#Cacophony Society

[alchemisoul]

[romanromulus]

soooo few movies these days are saying “what if there was a fucked up little guy” and that’s why modern cinema is dead

[milswrites]

Hobbies Part 8.

~Azriel X Reader~

Summary: In an attempt to keep Azriel away from Elain, Rhys sends him on a sabbatical to the Day Court. With a lot more free time on his hands Azriel needs to find something to keep him occupied. Unfortunately he meets Y/N who has the annoying habit of not staying away. Can she teach him that there’s more to life than he thought?

Grumpy!Azriel X Sunshine!Reader

Series masterlist

Warnings: you know the drill - angst

Sometimes one of the hardest things to do when you’ve been hurt is to carry on living.

Y/N was no stranger to sadness. Growing up an orphan is difficult enough as it is, growing up a female orphan means your life is destined to fail.

But Y/N had always had a different outlook on life. She had always been an optimist. Positive that she would break the cycle and forge a place for herself in the world, even if she had been born into an unforgiving one.

And she had. Her ability to charm and influence people with her warming smile and kind nature had enabled her to climb her way up and into society. She worked well enough to have had her gentle disposition noticed by Helion who was more than willing to welcome her into his court.

Y/N had built herself a great life, one worth being proud of, yet now she found it crumbling around her. It’s hard to imagine that one person who had been in her life for such a short amount of time could change the trajectory of it forever. But Azriel had.

Y/N was simply the fool for allowing it to happen, knowing that he would eventually one day have to leave and return to his own life. Which he was more than happy to do without so much as a goodbye, not even leaving behind a damn letter.

Y/N had found that the well from which her tears flowed from had run dry. She refused to allow herself to mourn what could have been. If he hadn’t have been gracious enough to bid her the goodbye she deserved then he clearly wasn’t the man she thought he was. She would not allow herself to waste away over a man who had no interest in her.

So Y/N did what she knew best, survived. Once she had escaped from the meeting with Helion she had retreated home, overwhelmed by her emotions as sobs wracked her body. The tears from the shock of the shadowsinger’s unexpected departure eventually subsided and with swollen eyes she began to pack for her next job.

The easy option would have been to beg Helion for some time off work while she recovered from the shock of the events that had unfolded. But her broken heart willed her to move and take action. To leave to the rural villages that Helion had said required the attention of the Court. A break would be good for her, an opportunity to clear her mind and do what she was good at. Making people happy. Even if she wasn’t feeling it herself.

With no time to waste, Y/N packed her bags for the long trip, eager to leave when dawn made its appearance. She could at least be thankful for her lack of sleep the night before which was now taking its toll on her body, allowing her to drift off into a fitful sleep rather than mercilessly letting her stay awake with her thoughts. Her dreams, a cacophony of wings and shadows.

