#good lord I’m so mentally ill

[burning-idiot]

Hi and welcome to some Cole headcanons I am now going to scream about

- he’s 25 as of the most recent DR episode

- He/him

- Gay (mlm)

- He’s Indian-Filipino, Dad was Indian and mom was Filipino. Lily taught him Tagalog when he was younger so now he sometimes speaks in Tagalog when he’s stressed

- Listens to music ALL the time, always has his headphones on him

- This mf rambles ON AND ON to himself when he’s alone. He doesn’t like the quiet (hence the headphones) and talks to himself as a coping mechanism

- His hair is super soft even though he washes it with a bar of soap

- Wears almost exclusively band shirts

- Actually has pretty good fashion taste

- He’s usually pretty laid back but still serious, imagine a more responsible (fanon )Jason Todd

- Won #1 hottest ninja in the ninjago weekly article at one point (Kai was NOT happy about him stealing his spot)

- Cares insanely deeply about his friends (always does headcounts, checks to make sure everyone is ok, etc)

- The strongest of the ninja even w/o his super strength (this is canon ig)

- Sometimes wears what might be considered “emo” outfits (tho he’s not emo)

- 6’3 and the second tallest of the ninja (after Zane)

- Still has PTSD induced nightmares abt being a ghost and falling/being in the oni darkness

- NEVER gets sick bro has the strongest immune system

- Entire team sees him as the reliable older brother (canon)

- Man snores like a chainsaw. Like he is DEEP in sleep. Everyone else has to wear earplugs.

- Man is completely tone deaf. He got the dancing genes from his dad but not the singing ones. He prefers techno music/music without singing.

[drunk-poets-society]

Life’s just so fucked up now I just got hit by a bus and walked it off cos I was getting late for class like this might as well happen ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[capetowncapers]

What’s almost worse than people recommending “do yoga” and “drink water” as actual cures for mental or chronic illness is the days where you’re feeling a bit better, enough that it does feel like it does something to do these things and you have to remind yourself you’re still not faking oop

Anyway, reminder that if you have days where you can’t fully manage to do these little things or you force yourself to do them and they do barely anything…. You’re still doing great, and things like yoga or meditation can only go so far against chronic conditions. I’m proud of you for trying so hard even on the bad days.

[solbaby7]

Sweet Thing

pairing: rhysand x reader

[ 1 ] [ 2 ] [ 3 ]

part 4 of the shy!reader massage mini series

warnings: swearing, sexual implications, possible violence, jealousy, gambling, male egos, petnames (bc being called bunny is so cute and soft, fight me on it)

summary: Your High Lord hosts a party with a dozen hothead Illyrian soldiers where you become the main attraction

—

“Stay close,” Rhysand murmurs in your ear, a warm hand pressed at the low of your back to guide you into the large room. It’d been recently renovated; not yet decorated and you'd assumed it was turned into a makeshift meeting area, a giant table pushed in the middle with a dozen chairs wrapped around it. It was also the furthest room from your own—a little detail that Rhys quickly bristled over when you'd mentioned it earlier. “Wanted to keep my good luck charm close by tonight.”

Your cheeks warm under the words, annoyingly aware of how sensitive your body had become in response to the High Lord since that night. It haunted your every breath; his barely contained need, the throbbing cock just a few measly layers away from being everything you’d ever dreamed of and Rhysand fed off of it like ravenous wolves who'd been starved three winters over. The teasing was merciless; heated touches and sinful words of remembrance haughtily whispered in your ear when you were supposed to be concentrating.

“Tell me what you’re thinking about.” You shy out of his touch, the hunger in his voice unmistakable and creating distance is easy when the others begin to filter in. A dozen or so pristinely dressed males of all sizes briefly greet Rhysand, hands clapping at each others backs and the testosterone that filtered in was thick enough to suffocate. They were friends; guys he’d fought and bled with, people he’d known for hundreds of years all gathered for card games and expensive glasses of liquor.

You were only there to help, to look pretty and shuffle the cards and stay close to Rhys—easy enough. “I’m thinking I should’ve dressed better.”

His fingers trace over the pleated pattern of your skirt, the soft purple fabric teasing at the middle of your thigh and all he can smell is some fruit on your skin—pomegranate? pear? “You look perfect, don’t worry about all them. You’ll be collecting their money for me by the end of the night.” Rhys is touchy; shamelessly so in front of others and you notice a few of the guests beginning to take you in, their stares raking up your form, sizing you up and you can feel Azriel shift closer from beside you.

"You always did have the prettiest little things hanging off your shoulder, Rhysand." Your head slowly turns to face the drawling voice, male entitlement and an incredulous amount of confidence seeping from every pore. Handsome and wealthy, but the allure dies the moment his mouth opens. The tailored suit alone was worth three months of the average faes rent and then some. "You have to tell me where you found this one."

Rhys laughs but you can tell there's no real humor behind it, his hand raising to wrap around your waist and pull you in closer; enough for your thighs to skim on the arm rest of his chair. The body language is possessive no matter how casual it’s intended to be and you catch Cass and Az sharing a look—mentally agreeing to pounce when they deemed fit.

Like salivating lions dressed in sheep's clothing.

"Couldn’t tell you, Maverick, she just stumbled in my lap."

He's trying to hold back for the benefit of the greater good—that was the whole point of inviting them over in the first place. Even after Mor had insisted that it was the dumbest idea ever inviting a dozen ill-tempered Illyrian soldiers and filling them up with booze. "I'd love to see her stumble in mine."

Your reaction is instinctual after feeling the High Lord's shoulders tense under your fingers and in seconds your hands are gently kneading at the muscle there, a palm running soothing lines up the length of his back and manicured nails scratch wonderfully at the nape of his neck until a bit of that darkness subsided. With a hum, you gently push his hand from your waist, backing away with a pitch only audible to him, "Gonna grab you guys some drinks."

"I'll help." You don't even try denying the spymaster, more than familiar with his customs and how unbearably uncomfortable he got once you started taking care of large groups of people. Az was always the first to say thank you when you served dinner and always made sure to wait until you sat down and took the first bite before even touching his fork.

He's quiet behind you, busying his hands with polishing the glasses you'd lined up and his shadows follow you around like a clingy pet but you understand why he's there—a silent promise that he'd have your back the entire night. That you’d never be left alone.

Azriel watches you pour a six-hundred year old bottle of amber liquor one knuckle deep for every cup besides one—that one got double and a single ice cube. Just how the High Lord liked it. "It's going to be fine," You tell him softly, storing away the rest of the bottle and you don't fight the smile that pulls when he stops you from carrying anymore than three glasses—brunting the rest of the work on the shadows. "Just a few hours and it'll all be over."

Azriel only hums but there's an underlying gratefulness for not having to speak or explain and his protectiveness towards you grows at how easily you understand him—adapting to his moods with ease.

He returns to his seat, shadows wisping their thanks over the length of your calf and a sweet smile is sent Cassian's way when he presses a grateful kiss to your hand. You turn to go back to Rhys, one final drink in your hand and you can feel Maverick's eyes trailing you, undressing you, touching and lusting from afar but he might as well have been shouting it across the room from the top of his lungs. "Come sit, bunny. And shuffle the deck, will you? They think I cheat."

"We know you do." Another male chuckles over the rim of his glass, blue eyes sharp and tawny curls tickle at the sides of his ears—Cade, you learn after a few minutes of listening in silence. You sift through the deck, righting the cards and splitting them in two before shuffling once, twice, a third time before you set it before you to be split by another. “Look at the hands on this one,” Cade poorly whispers to Maverick, shoulders bumping playfully and you felt like you were being hunted, ganged up on—eaten alive by males who didn’t follow the same code as the ones you hung around. “I bet they get the job done quite nicely.”

Rhysand has no time to respond because Cass is already doing it; gold battles with blue, large hands broadcasted before him and the General looks down at them to peer like a high maintenance woman after her nail appointment. “You should look at mine,” Crimson red Siphons glow with life on his arms; all seven of them, most hidden by the dark long sleeved shirt he wore but the message got across rather quickly. “I’m sure they’ll do it much better.”

You shift in Rhys’ lap, settling into the hands splayed around your waist, the other trails ticklish lines up the length of a bare arm and you’re grateful for how quickly the conversation shifts. “What do I do now?”

The low cadence of his voice rumbles against your back, hair gently pushed off one shoulder to make room for the chin that settles there. His instructions are thorough and intended to be purely informational but the smell of his cologne, the large hands sliding down lower to rub at the sides of your thighs and you’re unbearably aware of the plush of your ass nestled right atop of him. Cards are dealed, the rest left in a pile and you slowly draw three, facing them upright and most of the rest is a bit of a blur.

Every now and then Rhys will lean closer to mumble about what was going on but mostly it was just a room full of drunk males and their money. They cursed like sailors and laughed like hyenas, a chorus of voices overlapping the other until the liquor took its course and the true personalities settled in.

At some point you stand, hands grazing the back of Rhys’ neck when you mutter something about grabbing a snack. You’re not far, maybe a few feet away, body just barely obscured by the wall that separates them and the kitchen while you pile a plate full of finger food to snack on; fruit, mini sandwiches, warm meats wrapped in flaky dough and you’re pulled away from your focus when a voice clears. “There you are,” Maverick doesn’t look shitfaced but the liquor was definitely taking its toll, his steps a little unsteady and he slurred the s’s in his words. “How about you come rub my shoulders for me, sweet thing?”

Your brows furrow, mouth opening to give a response when the males hand raises to trace the line of your collarbone, you freeze. Four fingers graze over your shoulder and slowly moves down the length of your arm. “I don’t think—“

“I’m not asking you to think, sweet thing.” Your stomach churns, discomfort evident in the way you crane away from his touch but Maverick doesn’t care—as if unreciprocated want wasn’t an issue for him. “I’m telling you to come over here and offer up some of that treatment you’ve been feeding those three,” His eyes feel like hands in the way they roam your body, catching on bare skin and practically salivating to see the rest. “Swear I’ll return the favor.”

Your heart hammers in your chest and anxiety swells—you really should’ve just stayed put, the food in your hand threatening to spill to the floor with the intensity of your shaking but Maverick feels so close and you can smell his cologne; the whiskey. “I should get back to Rhys.” It’s no more than a whisper but when you try to slink past him, a hand clamps tightly around your arm, roughly tugging you back.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

A whimper escapes and just like that the kitchen explodes with darkness; relief overtakes your form as familiar hands tug you close and the arms that tuck you in close feel right—safe. Safe enough to not notice the warm spray of wetness that splatters against the back of your legs until you hear the steady drip,drip, dripping on the floor. Your head turns but before you can look Rhysand is tucking you in tighter, full lips pressing kisses to the top of your head. “Don’t look—let’s just get you cleaned up.”

“What about the others?”

“Cassian and Azriel will handle them,” The High Lords voice isn’t nearly as calm as you remember and it’s only when you’re halfway down the hallway does he loosen his grip a bit, turning you to face him to begin his assessment. “Did he hurt you? Did he fucking touch you?”

You can’t form words, realization beginning to form when you see blood splattering your clothes but you manage to shake your head. “He just grabbed me—Rhys did you—“

“I shouldn’t have let you go alone.”

“It was just a second.”

“A second longer and he could’ve—“ He stops himself from saying more; too afraid to make the words reality or too pissed to have to verbalize them but Rhys lets out a deep breath when he can find no damage besides a hint of a bruise. “I should’ve taken my time.”

You don’t need to ask to know what he means.

Instead, you place a palm on his cheek in hopes to ground him, to remind the High Lord that you were safe. Violet eyes soften, silver flecks catching in the light and it takes everything in you not to buckle beneath him when he looks at you like that—like it was nothing to kill for you. “Let’s go, I’d say it’s about time you return the favor and give me a massage.”

Mischief glints in those eyes, a smirk curling at the corner of full lips. “I can’t promise I’ll remain professional.”

“That’s sort of what I’m counting on.”

[antiquarianfics]

Shower

Sometimes it's all you can do to breathe. Sometimes you need a little help--even with the basics. Bucky's happy to help.

A/N: This is a completely self-indulgent comfort fic. Genre: Fluff / Rating: PG Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader Warnings: Themes of mental illness, nudity. Note: I do not own the character Bucky Barnes or any other Marvel affiliated characters.

You do not have permission to copy or repost my work; however, feel free to like, comment, and reblog.

---

If you were being perfectly honest with yourself, you knew this was pathetic: lying on the bathroom floor, nibbling on a half eaten pop tart, and listening to the shower run.

“Not only am I gross,” you think, “I’m wasting perfectly good water.”

You sigh, willing yourself to stand up, to shower, to not eat on the bathroom floor. But you can’t.

Depression is weird like that, taking seemingly simple, inconsequential tasks and turning them into battles. You certainly didn’t lie on the bathroom floor, eating pop tarts, while listening to the shower run when you were mentally well.

The truth was: You just got back from a mission. A run of the mill recon mission. You were in, you were out. You did your job. But now you were sweaty, and sore, and unable to do anything for the benefit of yourself. Helping other people? No problem? Helping yourself? Mission: Impossible.

You groan, pulling your towel under your head for minimal neck support as you stare at the ceiling. You can see where condensation slowly develops and drips from the fan, and if you turn your head, you can see the fogged up mirror.

“I’ve been here a while,” you note.

You pull out your phone, checking the time. 9:04 PM. You don’t know when you got back, when you turned on the shower, when you dropped to the floor. The time tells you nothing.

You groan again, throwing your arm across your eyes. You’re tired, and you’re positive you could fall asleep here on the bathroom floor. You know you shouldn’t, but you could… and you haven’t been sleeping in your bed… and you let yourself drift off.

Banging. You wake to banging. No—knocking. You wake to knocking. As you come to, you realize someone is knocking on the bathroom door. You don’t have it in you to stand and open it. You never undressed anyway, lying on the floor in your tac suit, so you call out “unlocked!” and watch as the doorknob twists and the door is cautiously opened.

“Y/N?” The intruder calls softly with concern lacing each syllable of your name.

You groan in response, letting your arm fall from your face as your eyes flutter open. You look up to be met with the ever so concerned blue eyes of your best friend: Bucky Barnes. As he makes eye contact with you on the floor, eyes drawn downward at your groan, eyebrows scrunched in confusion, he opens his mouth to say something before seeming to think better of it.

