#she’s fucking VIOLENT. and I love that about her. she’s so flawed. but she’s so wonderful. she’s so full of love.

[creamflix]

TALK TOO MUCH ! ꒰ঌ ໒꒱

mission brief did you know there’s a six-foot-something guy in your class who’s smart, suspiciously well-read in your field, and loudly supportive of women’s rights all of a sudden? yeah, he’s also hopelessly in love with you. you’re just trying to get your degree. he’s trying to get your attention. the rest practically writes itself. w.c 7k

risk assessment university au, crack & fluff, female reader, mentions of weed usage, crush at first sight, himbo gojo + sukuna + toji, naoya being sexist as always, slight transphobia, toji + sukuna + gojo are part of the same frat, uraume cameo ft! gojo, naoya, geto, sukuna, toji

a/n this was inspired by the video → jock pretends to be a nerd to impress you (ASMR) ← PLEASE check it out it's very funny.

☆ GOJO SATORU: I JOINED ENGINEERING FOR THE PHYSICS AND SAT FRONT ROW FOR HER, BUT SHE STILL DOESN’T KNOW MY NAME

In Gojo’s defense — and he always had a defense, mind you — he didn’t mean to major in engineering. 

It was a whim, a toss-of-the-coin decision made in the haze of post-exam delusion and overconfidence. Physics had always been his thing. He topped nationally in grade 12, solved kinematics like Sudoku, and made a meme page about Newton's laws that somehow went viral. So Engineering? Duh. Physics, but cooler, right?

Wrong. Very, violently wrong.

No one warned him that Engineering Physics was basically Physics on steroids, combined with linear algebra’s illegitimate child and the unforgiving slap of applied mechanics. Suddenly, instead of tinkering with fun little projectile motion problems, he was deriving partial differential equations for heat transfer while hungover. He didn’t even know what a Lagrangian was, and people were out here minimizing it like they did it for sport.

He should’ve switched majors. Should’ve listened to his friends, to his GPA, to that one TA who told him, “Mr. Gojo, this isn’t a YouTube prank channel. Please stop bringing a lighter to class.”

But then, you walked in during course exploration week — where students from other disciplines could sit in on any class.

You waltzed into his 9 a.m. Electromagnetic theory lecture with a coffee in one hand and a look that said “I am not here to commit.” And Gojo — Gojo who once fell asleep drooling on his differential equations worksheet — sat up straight. Literally front-row, front and center, no sunglasses, no lighter.

He was suddenly alive.

“Professor,” he said, for the first time ever, “Could you please explain how Maxwell's equations relate to boundary conditions at material interfaces?”

The professor nearly fainted.

People turned in their seats. Someone whispered, “What the fuck is wrong with Gojo.” He ignored them. 

You didn’t even look at him.

You were too busy squinting at the whiteboard, taking notes, tilting your head like you were trying to find a flaw in all of electromagnetism itself. And Gojo, high-functioning himbo that he was, had never tried harder to sound like he cared about vector calculus in his entire life. He even stopped asking the dumb hypothetical questions like, “But what if the resistor was alive?”

He asked about displacement currents now. About Poynting vectors. About complex impedance. 

He googled after class. He attended tutorials. He bought a fucking graphing notebook and labeled it “electric love (theory).”

And the irony? You never noticed. Never spared him more than a polite nod when he held the door open. Because, of course, you weren’t here for people. You were here for classes. Just floating through mechanical design, dabbling in Comp Sci, sitting in on Civil Engineering like a butterfly landing on several cursed flowers before committing to bloom.

You did not give a singular shit about Gojo Satoru.

And Gojo — Gojo who had people lining up to cheat off his board exam answers — was now refreshing his attendance portal and manually correcting his MATLAB syntax because a random stranger with wide eyes and a mechanical pencil made engineering look like something worth trying for. 

He once asked a classmate, “Do you think she noticed me when I asked about Gauss’s Law?”

“Who?”

He was doomed. And worse? He kinda liked it.

By Friday, Gojo Satoru was a shell of the man he used to be.

His once-messy notes were now color-coded. His hair, usually in its signature tousled chaos, was combed back like he gave a shit about aerodynamics. The lighter that he once flicked open with one hand under the desk? Confiscated. Twice. 

He hadn’t flirted with a single person in five days. Five.

He even knew what dielectric permittivity meant.

This week had been the longest relationship he’d ever been in.

Because ever since you walked into that lecture hall on Monday — unassuming, curious, tilting your head at inductance like it personally offended you — Gojo had been in crisis mode. A calculated, overachieving, wildly embarrassing crisis. 

He should have just talked to you. Just said hi, cracked a joke, thrown one of his usual cocky smiles your way. But no. No. He doubled down on academic desperation like an unmedicated gifted child.

On Tuesday, he started showing up five minutes early and sitting right in front of you.

On Wednesday, he asked four questions, all relevant, and argued with the professor over the derivation of the Biot–Savart law.

On Thursday, he raised his hand before the professor even finished writing the topic on the board. And today? Today, he stood up mid-lecture, holding his notebook like a thesis, and asked, “Sir, do you want me to take over and explain the derivation?”

The professor stared at him, blinking. “Mr. Gojo,” he said slowly, like addressing a wild animal, “Please be seated. I… I implore you.”

You didn’t even look up. You were too busy cross-checking your notes with the projection, scribbling in the margins like a woman on a mission.

When class finally ended, the professor clapped once, looking exhausted but relieved. “To those of you visiting this week, thank you for attending. It's been wonderful having you.”

Gojo blinked. What?

Oh god. It's the end of exploration week.

His heart jackhammered. He hadn’t even spoken to you, hadn’t even gotten your name. Hadn’t done anything except become a clown in the name of electromagnetic thirst. He watched as students trickled down to the front to sign the attendance sheet, indicating whether or not they’d be continuing with the course. You stood in line, humming under your breath. Calm, like your choice was already made.

Gojo watched your pen touch the paper, and the millisecond you stepped away, he sprinted. Vaulted over a desk, and possibly elbowed some poor sophomore in the ribs. He hovered over the sheet like it was a sacred scroll.

There. Your name, written neatly. Clearly. 

With a little loop at the end of the “yes.”

He read it three times, outright etching it into his brain as he felt his soul realign with the axis of your handwriting.

And as you walked past him on your way out, you glanced at him — just for a second. Just a flicker. And you smiled. Polite. Brief. Maybe a little amused.

You didn’t know. You couldn’t possibly know the chaos you’d just survived. And then the professor, as casually as mentioning the weather, added, “Ah yes — she’s the Dean’s daughter. Naturally, she’s joining engineering.”

Gojo didn’t just cheer. He howled.

“YES!”

He fist-pumped the air.

“FUCK YES, SCIENCE!”

Everyone turned. The professor flinched. You paused at the door, blinking in mild confusion before walking off, slightly faster. Gojo clutched the attendance sheet like a man reborn.

Engineering wasn’t a whim anymore. It was destiny. And her name was you.

☆ NAOYA ZENIN: I CHOSE FEMINISM TO AVOID COOKING AND NOW I’M THE FACE OF TRANS RIGHTS BECAUSE SHE SAT NEXT TO ME

Naoya Zenin was a lot of things: heir to a multi-billion dollar legacy, self-proclaimed alpha male, misogynist extraordinaire with the subtlety of a wrecking ball, and — God help the campus — now a student in WGS 204: Women and Gender in the Modern Age. He sat like he was being punished, slouched so far down his seat it was a miracle he hadn’t slipped to the floor entirely. His expression was one of perpetual disapproval, mouth in a grim line, as if just existing in this class was somehow beneath him. And in his own words, it was.

“Gender is a social construct, not a personality trait,” his professor said, gesturing passionately at a slide on transgender rights and systemic marginalization.

Naoya snorted. Loudly.

“If it’s a construct, maybe they should stop reconstructing it every five seconds.”

A groan passed like a wave through the room, as if half the class had just been collectively punched in the face by pure ignorance. Someone in the back whispered, “Jesus fucking Christ,” and the professor paused, blinking slowly, mouth slightly open like she couldn’t believe she was dealing with this on a Tuesday morning. Naoya sat back, arms crossed. Smug, proud, and very unaware of the thousand-yard stares being directed at the back of his head. And then—

SLAM.

The door cracked open, the light from the hallway pouring in like a spotlight from heaven itself. 

And in you came.

Time slowed.

“Sorry! Sorrysorrysorrysorry — I missed the first bus and then the elevator in hall B broke again and—”

You were flustered, sure — late and breathless — but the chaos only made it worse. The way your hair stuck slightly to your cheek, the way your coat hung off one shoulder, your fingers fumbling to push your ID card into your bag as you mouthed another “sorry!” at the stunned professor like a fever dream in sneakers. You were rambling to her, but she was too busy experiencing ego death in real time to even acknowledge you. It was cinematic.

To Naoya, it was a fucking epiphany.

He sat up.

Fully upright. Spine erect, arms uncrossed, shoulders rolled back like a man coming alive for the first time. Like she’s beauty, she’s grace, she just saved me from a discrimination case.

A miracle.

Your perfume hit him next — not strong, just barely there, but enough. Fuck. It smelled like whatever self-respect he had left was about to rot in hell. You scanned the room, then spotted the empty seat next to him. And Naoya Zenin — top 5 least emotionally available men on campus — made space.

Like, physically moved his things.

A girl behind him gasped.

You slid into the empty seat next to him, dropping your bag and exhaling. Your perfume hit him like a physical slap again. He looked away, then looked again. 

And just like that, the campus’ biggest asshole about feminism, equity, and anything remotely ‘woke’ was suddenly blinking like a deer caught in the bisexual lighting of his conscience. You let out a breathless sigh, and Naoya felt something dislodge in his chest. An organ, maybe. Or a soul. Long gone.

“Hey,” you whispered, brushing hair from your face. “What’d I miss?”

Naoya cleared his throat. The rest of the class was now actively ignoring him — he’d burned his social credibility to the ground ten minutes ago — so they didn’t notice the sudden tonal whiplash.

He blinked twice. His mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again.

“Uhhh,” he said, scrambling mentally, every hateful comment about this class evaporating into the ether. “We were talking about, uh, trans rights. Y’know. How, uh... society should, like… respect them more. Obviously.” 

You blinked. “Oh wow. Good. That's important.”

“Yeah,” he nodded, voice suddenly patient, hushed. “Like, I think people forget how hard it is, like, navigating identity and all. They don’t choose to be — I mean, no one chooses — like, society just makes it harder, y’know?”

You smiled. Smiled. “Wow. That’s actually really thoughtful.”

Naoya’s brain bluescreened. 

“Thanks,” he muttered. “I think about stuff.”

The irony was thick enough to spread on toast and then chew on. Naoya Zenin, a man who once claimed feminism was “just a phase like astrology” and was “what girls cry about when they can’t lift a dumbbell” was now sitting beside a pretty stranger and reciting Queer Theory 101 like he was born under Judith Butler’s guidance. His voice stayed low the rest of class and occasionally, he even nodded at the professor’s points. Once, he even scribbled something down.

The professor didn’t notice. She was too emotionally dehydrated to engage further with him. The rest of the class assumed he’d finally shut the hell up. But you? You leaned a little closer every time he whispered an explanation, wide-eyed and genuinely interested. “That’s so messed up,” you said once, about a statistic he half-remembered from a slide. “Thank you for telling me.” 

He shrugged, like it was no big deal. He would later Google every slide from today’s class. In private.

And so, the semester began: Naoya Zenin, accidental ally, one seat away from the only person who could make him behave like a human being. The irony? It was just getting started.

Exam season descended like a curse. Students walked around campus in three day old hoodies, clutching caffeine like holy relics, some half-crying, others fully dead inside. And somewhere amidst it all, Naoya Zenin sat in the third-floor library, clutching a copy of “Feminist Theory: From Margin to Center” like it was both radioactive and sacred. He was pale, possibly sweaty. Not from the pressure of exams — no, Naoya didn’t stress. He was genetically and spiritually incapable of caring this much. 

But here he was, highlighting Bell Hooks and mouthing her quotes like incantations. He hadn’t even bought the damn book. As a matter of fact, he refused to. He called it “liberal propaganda” in week one, said it’d “pollute his shelf energy.”

And yet. Here he was, in the trenches of feminism. Elbow-deep in Judith Butler and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. The library copy was so well-worn from his midnight cramming that the spine cracked when he opened it. His bookshelf at home remained a cursed shrine of “The 48 Laws of Power,” “Rich Dad Poor Dad,” and “Why Men Deserve More.” His course textbooks? They lived in the zippered compartment of his backpack, like a dirty secret. But none of that mattered when you smiled and asked, “Can we have another study session?” 

And God. God, he would have written a dissertation on post-structuralist feminist theory if you so much as blinked at him encouragingly.

“Okay,” he said one evening, lounging in the study room like he wasn’t mentally on fire, “Intersectionality. Coined by Kimberlé Crenshaw in 1989, which talks about how overlapping identities like race, gender, and class create complex systems of oppression.”

You blinked. “You know the year?”

“...I know many things,” he said stiffly. 

You nodded, impressed. Naoya felt light-headed.

Another time, you leaned close over your notes and said, “Can you explain ecofeminism again? I didn't get the connection.” And Naoya, Naoya Zenin, who once claimed nature documentaries made him feel “beta,” launched into a whole breakdown on how patriarchal systems exploit both women and the environment, casually referencing Vandana Shiva like she was a friend of the family.

He even made a diagram. A. Fucking. Diagram.

By the third study session, you were calling him “so smart.”

By the fourth, he was rewriting his midterm essay to sound more inclusive.

By the fifth, he was correcting other people in class. 

“Uh, actually,” he said to a guy who confused gender identity with gender expression, “Those are different concepts. Read the module again, bro.” 

The class started. You beamed. Naoya floated.

Exam week hit, and Naoya studied like the fate of your friendship depended on it. Because maybe it did. Maybe if he just got one thing wrong — if he mixed up Judith Butler and Simone de Beauvoir, God forbid — you’d stop looking at him like he was safe. And Naoya, king of masculine fragility, needed you to keep thinking he was worth your time.