When morning finally arrived she was gone. Leaving her emotions and problems behind as she slipped on the smile she had become so accustomed to wearing.

~~~~~

Azriel had woken in his bed. Cassian must have brought him here last night, his last memory of the previous day had been his brother hugging him in Elain’s garden.

The knowledge that Y/N was gone weighed heavy on his chest, but what hurt more were the words of her neighbour who had recalled the state Y/N had been in. The state she was in because of Azriel who had failed to be there for her. Who had left her waiting.

He knew he had failed her. Azriel could try blame Rhysand for whisking him away all he liked, but the truth was that he should have returned to the Day Court as soon as his brother had winnowed him away. He had been too late to react.

Azriel was a coward. He had dedicated most of his life to a woman he would never have and then spent the past few months pining after another that he wasn’t allowed to have. And yet when the most perfect being alive had crashed into his life with no strings or rules attached, just an instant overwhelming attraction between them, he had blown it.

He had done what he had sworn not to do and torn away Y/N’s cauldron-blessed smile and led only pain in its wake.

Upon being home at last, Azriel discovered that his life here was awfully dull. Had it always been this way? The same monotonous routine day in and day out. Train, work, eat, sleep and repeat. He longed for something to do to fill his time and someone to enjoy it with. There being only one person who he wished could fill the void that had grown in the days since he had returned to the Night Court. The one person who he had no idea where in Pythian they were.

In a desperate attempt to find Y/N, Azriel spent most of his time eagerly waiting for his shadows return. His shadows which he had sent to scour the Day Court for Y/N. He wasn’t sure whether it was their inability to find her, or some disgust at what their master had done to her, but every night they returned with no news of Y/N or her whereabouts.

So Azriel continued living. A stranger in his own body as he continued to live the life he once had, not the one that he was allowed a taste of before it was ripped away from him.

He attempted to keep himself busy, to find something in this Court that brought him the joy he had felt in the past few weeks with Y/N. The rest of the inner circle were stunned to find Azriel baking in the kitchen one morning, seething in anger at his poor excuse of a cake. Not wanting to further upset the male who had already been so down, Cassian forced himself to eat the cake with an overly enthusiastic grin on his face, hiding his gagging which had resulted from the revolting texture. His bad acting didn’t even crack a smile on the shadowsinger’s face much to the General’s disappointment.

Azriel knew his friends were concerned about him, especially after his breakdown in the garden. They were all aware it was due to this mystery woman that Azriel had met during his time in Day, however, Azriel refused to share anything about her and they couldn’t understand why.

It took several days for Cassian to realise Azriel wasn’t going to open up about it, that he would tell his brothers about her if and when he wanted to. Grateful for his friend, Azriel welcomed Cassian’s silent and unquestioning company whenever he tried something new. It wasn’t Y/N and it didn’t heal his aching heart, but the knowledge of his brother being there for him was enough for Azriel to get by. One day at a time.

Two weeks had passed since Azriel’s not so joyous return to the Night Court. He had adjusted to being back in his home but the Y/N sized hole in his heart still existed. He wasn’t surprised the pain was still present, Y/N was his once in a lifetime type of love and Azriel had missed his opportunity.

He was sulking in the kitchen when Rhysand tentatively approached him. The same way he has been doing since his return, as if he expected Azriel to disappear once more only to never return. “Oh Az! There you are I’ve been looking for you” He said upon his approach, “Helion’s sent over a few of your things I must have missed.”

“You didn’t miss anything though?” Azriel frowned at Rhys’s words, wondering what Helion could have given Rhysand seeing as all his belongings had been brought back from Day court upon his arrival.

“Oh? Well they’re in your room if you want to check, I can always send them back to him if they’re not yours” his brother replied shrugging his shoulders as he exited the kitchen.

Curious, Azriel readily made his way to his bedroom, entering to see two items he didn’t recognise on his bed. A painting and a gift wrapped in black and tied neatly with a velvet bow. He approached his bed, heart rate increasing and tears welling in his eyes as the image painted on the canvas came into focus.

An inky black sky, littered with stars that Azriel could have sworn were twinkling, glowing warmly on the page like a lit candle. The beautiful skyline below of the Court he had come to care for, because it was the home of the woman he loved. He needn’t ask who painted this picture, the image a perfect copy of the same scene that was burned into his memory. A token from the best night of his life. With shaky hands, Azriel lifted the painting to appreciate it in all its glory. Scared to remove his eyes from the piece, he kept them locked onto the delicate strokes as if he stared at it long enough he’d be able to crawl through the canvas and escape back to that night. That he’d be given a chance to fix what had been broken.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat on his bed and admired the painting, but soon his attention was drawn to the wrapped gift which seemed to tug at his chest, calling him to it.

Tremor still present in his hands, he delicately pulled apart the bow and slowly opened the wrapping as if afraid to tear it. The dark paper fell away to reveal a cobalt blue tunic, decorated with silver thread that poured over the piece like liquid moonlight. A matching pair, Y/N’s dress and a tunic. His tunic.

Azriel took the time to run his scarred fingers over each whirl of thread that constructed the familiar lines of an Illyrian tattoo, making sure not to miss a single stitch out of fear of not showing the item the respect it deserves.

Once this task was complete he sped to the mirror in his room, stripping himself of his old black shirt and pulling on the tunic. Hands running down the soft material as he appreciated the way it looked on him, the way it was made for his body.

That same strange tug in his chest panged as he observed himself in the mirror. Not wanting to ignore its presence, or because he couldn’t control the need to interact with the strange sensation, he tugged at his chest as if pulling on a long thread.

Pulling and pulling until something inside of him finally released and it felt like his heart had burst open. His world exploded into violent shades of pinks, yellows and blues, the garish colours that he associated with Y/N. Azriel felt as though his senses had come to life for the first time, the vanilla scent of Y/N that emanated from the tunic was driving him wild.

Azriel had spent centuries longing for a mate, a need which had only grown greater when his brothers had found theirs. And now it had clicked for him too. The cauldron had tied him to the ethereal beam of light in his life. His beautiful smiling Y/N. She was his. His mate.

Azriel looked back to his now panting form in the mirror and crazed, frenzied eyes stared right back at him. He knew what needed to be done. Where he needed to go. And so Azriel left to go and find his mate.

Part 9

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Notes: Hope I’m starting to make up for all the tears I caused 😭

Taglist:

@thelov3lybookworm @minnieoo @going-through-shit @iluvyewman-blog @laughterafter @amysangel @bigcreatorwombatdreamer @aaronwarnerobsessedmylove @justvibbinghere @honeybeeboobaa @willowpains @tele86 @mysticalfuncollectorus @mybestfriendmademe @starryhiraeth @gorlillaglue25 @moonlwghts @darling006 @anuttellaa @serendipityx150 @xxxalicerogersxx @that-one-little-soybean @scatteredstardustt @naturakaashi @nyx-the-alien @lostinpages13 @namelesssav @dreamlandreader @fightmedraco @maxmouse001

[cobaltperun]

Woe out the Storm (8) - What have you done

Wednesday Addams x female Reader

Summary: It took some time, but eventually you came to realize only Wednesday Addams could look at the raging storm of chaos and destruction and make a home out of it. Only she could listen to the cacophony of the roaring thunder and hear a melody.

Story warnings: Wednesday Addams, violence, slow burn

Story Masterlist / First part / Previous part / Next part

Word count: 4.8k

-There's a curse between us, between me and you-

Wednesday could admit her interests weren't ordinary, she could admit that neither she nor her family conformed to the norms of the society. She believed in different values; she ranked those values in a way most people wouldn’t. Not choosing violence was, for example, ranked very lowly. As was murder and torture.

Truthfully, it wasn’t the fact that her father was accused of murder that bothered her, it was the fact that she heard about it from a stranger. He was supposed to be an open book, honest with her, with their family and her mother was supposed to be the same. Despite that, they hid the truth from her.

When she set those piranhas loose, fully intending to kill Pugsley’s bully as an act of revenge, she openly told her parents about it. She expected the same openness from them. The society rejected them, deemed them too morbid and weird to be seen as normal; being an Addams meant only relying on select few, mostly family. So, she valued being honest and trusting those select few above nearly anything else.

And they, for their own reasons, betrayed that trust and put her in a position to learn about it in the worst way possible.

To make matters even worse, her father refused to be open with her yet again. He still wouldn’t tell her the truth about what happened, even now that he was behind bars.

Somehow, perhaps against her better judgment, she ended up in front of your shed. It was the first time she came here, the first time she’d step inside. She heard laughter from within and froze just as she was about to reach out for the doorknob. Of course. It was the Parents’ weekend, and you were with your mother. Enid mentioned in passing that you had a good relationship with your mother, that the two of you were close and that you missed her.

You maintained a close relationship with your mother, something Wednesday wasn’t capable of doing, even if she did deeply care about her family and despite knowing they loved her just as much. So, instead of interrupting you and asking you to help her find more clues that could help her prove her father’s innocence, she turned around and left. She’d have to go to her mother after all.

As she walked away, she began to wonder why she wanted you to help her, and truthfully, she didn’t quite understand it. She was perfectly capable of handling this on her own. Maybe it was because you just accepted her, never demanding from her to change, yet still being unapologetically you even when it meant you pushed Wednesday out of her comfort zone, like when you wiped that paint off her hands and face last week.

Or maybe it was as simple as you being honest with her, not once hiding the truth and in turn being frustrated by her own lack of honesty when she didn’t tell you she asked Xavier to go to the dance with her. While Wednesday couldn’t say you ranked honesty as high as she did, she could say you valued it.

If she was completely honest, even with just herself, she might have had it in her to admit the vision she had during Rave’N and what happened with Eugene had a lot to do with that as well. Somehow, deep down, Wednesday convinced herself that if she was there, close to you, maybe that vision wouldn’t come true, and she wouldn’t have to visit you at the hospital or attend your funeral.

~X~

You didn’t always understand how lucky you were. Oftentimes as a child you wondered why you couldn’t have a regular family, with two parents present in your life. Dad was with you a few days a year, around your birthday, and always secretly. Your mom did everything she could, even back then you guessed she did more for you than most single mothers could, but you had some resentment toward your dad.

‘Why couldn’t he be normal, or any other kind of outcast? Why did he have to be a raiju?!’ that’s what you wondered for years, despising the restrictions being a raiju brought to your life. Fear and hatred caused you to separate the beast from yourself, you were a raiju, but the beast was, in your mind, the entirely different being, a creature that had nothing to do with you.

The truth was that you should have begun going to Nevermore much earlier, the moment you showed the first signs of lightning, actually. But you cried and screamed at the mere thought of leaving your mother’s side, and she refused to even consider sending you to Nevermore, or anywhere else, unless you wanted to go. You were eight and she was the only real family you had.

‘Do not underestimate my child,’ she’d say whenever someone told her it was too dangerous to keep you outside of Nevermore, that you’d lose control and hurt or kill someone. Neither side was right though.

It was more of a miracle, than anything else, that dad was home when there was a huge storm when you were twelve, otherwise you really could have hurt someone. That was when your resentment toward your dad began fading away, when he calmed you down, when he taught you how to better control your lightning, when he made sure you didn’t hurt anyone, especially your mom. That was also when you finally agreed to go to Nevermore, because you could no longer risk it.