“Can I come in?” He asks cautiously after a moment.

You nod and he slips into the bathroom, gently closing the door behind him. He lets himself sink to the floor beside you, pulling your head into his lap both to accommodate his large size in your small bathroom and in an attempt to comfort you. He lets his hand fall to your hair, quietly playing with it. You hum contentedly, eyes fluttering closed again, and you’re grateful he hasn’t begun interrogating you even though you know he’s confused.

Maybe 5 minutes pass in silence. Your mind is finally somewhat at ease from the comfort Bucky brings you, but you know he deserves an explanation as to why he’s on your bathroom floor holding you while the shower runs.

“I…” you start, trailing off before clearing your throat nervously and trying again. “I know this is weird. I can explain.”

Bucky shakes his head, raising an eyebrow. “You don’t have to, Doll. Lord knows I don’t always explain to you the weird things I do when I…” have an episode, he was going to say. He doesn’t want to call this an episode, though. He’s still not sure what this is. “We all deal with post-mission stress differently,” he says instead.

You huff. “I wish I was doing this because of mission stress.”

Bucky doesn’t respond, just watches patiently as he continues to run his fingers through your hair. He refuses to force anything out of you you’re not ready to share; after all, you never force him to spit his feelings out.

“Bucky, I… I’m not doing well.”

The admittance takes you off guard. You hadn’t even acknowledged to yourself that you weren’t doing well. You’d been avoiding that simple truth, that small detail.

“Yeah. Healthy people don’t generally run up the water bill while they snack on the floor,” Bucky teases gently. You are aware there’s no malice behind his words; he’s just trying to lighten the mood. You cringe, though, when you realize he had noticed the pop tart wrapper and the clear lack of pop tart. Bucky notices you cringe, though, and his light smile drops.

“How can I help, Doll?”

You shake your head. “You don’t have-”

“I want to,” he cuts you off.

You swallow nervously, but nod. You’ll let him help you.

“I, uh. Can you…” you scrunch your eyes, grounding yourself despite your embarrassment. “Can you help me shower?” You choke out the words, hoping he maybe missed them and will leave you on the bathroom floor to sulk.

Bucky smiles encouragingly, not showing any signs that he is bothered or uncomfortable with the request. Instead of running and leaving you to your self-destructive tendencies, he helps you sit up before standing himself, grabbing your hand and pulling you to your own feet. Gently he helps you out of your tac suit that clings to your body uncomfortably from sweat both from the mission and the steamy bathroom. Once your suit is removed, he helps you pull off your sports bra and shimmy out of your underwear. It’s intimate, yes, but it’s not at all sexual. You can’t help but curse yourself for letting the first time he saw you like this be under these circumstances. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You bite your lip anxiously, closing your eyes as you wrap your arms around yourself in a self conscious hug.

Bucky’s gaze is 100% respectful. He keeps his eyes on your face, or the back of your head when you’re turned around, only letting his gaze drop to help you out of your constricted clothing.

He finally helps you step into the shower, pulling the curtain closed as you step in. You let yourself stand under the water, staring at the wall in front of you. Your thoughts are running a million miles an hour and are also nonexistent at the same time. You wish you knew how you could think about everything and nothing at the same time.

You hear a soft clinking sound that you’re sure is Bucky unbuckling his belt. Then you hear the sliding of his jeans down his legs, and the gentle grunt he lets out while he takes off his shirt. You’re not sure because you can’t see, but you’re pretty sure you hear him fold his clothes and yours to set neatly on the counter. Finally, he pulls the shower curtain back a little to step in himself.

He smiles reassuringly at you, keeping his eyes on yours. You force a small smile onto your own lips in response.

He’s still in his boxers, protecting his modesty for your sake. You can’t help but feel a little disappointed but you shake your head, chasing those thoughts out of your mind. He’s just your friend—your best friend—and he’s only doing you a favor. As a friend. Not his girlfriend.

Bucky’s eyebrows scrunch together in concern as he watches you shake your head, obviously distraught.

“Hey, hey. Sweetheart, look at me,” he says, resting his palm on your cheek. You look at him. “Are you alright?” He asks, searching your eyes for any indication that you’re not.

You only nod. He eyes you suspiciously but drops the subject. Instead, he reaches behind you for your shampoo, squirting some into his hand, before letting his hands fall into your hair, slowly massaging the shampoo into your scalp.

Bucky quietly washes you, stepping back only to let you wash your more intimate parts. His hands on your body are intoxicating. His right is calloused and rough from decades of use and his left is smooth and and warmed from the water, but they’re both so gentle as they run along your body. When he finishes bathing you, he lets his arms drop to his side, and you immediately miss his touch. He looks anxious and unsure of himself for the first time since entering your bathroom, and you realize it’s because he suddenly isn’t sure what to do with himself. Without thinking much about it, you give him a new task.

You step forward into him, wrapping your arms around his torso and resting your cheek against his chest. The action surprises him, but he almost immediately wraps his own arms around you, holding you close. He plants a soft kiss to the top of your head.

“I’ve got ‘ya, sweetheart,” he assures. “I’ve got you.”

[acourtofwhatthefuck]

Someone Different, Someone New — Cassian X Reader.

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

Hi! This is an impromptu piece that is by no means my best writing — I just wanted to exercise my brain a bit. I haven’t added a tag list on this one because I need to go through and sort them out/update them, so sorry about that!

Warning: this piece does depict struggles of mental illness/trauma/panic, so if that’s something that could negatively effect you, please, please give this one a miss. This is based off my own experience of mental illness/trauma/panic, and the last thing I want is to trigger some unpleasant things because of my writing, so please take care. All the love. 💕

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

“You doing okay?”

Rhysand’s arm pressed against yours as he took up the space beside you. Just as you were, he leaned back against the balcony railing, wine glass in hand. The cold temperature had driven the evening’s guests inside, but the bite of the chill…you needed it. Even as it started to hurt.

But you slapped a pleasant smile on your face that offered no glimpse of pain. “I’m okay.”

There was no need to put a front on for Rhys. He was the only one who could get it — it was he you’d been trapped Under the Mountain with, after all. He who had known who you’d been before, during and after. He’d seen everything, and he saw you now.

Saw the way your gaze stared intensely through the open glass doors and fastened on Cassian.

“Have you spoken to him?” Rhys asked.

Barely. You’d only been back three months, and the majority of it had been spent on your own. Fifty years trapped with people made company feely oily and itchy. And the person you’d become didn’t exactly make for good company, either. Not now that you were someone who was short-tempered, or brusque, or downright miserable. Being alone meant not having to subject anyone to that. It was a wonder Rhysand had convinced you to come tonight at all.

And there was another underlying reason for not wanting to face Cassian. You didn’t know each other anymore.

There might have been the potential for romance between you…a very long time ago. But fifty years apart had wiped that clean. You were no longer the person who had gone under that mountain. You were no longer the person he might have grown to love. He had known someone of vibrancy, of light and laughter.

You couldn’t bear to face him as you were, now. And he seemed to be doing just fine.

“No.” You answered Rhys, draining your glass.

Your High Lord studied you. “Why not?”

“I wouldn’t know what to say. And neither would he. It would be uncomfortable for him.”

“This is Cassian we’re talking about. He’ll just want to know that you’re alright.”

You most certainly were not alright.

You weren’t alright with enclosed spaces. You couldn’t even stand the feeling of your clothes touching your skin for too long. Loud noises had you flinching and laughter sounded too close to screams. Sometimes, you could swear your bathwater was blood, coating you, staining you, reminding you of what you’d had to do to survive. There was an ever-present tightness in your chest that always teetered on the edge of becoming something terrible.

You may have escaped the mountain, but you didn’t think you’d truly gulped down the fresh air.

And though you’d spent fifty years longing to get out from that prison, you honestly didn’t know how to be outside of it. Who to be outside of it.

You felt yourself jolt as you watched Cassian bellow a deep laugh. The female he was talking to grinned broadly, proud of whatever she’d said to garner such a reaction. Cass looked…content. Happy. He had moved on with his life, just as he’d deserved to.

You weren’t sure you could stomach watching it play out in front of you, though.

“I think he’s waiting for you to make the first move, Y/N.” Rhys’s hand landed on your arm, and your entire body went rigid. “He wants you to have the control.”

You swallowed. “I don’t think he thinks about me at all. Nor would I expect him to. He doesn’t know me anymore. I am not the person he once cared for.”

“I think you’re more of that same person than you realise.”

He was wrong. You shook your head. “No. I’m…someone different, Rhys. Someone new.”

“And you think Cassian would judge you for that? Really?”

Your gaze cut sharply to his violet one. “I think you have an over-exaggerated idea of how significant I am in his life.”

He stared back at you, pain marring his features. And this was precisely why you didn’t want to be around people anymore. You were just…rough. Jagged. Rude and cold.

“I’m sorry.” Your eyes shuttered. You pushed your glass into Rhys’s hand. “Sorry, Rhys, I just…need some time.”

He didn’t protest as you pulled away from him, wandering back inside and weaving your way through the bodies that had gathered for the party celebrating their High Lord’s return to Velaris. You didn’t even know where you planned to go. All you were aware of was that tightness in your chest worsening. Constricting. You rubbed at your chest, forcing yourself to swallow down air.

Your legs carried you aimlessly as you climbed stairs and burst through a door. A bathing chamber. You collapsed against the door, a clammy, prickling sensation spreading over your skin as you fought to just breathe. Your ears were ringing, pounding, a pressure seeming to bind your body and hold it taut. You weren’t sure you could survive this. Weren’t sure how to not be…this.

You weren’t aware of how long it lasted. Time felt both fast and slow around you as you bowed over the sink, fingers digging into the porcelain. The music and chatter of the party sounded so, so far away, you could be forgiven for thinking you’d left the building. But you knew you hadn’t. You were still here. You. Were. Still. Here.

You didn’t know when your trembling hands had turned the tap on and darted under the ice-cold water, but the sensation was soothing, grounding. You focused on watching it flow, dripping from your fingertips and splashing into the sink. You cupped your palms and gathered a small pool and splashed it against your face.

Slowly, your breaths began to even out. Slowly, your body began to steady. The sounds from downstairs became clearer, sounded closer, and the sensations that had gripped you subsided, making way for a wave of lethargy.

You just wanted to sleep.

You dried your face, your hands, straightening yourself out and hoping you were steady enough to make it out of there. Hopefully you could get away without running into anyone. The last thing you needed right now was mindless conversation.

You pulled the door open — and stopped short at the figure that waited just outside.

Cassian pushed off the wall. He unfolded his arms, studying you. And whatever he saw when he looked at you…you knew it couldn’t be good.

“Hey…” He said softly, daring a step closer. “Can we talk?”

[sozila]

convalescence. (sukuna x reader)

synopsis: convalescence noun. time spent recovering from an illness or medical treatment; recuperation. ryomen s. itadori was a disease that infected every part of your life, and you didn’t notice until it was too late.

pairing: best friend's older brother!ryomen s. itadori x pre-med uni student!fem reader.

warnings: attempted sexual assault, violence and blood. explicit content eventually, mdni. mentions of underage drinking and smoking (weed), descriptive sexual activities.

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you are on: incubation. (part two) a/n:

guys.. i am so drained from this one 😭🙏 but i loved writing every bit of it, so i hope you like it! :) wc is triple from the last chapter (6.2k) :0 was posted on ao3 last night but finally got to doing this today <3 also, this chapter has a bit of a side quest with geto 🤭 also also, let me know if you want mini scenes, like what sukuna thought of your outfit at the party, etc ;)

ao3 link here.

incubation. (part two)

it’s been a week since you hung out at yuuji's swanky apartment and the older itadori was a memory of the past. your stressful college regimen waited for no one, especially you.

lectures piled on you once more and material you had to review flowed like an endless river.

you sat at your tiny desk in the bedroom of your quaint flat, deep in focus on a chapter of biology. “.. and that is how you do the cycle!” you mutter to yourself in small victory. you had finished the last page so you stand up and let out a big stretch. you decide to glance at the time on your watch only to realize you should’ve left your place 10 minutes ago for lunch with your friends.

you mentally curse as you haphazardly gather your things. you toddle on one leg and the other to pull up your socks, and obviously you had to mess up tying your shoes when you were already egregiously late. the universe’s timing never failed! you call an uber to the campus as the subway by your house has long left before.

when you finally find the group, they look at you with confused stares.

“is there a marathon i’m not aware of..?” nobara inquires sarcastically, yet weirdly concerned at the way you were heaving for air.

“haah — what do you, you mean? i’m not.. marathon,” you were making some sort of gestures with your hands and your words barely made sense. good lord, girl.

nobara pulls you down to sit in the chair beside her and motions for megumi to hand over his water bottle. “oookay, that’s enough out of you for now. breathe and drink some water, babe. we already got your food, so don’t sweat.”

as your heart rate began to slow, you finally noticed yuuji was actually laughing at you.

“oh my god, you looked like a little red pufferfish!”

you pout at him and let out a whine of disapproval (at least as much as you could with water in your mouth) when you saw megumi making blowfish faces at you. nobara swats at them and chides them accordingly. “take pity on our poor girl, she ran for us!”

suddenly, nobara snaps her fingers and points at yuuji, as if she just recalled something. “ah! yuu, can you finish what you were saying before we got interrupted? about the frat party this weekend? ” nobara looked positively giddy at the chance of getting wasted and you sighed. who knew you’d acquire such friends being the anti-big-sweaty-parties person you were. yuuji immediately flipped modes and began as he does, animated and hyper. you didn’t know how he possessed so much energy. part of you believed he stole that energy from megumi, who looked like every college student ever. “oh yeah! so sukuna…”

you didn’t realize you were zoned out of the conversation until your eyes catch your biology professor, mina kaito, strut by with a small box in her hand. your professor was notoriously hard to get ahold of— every office hours you tried to bring up your internship application, there was already a line of students following out the office. your university was prestigious and to land a one-on-one with any professor here was a miracle. you knew you were one of the best candidates for professor kaito’s research and had to secure this spot— even if it mean embarrassing yourself just a tad. you immediately jump up. “wha— girl, you just got here?” nobara looked at you, puzzled. “no time to explain- kaito’s here. i’ll be only 5 minutes!” you yell to her as you speedwalk to catch up with the nimble lady.

