i’m blaileen, or mrs blaileen if you’re feeling extra polite. (<20’s, any pronouns despite the username).
warnings. 18+ nsfw mdni. may contain dark themes and hard & soft kinks. the epitome of “oh no it’s the authors barely concealed kink!”. if you don’t like, please don’t read - to be cringe is to be free!!
this is a side blog, so unfortunately I can’t follow back, but trust I will be lurking on my main.
while my works are generally not intended to be exclusively aimed at readers with/of any particular physical attributes/gender expression/sexuality/ethnicity/race/background - you may find some descriptions of mc/reader are more inline with my own identity.
requests are open!! but please note that I will decline/not write any prompts that I’m not comfortable with or interested in!
I will not write: incest, anything other than fluff for underage characters, …
likes, reblogs, kudos, and comments are always appreciated.
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I’ve recently been thinking back to hidden inventory in JJK and how Toji basically caused everything, then we look at Megumi, Toji’s son who ironically gets possessed by Sukuna and kills the one person who could’ve righted everything. I think k it’s a disgustingly clever loop and wanted to know what you think abt it
Hello, I’m so sorry this got lost in my asks!!!
You really got me thinking, so this turned into a very long winded and poorly written thought dump, so please excuse me…
Hidden Inventory is probably my favourite arc, just because of the sheer feeling you have while watching that it’s really the domino that set the rest of the show tumbling.
To me Toji is a representation of the way an environment can poison a person. He internalised the abuse he faced at the hands of the Zenin clan, and it pervaded his entire life and person despite the way he attempted to flee from it. He lived his life inline with the role that the system set for him, never striving for anything greater or for revenge (despite it being at his fingertips) because the only role the Jujutsu world has allotted him is that of an outsider. He might have seemed like he was rebelling by simply breaking away from the clan and living as a lone outcast - paving his own way - but emotionally he never managed to really break free at all. He did nothing to actually stop the cycle of abuse and trauma. In fact he was set to literally sell his son back into the very ideology that tore him apart with nothing but the selfish notion that his son might be able to do what he couldn’t.
He lived within the guardrails society had set around him, while characters like Maki rioted against them. He even died still seeking validation and acceptance from a world that had only ever abandoned and betrayed him - to prove that he was something without them by killing “the strongest”, a final rejection of the world of Jujutsu. He never managed to truly escape the Zenin clan, even in death.
Toji’s response to injustice is to run, to opt out entirely, whereas Maki’s is to destroy the very regiment that determined her worth in the first place. Where Toji internalises, Maki rejects the role she was assigned to play - refusing to follow in his metaphorical footsteps and instead burning it all to the ground. Maki severs the chains the Zenin clan had bound her in since birth, and at the same time puts to rest probably hundreds of years of trauma and toxicity with no more or less strength than was at Toji’s disposal - she simply carried a fire that had long since gone out inside him. That’s not to say either of their responses to trauma is invalid, but it’s clear that Toji is intended to highlight a particular facet of Jujutsu society and be used as a narrative foil for Maki’s eventual ascension.
Then of course by defeating Geto and Gojo at such a pivotal point in their development he pushed them out of their comfortable roles as “the strongest”, forcing them to reassess their own weaknesses and their ideologies - for better or for worse…
All of this to say that JJK is a big beautiful spiral - we see a multitude of characters face the same conflicts sometimes decades apart, and only through assessment of the past (facing their trauma and coming out the other side scarred and a little bruised) and a lot of strength can they finally break free from the cycles society set for them. Generational ties and the divide between them is huge, you definitely get the feeling that the world has been stuck in a rigid and toxic cycle for a long time, and characters like Gojo and his students will be responsible for finally pushing it into a new age - shedding past toxicity that doesn’t serve them.
All of the characters are taught the lesson through their own experiences not to discard negative emotions (curses) entirely. Not to shy away or flee from injustice and pain - but to instead face it, control it, learn from it, and keep pushing forward.
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Imagine if reader in the “dom!sukuna finds cigarettes” drabble lied to him about the smell when he confronted her. Insinuating he was delusional
ohhhhohohoh he would not like that, not one little bit. lying straight to kuna’s face is a one way trip to a very unpleasant session of hard discipline…
hello 🥩 here and imm sooo fucked up for surgen kuna like i actually need a full fic of that so bad 🤤🤤🤤 the idea of him snapping the latex back on his wrist is so hot like im so obsessed with medplay u get me 🙏🏽
hello 🥩 !!
oughghhhhghhh yes surgeon kuna has me in a chokehold right now. it’s all so so so good - the clean clinical nature of surgery juxtaposed by the intrinsic violence of what he’s doing, the way he clearly gets off on it… being a little dazed and fuzzy from the drugs… the blood… the latex gloves… the control/power play of him having you literally at his mercy… the intimacy and inherent eroticism of having someone’s hands literally inside you…
Sukuna who slips into dom-drop midway through a long scene. 18+ nsfw mdni.
