What Is ONE THING You Like About The Way I Play My Character?

──     you hold onto what you have; you do not give it up easily, even when you know it is poisoning you. // multi-muse as penned by geese . canon-compliant . unaffiliated

──  blog . muses . cr . main

disclaimer & muses under the cut.

active muses:

JJK: * suguru geto * gojo satoru

BLEACH: * ulquiorra schiffer * aizen sousuke

CHAINSAW MAN: * angel devil * makima * yoshida hirofumi * aki hayakawa * yoru

RECORD OF RAGNAROK: * beelzebub * hades * poseidon

SAKAMOTO DAYS: * gaku * osaragi

GOLDEN KAMUY: * ogata hyakunosuke

LINK CLICK: * liu xiao (testing)

TOKYO GHOUL: * yomo renji

BUNGO STRAY DOGS: * fyodor dostoyevski * nakahara chuuya

MORIARTY THE PATRIOT: * sherlock holmes * albert james moriarty

PSYCHO PASS: * kogami shinya

KATEKYO HITMAN REBORN: * rokudo mukuro

OMNISCIENT READER'S VIEWPOINT: * yoo joonghyuk

TGCF: * hua cheng

DGM: * tyki mikk

one. quite selective with the blogs I decide to follow.

two. common roleplay courtesy is expected: no Godmoding unless plotted otherwise, cutting posts in replies, respect for characterization, and so on.

three. shipping is allowed, though I must ask the muse is +18. that being said, no smut with underage characers will happen.

four. I am caught up with all series for the most part, as well as adjacent works. taking this into consideration, there will likely be spoilers from time to time. I’ll try keep everything properly tagged.

five. random starters, unprompted asks and plotting is highly encouraged!

six. i have no issue with duplicates. the more, the merrier, i think. feel free to follow. unfortunately i don't do exclusives, don't really have mains either. all muses are welcome to plot interaction.

Please be patient with me. my activity will be inconsistent and replies come as I feel them, not in drafting order.

thank you for reading! the name is geese, 25+ she/her they/them

✨HE IS SO PERFECT AND BEAUTIFUL✨

think of a young boy disconnected from the spiritual world as sorcerers know it, an ordinary human who upon gaining consciousness he realized that he's able to see what others can't and not only are his eyes unveiled to the creatures roaming in the shadows, he's also able to consume them, to dominate them, to make them hurt when he wants to wound others, what exactly does it take for him to realize it and when does he do it? Who was the first person that he hurt, what did the first ingestion taste like : vomit, garbage, a wet rag? we really know very little about geto and yet he's still a constant presence in the narrative, the ghost that's constantly at the corner of your eye or clinging to your back. thinking hard about this tbh

haisugi​:

“You haven’t changed at all.”

A long moment passed where Sugimoto sensed nothing apart from the ragged tempo of their breathing in the still night air, suffocating as the whisper of Ogata’s words passed like tiny daggers over his skin. He let it linger, heavy and silent, ignoring the lump in his throat that threatened to crescendo into tears beneath the fabric of his scarf. He wouldn’t fucking cry. Not here. Not now.

He remembered that he’d cried the night of Umeko’s wedding, when the agony of loneliness set in and he wondered why he hadn’t been been good enough, or worth waiting for. Of course, he cried when his father died, and he began to understand the fragility and impermanence of life. And Toraji - when Toraji died, he cried for many nights, because finally there was nothing left of his old life that he could call his. No friends, no family, no lover.

But not here. He couldn’t cry here, because doing so would be admitting that what happened between the two of them was over, and that Ogata had won.

He released Ogata from his grip, lowering the man’s head gently to the futon before he freed himself from their entanglement. Legs heavy and body numb, he edged away, feet pressed flat against the floor as if urging him to leave. He should, he realized. He should walk away now, instead of clinging to the shallow strands of hope that Ogata might have loved him once, had he done something differently. But that resentment wasn’t something he could escape, he knew. He could run all he wanted, but Ogata’s gaze would always be there, boring into the back of his skull in silent judgment.