“professor kaito!” you call after her with a small wave, and the woman whips around with a disinterested air about her face.

“you have 2 minutes, it’s my lunch break.” she quips, resuming her walk down the hall. you take a couple strides to catch up to her and give her a small smile. “so, i wanted to inquire about the molecular biology research you’re doing…”

a small squeal leaves your mouth as soon as you exit the office. kaito had accepted your pitch to intern her research on your subject of interest. this was the biggest thing you could’ve ever imagine landing, and you did it in 15 minutes! (kaito let you speak more as soon as she recognized you meant business.)

you all but skip back to the cafeteria, where your friends still resided. a huge smile plastered your face, you couldn’t contain it any longer. nobara saw you approach the table and she instantly understood what this meant. “you got it? oh my god- she got it!” she jumps up in a flash and squeals with you, hugging and jumping as you were. yuuji gave a little cheer and ruffled your hair, which you were too happy to protest. after a moment of drawing attention to yourselves, you all finally sit down. megumi wasn’t big about gestures, so when he tapped you and gave two thumbs up with a wink to boot — you felt honored to be blessed with such a rarity. you tearfully make a heart sign with your hands to him back.

“there is no way we’re not celebrating,” nobara looks at you with a determined expression. “we’re going to the frat party this weekend, and you can’t say no!” she throws her hands up in glee and bumps you with her hip, both her and yuuji doing a little victory dance in their seats. you almost perk up with your usual response and yuuji instantly shushes you with his finger. “speak not, young padawan. to the party you shall go,” the mock solemnity paired with the swishes of his invisible lightsaber cracked you up. you sigh and throw your hands up. “alright, i’ll go,” you accept with a grin. immediately the cheers and dancing from yuuji and nobara return, and you could bet everyone in the cafeteria wanted you all to shut up or leave.

sukuna didn’t really care for girls. that’s not to be confused with fucking— he definitely fucked girls, but none really made him stop and think about who they were and what they did. truth is, he had a system. due to the fact sukuna had a long list of interactions with girls, he found it fun to compartmentalize. he took in what they wore, how they leaned towards him, the way they primmed themselves raw to appease him in a twisted, faux way. he didn’t want that. see, he had reason to believe all the girls that were interested in him held a vested interest— whether it was his money or his body, all of them came to him with some sort of ulterior motive. the persona they craved was just a fraction of the truth in his existence. ergo, sukuna didn’t really care for girls because they didn’t care for him.

so imagine sukuna’s intrigue when he meets yuuji’s little friend, the one he’s heard of but never saw- unlike the urchin kid and the loud redhead. you were an unknown to him. the outlying variable in the way you stiffened in his presence, almost begging with your eyes to be gone from his stare. you tried to be subtle, he noted this. however, despite your evident body language, your crass words painted a different picture. a self assured, independent girl who found him annoying and wasn’t afraid to tell it to his face. it was a little predatory in the way he savored how he made you agitated. he wasn’t a gentleman, but he would never touch a girl that didn’t want it. that never came to be a problem- most women initiated first touch with him, and then more.

you pushed him aside on first thought.

sukuna let you.

the first touch you initiated with sukuna was to be rid of him. you intrigued sukuna and all you did was go about your day.

he had come down that night to catch a glimpse of you again; he wanted to observe you. sukuna noted a new aspect: your softness. his eyes trailed as you worked quietly to make sure your friends were taken care of, not missing the gentleness you mustered to keep quiet in the process. the angry girl he met three hours ago was long gone. sukuna noticed the red sparkly phone strewn on the rug when you had begun your search, and slinked to pick it up before you could see. granted, his approach was demented— he just had to speak to you more. unfortunately, his desire to tease you rings louder than the one to actually converse and your quick escape meant you were back to a label of the unknown, yuuji’s little friend.

the week flew by for sukuna similarly— as a senior in mechanical engineering his workload wasn’t very light either. he juggled working hours at his grandfather’s auto shop as a mechanic and college as much as he could. he would never admit it out loud, but slipping the extra bills into yuuji’s wallet let him rest a little easier at night. he would count fraternity duties as a part of his responsibilities on paper, but realistically he did nothing in that organization but funnel in family money. it’s what let him keep the arm and body tattoos. he wanted to get some face ones done as well, but he was beaten to a pulp by his grandfather before he could even begin to form the thought. fuck it, he’ll get them when he graduates. who did sukuna have to impress? in the downtime he got, he worked on his bike in the frat garage and rode it for hours in the depth of the night. riding helped his insomnia, something he struggled with since a young age. he’d be damned before he opened that side of memories, so riding it was.

and so sukuna is here a week later, just as you were, sat on the second floor lounge of the cafeteria ironically in perfect view to witness your dramatic entrance. how silly, your face was puffy and red. a cute sight. the ribbons in your braids caught the sunlight from the big window panes.

“kunaaa, you’re not paying attention!” a certain white-haired man made sukuna’s eyes roll. the way he whined was more in the likes of a three year old. “gojo, when did i ever give a fuck about what you have to say?” he deadpans. gojo satoru was definitely a character, and proclaimed himself a best friend to sukuna much to his distaste. “you’re so mean! all i needed to ask was if you got the shit for saturday,” he pouts and cross his arms, slouching in his chair.

“sit up, dumbass, you’re going to get a double chin.” a tall brown haired woman taps gojo on the head with the iced coffee she held, taking a seat beside him. gojo gasps and sits up, immediately going on about how he couldn’t lose his devilishly handsome stature. in tow with her was his more preferred frat brother, geto suguru sporting a cup of his own and another which he hands to sukuna. “you gonna stay around on saturday? me and shoko got a quarter to smoke,” he tells him, sipping on the straw of his coffee. sukuna looks back down to the first floor to you and sanguine eyes catch you running off, ribbons bouncing. this was getting stupid. he needed a good distraction, so fuck it. “yeah, sure. i’ll hit a few.” geto nods in acknowledgment. someone like you wouldn’t go to a sleazy frat party.

“shokooo, will you paint my beer cooler? you’re our little frat sweetheart,” gojo pleads with the woman and sukuna amusingly watches her eye twitch with vague rage. “ask utahime to do it. and call me frat sweetheart again, see what happens,” she smiles darkly. the man chuckles nervously and swats her arm in mock sadness. “getooo, shoko’s threatening my life!” “maybe listen to her, satoru.”

the rest of the week was fairly uneventful, thankfully easy with your new opportunity in tow motivating you to finish off string. the sun crimson, it was 6pm when you hear nobara knock on your apartment door. you open to see her carrying two bag hangers of clothes and her clunky makeup bag, making you pale. “nobs… what’s this?” you ask, slightly frightened. she simply throws a sly smile and enters your apartment, unpacking everything. “oh nothing, just a super sexy outfit and the tools to make you even more of a bombshell,” she dismissively states. you groan internally. you were a fool to think nobara’s antics stopped at you accepting to attend.

3 hours fly by and you were completely dolled up, alongside nobara. your hair was adorned with a classic ribbon, which you plead to keep. nobara only allowed it because it matched the outfit she had you wear, which you didn’t feel awkward in. she knew how to optimize your current style to be more bold.

during the time the makeover occurred, megumi had drove up with yuuji and were waiting in your tiny living room, probably playing your wii mario kart. nobara texts maki a picture of you and she immediately hit her with a reply.

“sexy fox!!!”

when you step out of the bathroom, yuuji let out a slow whistle. “you are looking like one hot mama!” megumi immediately wrinkles his nose. “please never say that again..” he turns to you and gives a small nod. good enough for you. you giggle and pinch yuuji’s cheek. “i appreciate it regardless, yuu.” you thank him with a hug. “but! let’s go before nobara decides to change her eyeshadow again,” you whisper to the two boys and they nod courtly; they were well versed and knew the horrors.

megumi pulls up to the side of the street and puts his lexus in park. you and nobara walk out of the back, and immediately the chilly air hits you. damn this outfit for being so thin.

your eyes fall on the big building and instantly the color drains from your face. the big greek letters on the wall of the portico were none other than sukuna’s fraternity. how did you miss this? why didn’t it come in conversation that the party would be here ? you try racking your memory when it dawns. you had zoned out when yuuji started explaining the details of the party. there wasn’t much you could do, you were already here and your friends were excited to let loose. you just had to make sure you didn’t run into him.. hopefully.

nobara comes around behind you and links an arm with you and pulls you out of your thoughts and drags you faster in pace. “c’mon girl, time’s a-wasting!” yuuji and megumi walk close behind you. yeah, it’ll be fine! you had them. as soon as you went inside, the smell of beer and sweat hit your nose. loud beats pumped through the walls that you had heard faintly from the outside, but didn’t compare to the volume inside. you felt a little weird yet confident when you turned a few heads, some guys eyeing you down with smiles. nobara caught wind and wiggled her eyebrows at you suggestively, which you scoffed at. you could barely hear nobara tell you she had spotted maki and was making her way to meet her— you only understood when you saw maki wave at you. yuuji and megumi motion they’re going to get drinks and be right back, which ironically left you alone.

you walk towards the area where the music wasn’t as loud, which was the back of the house. stepping closer, you behold big glass sliding doors and recognize it’s the back porch, in view of a color-lighted pool. before you can compute the people at the porch, sanguine eyes meet yours and your heart stops. sukuna was leaned on a porch chair, a thin blunt rest between his lips. he looked.. different. i mean, you only saw him in a tank and shorts, but this was like witnessing a new side of him. the only constant was the silver chain on his neck.

you couldn’t discern what kind of look he was giving you, but it was making your skin flame and the previously thin-seeming outfit now felt suffocating and hot on your body. something about his gaze felt like a violation of your privacy. without looking away from you, he exhales, mouth and nose, handing the blunt to a tall brown haired woman in an all black tiny dress. she seemed out of place with the seemingly thug-like frat men around her, sukuna included.

you back away from the glass panes and decide to find yuuji and megumi to escape this weird tension you just found yourself in. you spot a tall man with a black haired up-down smiled at you warmly and you nod kindly in response. he walks to you and leans down to your ear to speak. “are you yuuji’s friend?” you nod. thankfully, the new song was relatively more quiet and you could a hear lot better. “i’m suguru, by the way,” he says with a small smile. you give him yours. “pretty name for a pretty girl,” he drawls. “you like red?” his hand flicks the ribbon in your hair. you roll your eyes. “it matched the outfit,” you defend lightly. he gasps mockingly. “wow, i just noticed! red top, red bag, how cute! little red riding hood, you are,” he teases. “i bet your phone case is red too.” you shake your head and deny over-dramatically. “cmon, let’s see it!” he prods playfully. you sigh and show him the sparkly red phone in defeat. “you caught me. i’m secretly a red fiend. the second carmen sandiego, even.” he laughs heartily and tilts his head at you, pausing for a moment. “you looked a little lost, y’know. that’s not safe at a frat party,” he chuckles. “i was just looking for the drinks. do you know where they are?” he nods and puts a hand on your arm to spin you in the direction to it. “it’s the kitchen, just down this way and on your left. just weave the crowd,” he advises. you scan and see a light from a different room in the direction, which could mean the kitchen suguru meant. you look up and grin kindly. “thanks, suguru.” “don’t mention it, pretty girl.” he seemed like a cool person.. even a little hot, you had to admit.

you begin weaving people, trying not to bump into someone or step in mystery liquid but these boots were starting to be harder to get a grip in. a girl dancing pushes you slightly and you lose your balance a little, causing you to lose footing. before you know it, you stumble into a guy and you hear him drop his drink.

“what the— HEY! watch where you’re going, b-“

the blue haired man turns around and sees your doe eyed face and goes a little stupid.

you were already apologizing profusely. “oh my god, i’m so sorry, someone bumped into me, i can-“ “no worries, doll. you’re getting all riled up over nothin’,”

his smile felt sleazy and his eyes rake over your body violently.

“do i know you? you from a soror?” you didn’t like this exchange any longer and wanted to leave, now.

“actually, my friends are waiting for me, so i’ll just-“

“aw, what’s the rush, baby? you don’t wanna get to know me?”

his hand quickly snakes around your waist and you feel him grope you and you push him off of you and yell.

“what the fuck!” a hand pulls the man back and you were relieved to see it was megumi. “if you look at her again, i’ll fucking kill you.” he states coldly. the blue haired man scoffs and throws his hands up in surrender.

“it’s not that deep, man, she was just talking to me,” “yeah yeah, save it asshole. let’s go,” megumi wraps a protective arm around you and weaves you to the kitchen quickly.

he looks at you with a face of worry. “i’m so sorry we took long, yuuji ended up doing beer pong and he’s super wasted. did he do anything to you?” you wave your hands and shake your head, trying not to burden your friend. “he just grabbed me, but i pushed him off, i’m okay! i swear.” he eyes you, concerned. you did tend to downplay your own well-being and health, even to your detriment. before he could say anything else, you hear a drunk yuuji hoot loudly. “loooook gumi, i gots a ‘nother beeeeeer!” megumi immediately groans and goes to yank the drink out of his hand. yuuji somehow sees you in his drunken haze. “ohhhhh, look who it isssss! prettiest hot mama, my best frienddddd!” he makes grabby hands for you, but before you can reach him, he passes out and almost hits his head on the marble counter— fortunately megumi’s reflexes catches it before it happens. “i swear, yuuji knows he’s a lightweight but drinks like it’s juice,” he grimaces. you look at yuuji and sigh. so much for a party animal.

suddenly, you start hearing screams and yelling from the living room area. an image of nobara flashes before your mind and you immediately follow the sounds to make sure she wasn’t in danger— only to find the man who just sexually assaulted you getting pounded into the ground by sukuna. no one was able to break the violent trace he was in, the punches hitting constantly one after the other. the sound was so visceral you gasp, swearing you heard a crunch.

you see suguru push through the crowd and pull sukuna off of the man, whispering something angrily into sukuna’s ear. sukuna reluctantly stops. so suguru knows sukuna..?

an angry looking man with green hair is cursing at sukuna. “fuck off, man! we’re brotherhood, is this how you’re gonna treat us?” a woman with braided blue hair drops to the man and screams. “mahito, oh my godddd! are you okay baby!”