──── ୨୧ ────
You notice it when you finally manage to tear your eyes open, blinking away the fuzzy haze of pleasure to instead focus on the blaze of pink moving above you. You force your head upright after what felt like hours spent doing nothing but panting and writhing into the pillows to find that he’s looking at you. That in itself isn’t unusual, but there’s a sheen there in that rich brown that hadn’t been present when you’d first let your eyes drop closed. His gaze is glassy, lacquered - gazing vacantly at you like he’s not quite there anymore.
“Kuna,” you call with only a slight wobble, voice a little hoarse from the way you’d been crying out for him, wailing, really.
When only a vague glimmer of recognition flickers in his eyes, you shift. Slipping your hands up over his arms, across his back where his muscles are twitching as he continues working you open like it’s his life mission to bury himself inside. Thrusts turned slow and sloppy between your thighs, now nothing but a slippery mess of slick and sweat.
“You still with me?” You murmur, chin tucked to his shoulder and breath panting hotly over his ear.
He makes a rumbled sound of vague acknowledgement, and you frown. Your hands lift until one is resting either side of his face, cupping his cheeks gently - his skin pink and warm now beneath your touch. You lift your head and press your foreheads together, wet where both of your bangs are glued to your skin in slick curls.
“You feel me, don’t you baby?” You pant into the shared air, hot with your mingling breath, “Feel how -hn!- how wet I am for you?”
His lips part, and a soft uncharacteristically broken sound slips free. You don’t relent though, still cooing soothing slips of praise beneath your breath as you begin to rock your hips against his weakening rhythm.
“No one takes care of me like you do, ‘kuna,” you promise, hooking a trembling ankle over the back of his thigh. “So good to me… Always treat me so good, fuck me so good… I love it, ‘kuna… love you…”
That does it. With a final stuttered groan he’s cumming. Thick throbbing spurts you can feel all the way in your belly, nudging his hips in a mean grind and jerking in place above you like it’s painful.
You talk him through it, murmuring sweet nothings into the crown of his head and running your fingers up through the knots in his pink spikes until he finally stills. He doesn’t pull out, just collapses against you still stuffed to the hilt. Let’s his spend begin to dribble out around the stretch while his breathing slows and he listens to the steady thrum of your heart tapping against his ear, like he’s reminding himself you’re real, that you’re alive, that you’re his.
fellow horror freaks I’m thinking heavy about med play with surgeon!sukuna who secretly indulges in the occasional bout of cannibalism, and also happens to be using his surgeries to secretly harvest organs… nsfw 18+ dark horror drabble below
──── ୨୧ ────
Your surgeon seems utterly normal. Maybe a little cold for a doctor, a little stern. You’d never seen any sort of emotion paint his face aside from when he’d first run his eyes over your CT scan, and even then you couldn’t quite identify just what it was that had been swirling in those dark eyes, aside from maybe a mild professional curiosity.
He’s curt during your initial appointments, stern and serious while he explains to you the procedure and the preparation you’re required to undertake - fasting and the like. Maybe you’re a med student, so you bother him with a plethora of questions that he answers clinically, thoroughly unimpressed with your incessant inquiries.
You’re a little nervous going in, but that’s nothing a healthy dose of anaesthesia can’t fix, and you soon find yourself lulled into a smooth blackness by the slow methodical voice of your surgeon as he counts you down from ten. Imagine your horror when you wake up midway through, groggy and disoriented, sure that the sight before you is nothing but a drug induced dream.
Sukuna catches your eyes over the lip of his mask, warm brown that look almost carmine now in the light, starkly reflecting the hues of your blood as it beams off the clinical sheets. He’s more alive than you’d ever seen him, gaze sharpened with an animal sort of interest. He’s smeared with it, up to his elbows in your soft innards, skin still split and spread open by clamps - all stark blue nitrile smeared red and sticky.
It hits you all at once through the drug induced haze, the dull horror of it. You want to look away, want to squeeze your eyes closed, but you instead find yourself utterly absorbed by the sight of him rummaging through your insides like he was searching for something.
The anaesthesia is doing a good enough job that even when he slips a gloved hand loose and draws a thumb over some exposed stretch of meat, you don’t really feel it. There’s no pain, no discomfort - just a wet sort of warmth where his skin is touching you through the barrier of latex. The foreign sensation of someone touching where you’d never been touched before. It’s invasive, intimate, and the thought makes your head spin. Sends a sizzle of goosebumps careening up your flesh, barely shielded by the remnants of your medical gown.