He wrote essays in APA format. He cited. He footnoted. And when results day came around, it was biblical. The professor — a woman who once looked at Naoya like he was the living embodiment of male disappointment — cried. Real, unfiltered, mid-forties academic tears. “This—” she sniffled, waving his graded paper like a diploma, “This is why we don’t give up on our students.”

The class was dead silent. Several jaws dropped. Someone clapped. You, glowing beside him, told everyone, “See? I told you Naoya wasn’t that bad. He topped the class!”

Naoya didn’t speak. He couldn’t. His soul had left his body the moment you said topped the class. He sat still, processing the reality: He, Naoya Zenin, was now the official number one feminist in WGS 204. And worse? You were looking at him with literal pride in your eyes.

He was neck-deep in feminist quicksand. And you, smiling, sweet, oblivious you, were pushing him in deeper with every compliment. 

He dry heaved a little as the class passed around his graded essay like it was a sacred relic. You whispered, “You have to help me next semester too.” And he whispered back, “...I hate myself.” 

And you just smiled, so grateful, so fucking proud of him.

He was doomed.

☆ GETO SUGURU: I STOPPED ARGUING IN POLITICAL SCIENCE BECAUSE SHE MADE ONE POINT AND NOW I’M IN LOVE

If there’s one thing Suguru Geto cannot fucking stand, it’s being wrong.

Not even in the conventional, “Oops, I goofed” sense — no, morally, intellectually, ontologically wrong. He prides himself on being the sharpest mind in any room. His thoughts are not just thoughts; they’re theoretical frameworks. His arguments have footnotes. Citations. He quotes Gramsci like he’s invoking scripture and once corrected the professor mid-lecture for misusing “normative.”

He thrives on being right — not just factually, but intellectually, morally, philosophically, even. His brain is a steel trap. His arguments, ironclad. His tone? So assured you’d think he wrote the UN charter himself. In every debate, he's the guy who quotes obscure theorists like he's on a first-name basis with them — "well, as Chantal said in 1985..." — and if someone dares to cut in, God help them. He turns his head slow, neck taut, like he’s physically resisting the urge to pounce.

Debate, to him, is not a discussion. It's a blood sport. And political science? God's playground. His colosseum, even.

A whole class where everyone thinks their opinion is the most nuanced? Perfect. Let him feast. Well, he thought it’d be perfect — a class full of wannabe activists and half-baked libertarians ripe for intellectual evisceration. And for the first few weeks, he was thriving. Sitting in the back, all in black, with a glint in his eye that said, fucking try me. But no. It was more like a zoo of amateur philosophers, liberal arts kids fresh off a summer of reading The Communist Manifesto once, and the occasional future politician who had already learned to speak without saying anything.

Geto, meanwhile, had no patience for “devil’s advocate” takes or vague moral relativism. He’d sit there, rings on his fingers, resting his chin on his hand like a villain plotting a coup d’état, just waiting to be triggered. And when he was, oh boy. He'd raise one eyebrow, shift in his seat, and lace his fingers together like a church steeple. Then he’d go in. His rebuttals weren’t loud — no, they were cutting, calculated. Not once raising his voice, but commanding the room like he’d just cast a spell that made everyone question their degree.

As a matter of fact, he didn’t speak often. But when he did, it was like someone dropped a thesis in the room. He never raised his voice — he didn’t need to. Just leaned back, tapped his pen once, and said shit like: “You’re collapsing the distinction between procedural and substantive democracy. I suggest you revise your understanding of Dahl.”

And then he’d smirk, while the poor soul opposite him melted into their chair. Classic Geto.

So today, when someone dares to refute his point — on transitional justice, no less, one of his strongest suits — he’s already rolling up his rhetorical sleeves. He’s just finished saying, cool as ice: 

“Truth commissions without retributive mechanisms become spectacles of memory. Symbolic, yes. But restorative? Rarely.”

And then someone two rows ahead — a voice he doesn’t recognize — says:

“I actually disagree. I think you’re overestimating the necessity of punitive justice. In societies undergoing democratization, restorative models like the South African TRC weren’t just symbolic. They were foundational to building participatory legitimacy.”

Geto turns his head. Like, snaps it. Because who the fuck—?

But then he sees you.

You, leaning casually on one elbow, speaking like this is a side conversation you’re having with history itself. Sitting there in a dress shirt, one foot tucked under your leg, talking through your point like you were still working it out. Your hair kept falling into your face and you pushed it back absently, totally unaware that the most arrogant man in the department had just gone silent. You don’t have notes, you’re not grandstanding. You’re just explaining. And the worst part? You’re not wrong.

Geto had a retort on his tongue, but it fizzled. Like pop rocks. Sugar, static, and nothing left but the weird sweetness of realizing he was… listening.

He's blinking, staring, processing not just your argument but also the way your hand absentmindedly tugs at your sleeve, the way your brow furrows just slightly when you try to recall a date. He opens his mouth.

“…Huh,” he muttered. You turned slightly to find him staring at you. You blinked. The professor — who had already leaned back, anticipating another of Geto’s intellectual executions — hesitates. “Mr. Geto?”

He blinks again. And then he says, slow but certain:

“She's right.”

Half the class gasps. A pen drops somewhere, and the professor visibly chokes on his thermos tea. Even the guy next to Geto turned and whispered, “What the fuck?”

And you? You turn around slightly, confused for half a second — and then just smile. A soft, polite nod, like this was a normal academic exchange and not the moment Suguru Geto’s personality dissolved in real time. And Geto — the man who’d argued with someone for forty-five minutes over a typo in the syllabus — found himself smiling back.

Like a simp. Like a man who, for once in his life, didn’t need to be right. He just needed to hear you speak again.

You turn back around, and Geto just sits there, staring at the back of your head like it holds the secrets of the polis. He's not even mad. He's fascinated. A bit dazed. Maybe humbled. Definitely down bad. He mutters under his breath, to no one in particular, ���...Fuck. I didn't even think of that.”

His friend beside him glances over. 

“You good, bro?”

Geto sighs, leans back in his chair, eyes still fixed on you.

“No, I'm in love.”

Every second after that class was a quiet, invisible vow from Suguru Geto to the universe. He’d rewrite entire political timelines if it meant seeing you right. He’d dismantle historiography itself. Pull out case studies and manipulate them like marionettes until they bowed in favor of your thesis.

Because if you said “reconciliation over retribution,” then he’d drag every ICC ruling through the mud until the literature reflected just that.

You were right. And if you weren’t? Then the world was wrong. It was that simple.

So when you wave him over in the campus library a week later — soft smile, denim jacket sleeves cuffed, highlighter uncapped between your fingers — and ask, tilting your head, “Hey, what was that argument about the other day? Y’know, before you agreed with me in class?” He smiles back, expression unreadable except for the way too long eye contact. 

“Mm. Nothing worth remembering.”

He slides into the seat across from you, loosening his collar, as if the person he verbally decapitated ten minutes before talking to you wasn’t now recovering in the bathroom, sobbing into the syllabus. “Just a poor attempt at claiming that carceral justice should remain the dominant framework in post-conflict states.” He shrugs. “Anyone who reads even one transitional justice ethnography knows that’s laughable.”

You blink. “Oh… okay. I was just wondering. You two looked intense.” You flash him that easy smile again and it slices through his ego like sunlight on ice. And Geto — the man who’s turned entire group discussions into academic tribunals — just laughs softly and shakes his head. “It's fine. People need a reality check.”

And when you frown, lower your eyes to your notes and sigh, “Ugh. I don't think I get this part about deliberative democracy vs participatory democracy. The reading was so vague.” His brows knit together instantly as he already reaches for your printout. 

“No, you’re fine. The text is poorly structured. But your instinct is right — look, here’s how I'd explain it.”

He leans forward, scribbling little diagrams in the margins. “Deliberative focuses on rational discourse, like in institutionalized settings — think Habermas, where consensus is the goal. But participatory democracy leans more on inclusion, on the act of engagement itself, even without formal consensus. They intersect, but they're distinct.”

You nod slowly, chewing on your lip, and he catches the way your brow furrows again — just slightly — and he’s already flipping pages.

“Look, here’s an example. If you're unsure, use the 1989 Brazilian constitution drafting process — that's always solid. And hey,” he lowers his voice, chin propped on his hand, “You’re not wrong. You just need a clearer framework.” You look up at him again, warm with that kind of grateful, unknowing admiration that crushes him every single time. 

“You’re such a good friend, Suguru.”

Oh, God. The f-word. Geto smiles like someone just handed him a live grenade. “Yeah,” he says, voice a little too even. “Friend. Sure.”

But he swallows the chaos in his chest. Now's not the time to blow up the diplomatic bridge. You’ve got a debate to prep for. He's your teammate. You’re going up against third-years. Big names in the department. People who throw around constructivism and realist pluralism like party tricks. But you? You've got Suguru Geto.

And when the day comes, and your voice shakes ever so slightly during your opening statement, he’s already watching from his chair, eyes soft, nodding slowly like he’s willing your words into the world. And later, when you step back and whisper that you’re unsure whether your rebuttal landed—

He leans in, low enough that only you hear it. “You were flawless. And even if you weren’t — don’t worry. I'll dismantle whatever part didn’t land.”

And he does. He tailors his own segment to support yours. Shifts his citations, reframes the argument, creates a neat little circle of theory where your point was not only correct — it was inevitable. By the time the debate ends, the panel is murmuring praise and the audience is lowkey stunned. You beam at him. “We crushed that. Couldn’t have done it without you.”He just shrugs, eyes soft. “Nah, you crushed it. I just made sure the world kept up.”

☆ RYOMEN SUKUNA: I SKIPPED A FRAT FIGHT AND BECAME A HISTORY NERD BECAUSE SHE ASKED FOR DIRECTIONS

Sukuna never chose Medieval History. He clicked it.

Half-baked, half-asleep, joints still smouldering in the ashtray of his brain the night before course registration — he saw one of those trippy, animated TED-Ed videos on knights and siege towers, thought “Yo, that’s hard,” and signed himself up like it was a Netflix trial. In theory? Swords, castles, bloodshed. In reality? Feudal structures, canonical texts, and three lectures in a row on land distribution in the Carolingian Empire.

So by week two, he was out. Not officially — he still showed up in the system, technically enrolled — but mentally? He was back on the court, back in his jersey, skipping classes, getting high, hosting parties with themes so stupid it’s a miracle no one died. Medieval History was a minor, anyway. He could flunk and still graduate.

But then there was you. In a sundress and sneakers, map in hand, walking around like the campus was a medieval city-state you were trying to invade. He was heading to the basketball court, already halfway through a protein bar and texting the group chat “yo strt the game w/out m i’m takin a piss” — when you walked up to him and asked, polite and lost, “Hey, sorry, do you know where the Medieval History class is?”

And something in him short-circuited. Because one, you clearly had no clue who he was — no fear, no swooning, no "Omg Sukuna?!" And two, your voice made Charlemagne sound like a relevant topic.

He swallowed his curse and his ego in the same breath. “Oh yeah, yeah — was just headed there.” You blinked. “Really?”

“Mhm,” he nods, all casual, slipping his phone into his pocket and doing the mental math to remember where the fuck that classroom even is. “You new?” he asks, voice lower, smoother, almost soft. 

“Just transferred this week,” you smiled. “It’s kinda hard finding things.” He nods, like he gets it, even though he’s been skipping that specific class for three months.

“C'mon, I'll walk you.”

Then — before he can stop himself —

“You want me to carry your bag or somethin’?”

You laugh, confused but amused. “I think I can manage.” 

He smiles. Charming. Not smug. (He's trying, okay?)

And as the two of you walk, he somehow starts talking about Merovingian succession crises like he didn’t sleep through that entire unit. He's pulling stuff out of his ass — but it sounds right. It sounds smart.

“Yeah, like, the power structures back then were mad fragile. You kill one heir ‘n the whole bloodline goes to shit — like, succession wasn’t even secure ‘cause they didn’t believe in primogeniture yet, y’know?”

“...Huh. That’s actually really interesting.”

He has never tried so hard to sound like he gives a shit about something that wasn’t himself. He even holds the door open for you. 

And when you both walk into the Medieval History classroom — you all wide-eyed, him all tall and smug and trying not to trip over his own ego — the old professor chokes. Literally wheezes, scrambling for his inhaler like he’s seen a ghost. 

“Mr. Sukuna. Good of you to finally grace us with your presence.” 

Sukuna just smiles and shrugs like he wasn’t being summoned in three group chats for a 5v5 scrimmage right now. “Yeah, had to walk someone to class. Wouldn’t want her to miss the lecture on, uh—”

he turns to you with a wink,

 “–Anglo-saxon law codes.”

You laugh, none the wiser. The class stares. The professor stares harder. But Sukuna? Sukuna just drops into the seat next to you, ignoring the buzz of his phone lighting up with texts:

brokie (owes me $30 + $10 + $40) [9:46 am]: bruh get ur ass here rume [9:49 am]: don’t tell me ur skipping for a girl ugly white haired incel [10:00 am]: she better be royal lineage if ur missing this fight

He doesn’t even look. You turn to him mid-lecture and whisper, “What’s up with the prof? He looked like he saw a demon when you walked in.” And Sukuna, with the audacity of a man who rewrote his personality in ten minutes flat, grins and murmurs back, “No clue. Guess he just missed me.” 

And now? He's suddenly very interested in medieval history. He's got sources to cite. He's got seats to sit in. He's got… you.

And for once in his life, Sukuna thinks maybe he won’t drop out of this class. Might even pass it.

You know. For educational purposes.

—

The campus hadn’t seen Ryomen Sukuna in three months.

Not at parties, not at frat meetings, not even in the background of Instagram stories where he’d usually be shirtless and belligerent, chugging out of a funnel or doing shots off someone’s stomach. It was as if the legend of Sukuna — the frat prince, the party tyrant, the undefeated king of keg stands — had simply... evaporated.

By the first month, it was whispers.

“Yo, where’s Sukuna?”

“Dude’s probably in a coma.”

“Nah, I heard he got arrested after that Halloween party. You remember the fire?”