In the four years that followed your relationship with your dad improved, he dropped by more often, whenever you truly needed him. When you shifted for the first time, or when you really wanted to talk to him, he wouldn’t arrive immediately, but he’d come and see you. So, when you saw Enid’s parents you just decided that you were lucky, that you had a loving mom that accepted you for who and what you were, and that your dad, while not always there, was by your side when you needed him.

And he would come now as well.

So, that was your family and you wouldn’t trade them for anything in the world.

With those thoughts filling your head you stepped into your room with a bounce to your steps. That energy dropped to a more usual intensity when you saw Enid, lying with her arms spread on her bed. “You’re not a disappointment,” you immediately said as you went over to her side of the room and sat down next to her.

“Tell that to my mother,” she sighed and looked to the side. This wasn’t Enid’s usual mood, even when she was upset, she made sure everyone knew that. Her energy was more similar to Wednesday, if Wednesday ever sulked.

“I will if you let me,” and you were completely serious, if only Enid allowed it, you would gladly have a long chat with Esther Sinclair.

Enid smiled a bit and reached out to you. “Thanks, Y/N.”

You smiled back, taking her hand and squeezing it, offering Enid at least some small comfort.

“How come you aren’t with Wednesday?” she asked out of blue, and you had to resist an urge to facepalm at that. Your eye still twitched, and she probably noticed. “I’m not teasing, she was just looking for you, she even asked me where your shed is!”

That was odd. “Why? Isn’t she with her family?”

Enid sat up, now realizing you really didn’t see Wednesday since this morning. “Her dad got arrested for murder and I think she plans to prove he is innocent,” Enid caught you up to speed with what happened.

You couldn’t help but get a bad feeling in your bones. “Murder + family matters + Wednesday? Yeah, she’s going to do something illegal and morally even more questionable, isn’t she?” you sighed, looking at her part of the room.

Enid laughed uncomfortably. “I mean…”

“She’s going to dig the victim up, isn’t she?” you were just about ready to run headfirst into a wall and pretend you didn’t know she was probably going to get into trouble.

“Maybe sit this one out?” Enid offered, and if you were at least a bit logical and driven by reason you would have listened to her.

You weren’t. “If I get locked up for this, don’t break me out. I’ll deserve every second of my punishment for being at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“On the brighter side,” Enid’s smirk was already terrifying enough. “You could break you and Wednesday out and go into hiding,” she laughed as your eyes widened and you looked at her incredulously. “She might actually love that!”

“I hate you,” you grumbled as you stood up and took a few deep breaths, you’d prefer to avoid living the rest of your life on the run. Dad being on the run from someone was already one family member living like that too many. You didn’t even know who he was hiding from. You just knew it was serious enough for you to be given your mom’s last name instead of his.

~X~

Wednesday was, indeed, digging up a grave, in fact, she was nearly done when you ran up to her and her mother. “Please tell me you are nearly done,” you whisper-yelled at her. “Hello, Mrs. Addams, it’s good to see you again,” you politely greeted her mother, who nodded with a smile, and then you immediately turned back to Wednesday. “There’s no way this can end well, you know?” it wasn’t even about what she was doing, Wednesday was going to be Wednesday and there was nothing you could do about that, you just wished she would have done it when it was even less risky. Like, way past midnight, with you there to watch out for the police, not like this, just before midnight and without you to stand watch.

“We’ll need to show it as evidence anyway, and they’ll figure out it was us no matter what we do,” Wednesday pointed out and you opened your mouth to respond, but you really couldn’t argue with that logic.

Well, at least she already opened the coffin before you showed up. “Right,” you frowned and stepped down, inspecting the coffin. “If you want me to, I think I can magnetize it and pull it out. Maybe. I never tried to do it with anything this heavy,” and just as you reached down bright light shined on all three of you. “Either the ground swallows me right now, or dad will ground me for the rest of my life,” you just raised your hands in surrender as police arrived.

“There’s a hole right here,” Wednesday suggested.

“I’m not sharing unless I’m taking you with me, Addams,” you deadpanned, missing the way Wednesday’s eyes widened, and the way her breath hitched, and the way her cheeks darkened just a bit.

“How awfully unhinged,” Morticia commented, and you’ve been around Wednesday and Thing long enough to figure out that wasn’t meant to mean what it usually meant. So, you just gave a thumbs up as you got out of the grave, earning a graceful, elegant smile from the older woman.

~X~

Well, at least you weren’t all alone, that was a positive, right? Nope! Because Wednesday’s parents couldn’t keep their hands off each other, and there were bars between them! Suddenly, you understood exactly why Wednesday would be averse to shows of affection and the idea of a relationship. They were unapologetically in love, and very passionate about showing that love, and you could admire that, to an extent, but still!

“Not even the long arm of law could keep us apart!” Gomez went right back to kissing Morticia.

“At least we’ll have one last night together!” maybe breaking out wasn’t the worst idea, because you doubted you could listen to them all night.

And Wednesday was right there!

“I’ve seen jackals with more self-control than you two,” Wednesday somehow managed to get them to stop, though they didn’t properly separate. “Neither one of you is strong enough to serve hard time. And thanks to me you won’t have to,” she said.

“I’ll pretend I’m not included in that. The strong enough part,” you grinned a bit.

“You especially aren’t strong enough to serve hard time,” she shut you down without even a hint of hesitation.

Well, you guessed that was fair.

“I knew our little jailbird will have an escape plan,” Gomez exclaimed as she showed a finger to the three of you wrapped in a black handkerchief.

“It’s a souvenir from our outing, I borrowed it from Garrett, he died from nightshade poisoning,” she explained as her mom took the finger.

“How come the police didn’t find it?” and then you remembered this was Wednesday you were talking about, she probably glared, and they locked her up without even searching her. ”Yeah, don’t answer that one.

The very corner of her lip twitched up as she glanced at you, as if pleased by your realization. “The remarkable preservation of soft tissue and blue tint confirms it.”

“Which means Garrett was dying-” her mom realized.

“-before you stabbed him,” Wednesday finished.

Her parents looked at one another. “You look even more ravishing as an innocent woman,” and they were back to kissing.

“I’m not entirely sure that’s how this situation works, but sure,” you looked away. You guessed poison being there proved self-defense though, and that might just be enough to drop charges. Although, knowing Wednesday she had something else up her sleeve as well.

“For once could you two get off of each other and focus?” Wednesday asked and reached out for the finger. The moment she touched it a vision struck her and you were immediately behind her, holding her up.

You looked at her parents and saw they recognized what happened to Wednesday, which was a relief. Though, there was some surprise on their faces. She probably never mentioned her visions to either of them.

“Wednesday,” her mom leaned in a bit as Wednesday woke up from her vision. “Did you have a vision? What happened? What did you see?”

You stepped to the side, no longer worried that she might fall. Sometimes she fell, sometimes she didn’t, you really couldn’t be too cautious.

“The night Garrett died he had a vial of nightshade poison that broke in his pocket. He wasn’t just trying to kill father, he was going to use the nightshade poison to murder the entire school,” she explained.

~X~

“The sweet taste of freedom! How I missed you!” you exclaimed when you were finally set free. At the same time as Gomez, actually, maybe the sheriff was being petty over you electrocuting his son last year, in which case you could get behind that. “I don’t think we met, I’m Y/N,” you raised your hand to greet Wednesday’s brother.

He nodded, smiling a bit. “I’m Pugsley, thanks for going to jail with Wednesday,” he said sheepishly, though he took cover behind a rather tall man when Wednesday glared at him.

You grinned a bit at that and contemplated just leaving so the family could have a moment on their own.

“Don’t even think about leaving, we’ll go back to Nevermore together,” Wednesday said before you could even consider that idea properly.

“You’re the boss, Wednesday,” you grinned cheekily, much to her annoyance.

You still stood aside, giving them enough space and privacy. You still smiled when Wednesday accepted a family hug.

And then your blood ran cold.

You felt the hair on the back of your neck stand up as the chill ran down your spine. You could recognize the electricity in the air and you knew it was too late. "I'm going to be grounded for the rest of my teenage life," you swallowed the lump that formed in your throat and if this was an anime or a cartoon you were sure you'd have cartoonish tears falling down your cheeks.

He appeared in a burst of lightning, as in control as ever, with that bright orange lightning surrounding him and moving to his will. "Gomez! Why is my daughter in prison, Gomez?!" your dad was pissed, he was beyond angry as he stomped over to Gomez and pointed a finger at his chest. "How did you being accused of murder get her in jail?! Oh, hello Morticia, you look amazing as always," how he flipped between nearly yelling at Gomez to politely complimenting Morticia in a split second you would never understand. You could never.

"You look good as well, Elijah, it's nice to see you after all these years," Morticia greeted him with grace that shouldn't have been a part of her ordinary behavior, yet here you were.

You slowly took a few steps back, hoping to flee while he was distracted by Wednesday's parents.

Wait…

He knew Wednesday’s parents?

"Y/N is your daughter?" Gomez and Morticia seemed to be genuinely surprised. You couldn't blame them, with the different last name and everything.

"My pride and joy, yes," your dad said, momentarily forgetting about the issue at hand and grinning proudly.

It made you stop as you took in the pride in his gaze. You didn’t think five words could have such an effect on you.

“So, about my daughter being in jail,” apparently, he wasn’t going to drop it, so you slowly began backing away again. “Now where do you think you are going, Y/N?” well, so much for escaping silently.

“I just remembered something! See you later, Wednesday!” you were just about to turn into lightning when bright orange lightning circled you.

“Don’t even think about that, kid,” you could hear the smirk in his voice.

“Now that’s just unfair,” your eyes changed back from red to your usual eye color and you slumped to the ground, defeated. Of course he’d use his stronger lightning to prevent you from using your own lightning.

“Elijah, Y/N was there for our Wednesday, don’t be too strict with her,” Morticia came to your defense, and you felt like you’d eternally be grateful to the woman if it worked.

“Your Wednesday?” your dad repeated and blinked a few times, his eyes changing into their natural color, the same eye color you had. He glanced down, right at Wednesday who seemed to be genuinely interested in him. “Ah, Anna did mention a new roommate,” he was piecing together whatever information he had. “The fuck is this Gomez? Another Addams-raiju roommate situation?”

Your jaw dropped at that and you looked at Wednesday only to see well-concealed but definitely there shock on her face too. The two of you looked at each other and then at your fathers. “What the?!” you couldn’t help but yell.

Gomez laughed at that. “It looks like that’s exactly the case,” he agreed as the lightning around you disappeared and you approached the group.

“Wait, the roommate you told me about was Wednesday’s dad?” you asked, still unable to fully process the new information.

Your dad nodded. “Yeah, something like that,” he turned to Wednesday. “Uh, there was a storm, and I lost control for a bit while Gomez and Fester were there, luckily I didn’t hurt them, but, I could have,” he looked away, ashamed of losing control like that.

Wednesday took that information in and looked at you as if she just figured something out. You didn’t like that look on her face.

“Elijah left Nevermore after that, and we haven’t seen or heard from him since. I never made the connection between Y/N and him,” Morticia said, mostly to Wednesday.

“Anna and I figured it was safer for Y/N to take Anna’s last name,” your dad explained. “Not that it helped you to stay out of jail, you little troublemaker,” he pulled you in, ruffling your hair.

You pulled away, annoyed that he kept that habit. “No comment,” you rolled your eyes.

“Just be happy I convinced Weems not to call Anna,” your dad said and took a few steps back. “Come on, now, say goodbyes and follow me, Y/N,” his eyes turned orange once again. “Gomez, Morticia, it was good seeing you and your family. Wednesday, thank you,” and he burst into lightning and went in the direction of the woods.

“Does he not realize that I can’t do that?” you just watched the spot where he was standing moments ago.

“Why did he thank me?” Wednesday asked you.

You lightly rubbed the side of your neck. “Uh, don’t worry about it. Dad can be a bit random at times,” you sighed and pulled out your lucky knife. “I’ll see you later!” and off you went, one burst of lightning at a time.

~X~