“get off me, bitch! ugh- you crazy motherfucker! that whore isn’t even yours, why’d you care?”

the blue haired man yells at sukuna, clutching his bloodied nose. you couldn’t even tell if the blood was from his face or his nose. sukuna almost lunges back onto him hearing what he said but a white haired man with sunglasses also intervened like suguru and pulls him back.

you didn’t realize your hand flew to your mouth in pure fear. they were all frat brothers here, and something about it all made your head spin. you wanted out, now. the stuffy heat of the house was making you dizzy.

you refuse to make eye contact with sukuna and you instead set out to find nobara. you scan all the rooms and end up finding them in the garage of the frat house. like yuuji, nobara was also trashed beyond belief and draped over her girlfriend, babbling and giggling. maki looks at you with a small apologetic smile. “i think i’m just gonna take her home, if that’s okay.” you nod and smile faintly. “i have to get this one in the car, too,” you hear over your shoulder. megumi is walking down with a passed out yuuji slumped on him in a piggyback position. all your friends were preoccupied with taking care of the drunk ones, you couldn’t bother them with taking you home too. that would be rude of you, right? you hated the thought of being a burden to the people you cared about, especially when they have more things to deal with. it’s fine anyways, you had a solution. “megs, i’ll just call an uber, ‘kay?” his face drops in a frown and he objects. “no! i can take you too, don’t worry. i just need to keep yuuji at bay, so—“

“i’ll take her.”

you trace a gruff voice above you and discern sukuna is standing directly behind you, completely unfazed with what he just committed mere moments ago. the audacity of this man! “i’d rather die than have you take me home,” you spat angrily. he sighs like explaining this to you was a inconvenience to him. “it’s a 3am uber or me. your choice.”

a drunk yuuji stirs and he starts squirming and nearly makes megumi topple over. maki looks at the entirety of you and narrows her eyes. “darling, go with sukuna. i’ll make sure you get home safe, okay?” she tells you softly. her eyes flick over to sukuna and her gaze hardens. “if even a hair on her pretty head is missing, i’ll hunt you down myself.” sukuna holds up two fingers and whistles. “scout’s honor, ma’am.” she nods curtly, picking up her messy girlfriend. she looks at you for a moment more. “text me when you’re home, okay? love you.” you assent, mirroring her bye. megumi frowns a little but gives sukuna a similar tight stare, a more silent exchange between the two occurring. he says his byes to you as well.

the unperturbed man gives you a wry smile, like the ones you’ve given him in prior. “shall we leave then?” you scoff and cross your arms over your chest. this was starting to feel like a mistake and you should’ve just taken your chances with the late night uber.

sukuna leads you further into the garage, behind all the expensive jeeps and roll royces. “what kind of car do you drive, exactly?..” you mutter quietly. sukuna heard anyways and exults a chuckle. “not really a car, i think.”

he comes to a stop at a sleek black motorcycle, which you look at in shock and awe. your jaw drops.

“hell no. absolutely the fuck not.”

“i can still call the uber then…?”

“just hand me the fucking helmet bitch.”

he cracks open the seat to pull out another helmet and hands it to you. you snap it on carefully, not trying to catch your hair or your ribbon. you look at the vehicle and the thoughts start rolling. this was literally a death machine. he wanted you to ride this speed demon that he controls. this was beyond insanity, you never do things like this! but.. what else could you do?

sukuna had already strapped himself in the helmet, hopping onto the bike. he holds out a hand palm up to you. “are you gonna get on, or you gonna keep the fish out of water miming going?” he deadpans. you begrudgingly throw a leg over, letting him help you on behind him. he turns a key and the engine roars to life, the growl of the vehicle echoing in the open garage.

you think back to the moment you and sukuna locked eyes prior and remembered he was smoking weed. “are you sure you’re sober? you smoked a blunt earlier,” your voice was a little high strung, but sukuna just laughs. he looks over his shoulder at you, smirking. “if you think 2 hits on a blunt is enough to get me faded, you’re an idiot.” you smack his back. “stop calling me that!” he simply laughs at you, as always, and starts rolling the bike out of the garage.

“all you need to do is keep your feet in, press your thighs together, and wrap your arms around my waist.”

“wait, what? run that last one back?”

“do you wanna fly off and eat concrete?”

“…no.”

“then do it.”

your hands slowly circle his hard waist and awkwardly hover, weirdly shy about touching him like this.

“woman, if you don’t put your arms around me normally, i will make you.”

you try to argue that this was a perfectly acceptable middle ground but before you can finish, his rough hand yanks your arms to his stomach like it was nothing. you yelp and your helmet bangs into his back at the sheer force. your face flames at the fact your palms were in direct contact with his rock-hard abs, which felt absolutely unreal.

“you could’ve been nicer about that.”

“nothing nice about safety.”

without a warning, he accelerates the bike and you’re off, enlisting another yelp from you. your arms tightened around him, which he grins to himself about. the first few minutes of riding go by with you koala gripped on his waist, not even daring to move your head from the moment he had started. sukuna looks at you in his rear view mirror with a sly grin. “you know nothing will happen if you relax your head, right?” he yells over the wind resistance blowing around the bike. you clearly didn’t even notice that you were so stiff and straighten, looking at him with a displeased frown. “yeah i know, you didn’t have to tell me,” you rebut.

he shakes his head at you and the road looks to merge on the bridge. now open to the sky without the tall building blocking it, you are immediately entranced by how the water shimmers with the moonlight, and the stars were extremely visible tonight. your eyes light up with the simple joy you found in this, just admiring nature. unbeknownst to you, sukuna snuck glances of you in this state and almost wished he could take a picture and capture this for himself later.

faster than you anticipated, sukuna was pulling into the street with your apartment. he came to a slow in front of your building and turned on the ignition, hopping off to help you get down.

you notice his bloody knuckles and let out a little gasp. you’re telling me he was just driving like this, cut up and all? what is this guy on? you can’t leave him like this, he drove you all the way out here.. ugh, damn my guilty conscience! let me be evil for once!

“what?” sukuna gives you a dubious look.

“you’re bleeding,” you deadpan.

he looks at his hands, flipping them over. he seems surprised something was even there. it gave the impression sukuna’s been in brutal fights like that routinely.

“aw what, this? it’ll be fine.”he replied with a shrug. you narrow your eyes at him.

“i’m cleaning those and bandaging you. i don’t want your ass blaming me for tetanus or something.” you throw at him.

sukuna looked down at you and chuckled, and you almost think you saw a genuine smile. you couldn’t tell for sure because it disappeared as soon as it came, replaced with the same annoying smirk he carried.

“alright, then. lead the way, sweetheart.”

your heart is pounding as you walk up the open metal stairway, gigantic tattooed man in tow. how you got here is still unresolved logic in your mind but you’re too tired to fight it. keys jiggle to unlock the small apartment, which felt even more smaller when sukuna stepped inside. it was like a bull in a china shop.

“um.. you can hang your jacket and helmet, if you want,” you point to the small funky coat rack nestled in the corner of the entryway. he nods awkwardly and removes them, along with his shoes. “i’ll be right back, im just getting the medical kit.”

you quickly run into your bathroom and open your mirror cabinet, fishing for rubbing alcohol and some bandaids. to your horror, the only bandaids you had were pink and hello kitty-themed. you imagined the big scary man with pinked up knuckles and giggle. serves him right, you thought.

you walk back in to see sukuna staring at a picture on your mantle of you, yuuji, nobara and megumi. you clear your throat and gesture for him to sit on the couch. he obeys accordingly, nonverbal. you kneel in front of him and you see sukuna look away from you in the corner of your eye. you pull his hands forward and begin dabbing the cuts, and he winces. you give him a questioning smile.

“what, i thought you had a high pain tolerance?”

“low pain tolerance doesn’t include this rubbing alcohol masochism.”

you let out a giggle at the dry joke before you can think to stop.

“what, you find my suffering funny? i punched that douche for you and this is what i get in return..” he grumbled, eyebrows furrowing.

you didn’t really connect the dots in the moment that sukuna was in fact, beating up the guy that sleazed on you. you felt.. something. you didn’t want to give any other name to it besides gratitude.

“ah.. thank you. genuinely.”

his eyes lower to meet your sincere ones and the ice on his resolve melts further. “it.. it was nothing. assholes deserve to get their shit rocked. and mahito’s been asking for an ass-whooping for a hot minute,” he rants. his openness catches you by surprise, but you let him speak away as you clean and bandage him up.

“—and every time they ask, i tell the boys to start listening to cues with women, but the stupid motherfuckers just don’t get it. uh— is there.. is there somethin’ on my face?”

sukuna’s monologue abruptly comes to a halt when he watches you observe him closely. your doe eyes were pooling into his, and he felt like you were perceiving his soul.

“your eyes are sanguine red. did you know that?”

your voice was barely above a whisper, the apartment silent. the same moonlight spilled into your living room and on you and god, he swore you were angelic. his eyes lowered down at your lips, his head moving close—

your phone’s ringtone makes the both of you jump backwards and you scramble to look at the caller id. “father”. you take a deep breath and gesture sukuna to stay quiet. he nods and looks away, trying to resemble some form of privacy for you. you pick up.

“dad, it’s super later at night, is everything okay?” a gruff raspy voice crackles back. “you did not update me or your mother about your new opportunity. i was going to give you until sunday to bring it up yourself, but i grew impatient with your laziness.”

your heart sinks a little. even with the knowledge that you scored a near-impossible internship.. your father had other things to say to you. “choujo. you need to be proactive in everything you do. if you cannot handle sharing important information, how can you even do a simple job! i don’t understand what they teach you at that university.. just a waste, seriously. do better.”

the line cuts before you could say anything back. the apartment fills with a more pained silence this time. you don’t want to look at sukuna, you already felt like disappearing into thin air, the gloom making tears well in your eyes.

“…don’t listen to him.”

you look up to soak the tears back in a little before you meet his gaze timidly.

“what do you mean?”

sukuna takes a moment to really look at you before he sighs, pushing off of his knees to walk towards the coat rack.

“you work hard? that’s all that matters. don’t listen to the noise assholes wanna make,” he states firmly, unhooking his leather jacket and biker helmet.

you frown at his use of words towards your father, whom you still respected despite his harsh treatment of you. “ah.. thanks, sukuna.”

he puts the jacket on in one swift gesture, giving you a slow grin. “nah. it’s just common sense, something an idiot like you wouldn’t know.”

your jaw ticks and you immediately start pushing him out the door. “aaaand that’s enough of you for tonight! good riddance,” you snap in annoyance, feeling him shake with the snickers he was suppressing. you give him a dry smile and slam the door in his face.

sukuna stands at the door for a moment, making sure he hears you walk away.

“goodnight, sweetheart.”

a soft bid to you, the sound in the night air washing away with the clunks of his shoes on metal steps.

the man reaches in his pockets to fish out his keys and is met with a paper-like material. pulling it out, he recognizes the design to be the same as the bandaids adorning his hands now. a sticky note attached with neat handwriting read,

“for my phone. asshole”

sukuna smiles to himself, shaking his head. you were extremely hotheaded, that was a given — but the fact you held kindness in a small gesture and chose to downplay it made him wonder what it would be like to actually be admired by you.

definitely more pink bandaids.

but he knew better than to poke around his little brother’s friend.. or so he convinced himself he believed. he quickly tucks them back into his pocket, starting his motorcycle to ride back home with only one thing on his mind… you.

next chapter might take a while because i rushed this one out, but don’t fret! i won’t leave it for more than a couple days :)

peace luv bathtub!!!

© sozila 2024, all rights reserved. please do not plagiarize, translate, or repost any of my work on other mediums or sites. cross-posted on ao3 and tumblr under same alias.

[leviathans-watching]

ive never done requests before 😭 would it be possible for u to maybe write a sick!mc w the dateables? i need more simeon in my life dawg

sick!mc with the dateables

includes: the dateables x/& gn!reader (no pronouns mentioned)

wc: .4k | rated g | m.list

warnings: mentions of fevers, colds, coughing

a/n: ugh this was so cute! thanks for requesting and i hope you enjoy <33 my inbox is open to chat, request, or leave feedback, so come say hi!!

Please reblog<33333

➳ diavolo had noticed you looking pale and sluggish, so when you start to complain that you don’t feel well, he’s really not surprised. “oh, dear,” he says with a sigh, touching your forehead. “you’ve definitely got a fever. weak human immune systems. how about i run you a bath and make you some tea.” already, he’s thinking about how to best take care of you, making a mental list of things he needs barbatos to run out and get. and just to be safe, you’ll have to stay in his room tonight where he can look over you and make sure you don’t get any worse.

➳ barbatos wrinkles his nose as you cough, long and painful-sounding noises escaping your mouth. without prompting, he hands you his handkerchief and then sets up the kettle, grateful you’re already in the kitchen. “i’ll make you some tea,” he offers. “you can just sit there and not strain yourself. and also please don’t cough all over the counter. i just cleaned it.” you smile at that, sensing the dry humor in his words, and he pulls down the honey, intent on making some of the best tea he’s ever made to help with throat and chest health.

➳ simeon knocks on your door, chicken soup in hand. “i’m coming in,” he calls gently, pushing your door open. lord, it’s a good thing he’s around because the brothers would have no clue how to treat you. when he enters, he sees why you never replied–you’re asleep. unable to stop a smile from forming upon seeing your cute face and messy bedhead, simeon sets the tray down on your nightstand, pulling the blankets you kicked down back up to your chin. “get well soon,” he murmurs, leaning down and pressing a kiss to your forehead. partly to check for fever and partly because he wants to.