By the second month, it was spiraling.

“I think he dropped out.”

“Dude got expelled.”

“I heard he joined a cult. Medieval-themed or some shit.”

No one had the answer, because no one had seen him — no one that mattered anyway. No one that lived in the party circuit. Because truthfully? Sukuna hadn’t dropped out. He hadn’t died. He hadn’t been abducted by monks.

He was in the library. 

Voluntarily sitting under cold fluorescent lights with you, scribbling notes and memorizing things like the date of the battle of Hastings, and getting smacked on the shoulder when he tried to argue. 

“Okay, but what if I wrote the dates like — right here, see? It’d blend with my tattoos—”

“Are you seriously trying to cheat on a History final by weaponizing your body art?”

“It's not cheating. It’s being resourceful, babe.”

“Don’t ‘babe’ me.”

He pouts like a sad, bruised puppy. A six-foot-four wall of arrogance and ink, deflating when you scold him.

He listens. He rewrites his notes. He even erases his “tattoo calendar.” And when he asks if he can borrow your highlighters, you don’t even blink — because to you, Sukuna is just the guy who sits beside you in Medieval History. Quiet, funny, a little dense, but very determined. You’ve never seen the version of him that the rest of campus swears is a mythological beast. 

You’ve never heard the legends of how he once drank beer out of a traffic cone. How he slept with two rival sorority presidents in the same night. How he literally ran security at every house party because no one would dare challenge him.

Nope. To you, he’s just Sukuna, who says things like “Do you think if I put ‘knights’ as a theme for my next birthday, people’ll bring me swords?” and eats your snacks when you aren’t looking. But to everyone else? 

Ryomen Sukuna’s name showed up on the department topper board and people lost their fucking minds.

It was printed out in clean black ink:

MEDIEVAL HISTORY – SPRING SEMESTER TOPPERS

#2: RYOMEN, SUKUNA – 89.2%

And the scream that left Gojo’s mouth when he passed by the bulletin board nearly broke a window. 

Toji dropped his protein bar. Uraume looked like they had seen the end of days, and even the student union president gasped audibly and had to sit down.

“Is this real?” Gojo whispered.

“Is it a typo?”

“Sukuna?? As in — kegstand-Sukuna???”

Toji muttered under his breath, “No way that bastard beat me in anything.” 

And just like that, a pilgrimage began. Students in sweats, hoodies, and half-dead finals week eyes, flocked to the history board. Phones came out. Pictures were taken. Memes were made in real-time: “Sukuna has upgraded from shots to scholarly citations.” And meanwhile, you were there too — holding your printed essay, scanning the board out of curiosity. 

“Oh hey, Sukuna! Look, you’re number two! That’s so cool.” 

He blinked. “Uh… yeah,” he shrugged, trying not to look like he was having an internal stroke. “Guess the studying paid off.”

“You didn’t even tell me you were that smart!” You looked genuinely impressed, nudging his arm.

“Dunno. Didn’t think it mattered.”

You smile. Behind you, someone takes a photo of him like he’s Bigfoot. And you, ever oblivious, tilt your head. “Why are there so many people looking at you?”

Sukuna shrugs. “No idea. Maybe they just like historians now.”

He grins, and he’ll keep grinning as long as you never find out that fratland has declared him officially missing, and that the guy once known as the king of parties is now spending his nights elbow-deep in primary sources and peer-reviewed articles. God help him if anyone sees the matching medieval-themed bookmarks you gave him last week. He's doomed. 

But then you smile at him again. And really? Maybe it’s worth the death of a legacy.

☆ TOJI FUSHIGURO: SHE CALLED ME DUMB IN PHYSIOLOGY AND NOW I KNOW WHAT AN ENDOCRINE GLAND IS

Toji Fushiguro chose Human Physiology because, in his words, “Bro, I’m the peak of human physiology.”

Shirtless in his dorm mirror at 12:30am, flexing with a joint hanging off his lips and a bag of Cheetos in hand, he thought it was the smartest idea he ever had. He looked like a walking anatomy chart — biceps shredded, abs defined like a Greek statue, veins prominent enough that someone could probably trace his vascular system with a sharpie.

So when the course application portal blinked open, and Sukuna simply texted,

strawberry shortcake [11:47 pm]: medieval history 

Toji shrugged, selected Human Physiology, took another hit, and muttered, “Guess I'll be the specimen.”

It was all downhill from there.

The first class hit him like a truck. Terms flying over his head like “sarcoplasmic reticulum,” “acetylcholine receptors,” and “sinoatrial node.” The only thing he caught was when someone mentioned “skeletal muscle,” and even then, he leaned to the guy next to him and whispered, “They’re talking about gains, right?” The dude didn’t even respond, just shifted his chair away. 

The professor was a wiry old man who wore Crocs and had the excitement of a caffeinated squirrel. He moved like he had six different tendons operating independently of each other. “Welcome to the miracle of the human body! Today we’re talking about the hypothalamus! Anyone know what that does?”

Toji raised a hand. The professor blinked.

“Yes, Mr. Fushiguro?”

“Does it… help you bulk?”

Dead silence. Someone coughed.

“No,” the professor said slowly, like he was speaking to a dog. “It regulates things like temperature and hunger. Internal balance.” Toji nodded like he understood. 

He did not.

Because everything he knew about homeostasis was just that he sweated a lot at the gym and drank protein shakes. Once someone in class asked about the neuromuscular junction, and Toji genuinely thought it had something to do with a sports injury. The problem was, this course wasn’t about looking good — it was about being a nerd. People in class actually knew the difference between “smooth” and “striated” muscle. They knew that the myelin sheath wasn’t something you picked up at a dentist’s office.

The worst part? No one was fun. Not even hot in an interesting way. Just blank stares, open laptops, and girls with ponytails who chewed gum like it was a form of protest. He leaned back in class one day, muttering under his breath, “This is gonna be a long fuckin’ semester.”

The guy beside him replied without looking up, “Language.”

“Ya wanna step outside, ‘language’?”

“No, I'd like to finish this lecture on vasodilation, thanks.”

Toji groaned. He had once broken someone’s nose in a bar fight and felt less pain than sitting through this.

He missed the frat. He missed Sukuna and the other white-haired freak (though he would never admit that). Hell, he missed failing in peace. And yet, he showed up.  Begrudgingly. With a pocketed switch knife in class, tank tops that showed off his delts, and a water bottle the size of a small child. 

When the professor drew the digestive tract on the board, he muttered, “Yo, that’s me after Taco Bell.” No one laughed, but that was fine. Toji wasn’t here to make friends. He just needed to survive this course. And maybe — just maybe — someone in here would eventually be hot and interesting enough to make him care about the difference between the ileum and the jejunum.

Until then, he’d sit in the back, scroll through Sam Sulek’s TikToks, and occasionally mutter things like, “Yo is it just me or does the sternocleidomastoid sound like a dinosaur?”

—

Toji didn’t get flustered. He got annoyed, he got pissed, he got violent if he really had to — but flustered? Nah.

Until you came along with your smartass remarks and your sharp little grin and your little nerd girl brain that somehow made words like “epithelial tissue” sound like roasts from God himself. You sat next to him out of nowhere one day — no hesitation, no fear, just a bag dropped beside his massive gym duffel and a chirped, “Yo, Popeye. That seat’s not taken, right?”

And Toji, who had barked at three other people for looking in his direction that week, just grunted and nodded. You didn’t ask dumb questions, instead you asked things like, “Did you forget the Mitochondria again or do you just hate the powerhouse of the cell?”

And somehow, that shit landed. He stared at you, blinking once. Then twice.

“You tryna start something?”

“You couldn’t handle it.”

What the fuck. He was supposed to be offended. Instead, he just swallowed his pride and… 

opened his textbook. 

You were dangerous like that.

When he mumbled something about skeletal muscles and their “activation time” being just like his reps, you had the audacity to raise a brow and go, “Oh? So the same muscles that fail on your third rep?” And Toji — Toji Fushiguro — who once body slammed a guy for making a fat joke in the gym, just sank in his chair and muttered, “Man, fuck off.”

The entire row turned like it was a soap opera scene. He had never said that with less venom. And you? You just popped a highlighter cap with your teeth and kept on explaining the muscular system.

He hated it. Hated that you were smart and funny and that your perfume always smelled faintly like citrus and library books. And most of all, that you were the only one in the class who didn’t stare at him like he was a human barbell. Instead, you did things like gently tap his notebook with your pen and say, “So this is the respiratory cycle. Think of it like your pre-workout and cooldown routine. Inhale, exhale, gas exchange. Your lungs are doing cardio for you.”

“So you're saying I got lungs of steel.”

“I'm saying you have no idea what your own body is doing.”

He scratched his head and muttered, “...Damn. Alright.”

What was he supposed to do? You helped him. Not in a “pity the dumb gym bro” kind of way. But like you were actually invested. You explained how lactic acid buildup worked by comparing it to that one time he overdid legs and couldn’t walk for two days. And when he groaned about the endocrine system being boring, you whispered, “You know how you get those ‘gains’? Hormones. Testosterone. Regulated by glands. Do not skip this chapter or you’ll flunk.”

Toji blinked.

“...That’s hot.”

“What, hormones?”

“You talkin’ science like that. I'd almost let you tutor me.”

“Almost?”

“I didn't say I would.”

You threw a pencil at him and he didn’t even dodge. Just caught it, grinning, ears burning under the weight of your teasing. And for the first time in his whole damn academic career, Toji Fushiguro…

actually passed a test. Barely. But the professor handed his paper back with a shocked, “improvement noted,” and a side-eye glance at you like we know who’s responsible. Toji looked at the C+ and muttered, “Yo, you’re a fuckin’ wizard.” 

You just shrugged. “Nah. You’ve got a brain. It’s just hidden under six layers of protein powder and ego.”

God. He'd die for you. But for now? He’d settle for sitting next to you every class, scribbling notes with a confused frown, and letting you roast him with terms like “autonomic nervous system” and “delayed onset muscle soreness.”

It was the closest he’d ever get to falling in love academically.

a/n i don't know what to write here but i'm procrastinating the hate sex fic is what i can tell you..please enjoy this. also sorry i didn't include nanami & choso, i didn't have anything in mind for them </3

[giantkillerjack]

Anastasia the Musical sucks so bad. They really said "We're gonna cut the best song from the movie - just axe the absolute banger that is 'In the Dark of the Night' - because we are being SERIOUS and GROWN-UP now. We are A Big Historical Realism Musical Now. This is FOR REAL, okay!? We don't have a SILLY villain like Rasputin! We have Gleb! [Please Just Clap.] We are HISTORICALLY GROUNDED. -- Anyway, here's a musical unironically glorifying the Russian monarchy~~ 💖😌💖😌💖😌💖"

[cosmogyros]

.

[littlelovelunette]

My Star

Bodyguard!Sevika x Superstar!Quiet During Sex!Reader

Car sex, secret relationship, mentions of fingering, oral, clit play, praise kink.

"Fuck, we can't do this here."

You cussed under your breath as Sevika caged your frame against the wall. She smirked down at you, her hot breath fanning your face. You could hear your fans screaming their heads off somewhere outside the venue as Sevika's hand rested on the curve of your waist, rubbing the area using her thumb.

She cocked a brow, "What? Don't want your fans knowing about your secret affair with your bodyguard?"

"Oh, don't pretend like you don't get off to it." You said, hand cupping Sevika's crotch through her formal pants making her breath hitch, the dominant look in her eyes flickering.

"Yeah, let's get outta here," Sevika let go of your waist instantly making you crave her touch further.

She walked to the door, "Stay close by," she said as she creaked the backdoor open and led you out. You kept your head low, avoiding the screaming of distant fans at the front gate, desperately hoping you'd walk out of that door. The flashing of the cameras of the paparazzi rang out in the cold night air but what kept you guarded was Sevika's hand that hovered over your waist, not touching it as you both weren't surrounded by privacy.

The limo door opened and you slipped inside, Sevika joining you after taking a long glance outside to ensure nobody was there. "Well, then, Superstar," her hand rested on your thigh, the bit exposed by the slit of your dress.

"Mhm?"

You grinned at her, red glossed lips spreading into a playful grin. Her other hand found your chin, pulling you in for a kiss. You gasped, hands instantly feeling her up. Her muscles bulged through the dark blazer she wore perfectly, your one hand found her broad shoulder and squeezed it briefly. Sevika parted from the kiss, glancing down at your glittery dress, a slow smile forming on her dark plump lips.

"You look breathtaking," Sevika buried her face at the crook of your neck and left kisses and bite marks all along the pale skin.

You didn't moan, no. You breathed heavily, a small sound like a squeak escaping your throat but it was barely audible.

"You're perfect," Sevika nipped at your neck hungrily, teeth grazing deliciously across the smooth skin that was now littered with marks of her possession.

Heat pooled at your lower tummy at her words but you but your bottom lip and replied with a timid, "Am I?"

"Why would you doubt that?" Sevika pulled back a little just so that you could see her beautiful grey eyes holding nothing but pure concern and love for you.

She was one person who didn't care for the money and fame that you had. Sure, you paid for her security services but that was that. She wasn't doing this for favouritsm or extra pay. She was with you because she loved you loyally and that was more than you could ever ask for as a worldwide celebrity. However, fame may have been nice and all— but you weren't arrogant enough to not notice the flaws within yourself.

"I'm pretty non verbal during sex," you said, looking away, "Meaning I don't moan or scream like other girls usually do... No, I don't whimper either before you think of that."

"Oh," Sevika used a hand to massage your pulse point on your neck, thoughtfully humming, "And you thought that's a flaw because...?"

"Isn't that what people like? A screamer?" You asked, looking up at her finally.

"Personally? I prefer you."

Sevika attacked your neck again, this time more violent than before, her hands squeezing and groping your tits through the fabric of your silk dress. You giggled and your mouth fell open but no sound really escaped your throat. As she backed up and pushed your dress up your waist, you watched her intently. Sevika's fingers hooked around the waistband of your panties, pulling them right off.

"Wow," she smirked, "Wet from my praises?"

You gave her a cheeky grin, "Guilty as charged."