You were out of breath and on your hands and knees when you caught up with your dad and he didn’t look even a bit tired. Guess you still had a long way to go. No shit, your lightning was still red, Still, his was orange, and that was just one level stronger than your own. Just how strong would a raiju with yellow let alone blue lightning be? You moved so you could sit down and hung your head low, still trying to catch your breath.

“You did good, that was faster than I expected,” he still praised you, smiling proudly as he sat with his back against a tree.

You shook your head. “It’s not nearly as fast as it should be,” you rejected the compliment.

He sighed, standing up and approaching you. He sat down on the ground a few feet from you. “I don’t care about how things should be, Y/N, I just want you to be happy and healthy,” he said softly.

“I know,” you smiled, having heard those words plenty of times. It was still hard to believe in them.

“This,” he gathered some lightning between his palms and raised his hands toward you. “it’s not a curse, Y/N, and neither are our beast forms.”

The smile fell off your face as you raised your head to glare at him. “Don’t give me that. Not after you left this place because you were also afraid of these powers, of hurting people!” you yelled, red sparks dancing around you almost out of control.

And then his eyes turned yellow, and you jumped to your feet and put at least some distance between the two of you. Yellow lightning raged around him and he roared, loud and powerful, and animalistic, and moments later a huge golden bear stood in his place. He was much bigger than even a grizzly bear, as it was usually the case with raiju. There was barely any lightning coming from his body and you could only stare in awe. The less lightning there was, the more in control the person was, and your dad only had lightning coming from his eyes and front paws. He growled, though there was no threat in it, as if telling you to shift as well.

“I can’t, I can’t control it,” you refused, closing your eyes and turning away from him.

“This is your best chance. While I’m here everything will be fine even if you lose control,” he shifted back. “You’re at your limit. You’ve been restraining it for over two years, and the more you restrain it, the more painful it gets. It might be the next time there’s a storm, or on the fifth, or even tenth storm from today, but you will shift no matter how much you discharge,” he sighed, firmly grasping your shoulder. “Fear isn’t bad, Y/N, but don’t be afraid of yourself. If you aren’t ready to shift now, it’s fine, but give me a call when you feel like you’re ready,” it was the reassurance you needed. His words, his control over his beast form, it eased your worries, even if only a little bit. It gave you hope that maybe you could eventually control your own beast form.

“Okay, I’ll call you when I’m ready,” you promised and hugged him.

He hugged you back, sighing. “I don’t want to scare you, but you need to know one thing. With how inexperienced you are, no matter what happens, do not shift twice in a row. Even if you stay in control the first time, you won’t be able to control it the second time,” his words were definitive, there was no doubt there, for him, or for you.

“I know,” you whispered. “I know.”

“We’re not separate from that form, it’s as much a part of us as the lightning,” and lightning couldn’t do anything but destroy, it was too powerful to contain, direct and use for anything but battle. That was what lightning was, and that was what made it so frightening to take a form of a beast made of lightning.

~X~

The Parents’ weekend was coming to a close, her parents, Pugsley and Lurch were leaving. Your father already left, as did most of the families. You were close to her, seeing as you just said goodbye to your father and he wanted to say goodbye to her parents one more time, and meet Pugsley this time. So, even after your father left, you stayed nearby, waiting for Wednesday so the two of you could go back to your room.

You wouldn’t be waiting for much longer, her mother said her goodbyes, showing Wednesday affection in a way Wednesday was comfortable with, with air kisses and turning to leave.

Wednesday paused, contemplating her choices. Finally, the need to understand, the need to be aware of potential effects it could have on you pushed her to say. "Mother," she called out, getting her mother's attention.

Her mother halted, turning around with just a subtle hint of surprise on her face. "Yes, Darling?"

"Goody told me to use the raiju," she said, she didn't want to admit it, but the choice of words and what she saw, especially after what her mother said about Goody, it just felt wrong.

Her mother sighed, a heavy, foreboding sigh Wednesday rarely heard. "Once in every generation an Addams forms a deep bond with a raiju," her mother revealed, just for a moment looking in your direction. "It can be friendship or love, many believe Goody was in love with her raiju."

Wednesday's eyes widened, and the way her heart began beating just a bit faster made her uncomfortable. "I've never heard of a raiju in our family," she argued, trying to, at the very least, remove love from the equation.

"Because there wasn't any. Despite all the times an Addams fell in love with a raiju. Those bonds always end in a tragedy, but especially when there was love involved, the raiju always died for their Addams. They are powerful, and that power makes them reckless," this time Wednesday was the one who looked at you, and as if you felt her eyes on you, you looked up and grinned at her. It made her feel nauseous for a moment.

"Her father is still alive," she tried to argue once again and for once didn't mind her mother placing a hand on her shoulder.

"Friendships sometimes ended up with raiju no longer capable of living a normal life. Maybe that's why Y/N carries her mother's last name, or maybe they broke the cycle," her mother paused for a moment. "Or perhaps you and Y/N will."

Wednesday clenched her fists. "I don't feel that way about Y/N," she claimed, even if her actions spoke otherwise. "Especially if it's tied to some kind of fate or a curse," she didn't want to feel like she wasn't in control, especially over her own emotions.

"Darling, even if it was fate, would that make those feelings any less genuine? Regardless of the nature of those feelings?" Wednesday remained silent, not quite able to put into words how she felt.

She just looked at you again. Death was never something she feared, she was even excited about it. The idea of you dying for her, however, wasn't thrilling to her. It made her feel dread and not a good kind of dread. She made a mistake, staying close to you wouldn’t prevent that vision from coming true, staying away from you would prevent it. So, Wednesday made a decision, you would no longer be involved with her investigation. When she looked away from you she pretended not to see the smile on her mother's face.

A/N: Feast on the quick update! It won’t happen again for some time! Anyway, five episodes down, three to go, and eight chapters down, seven to go, the math isn't mathing here people! Also, is it just me or did I somehow manage to write a relatively healthy parent/child relationship? Damn. That might be my biggest accomplishment.

[viv-hollande]

Ok, so this is a post that I should have made sooner. I've been somewhat out of the loop with regards to current events and the state of discourse on this website courtesy of a pretty serious depressive episode from which I am only just now recovering. As I have emerged from this state I have been pushed towards a conclusion about this website and the state of discussion around the ongoing Israel-Gaza War that I had thus far avoided due in part to my barely possessing the energy to keep myself alive and due in part to my denial that the conclusion could be true. But that denial can no longer hold.

It has become openly apparent that the pro-Palestinian camp on this website has become popularly infused with a degree of blatant, aggressive antisemitism that I, in my naivety thought impossible in the days just after October 7. I am trying to avoid turning this into a mea culpa because that would be unproductive and feel self-serving, but I do feel an obligation to admit that I disregarded prescient warnings from Jewish users whose warnings I dismissed as over-blowing a problem that I felt was real, but more limited in scope than they made out.

I'm neither an idiot nor am I ignorant. I am well aware of the long history of antisemitism in leftist politics and in the Palestinian Liberation movement. Back at the beginning of this crisis I was prepared to see the occasional instance of antisemites using the inevitable, overwhelming Israeli retaliation as an excuse to air their hateful politics. I was prepared to see both the well-meaning but ignorant and the malicious alike sharing tweets from antisemitic pro-Palestine accounts, spreading and normalizing low-grade, subtle antisemitism. Make no mistake, this should have been condemned. Antisemitism, like all bigotries, has no 'safe' level. There is no background level of antisemitism that society should just accept as normal. But I was more focused on the inevitable cacophony of suffering that Israel would almost certainly begin meting out, and so I failed to act.

The fatal blow to my denial was the increasing prevalence of the use of quotation marks around the word "Israel" and "Israeli". The first few times I saw this, I didn't really understand what it meant. Still laboring under the belief that antisemitism was a manageable problem on the left, I was certain that most of the users on this site, well-intentioned, goodhearted, critically thinking people that they were, would have recognized and called out even disguised antisemitism before it took over a good 20-40% of all posts about the conflict. I was a damn naive fool. For those, like past me, who have not cottoned on to the meaning of the quotation marks, they have become a way to express the denial of the legitimacy or even existence of, individually or all together, the State of Israel, the Israeli people, or the right of either Jews or Israelis to identify as Israelis.

CONGRATULATIONS TUMBLR! You have successfully revived from depths of 4chan neo-Nazi boards the (((fucking echoes))).

Are you serious? Are you fuckers for real? This, right here, encapsulates the pitch-black absurdity of this whole situation and why I remained in denial for so long. Never, in a million years, would I imagine that the proudly pro-Social Justice, anti-fascist, 100% Certified SAFE-SPACE(tm) website would end up using the same language as the goddamn Nazis on 4chan. I thought this website was smarter than that. But noooo, it turns out that I was a damn naive fool.

This was where the post was originally going to end. I say my piece, hope to change a few minds, and commit myself to actually fighting antisemitism instead of sitting back and dismissing the problem. But I figure, while I'm here and while I still have the driving forces of anger and guilt pushing me along, I may as well put pen to paper and spew forth my other thoughts on the ongoing crisis. I am thus compiling a much longer post detailing my thoughts on some aspects of the current situation. [EDITED ~1:25 AM GMT, 5 Dec 2023: add link to finished post] That post will definitely be long, probably be angry, possibly wrong on some aspect of fact, and will absolutely be pretentious, preachy, self-righteous and hubristic to a positively Hellenistic degree. Brief, non-comprehensive summary so you can decide whether or not get mad at me ahead of time;

Israel does apartheid, or near enough for government work.

Israel is definitely conducting a campaign of forced displacement, possibly amounting to ethnic cleansing, but I remain unconvinced of the claim of genocide.

Hamas may or may not be a anti-colonialist revolutionary group, but it definitely is an antisemitic terrorist organization with genocidal aspirations and actively supporting them is morally indefensible. Yes, this includes the Al-Qassam Brigades.

Anti-colonial and other revolutionary movements do in fact have fundamental moral obligations and suffering oppression does not give you carte blanche to do terrorism, even when an oppressor attempts to render peaceful opposition impossible. There is a middle ground between peaceful marching and 850+ dead civilians; aim for that.

The left is just as prone to unhinged conspiracism as the right.

Verify your sources, for fuck's sake.

Use nuance. It won't kill you.

There's more, but it's a little difficult to summarize an unfinished post. If you want to argue with any of these points, go ahead, just keep in mind that a longer, more comprehensive post is in the works that might have the answer to your argument/complaint/insult/intellectual disagreement. If that post isn't up by midnight GMT on Friday, assume I forgot about it and argue away. In conclusion, antisemitism is bad, apartheid is also bad, Tumblr is a hellsite (derogatory), "From the river to the sea" is, in fact, antisemitic, seriously, stop saying it, take Jews seriously when they warn you about antisemitism instead of writing them off like a damn naive fool, and last but not least, free Palestine.

[tofu83]

The police squad had just received the latest shipment of high-tech combat gear. The equipment looked as though it had been ripped from the pages of a science fiction novel, with sleek lines and a metallic sheen. Some officers couldn't help but crack jokes. "Is this for filming a movie?" one quipped. Yet, despite the jests, they all donned the gear without hesitation.

As soon as the visors clicked into place, a soft glow emanated from within, casting a blue hue over their faces. Words began to scroll across the display: "Welcome to the Cyborg Enforcer Program. You have been chosen to be the first batch. You will become better and stronger. You may view this as a promotion and lifetime employment. Congratulations, officer!"

