourage his Scouts it's the hope they will live on in the memory of the living. Erwin recognizes a person's life continues to have meaning so long as the living remembers them. A person dies twice, once when they take their final breath, and later, the last time their name is spoken."

Example 2: Sasha, Erwin, Hange, and the Scouts that have fallen

Though the series is a fantasy series, there is no real concept of ghosts and after life. There is one exception to this, and that is the sacrifice of the scouts watching their comrades carry forward their mission:

In Hange's last stand, she is killed stalling the Wall Titans from reaching the Alliance. In her death she is greeted by Erwin and others.

As Levi lays after the final battle, with his legs rendered useless on the battlefield he sees all the nakamas he's lost over the years, telling them he's finally completed their mission

As Connie and Jean survey the remnants of the battle field, they see Sasha smiling at them one last time

Whether these ghosts are real or not, they are real to our protagonists. They appear as sacrifices of the past, but also because we continue they continue to live through us, in our ideals, our goals, and our feelings. Long after one has died, it is not only their memories that the living carry, it is their will as well.

Part 3: How does this all relate to Eren's confession to Armin he wishes for Mikasa to not forget him?

Eren's confession in chapter 139 should be understood in the context of a man's last words before he dies. Facing certain death, Eren's facade finally breaks after 4 years of hiding his loneliness, guilt of the future sins he will commit, and despair he must move forward. He's become a slave to the future, and while he has agency, he feels he must take these steps to ensure the survival of his friends.

Not only is Eren about to die, he is about to die without ever confessing his love to Mikasa. Yes, Eren loves Mikasa and it's been strongly hinted at throughout the series:

When he tells her he will wrap the scarf around her as many times as he likes

When he asks her "What is he to her?" hoping for an answer he has already seen she will not give that will give him the excuse to abandon his destiny

When he looks fondly at the memory of him giving Mikasa the scarf

Armin is startled by Eren's statement that he doesn't want Mikasa to move on and find someone else, and he wants to be with her forever. Not only are the statements considered awkward by Armin, he's shocked someone like Eren would ever find the courage to say such words outloud.

Why does Eren say this?

Because he is about to die. We know death does the following to us:

Death is scary, and it's action in spite of fear that defines courage. Being strong does not make you immune from the pains and anguish of dying.

Wanting to be with your loved ones instead of dying is not cowardly, it's human.

Resolving and accepting your death does not mean going into it quietly.

He doesn't want to be forgotten because:

-A person dies twice, once when they take their final breath, and later, the last time their name is spoken." -Long after one has died, it is not only their memories that the living carry, it is their will as well.

Conclusion: Does this all make Eren's feelings selfish?

Yes. He is selfish because he is human. He is a 19 year old boy in love and about to die without ever confessing to Mikasa. But what does Eren do in spite of his human emotions?

He asks Armin to never tell Mikasa the depths of his feelings

He consistently pushes Mikasa away and his last words to her are to forget him

Eren's actions are selfless. While he naturally fears death and struggles with the thought of dying both a physical and spiritual death, he does everything in his power to push Mikasa away. He is not an incel, he is not simp, nor does he love Mikasa possessively. He is a young man, tragically coping with his inevitable demise, and the necessary actions to ensure the one he loves the most moves on in spite of his own desires.

TLDR: Eren's selfish feelings are a natural reaction echoed through characters we've seen throughout AOT. What should define his character is not those desires, but what he does in spite of them. Him asking Mikasa to forget him is selfless and simply tragic.

[90363462]

The Surprisingly Tender Delight of “the Sluttiest Thing a Man Can Do”

A new meme celebrates the little things that men supposedly do for sexual attention, like "open a beer with a lighter” or “have a cat.”

Photograph: Getty Images; Collage: Gabe Conte

Recently it’s been a little hard to talk about male sexuality and horniness without it quickly devolving. For some very good reasons, abuses of power come up quickly. Creepiness lurks around the corner. There’s a reason so few sex advice columns are written by men—and so many pick up artist books are written for them. Let’s be clear: men have canonically been little sickos. And the internet is often a breeding ground for real dangerous discussions around male sexual entitlement (see: incels). It’s become a little difficult to talk male desire in a wholesome, non-threatening way.

But there’s a new meme in town and it’s surprisingly tender, especially for one with the word “slut” in it. 

Twitter content

This content can also be viewed on the site it originates from.

According to Know Your Meme (yikes for me) the earliest example of riffing on male sluttiness was @asapasseater‘s poetic declaration that “a man skating is ultimate slut behavior that’s the sluttiest thing a man can do no respect for themselves fr fr,” in 2021. But the meme took off this summer with a tweet claiming that, actually, having a big nose was the pinnacle of sluttiness for men, and reached new heights this month when this post about the intrinsic thirstiness of male cat ownership spread like wildfire.

Some of the iterations are basic and corny, some are boring and literal, some are just anexcuse for a fandom to post, some are mild erotica, some are full-on porn. But best of them are the ones that get at the little things men choose to do because they’re trying to be hot. 

Twitter content

This content can also be viewed on the site it originates from.