"That's my good princess," Sevika muttered, watching your clit twitch from the praise as she placed a thumb over the sensitive nub, rubbing circles around it. Your back arched off the seat and you gripped the edge of it tightly, Sevika knew exactly the amount of pressure to add to her motion and she wasn't rushing. She was taking her sweet time like she always did.

She knew the way your body worked, the way you carved her fingers and wouldn't be satisfied until you had at least one of them buried knuckle deep inside your tight pussy, always wet with the thought of how her tongue would feel on your folds, lapping up at your juices as if it were her last meal. Sevika knew, she always did. She was good at reading people especially if it's you.

Her tongue met your clit, your breath hitching in your throat and a choked something escaped your lips— your first ever verbal moan, to be fair. Your teeth grazed your bottom lip, ready to suppress any more sound that would escape due to Sevika's ministrations. Her tongue darted across your folds, licking up your arousal.

"You taste so fine, my darling," she mumbled against your pussy.

You clenched around nothing from her words of affirmation, her other hand spreading your pussy lips so she could lick your hole clean. She sucked and pushed her tongue inside. Your eyes rolled back in your head as you shuddered from what she was doing. You hadn't had any idea Sevika was this good with her tongue— sure, you had an idea of it considering she was in her early fourties but damn...

Your left hand found her hair, entangling your fingers into the silky dark locks as you ground yourself up against her face. Sevika didn't stop you, her thumb pressing your clit in a way that made you want to squirm away but you didn't. You were her good girl.

"Oh, angel," Sevika praised, her eyes fluttering shut, tongue buried deep inside you.

You felt her nose nudge your clit and gasped, lower back leaving the surface of the car seat and you were almost sure the limo shook because of your sudden movement. Her praising was gonna be the end of you, she knew you were close because of how much you were starting to tense up.

Her arm wrapped around your waist as the other hand kept busy pinching and rubbing your clit. "Ready to cum for me, pretty princess?"

You bit your bottom lip painfully hard and nodded. "M-Mhm..."

Your thighs shook as you finished in her mouth but when Sevika licked you clean, her hand pressing you down when you tried to get up, "Where are you going?" You knew, she wasn't done with you.

[epic-curious]

The thing to understand about Amy Dallon is that she's an incel. You'll make so many mistakes in trying to understand her character unless you start from this lens.

She has:

An abusive home life which encouraged emotional repression and resentment

An inability to change for the better, despite being socially and economically suited to do so (by virtue of being a parahuman)

Most importantly, a strong belief in the just-world hypthesis; in her mind, bad things only happen to unjust being, good things happen to good people, and doing good things regardless of intent/sincerity entitles you to a reward

These are all traits she has common with incels based on how they describe themselves and what they believe. There's this belief in the fandom that her sexually violent behavior came out of nowhere, but I posit that these character flaws, combined with Amy's knowledge that Victoria would never willingly reciprocate her feelings, provide the perfect setup for her to do what she did.

I don't think was an accidental writing decision either, like Taylor's attraction towards women. It really feels like Wildbow purposefully wrote Amy's downfall to parallel stories about "nice guys" who fly into meltdowns or become crazed stalkers after finding out that no, basic decency doesn't entitle the object of your affections to fuck you. Men who, despite real challenges, have the resources to become well-adjusted but refuse because they completely lack an internal locus of control. Just like them, Amy had resources outside of her abusive family in the form of the PRT, who despite their own issues would have moved heaven and Earth to make sure they didn't lose a valuable cape like her. Instead, she continued to hide her deteriorating mental health and continued to harbor feelings she knew wouldn't be reciprocated until she finally messed up like she'd always been meaning to:

"Do you know how many hours I’ve spent awake at night, wishing my powers would just go away, or that some circumstance would come up where I’d make some excusable mistake where they would eventually forgive me, but where I couldn’t visit the hospitals anymore?”

Another commonality with incels and "nice guys"; not wanting to actually get better, but waiting for a reason to let their worst impulses loose.

I also think this was the reason Amy's character drive Wildbow so crazy. Imagine, you write a character whose mental illness and entitlement cause her to rape and mutilate her sister, who has clear parallels to an incel's violent reaction to being rejected. The response by a not insignificant part of the fandom is accusations of bigotry, because they have invented a version of your character in their heads that has all of her identity markers but none of the characterization you wrote. Coincidentally, most of this part of the fandom hasn't read your work to completion, if at all. Some of them even blame the sister for being raped! This isn't helped by the fact that you are a bit homophobic, that you wrote your protagonist to be bisexual but didn't realize it, that you described the sexuality of one of your bisexual characters as "hedonist", that you inexplicably wrote a character who canonically looks butch, is obsessed with your female protagonist, but is somehow straight. Maybe you could have done some of that better, but the fact that your biggest detractors are fans of your incel rapist is confounding to say the least. Combine all this with the inkling suspicion that this discourse wouldn't exist if you had written Amy as a man...yeah, I kinda get why Wildbow went insane about her.

Now, I'm not writing this as some sort of callout for a fictional character. I love evil women and seeing Amy actually lean in to being an incel crashout would have been fun as hell. But I really hate this idea that Amy was a poor little meow meow whose character was assassinated by the author. The pieces are all there, you just understand this character less than Wildbow which is really saying something.

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

sorry I'm just like Thinking about jkr because of her possible pending legal consequences and I'm also thinking about all her diehard little fans on here. like.

okay. okay. a lot of transphobic radfems nonetheless identify as leftists, right? this is a true thing, they hold on their hearts that you can violently opposed the rights of trans people to exist and also claim to be progressive and that's just like. it's obviously not a conundrum that I'm ever going to agree with, personally. but let's assume that you can in fact be transphobic and a leftist, because that's the point these people are starting from.

what about everything else? people have been panning jkr for her writing be racist and anti-semitic and xenophobic and fatphobic for a long fucking time. and you can't even really argue that those were just flaws of her early career, because she's just escalated through the years with the goblins doing blood libel in that game and bastardizing Native American cultures for her singular American wizard school and steamrolling entire continents together with her nonsense international wizard schools.

like you're fine with that? you're good with all that? you love the transphobia so much that she gets a free pass for all the other shit? personally if I agreed with a public figure about one (1) thing but they were a tremendous shithead in other ways I would not make them my patron saint and devoted so much time to gassing them up. personally.

[rafesplaymate]

FWB!Rafe Cameron x FWB!Reader

Chapter ii

˖₊⊹ ᡣ𐭩 navigation. ˖₊⊹ ᡣ𐭩 masterlist ˖₊⊹ ᡣ𐭩 series masterlist

warnings: angst. violent / abusive behaviors. toxic relationships. dark themes / adult content.

a/n: i wasn’t going to let rafe or sofia win lol

˖₊⊹ ᡣ𐭩 ˖₊⊹ ᡣ𐭩 ˖₊⊹

Rafe is fucking miserable. Honestly that’s a fucking understatement for the influx of overlapping emotions he feels as he watches y/n from afar. Sofia was tucked under his arm yapping away about god knows what. Rafe having checked out since he saw y/n come into sight. All his thoughts consumed by her as the hole she left behind in his chest grew bigger. Here he was in despair and there she was having the time of her life.

Rafe’s attempts to reach out to her after the way he treated her completely ignored. She cut him out of her life completely, not even acknowledging his existence in the slightest. She quite literally ghosted him and left him behind. His desperate attempts at getting her attention and trying to get her to speak to him all failed. He attempted to blow up her phone with incessant calls and text that never went through because she immediately blocked him. He then tried to go to her house which was intercepted by her mom who gave him a nasty scowl and shoved a box of gifts he gave her, and items he left at her place from all the times he was over there into his chest. Their front door slammed in his face and leaving him shut out of a place he felt was his second home. He even tried to stop her at parties or bonfires, all his efforts going inauspicious because her other friends intercepted before he could even get to her. Shoving him away and giving him nasty glares before being told to ‘leave her alone, you bitch. Go back to your little girlfriend.�� He doesn’t think he’s ever felt so iced out before.

So here he stands at a bonfire on the cut, Sofia’s words going in one ear and out the other as he desperately tried to catch y/n’s eyes. Desperate to see her pretty gaze on his once more, desperate for just an ounce of her attention. He almost wanted to whine like a petulant child who wasn’t getting attention, it hurt him so fucking bad that she just completely shut him out. And fuck -he knows he deserves it. He fucking knows he does; he was so coked out of his mind that evening. His adrenaline pushing him to speak to her as if she meant nothing to him when she meant fucking everything.

Y/n was the only person to accept him in his entirety. She accepted all his flaws, his twisted personality. She didn’t just accept it. She loved it. She would kiss his bloody knuckles every time he punched a hole in one of their walls. She would kiss the cuts and bruises on his face after a fight. She would lick his tears and kiss them away when he cried to her as he wrapped her tightly his arms, body pressed to his. She would back him up when people would call him a psychopath, shut them down with that bitchy attitude he had never been privy too. Until now. He’d know she could be a real fucking cunt, but he didn’t ever think he’d be on the receiving end of it. And now that he is, he feels like he’s spiraling.

After weeks of not being able to get in contact with her, he’d found solace in Sofia. Using her to numb the hole y/n left behind his chest. He struggled so fucking much to get used to the stark differences between them both. Sofia would scold him when he punched the wall, scold him when he fought, scold him when he went on one of his infamous rampages. Trying to push him to do better and be someone else. And he fucking hated it, so different from the way you treated him. You didn’t try to ‘fix him,’ the way she did. You just loved him for who he was and he fucked it all up. Even the sex was subpar, deciding to just take her from behind and shove her head into the mattress so he could imagine it was y/n. But he never could. Sex with y/n was like a drug. Completely euphoric; a spiritual experience he was addicted to having. And he felt like a fiend needing another hitt of his favorite drug which was her…y/n.

Y/n couldn’t stop the pang of immense hurt she felt in her chest when she saw Rafe around the island with Sofia, the Kook prince and princess’s separation spreading around like wildfire. Sure everyone knew y/n and Rafe were best friends but they knew that it was so much more than what met the eye. The impalpable chemistry between the two; suffocating any room they were in with great tension. Everyone felt like they just went together. A Kook bitch and Kook asshole who only had soft spots for each other. Y/n was kinder than Rafe but she could go on a real rampage like he did. Her fiery attitude matching his own in every way. So for everyone to see Rafe with someone as fucking bland as Sofia, it was a big shock. Kook girls and boys and pogues alike taking to the fact that the finest girl on the island was now out of the clutches of Rafe Cameron. And they took full advantage.

So yeah, maybe it hurt y/n to see Rafe parading around with Sofia; but she threw herself into the attention granted to her by the other cute islanders and left him as an after thought that constantly nagged in the back of her brain. Here she was dancing and grinding on cute boys and girls as they flocked to her. Her beautiful body looking so damn enticing as she moved around seductively to the beat of the music. Skimpy outfit accentuating her perfectly and the body glitter she had on, glimmering with each turn. She looked like a beach goddess, truly the baddest on the island. People couldn’t believe Rafe Cameron fumbled for a dud like Sofia, all modestly and blandness. The complete opposite of y/n.

Barry had been watching her all night, finally ready to make a move since Rafe wasn’t in the way anymore. The only reason he never has was because that’s his friend/business partner’s girl or at least she was. Also more so because, not that he doesn’t think she’s worth it; but he really didn’t want to face Rafe’s wrath. Him now knowing that she’s out of his clutches has him feeling over-confident, he’s making a move and making it tonight. Rafe could be stupid but he wouldn’t make the same mistake.

Y/n was wearing out, having danced off her buzz and needing more to keep her going and keep her distracted. She knew Rafe had been watching her all night, and she reveled in it. She loves it, she wants him to pine after her, grieve the loss of her companionship the way she grieved his. It boosted her pride from the amount of times he’s tried to reach out to her. He deserves to grovel for her attention and time. She’ll never let him live it down. But fuck does she miss him being her plug, needing a line ASAP. So she goes to the one person she knows will hook her up with no charge just with a bat of her wispy lashes and a pout from her pretty lips. Immediately making her way to Barry, hips swaying with each step and making party-goers from tour-ons to Kooks and Pogues alike, both men and women ogling her stunning self. Barry included as he watched her walk toward him.

Barry was one of the many people who’d been staring at her the whole night, his eyes running up and down her figure the whole time she was dancing. Barry wasn’t dumb, from the moment he met y/n he knew she was gorgeous. He was more than willing to accept any attention she gave him, allowing only her to bitch him out of product with a bat of her pretty eyes. She got near him, her lips twisting into a coy smile as she gave him those fuck me eyes that would make any man want to ravage her whole.

“Hi Barryyy,” she sighed out, coming up right in front of him and immediately sliding a manicured hand from his mid stomach, up to his chest. Letting him pull her in by the waist with one arm while the other held a red solo cup full of god knows what. Her arms immediately wrapping around his neck as she leaned her body into him. Plump tips pressed into his chest and nipples hard against him as she leaned her face close to his. Y/n always found Barry attractive, she didn’t mind letting him run his hands all over her. “Whatchu want, beautiful? Hmm?” He drawled, looking down at her beautiful face as she leaned her head back to give him doe-eyes that made him want to take her right there in the sand in front of everyone. “Need some more,” she whined lowly, brushing her lips against his and feeling his hand lower to her ass. Gripping a handful as she pressed into him more, biting her lip with a low moan as she allowed him to grope her. Her eyes fluttered as she moaned out an airy, ‘Baaarrryyyy.” Tightening her arms around him and brushing her lips against his cheek as she moaned into his ear the more he groped her.

Rafe was fuming, he wanted to fucking murder someone at this very moment. That someone being his fucking business partner who was grabbing all over his woman, but what hit him more is that she was allowing it. Liking it actually, her left leg coming up to wrap lightly around his as she let Barry press light kisses to her throat, hand still groping her ass as she leaned her head back. Rafe’s vision tunneled, his heart pounding in his chest his ears rang with rage. He felt his soul shattering, his heart shattering. He wanted to scream and cry and fall at her feet. Bury his face into her tummy that he loved so much and wrap his arms around her as he begged her to forgive him. The red solo cup in his hand crushing in his big palm as the contents of it spilled all over his hand. Not even giving a damn that his hand was all sticky or the gasp falling from Sofia’s lips as he took his arm from around her and shoved her to the side harshly. Tossing his cup and storming through the sand with only murder on his mind. People taking notice and moving to the side knowing he was more than willing to knock them over for being in his way.