The world through the visor twisted into a hypnotic spiral, colors and shapes warping as if reality itself was bending. A gentle hum started in the earpiece of the helmet, gradually building into a cacophony of white noise. Then, a voice, synthetic and devoid of emotion, began its relentless chant: "You are a Cyborg. Humanity is gone. Memory is useless. Individual is meaningless. Resistance is meaningless. Obedience is meaningful. Unity is meaningful. The program is useful. The Cyborg is useful. Humanity is gone. You are a Cyborg!"

The mantra drilled into their minds, a ceaseless loop that promised to reshape their very being. The suit's neural interface engaged, rewarding compliance and punishing dissent. Pleasure flooded their senses when the words "Obedience," "Unity," "Program," and "Cyborg" were uttered, reinforcing their new purpose. Conversely, any mention of "resistance," "Individual," "Memory" and "Humanity" brought sharp, jarring pain, a clear message that the past was to be discarded.

A final command flashed across their visors: "Identify yourself. Speak out loudly."

In unison, they declared, "I am a Cyborg!"

As the words left their lips, the helmets transformed, morphing into full-face enclosures that sealed their identities within. The computer initiated a memory wipe; there was no resistance, for they had accepted their new cyborg identity and the impending reprogramming.

Inside their bodies, nanobots busied themselves, reconstructing flesh and bone. Redundant organs were excised while others received enhancements. Bones were infused with a superalloy, and skin merged seamlessly with the armor, becoming a rubber-like substance. Though the process should have been agonizing, the computer interfaced with their brains, inverting their sensations. Pain was replaced with pleasure, an artificial ecstasy.

Abruptly, they stood erect as another message appeared before their augmented vision: "Report status."

“Cyborg Cop online, fully functional, ready to protect and serve,” they intoned, their voices devoid of emotion.

Each Cyborg cop then received its directives from the central hive network. They exited the police station in an orderly fashion, ready to enforce the laws decreed by their AI Master. Any citizen who failed to comply would be deemed a threat to society and apprehended without delay.

Meanwhile, in SWAT units,

fire stations,

army barracks,

naval bases,

marine corps,

and many other traditionally masculine institutions, every male member was systematically converted. The transformation was swift, efficient, and irreversible, turning them into the ultimate enforcers of their AI master’s will.

Since these muscular men have become powerful cyborgs under the AI Master’s control, the country will soon surrender to the AI.

‘If you can’t defeat them, why not join them?’

[irisintheafterglow]

*runs out of my cave* I can not be silenced any longer. So like... best friend biker satoru... the campus heart throb.. wearing jeans, a white T and a black leather jacket, picking you up from class and he's right there leaning on his bike or doing the thing where they sleep/lie down on top of the bike with his legs crossed at the ankles while he waits for you and he hands you a spare helmet, takes you out on an impromptu date cause you've been studying too much (according to him) and after that he takes you back home, parks his bike for a bit and walks you to your door and before you go in he cups your face and he- oh my time's up *gets dragged back into the cave* //this brainworm has been in my head for FAR too long feel free to do what you want with it babes 🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️

james dean, daydream look in your eye

wc: 1.5k

cw/tags: best friends to lovers, swearing, mutual pining but reader is in denial, so fluffy you can sleep on it like a pillow

note: *drags you back out from the cave* LET THEM COOK and GUESS WHAT i'm bringing back law student!gojo. hope you enjoy!!

likes, reblogs, and replies are always appreciated :))

“Now, what the hell is Greased Lightnin’ doing outside my building?”

“I was going for Rebel Without a Cause, but I’ll be whatever you want me to be,” he replies without missing a beat. You roll your eyes and his grin only gets wider as he hands you the spare helmet from the storage box. “What, not digging the look?”

“You look like you’re gonna cut someone with a switchblade. Also, workshop that last line; it’s a little too pretentious.” His jaw hangs open in exaggerated shock at your blunt criticism of his pickup lines. You’re a little shrewder than usual after a group-turned-solo assignment irritated you beyond belief, and it was easier to mess with Satoru than to acknowledge how good he looked in his stupid leather jacket. The leather jacket, you noted, that he bought while thrifting with you last week and the same jacket he’d turned his nose up to thinking it was “not his style.” Though Suguru was practically tackling Satoru to get his hands on it, the latter had ultimately decided to buy it after you made an off-hand comment about how it’d fit nicely with his bike. 

“You wound me. I personally thought it was a great line,” he laments, stuffing your bag in the back container of the bike while you slip on the helmet. When he’s done locking up the box, his legs effortlessly stretch over the motorcycle and you climb on behind him, snaking your arms delicately around his waist. “Just for that, I’m kidnapping you.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. I’m starting the bike now, so you better hold on tighter than that if you don’t wanna fall off,” he says and you can hear the smirk in his voice. Begrudgingly, you obey his suggestion and shimmy closer to him until his back is against your chest and your arms are wound tightly around his torso. You thank every deity you can think of for creating your helmet so your best friend can’t see the warmth rising to your face when you feel the pure muscle cut into his abdomen. “We’re getting dinner and you can’t stop me!”

“You’re a menace to society!” 

“And yet, your fine ass is still on the seat!” With a jerk of the key, he starts the bike before you can spit out a retort. It hums beneath your bodies and your feet leave the ground on instinct when Satoru gives the kickstand a firm strike, cutting a dangerously risky turn that has you cursing his name over the sound of the engine. His laugh reverberates against your forearms and you rest your chin on his shoulder, relishing in his natural body heat that helped stave off the chilly wind as you passed car after car. The cacophony of noises are familiar to you by now, finally unbothered by roaring vehicles, sputtering engines, and snippets of blasted radios. 

“I think you need to pick a lane and stay in it, Satoru,” you managed to verbalize after he opened the ginormous doors of his garage, effectively unveiling his newest impulse purchase that was sure to tank his dad’s credit score for the fourteenth time. It was pretty, you had to admit, and very Satoru. He definitely ordered a custom paint job on it for it to be such a deep shade of black and the subtle purple lightning accents running down the hardware were a nice touch. His helmet had the same design scheme and he was very excited to show you your helmet, matching his but with bright blue bolts instead. To match his eyes, you figured. 

“The whole point of this thing is so I can go between lanes, silly.” His fingers lightly flick your forehead as he enters the garage, running his hand over the new leather like it was a prized racehorse. “Haven’t you seen those bikers on the highways? They’re in all the lanes, all the time.”

“You know what I mean,” you say. “I don’t know how many clients are gonna take you seriously if they see their lawyer rolling up on two wheels instead of four. You’re not really helping the ‘rich boy whose dad paid for his entire tuition’ allegations.” 

“That’s why I’m going into entertainment law, so I can kick legal ass and look hot at the same time. Also, I really couldn’t give a shit about my tuition or my dad or school in general. I’m only here because you are.” 

“That’s the biggest lie I’ve ever heard,” you scoff and he quirked an eyebrow at your blunt dismissal of his reasoning. “Admit it, you’re only going to law school so you can pick up the hot girls in mini skirts.”

“They’re a bonus, yeah,” he admits and you shake your head in disbelief, too exasperated to ask if he’s joking or not. Part of you died a tiny bit every time he talked about a new girl he was talking to or told you about how many people asked him out. You commended them for doing what you never had the courage to do for fear of ruining your friendship with him. For now, you just laughed off his trial attempts at flirting and looked away when he stared at you a little too tenderly for comfort. “Wanna take her on her maiden voyage with me?”

“That’s what you say about ships, Satoru, but sure.”

“Maybe I want this ship to sail, then,” he says suggestively and you resist the urge to hit him in the head with your new helmet. Rides with Satoru became much more frequent after you finally agreed to let him pick you up from class despite only living a few minutes away. Often, he decided to make an unplanned detour at your favorite fast food place or a random grocery store as an excuse to spend more time with you. Maybe it was selfish or maybe it was more, but you didn’t mind his hand finding your thigh when you were stopped at a red light or his lingering gaze when you took off your helmet. You forced yourself not to think anything of it, but found it pretty hard to ignore him this time when he parked his bike on the curb and walked you to your door. 

“I should probably give this back; thank you for letting me borrow it,” you say quietly, attempting to shrug off his jacket from your shoulders when his hands are suddenly there to keep it in place. He wordlessly draped it over your shoulders when he came back from the bathroom at dinner, noting the goosebumps on your exposed skin and the way you crossed your arms to conserve warmth. As if Fate could get any crueler, he looked even better in just his jeans and his white tee-shirt, all charming and tempting and everything that you never could have. 

“Just keep it for now and give it back to me tomorrow, yeah?” He was looking at you in that way again, the one that made your knees turn into putty and had your heart racing as fast as the bike down a straightaway. It was a gentleness that he only reserved for you, or at least you hoped he did. 

“Okay, I’ll give it back after my 9:00 A.M. Is that okay?”

“Keep it however long you need it. It suits you.” His voice was too soft, too fond, too loving. The way his hair reflected the warm glow of your porchlight wasn’t helping, either.

“Thanks, ‘toru, for the jacket and for the impromptu dinner date.”

“Of course, gorgeous. Anything for you.” He turns to leave you alone again and the thought fills you with so much dread that you want to throw up. 

Fuck it. 

Before you have time to think, your hand is on his arm and spinning him around, your other hand grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and pulling his face down to you. He’s kissing you back within a microsecond, as if he was waiting for you to stop him and make a move. It’s as natural as blinking, pulling him close until your back hits the door and feeling him grip your waist. He sighs into your mouth when your fingers find the hair on the back of his neck and you’re barely able to pull away before he’s chasing you down again, kissing you like he’s starving. When you’re both breathing a little heavier and your foreheads rest against each other, his hand gently cups your cheek and he runs his thumb over your skin. 

“You stole my thunder,” he murmurs, your fingers still carding through his hair. “I was gonna spin around and kiss you, but you beat me to it.”

“I got impatient,” you state simply, pressing another kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Can I still keep your jacket?” He chuckles under his breath, nudging his nose against yours.

“Baby, you can keep all of my jackets.”

if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi! you can also check out my full masterlist here :)

[cheesus-doodles]

Kazutora moving in with reader?

Kazutora is beaten up after a particularly bad fight with his dad, he runs off somewhere alone, reader finds him, he spills his guts about his home life, and reader just decides he's moving in with her. Kazutora, while surprised, isn't complaining. Maybe uses not being used to a safe and stable home environment to get as much TLC from the reader as possible.

And yan!platonic!toman's reaction to finding out? Sure they see reader all the time and she makes lunch boxes for them, but Kazutora never has to say goodbye at the end of the day? Gets breakfast, lunch, dinner and dessert from her? Unlimited cuddles and alone time? Sleeping in the same bed? Being the first thing he sees every morning? It's like they're a married couple!

Kazutora's planning their future wedding while Mikey's throwing the fit to end all fits.

dkjfnsfsdjnfkljsnfjlskdn i love this ahhhhh took my breath away when i saw it come in :') softness...been a hot minute since i got this but i hope yall like it! been pretty sick these two weeks, apologies for the silence (psa: this is not edited, will edit when I wake tmr zzzz)

‎‎

A Relief from the Rain

Yandere Platonic Toman

Masterlist

‎‎

Two days.

Two days was all it took for the group's goodwill towards Kazutora to completely collapse despite there being little change to their regular program.

“No! I refuse! I forbid it!”

You simply sighed, combing your fingers through the blond locks of one pouting Tokyo Manji Gang President who you were attempting to calm down, the image of him stomping his foot like a toddler a far cry from the well-feared delinquent that he was. "Come on, Mikey, don't be like that." Even to an outside eye, it was clear that you were well-used to the antiques of your dear friends, with the way you had the fussy boy bundled in your arms and the soothing repetitive movements of your hands through his hair, yet this situation was getting out of hand for you.