The most important characteristic of the things these men are choosing to do? They aren’t creepy. A least according to the rules of the meme, there's nothing slutty about obnoxious persistence, or cat-calls, or sending unsolicited dick-pics. It’s not about men chasing partners down, it’s about the things men do that attract people. It’s about effort that actually connects. It’s flirtation rather than pursuit. It’s a gentle appeal to others via attractive behavior rather than a celebration of body counts. 

It's all just for laughs and retweets, of course, but the jokes are refreshing in their clarity. They inherently and cheekily acknowledge the fact that straight, cis men are not generally labeled sluts, and that there is little downside to being promiscuous for them. But perhaps this meme moment points to a small shift, an almost sweet or wholesome kind of male sex talk one that is about them but not by them. 

The friction comes from having othersdescribe what they’re doing that’s so thirsty. This is—not to play into the gender binary and hetero-ness too much—the female gaze at work, and we’re having fun. These tweets are a place to simultaneously tease and celebrate men for all the things they are doing to try to get laid, the things they’re doing that are try-hard, sweet, adorable, and well, slutty. And maybe we’re creeping into a new era of a more gentle—but still very adult and sexual—discussion of male horniess. (And maybe the sexualization of America’s dirtbag sweetheart Jeremy Allen White and the fact that we all got turned on by “yes chef” supports this idea.) Again, it's just a meme, but hopefully these jokes are just the beginning of a new more fun, less aggressive way of talking about men’s sex lives. 

[deleteddewewted]

Incel!Shinsou Oneshot: "Why are you acting like that?”

To keep busy I just thought that a oneshot of Shinsou getting self conscious/needy would be cute since we already have his redemption arc rolling in. The next part of the Incel!Shinsou series (Part 3) will have him proving his worth at the Sports Festival. So in thinking of how he will prove himself to you I thought of how will all of those people affect him, especially you. ( This oneshot takes place pre changes, so Shinsou is still his disgusting self but he's figuring out how to woo a woman, especially of your caliber.)

Incel!Shinsou Series:

Part 1: Incel! Shinsou x F!Reader

Part 2: Incel! Shinsou x F!Reader

Incel!Shinsou Headcanons

"I know what you're doin' here. Made your intentions clear. Oh you, you terrible thing, you. Terrible thing, you. Terrible thing, you. Beautiful thing"

TW: Strong Language, Mild Sexism

People were never an obstacle when it came to the things Shinsou wanted. He’s aware that others would do anything for him if he played his cards right. The right words with the right question did wonders for him. So why the fuck couldn’t he have what he wanted when it came to you? You drove him up the wall with the kindness you showed him. He didn’t deserve it and you’re existence almost felt like a punishment from whatever deity that existed out there to make him suffer. You guys were suppose to be studying for your upcoming project that required a poster, a slide show, and one influential person that would help prove your projects point. You left him running circles within his own mind as to how you were so willing to challenge him. He wanted you to obey him not see through his bullshit. It wasn’t like you didn’t listen to him vent, or didn't give him attention, but he wanted to hold you under his control. To be the person you listened to.

In class you where both seated on the extreme ends of the room on opposite sides. You never realized this (you do), but his head would periodically turn towards your direction to look at you, to figure you out (liar). This time, you managed to catch him do it.

“What are you doing?” You asked plainly. You honestly didn’t care that he was staring, everyone does when you dress like you're attending an MCR concert in the middle of autumn.

“You look different....today.”

“Nice.” It was difficult to care. Shinsou was just some guy in your class that you had to deal with. Nothing special really....ok, maybe it wasn’t fully true. You didn’t really know him all that well or anything (Unless it was mocking and belittling everything you did, that was normal behavior for him so it wasn’t surprising to find out he was like that outside of campus.) but he wasn’t all that bad? If he cared for himself a bit more, hygiene wise he would be considered handsome or at least a competent human being (you weren't going to call him a man, men don't act this childish. At least the ones you knew.) Maybe then you would take his opinion seriously, but for now you’ll ignore his...interesting comments he's been throwing towards you today.

“It’s rude to ignore someone when their talking to you, you know?” The neutral face he had now possessed a frown and a furrow to his brows. You still couldn’t process how he took the time to make sure his hair stayed purple but didn’t care for his body odor. (This man dyes his hair purple yet cant bother to shower or use deodorant for once in his life.)

“I’m not ignoring you, I’m just not interested in anything you have to say.” With that you get up and take your things and leave. There was no point in wasting time on someone who couldn’t even look at you directly and had to also sneak glances at you. "Do I really look that unbearable?" you thought to yourself. In the end you didn’t care anymore, everyone was entitled to an opinion and the last thing you need is feeling self conscious because of your out of place classmate.

Shinsou was fuming. How the fuck did you just get up and leave his ass while he was trying to complement you. You should have been more appreciative that he was giving you his attention for once. A bitch like you wasn't even worth it so he doesn't understand why he even tried with you.

He never goes directly home after school but instead to the local theater. It was one of the few places where he could be around others and could genuinely be himself. It was weird, he didn't feel like himself when he was speaking with his "friends", friends that he's never spoken to verbally, never seen, and never would meet. He knew that he didn't deserve this, to have a safe haven when he acts like an ass, yet here he was.