Sugimoto glanced back towards the man behind him, unsurprised to catch Ogata staring with what was left of his dark, heady eyes. Absurd. It was all so absurd that Sugimoto had to laugh, sharp and piercing and full of regret.

“You know, maybe I’m a liar. Maybe I’m selfish. Maybe I’m just as much of a frigid, unchanging bastard as you,” Sugimoto hissed. He tried to close himself off to the yearning he’d felt when Ogata pulled him close, but the sensation of the other man’s touch still sat heavy on the back of his neck. It wasn’t enough to just let go, anymore. Not after all this time. Sugimoto felt compelled to bend over him, caging Ogata between his arms as he stared back at the man defiantly. “But despite it all, I thought, you and I… Together, we could…”

Could what, make it work? Live happily ever after? Sugimoto was surprised to find that after so many nights agonizing over what to say when they finally crossed paths again, he still couldn’t find the words.

Maybe words were useless anyways. After all, Ogata had a beautiful way of twisting them and carving them until they lost all semblance of meaning. The sniper was also a butcher, in his own right.

But there were other ways to tell him. Sugimoto didn’t know if it was right. Knew, almost certainly, Ogata would push him away if he had the strength. But when he lowered himself down to Ogata’s lips and kissed him chastely, he found that he couldn’t stop himself. Didn’t even care to try.

The taste was familiar and strange all at once, unexpectedly sweet and intoxicating in a way that made Sugimoto sick. For all the times he’d thought of killing the man, he’d thought of this tenfold - of the soft curve of his mouth, the tenderness of his tongue contrasted against the harshness of his actions. Sugimoto sank into it, not bothering to hide the desperation in his pace, the need, even if Ogata felt none of the same, tangling his fingers in the man’s hair as if he might run at any moment.

“Live or die, I don’t give a shit,” he lied between breaths. “You did your damage. You can’t hurt me anymore.”

Ogata thought of killing Sugimoto numerous times before, but not quite as many as Sugimoto claimed to have done. No difference had been made after Abashiri, not in the frozen lands of Russia. For better or for worse, Sugimoto avoided the fatal blows by a narrow margin, one that Ogata hadn’t figured out how to get rid of. Putting an end to their back and forth war felt like a distant goal, less likely to happen than finding a speck of gold dust. No matter how many times Ogata fired his weapon, Sugimoto always came back from the depths of whatever hell accepted him.

Part of him liked the chase, there was no use denying the obvious. He liked the thought of having something to look over his shoulder for - the thought of someone waiting for him at the other side of the lense.

What he didn’t like was that Sugimoto tried to force a name on this thing.

Heat began to build up in Ogata’s body - warm and liquid where there should be coldness; it made him feel sick. Like staring down a precipice, the knot in his stomach twisted. It made Ogata want to hurt Sugimoto badly, so much that he wouldn’t have a reason to try his luck a second time. Or a third. Yet, his limbs flinched and his breath was caught in the space between their mouths, like a spell or a curse he swallowed halfway through a dry throat. Sugimoto was persistent, desperate - frantically looking for Ogata’s response, which, hazed by the narcotics and swept by the spur of the vivid memories engraved into his flesh, he gave. Ogata returned the kiss at first, savage as he could, but Sugimoto didn’t let him lay a single bite.

The acid sensation at the pit of his stomach didn’t resemble anything he’d felt before. It was foreign, so much that he couldn’t draw a proper reaction out of his system until it was already too late and Sugimoto was touching him with tenderness so unlike Ogata’s cruelty and his fruitless attempt at goading Sugimoto in. His lips planted against Ogata’s half-opened mouth like he was afraid of hurting him. Distaste crawled up his skin. Live or die, stay or leave; Sugimoto muttered all these words so close to Ogata’s ear that he almost missed it.

The look Sugimoto gave him afterwards… did he think of Ogata as a lover?

“…” He pushed himself apart.