Eyes began falling onto the scene of Rafe’s reddened face tightened in anger as he got closer to y/n and Barry. The two in their own world as y/n began grinding her hips into Barry’s bugle pressed against her, his cup having been tossed to the side so he could hold her leg against his hip and grind into her. He loved the way she smelled, her creamy vanilla scent making him want to devour her whole. He was more than willing to take her back to his tonight and give her whatever she wanted. Knowing of her high sex drive from all the times she practically almost fucked Rafe in front of him when they all hung out, getting high together. Y/n kept her head tilted back and eyes closed, she loved the feeling of Barry’s calloused hand gripping her under her tiny skirt, skin to skin due to the little thong she was wearing. She was more than willing to hook up with him tonight and get her mind off Rafe, about ready to tell Barry to take her somewhere private until a familiar grip tugged on her upper arm. Rafe pulled y/n away from Barry harshly, tossing her behind him into the sand as she gasped in shock. Party goers immediately going to her aid and helping her back up as she stabilized herself.

Rafe socked Barry in the jaw, immediately pushing him to the ground and landing punch after punch as his knuckles cracked open and his blood slipped out, Barry’s mixing in as he smashed his face in. Rafe’s vision was red and the only thing that brought him back was the familiar voice screaming in his ear and familiar hands tugging at his arm. ‘Stop! Stop! RAFE STOP!’ Her voice faded in, the ringing in his ears subsiding as he took in his surroundings once again. The bonfire now quiet except for the blasting music, everyone circled around the commotion as Barry groaned under him. Rafe still straddling him until he stumbled up, allowing the tugging on his arm to guide him. He looked around at everyone screaming out a, “the fuck are you looking at, huh?!” Glaring into the eyes cutting into him as people backed up. Another infamous rampage that would be the talk for weeks to come.

Rafe turned to the source of the tugging, taking in y/n’s pleading face as he grabbed her and manhandled her over his shoulder. Storming his way through the parting crowd, Sofia watching with teary eyes and an aching heart as he completed disregarded her. Y/n squirming around on his shoulder while she kicked her legs and pounded on his lower back. Screaming at him to let her down as he completely ignored her and headed straight for his truck.

He heard a voice that wasn’t y/n’s angry yells calling his name. Ignoring it as he got near his trucks passenger seat and opened it quickly, tossing y/n in and slamming the door shut. Immediately locking the car and slamming on his window with a “don’t fucking move!” Trudging to the drivers side and about ready to get in when a grip on his arm tugged at him. He turned around with rage in his eyes as he took in a crying Sofia; her voice cracking as she yelled at him with tears streaming fown her cheeks. “What is wrong with you?!” she cried, smacking at his chest as he stared at her emotionless.

Coldness in his eyes as he took the hands pounding into his chest and gripped them by her wrist. Huffing deeply from his nose as he caught her eyes with his, his wide open and crazed as he told her one thing, “you were nothing. Nothing but an easy fuck. You’re fucking pathetic, you’re fucking easy, and you’re a lousy lay. Keep your boring ass away from me, alright?! We’re done. Go bother some other sucker.” He said with complete harshness in his voice, his words cutting into her as he took his grip on her wrist to push her away from him. Her body stumbling and landing into the sand as she sobbed harder. Her entire soul shattered and heart stomped on. He didn’t give a single fuck, his mind consumed with one person who was staring straight through his window with rage in her eyes. Not daring to leave cause y/n knows he would chase after her and tackle her into the sand. He got in his seat and immediately drove away, away from all the chaos he caused because he’s an insolent, impulsive child who doesn’t know how to express himself correctly.

“You think that’s funny? Huh?!” He pressed y/n, turning to look at her with those crazed eyes as she crossed her arms over her chest, bringing one out to check her manicure as she scoffed and rolled her eyes. Already knowing how to handle the monster Rafe was when he was full of anger. He drove fast and recklessly, his gaze continuously whipping between her and the road as she refused to speak to him. Staring out the window as she ignored the tension that was almost suffocating in the car. Rafe reached his hand over and gripped her chin to make her face him, looking back at the road as she struggled with getting the painful grip of his hand off her face. “When I ask you a question, you fucking answer me!” He squeezed her face harder, making her cry out as she began clawing at his arms with her nails; angry red streaks tainting his skin as he sped up.

“Fuck you!” She spit out, bringing her hands to smack at his face as they struggled with each other. Rafe eventually pulling away to grip both hands on the wheel and pulling the car quickly into his lane when it veered over into the other one. Almost hitting another car that was honking harshly at him. “I’ll kill both of us right the fuck now! You think I won’t?! I’ll fucking take you down with me, baby!” He screamed at her as she kept smacking at him. Biting his hand when he tried to grip her face again and digging her teeth in. Making him hiss and pull it away quickly, drops of blood leaking out from how deep she bit into him. “Do it then you fucking pussy! You’re so fucking pathetic!” she screamed at him.

Fortunately, Rafe pulled into Tannyhill’s driveway and brought the car to a screeching halt. Quickly putting the car in park; hopping out and storming to the passenger side as he tugged it open and dragged her out of the car by her arm. Slamming the door and manhandling her all the way to the front door of his house, till he opened it and pushed her forward. Watching her stumble in and almost fall to her knees but quickly catching her balance and turning around to face him. The same crazed look in her eyes as he brought out her monster that matched his to play.

Y/n rushed at him and tried to knock him in his jaw, Rafe’s reflexes quick as he grabbed her wrist and tugged her into him with it. Other hand wrapping around her throat and squeezing harshly as he cut off her air supply, her feistiness subsiding as her face turned red and her free hand began clawing at his wrist to make him release her. He finally did and she stumbled back gasping harshly for air as she caught her breath. Her spotty vision going back to normal as she looked at him. The two breathing harshly, chest quickly rising up and down as they sized each other up. She walked to him quickly, her cute sandal-heels clacking as she brought her hand up and back-handed him so hard his bottom lip split open from the diamond ring on her finger.

When Rafe turned his head to look at her again, she back handed him again. Watching him as he let out a pained groan and brought his hand to his pounding cheek. Feeling the cut she left on his lip and cheek; dabbing the blood dripping out with the tip of his middle finger as he looked at her. Her eyes daring him to test her again as his monster submitted to hers, the two staring at each other as his eyes began water, tears dripping down his cheeks as a pained sob left his mouth. Falling to his knees as he crawled to her and grabbed her by her lower back, tugging her to him as he buried his face into her bare stomach. His heavy tears wetting her smooth skin as he sobbed all his frustrations and heartache out.

“M’sorry! I’m so fucking sorry!” He cried out, his voice full of emotion as he sobbed into her. Apologizing for everything. For making her feel used, making her feel like she was nothing to him when she was everything. Sorry for all the hurt he caused her, both mental and physical; he knew he wasn’t good for her. He’d always known and he was proving himself right. Sobbing into her harder as his hands splayed flat against her lower back to push his face deeper into her stomach, “please y/n! Please!” He looked up at her then, on his knees with a red face as tears continued to run down his cheeks, snot dripping from his nose. Completely hysterical as she clenched both her fist by her side, starting at him down her nose with no emotion in her eyes. Cold and the complete ice queen he knows she can be.

“I can-I can’t fucking taking it anymore! It’s driving me insane! You’re driving me insane! I’m fucking sorry! I never meant to hurt you y/n, please believe me! I-I was so fucked up that day and Sofia wanted me so bad! It made me feel good! Good to have her falling at my feet! But she isn’t you baby, please!” He choked out, baring his soul through his mouth and pleading eyes as she continued staring down at him with no emotion. He wrapped his arms completely around her, chin resting on her stomach as he cried up to her.

“You’re everything! Everything to me! From the moment I met you, I knew it! I-I didn’t know how to handle all the emotion you make me feel, you make my head go haywire! It’s overwhelming an-and fuck! I didn’t know how to handle it, you’re so much better than me! You’re too good for me! You know it, I know it! The whole fucking island knows it! And Sofia was easy! She fell at my feet and made me feel like a fucking god! But baby, you! You make me feel like I belong, like i’m not alone an-and you love me for who I am! You always have and I always knew it! Because I love you the same way baby, love you so much mama! You’re everything to me, y/n! Everything! I love you! I love you! And you love me!” He finished, tears still pouring out of his eyes as her hands unclenched. Rafe was ready for her to caress him, tell him it was going to be all okay in her usual coo and tell him that they were okay. That she loved him just the same and that they could move on and start over. But what he expected to be an affectionate caress was actually a harsh shove.

Y/n pushed at his shoulders, pushing his face away from her stomach as she began clawing at his arms around her. “Get off,” she said coldly; continuing to push him away as he tightened his grip and shook his head side to side. A fresh batch of tears pouring down his cheeks. “Rafe get the fuck off of me!” She screamed, shoving him for the last time as he let go. His arms feeling to his sides with defeat as he stared at her with red eyes. Watching y/n as she stepped back and let out a sarcastic laugh. Shaking her head with a scoff at the end and crossing her arms over her chest.

“You are so fucking pathetic.” She bit out, voice harsh. Not one ounce of the affection she use to regard him with left in her voice. Rafe whimpering at that, opening his mouth to continue groveling until she spoke up again and raised a hand to signal him to be quiet. “Don’t. You had your chance to speak, now listen to me.” Rafe’s mouth immediately shutting closed into a tight line as he submitted and listened to her intently. Eyes pleading, as her hand lowered and she stared him down.

“So what? You treated me like shit because I didn’t what? Fall at your feet like that pathetic little pogue, bitch!” She shouted at him, her crazed eyes cutting into him. “Awww poor baby,” she mocked, “doesn’t know how to be a man and express himself so he acts like the little bitch he is! You’re so fucking sad, you know that? I loved you Rafe. So much! I gave you me in my entirety! I gave you all of me! Not just my heart, body, and soul but my mind! I let you know the darkest parts of me! Things no one else knows! And you did what? Tossed me to the side because some boring bitch gave you a bit of attention? Because she kissed the ground you walked on like the pathetic low life she is!” She spoke firmly, her face in a scowl of disgust as she stared him down like he was nothing.

“You’re just as fucking stupid as her! You’re both pathetic. I want nothing, and listen to me closely.” She walked to him, gripping his face in her hand and digging her nails into him. His lips squished as he stared up at her pathetically. “I want nothing to do with you. You’re nothing to me anymore, nothing. You’re just a pathetic coke head with daddy issues and mommy issues who never grew up. You don’t know how express yourself at your grown age and act like a man. Grow the fuck up Rafe! You’re a little boy, a stupid little boy. I was so blinded by my love for you that I didn’t realize how much of a bitch you really are. This is the first and last time I’m gonna say this. Leave. me. the fuck. alone.” She snarled at him, teeth bared at him like a lioness ready to attack her prey.

“I’m the best thing to happen to you baby, and you threw it all away for some bottom barrel pussy and easy attention. I’ll be fine, I’ll prosper. I can have anyone I want and do whatever the hell I set my mind too. I don’t need you. I never have and never will. I let you in because I wanted too, not because I needed too. The only difference between us is that I only wanted you but you need me. You need me. You always have and always will. But I’m done with you. For good. Go back to your sloppy little bitch and stay the fuck out of my life. You two low lives deserve each other. I’ll find the man who can stand by me without being so fucking intimated.” She spit out harshly, releasing the grip on his face as she walked back away from him slowly, giving him one last glare as she turned on her heels and headed for the front door. Ready to walk out of his life and leave him in the dirt.

Rafe shuffled forward on his knees as he pleaded with her, spitting out one last, “please y/n! Please baby! You’re right, you’re so fucking right! I need you baby please don’t leave me! I’ll do anything!” He sobbed out once more, watching as her hand stopped on the handle of the door as she pondered his words and turned back to him. Rafe feeling a lightening in his chest as hope grew. Ready for her to take him back, light building in his eyes. Until it all came shattering back down when she let out a mocking laugh. Eyes cutting into him with that condescending look that made anyone in her line of sight feel so little. Him included.

“Had I known me fucking you would get you so attached, I would have never done it. Now clean yourself up, you’re killing my fucking mood more than you already have.” Throwing his words back at him as she turned back around and opened the door. Slamming it behind it and walking out into the cool air of the night. Leaving Rafe behind, for good. Him shattered to nothing while she found a renewed sense of life. Her chest lightening as she felt a weight lift off her shoulders.

She’d be okay. Better than okay, she’d be great. She was a strong woman and no pathetic man was gonna break her down and make her into nothing. She would prosper and give herself a better life. Already making plans to leave the island, leave this place full of tainted memories behind and find a place to make new ones. She would start over and create her own happiness. Her confidence bursting back into her as she walked down the driveway with a renewed sense of pride. Hope for better running through her. And as for Rafe … his soul died. His spirit broken, heart shattering to a million pieces in such a way that could never be properly put back together. Pieces of it missing forever, the biggest piece of it walking out of his life. And y/n only thought one thing. Fuck Rafe Cameron.

˖₊⊹ ᡣ𐭩 ˖₊⊹ ᡣ𐭩 ˖₊⊹

a/n: PHEW! that was intense! sorry if yall wanted them to reconcile but nuh uh ——that boy grovel in his misery! pls let me know your thoughts in the comments! it would be deeply appreciated it! much love

taglist: @drewstarkeys-world @maybankslover

[burningcheese-merchant]

Merchant! Please, rant to us about the mythological inspirations of the BurningCheese!

The fact that I came home and sat down and wrote out a detailed post for this ask... The fact that I did research into Hindu mythology for BurningCheese inspo in the first place... (sidenote: Hinduism is legitimately interesting, I had genuine fun learning about it even outside of cringe shipping bs)

THE FACT THAT THERE'S ACTUAL SHIT TO WORK WITH...