➳ solomon dismisses your concern for him catching your cold so he can nurse you back to health, staying by your side attentively while the illness runs its course. he’s always there with another blanket, to tell you stories, and to refill your water, even using his magic to keep you entertained. it’s nice, and you really appreciate him, but can’t help but roll your eyes when you recover and he begins to get sick. “hey, now it’s your turn to nurse me back to health,” he jokes weakly, and you sigh, but know in your heart that you don’t mind taking care of him, just as he hadn’t minded taking care of you.

leviathan-watching's work - please do not copy, repost, or claim as your own

[loverofdoves]

had a big night on my altar with Lord Dionysus.

i’ve been struggling a lot mentally, both with symptoms and figuring out medication, so i called upon Him, Sôtêrios, the Savior from Madness (i’m currently in a psychotic episode); Him, Kissios, Of the Ivy with my decorations of english ivy from around my house; Him, Agathos Daimon, The Good Spirit, to help me keep house and stay comfortable while all of this is going on; and finally, Him, Lamptêros, Of the Torches, to bring light into the darkness i am feeling.

i offered Him a frankincense incense stick, english ivy, ginger root with a symbol of Him carved into it, a libation of what i personally think is the best drink in the house (grapefruit citrus sparkling water…. i don’t drink alcohol), tarot cards i associate with him, stones and pendulums that are made with stones associated with him, as well as many, many candles. i also agreed to lighting His devotional candle more than usual and on every sunday to reaffirm what we have done today (as today is sunday)

even if Lord Dionysus only helps me a little, i will be eternally grateful. He has helped me through so much and when it comes to my mental health, especially because i have schizophrenia and people literally call me “mad”, i feel very connected to Him. i’m also genderqueer and embracing Him in my life has been easier coming to terms with my gender identity.

also when i finished my whole prayer, with His playlist on in the background, the current song ended and switched to one of my all time favorites on the playlist so ill take that as a good sign 🥰

🍇 Praise Lord Dionysus 🍇

[netherfeildren]

The Cassandra Complex : Chapter II : Prometheus

Series Masterlist

(Din Djarin x F!Reader)

Content Warnings: Canon typical violence; Blood and gore; Mentions of drug and alcohol abuse; Description of injury; Angst; Possessive behavior

Rating: Explicit 18+

Word count: 6.7K

Read on AO3

CHAPTER II : PROMETHEUS

What is mortality after all but divine doubt flashing over us?

-Anne Carson, Autobiography of Red

As the days turned to weeks turned to months since that moment in the dark with the Mandalorian, there had been a steadily rising thrum of tumultuous, frenzied energy coiling within you. A ball of hissing, ravenous snakes ready to strike at any moment. Desire turned to want turned to a demand that you were ill equipped to deal with – emotionally and mentally.

You’d had many things in your life that you’d wanted but had not been able to have, and yet that did not mean that you’d ever been good at not getting them. Impulse control, a staying hand, were not things the Maker had blessed you with. 

You’d met an old Ugnaught female with a penchant for loving spotchka and Sabacc a little too much. More than she’d ever enjoyed keeping steady work or following the rules or anything else really. You and she had some things in common when it came to that pesky little issue of impulse control. After a brief acquaintanceship, she’d put you on to a group that met sometimes on Nevarro to… support each other… or better yet, to sit around and discuss your issues and vices together in some pseudo imitation of self improvement – the art of staying one’s hand, or whatever you wanted to call it – and if it was not with much success, it was with intention, which you thought was, in the end, just as significant. She said she found the meetings understanding or companionable or something you pretended to tell yourself you didn’t care about. 

And sometimes you went. 

If for nothing else, to feel as if there were at least a few people in the entire galaxy who knew your name, who knew you were alive, who knew you were alone. You sat there amongst the old and weathered humans and the other ragtag team of varying organics and even the occasional droid, and listened to their stories and their losses and their fear during the reign of the Empire – their struggle, their fight, their apathy now, to survive, to stay afloat in the bleak imperial aftermath. 

One such survivor with a nasty love for Spice, needled you the worst. His face was haggard, tired, and there was something so forlorn about him, something that sent a sudden flash of fear through you. Is that what I will be one day? Is that what I already am? I am a person, you think wearily, aren’t I? His voice was tough and ragged, as if he’d gone out into the lava fields and swallowed a chunk of ashen rock to fill his belly, savaging his throat in the process, grating your ears and your nerves.

“Nothing really feels better than when I’m drinking a bottle of spotchka, Spice humming through my veins, watching the sunset. My worries, my fears… they don’t weigh as heavily on my shoulders. And what else is there to do? This is easy. I am good at this. It is a simple thing, even if I must forsake all the rest. And I am tired. I want peace.”

You could understand this. 

What else had there been to do under the subjugation of a darker and more powerful force than you could have ever been? You had been young and alone and terrified. In possession of a power beyond your understanding. You had been enslaved, trapped, abused, and then, for a moment, on a precipice. One which you’d taken a leap off of at the first chance. Now though, you were tired, and you too, wanted peace. Even if you weren’t entirely sure if you still believed in the concept. Once, it had seemed easy to lay down and take it, do as you were told. Until it wasn’t, or… until there had been the opportunity for something different. When the Sith lords were crumbling into obscurity and failure one by one, until only you and your master remained. A singular darkness in the galaxy. A lone chance, a step too far, to run had been all you’d needed. A flash of beskar in your mind – screaming, the snuffing of a silver flame –  you blink the nightmare, memory, away, be honest with yourself, eyes pressed together tightly, spiky lashes crinkling between your lids.

And you, girl? What about you? What do you have to tell?

Me? Nothing. Nothing to tell – nothing you’d not burn me for.

Or the truth: it was discovered that I could wield the Force when I was a young child. I was hunted, my parents were slaughtered, and I was stolen. Turned and enfolded into their cult. I never had a chance. I never had a choice. I am trying to find my choices again. 

The Jedi, the Sith, the Empire, they all fell a long time ago. I need to let the past die, but I will not die with it. So, you do not share that which would get you killed. You could very well be taken for an Imperial remnant and hunted, executed. No matter that you’d been just as powerless, despite everything, just as tortured, just as subjugated as anyone else, in all the ways that really counted. Despite everything – sometimes this great power counted for very little.

They had wanted to make you a God, but a God muzzled, a God restrained. 

God struck, God swept, God nonsensical. 

Your dreams are always strange and violent now – nightmares of a terrible past coalescing with hopes of a better future. How to reconcile that hideous thing you had been once before with the better thing you were trying to be now? Too difficult to conceptualize. No matter how many times you listened to your strange group of fellow survivors and vice-havers – a funny thing for what would they say, do, to you, if they knew that unlike their spotchka or Spice addictions, your predilection was of a darker nature – to kill, to maim, to destroy?

You leave Nevarro for a time, after that realization. That no matter how much you might ingratiate yourself, no matter the connections you may pretend to make, there is still that, there is still the truth of you. 

The second time you meet him, you are where you should not be. 

You’d come to Corellia. Filled with a sick and twisted sort of glee that you could roll around in the worst underbelly of the galaxy and survive, hold your own. It was an exercise in restraint and brawn and arrogance, too, perhaps. The crime syndicates running untethered, spice trade, and the harsh reality of industrial life made for a cesspool of the worst sort of cretins. 

In some ways, it was exciting for you, and you knew you were looking for something. Something to whet your appetite, quench your thirst, fill the void. 

After all, it had been two months, what felt like millenia, since that dark storage alcove where he’d imprinted himself in you. Weeks of having the ghost of him haunt you, the memory of his rough voice whispering phantom-like in your ear, seeing him in your dreams, your nightmares. Desperate interludes in whatever cold and lonely bed you’d claimed for the night, your fingers rubbing frantically at your slippery, swollen clit, trying to chase that feeling he’d pulled out of you and failing. Mandalorian, Mandalorian, Mandalorian. And then, one late night, when you’re on the trail of one such lead towards self destruction, masqueraded as a good time, there, around the corner, in the distance – like a wound of beskar looming in the night – it’s your Mandalorian. 

You pause your skulking, stepping back to wrap yourself in the shadows, away from prying eyes. You take him in. Fucking tall and broad, outlined in pale flickering silver. He’s arguing with a young Corellian, sticking his finger in the male's face threateningly, other hand hovering menacingly over his blaster, and you can’t help but snicker. Surly beast, that he is. There is a large part of you that does not want him to see you, who had hoped you’d never again come across him, and then a quieter, but infinitely harder part of you to ignore…

The helmet snaps towards you suddenly, as if sensing your attention, cocks to the side –  very much like some predatory animal casting sights on its next meal – his next bounty. You don’t need further warning, you spin on your heel and start in the opposite direction. Heart knocking on the walls of your chest to be let out, let me out, let me out, I want to go with him, cunt going tight and wet, ridiculous, desperate.

A chant that sings: again, again, again, chase me again. Catch me again. I don't know you, but I missed you anyway. I remember you, and I want you. 

That dark, red thread snaps taut again, humming with the song of your fates. You already know how this is going to end. How you want it to end.

You always know how everything is going to end. 

You pick up your pace, trying to confuse him with your turnarounds, sliding through the alleys and archways and scurrying around corners quickly, and then on one particularly slippery turn, there he is. An impenetrable wall of beskar that you’re slamming into, jarring your brain within your skull, shaking your heart in the cage of your ribs, jostling an impish little giggle out of you. 

A pause to catch your breath, he’d cut around and surprised you somehow, “Mandalorian.”

“Brat.” You laugh, his voice is still the same. The depth of it, not a figment of your imagination. 

“Fancy meeting you here. On holiday?” You croon, dragging a single, provoking finger across his chest plate, stepping closer to him, pressing up on your tiptoes to grin up at him. You listen to his huff of vexation through the modulator. Oh, don’t pretend, shiny. I know you love this too. 

“What are you doing here? Corellia isn’t safe.” Stern, stern tone. If you’d let him huff and puff at you, you’re sure he would. 

You roll your eyes at him, as if anything on this planet could do any real harm to the likes of you. “Oh, don’t I know it. I’ve caused the greatest trouble while I’ve been here. It’s been terrible fun.”

He shakes his head down at you disapprovingly, one hand propped on his hip like he’s gearing up to chastise you, readying that menacing finger to shake at you too. You shimmy up against him some more, pressing your breasts up against his chest plate, and you listen to a whisper soft groan vibrate through that impenetrable mask. Not so impenetrable as to keep you out, though, so it seems. You tuck the tips of both hands into the top edge of his breast plate to pull your own face up towards his, and even then, he still has to crook his neck down to look at you. He doesn’t buckle, not even a little bit, under the weight of you trying to hang off of him. You feel one of his hands come up to cup the sharp edge of your elbow, and even through the thick fabric of your dark tunic and the leather of his gloves, his touch feels like fire, like the Force. Stronger than anything else in the whole universe. For some reason, you can feel that deep well of power within you stir at the sight of him, at his touch, like a swirling pool of magma, waiting to rise up and spill out unencumbered. You feel on edge, stretched thin and held together only by frayed seams. 

“Did you miss me, Mandalorian?” He tugs you slightly further into the shadow of the building’s side looking up and around the two of you for one moment, oh, yes, yes, yes, again, again, making sure your surroundings are clear. 

“You like to be chased,” he says back.

“I like to be caught.” 

“By me.”

“By you.” Truth.

“Only me.” It seems he’s finally learned to flirt.

You step up onto his big boot with the tip of one small foot, really trying to climb him in earnest now, bringing yourself up even closer to him, and he wraps his other hand around your waist beneath your cloak, the tips of his long fingers splayed over the top swell of your ass to press your pelvis into his. You bury your nose into the folds of his cape around his throat, breathing in the warm, masculine scent of him, hooking an arm around the back of his neck. You want to kiss him.

“Last time, you said, maybe next time. Is that now?” You breathe into that dark space beneath his helmet’s edge.

You listen to his soft groan, the two of you pulling each other in even closer, trying to meld yourselves to each other, liquid metal’s mixing, beskar melted and writhing amidst fire and flame, and as you’re about to beg him to find another dark alcove for the two of you, you sense them at the same time that his helmet snaps up and to the side, right as they’re descending upon the shadows where you’re hidden, too late to block their blaster fire as they open upon the two of you without any sort of protection to shield yourselves with. Your reaction time is delayed blocking their attack, distracted by him, by his touch, and too long since you’ve openly and freely wielded your power, and he spins, suddenly, huge frame hunching over your smaller one to protect you from the onslaught, to shield you. You hear the bolts of plasma make contact with the beskar over his back, and then his harsh, pained groan as they meet the unprotected places between the gaps in his armor. You spot the Corellian he was arguing with before, over his shoulder. 

A savage growl rips from his throat as his knees buckle, and you wrap one arm around his strong waist, trying to hold him up as he struggles to remain upright. He’s been hit badly in the side, you feel the hot seep of his blood spill. You raise your other hand over his shoulder then, a furious seeping coil starting to move through your body. 

“You’re hit,” you whisper up at him. One of his hands claws at your shoulder, he’s so heavy, while the other braces against the wall behind you, trying to remain upright. 

“My blaster,” he snarls, “Take my blaster. Run.”

“It’s alright,” you say calmly, even though you feel anything but. You can feel his life force literally seeping out of him, and you’re hit, square in the face, with the realization of how truly strong he is. He is so potent, so alive, that his presence in the Force is almost a physical thing despite his lack of powers. The Force lives through us all, and he is powerful, all in his own right, purely for the vitality of him. 

He is strong and good, and that seeping coil turns into a ravenous howl.

There is a group of five organics of varying species surrounding the two of you, frozen by that lifted hand of yours. It closes into a fist, and three of them fall instantly dead, minds pulverized under the force of your power. The edges of your vision go slightly dark. 

“It’s going to be alright,” you say gently to him again. His hand on your shoulder is twisting painfully into your clothes, your joint straining beneath his strength, and he shakes you sharply, trying to push you away. “Fucking go. Why aren’t you moving?” One of his knees buckles, his voice wavers. He’s bleeding out so fast. You grip him beneath his elbows and start to slowly help him lower to the ground. One of his knees suddenly gives out, cracking harshly against the hard ground beneath. “What are you doing?” There’s a flavor of desperation infusing his tone. As if he’s worried for you. As if he is worried for you. “There are too many of them, and I’m–” His voice cuts off with a choked snarl of agony. He’s hurt, he’s hurt. You need to move quickly, or he’s going to die. 

“It’ll be alright, Mandalorian. Wait here. I’ll be right back for you.” He says something more, something growled that sounds suspiciously like, fucking hate it when you say Mandalorian like that, can’t kriffing do as you’re told, but your attention is no longer on him. You step in front of him, blocking the sight of his fallen form from the two remaining, soon to be dead, males. You cast a wide net of the Force around the four of you. Besides the three dead bodies, there is nothing else awake and lurking in the shadows for about a two kilometer radius. Lovely. 