"Good morning Shinsou! How are you? Are you ready for rehearsals? You did remember to read your lines, right?" Shinsou rolls his eyes at his theater mates antics. Monoma never seems to stop but he does know when to tone it down and when it comes to Shinsou he tones it down a bit. (Because Monoma is canonically considerate of others, look back the Sports Festival and the Joint Training Arc.)

"Im good man, yes i did read and memorized the script, dont worry about it." What an odd friendship, the most chaotic gentleman like man out the bunch with the quietist incel in the group. Shinsou should have seen it coming when he was adopted by Monoma but he's running on 2 to 4 hours of sleep so he doesn't really care.

Believe it or not Shinsou does take showers (only for theater) but very quickly and with no care (no shampoo or soap, fucking why man.) Theater means more to him and so making his character look the best they possible can was his first and foremost priority. He puts on his costume, gets to makeup (the minimum, because it's "gay" for him to wear makeup and since the world is unfair and cruel he has perfect skin for a greasy headed asshole.)

"Everyone get a move on! Kodai, Tsuburaba, and Awase! Go to stage left! Light techs, how's it up there?" One of the tech heads shouted out. Shinsou and Monoma got to their positions on the stage and the rehearsals began.

Love, the play was about love. Love that wasn't rejected but also not accepted. He didn't understand the concept fully. Was it romantic? Platonic? Familiar? Admiration? He loved his dad, but he mostly admired him. He worked long hours and middle resents him for not being there for him, yet he realizes that his dad works to give him the world, a home with all the things he wanted. He never had a mother so he never had parental or familiar, again his dad was there but he wanted a parent that would hold him when he came back from school everyday. He didn't have a girlfriend, so he doesn't know romantic. So far all of his characters where villains, or evil in some way. He was starting to get sick of them. Shinsou wanted something more, wanted to play a character that wasn't how everyone saw him as on his day to day life. He wanted a challenge, he wanted....affection. Just to show it. He wanted attraction. Just to abuse it. He wanted...love. To just...maybe...feel...enjoy...understand it.

"You terrible thing you. My love, you're so cold. You've left me hanging on every one of your words. You've made me loose my self, lose my self-control because of you!" He pours everything into his performance, his loneliness, his regrets, his experience. He's been told by his co-performers and directors that he has a great future in the arts, in theater. If he just took care of himself more he would be an amazing actor, not only incredibly talented but also attractive. He would have the world kneeling, bowing to him just from his words alone. He could have anything he wanted just because of his existence.

" You've made me do things i don't want to do...for you." Kodai stands there looking horrified. He's covered in blood, the blood of her lover, the one she left him for.

"No, i-i didn't-"

"YOU MADE ME-MADE DO THIS FOR YOU! You terrible, terrible, terrible thing! You beautiful thing, I've done this for you!...and you still cant and won't love me." He doesn't see Kodai anymore. It's not her face he sees, nor her voice that he hears.

Its you...its your voice. You. You looking back at him while he slowly lowered himself to kneel and crawl towards you. It's you who backs away from him as he starts to cry and hiccup.

"You wreck me, you made me. You leave me in your wake, please let me go!" He sees you and feels you grabbing his wrists back, pushing him into himself.

"Don't you ever let me go...."

You terrible beautiful thing, you.

And here we are again. This was a lot fun to write since it feels more concrete when it comes towards his personality and his full thought process. In many cases people like Shinsou just want attention or some sense of validation, which there is nothing wrong with wanting those things but it's more about the manner you go about it. You shouldn't pressure or force others to spend time with you, but there is always someone out there that will like to give you those things.

Tag list: @blossominglark

[leviathan-supersystem]

Re your cringe essay, do you have any analysis yet on how the dialectic of aesthetics connects to (or doesn’t connect to) how fascists label visibly neurodivergent and nonpassing trans people as “cringe”, regardless of whether they’re actually doing anything to hurt anyone? There’s also a weird phenomenon where people of opposite political views will hate the same thing for different reasons - eg queer women with dyed hair.

well, i think first it’s worth noting that not just fascists, but also garden variety bigots will label neurodivergent and nonpassing trans people “cringe”- so first i’d like to explore the dynamics of how this kind of social punishment plays out when in the service of the hegemonic current, and how that interplays with how these social punishments are enacted when in the service of reactionary currents.

the most relevant part of my earlier essay to this matter is this:

the New Trend will be so similar to the Old Trend that if you hated the Old Trend you’ll probably still hate the New Trend, but also, if you did like the Old Trend, you’ll be socially punished for it and Added To The Cringe Compilation to get you to spend money on the New Trend. this pattern is especially noticeable in fashion, which stays broadly the same for decades on end (people still be wearing t-shirts), but manages to punish people enough over mild variations in hemming and fit to keep people wastefully throwing out old clothes and buying new clothes, only for the discarded clothes to come back in fashion after they’ve been thrown out, of course.