Buckle up, buckaroos lol (I'll put it under a cut in case it turns out really long)

Do note that I am not a religious scholar nor a follower of Hinduism, and I didn't do a suuuuuuuper deep dive. I spent a few hours reading different articles/sources and looking at some paintings and the like. Whatever I say is what I derived from my own personal understanding (and my old notes), which may well be flawed!

Let's start with the obvious.

Burning Spice is directly inspired by Shiva, Hindu god of destruction. Important note: in the actual religion, Shiva is not malevolent; the destruction he brings is considered a necessary part of life and the foundation of cosmic balance. He can be temperamental and violent, yes, but he is by and large a pretty decent guy and performs his duty in the cycle of life and death without complaint (obviously, this is where Spice deviates lol)

His hair is a fucking pitch black jungle. Matted af. Just like Burning Spice's. I just felt like saying that lmao (they both look like shit, Shiva wears animal skins and dead people's ashes and doesn't brush his damn hair. HE WENT TO HIS OWN WEDDING LOOKING LIKE THAT! (Until Parvati told him to please freshen up and he went "yes dear, anything for you <3" and manifested fancy groom attire))

Now let's poke our heads into the rabbit hole.

Parvati is Shiva's wife, whom he adores and is wholly devoted to (and vice versa).

She is revered as a life-giver. A goddess of creation, love, devotion, and... ABUNDANCE.

Parvati has many forms. Her original form is that of a beautiful woman wearing a red sari, with a GOLDEN HEADDRESS/HEADBAND and LOTS OF GOLD JEWELRY AND PRECIOUS STONES, WHICH SHE LOVES.

She's very beloved by pretty much everyone. She's elegant, vivacious, and revered as a doting wife and mother

I'm not finished.

One of Parvati's forms is that of a fierce warrior woman called Durga. She is powerful, confident, and no less beautiful than her original self

She has many arms, and a sacred weapon in each one. One of which is a GOLDEN SPEAR.

Durga is regarded as a goddess of protection, war and destruction - but not the malevolent sort. She fights and destroys the forces of evil, for the sake of others'; the destruction she brings is in the name of protecting and liberating innocents, and empowering creation

One of her epithets is Mahamoha, which means "great delusion" - and in this context, the delusion/ignorance derives from intense desire and attachment

Now, with all of that said, I'm gonna tell you guys a story.

Shiva's first wife was Sati, daughter of Daksha. Though they were madly in love, Daksha despised him and never approved of their relationship

The blood between them was so bad that Daksha declined to invite either of them to the yajna (VERY important ritual sacrifice) he was hosting. Against both social norms and Shiva's advice, Sati showed up anyway, which led to her father cruelly insulting her, her marriage and basically her whole fucking life in front of everybody

In protest of everyone's derision of her and the life she chose to live, she throws herself on the sacrificial fire and thus kills herself (extreme and unnecessary, I know lol). Shiva finds out and LOSES. HIS. SHIT. Shows up, goes on a rampage, hurts a bunch of people, beheads Daksha (whom he revives and pardons eventually)

In his grief, Shiva basically decides to retire from everything and seclude himself in the mountains, denouncing the world and everything in it and refusing to interact with anyone or anything

Sati ends up reincarnating as Parvati. She remembers exactly who she is/was, and made it her mission to return to Shiva's side and rekindle their relationship

Shiva doesn't buy that that's his beloved and rebuffs her. She doesn't give up. She tries over and over again to convince him and win his affection. She endures harsh weather without appropriate clothes, starvation, the faces of her own fears and doubts, endlessly; all while continuously performing acts of religious penance/piety. So unwavering is she in her strength and devotion that Shiva eventually, finally realizes that that really is the woman he loved and lost

They reunite and remarry quickly (and it was a big blowout event, too! Very important, there are even several sculptures depicting it!) and they live happily ever after

And a short summary of their union:

Shiva and Parvati are considered complementary forces; one without the other does not make sense and simply cannot be. Parvati is the warm, life-affirming, creative force that balances Shiva's cold, world-denying, destructive one. She's portrayed as having lured Shiva away from his lonely, ascetic lifestyle and showed him the value of life, love and marriage. They're almost always depicted together in artworks, as they're admired/adored not only for their loving partnership, but for the way they uphold cosmic order together. They are life and death. Attachment and detachment. ABUNDANCE AND DESTRUCTION.

It's commonly stated that Parvati is the outright source of Shiva's power. His shakti (not super sure how to explain what this is, it's not very simple. It's... ultimate cosmic energy, basically). She encourages and energizes him. Without her, he is incomplete

They have two kids :P two sons, Ganesha and Kartikeya. (I DID NOT KNOW THIS when I first made up the fankids, I just happened to guess the correct number of kids to give them lol. I thus decided to partially base Pepper Jack on Ganesha and Matar Paneer on Kartikeya, enjoy those links where I explain properly haha (and you can look through their tags to see more abt them if you want))

They also jointly represent harmony between sexes. Shiva is the male aspect, Parvati is the female

They also jointly symbolize love, devotion and sexuality and are said to have a lot of sex (and are also often depicted having sex)

Let me walk you guys through it all one more time. A god who, in his endless rage and grief, chose to forsake the world and all within it, for he believed he had nothing left to value from it...

Who is temperamental, violent, and is not above lashing out at others when he feels wronged... who can and will destroy everything in his path... (You don't need screenshot evidence of this but whatever lol)

Who will lash out at others if they dare to lay their hands on his counterpart, or otherwise keep him away from her...

... And his counterpart, a beautiful, vibrant, benevolent goddess who can take many different forms, including that of an elegant queen adorned with gold and gems, and a great, fearless warrior... (You notice how there's some red in her Soul Jam now? There's that bit of Destruction, used to defend others...)

Who's known and loved for the boundless love and warmth and charity she bestows upon one and all...

Who's known as a creator, a life-giver; who so cherishes the world and what she makes that she allows herself to descend into madness in pursuit of preserving it all... Whose desire and attachment led to ignorance and delusion...

Who, in stubborn defiance of the cruelties she faced, chose to remove herself from them and from the world itself for a time, only to eventually return with her identity and life's purpose still intact, and livelier than ever...

Who takes the form of a hero, a protector of the innocent, a warrior who battles against evil and seeks to vanquish oppression and tyranny...

And together, she and he make up the foundation of the world. The threads with which the great tapestry of the universe is woven. Life and death. Attachment and love for the world, and detachment from and contempt for it. A woman dressed in the finest garments and jewelry, and a man who embodies the unforgiving wilderness in which he sequesters himself.

Abundance and Destruction.

In conclusion: Burning Spice and Golden Cheese are literally Shiva and Parvati, they are husband and wife, they NEED each other and are meant to be together, together they create and maintain the balance of life and the universe, we must all band together and demand that Devsisters release the cutscene that shows their wedding, they are the bride and the ugly ass groom fr fr

[igotanidea]

Somebody's watching me : AK!Jason x reader

Request: AK! jason hears y/n’s name from his opponent and just goes nuts like he goes home looking for her.

A/N : the requests is a little twisted, as usual, but I hope you'll still like it anon :D

***

It was gone.

His old life was gone.

And with it, everyone he knew before.

All that was left was revenge, hate, rage. And this unstoppable need for killing someone, destroy something, wreck havoc on every single person who did him any wrong.

Bruce.

Fucking Batman.

He was the Arkham Knight now.

Nothing more, nothing less.

Focused on building his position so that no one, no fucking one, would ever hold any power over him.

And if that meant keeping tabs on everyone under his watchful gaze so be it.

And if that meant putting some pressure on everyone who dared to do as much as step a toe over the line, so be it.

And disturbances?

Defnitely not something he was about to allow.

And now he was holding a gun to one of his goons head.

"What did you do?" he hissed, his voice distorted by the helmet

"Sir, I --"

"What did you do?" Jason repeated pressing the metal more into man's head.

"I-- I disobeyed--"

"You disobeyed. And do you know what happens to people who disobey me?"

"Sir, please this is--"

Jason shot in the air and the man almost fell to his feet.

"It was-"

"I'm not going to give a warning shot again"

"I was-"

"I'm gonna count to three now. One."

"There's this girl."

"Two."

"Her name is Y/N."

"thr-- what?"

"She is very distant family, but --"

"Shut up!" Jason yelled, his face twisted with rage, not that anyone could see his expression hidden under the metal. "Shut the fuck up you hear me!" it took him two steps to be in front of the man, yanking him up by the collar and pinning to the wall with brutal force, half-chocking him "you ever do as much as think her name again and I'll kill you and put your head on a stick as a warning to anyone who dare have a thought of himself. YOU HEAR ME!?"

"y-ye-yes..."

"now get the fuck out of here!" the man was violently thrown on the floor, getting up as fast as he could and rushing out the door. It was truly a miracle he lived to tell the tale, cause Arkham Knight was not known for his leniency.

But Y/N.

Someone from his past.

More than someone.

A girl, a woman, he was once in love with.

A woman, whose name he forgot in the pursuit after Batman.

Or rather - tried to forget.

She was the only one who ever got him. The only one to accept him fully, with all his flaws.

His Y/N.

His Y/N who betrayed him just like anyone else. Who forgot him. Who moved on without giving as much as a single thought to him when he was lost. Who was never looking for him.

His Y/N.

It;s been years since he heard anyone mention her. Years since he swore to never get manipulated again.

And then.

Just a few letters mixed together. Just a few sounds.

And she was right behind his eyes, just like he remembered her. Because even his dark side refused to let go of the rememberance of their time together.

Her laugh. Her smile. Her eyes and freckles from the sun, as fleeting as the summer days they were spending together. Her calmness, care and tenderness when she was patching up his woudns, tiredlessly putting on bandaids and stitches.

Fuck!

He didn't need that.

Just another phase of brainwashing. If not from his capturers than from his own men.

Hell no.

He was going to say no to the past life once and for all.

Hunting her down, wherever she may be.

See her for the last time.

Pour hatred in his heart, destroying all the remaining piece of useless softness and caring he carried in his soul.

Burn the last link connecting him to the past down.

***

She was spending the night in her old apartment. Sitting by the same desk, with the same lamp, in the same posture she ever did.

One leg half bent and folded under her ass, the other hanging loose in the air.

"You're going to end up with numbness..." he muttered to himself, watching her from the opposite rooftop.

Obviously she couldn;t hear him, but something made her raise her head and look outside the window while simultaniously changing the position.

Jason smiled despite himself.

His heart skipped a beat and sudden warmth spread in his chest.

Only for a second though, since he rememembered why he was here in the first place.

Look at her.

So fucking good.

So fucking calm and happy, while he-

fuck!

traitorous bitch.

Maybe it was her plan from the very beggining. Conspiring with Batman only to get rid of him, so they could both be free of the burdening presence of a man once known as Jason Todd.

Y/N...

Regardless of how sweet her name may have tasted on his tongue he would rather cut it off than fall down that rabit hole again.

He was cold as ice. Brutal. Cruel. Ruthless.

And it was not going to change because he saw her.

Not in the million years.

She was the reason of his fallout. She should have stopped him from going on that stupid mission. She should have made him stay, showed him she cared enough to keep him grounded.

It was all her fault that that after being captured all he could think about was how she was going to survive without him. How her heart would break into million pieces, instead of figuring out a way to free himself.

It was all her fault that he became the Arkham Knight. Cause inhumanity was equal with survival. And survival meant living. And living meant keeping his legacy.

So yes, he hated her.

He hated her, because every single thing he did and every little thing done to him was because and thanks to her.

She was the reason of him getting on top, but also the person responsible for his failure as a person.

She was nothing.

She was everything.

And for the first time since capturing, torturing and tranformation Jason felt conflicted.

Y/N...

His Y/N...

Not his anymore...

***

When some force made her stand up and come to window all she saw was a blink of metal on the rooftop. And since she spend half of her life with vigilantes, it was easy to realise that this must have been one of them.

But the silhouette of a running man couldn;t have been Dick nor Tim nor any other hero she would recognise.

And despite herself, she felt a shiver running down her spine.

Someone was watching her.

[anima-nostrae]

TROP's Galadriel is a fucking fantastically made character

And I'm tired of pretending otherwise.

I did not watch “The Rings of Power” when it first came out. I thought about watching it back then but I, like so many others, believed in the words and warnings of popular youtubers who made their careers under the presupposition that they not only know of the art of storytelling, but they understand it: so much so, that they easily distinguish what is good storytelling, and what is not.

One of the primary reasons I didn’t care for it, apart from not being a fan of *The Lord of the Rings, (*more because of never reaching for it than because of any strong feelings against it - which, I am happy to say, has since very much changed), was because of the show’s treatment of Galadriel. I did not know The Lord of the Rings, but I did know Galadriel. This fearsome, tall woman who commanded attention by the pure force of her presence, almost divine in her likeness, was someone I always cherished - without even knowing her story. Here was the evidence of a woman existing in a story that needn’t a sword to show her strength, her power. She didn’t need any stereotypically masculine strengths to be respected by other men. She was the victory of femininity distilled.

Then, earlier this year, right about when The Rings of Power’s season 2 was coming to a close, I was convinced by the sheer amount of advertisements of the show to give it a watch. “Fine,” I thought, “I will see this flaming pile of compost for myself.”

And since then this new version of Galadriel has not only won my attention, she has won my heart. I have finally watched all the movies, I have started reading the books: something that the movies by themselves would never convince me to do. I fell in love with the Middle Earth, and in the prose of Tolkien, in this unique English fairytale.

But more than that: I have gazed upon the last two years with an old longing, one with the sense of a wasted time. I could have known about Middle Earth way sooner, I could have dreamed with it and lived with it for two years.

And that sense made me look back on its cause: the youtubers whose opinions I trusted, and particularly their treatment of Galadriel.

Guess then who I found shoveling a grand bullshit pile of poor analysis towards me?

Yes, yes you guessed it.

They called her many a word, scarcely any good ones - “Mary Sue”, “unlikeable”, “a brash, violent, unsympathetic dick”.

And it was a bunch of men who could not tell “character motivation” and “character flaw” apart from each other, who could not separate their distaste for women better than them at anything from the “political motivations” of writers, men who cannot spell “complex” but who claim they yearn for it in their protagonists.