The Corellian is obviously the leader. You look towards the other first, a big, ugly Trandoshan, and as you set your sights on him, you release him from his paralysis, giving him a moment to get his bearings and reach for his blaster. He scrambles to pull it from its holster and fires directly at you. And at your once again raised hand, the beam of plasma freezes mid air in a thrumming, angry screech of red magma. You listen to the Trandoshan’s horrified gasp, watch his eyes go wide and terrified through your splayed fingers, “You’re–”

“Yes. I am.” You send the blaster beam back in his direction with a slight flick of your wrist, piercing him directly through the throat, and leaving a wide, smoking hole of charred flesh clean through its ugly neck. The body falls to the damp street with a harsh thud.

“And you?” You turn toward the Corellian. “Were you his bounty?” His eyes are frenzied, manic, terrified, “Ah, Sith got your tongue?” The acrid scent of urine permeates the air, and you let out a barking little chirp of a laugh. You can feel the Mandalorian fading behind you, struggling to stay alert. No time to play with your food. There is a part of you, small or large, you can’t tell now, in the haze of the Force overwhelming you after not having used it like this in so long, that is worried that this is a step in the wrong direction. You haven’t killed in a long time – not since that last one. No – don’t think of it. Not now. Not with him here. And perhaps, this is a step in the wrong direction, a step backwards, but there’s really no choice. They’ve hurt him. 

You have no choice other than this. 

You reach for your lightsaber strapped into a holster low on your thigh, an inconspicuous place where you can hide it in the dark folds of your clothes. You’ve not wielded one since your escape, since that last time. Your heart beats painfully in your chest, and you can’t tell if it’s more of a blood hungry sort of excitement or out of fear for him, lying wounded behind you. 

-

“No… I’m just kidding.” A girlish little giggle, “I’m not a Sith anymore. Don’t worry. If I were still that, I’d draw this out. Make you suffer for a very, very long time for hurting him.” You pull something from your person then, and the night is filled with the crackling hissing sound of an igniting lightsaber. He’s never seen one in person before – only heard of them in stories. The dark street illuminated with the bright light of a violet colored plasma cross guard that sputters and wavers furiously, unstable, like the sound of metal being clawed to shreds. Despite the protection of his helmet, Din squeezes his eyes shut for an instant, afraid that the bright light would blind him, sear his retinas from their sockets. 

You are a burning effigy washed in the violet light of righteous fury as you stalk slowly towards his, soon to be dead, bounty. Din has no power, but if he did, he is certain that he would be able to feel your presence in the Force as surely as he feels the blaster hole in his flank. Even powerless, he’s sure he can feel the humming waves of your strength brushing up against his armor clad form. 

“She’s never been wet before.” Your voice is inexplicably lovely, soft and lilting. It had been the first thing he’d noticed about you, after those hypnotizing eyes that had terrified him for the intensity of feeling they conveyed, the two warring colors, one lighter than the other, one cast in perpetual darkness and the other so vibrantly bright it almost glows. The way they’d enthralled him, forced him to go after you that night on Nevarro, if only so that he could look into them one more time. “You’ll be my first blood with this – I made her just recently…” You say casually, lifting the lightsaber up to appreciate it between the two of them. The Corellian is frozen still, and Din assumes that you’re holding him so. You’d killed all the rest without so much as a blink. You’d stopped the fucking blaster bolt mid air. Din has never witnessed such a thing in his entire life. He thinks, for a brief moment, that perhaps, he should be frightened, or worried. He’s bleeding out, he’s dying, prone on the ground and vulnerable, and this girl is of a capacity he’s never encountered thus far in all his travels through the galaxy. 

But he is not.

For some reason, the Mandalorian is not afraid. 

“Pretty, no?” You croon at the Corellian, and if Din was of a sound mind, and not currently delirious from blood loss, he’s sure he’d not have felt that twinge of ridiculous jealousy twist through his gut at hearing you give that soft voice to another male. You twirl the blade so fast he scarcely catches it, then lets your wrist fall, the angry buzzing tip of plasma touches the ground so it screeches and hisses. You seem to deflate for a second, arms hanging limply at your sides, and shake your head at him. “You hurt him,” you say so softly he has to strain to hear through the haze of blood loss. He’s fading. He does not want to leave you alone. “You shouldn’t have done that.” 

You should not have to face this alone.

Another lightning fast twist of your wrist, the violet beam an arc of pure light through the night’s dark air, and then: “He’s mine.”

You slice the Corellian diagonally from hip to shoulder. Din does not think the creature even has a moment to realize what’s been done to him before the two halves of its body are sliding clean and wet against each other and crumpling to the ground with a sickening thud. 

When you turn back to look down upon him, your eyes are filled with so much fear and hurt and desolation, and Din must close his own eyes to shutter himself away from the terrible sight of your pain. He never wants to see that look in you again. 

You seem to be a complicated amalgamation of a woman. At once strange and mercurial and violent. Wholly unreachable, unknowable. And then at the next moment: frightened, tender, soft. With a vulnerability that brings every protective, fighting instinct out in Din. Everything that makes him a Mandalorian. Everything that he holds so dearly within his Creed, you call to, after only one meeting in the dark. To protect you, to care for you, to venerate you. And the shroud of loneliness, the air of other that surrounds you, as if you’d never known the soft touch of a caring hand, the loving embrace of a mother – calls to the very same things within Din’s own soul. The same things he’d never had but always wanted. They were the same, and yet, so vastly different. Existing on two separate ends of the galaxy's spectrum. Creatures meant to be enemies, perhaps, to kill each other. And yet here he found himself, prostrate and bleeding on the ground as you defended his life. Entirely at you mercy.

And now you’ve saved him.

His eyes flutter shut once again, consciousness winking away. 

-

He’s as heavy as a star blasted bantha, and you feel that your bones will surely crack and crumble to dust beneath the weight of him leaning over your shoulder while you try to get him coherent enough to move his legs and walk. While at the same time, as inconspicuously as possible, trying to use the Force to support him on his other side, a tendril of power applying pressure to the ragged, bleeding hole in his side without drawing too much attention to yourselves. And then, also, of course, with the added strain of tugging the two separate halves of his bounty behind you, wrapped in some discarded tarp you’d found because even bleeding out and two paces away from dropping dead he’d still had the wherewithal for a muttered, don’t leave my bounty. If you roll your eyes at him any harder they’d surely fall right out of your skull. 

You are a small human, and he is a big, big man. Who is currently providing absolutely no help. 

“Kriffing come on, Mandalorian. You’ve got to help me out here. You’re heavier than a fucking rancor covered in all this metal.”

You see him shake his head out of the corner of your eye, trying to stir himself into coherence, “How did you do that?” He slurs.

“You’re fucking heavy,” you whine, drawing out the vowel at the end and ignoring his question. 

You hear a small huff of air pass through the modulator, “You’re just too– too small.” His words are too slow, his voice too weak. You try and propel the two of you forwards faster. 

“Psshh, don’t provoke me, or I’ll drop you.”

“How’d you– you do that? T– Too small…” A pained, savage snarl as he stumbles. You exert more of the Force to prop him up. Fuck it, if someone notices the two of you, you’ll just kill them. What’s one more after you’d just gone and done away with five in one fell swoop after months and months of nothing – of peace?

You’re sure your mind, and that disgustingly soft heart that’s been trying to force its way to life inside of your chest recently, will make you pay for this later. 

“I’m a wizard,” you deadpan. You’re sweating beneath your heavy layers, slightly dizzy from exerting so much power so quickly. You’re beginning to think that going completely cold bantha steak and cutting yourself off from the Force had been a mistake. You feel wrung out and stretched thin and weak. 

“No– not, little one,” he stutters.

“That’s it. I’m dropping you.” But you clutch your arm tighter around his waist, pressing your cheek up against the space between his shoulder pauldron and the edge of his chest plate. You can feel the sweltering heat from his skin steaming through the heavy material of his underweave. 

“Are not.” You can hear the wet gasps of his panting breath under the helmet, and the sleeve of the arm you have wrapped around his waist feels soaked through with his blood. You don’t know how he’s still conscious and making the best attempt he can to walk after all this. 

“Maker, what do you eat, beskar for breakfast also? Just tell me where your damn ship is before more of those mudscuffers find us.”

“Landing bay seven,” And you thread your fingers through the hand of the arm he’s got slung over your shoulders, tightly. You have to move faster. You have to make him be okay. But despite your anxiety and desire to rush, the two of you make your way slowly through the Corellian alleyways. Him, struggling to remain upright, you, trying desperately to not make your invisible strength entirely obvious. 

And you fail to notice the slithery little Twi’lek, watching the two of you from the shadows, completely unaware that she will await your return to Corellia for a long, long time to come. 

-

Dragging his heavy ass in through the open hatch of his, believe it or not,  piece of shit pre Imperial gun ship, with a grumbled, nice hunk of junk, that all he’d been able to counter with was a defensive hiss, as your arms were about to snap off under his weight, feels like a singular sort of victory after what the two of you had just gone through. His feet stumbling over one another, he’s just on this side of consciousness when you finally make it within the safety of his ship. He melts into a crashing heap of beskar on the durasteel floor, and you finally let go of the disgusting weight of the dead Corellian, as you move quickly to shut yourselves inside, engaging the security system and motion sensors, lest someone else decide to catch the two of you unawares. Spinning quickly back towards him to start ripping the beskar plates off his chest to get to his injury. You quickly realize that the armor is held together by complex magnetics hidden beneath each piece and swiftly disengage those over his chest and abdomen. He’s got on a thickly woven underweave beneath the underplates, and you make quick work of unfastening the closures on that, as well, but when you’ve reached the last layer of his clothing, a thin, dark undershirt, you pause. The material is warm and soft and worn, something you’re sure he must don all the time and meticulously maintain and care for, like all the other pieces of the intricate uniform of his Creed. A Creed which you’re not certain you’d be breaking by looking upon the uncovered skin of his chest and abdomen. But he’s dying, you think, and you have to save him, and you can feel the physical and intangible manifestations of that slow crawl towards death in the spill of his hot blood on your hands, slowly drooling onto the metal floor, as well as the slow seep of his life force out into the ether. He’s dying, and you have to save him. 

You push the last layer, keeping him covered from your eyes, up his chest. The blaster wound is a ragged mess of blood and charred flesh, to his right flank. The trajectory positioned high in the upper quadrant of his abdomen so that you’re fairly certain it must have nicked his liver. You probe gently at the wound inside with a tendril of the Force, and your panic ricochets up to a shrill crescendo within you – yes, he’s hit badly, a laceration to the uppermost corner of the organ. You move to stand quickly, sweating and stumbling in your panic towards the compartments along the walls of the hull, ripping open drawers and cabinets until you come across his med kit. There are bacta injections, hard to come by, but of course he’s well supplied – you can only imagine the collection of injuries he must have gathered throughout his travels, and patches inside, and you return to kneel at his side, knees cracking painfully against the cold, hard floor as you fall next to him. Hands shaking, vision slightly blurry, you pop the cap off of the syringe, and try and take deep steadying breaths as you pull down the neck of his shirt to get at the uppermost part of his shoulder. When you press the aggressive looking needle into his skin he jerks, and the sound of the helmet rolling against the floor has your eyes shooting up to his face, “It’s okay,” you try and soothe. “You’re going to be okay. I’m going to fix this.” You press down on the plunger slowly, watching the bacta slowly make its way from the glass barrel into his arm. He gives a low groan of pain as the thick substance enters his muscle. Please, please, work. Please, you have to be okay. You pause for a second once the injection is done, watching the shallow, quick hiccups of his breath, the rapid dip of his abdomen, as if he’s struggling to continue the act, in pain. Fuck. You rip open one of the bacta patches and carefully place it over the gaping wound, reaching for two more after that to make sure the entire large circumference of the hole in his side is covered, and then go still. His breathing is still rapid and shallow, almost gasping, and you take in, for the first time, the entire vision of his naked chest and abdomen. Thick, strong waist, tapering down into slim hips, smeared in the dark vermillion of his blood, you watch the shifting of his abdominal muscles beneath his smooth, golden brown skin. You’d pushed his shirt high up on his chest, but you grip the edge to pull it down a little lower, making sure he’s only as uncovered as necessary. You’re not entirely sure how quickly the bacta should work – why isn’t he waking up, why isn’t he saying anything, why isn’t his breathing normalizing?

“Mandalorian,” you whisper, and the helmet shifts the tiniest bit towards the sound of your voice, the fingers of his left hand twitch and curl inwards. You place your other hand low on his belly, the edge of his shirt still gripped in your hand and scoot closer to him, your bent knees pressed into his hip. “Please–” you whisper and you realize your cheeks are wet, tears making a slow stream down your face. Your voice breaks, “Please, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” You don’t know why you’re apologizing, but you know that this is your fault. You distracted him, led him on that ridiculous chase. He’d have captured his bounty and been safely on his way if it weren’t for you. “I’m sorry. Please, I’m so sorry.” Not again, please, I can’t have done this again. You let your head hang forward, your torso bending slightly so that your forehead is pressed into his hip as you let your desperate and pathetically terrified tears fall. This is your fault. One more terrible thing come at your hands.

If you could only – don’t even think it, you do not possess the capacity for that sort of goodness – but the hopeless thought worms its way into your mind anyway, if you could only heal him with the Force. But you’d never possessed that sort of ability, only the strongest of Force users could wield their power for healing, and despite the fact that you can still feel the deep well of your power churning in your veins right now, after your brutal display on the streets of Corellia, you know that such a thing is beyond your capability. Such an act only possible to those with great aptitude for light wielding or those dark siders who were willing to pay a great and terrible price, that of stealing vitality from another being to enact such a power.

And you hate yourself more in this moment than all the others. You wish desperately, painfully that you could be a different sort of person, a different sort of monster. That you could be good. That you possessed the ability to do good with this Force that roils through your veins, and that should have helped you, but had only ever truly hurt you. 

What is the point of this great power within you, you think, if you cannot wield it in this most necessary of moments? In this instance when, more than any other, you wish you had the strength of the Force to heal him. With your head still pressed to his hip and your hands still on his chest and belly you open your eyes to watch your tears roll over his tan skin. I’m sorry, you think again, I wish you had never come across me. You watch the slow journey of your tears as they slide across his hip and drip silently down onto the floor of the hull, mixing with the dark crimson of his spilled blood. 