these kinds of social punishments for not being in sync with the current trends are often what comes into play when it comes to social punishment of neurodivergent people, since in general neurodivergent people are more likely to either still be interested in an aesthetic trend/stimuli after everyone else has gotten sick of it, or to get sick of a particular aesthetic trend/stimuli before everyone else does, and thus end up getting socially punished for not being in sync with the trends. now, this is a harmful incentive structure that unnecessarily punishes benign behavior, and thus, in the course of the dialectic, this is over time being corrected, as people increasingly realize that it’s unnecessary and only promotes wasteful consumerism, and thus, if someone publicly cringes at some kid for still being into [no longer popular trend], the person who cringed will themselves be cringed at for being a dickhead and a bully, thus introducing a counter-incentive which will over time neutralize that harmful and unnecessary social punishment. (now, of course there are other things that neurodivergent people will be bullied for besides being out of step with current trends, but that particular wrinkle to it is the most relevant to the discussion of how it relates to the dialectic of aesthetics)

where reactionary ideologies come into play is that reactionary social currents operate by attempting to re-instate previously hegemonic social currents which have since been rejected- this can take the form both of recruiting bullies who are being socially dis-incentivized from bullying neurodivergent people (the sales pitch being essentially “wow, you can’t bully the spergs any more? how unfair! if you join our movement to Reject Modernity and Embrace Tradition, your god-given right to bully the spergs will be preserved in perpetuity”) while also recruiting neurodivergent people who have been unfairly bullied by promising revenge (the sales pitch being essentially “wow! you were bullied for being out of step with the trends? how unfair! if you join our movement to Reject Modernity and Embrace Tradition, the trends will be frozen in time at the exact moment when they were in sync with your personal taste, and instead everyone who likes stuff you don’t like will be the one being punished. finally, you’ll get revenge on all those pop-loving normies who made fun of you for listening to classical music”).

so basically reactionary ideologies maintain harmful unnecessary social punishment by appealing to both bullies who want to continue bullying, and appealing to bullied people who want revenge, in this case specifically preventing the relaxing of social punishments against those out of step with aesthetic trends.

similar dynamics play out with relation to gender- people being unnecessarily socially punished for being out of step with the prevailing hegemonic aesthetic norms, in this case the norms relating to how people’s bodies are evaluated in relation to gendered beauty standards (which change over time- in 19th century persia for example facial hair on women was the feminine ideal). these unnecessary social punishments negatively affect nonpassing trans people as well as gender nonconforming people in general. so in this case reactionary ideology predominantly works by recruiting people who are mad that counter-incentives are being put into place to reduce these unnecessary social punishments- transphobic and otherwise gender-enforcing bullies mad that now if they mock someone for being trans, or otherwise gender-nonconforming, they might receive some blowback for it, and wanting to preserve the harmful and unnecessary incentive/punishment system they’re a part of.

now, you might ask, is there any equivalent of the bullied people being susceptible to recruitment by reactionary ideology when it comes to gender, the way i mentioned earlier when it came to some bullied neurodivergent people being targeted for recruitment? well, there doesn’t seem to be when it comes to trans or gender nonconforming people (namely because there isn’t really a time period in the past which could be framed as being substantially better than today for trans or gender nonconforming people, making a “Reject Modernity Embrace Tradition” sales-pitch a no-go from the start), however, when it comes to people who are trying and failing, there does seem to exist some level of this, specifically in relation to the mra/incel ideology cluster, which markets itself to men who are trying but failing to meet the masculine ideal and recruiting them into vicious misdirected violence against women.

[alexeiadrae]

Self Hatred

So, incels. A group of men calling themselves involuntarily celibate. They basically can’t get laid and feel entitled to women’s bodies. Supposedly they believe they can’t get laid because they’re ugly, and they take their rage out on women who reject them, even going so far as to conduct mass shootings, and then making saints out of their members who do the mass shootings. 

Being a geek girl in college, I’ve met a few men who definitely had incel tendencies. And trust me, physical appearance didn’t factor into the reasons I wouldn’t date these men. One in particular who I will call JR stands out, for reasons I will get into in a minute. He wanted to date me. I told him it wasn’t going to happen. He was conservative and believes the man should be the head of the house. I’m a liberal feminist who believes in egalitarianism. There was no universe where this was going to work. I told him early on we would never be anything more than friends, and I’d thought he’d understood and respected it.

When I told him I was a feminist, his response was to disparage feminism and talk about how he loved playing Grand Theft Auto because he got to beat up hookers after he slept with them. Just a hint, men, bragging to a woman about how you love to beat up hookers, even if it is in a video game, is a good way to ensure that you are NOT getting into that girl’s pants. It’s just not a turn on. We don’t think it’s funny. Disparaging our belief systems? Also not a good way to get into a girl’s pants.

What my husband said when I told him I was a feminist, by comparison? “Oh, that’s cool. My mom is a feminist.”

JR would have signs in his room about how women were evil, he’d tell me about how women could be categorized into certain stereotypical groups and he wouldn’t date women from certain groups, was in general disdainful towards women. And, since he also had a disability that prevented him from driving, he would complain about how he would be dependent on his future wife to drive and it would undermine his ability to be THE MAN of the house. So he was basically warning me if I got into a relationship with him, he would resent me for having to depend on me. Any woman who respects herself would not be sold on that vision of the future.

Look, my husband and I are both disabled. I’m autistic and have hearing comprehension difficulties related to being autistic. Anything that involves talking over the phone my husband does for me because of the hearing problems I have, and I appreciate it. I also tend to do a lot of the arduous, physical labor because my husband has mild cerebral palsy, and he appreciates me for it. We don’t resent each other for having to rely on each other. But then we also don’t see this as a battle for who controls the relationship.