So I sat down with what I do best: I watched season one again, I wrote out all my thoughts, I analysed the dialogue and symbolism - and came to my own conclusions, undisturbed by murmurs of insecure people. It was just the creative work itself, and my thoughts on it.

And what I found was a complex, flawed female protagonist, that I for so long had a burning ache for. A character that I suppose, if outright given a chance, a lot of people would love.

(This is a very long essay. More of it, and subsequent parts here:)

This is an almost vomit - pile - essay more than stream - of - consciousness - essay, I'd say. Sorry in advance

[grahambaham]

Controversial opinion, especially for any Jason Todd fans out there (I'm one of them), but I completely understand why the fans in, the 80' I think, voted to kill him off. Hear me out, okay?

Jason was at first a literal Dick Grayson copy, was legit given his backstory and personality with the name being the only change. And for a while that was all they knew about and, rightfully so, hated about him. Now I'm not sure whether he was given the whole Alley kid who tried to steal Batman's tire story before or after his death but either way, in those fans' minds, Jason Todd was just a boring replica of Dick Grayson and no one liked him. If I was alive and a fan back then, I honestly would have done the same thing.

WHICH IS WHY I HAVE SUCH A HUGE PROBLEM WITH THE WRITERS DOING TO JASON THE EXACT SAME THING THAT GOT HIM KILLED OFF BEFORE!!!

Jason immediately after getting brought back to life was a villain. He wasn't misguided, he wasn't an antihero, my man was a Villain with a capital V. He didn't protect workings girls or children from any drugs or anything, he just made one off hand comment to a guy not to sell to kids and that's it. One of his only interactions with any prostitutes is to mock her for her past and decisions that led to her becoming one. Bruce did not abuse him or attack him unfairly. Jason had not only tried to kill Joker or other horrible villains, he killed anyone whether they were rapists, or robbers, or petty fucking thieves and he didn't do it for justice or whatever the fuck but because he was angry and taking it out on everyone he could get his hands on. He stopped Batman from going after Nightwing after Bludhaven blew up with him in it. He blew up a school. He beat up Tim in his little Robin panties and was a fucking villain.

I love Jason. But I love him as the messed up asshole he is. Not as some misguided wittle antihero. Which is why I despise the fact that the fandom latched onto the completely inaccurate version of him, because the writers of DC had started writing him the way the fandom wanted and he is now irreversibly ruined. Aside from the already mentioned stuff, they made him into a copy of Dick Grayson (for the second fucking time) and Helena Bertinelli.

Helena is the one protecting women and children, the antihero that often uses violent force. She's the one with the reluctant sibling relationship with Tim. Jason was not Tim's Robin by the way, Dick was. Tim does not like Jason one fucking bit and spends most of their forced interactions roasting him so bad he has to buy burn salves. Also her personality was taken and given to Jason in some ways too, like her manner of speech and stuff, but I'm willing to let that slide as accidental.

From Dick Grayson, they mostly took his relationships, romantic and platonic. Jason slept with Barbara and Kori both, which aside from just being dumb as hell is also weird and creepy because Jason is six years younger than them at least and they knew him as a fourteen year old when they were at least twenty, and they would never date someone so much younger than them, they aren't fucking creeps. Then they took Starfire and Arsenal and made them forget their own lives to join Jason's little antihero team (neither of them are antiheroes what the fuck) and act like the sun shines out of Jason's ass and he's their leader or some shit when they would never follow him before that, especially Roy who has led so many other teams and does not deserve that shit. Some fans also ship him and Jason, which is both creepy and character assassination for Roy's entire character more than him being friends with Jason and in the Outlaws already is.

Also, Pit Madness is not a thing you fucking brainless losers. Stop trying to justify and erase the flaws that make him an interesting character. His anger has always been due to the trauma of being tortured and dying and the misguided feeling of betrayal he felt for Bruce. He was unwell and taking his problems out on others. So, repeat after me: PIT MADNESS IS NOT A REAL THING!!!

Thank you for reading <3

[bisclavret]

like many who have suffered at the hands of bbc merlin before me, i recently indulged in a thought experiment in which i outlined my own version of seasons 3-5 that stay thematically and tonally in line with the show (except they're less fucking stupid). but then i quickly realized that focusing on details is pointless: all you need is to solve the one Big Problem the show has, and the rest will follow. the problem in question? ✨morgana✨

i like the first two seasons. s1 achieves what it sets out to do and has fun while doing it, and s2, while flawed, sets up a ton of potential that the following seasons unfortunately squander, beginning with the insidious season 3. you can only distract me with cute knights and goblins and fart jokes for so long before i start seeing through you, evil, evil season of television.

my hypothesis is that if the writers had crafted s3 morgana into anything more sympathetic than a violent half-alive poltergeist that can never be reasoned with because she's suddenly terminally off her rocker, everything would've fallen into place. a sympathetic morgana would've made real, valid arguments against uther (and arthur) that wouldn't just be the ramblings of a woman possessed. her betrayal of arthur would have stemmed from her feeling increasingly morally superior to him because of his complacency in the face of their father's tyranny. under morgause's guidance she would stop believing that arthur is capable of change, and the whole point would be that she might actually be right. arthur would have to actively try and prove her wrong, instead of getting praised for doing the bare minimum because the bar is on the floor.

furthermore, morgana's prophetic dream about arthur and gwen becoming king and queen and her decision to prevent this however she can is a direct parallel to merlin learning about that same prophecy and making it happen by any means necessary. merlin's desires about his and arthur's futures are subtextually fueled by gay love and devotion, so why couldn't morgana's be? why couldn't she properly express her bitterness that arthur gets to be with gwen in a way she can't "took gwen away" from her, instead of suddenly declaring that gwen is nothing more than a servant, after two seasons of demonstrating again and again that she loves, values, and respects gwen more than anyone else in that godforsaken castle?

following this, an angry and emotionally volatile but still sensible morgana asking gwen to stay by her side during the coup of the castle in the s3 finale and gwen going behind her back to help arthur and the knights would've hurt like a bitch. double-sided betrayal! gwen having a real plot! the proper beginnings of a toxic yuri that would shape a generation!

then there's the utter hubris of having morgana shoot arrows at the same civilians she worried herself sick over for 2 seasons — even morgan, her medieval counterpart that was rooted in every sexist trope in existence, doesn't just go around killing senselessly but instead has (often petty!) personal vendettas against gwen, arthur, and the knights. morgana had every right to be sick of the pretensions around chivalry in camelot (she was always quick to mock it, even in s1), and to lash out at the knights and soldiers after years of feeling powerless in a castle full of armed men that blindly followed her oppressor. the show conveniently forgets that morgana was victimized as a woman as well as a sorcerer those first 2 seasons.

but like i said, this is not just about morgana. allowing her to remain a real and multifaceted character even as she betrays everyone in pursuit of her ambitions would've given the rest of the core four more interesting conflict to work with: merlin because he would have to experience real consequences to his actions, arthur because he would watch his sister go against his father (and his knights, and his birthright) and experience some actual internal dilemmas about it, and gwen because she would be forced to choose between morgana and arthur without the pretense that it's an obvious or easy choice for her to make.

even morgause and gaius would come off more interesting as mentors: neither one inherently evil or inherently good, both jaded by events that happened before our protagonists were even born, both heavily influencing morgana and merlin into fulfilling roles that they think are appropriate, but that morgana and merlin may not have chosen for themselves had they not been under their care.

you get the gist. if the show followed its own setup, morgana's mistakes wouldn't lie in cheap and senseless acts of violence but in alienating the people she loves because she is too hurt and jaded to trust them. meanwhile, everybody else would feel guilt over "failing" her and yet they would be too caught up in their own (sometimes flawed!) beliefs of right and wrong to truly see her point of view.

arthur would convince himself it was sorcery that corrupted her. merlin would know that isn't true but he wouldn't be able to argue without confessing everything, which is the defining conflict between him and morgana and it's cheapened when she's just an evil witch caricature and merlin is framed as inherently virtuous in contrast. gwen, too, would become a more active participant in her own life by choosing arthur over morgana and choosing to rule camelot with him instead of just waiting politely to see where things go.

and, of course, uther's downfall and death would be quick, final, and completely earned — when and why did the show even decide he of all people was the sympathetic villain, anyway?

lastly, and perhaps controversially, i think morgana should've learned merlin's true identity by season 4. her being the first of the main characters to find out makes perfect sense considering their shared history and their interconnected and mirrored arcs. even the show seems to agree, considering she does find out a little before arthur. but the narrative itself tried pointing flashing neon arrows towards this way earlier — there is a whole entire episode in s4 where merlin being emrys is repeatedly spelled out for morgana and she still isn't allowed to see it. that episode makes her look like the stupidest person to ever live, which is pretty funny im not gonna lie, but also another frustrating thing in the endless string of frustrating things that make up this show.

morgana learning that merlin has magic would've transformed the source of merlin's anxiety from a crippling fear of being outed someday to the crippling fear of knowing she could out him at any moment. this would make him want to beat her to the punch (perhaps he'd consider killing her for a minute and decide against it because she isn't a cartoonishly insane evil person in my version of events) and maybe he would even feel some tentative excitement at the idea of coming clean, now that it seems inevitable. after all, he always intended to tell arthur eventually! and i think gaius would have to admit outright that he does not want merlin to tell arthur he has magic because he, gaius, simply cannot risk such a gamble. it would be so interesting to see gaius and merlin clash and disagree once it becomes obvious that it's not merlin that isn't ready for the reveal, it's gaius. delicious!

with morgana's knowledge looming, things would inevitably spiral into a magic reveal by the end of season 4. i picture this season as an absolute mess of miscommunication between everyone at camelot, which is, y'know, canon. growing increasingly cunning and vengeful, morgana would use this tension to her advantage, destabilizing the court from the outside while she creates alliances with other sorcerers outside of camelot (instead of living alone in a hovel for no reason — morgana le fay i'm sorry i'm so sorry they gave you agravaine instead of your all-female entourage oh my god).

and here's where the events would change beyond recognition (aka here's where the meta becomes the fanfic i refuse to write). picture it with me: a militia of sorcerers infiltrates camelot and arthur and gwen have to set aside their differences (assuming gwen kissing lancelot and arthur overreacting happens, which it should) for the good of the kingdom as well as for love. picture high priestess morgana in her element, side by side with a bunch of misfit sorcerers that aren't so easily vilified, chopping down camelot's soldiers and knights and assuredly making their way to the newly-minted king.

then, just as it starts to seem that all hope is lost, in swoops merlin (the actual merlin, not his old fart disguise) on dragonback (kilgharrah hates morgana so much i know his sexist ass would stoop to anything to stop her)!!! imagine merlin showing off the extent of his powers in front of everyone and preventing the sorcerers from getting any further, declaring loud and clear that camelot is protected by him, by emrys. imagine that display of power alone being enough to send everyone home.

imagine the loyalties clearly drawn: merlin on arthur's side, morgana on the sorcerers'. imagine arthur, feeling confused and betrayed by everyone at this point, banishing merlin despite everything he's done for him in the angstiest, most emotionally dysregulated scene the show had ever put to screen. imagine merlin starting season 5 free at last but very lonesome, an embittered dragonlord like his father. imagine the absolute mess camelot would become without him, even with gwen — now queen guinevere — there to pick up the slack. imagine arthur actually earning merlin back, finally growing into his role as king as he does so. imagine the reunion.

all this and more could've been not just possible but inevitable if morgana was allowed to remain a complex character that is neither inherently good nor inherently evil: it was undeniably the biased and one-note treatment of morgana's downfall by the writers that set the precedent for literally everything else that happened after merlin chose to poison her. the show wouldn't have even had to jeopardize its tone or the monster-of-the-week vibe, all it would've had to do is admit that even the "good guys" are capable of mistakes and what makes them good is the ability to feel remorse and change for the better. (as opposed to uther, who was miles beyond redemption since way before the pilot and deserved to lose everything and die alone. OBVIOUSLY???)

in a world where morgana remains multifaceted and sympathetic, mordred would get a better arc as well, so if we really wanted to, we could still end on the same tragic note that the show ended on. with so much harm inflicted onto so many innocent people by the pendragons for so long (including mordred and the many druids and sorcerers that raised him), it could realistically end up being a little too late for anything more than one shining glimpse of king arthur and the sorcerer merlin's short-lived golden age before fate catches up to them. glimpsing that reality just to immediately lose it would've been far more satisfying and far more tragic than whatever the writers thought they were doing with all that pointless carrot-dangling.

and finally, an ending in line with morgana's new and improved arc. in this version, rather than bleeding out on the forest floor alone, she would channel the morgan le fay we know from the legends: sobered up by the reality of her brother dying, she would use her high priestess status (and perhaps also her pendragon status) to be granted passage over to avalon alongside arthur on the boat — a one-way ride — just to make sure he gets there safely. this is her penance for the harm she has caused, the same way arthur's penance is to die and leave the true ruler of camelot (gwen) behind to achieve everything he was too slow and indecisive to build while he still had time.

merlin's penance, then, would be to stay behind and watch them cross over without him, waiting and waiting and waiting until they come back or until he can finally join them. which is a bit fucking harsh if i'm honest, so i'd at least make it slightly more faithful to the legends by having him return as an old man and letting him take a long nap under a tree by the shore, his body slowly enveloped by vines like the cobwebbed fisher king in 3x08, never fully sure if he's dreaming or if there really are strange shapes fading in and out of the fog over the lake. still tragic, but nevertheless a little more open-ended and whimsical than [TRUCK NOISES] THE END!

[leahkentwriter]

Backstories for girls and women in stories that *don't* involve sexual assault.

I beta read a lot, and am involved in writing communities of various kinds, and I briefly taught English way back in the day, and I consume storytelling media in general - and one of my biggest pet peeves is sexual assault backstories. While I think this is improving, it's still annoying to me that a lot of writers (of all genders, but particularly men) fall back on a sexual assault backstory whenever they need to make a girl or woman in a story complicated or haunted or fucked up in some way.

Unless your story is dealing with the topic of sexual assault in some way, please don't use it as a way to give a character depth or angst.