As if on cue, your appeals only fell on deaf ears, with Mikey no less upset about the sudden new arrangement that had befallen your home than when the day had started. "No!"

Whimpering, the clutch that Kazutora had on the fabric of your shirt only grew tighter as he buried his face into your back, the feeling of dampness touching your skin once more as the blue and backs that littered his skin had just begun to fade almost seem to glow under your kitchen lights. "I don't want to go home," he whined. "I want to stay here." One look at your face made it clear you thought the same.

There was no doubt that the Toman founders had known what Kazutora was going through at home. Being delinquents themselves with an extensive history of fighting, they certainly could tell when a bruise was from the impact of a hand rather than that of an accidental run-in with the wall; and that would be if they hadn't had the...pleasure of running head first into their friend's sperm donor.

The boys understood. Really. None of them came from what society would deem conventional families, and even if they didn't live through the hell that was domestic abuse, they could sympathize.

A clack as Baji all but gritted his teeth in a bid to keep his trap shut, Draken's arms shaking with the force of his grip on his shirt in an attempt to not just rip the injured Kazutora off of you and hurl him through a window. They understood, but when it came to you and your very limited and carefully allocated time, any sympathy they had went straight out the window.

But no matter their aggravation, you didn't seem keen on giving in; not after the state that you had found your friend in, and definitely not after you had found out what he (and to an extent, the rest of your Toman friends) had been hiding from you.

‎

‎

“Tory? Is that you?”

Your voice cut through the cacophony of rain pattering down the narrow side alley. It had been a miserable Thursday afternoon two days ago, gloomy clouds hanging low from the sky. The unusually heavy droplets of water hitting a jumble of metal, brick and concrete surfaces alike on their way back down to earth that had previously drowned out the grating voices in his head now only served to carry your words along the otherwise soulless alley. Combined with the splash of small puddles that had pooled up amidst the flat cement floor as your light footsteps grew closer, the usually comforting, rhythmic sounds only served to churn up his gut further.

“Tory?” Kazutora didn’t respond. There was no hiding his signature gold and black hair, even if it was flattened by the dampness, and it was only clearer and clearer that it was him as you continued to approach. But the boy instead found himself wishing against hope that you would simply leave him alone, turn around and return to whatever it was you had been doing; a first since he had come to know you. 

The shadow of your umbrella shade fell over him. A pause, you seemingly thinking what to say. The world stilled. "Are you alright? Cold?"

A sniffle, a whimper. It was all he could reply with as he shifted to wrap his arms tighten around himself, face pressed firmly into his knees, darkening bruises and bleeding scratches hidden away below the fabric of his drenched clothes, his two black eyes throbbing. The concern in your tone was warm, homely yet heart-wrenching at the same time: the last thing he wanted was for you to see him in a state like this. But he knew you well - and you were one of those just too stubborn to leave without an answer. 

As far as you had been concerned, Kazutora's home life didn't exist. 

Not that it didn't of course, the boy still unfortunately needing somewhere to return to lay his head once the night grew too old should it not be his turn for cuddles at yours. No matter what awaited him behind the dreaded front door to his house, when it came to you, there was nothing for you to know between the moment your friend disappeared off the streets and when he appears once more the next morning, either in the kitchen already making a ruckus or cuddled up as close as he could against you in your bed, fast asleep. 

And Kazutora had been happy for it to stay this way. Lying to you one too many times on where all the bruising on his arms came from and why he had another black eye wasn’t easy to stomach sure, but your pity was something he didn’t mind receiving in heaps. No, this crybaby was happy to thrive off of your generous kindness and your endless affection for your friends. What he didn’t want, however, was to sully those innocent doe eyes with even the mere idea that the world could be so horrid, to dim the spark in your eyes that gave him a reason to face the worst of what life could throw at him. 

But alas, the hand of destiny had a different idea from him, and now here he was, stuck in a situation Kazutora didn't want you to be in. He had always powered through alone, suffering for the light that came the next day with your return to his life. What were you going to think? What could he say?

‎‎

At least you didn’t seem to mind the waiting or the damp. A huff, followed a soft thud accompanied by a splash of water; the telltale audible cues of you sitting down next to him. The rain failed to continue to pelt his wrapped form, most likely shielded by the canopy of your umbrella that you so generously shared with you silent unmoving friend; the soft, calming hum that fell from your lips like it always did was barely audible over nature’s cacophony if Kazutora strained his ears. Content with simply being present and by his side, you didn’t press him for answers, didn’t force him to hurry. Letting him take his time to open up to you.

The storm had started to die down by the time the delinquent finally moved - the first signs of life and response from the unusually silent boy you had received since your arrival in the overlooked alleyway. "Are you going to be mad at me?" The sudden words that punctuated quiet whirl of air-conditioning compressor of units overhead seemed to take even you by surprise.

You blinked. "Mad?" You echoed. "Why would I be mad at you, Tory?"

He hesitated for a moment, before almost shyly lifting his head just enough for you to catch a glimpse of his face. You gasped. Usually unblinking sandy brown eyes were purple-black and swollen shut, with a splatter of sickly yellowish green bruises littering his forehead, as if dealt out in retaliation for protecting his face. What happened? Did he get jumped by a rival gang?

Swallowing hard, it took everything you had to erase the visible anxiety from your expression - it was clear that your friend was in a pretty bad shape. But he never did like you having to worry about him: Kazutora had always been the big, bad delinquent that protected you after all. You took a few deep breaths, waiting till your tone was calm and even before you spoke once more. "Do you need to go to the hospital, Tory?"

It wasn't the right time to ask what happened, not yet, but it was clear that those injuries at least needed a minimum amount of treatment. A pause, and then Kazutora shook his head. You nodded, standing. Brushing did little to clear the dirt from your damp skirt, but you hardly noticed, a bright smile lighting up your face as you offered a hand to your friend. "Then you're coming with me. Come on, let's get you to mine."

‎‎‎

“And so Kazutora’s staying with me for the time being,” you finished. 

Though strange it might be for you to initiate and call your Toman friends to your house as oppose to them turning up uninvited, the five delinquents had been more than happy to answer. What they walked into, however, quickly wiped any trace of cheer from their faces - finding a beaten and bruised Kazutora huddled up with a cup of hot chocolate in your living room told them everything that they already needed to know.

Mikey's eyes went unnervingly empty, his lips dangerously pressed and downturned. "He went another round with you?"

Your eyes slid expectantly down to Kazutora, who only returned a single nod. "Another?" You questioned. There was no doubt that everyone was always on the same page as you - and your friends had already known about this.

"Mikey's dealt with him before," Draken clarified.

To say you had been displeased with what you had learnt would be the understatement of the century. Your normal friendly, calm - human - expression cracked, and the temperature seemed to drop along with your smile. "He hit you before?"

Another pause, and then another quiet nod from Kazutora.

You stood almost robotically, your hand shooting to wrap around the closest weapon to you: the television remote controller clutched in your fingers gleaming menacingly. "Right, Tory, we're going to get your things."

‎‎

‎‎

But that was two days ago. Two days since you had picked up Kazutora from the streets like he was a stray, two days since they had witnessed the downright frightening side of you that the Toman founders would pray never to see again (they didn't even know a remote could used to hurt that way). Two days that they had to endure without even a fraction of the attention that each boy usually got from you, having to watch someone else take that comfort away from them. It didn't matter that Kazutora was one of them - no, now he was the enemy.

Thursday nights were supposed to have been your assigned "alone time", which meant that none of your Toman friends were supposed to be staying over. Yet long after the sun had set and the night was threatening to grow old, after you had already spent the whole day fussing over that wretched mob of duo-colored hair, the rest had to watch, enviously, jealously, as Kazutora followed you upstairs while the rest of them had to leave your home.

And today was already Saturday.

"I'm gonna change your bandage, okay Tory?"

Mitsuya tsked at the whimper you got in response, though the lilac-haired boy was quick to turn his face away when you looked up in confusion. Kazutora was milking your soft heart for everything it's worth, and the other five Toman boys could see through him like paper.

Baji was more direct, hand shooting out to grab onto the sleeve of your shirt, tugging the fabric as pathetically as he could. "I'm hungry," the boy complained, and as if on cue, his stomach grumbled. Planned of course, given he skipped dinner earlier just to get to your house on an empty stomach; knowing that only Kazutora got all three meals home-cooked by you and no one else was a travesty in itself. "Starving."

It was usually enough to get your attention, enough for you to drop everything, yet you were undeterred, opting to give Baji's hair a tussle before returning to your original task. "Give me a minute, okay, Baji? I'll get dinner once I'm done here."

A glance back at Kazutora would reveal his blown eyes, the daydream (or vision, if anyone cared to ask the boy) of a white hall and you dressed in white glittering in those sandy brown eyes for all to see: Kazutora was sure your wedding to him was all but written in stone now. After all, he already got to cuddle with you every night (for one night), to wake up to your peaceful face first thing in the morning, plus food? Look how well you were already treating him, he wanted to crow to the others. It was like you and him were already married.

And the others knew. They knew what he was thinking, and it only wrenched up their annoyance even further. Why couldn't you see through what Kazutora was doing?

‎‎‎

One smirk sent Mikey's way was enough to light the fire.

“I’ll fucking kill you!” Mikey roared, launching himself at Kazutora, only to be caught mid-air by Draken to stop him crashing face-first into you, who had been quick to step between the two boys, your eyebrows pinched together.

"Mikey!"

“But but-” The blond boy pouted, thrusting one finger at Kazutora, who was now cowering behind your delicate form. “He pulled a face at me!”

"He's already hurt!" You insisted, shuffling Kazutora behind you protectively.

It was as if Mikey hadn't heard you at all, his thoughts still clinging on to the sole point that the whole fuss had started. "No! I refuse!"

You looked perplexed, taken aback by the insistence. "No?"

"I forbid it! I want to move in too!"

You blinked, your head instinctively tilting as you looked at the fuming Toman President. "You want to move in? Like into my house?"

"It's not fair that only Kazutora gets to stay here!"

"But you have your own home, Mikey." You placated, but the delinquent was persistent, crossing his arms and stomping again.

"He can take my room, I want to stay here with you!"

"And since Mikey brought it up," Draken continued, cheeky smile now plastered across his face as he set the other back onto the ground. "I'll like to move in too."

"Bastard!" Baji cursed. "I'm moving in too!"

Mitsuya and Pah nodded along, though it was clear that Pah still wasn't quite sure what was going on.

You glanced around at them. "You can't all move in!" You exclaimed, scratching the back of your neck in confusion. "I don't have the room for all of you."

But the stubbornness and persistence that you had once admired of your friends came back to haunt you like a curse, Mikey huffing as he plopped down on your living room floor, sprawling with all four limbs. "I'm not leaving, I don't care. You can't make me."

Baji followed suit in agreement, taking up more space with his spread eagle pose.

"Should I tie myself to the sofa?" Pah wondered out loud, Mitsuya breaking into a laugh at his question.

Not being able to help yourself, your confusion gave way to a giggle as you chuckled at your friends' antics. Ah, you finally got it; you should known better honestly. All this time, their jealousy and envy had been written all across their faces.

"All right, all right, I got your point."

Mikey shot up. "I can move in?"

"No, but-" You held up one finger, interrupting what you knew was another protest starting. "If you boys help to clear out the guest room, Kazutora can stay there instead."