It’s messier than you’d imagined, nothing like the clean sterile images you’d seen plastered over the pages of med school textbooks. The reality of it now unfiltered by the soft haze of unconsciousness, was rough and vicious. The way he’d split you open, sliced skin and stretched bone until you were laid bare - butchered you, really. All with an undeniable hunger swirling in that blood red gaze.
maybe he compliments you too, in his own sick sort of way. comments on how pretty healthy your organs are. or maybe he takes the opportunity to quiz you on anatomy (you are a med student after all) - pointing to specific organs or muscles and telling you to name them, describe their function for him. he keeps snapping his gloved fingers in front of your face to keep you awake, and midway through the test you realise what he’s actually doing…
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fellow horror freaks I’m thinking heavy about med play with surgeon!sukuna who secretly indulges in the occasional bout of cannibalism, and also happens to be using his surgeries to secretly harvest organs… nsfw 18+ dark horror drabble below
──── ୨୧ ────
Your surgeon seems utterly normal. Maybe a little cold for a doctor, a little stern. You’d never seen any sort of emotion paint his face aside from when he’d first run his eyes over your CT scan, and even then you couldn’t quite identify just what it was that had been swirling in those dark eyes, aside from maybe a mild professional curiosity.
He’s curt during your initial appointments, stern and serious while he explains to you the procedure and the preparation you’re required to undertake - fasting and the like. Maybe you’re a med student, so you bother him with a plethora of questions that he answers clinically, thoroughly unimpressed with your incessant inquiries.
You’re a little nervous going in, but that’s nothing a healthy dose of anaesthesia can’t fix, and you soon find yourself lulled into a smooth blackness by the slow methodical voice of your surgeon as he counts you down from ten. Imagine your horror when you wake up midway through, groggy and disoriented, sure that the sight before you is nothing but a drug induced dream.
Sukuna catches your eyes over the lip of his mask, warm brown that look almost carmine now in the light, starkly reflecting the hues of your blood as it beams off the clinical sheets. He’s more alive than you’d ever seen him, gaze sharpened with an animal sort of interest. He’s smeared with it, up to his elbows in your soft innards, skin still split and spread open by clamps - all stark blue nitrile smeared red and sticky.
It hits you all at once through the drug induced haze, the dull horror of it. You want to look away, want to squeeze your eyes closed, but you instead find yourself utterly absorbed by the sight of him rummaging through your insides like he was searching for something.
The anaesthesia is doing a good enough job that even when he slips a gloved hand loose and draws a thumb over some exposed stretch of meat, you don’t really feel it. There’s no pain, no discomfort - just a wet sort of warmth where his skin is touching you through the barrier of latex. The foreign sensation of someone touching where you’d never been touched before. It’s invasive, intimate, and the thought makes your head spin. Sends a sizzle of goosebumps careening up your flesh, barely shielded by the remnants of your medical gown.
It’s messier than you’d imagined, nothing like the clean sterile images you’d seen plastered over the pages of med school textbooks. The reality of it now unfiltered by the soft haze of unconsciousness, was rough and vicious. The way he’d split you open, sliced skin and stretched bone until you were laid bare - butchered you, really. All with an undeniable hunger swirling in that blood red gaze.
I think characters like Geto would like bondage as a form of control, clean indirect submission.
Sukuna on the other hand - I think he’d enjoy wrangling his partner by hand, especially if they resist a little. He likes the fight, the biting, grappling, bending limbs and gripping skin until it aches and bruises. The constant physical demand, having to hold and press and dominate - to prove he’s stronger until his partner ultimately folds, beaten, beneath his weight.
scrolling through another writers blog bc I’m genuinely enjoying their work and its just a wall of 3000 reblogs of the same fic… is this how people are engagement farming these days?…
I NEED a part two for ‘I said I was sorry’ PLEASE but let’s see this man YEARN for teasing with us like that 😭✌🏻 aka we play completely nonchalant (at least externally)
Yessss!!! I am drafting a second part to this!! I’m thinking Higuruma loses the case and we pay him a visit to “thank him” for fumbling it (rlly it’s just to fire him up and be a big ol’ tease). He’s all annoyed bc of the lack of justice, but also torn bc he’s lowkey down bad for reader… many thoughts…
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my favourite part of positions like mating press is 1. You can watch it all, chin tucked to your chest watching him sink inside nice n’ slow. 2 the closeness of it, his hips to the underside of your thighs, grinding against you like he’s trying to push past them, get even deeper, hnnn….
Dom!Sukuna who finds a pack of cigarettes in your purse after you explicitly promised him you’d quit. sfw drabble.
──── ୨୧ ────
Not only had you broken a rule, you’d broken his trust - and that in itself is a rare gift, one that is not to be discarded so lightly. So one afternoon when you stumble in from your workday and he once again catches a faint trace of that familiar sticky tar lingering beneath an offensive amount of perfume, he ties you to your office chair and makes you watch him crack open the pack and burn every single cigarette within down to the nub.
Except he doesn’t tap the ash out into a tray like you might have done, no - he litters you with it instead. Little flecks of flaming ash nipping at your cheeks, at your skin laid bare where he’d tugged your shirt open, rolled up both your sleeves just to watch the way you flinched at each sharp sting against naked flesh.
He says nothing, just lights each stick anew with a solemn sort of reverence, and when each one is burned down to the filter he twirls it around between thick fingers and stamps it out on you. Presses the searing tip onto any slip of skin he can reach until you’re littered with ash ridden little kiss marks and tears are rolling hotly down your cheeks, all the while listening to you beg and plead and promise him that you’ll stop this time.