JR also spent a lot of time talking about how unlovable he was, and it’s really hard to be interested in someone who doesn’t like themselves.JR would also describe himself as a “nice guy” for the record, and while he was nice to other men and he was nice to me before I told him we were never going to date and even appeared to be nice afterwords, he engaged in a lot of demeaning and controlling behaviors.

JR, my husband and I were all part of a group of geeks in college. The focal hang out point was JR’s apartment and people would just come in and out to play Smash Bros and watch anime at all hours of the day, so once you got into the group you couldn’t really avoid JR since everyone met at his place, even as most of us realized we didn’t like him that much, because if you wanted to hang out with everyone else you had to hang out with JR. At some point I started noticing my feelings for my husband were growing, and while I was sure he liked me too, he wasn’t making any moves. Long story shot, JR had told my husband we were dating, even though I was clear that it was never going to happen. For years I thought it was a bizarre twist to our story, that my husband had misunderstood or something. But when I got together with some other women from the group this past summer I found that I wasn’t the only woman JR had done that to. There were two other women in the group who he’d told their future husbands that he was dating when he wasn’t.

Basically he had so little respect for our autonomy that he claimed to be dating us when he wasn’t to keep other men away. And that bothers me a lot.

Not dating JR had nothing to do with looks. While I was a counselor (yes, autistic people with hearing disorders can be counselors, are there any other stereotypes you want me to smash for you today) treating substance use I saw clients who were incredibly ugly with teeth rotting out of their gums and who smelled, and they could get laid. Some had fathered children. I came to the conclusion that there is no amount of ugly that someone won’t fuck (did I mention that they smelled!?)

But a man who hates himself? That’s a whole different story. I’ve worked with many men who hate themselves and they all complain about how they can’t get laid. That hating themselves is what is unattractive about them. Some can even be good looking, but when a man hates himself, that self loathing is a turn off and a huge red flag to women to stay away from him.

And then when he hates himself so much he displaces it onto women? Now we’ve got a problem. Because that’s when they start to dehumanize women and start to feel entitled to them, and that’s when the controlling starts and then the violence follows.

Being physically ugly isn’t the problem. Self hatred is. They need counseling. 

[pollsonmorenichetopics]

Disproportionate Retribution Poll Round 2 Side B:

Holt Hyde's (Monster High) Disproportionate Retribution:

"Bro was given the death penalty for *checks notes* mild vandalism.

Why it's over the top: Giving any form of the death penalty to a teenager is Already over the top. But when it's "Something that hadn't been used on monsters in over 100 years due to how cruel it was" (movies words, not mine) over like... Graffiti and Halloween pranks. Yeah that's fucked up"

Ted Spankoffski's (Hatchetfield/Nightmare Time) Disproportionate Retribution:

"In the episode "Time Bastard," he gets stranded in the past, has his mind broken, gets murdered, and has his soul trapped in a box forever, all for mild incel-ish behavior."

[theliterateape]

The Regret Soup of Temper Lost and Reason Found

by Don Hall

Despite the ongoing parade of grown people acting like angry children in 2021 America, I'd like to hope that with age comes some modicum of temperance.

As I sit in the desert sun smoking Captain Black Cherry pipe tobacco and sipping on a Modelo, I drift into that perilous territory of regretful nostalgia. I remember those many times when, in an effort to exert control of a situation, I lost my ever-loving shit and resembled nothing less than a random Wal Mart customer throwing a tantrum at an insult or request to follow the rules in place.

It's a bit embarrassing to think of the occasions in my youth (and, in some cases, well beyond what any normal standard of youth could entail) when I lost control, screaming and thumping and doing my damnedest to intimidate someone enough to simply have them acquiesce to my demands. Tantrum-throwing is an art-form and I was a master at it.

The times they be a changing. 

I'm no longer angry. I mean, pretty much at all. Either I wised up, find myself lacking the energy to become outraged, or am truly embracing my More Spock, Less Kirk mantra. Whichever the case the rage has all but subsided completely. That's good for me because so many others are in full-on battle mode at the drop of a hat and these days that can equal serious injury or death.

About 30 murders nationwide have been attributed to incidents that started with road rage. More than 12,500 injuries to driver violence, out of 10,000 car accidents since 2007. Of the deaths related to road rage, most have been considered deliberate murders.

SOURCE

Anger, frustration, and other mental stress can trigger abnormal heart rhythms that may lead to sudden death, new research shows. In the first study of its kind, a group of researchers has demonstrated that mental stress alone can provoke these dangerous heart rhythms.

SOURCE

Although anger can be channelled constructively, it seems clear that aggressive behaviour can compound. Aggressive actions most often increase the likelihood of further aggression, and enacted aggression does not reduce aggressive impulses.

Violence and aggression beyond a mild degree almost always involve additional factors. A tendency towards impulsivity and keeping company with delinquent peers are risk factors.

SOURCE

When I see a woman screaming at a convenience store employee because he refuses to sell her a case of Miller Lite until she puts on a mask, I start to judge. And then I remember that time when members of an improv group I was in decided to complain about the lack of audience to a point that I threw a bar stool across the room.