You’ve never been one for much faith in any sort of higher power, too many times in your life when you’d wished for something greater than you to come and save you gone unanswered, but you pray to the Maker in this moment that the Mandalorian survive this, please, please, he is good, please, let him survive this. Your eyes flutter closed, you feel the sweep of your lashes against his warm skin, and you pray to the Force and the Maker and any other entity out there in the vast, unending galaxy that a creature such as this, one who is strong and valiant and good, not be felled by an association with the likes of you. And as you think, please, just this one thing, just this one time, I’ll never ask for anything else ever again if you only save him now, you feel that space deep within you, where the very nectar of the Force lives in your soul, shift and churn, and it is as if one of the very building blocks of the core material that makes you what you are, slides out of that place and slots itself into him. Plugging away at the gaping, life threatening wound and mending his torn flesh and healing that which had been savaged. You feel the very fibers of him stitch themselves back together at that outpouring of yourself into his own body, and he has a piece of you now, even if he is unaware, even if, perhaps, he would not want it, you’ve given yourself to him in a way you’ve not ever done with anyone else before. Slotted yourself within him and plugged his wound away to heal him. 

You feel your body sag into his, all strength suddenly leaving you, but you force your muscles into movement and push yourself up off of him so that you can look up at his helmet covered face. His breathing suddenly stutters, and you freeze, your heart screaming in panic, but then he takes one long, deep breath, the wings of his rib cage flaring wide, and the rhythm returns to a slow, measured cadence. You take in the expanse of his strong abdomen, muscled, but also slightly soft around his belly button, the tantalizing trail of hair that disappears into his trousers. There are old scars and rough patches of poorly mended skin scattered across him, but his skin is also still soft and smooth and warm. His body is a weapon all on its own, battle hardened and made strong and resilient out of a necessity for survival, and beautiful. Above all else, he is beautiful. His long limbs are splayed wide on the durasteel floor. His cape is tangled around his throat and shoulders, and you move to pull the trapped folds from around his neck, giving him more freedom to breathe deeply. You tug the fabric down to spread out at his side so that you can lay on top of it. Your head is spinning now, your heart beating so fast you feel the rebounding rush of your blood in your eardrums. You’ve overexerted yourself, drawn too much power too quickly. Head spinning, vision going slightly dark at the edges, you feel a sharp, piercing pain behind your left eye, and your arms give out as you let yourself curl into a ball at his side, tucked into the crook of his underarm beneath his splayed limb. Right before you lose consciousness, you remember to pull his shirt down the rest of the way. He should be covered when he awakens, you don’t want him to worry that you’d violated him in any way, looked at his face or seen more of him than was absolutely necessary. He should feel reassured. You do not want him to be worried or afraid. 

When consciousness finally winks away, like a singular dying star in the vastness of space, your fingers are still twisted in his shirt over his belly.

Chapter III

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

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[ladydeatharcheron]

“The HoW was rehab”

This is a common argument I see in our fandom when it comes to defending the inner circle’s actions towards Nesta in the beginning of acosf. And I am here to tell you that this argument is null and void, using the guidelines of a healthcare institution linked here.

1. The most important thing is to set a positive, supportive tone. Ensure that the individual is treated with love and respect and maintain a calm, level tone, even if they react unpredictably.

Here is the love, support, and respect the inner circle has given Nesta during her so called intervention:

“You look atrocious,” Amren said.

“Sit down,” Rhys snarled.

“Though I bet it’s hard to look good,” Amren went on, “when you’re out until the darkest hours of the night, drinking yourself stupid and fucking anything that comes your way.”

Rhys scented that fear. She knew it from the second one side of his mouth curled up in a cruel smile.”

“You,” Cassian said from the armchair to her left. “This bullshit behavior.”

The High Lord of the Night Court gestured to the sloping lawn beyond the windows. “We’ve got plenty of space out there for a brawl.”

2. Because many who live with mental illness feel trapped, it’s helpful to lay out a clearly defined plan with options for the individual to choose from.

Now here is the options that were given to Nesta:

“It’s not up for negotiation,” Amren said.

“Your apartment is being packed as we speak,” Amren said. “By the time you return, it will be empty. Your clothes are already being sent to the House, though I doubt they will be suitable for training at Windhaven.”

And this gem too:

Wow! I’m sure that the choice of being locked up with no way out (no, walking 10k steps is not an option for someone as malnourished as she), or being sentenced to die in the human lands didn’t make Nesta feel trapped AT ALL. Good job inner circle. Very touching.

3. However, someone living with a condition like depression or bipolar disorder is highly unlikely to react in the same way. A much smaller group of just one or two friends or family members will likely create an environment more conducive to success.

I fail to see the productivity in shoving Nesta in a room with a man she has repeatedly stated she wants nothing to do with, a woman she had a bad falling out with, and a High Lord that taunts her and abuses his authority to get her to do their bidding.

Here’s a Q&N because I can already hear some of you guys from miles away:

1. “Isn’t that giving Nesta a choice?”

No. An ultimatum is not a choice. Even Cassian admits that it is:

Cassian didn’t miss the look between Feyre and Rhys: the utter agony in his High Lady’s face at the ultimatum he knew was to be presented to Nesta…”

Here’s a definition of an ultimatum:

Ultimatum (noun): A coercive manipulation that utilizes the illusion of choice.

Hence, not an actual choice.

2. “Would you rather they had done nothing?”

No. Nesta needed help. A more constructive approach would’ve been an intervention with Feyre and Elain only. Her actual family. No insults, no jabs, no belittling. They could’ve laid out several options (did she want to train? perhaps dancing would’ve helped her more? maybe she would’ve preferred helping out in the library only?) and let her decide the one she saw fit. Locking her up is not an answer and I’m a strong believer that the most powerful High Lord and Lady of Prythian would’ve managed to make alcohol inaccessible to Nesta regardless of where she was.

To the people that consider it rehab after everything proves that it’s not, please note that the entire point was to get Nesta to stop drinking and sleeping around. Tell me, why is it that when she slept with Cassian, despite sex being her coping mechanism, no one batted an eyelash. That’s insinuating that the inner circle does not in fact care who Nesta sleeps with, as long as it’s under their control, no?

Thank you for coming to my ted talk.

[electricbathsalt]

I saw a recent post on r/bokunoheroacademia about “how can you possibly feel bad for Chisaki” and like…it’s not the “how can you feel bad for child abuser” itself that boggs me, but rather how people in comments repeat over and over “oh boss was so kind to him tried to guide him but he still became a poss he was evil from birth” and I’m like where are people who can look above the “what text says” level of understanding

Oh my lords, that’s my least favorite type of Chisaki hater. Like fuck dude you can dislike a character, but 1: do you have to police everyone who does like them, and 2: you clearly didn’t care enough to actually understand his character and story before you decided that there’s no reason to like him/have empathy for him.

What I hate most is not people disliking Chisaki. I don’t really care about that. I hate people who clearly don’t understand the character they’re slandering. If you’re going to publicly complain about a character, please do it while having an actual clue of what the fuck you’re talking about.

“Pops was so kind to him and constantly tried to steer him down the right path!!” Pops was a fucking Yakuza leader who never called Chisaki by his given name once in his life. Meanwhile, we don’t even know Pops’ real name because Chisaki never failed to call him either “Pops” or “Boss”. The “constant steering down the right path” was just “hey, don’t do that violence, only the violence I want you to. Im gonna scold you”. Idk man, but if I had a kid who I picked up off the streets, I’d probably get them into therapy literally as soon as they’d had a drink of water, a good meal, and a full night’s rest. But Pops decided that wasn’t worthwhile even when the child started exhibiting blatantly concerning behavior. He decided slapping Chisaki on the wrist was the most effective method to get him mentally stable. Ah, yes, reprimanding; the best way to get rid of violent tendencies, self-worth issues, and attachment/abandonment issues in your traumatized child, who you are raising in the mafia. Flawless.

Saying Chisaki was “born evil” is actually so absurd that it kinda makes me wanna laugh. It goes completely against what the entire point of MHA is, or supposedly is. Just because his entire childhood wasn’t spoon-fed to you does not mean it was a good one that didn’t at all influence him into being the way he is. Even the absolute crumbs we get from canon don’t imply he had a “good” childhood. “Pops was so good to him, though—“ he was a yakuza leader who integrated the child he took off the streets into his gang, without ever doing anything to help resolve any of the trauma he went through (and inherently gave him more via being in the yakuza). He was disowned by his daughter, who he called a fool for having a rash reaction to her child killing her husband, and never bothered to reach out further to her. He put Eri in Chisaki’s care, knowing of Chisaki’s violent behavior. The only “positive” flashback we ever get of Chisaki & Pops’ relationship is when Chisaki got scolded, and then told “thank you for protecting the Hassaikai’s honor”. And something tells me that any “praise” Chisaki ever got from Pops was to do with the Hassaikai, esp considering Chisaki’s unnaturally-strong dedication to it. I’m tired of people pretending that Chisaki’s pure evil that prevailed over a sweet, innocent man. Chisaki wasn’t even the only one who experienced ill-treatment from Pops—his entire fucking family did.

The other thing is—Chisaki was literally doomed from the start. The only two people we get to know he was ever in the care of were both people who would inevitably turn Chisaki into a criminal/villain. Him being anything else was something that was never even allowed to grace his mind.

[johannestevans]

Woe, Boypussy Be Upon Ye: Transing Characters in Fanfic & Fanart

What’s the deal with envisioning your blorbos as transgender?

Originally published in Prism & Pen. Also on my Patreon.

It’s a meme, I made it. Here it is.

It’s been unbelievably positive for me as a trans dude, the change in approach to trans characters in fandom and subsequently in media in general, and I just wanted to write a bit about my experiences with the cultural shift and how positive it’s been for me personally.

What’s weird about people in fandom confidently, nay casually, writing characters as transgender and just having them be a regular dude with a pussy or a regular girl with a dick is that like… I remember when it wasn’t a thing.

Back in 2009, for example, which was a big time for fandom — Superwholock was running rampant, Star Trek (2009) had just gotten a new generation of fans into Trek — or even in 2012, when Les Misérables (2012) had dropped and gotten new people into Les Mis, or when the Hobbit had revamped a lot of interest in Tolkien’s books and the original Lord of the Rings films, not to mention The Hobbit itself, none of this even getting into the Marvel movies, like…

It just. It wasn’t a thing.

Sure, there were transgender characters around, characters that people wrote as trans, but I remember it so strongly as being very niche. It was deep, emotional work where people had to work to “justify” the emotional work they were doing, and even then, they couldn’t just say a character was trans and be chill about it. In order to justify a character being transgender, one had to put in mountains of evidence, or admit the trans perspective was a genderbend of sorts.

For me, I’m pretty sure the moment when things started to change was when I was reading and writing a lot of Loki-centred fanfiction, roundabout 2014–2017 — and the more permissive culture was very much borne of Loki being seen as an exception.

Loki, of the Marvel film and comics, is an alien secretly kidnapped and adopted into the Odinson family, and is known to change his body and appearance frequently, including changing his apparent gender or expression.

He was, in the comic canon (not to mention the original Norse mythologies) quite genderfluid, after all, so even if you didn’t refer to him as explicitly transgender, you could explore him as being some variety of genderfluid, nonbinary, or intersex — as an alien, as a Jötnar as opposed to being AEsir like Thor or Odin, as a god.

But then things changed a bit more.

Welcome to Night Vale, a weird narrative horror podcast, started in 2012, and one thing you could rely on from a lot of fanfics is that people might have weird or alien or otherwise not-not cisgender but not entirely cisgender genitals either. The Magnus Archives, also a narrative horror podcast, started in 2016, and when I got into the fandom in roundabout 2019, which is also when the new Good Omens TV show was due to release and there was a resurgence of interest in the book as well, I remember experiencing a sort of newfound thing where like…

I’d had a mental block around writing many trans characters, before — I could create my own characters who were trans, but a big part of me still felt like I wasn’t allowed to just make a canon character trans if they’d never been mentioned as being trans before or made explicitly trans.

What was it that stopped me?

My own dysphoria? Perhaps a little. Maybe some lacking self-confidence.

Most of all, it just felt as though I couldn’t justify it. I couldn’t justify seeing a cis man written by cis people in a cis show and saying, “Hey, no, he’s like me, actually” — even though I could easily do it about the same character being gay or Jewish or even chronically ill or disabled.

It was like there was a mental block inside me I just couldn’t get past.

I still had a lot of the old online cultural expectations stamped onto me, I think, even being an out trans man who knew many many other trans and intersex and nonbinary people of every gender imaginable in fandom.

I think for Welcome to Night Vale and then especially for The Magnus Archives, part of what made it so easy for people to write and envisage different characters as trans, the fact that there was such limited physical description of characters, the fact that you were attached to them by their voices alone, allowed people to envisage them in whatever way they liked.

In The Magnus Archives, most of the main characters are envisaged as trans in one way or another — Daisy Tonner particularly is explored with all flavours of butch dykey complexity, trans in whichever ways or directions are juiciest and most interesting. But for so many of the characters — from Jonathan Sims and Martin Blackwood to Sasha James and Tim Stoker to Elias Bouchard to Peter Lukas to any of the other Entities — there is no end to the characters people will explore or envisage as trans or nonbinary or just straight-up outside of gender or gender-weird.

No one has to justify a period character being trans with no problems. Loads of people write Izzy Hands or Stede Bonnet or Edward Teach, as being trans in Our Flag Means Death alongside the canonic nonbinary character Jim Jimenez. Any and all characters, trans or otherwise, are invited to participate in ye olde top surgery performed by Roach, the ship’s surgeon, or somehow get hold of ye olde hormones in whatever handwavy way necessary, and it’s cool and fine.

And what’s wonderful for me is the way I see the current approach to trans characters gleefully and delightedly applied to fandoms that are years if not decades old.

I see people write House MD fanfic now where they just go, right from the beginning, yeah this or that character is trans, and they’ve always been trans, and it’s chill. What if James Wilson was trans? It’d rock, that’s what. What if Greg House was trans? Yeah, he’d probably do his own T-shots under the table.

People write Spock as trans now, or guys from M*A*S*H, or Jean Valjean.

What if in the X-Files Dana Scully and Fox Mulder were T4T? Makes complete sense, and also, the idea fucks absolutely. They’re already so lesbian vibes for each other, it fits perfectly.