Here are some prompts, just to get you started with some ideas.

Why would a woman be trying to escape her past? Why would she be seeking a fresh start?

She hated her small town; the people there didn't understand her and she never felt like she fit in - she's queer, she has a weird birthmark, she's got unique interests, she has magical powers, etc.

She's a criminal - she robbed banks or stole cars and she wanted a fresh start

She was an addict and hurt people, and she wants a fresh start now that she's sober

Her parent is a criminal or an addict and she's trying to outrun the stigma of being related to them

She didn't get along with a stepparent and skipped town as soon as she turned 18

She had big dreams of being something else, and left to pursue them

Her childhood home was haunted, but no one believed her

She got married young then divorced, and wants to start over somewhere that no one knows her

Heartbreak of any variety - she's leaving a place that reminds her too much of someone she lost or couldn't have

She wants better; maybe more money, or a career, or simply a higher quality of life

Some other violent tragedy occurred - a school shooting, an explosion at the plant, police brutality, her best friend was killed, etc.

Her hometown no longer exists (climate change, the main factory shut down, it was overrun by rabid squirrels, etc.)

What would make a woman distrustful of others?

Heartbreak; being lied to, cheated on, left for her best friend, etc.

A big betrayal - her former best friend told everyone a secret about her, someone weaponized her trauma or her past or a major flaw she's sensitive about, etc.

She witnessed a traumatizing event as a child

Her mother was a grifter and used her as part of her scams

One parent cheated on the other and broke up the family

Her older brother isn't dead after all, he was disowned for being gay and now she's questioning everything her parents ever told her

She has problems with her memory, and is never quite sure what the truth is

She's bad at reading people and has been taken advantage of

She finds out a dark secret about someone she loves and is having trouble processing it

She gradually comes to see that someone she idealized as a child is not at all what they seem

Someone she thought was a good, kind, and genuine person is arrested for a terrible crime

Spiritual abuse - the worldview she was taught was right turns out to be exploitative, represses women, etc., so she leaves

What would cause a woman to have mental health issues?

Any form of abuse - doesn't have to be sexual

Her parents had really high expectations that she couldn't live up to

It simply runs in the family

Survivor's guilt - she survived something that someone else did not

She was bullied and no one protected her

Her parents were very controlling and destroyed her confidence

Her sibling was the golden child and she was the scapegoat

She's had issues since childhood but her parents refused to admit there was anything wrong with her, so she didn't get help

Being a part of any oppressed group of people who experience discrimination - she's a person of color, she's an immigrant, she's got a disability, she's queer, etc.

Any major trauma, either witnessed or being a part of - weather events and natural disasters, infrastructure collapse, crashes and accidents, fires, a shooting or a murder, etc.

You're a writer - get creative. There are lots of ways to traumatize and haunt a girl/woman character without having to resort to a sexual assault backstory. You can even make her the problem! Maybe she's the one who did something bad and is trying to outrun the guilt.

Let's also let go of the idea that it's meeting and falling in love with a man that saves her from her trauma. Let her have a healing arc that doesn't involve a man - a love story can still be there, but it can't be the magic healing balm that fixes her. Make her have to save herself. Give her autonomy to both make her own mistakes, and improve her own situation. Don't let your man go into savior mode - let him get frustrated with her. Let her push him away without him clinging to her in a desperate bid to show her what unconditional love is. Don't let him be a martyr to her trauma.

Women are complicated for many reasons. We have trauma for many reasons. We have mental health issues for many reasons. We may want to escape our past for many reasons. We're angsty and weird for many reasons.

Please pick literally anything other than sexual assault.

[writingjourney]

cravings // emmrich // 18+

this is loosely inspired by this post by @emmg (as in, i had a draft of a thing and then zoomed in on the horny), i might as well finally post what i ended up with before it rots in my drafts <3 // masturbation, f!rook, ~760 words

Emmrich, ever the gentleman, repulsed by his own ugly emotions. That deep hole inside of him where he stores all the faces he wants to hide, grimacing masks in a cabinet of shame, thick bile that bubbles somewhere underneath polite conversation and charming smiles. Anger, jealousy, pride, obsession, fear.

Lust.

He wants, he needs, he craves. It’s a beast he’s never known how to feed, aching for love, for romance, for the deep carnal satiation that comes with intertwining one’s souls. Slithering underneath their skin, consuming and being consumed.

Then, too, a nagging thought, that there is a reason things never worked out, a primordial flaw, something beyond self-sabotage and his unwillingness to settle for anything less than soul-shattering. No, something deeper inside of him, something wrong.

He feels it most clearly when he’s alone.

A whimpering mess of shuddering limbs. He’s trying to stifle the sounds his throat is only too eager to push out. She reduces him to nothing without even being in the same room, one thought and his lungs flutter as he tries to breathe and his body reacts with violent treachery. The flaw, then, that he wants too much, craves too much, too soon, too fast, too intensely, a fever that takes hold of him and that can’t be matched.

His hand works harder, cheeks flushed, shame and lust two sides of the same heavy gold coin, dangling from a chain around his neck, threatening to crack his spine. He thinks Rook must be asleep, one wall away, unaware of his fist wrapped around his cock, the depraved reality that he’s fucking himself to the thought of her. The moan breaking from his throat at that image startles even himself, a sound so raw and wrecked that his chest feels hollowed out.

She doesn’t know. Or – she does. She knows. She must know that there is something between them. Innocent admiration, perhaps the hint of early infatuation, her reckless flirting, like she’s unaware what it does to him when she tells him he looks dapper with a corpse spread out before them, his magic still whirring in his veins. He tries to be polite, slow, careful, to gauge what it is she wants, how deep it runs, if he’s once again investing too much in too little. But then he’s alone again, overcome by this need for her, and he knows he wants to kiss her hands and eyes and lips and deck her out in gold until he can hear the sweet tinkling orchestra of their jewellery-clad bodies as it dictates the rhythm with which he takes her.

The muscles in his belly are strung so tight he’s arching into his hand, struggling to meet his own over-eagerness. Grey hair sticks to his body, sweat-slick, cramped and softer than it used to be. He sees his flaws through heavy-lidded eyes, awe-struck by the fact none of them seem to deter her. She deserves more than this, his perversion stronger than his self-control, no one around to pretend for.

He is a man too old to build a life with for someone as young as her, as vibrant as her, but he is in too deep to stop. Another flaw, this. Not his pride but the selfishness, that he goes after what he wants with all that he has, lush bouquets and weighty declarations, until they are saturated, until they pull away. But he craves it, her reactions to it, the way she looks at him, lashes fluttering as she blinks through big eyes, smirk tugging at the very lips he’s been dreaming about kissing, parting, biting, bruising. It’s enough, in these moments, to satisfy his conscience.

Rook who never holds back. Rook who does not bother to hide what she wants. And it is this thought, the idea that perhaps this fierce young woman with a solution to any problem, who jumps into danger head-first, no risk too high, has a heart beating in the same intense rhythm as his own.

He wants to get swept up in it, this torrent around her, build a house in the eye of the storm and carry her over the threshold. The final flaw, such presumptuousness, thinking that she returns his affections with the same fire that burns so deep in his core. But he will gladly let it burn him, he thinks, eyeing the mess he made, red-cheeked, that familiar pang of shame, if it means that he gets another chance to try. To peel away the masks, to be seen, to be wanted, to be loved.

To be consumed.

more emmrook || masterlist

[just-a-queer-disaster]

Hear me out - Selwyn Kane with BPD.

Hey. It's me again. And what if I told you I don't just think Selwyn Kane has audhd. What would you do? And what if I told you, that I projected so heavily onto him I have a goshdarn list. Again. Explanation:

Fear of abandonment - YES. He hints at being an abandoned child, literally saying it when he tells Bree about his father. In addition, you cannot tell me that the Order didn't raise him to fear a life without them. His mother died, His father (cough cough) is an alcoholic, and all he has is the order. They provide him structure and support and a will and a reason and you can bet they have held that over his head ever since they got thier hands on them.

Unstable Self-image - Mhm. Even before he does, he is fighting a constant battle of what he is and who he is destined to become. A Merlin, quite possibly the only Merlin in the southern chapter, in a human world. He doesn't fit in with the demons either. He is literally a crossroads child. I have made a completely different post about how he is isolated, but that's for another day. When Nick left, what did you think happened. Going through the shock of who was supposed to be your constant, who you were supposed to watch and protect your whole life, leaving the institution that cared for you, that you are so loyal to doesn't just happen. You don't just move on. Who even is Selwyn without him, without the order. And when he is turning, he's fighting an internal battle. Which one is the true him - his humanity or demonia? They are both him, both aspects, but that's not what he is taught and coerced into believing. There is no way this man has a stable self-image.

Emotional Instability - Gurl. Read the book. His outbursts, his mood switches, his annoyance and stubbornness and arrogance, his everything. At the very least, we can see that he is emotionally violent. He is constantly trying to grasp some concept of control, and because of that, his mood is subject to any little push. Remember that scene where Selwyn blows up at Bree about her having no loyalty? What about that random fight with a stranger because they wanted to leave early so he wanted to skip the line? That boy has some anger issues.

Intense, Unstable Relationships - His mother died....but they didn't really. His father - who was already an alcoholic - isn't even his father. His actual father is the literal king of demons and he framed him. The order, which he gave is everything and more too, is an institution hunting him and everything he loves and holds dear. He is raised to protect Nick, gets a crush on him, leaves, comes back, and Selwyn is in denial. He goes from hating Bree and literally hunting her to kissing and worshipping her, and that is arguably the most stable relationship he has, other than William. And we love him and William's friendship for that, because holy shit. Need I say more. In fact, his idea thing with the Order is very telling. I would dare call it splitting. (I am very much daring to call it splitting)He IDOLIZES them. He thinks they are this amazing institution, and he is proud to be serving them. Until he very much isn't, until he very much wants to burn it to the ground. But hey, who wouldn't want to? So let's talk about Nick. He literally says that he fell in love with an idolized version of him, and I don't doubt it. He then goes from that idolization to saying (cough cough, fucking homosexual), he hates him, actually opposing him and going against his wishes. Maybe that isn't enough, so let's look at how, as he idolizes others, he devalues them too. Talking down to concerns, generally being obnoxious, hunting Bree (although he did think she was a brothel so eh). Christening everyone against the order. Even after he realizes the order's flaws, he has been brainwashed into believing they still hold truth, especially when it comes to his own descent.

Impulsive or Self-destructive behaviors - mhm... Bro throws trees. I'm almost tempted to leave it at that. Even Nick calls him impulsive, and with good reason. He literally says that Sel would've already pulled out the shard of the crown that was in Nick's heart by the time they reached the conversation Bree And Nick were having. Speaking of , he is told "Don't touch that you'll die" And he goes "What if I don't?" And touches the crown anyway. What about that doesn't scream lack of self-preservation.  He rushes into battle and danger, especially when Nick is involved. He acts aggressively, picks fights, pushes away people... etc etc.

He needs therapy. We love him for that though.

[blightbright]

mythal nuance

look, i love some yikes women characters!!! have i mentioned how much i fucking adore knight-commander meredith? yeah, that genocidal zealot? sympathetic lawful evil ftw. one of my ALL-TIME FAVE CHARACTERS is mariah dillard from the luke cage TV show. she is ABUSIVE, including to her daughter, she is devastating and so well-portrayed, and she is such a terrible person AND i just adore her in her harmful flawed tragic selfhood!

flemythal? fucking love her, she's awful, she's hilarious, she's compelling, i think it's a travesty that devs didn't get kate mulgrew's voice and the flemeth appearance back in some timey-wimey fade magic way. i love how she feels at odds with herself, sometimes vengeful, sometimes regretful. i love her sweetness toward merrill and her funny interactions with purple!hawke, i love her confusion that morrigan is upset with her, i even love the YIKES ambiguous, semi-motherly, semi-loverly, intimate owner-pet vibes head stroking and nuzzling between her and solas in the DA:I end credits. OUCH.

veilguard!mythal IMO feels more like a mediocre narcissist who wants to maintain the status quo, and of course is faux "loving" AKA guilt-tripping and strings-attaching her "care." that's not badly written since it's a real thing, but she's not for me. the fact that elgar'nan presumably abused her is not super compelling to me because IMO it gives the flavor of a confederate slave-owning white woman whose husband is a piece of shit AND ALSO she still thinks slavery is fine and actively upholds and abuses her power over other people. this is not an analogy: mythal literally owns people as slaves. in my fic i try to give her some fairy queen style, wouldn't-it-feel-so-good-to-die-for-me vibes where she's liberal with her magically-hypnotic praise if you please her, to make her more inhuman and therefore interesting to me, but anyway.

i'm seeing accusations of misogyny if people love solas and hate mythal, and while we can and should critique how women characters are written and discussed, given the canon content, it's NOT an inherently misogynistic reaction to hate the character who abused a character you love. i saw a thing insisting "solas is always defined by mythal" and to respect mythal and... really? critique the writers as much as you want for setting this up, but do people really want to say we should always identify a person by their abuser's influence, or offer respect to that abuser??

are you also gonna say "morrigan is always defined by flemythal, acknowledge and respect her when talking about morri" after we know for a fact that flemythal repeatedly exposed morrigan as a child to sexual situations that resulted in violent death, encouraged her to push down her own sensitivity and feelings and focus only on power and manipulation, and morrigan tells the spirit in DA:O that she's still acting too gentle to be the real flemeth, even after smacking morrigan hard across the face and demanding morrigan show some respect? she had an influence on morrigan's life, but holy fuck does morri deserve to define her life by her own desires and her own choices and accomplishments now

if people are aware that solas was given mythal's slave markings, since she was a slaver like the other evanuris, then he burned them magically off his face when he led a slave rebellion against slavers, and hear all the clips in veilguard where she is clearly in a position of power over him, and still claim there was no abuse, idk what to tell you. you are incorrect. please consider if you have some cognitive dissonance about how much you love to hate solas (tho you can still do that even if a character has experienced abuse) and/or how much you want to enjoy mythal (tho you can still appreciate an abusive character).