When I watch a video of a man so angry that the McDonald's he goes to consistently puts onions on his "made-to-order" hamburger that he starts pulling cash registers off the counter and smashing them, I think What a fucking asshole. Then I recall that one time when I jumped on top of the hood of a Subaru because he was banging into the back of my car in his own moment of pique due to my shitty parking.

When I hear about Frederick Joseph routinely provoking white people with his camera and charges of racism (including a woman putting her feet up on a plane and a drunk woman telling him to 'stay in his hood') I think that the only difference between him and the people he films is who is doing the filming. The idea that Joseph has never lost his temper in public would indicate a level of maturity that his ongoing obsession with garnering social status by instigating incidents does not support.

"Say it one more time and I'll kick your ass!"

The nerds were a little drunk on wine coolers and false bravado so I knew there would be no such ass-kicking in the near future. Having been a few bar fights in my day, I knew the louder the bark, the less vicious the bite.

It was an odd thing to get so ginned up about.

I had been invited to a party by a theater friend. I wanted to get out, thought I might meet a girl, and the prospect of free booze was always a winning strategy for me in those days.

The party was full-on nerd. There was a party-wide game of Vampire going on. Cosplay Nosferatu everywhere, pretending be the sexy creatures of the night in clothing that was perhaps a bit too tight and made many of the dudes in tow look like overstuffed sausages with capes and slicked back hair.

The thing I said that got me in trouble came when I encountered three incels arguing the merits of Star Wars. I love Star Wars but I'm not speaking in Wookie any time soon. At one point in the heated discussion over the feasibility of the Millennium Falcon to go into hyper-drive with a broken something one of the nerds looks at me. "You joining in or just lurking?"

"Oh. Just listening. When it comes to Star Wars, I think I was Lucas's audience of choice. I was twelve years old when it hit the theaters and the whole franchise is just a space opera written for twelve year olds."

It was as if I had shat right there in their punch bowl.

There was no parking lot melee. The thing that perplexes me is how angry the subject matter spun everyone up. Sure, it's a movie that has crossed cultural boundaries and inspired billions to "use the Force," a tale of heroism at a time when we desperately need heroes, a milestone. But it's just a movie, right?

You'll discover that losing your temper is just that—a loss.

We've been this angry as a nation before. We've been this divided. The margins of society have been at war this aggressively many times. 1984. 1968. 1933. This partisan divide we all bemoan as if the failure of democracy is at hand is overstated and old hat. What's different is the speed and frequency at which we communicate this sense of cultural outrage. What's new is a series of social media algorithms designed to push the outrage to the front over anything else.

These algorithms intentionally exaggerate the reasons for the anger. The media, in a complete paralysis on how to deal with Twitter, reports news that 10,000 retweeted some hyperbole about police racism or vaccine authoritarianism as if 10,000 was a serious number. So we spend more of our time dwelling on our frustration and our anger sits ready, at a moment's notice, to explode.

Like a section of society bracing for a fight all the time, spurred on by our smartphones, we lose our shit more often without a single thought to what the expression of that anger will actually accomplish. All practicality is tossed out the window in order to exact revenge upon the microaggression or the guy who cut you off in traffic.

When my mother—a kind and loving soul, the type of person who goes out of her way to show generosity to anyone in need—expresses that she hates Donald Trump or any supporter of him, I am alarmed. Hatehas never been in her vocabulary but she says it without a thought these days. When ordinary people routinely use social media to wish rape, mayhem, and death on strangers they encounter online with the same casual nature one might merely flip someone off, we're in trouble.

1

Limit Your Presence on Every Social Media Platform

Sure, I was a belligerent manchild in my earlier days without the internet but I can also say without contradiction that worst threat I ever threw out in those spewing babyman incidents was an ass-whopping. No guns. No threats of lethal violence. No wishes of rape. No desire to get someone fired.

Add the secret sauce of hour by hour contact with assholes is not the desirable behavior. We already know that Instagram fucks up young girls, that TikTok is more addictive than sugar, that Faceborg is more like a hostile foreign nation than a communication platform.

It's unreasonable to get you to eliminate these outlets because they’re ingrained at this point but you can moderate your presence.

2

Stop Doomscrolling

We already know how fucking skewed and biased almost all media is today so give them less of your attention. Less swimming in the putrid pond of how awful the world is and more time focusing on what's right in front of you.

3

Examine the Pragmatics of Losing Your Temper

You'll discover that losing your temper is just that—a loss. And you will lose far more than your temper in the equation. Practice patience rather than a need for vengeance. Be less judgmental and more understanding.

If that all sounds a bit too kumbaya, try this—grow the fuck up. As a former raging shitass, a recovering rage-aholic, I had to grow up and become more rational and less emotional. If a hardcore RageBaby like myself can grow up, so can you and you’ll regret less in life if you start now.

Yes. I'm saying to suppress some of your emotions. At least in the Wal Mart or a nerd party.

[megacircuit9universe]

Poetic Justice

FRI OCT 02 2020

My last entry, from just two days ago, about how Trump’s behavior at the first debate was 100% incel behavior... and how that settled the question of relative charisma in Biden’s favor...

...now reads as being, sooo last September!

And that’s because October, who barged in with a full moon on her first night, promising to deliver a second full moon... on a Saturday Halloween, with an extra hour because the clocks will fall ahead... that diva bitch... took Trump down on day two!