I wrote a silly little Tumblr post a few weeks ago envisioning Morticia and Gomez Addams as T4T, and it blew up immediately — I think about how if I’d made that most a decade ago it would have been met with crickets, if not a bit of scorn, and not just from transphobes, but just people who like me at that time hadn’t been able to relax and have fun with it.

That’s the real crux of the matter, the impact a lot of fandom has made on me and the way that trans characterisation is approached, the hunger I have for trans characterisation now — it’s the idea of being trans as joyful and delightful, as inherently fun and sexy, but also just as being something every day and normal. A detail you can include as casually in your interpretation of a canon character as any other headcanon.

There’s a beautiful freedom in it, and I’m so grateful to have been able to learn from and grow because of other trans people paving the way with their confident headcanons and delving into trans ideas in their fic.

It’s done wonders for me everywhere — not just in my fanfic, but most of all in the original works I pen now, each one of them featuring trans character after trans character.

[manstrans]

I think referring trans man who one word is pretty nice. I’ve really liked the words achillean and sapphic, especially since they have roots in historical myths. I’m personally Indian, and I thought maybe I could pull a word or rather a name out of my own culture’s stories that could act as a word for trans man as well. I’m not sure if you’ve heard about the Mahabharta. But essentially it is an Indian Epic that revolves around two clans of family, the Pandavas and the Kauravas, who fight in a battle called the Kurukshetra war. Throughout the epic, there are tales of people living and dead, different points on philosophy, and lessons being taught. It’s very long, about 10 times the length of the Iliad and Odyssey combined.

Despite the Pandavas and Kauravas being the sort of main characters of the Epic, there are many other individuals who play and important role in the story. One such character is Shikhandi. This seems to be already getting long, so I will give a brief background of Shikhandi. Essentially he was born in his past life as the princess Amba, who was abducted by Bhishma, but later rejected by him (This story is layered but if you want a summary Wikipedia is always good). Angered with this Amba preformed a difficult fast and at the end Lord Shiva granted her a boon that she would in the next life be born as female but would later become a man and the reason why Bhishma is killed. (And additionally gave him the ability to remember his past live as well)

Simultaneously, King Draupda wanted a child and prayed to Lord Shiva for one. He came and said to the king, that in his house a girl would be born who in due course would become a man. Shikhandi was born as Shikhandini, but of course later changed his name. He was raised as a man, and was taught warfare. When it was his time to get married, his father offered his hand in marriage to the daughter of king Hiranyavarman. Shikhandi’s wife realized that his wasn’t a “real man” (whatever that means). And when Hiranyavarman realized this, he prepared for war with Draupda, even though the latter insisted that his son was a real man. Shikhandi, distressed by his wife’s comments and by bringing shame onto his parents, decides to go commit suicide by fasting to death. He goes in the woods where people were terrified to enter since it was inhabited by a yaksha.

He goes in the forest and starts to take of his royal clothing, where the yaksha meets him. He asks what Shikhandi is doing, and the prince tells his story. The yaksha, feeling compassion over the prince, proposes that two exchange their sex. Shikhandi readily agrees and goes back to his family and tells his father of what had occurred. His father was delighted and said to Hiranyavarman that he could send someone over to check if it was true. Women were sent to Shikhandi who then confirmed that he was a man and his wife came back to him.

This has become extraordinarily long, but on a final note as I conclude the retelling I will say that Shikhandi fought on the side of the Pandavas during the war and played a vital role during it.

Now onto my main point. I know the story is sort of unconventional, maybe just by reading my summary or if you go on Wikipedia you might even find parts of it problematic. In our modern definition, Shikhandi would probably be considered a trans man, and his story is important to me, an Indian trans man, for a few reasons. For example, he given the gift of being trans by God. He isn’t just born a man, he becomes one because of Lord Shiva’s boon. As someone who has been told before (and I’m sure that many trans men have had that experience before) that me being trans is a mental illness, it was a point that touched my heart deeply when I reread the Mahabharta. He is distressed and tries to commit suicide but is saved because he allowed to be who he is in the body that he wants. He is accepted by his fellow peers, He is accepted by his fellow peers, and in fact the reason that Bhisma loses to the Pandavas is because he refuses to see Shikhandi as man and doesn’t fight him.

I really understand where people of colour are coming from when they say that they feel uncomfortable being compared to animals. After all, I have heard Indian men be talked about as“animals that only know how to rape”. In the same way Achilles was a character from a story and hence where word “achillean” comes from, I thought that that it would be nice to take the name of what one might consider in current terminology to be a trans man, and use his name Shikhandi, as a way of conveying those who feel a strong desire to be a man.

I do have a hard time finding the suffix for the name Shikhandi. Because Achilles became achillean and Saphos became sapphic. The most obvious would probably be shikhandian (since the name ends with an I) but people have said they don’t want that. I guess shikhandic could also work or maybe shikhandien. (I personally like shikhandian the best). I think you probably have some way better ideas to better mold this name, so I leave it to you or others who want to try.

Greek mythology is extremely common in the Western world, but rarely have I ever seen anyone talk about Hindu mythology. I guess because Hinduism has been constantly said to be demonic, especially by Western Christians. People think of us backwards and not progressive, and not many even consider the idea that Indian queer people exist. At most, Hijras are used as a gotcha by other queers to conservatives to say that “Yeah see trans people have existed for thousands of years, take that”. Without really considering who Hijra people are, how it connects to culture, and what the issues they face and have faced are.

Thus, I thought I would add my two cents about how we could create a single word for trans men that is also rooted in my culture. I guess people might consider it ridiculous and that it doesn’t make sense, but even if the name Shikhandi doesn’t stick, I thought I would talk about my religion and my Hindu culture as well.

I’m really sorry for how long this got, but thank you so much for reading till the end.

- Dev

sorry it took a few days to get to this, but that's a really cool story!! I loved reading it!!

honestly I was already thinking that the words we have that are rooted in lore are already mostly white, or at least that I know of, so it'd be cool to see more words that aren't centered on us so much!

I'd also love to hear what other indian trans people think too! I love hearing different viewpoints and opinions!

[isaaujulii]

WHY GOD WHY COULDN’T THEY TREAT ALL THEIR CHARACTERS WITH RESPECT. The source material is endlessly fascinating and riddled with interesting storylines that can be followed and or improved upon(within reason) . Like you have the knight without honor whose only true light is a queen who he can never have. A woman whose life is tied to the men around her, which is her circumstance but she does nothing to try to help or ruin them but laments her part in everything. And i’m not saying the story can’t be built upon the relationship between rhaenyra and alicent.

It’s a great place to start. START. It can’t be just about them. Why don’t we see Jaeharys and the pressure he feels as a bastard and a possible future king. What about halaenas mental state her visions, and the fact she lost a whole child. And how come all of a sudden Aemond is kinslaying psychopath whose only goal is to become king, is there no internal conflict. Where’s that remorse and horror we saw at the end of season 1. Aegon is being made fun of every second and being ignored (and before u come at me i know he is a pos rapist, not defending him) nobody sees him as a threat even though he is QUITE LITERALLY THE KING.

Alicent is on her sad girl bs. And I LIKE ALICENT. Do you know how hard it is to make me dislike a character I originally loved. I thought her character was heading into an interesting direction feeling guilt and remorse about her actions because it is against everything she believes in. Because AGAIN they have hammered into the viewers that she is a religious. But she just becomes whishy washy. And not an active participant.

And don’t get me started on our titular protagonist a one Rhaneyra Targaryen. Have I mentioned my dislike at the obvious bias towards team black. Also why are there teams why is everything black and white. I don’t know about yall but I thought the whole point was there is no good and evil and that killing your family for a crown is wrong and morally unjust so therefore anyone participating in the war (as in anyone who has a choice, not the small folk forced to fight and stuff) is already not the greatest person. So i don’t know why they are acting like Rhaneyra is the goddamn messiah. They’re trying to make her a Daenerys variant. She’s not Dany and she shouldn’t be forced to be. Like their trying to make her a reasonable person who only wants best for people around her but she is also someone actively participating in a war with DRAGONS and as everyone keeps repeating there isn’t a war as bloody as one with dragons. And look i love a little hypocrisy in my characters i eat it up but this is ridiculous. You want a war so be in it. And if you don’t want to work with some people tough shit, you need others to get things done. And god forbid they challenge you on anything.

And look I tried to ignore it as much as i could but, do they hate men. Like genuinely asking, because every man in this show with the exception of like 2 characters is immensely unlikeable. And i’m not saying you can’t have unlikeable men. But like it’s a bit of a pattern. The women are the ones trying to avoid war and the men are all gung ho to lose their lives. Like i think they were trying to be feminist by making the women the only reasonable ones and men unreasonable. But they were so feminist that it came around to being misogynistic. Which i didn’t think could happen. And this being pseudo medieval time period with misogyny and all that it seems like there are parts where they are just like forcing patriarchy and other parts it does not seem to exist. Like equality is the norm and patriarchy is the outlier. Like there were women in charge of houses, which is not abnormal in of itself but like they don’t explain it. Like they could’ve been like the lord of that house is ill and his lady-wife takes care of everything. Or been like she’s in the fighting because she has a talent for it and is a bastard. Like I don’t know if any of you have seen the show Black Sails but one of the characters Eleanor basically runs pirate island and that doesn’t make sense because it the 1700’s but it’s explained that her father put her in charge because she was raised there and had a mind for business. And I know it’s a sad thing to be like a woman can only have power in proximity to a man. But like aren’t they going for realism, that’s what was so intriguing about the game of thrones universe. How people given shit circumstances rise above them. And some of these people happen to be women. If this was like one of those comfy fantasy with like fantasy creatures and like loose plots and there aren’t really rules and modern sensibilities are ingrained then I could dig it. Like yah you go girl be a pirate and you be a merchant and you are an advisor to the king. abut this isn’t that. And I can already see how an argument can be made that the entire show is overcoming the circumstances of your birthright being taken because you are a woman. Which I will reply that like I said earlier in order to do that they need the women to have agency and push for it or let it go. Which is options that Rhaneyra has.

And maybe i’m wrong and all those loose plot threads and bizarre character choices will payoff in season 3 and i’ll be the weirdo who doubted them.

[ilovebeingt4t]

a (not) little rant about total drama’s portrayal of dissociative identity disorder in ROTI and AS

a few little tidbits before we get into the juice…

-i don’t have DID ! i have a dissociation disorder and i’ve done a lot of research on DID, but that obviously doesn’t mean i know as much as someone in a system would. if i make any mistakes or you want to add/correct anything, please do !

-since there isn’t an official name for the system as a whole, i’m gonna use “mike system” to refer to mike, chester, svetlana, vito, manitoba, and mal as a system

-before anyone says it, i know it’s “just a kids’ show” but it’s a kids’ show i’m insane and not normal about. so i’m very passionate about this. also kids’ shows should still be normal about mental illnesses/disabilities so idc

alright stinkers… let’s get into it

ok ! mike systems DID in ROTI isn’t GOOD representation but it isn’t like. the worst out there compared to some other media. some huge positives are the way the alters have actual triggers, and that everyone in the system IS portrayed as their own person, not just an extension or part of mike. i interpret the “gasp” the body does with switches as a stand in for dissociation (since they couldn’t really have him just sit there and stare into space bc of plot/time reasons) and it’s very easy to assume the role of everyone in the system from their personalities and triggers. the best example of this to me is vito ! vito is a “tough guy” who’s triggered to front by his shirt coming off, it’s easy to put the pieces together and assume his role is a protector who formed due to sexual abuse.

obviously, the use of the outdated term multiple personality disorder, the very quick switches, the fact the writers obviously did not actually research DID and just wanted a silly crazy character, and probably more i’m forgetting rn, are NOT issues to just ignore because of the good stuff. it’s definitely NOT good or super accurate representation by any means, but i don’t think it’s exactly super bad either. it’s iffy but has redeeming qualities to it.

another plus about mike system in ROTI, even though this isn’t really part of the portrayal of DID as a disorder, is that mike has a love interest that isn’t written as a joke. i feel like having mike in a romantic relationship is a BIG positive representation wise. it’s really important to me that even though zoey is confused and weirded out when she didn’t know what was going on, once she found out mike was part of a system she became more understanding and didn’t give up on him. being part of a system doesn’t mean you can’t have a partner, friends, etc and mike being in a wholesome healthy relationship is a nice breath of fresh air compared to other media portraying DID.

NOW. LETS ADDRESS MAL AND ALL STARS. GOOD LORD.

all stars has an issue with watering down characters and making poor plot/character choices in general, and in my opinion it’s the worst with mike system. ROTI had questionable at times but ok DID rep with mike system, which is why it’s so disappointing that AS took the “evil alter” route and whatever the hell the button thing was… bc they were SO close with having ok representation and then they threw it all away for an overdone and harmful stereotype. mike system in ROTI is a MASTERPIECE compared to whatever the hell was going on in AS.

even when you take into account that in a real life system, mal is most similar to the role of a persecutor (an alter who sabotages the body’s relationships and causes harm to the body/other alters as a way to “protect” everyone in their eyes (oops ! i was wrong. a persecutor isn’t always a protector, however they can take the role of a persecutor and protector which is where i got confused. mal is a both a persecutor and protector to me)) which makes SOME of his actions explainable TO AN EXTENT, it’s clear the writers didn’t have that intent and just wanted a spooky evil alter, which is really disappointing. along with the button issue, which is just…. so insane….

i choose to believe for my own sanity that the button was sort of an emergency temporary dormancy button and that chester fr just lied/didn’t know and made something up. but that obviously isn’t canon, and IN CANON the body’s trauma and serious disorder was literally gone because of the PRESS OF A BUTTON and it is absolutely ridiculous. and it’s portrayed as a GOOD THING.

systems are systems because it is the only way the body and brain can maintain stability and live after serious repeated trauma. in a real situation with a system, if there was somehow a way to get rid of alters in literal seconds, the consequences would be ABSOLUTELY DISASTROUS and unstable. obviously, integration and dormancy CAN be a good thing depending on the system, but it is a LOOONG and complicated process and watering it down to the press of a button in your brain is so inappropriate and insensitive. literally why did they do that. it’s just so disappointing to go from what mike system was in roti to what they became in all stars.

sorry u guys i am just passionate about this