Ogata had never been in love - if love was anywhere. So for Sugimoto to try and attempt to give meaning to what they’d done all those months back in the mountains, he must have been feeling equal parts bold and stupid. He wished, more than anything else in the world, to have the strength to reach for his bayonet and open Sugimoto’s rib cage in half, see what was stored inside. He supposed it’d be warm, slippery, red. Sugimoto’s tongue was that way, too, when it brushed against Ogata’s lips - or when he sucked all the poison from Ogata’s empty eye socket.

He moved sluggishly beneath Sugimoto’s body, restricted by the firm grip in his hair. “You and I, what? You think we’d run away together with the gold and build a life as bandits or live in hiding in the forest? Surely you haven’t forgotten that we’re drop outs. Worse than that, First Lieutenant Tsurumi would never let his grip on us come loose, not after you’ve traded your soul away for that false act of heroism.”

“What did that gain you? Do you still think we’d get away from this unscathed?” Despite his words, Ogata was surprised to find that he wanted to know Sugimoto’s answer. He buried the embers of that foolish curiosity, licking at his lower lip. It was still coated with Sugimoto’s scent and flavor. He held up his gaze. “I don’t want to hurt you, Sugimoto. I want to kill you, I thought I’d made that clear.”

thinking about how aizen makes it seem like a complex thing that he "looks down" on everyone but when you boil down everything that he's said and done all that he really means is that he's alone. his character shares this detail with gojo and makima, the feeling of isolation that comes with the crushing weight of power that goes beyond your peers' understanding, perfectly summarized by "the night beyond the tricornered window" quote:

"…for instance, the flower is beautiful. but if you don't know the words flower and beautiful, not only will you not be able to see beauty, you can't even see the flower."

it's nearly impossible for him to properly form a bond with someone who's not even able to see him, not past him, not his power, not his reiatsu. to him the soul society existed in a reality that restricted him, a system to which he was only tolerable so long as he submitted to its rules, but once he paced close to the boundaries he's handled as a threat.

i don't think there's really any "redeemable" part about him because redemption comes with change, change is not stagnant and although he is restrained his nature can't really be changed. it's like asking a snake to cut its fangs so it can live among mice. there's no real belonging in there.

it's only among those of close-range strength to his that he might come to feel like he's among equals, the illusion of companionship and isn't that ironic? that the zanpakuto, shaped from his soul and very core, is able to shift the reality as we know it with our senses?

anyway i just think that no matter what there'll always be a divide bewteen him and others not from conscious action but the natural rejection to that which doesn't care to understand you.

❛ i'm not gonna last long if you tighten up like that, sweetheart. ❜ to lx ❤️

vein had set something in motion. long before england, somewhere, like a miscalculation, the error flashing on the screen. liu xiao finds it challenging, to find a pattern in what’s unpredictable, because everything and everyone is prone to fall into place at one point. their singular meeting point is this: pain.

a dark flame pushes through, burns from within. vein’s hands hold him steady, his back feels wet where the wine spilled and perhaps there’s blood soaking into his clothes, but he doesn’t dare to wonder beyond that - his mind can’t move past that point, because vein’s hunger is the selfish kind, he doesn’t like it when his attention wanders elsewhere, so a hand quickly wrenches his face upward, eyes back on him.

look at me. his eyes tell.

not minutes ago, this table had been occupied by his henchmen. dangerous men, dressed in tight-pressed suits, tense as wooden dolls. no matter how many times they’d seen it, the vision of man eating man would always serve as the haunting reminder that whatever separated them from being on the plate was their boss’ own humor. changing weather.