It started late on the evening of October 1st, with that full Harvest Moon going over... News that Trump and his wife were going to begin a two-week quarantine because Hope Hicks... the advisor he’s been grooming for his fourth wife, for the past five years... tested positive for Covid19, just after hanging out with him on Marine One.

Today, however, the situation changed quickly throughout the day.  First it was that a lot of other prominent GOP members has tested positive, then it was that Trump and his wife were not simply on quarantine, but had themselves, tested positive... to... Trump’s got mild symptoms... to... the President’s getting airlifted by helicopter to Walter Reed Medical Center!

That’s where we are at, at the time of writing, but he’s definitely a patient, with a cough, high fever and extreme fatigue, being treated with experimental covid treatments that have not been fully tested yet... so... you tell me how serious it is*.

Trump joins England’s Boris Johnson, and Brazil’s Jair Bolsanaro, as the only three world leaders to get Covid19... the latter two, both infamous right wing fools who failed to take it seriously.

The latter two did both recover, but Johnson is 56, and Bolsanaro is 65... both considerably younger than Trump, who is 74.

Before going any further, I need to acknowledge that, yes, I’ve written a lot about how the virus has proven to be Trump’s Achilles’ heel... even saying recently that Covid19 might be the vaccine for the disease that is Trump... I always assumed that was in the political sense only.

In other words, Covid19 might be the political vaccine for the political disease that is Trumpism.

I truly never imagined that Trump would actually get, Covid 19!

Does he deserve to have it?  Erm, YEAH?.. this is the guy who knew how dangerous it was, and that it was airborne back in Februrary, but deliberately downplayed the danger of the virus for eight months now, fought Governors who were trying to save lives, silenced Dr. Fauci, and gagged the CDC’s reporting of the numbers... to the tune of two-hundred-thousand American lives... for the sake of reelection!

I called it a crime against humanity, which it most certainly is!

But I never imagined he’d get it himself, because... he’s the fucking President of the United States.  He knows how dangerous it is.  And he’s a huge coward, so surely he’d stay better protected than anybody on the planet.

But as they say... there’s no cure for idiot.

The irony here is too sweet not to savor.  Especially when you realize that the only time this asshole ever allowed himself to be seen in public wearing a mask... was on a vist to... WALTER REED HOSPITAL!

But the irony goes deeper, because it’s looking like the event that spread this virus to Trump and many other GOP elites was the White House Rose Garden celebration for Trump’s new Supreme Court Nominee... Amy Coney Barrett... who also tested positive for Covid19 today!

Yes... that’s right... remember how the GOP was so hell bent on replacing Ruth Bader Ginsberg, that they were out there shouting everybody down about it the same hour that she’d died, while her body was still warm?

Well, their bullshit little rosegarden ceremony to crown RGBs replacement... all touchy feely with no masks... has now put EVERYBODY WHO ATTENDED on two weeks of quarentine, whether they’ve tested positive or not... and believe you me... more positives will come out of that group in the near future.

And so much for Mitch McConnell’s, “full steam ahead,” on her confirmation, because it’s gonna take a while for everybody involved in that nomination (including Barrett herself) to get cleared... which may well leave the lame duck Senate with not enough time to ram her through... 

...which would be a level of poetic justice we’ve not seen in Earthly affairs for ages beyond living memory.

It does seem tonight, that where it concerns the Trump junta, in their desperate plot to stay in power... both by ramming through a Supreme Court Justice, and by fighting the election results tooth and nail in that court, and out on the streets with Proud Boys and Beta Force etc... 

...the wind has now gone straight out of their sails.

This is October!.. the only month that counts!.. the final four weeks before the election of the century, to decide the fate of American Democracy, and the future of the world!.. 

And all their top dogs are being grounded, one by one, with the big Kahuna himself, down for the count in a hospital bed... by the virus they called a hoax... and because they could not allow themselves to be seen in masks.

The only question left now is...

Will Trump be healthy enough in November or December, after he’s lost the election, to mount the overwhelming attack on the vote that he’s promised he will... and resist leaving office at any cost?

Or will he be not in any shape for that?

Or... will he be dead?

It would not surprise me at all, at this point, if we’re all looking at open-casket video of deceased Donald before Halloween.  It would, frankly, be a fitting time for such a funeral... as he’s surely going to Hell.

And with Jehova still being among my top suspects for bringing the pandemic into existence last March... cancelling Easter because he’s fed up with fake Catholics and Christians backing this monster...

...sure!  I could see Jehova calling him back to Hell just before Halloween.

But if you’re wondering if I feel any empathy toward the guy, I do not.  And If he were to perish, yes I would celebrate, because... he has the blood of two-hundred-thousand innocent lives on his hands, for Covid alone.  And he’s likely to be responsible for thousands more immigrant children being sold into human trafficking.  And that’s just the tip of the iceberg, for the level of human suffering and death this asshole is capable of inflicting on the world if given the chance.

Sadly, we probably won’t get that perfect Halloween funeral for this hellbound soul.

Still... his presidency is all but dead now.  And that’s poetic justice enough.

I’m going to bed.