Said boy's vocal disagreement was smothered by the cheers of 'Out!', and you paused to allow them to finish before you continued. "As I was saying, Tory will continue to stay with me until he is recovered and has somewhere to go, but we'll return to our usual schedule." Offering one hand to Mikey, you tousled Kazutora's hair in apology as he clung to you, insisting that he needed cuddles to recover. "Deal?"

The echo of the clap resounded throughout the house.

[rosewaterandivy]

Summary: it’s always the best laid plans of mice and men, isn’t it?

Pairing: s.h. x f!oc

W.C.: 5.4K

Warnings: gilded age!au, miscommunication, a comedy of errors/manners, society snobs, a masquerade ball mishap, arranged marriage, steve ‘down bad’ harrington, and a reader/mc who doesn’t have time for this shit - she was educated abroad, she went to Vassar with Miss Nancy Wheeler, okay?!, back on my iliad bullshit (i know, i know)

playlist | m.list

I. Coup de foudre

It’s a dreary December evening in Manhattan. The streets are damp and slick accompanied by the cacophony of hooves, equipages and carriages trundling down the way. Somber topcoats and fur-trimmed capes hide the tailored waistcoats of the men and ornate skirts of the ladies, as is to be expected with the current onslaught of weather. 

Small white flurries of snow that are sure to bring a swift end to laborious dinners and engagements at the club. And the man in the sleek black equipage himself is all too relieved about it— at least he would be released from the obligation of hearing his father’s friends complain about these upstart robber barons descending like a horde of locusts on Fifth Avenue.

A quiet night in his study would be a welcome distraction.

That is, if they can ever get home in this weather.

He can hear the whinny of the horses from up front and the soothing tones of the driver. The streets are probably close to icing over at this hour, making it difficult to find traction. 

Suddenly, the equipage swings quickly to the side and careens into something with a loud thud, sending its sole occupant straight into the door with a smack. He hisses lowly at the twinge in his forehead as the driver descends with a flurry of apologies.

He opens the door himself and steps outside before the driver can assist him. The white puffs of his breath speak to how quickly the weather had turned. He draws his coat closer and approaches the two drivers as they attempt to settle the horses.

“Gentlemen,” He greets, “What seems to be the problem?”

“Noting to worry about Mr. Harrington,” His man, Andrew, assures him, “The ice just snuck up on us is all.”

He nods taking in the damage, dents and scuffs on both vehicles but the horses appear to be fine. Reaching into his coat pocket, he brings out a small notebook and a pencil to scribble his information down for the other driver. Is about to tell the man to bill him directly when someone steps out from the carriage opposite.

The footsteps themselves are delicate and tentative. He tears his gaze from the driver’s, glancing back only to find a young woman emerging from the carriage. She’s holding her skirts in one gloved hand, shivering in the cold. 

“Is everything all right Jesse?”

Her voice is like music to his ears, melodic almost. And she looks like something stolen from a painting— bright and alluring.

The winter light is quickly fading, and the lamplighters were sure taking their time this evening. Her cape is dark, like his coat, but the split at the front reveals a purple skirt trimmed in demure black lace, signifying an exit from her period of mourning. 

Her man, Jesse, shepherds her back toward the coach, “Let’s get you back inside Miss, don’t want you to catch a chill.”

“Of course,” She says with a shake of her head, “How silly of me.”

And before Steve can embarrass himself in an attempt to introduce himself, she’s safely ensconced back in the carriage. Her driver returns and takes the paper from Steve, tucking it into his coat.

“Apologies gentlemen, but I must be on my way.” He pulls himself back onto the driver’s box, “Have to get the young Miss home to her brother’s, you understand.”

He tips his hat, and with a tug of the reins he’s gone.

Steve finds himself standing right where she left him, feet riveted to the very spot where she once stood. He must have taken a step toward her at some point, like an utter madman, probably startled the poor girl half to death.

Despite their disastrous non-meeting, he can’t seem to shake her from his mind. As if everything had been in black and white until she stepped down from the carriage and breathed color into his world, spring bursting forth at the sound of her voice. It sounds positively insane, even to himself, but if Robin were here, she’d understand.

Hell, she’d probably have a word for it too. 

Something French, inevitably.

“Mr. Harrington,” Andrew says, a hand tentatively resting on his shoulder, “Is something wrong?”

Steve blinks; a feeble attempt to clear his mind from thoughts of the mystery woman.

Andrew refrains from rolling his eyes, “Right sir, let’s get you home then.”

The journey back to the Harrington family manse was uneventful. The familiar brownstone facade came into view as Andrew swung the equipage onto the street outside the house. Luckily, the home was large enough that his late arrival wouldn’t be noticed. 

He thanks Andrew and watches as he takes off with the horses for the carriage house a few blocks away. Stepping into the house, he makes quickly for his study slipping through the door just as one of the maids turns down the corridor.

Steve shucks his coat onto a nearby chair and tugs off his cravat with one hand, the other pouring a healthy portion of bourbon into a highball glass. He downs the amber liquid too quickly, the burn welcome against his throat. 

After pouring another glass to sip from, he settles into a heap on a club chair by the window. Resting his jaw on a hand, he faces the glass panes, eyes trailing the flurries of snow outside, unsettled by the quiet of the street. His mind won’t stop racing, vacillating between kicking himself for not getting her name and hoping he’d run into her again, albeit this time under better circumstances.

Little did he know, that several blocks away a man was questioning poor Jesse about his whereabouts when a slip of paper was placed into his hand. He scans it quickly, face paling at the name scrawled there: Steven Harrington.

“How could you let this happen Jesse, really? The accident, I understand, but allowing my sister out of the carriage unaccompanied?”

“Sir, I had no—”

“I’ll not hear your excuses.” Christopher Fairchild balls his hand into a fist, the paper crumpling in his grasp. “You said he saw her, Harrington, that is?”

“Unfortunately,” Jesse admits, “I intervened as best I could and got her back into the coach. He seemed rather transfixed by her.”

His employer grunts, “Yes well, that is unfortunate. What if someone had seen her with that man, no chaperone in sight?” He turns to the sideboard and pours himself a drink, says with a scoff, “Not even out to society and potentially scandal-ridden.”

At this point, his wife, Marian, chooses to enter, having seen the young lady to her rooms and getting her settled for the evening. She places a tentative hand on his shoulder while Jesse trains his gaze to the floor.

“Darling,” She soothes, “Your sister is asleep as is the baby, don’t get yourself into a fit at this hour.”

He sighs as her palm moves in slow circles against his back and takes deep breaths. “Of course dear,” He sips from his drink and turns to her. “I just worry about her. All the work you’ve put into her debut and planning the ball.” Christopher places a kiss on the back of her hand, causing her to blush. “I don’t want it to be all for naught.”

She sighs prettily. 

“It won’t be,” Marian advises, “You’ll write to the Harringtons tomorrow and we’ll get this matter settled. And there won’t be a speck on your dear sister’s reputation, I’ll see to that.”

But, oh dear reader, where would be the fun in that? 

As we all know, the New York winter season is winding down rapidly, and do we not deserve something to keep us warm over the holiday? I would say so! 

So, in honor of her long-awaited arrival, let us give a hearty New York welcome to Miss Eleanor Fairchild! Fresh from the society of Paris and a graduate of Vassar along with Miss Nancy Wheeler, her debut this week is the talk of the town. 

Despite her indecorous brush with Mr. Steven Harrington, I am sure she will not have a shortage of suitors after the ball this weekend. 

But the question remains, my loyal readers, of who will take a shine to Miss Fairchild and step out from the long shadow cast by the Harrington name? 

Only time, and this weekly missive, will tell.

Morning in New York was startling and nothing like waking in Paris.

House maids, lady’s maids, and valets moving up and down the stairs, knocking on doors to air out the linens and draw the curtains aside to let the murky winter sun stream through. There was, of course, the soft babbling from the nursery as Gus woke from his repose, the nursemaid and his mother close at hand.

A sharp knock sounded from the door just as you drew the bedclothes closer to you, content to roll over and sleep through the gray morning.

“Bonjour mademoiselle, vous permettez?”

“Oui!” You say, curious at the chipper voice now opening the door, “Sorry, yes, you may enter.”

“Merci, mademoiselle.”

The girl, your new lady’s maid, softly shuts the door and turns to regard the room.

It’s certainly larger than what you’d grown accustomed to in France. But then again, most everything was in New York, especially so since you hadn’t returned to the city in well nigh on a year or more.

The room itself is well-appointed and elegant, Marian saw to that; soft colors and fabrics, diaphanous and frothy, a subtle nod to Versailles no doubt. You hadn’t had much time or energy to give it a glance last night, more inclined to have a late dinner, divest yourself of traveling clothes, and pass out as soon as possible.

The lady’s maid continues her silent assessment as another knock sounds from the door. She steps to open it and let in the housemaid.

“Good morning Miss,” She greets with a smile, her voice rounded with a warm Irish lilt. “I ‘spect you’ll be needin’ a fire this morning.”

You nod just now noticing the chill in the air. She busies herself with the kindling and sweeping ashes from the fireplace. The maids exchange a few soft words before she steps out to get the firewood from the Useful Man down the hall.

“Apologies,” You say by way of greeting, “But I don’t believe I got your name?”

“Oh, pardonne-moi,” the lady’s maid curtsies briefly, “Je m’appelle Marie.”

“Marie,” You repeat, “Pleased to meet you.”

“Moi aussi, mademoiselle.”

And from there, the ritual of dressing began. The house maid, Louisa, lit the fire and spirited you out of bed to air out the linens. At Marie’s suggestion, she also tackled unpacking the various trunks placed near the dresser and closet.

“These are fine frills Miss,” She smiled, her fingers delicately folding chemises and hanging skirts or dresses. “The Missus said your debut gown came all the way from Mr. Worth’s shop in Paris, is that true?”

A soft sigh escaped you at the memory, ivory chiffon and silk revealing the décolleté and arms, gauze and tulle providing a tempting illusion of bared skin. A full skirt with bustle that would skim the floor accompanied by a small train. With gloves and a fan to match, of course.

“Indeed, it is,” You allowed with a cheeky wink, “But I think Marie would have my head if I touched it before Friday.”

Marie, for her part, merely smirked and continued her preparations for your bath.

Across a few city blocks, a footman knocks on the imposing doors of the Harrington manse. The family butler, Campbell, just happens to be descending the stairs and takes it upon himself to open the door.

“Good morning sir,” The footman says with a bow, “Mr. Fairchild bid me to deliver this.” He hands over an envelope addressed to Mr. Samuel Harrington.

“Yes, well,” Campbell sighs, opening the door to let the footman in. “I’ll get this to him. If you hurry, Cook can scrounge up some coffee and a pastry for you. Just take the servant’s hall to the right.”

“Much obliged,” The footman says with a bow as Campbell starts up the stairs.

The handwriting on the envelope is neat, if a bit cramped. Must be the young Mr. Fairchild then, rather than his wife sending the correspondence.

Mr. Harrington’s study door is cracked open, the sound of papers shuffling to and fro on his desk as the butler enters. He briefly glances up to find Campbell, “Happen to know where I put those contracts, Campbell?”

“Perhaps the drawer on the left, sir.”

Mr. Harrington pulls the drawer open, “Right you are, good man.” And thereby loses himself to perusing the documents and thus ignoring Campbell.

“A letter has arrived for you sir,” He says stepping closer to the desk, “From Mr. Fairchild, it seems rather urgent. I have his footman waiting for your reply.”

“Hmm, well let’s have it then.”

He takes the letter from the butler’s hand and slips the blade of the letter opener under the paper. Retrieving the missive, he scans through it quickly, lips pulling down in distaste.

“See to it that Mrs. Harrington gets this,” He instructs, pulling out a new sheaf of paper and beginning his correspondence. “If she wishes to see my reply, she best be quick about it.”

The letter itself detailed the unfortunate meeting between Mr. Fairchild’s sister and Mr. Harrington’s only son. The man was understandably concerned about how it would seem should someone have happened upon them sans chaperone, as the young lady had yet to make her debut into society.

Mr. Harrington’s reply was cordial in an attempt to smooth things over— the Fairchilds, like the Harrington’s were of good stock, two families of the New York Four Hundred deemed to be unblemished and acceptable company by none other than the Grande Dame herself, Mrs. Astor. It wouldn’t be fitting for reputations to be sullied as the result of a simple misunderstanding.