“you fuck on the same table that you eat?” he’d never obsessed about this kind of details, letting out a soft chuckle when vein dismisses his words, wedges his thighs apart with his own weight and begins to move. “hah - i guess it’s no different.”

nothing but corruption, there’s no semblance of beauty to it, merely the pleasure of a hungry beast seeking for his own amusement, like he was toying with his prey. liu xiao feels himself pressing around vein, chest constricting. his gaze followed the direction of vein’s finger, coming closer to his face and burying itself inside his parted mouth, pushing in, his thumb roaming the flat of his wet tongue and back row of teeth, ‘lick them clean’ he’d said.

ah, he remembered, then, where that hand hand been, stroking both their erections until they were ready - until vein was ready to ram into him as he was now. liu xiao closed his mouth around the digit, palming at his forearm, tracing the tense muscles all the way up to vein’s shoulder, where he found the fresh wound of a bite mark, digging his nails deep and unkindly. his body is yanked back down across the table, then, feeling as though he’d been plunged into ice water, muscles going stiff as vein hit a particularly sensitive spot, gauging his reaction, smiling wide at the whine that rumbles through the fingers still exploring liu xiao’s half-closed mouth.

i'm not gonna last long if you tighten up like that, sweetheart.

noticing his cue, liu xiao wrapped his legs around vein’s waist, a snake’s embrace that brought him even closer in, warmth against warmth, melting at the intersection. the fingers now coated in spit found their way south and began to stroke liu xiao in lethargic motions, keeping him suspended in air, desperate for release. he pulled vein down and into an open-mouthed kiss, sucking on his tongue. “don’t hold back on my behalf. not that you’ve ever done it before, have you?”

@burntpa1ace

scrolled through Twitter and saw a flash of white hair and black clothes and instantly thought it was gojo but it was gaku sakamoto days.... I am persistently haunted by the ghost of an old love

[ VISIT ]: sender goes to the receiver's house for a casual visit. oh no mr cult leader geto....gojo visiting

the dregs of cursed energy warn him first. 

second comes the overwhelming intensity of his presence, like the roar of a waterfall that splits sky and earth in halves. satoru carries it like it’s his nature, like he was born and raised for exactly this. blessed, in a way. flawlessly human, greedy. 

he feels the eyes on his back before satoru has fully stepped into the room, listless and uncaring for decorum. the tatami that should’ve given out under his weight and signaled of his approach remains static, free of contact and it’s obvious that satoru hasn’t deactivated limitless yet. suguru doesn’t turn around, hand idly bringing closer the flame to a candle, painting the room in an array of golden hues.

‘ i expect you to come by earlier. what’s the drawback? ’ he blows the match, smoke crawling up the air and diffusing close to the ceiling. he follows its trail for a millisecond, turning around to find satoru standing a couple strides away from him. suguru smiles at him, ‘ is someone following you? ’

he needn’t wait for a response, knowing any spy would’ve been taken care of before even approaching the boundaries of his temple. instead he covers the terrain, narrowing the space in-between, so close that he can sense the inviting warmth suspended in the atmosphere and something else, too, like sun-bathed skin, damp with sweat. his head tips slightly to the side, chin lifted up as he examines satoru’s face, in search of anything new. a few weeks worth of absence turns the mind into a swamp. it takes him only a moment to discern the signs of sleepless nights, albeit patched up with RCT. what does it say about him, that he can tell the lies apart from what is true, even after years of being on opposite sides?

he breathes an internal sigh of relief when satoru doesn’t mention it, pretends that he doesn’t notice the flash of concern in his frame though he waltzes smoothly through the surface, fingers tracing the hard lines of satoru’s jaw and collar-bone. 

‘ you look tired. ’ is all he offers.

it’s all satoru needs to hear, he supposes. for old times sake.

for a long time, they haven’t needed the other. waking up to the waning wonder that this is how it’s going to be for the rest of their remaining years on earth. though selfishness calls them back, swimming straight towards the hook. satoru’s arms unlace the knot of his gojo-kesa, silk and string coming loose, undone. the hiss of fabric follows until it’s all pooled on the floor. suguru’s eyebrows rise in wonder. ‘ ah - desperate, aren’t we? you were being followed, after all. you could’ve telported. the fewer ways they have to trace your movements, the better. why show them? ’

suguru devours the distance, step by torturously slow step, lips parting to whisper next to satoru’s ear, ‘ are you the jealous type? ’

@cursedfell