*I guarantee it was the high fever that prompted the chopper to Walter Reed. It’s standard practice across the board, for a patient over 70, to be rushed to an ER if they have a high fever.  Fever itself can be life threatening for seniors if not brought under control.

But Covid is a novel virus, for which there is yet no cure... even for a President.

That’s what makes it so goddam dangerous!  Which is why it’s been insanity this whole year the way Trump has mislead the nation into blowing it off like it’s a bad cold!

There is no silver bullet to save Trump, even from a fever, right now... which means he’s in for a battle.

[psychotropicplague]

DAY FIVE: 03/25/2018 (flashback)

The night I was hauled in replays in my mind— how could I of done something so stupid? Well, it actually started off the winter before..

It was in December of 2017 when there was a guy in my hometown who was wreaking havoc among people I knew, he would tell people to kill themselves, he would provoke people, if he was rejected by a girl he would become a total incel.

I remember when I was hanging out with a regular partier who was also my friend at the time (he would smoke pot, drink, occasionally we’d dabble in coke) ..and we called the guy to confront him about his behavior because it spread to our circle and relationships, which only fueled our bitterness; when the guy picked up the phone he seemed to be despondent but then he found out I was hanging out with my friend and he started to curse us out and insult us, needless to say we were pretty angry.

My friend and I started to drink whiskey and take a few hits from his bong and I was pretty loopy— but my friend was more so. We agreed that something had to be done: “Something nobody else has.” at first I didn’t know what he meant— we took more hits from the bong and swigged more alcohol when my friend clarified that we’d go to his house and confront him in person, I went along with that idea.

So after we got off the phone with him and demanded he apologize to us my friend’s girlfriend drove us to the guy’s house and we stood outside— it was blistering cold, my friend’s girlfriend had to get back to her house to take care of her ailing dad, so we confronted the guy, he got more verbally abusive and I could tell my friend was fed-up.

Because my friend’s girlfriend drove away and we had no phone battery we left the guy’s house really annoyed and had to make the trek back to her house in the freezing cold which took us a half-hour.

When we got back we decided to warm up with more whiskey, at this point we were both really drunk and high when my friend said that we needed to do: “Teach him a lesson.” We were going to jump the guy. This was something I was admittedly very hesitant to do, the plan was that we’d call him up, apologize for showing up unannounced and make it up to him by going to the park with two blunts provided he’d throw us $5 because we’d pick up the weed and then we’d catch him off guard and make our move. I told my friend there’d be the likelihood he’d tell his mom and it would all go down hill from there, but that didn’t stop us.

We agreed to meet the guy in the springtime..

The plan was now in motion, no turning back now...

It was a mild March afternoon, we had called the guy to meet us at the park and he agreed, we had approached the guy with the first blunt already in rotation and this got the guy annoyed but we assured him we had a second one already rolled for the three of us, we walked with him some, sat on a bench waiting for the sun to go down so nobody would see us take him off the trails into the second part of the scheme.

So we did but the sun hadn’t gone down completely yet, we were growing impatient, so we took the guy off the trail because the guy was going all apeshit on us, I looked over at my friend who gave me this look of disapproval in his face, he swung first, clocked the kid square in the face and the guy dropped like a bag of fertilizer; my friend started pummeling the guy and lecturing him that what he’d been doing was toxic and was the only reason why he was beating him up. He even went as far as to put the guy in a chokehold.

I didn’t dare lay a hand on the kid, instead I saw his wallet and his phone on the ground, I grabbed his wallet to check if it had the $5 he had promised he would’ve thrown us after the smoke-up, he didn’t, so I threw his wallet back at him, grabbed his cellphone and bashed it against a rock and a tree shattering the screen, in a final fit of rage I grabbed the kids shoes off his feet and hurled them a couple of yards away so he’d have to trek in the mud to find them, then I took off running toward the exit of the park.

The idiot friend I was with called me within minutes after it happened asking me where I was, I told him to put the guy down and just run— it didn’t matter where, I assured him we’d meet up somewhere a decent distance away then I hung-up, the friend called me again— I picked up stupidly and told him to run! FUCKING IDIOT!!

I got to the street when I had a lapse of judgment and ran back into the park when I ran into someone on their bike, I panicked looked around for a few minutes then ran back out of the park— I could feel my adrenaline pumping.

I started heading toward the village when my idiot friend called me again, before he could finish his sentence he caught up to me.

He would NOT shut up about what had just transpired, which ultimately may have lead to our arrest— this bragging moron would continue to talk about it even as we pulled into our town, then we went our separate ways.

That night, he called me to tell me people he didn’t recognize came to his door and he took off running through his backyard and headed in the direction of town because he had his girlfriend picking him up, he wanted to meet up so the both of us could both skip town but before I could even give him a reply I saw a flashlight in my window— that’s when I knew, I was fucked..

I was hauled into the squad car by two undercover cops who had me on a warrant, despite pleading for my lawyer they detained me rightfully so, this is not entrapment contrary to what many people say, if you’ve got a warrant for your arrest: cooperate. It’s the only right you have.

Upon getting to the precinct they interrogated me and I told them everything— I wasn’t about to lie and risk having to go on trial, my testimony matched that of the complainant/victim, they took my fingerprints, took my mugshot and threw me in a holding cell for the night.