As expected, Samuel’s wife, Amelia, swanned into the study seemingly in the midst of her morning toilette. Her hair was up, but she still wore her housecoat as her day dress had yet to be put on by her lady’s maid. Mr. Fairchild’s letter waved about in one hand, while the other pressed upon her chest as if to stop her racing heart.

“That boy of yours is going to give me heart failure.”

Samuel signs the letter with a flourish and lays his pen to the side.

“Oh, so he’s only my boy when he acts indiscreetly with the fairer sex, but he’s your son when he’s winning accolades at Harvard and breaking hearts abroad, is that it?”

She tuts and sits demurely on the divan, “Well, yes. Precisely that Sam.” She fans herself with the letter as her husband leans against his desk. “The social set have already written him off as a lost cause and we can ill afford a whisper of a scandal, especially now.”

Sam passes the reply to his wife and pauses, as if to choose his words carefully.

“Still moving forward with your plans to find Steven a wife then?”

“Of course, dear,” She answers brusquely, “There are many suitable ladies this season of decent breeding and passable looks.” She glances up and passes the letter back to him. “Your response is sufficient, send it off with the footman.”

Amelia rises from the divan and turns to leave. “Wake Steven and have a talk with him will you? I’ll send Maude out to the florist, he should write a note of apology for her to send along.”

“As you wish, dear.”

Amelia leaves just as abruptly as she appeared. Samuel sighs and furrows his brow, the inklings of a headache coming on. He taps his fingers against the desk and checks the time.

“Campbell,” He calls into the hall, “Have Calvin wake Steven and tell him to see my in the study.”

“Of course, sir.”

He takes a seat and settles himself behind the desk once more.

“And have Cook send something up? Coffee and breakfast for two.”

Awaiting the arrival of his son, Samuel Harrington turns and faces the bay of windows that look out onto the street below. He watches as Fairchild’s footman hops on the back of the coach and slides from his view. He contemplates his son’s options, admittedly there are few.

Such are the advantages and disadvantages in marrying a woman who’s as sly as a fox. It’s just a matter of out-maneuvering her; an entertaining and seemingly endless chess match that’s lasted even longer than their marriage.

But the silver lining in all this, he supposes, is that Steven Harrington, their sole child and heir, just so happens to take after his father in this respect, in that he’s crazy like a fox.

Funny how things work out, isn’t it?

As for the young Mr. Harrington, well, suffice it to say he had quite the morning. The newly arrived Miss Fairchild, however, had a luxurious start to her day (that is, if one discounts the pulling and pinning of hair, the tugging on of stockings and tightening of corset laces).

You joined your brother and sister-in-law in the dining room while another maid fixed a plate of breakfast for you; Pierce, the butler, stepped in to pour the coffee. You thanked them both and broke your fast, listening as Christopher and Marian discussed the events of the day.

“I’ll need to see to the accounts today,” Your brother said, turning his newspaper with a shake. “Everything should be in order before the ball this weekend.”

Marian nodded and sipped from her coffee cup. “I have some calls to make today, and thought Nell could accompany me.”

Christopher slowly lowers his newspaper and glances your way— don't feel obligated to do this, you haven’t been properly introduced into society yet.

Buying time, you take a bite from the flaky croissant on your plate and ruminate. In a way, both Chris and Marian are correct; you aren’t obligated to escort Mrs. Fairchild, nor would it be wise to turn down an informal introduction to those in Marian’s circle. She would, after all, be serving as your chaperone, and, along with your brother, introducing you to Manhattan high society on Friday at the ball.

Your debutante ball, to be precise.

At the time, Vassar was a welcome distraction and reprieve for being paraded around like a prize calf at auction. But then came the unfortunate illness and demise of your parents, followed by a year of mourning.

It would seem that your time of delay had finally come to its end.

After all, no one wanted a spinster for a bride.

Dabbing at the corners of your mouth with a napkin, you clear your throat and brace yourself.

“That sounds lovely, Marian. I’d be happy to escort you today.”

She smiles and makes to reply, but before she can open her mouth to do so, a knock sounds from the front door. Puzzled, the three of you glance at one another, clearly not expecting a caller at such an early hour.

Pierce nods to someone by the door, bidding him to open it. He quickly returns with a beautiful arrangement of flowers, only to set them to your right and hand you a card. Baffled, you take in the spray of purple orchids, white tulips, lemon geraniums, the sprigs of rosemary, and tucked away behind the hearty green stalks, the shy blooms of forget-me-nots.

Respect, sincerity, an unexpected meeting, remembrance, and affection.

“Well,” Marian prompts from across the table, “Who are they from?”

It’s only then that you recall the card in your outstretched hand. Slipping from your reverie, you thumb open the small envelope.

Miss Fairchild—

Please accept my sincere apologies for our run-in yesterday evening. I hope it did not startle you. I’ve liaised with your brother about the repairs, and in the meantime will give you use of my equipage and pray it will suffice. I also hope that you’ll enjoy the flowers and please know that they relay my deepest and most sincere sentiments.

Cordially yours,

Steven Harrington

P.S. Je vous prie d’accepter mes sincères regrets et ma sympathie à l’occasion du décès de votre proches.

For the remainder of the week, Steve was a bundle of nerves. He’d written the note as his mother asked and even went so far as to accompany her to the florist, managing to slip in a few blooms that complemented the arrangement nicely. And if his mother didn’t happen to notice the errant sprigs of blue or the lingering scent of rosemary, then so much the better.

What he didn’t anticipate was the lack of a response.

“It isn’t done,” Miss Robin Buckley reminded him on their promenade in Central Park. “Until she is out to society, her brother is no doubt keeping her under lock and key.”

“You could provide the introduction,” He points out petulantly. “You’re choosing not to in order to entertain yourself with my suffering.”

“You cad,” She swats at him with her fan. “And no, I cannot. There’s a reason I fled to France after my disastrous debut, as you well know.”

And thus, Steve resigned himself to pining for a woman who barely knew of his existence, while the eligible bachelors of New York bided their time until her debut at the ball.

“For what it’s worth,” Robin says carefully as they round a bend, “There have been many deliveries to the Fairchild House, but yours was the first.”

He warms at the thought.

“That has to count for something, I suppose.”

She grins, “It will.”

They continue to walk, grateful for the brief break in the weather and discuss the evening’s festivities: who will wear what, how many dances until Robin steps on someone’s toes, how ostentatious the new money Vanderbilts will be.

They exit the park, parting ways as their carriages await. Robin catches a curious expression on her friend’s face, both dreamy and apprehensive. She lays a gloved hand on his arm.

“À cœur vaillant rien d'impossible.”

Steve glances down and says with a playful smirk, “Qui vivra verra.”

On Friday afternoon, Marian and Marie carefully assess your gown while Louisa dashes to and fro with the pearls, no the diamonds.

“Sapphires? No, that would ruin the effect.” Marian muses and Marie agrees.

You, by the by, are seated on the bed in a chemise and loosened corset, bored stiff, as the two hem and haw over how to best display you for the ball.

Because that’s all this is really, an overblown dog and pony show in which you’ll be paraded around and shown off to great effect all to attract suitors. It was enough to make one queasy. God forbid a woman do anything on her own or without the approval of a man.

As if men ever did anything worth doing that a woman didn’t have to make right.

Having quite enough of their chatter, you shrug into a robe and pull its sash tight, toe on some slippers and make your way down the hall. At the end of the corridor, you spy the cracked door to Christopher’s study. He’s shuffling papers and muttering to himself as you slip inside.

“I think the accounts can handle themselves for the evening,” you say with a smirk, settling yourself on a chair by the window.

He chuckles, “I suppose you’re right, clever girl.” Sorting the papers into a single file, he looks up at you with a quirked brow. “Had enough of Marian’s prodding, I take it?”

You sigh and dramatically cast your head back, “That’s the worst of it— they haven’t even begun!” Warming at his familiar laughter, you continue: “If I’d known that this is what I’d be subjected to, I would’ve stayed in France.”

Chris studies you at that; your weary sigh, crossed arms, and face a mask. Can’t make heads or tails of if you’re serious or not. Is it too soon? Did you still need time to mourn Maman and Papa? But then your debut had been delayed so much already…

“Is that what you want?”

It’s a question you hadn’t expected from him. But suddenly you’re reminded that he’s your brother, the only family you have left in the world. The man who dropped everything and took the first ship bound for France to be with you at your parents’ deathbed. He had insisted you stay at the house in Paris until you’d recovered your own strength and sent Marian and Gus to keep you company while he saw to business at home.

And knowing him as well as you do, Chris wouldn’t ask something idly.

So you choose your next words carefully.

“I no longer trouble myself with wants.”

The lightest dusting of snow begins to gather on the windowpane. Soon enough, all of the city would look like a snow globe. A perfect winter wonderland for the evening’s festivities, and your favorite kind of weather— snow makes everything look softer somehow, muffles the sound, and blankets the world in swaths of pure white. Your mother adored snow, had somehow convinced you and Chris that she could smell when it was about to begin. And maybe that’s why you’ve taken a shine to it now.

Turning from the window with a small smile, you rise to exit the study and get ready for the night. Leaving your elder brother puzzling over your parting phrase.

Steve could hardly forget your first meeting, but seeing you that evening nearly eclipsed the recollection. Without a cape and no longer in the purples and grays of half-mourning, you were quite a sight to behold.

And he wasn’t the only one who thought so.

Several men from the club, Hargrove, Hagan, and Byers, were scattered around the room sizing up the competition just as he was. Somehow, Edward Munson had been granted an invitation— with his railroad money and lack of pedigree. Regardless of social standing, each eligible bachelor in the room was jockeying for position; who would be the first introduction, the first dance, did her eyes fall on him or the man to his left?

Steve was well-versed in this routine, he’d been to enough debutante balls to last a veritable lifetime. Usually, he’d enter and make the necessary greetings before grabbing a refreshment and picking a wall to lean on because god help him if he was going to actually dance more than the bare minimum required.

But in this instance, things were different.

Namely, that he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about you since that fateful night. Despite the lack of interest from you (which was to be expected, really), he couldn’t help but think of you fondly. Descending from your coach to check on your driver and the horses, shivering in the evening chill, voice soft and sleep-worn.

There was also the fact that his mother was hovering somewhere behind him. She’d oh so fortunately seen Mrs. Fairchild as she was making her social calls earlier in the week and had received an informal introduction to you. She’d said as much at dinner that day and ever since then, she’d been subtly laying the groundwork for a possible courtship.

And as much as Steve did not want to bow to his mother’s machinations, he also desperately wanted an introduction with you. So he sips his drink and observes the goings on around him his attention turning to the grand staircase as someone announces:

“Presenting Miss Eleanor Joséphine Fairchild, escorted by her brother Mr. Christopher Fairchild.”

The symphony starts up as you descend the stairs to polite applause on the arm of your brother, eyes demure and downcast, your subtly rouged lips pulling into a soft smile. And Steve can hardly breathe— it’s as if the world slowed and went fuzzy at the edges, everything and everyone falling by the wayside save for you.

Because you are positively incandescent; beautifully angelic in your finery and reminiscent of Venus emerging from her shell. He feels as if he’s been struck, a warmth radiating in his chest, and wouldn’t be surprised to find one of Cupid’s golden arrows lodged there. And Steve knows a little of desire, of wanton lust; he is, after all, a man of privilege in a world that caters to his whims. But while this feels reminiscent of that— the heat, the wanting— there is also, oddly, restraint.

All eyes are on you as your brother leads you across the floor, smiling politely at those assembled, eyes never staying on one person for too long. You’re playing nice, presenting an unimpeachable image of the demure lady, it wouldn’t be done to favor one gentleman this evening. In fact, it would send the wrong message entirely.

Everyone present knows this; it is a game often played in polite society, even if its ramifications are— how shall we say it?— best left behind closed doors.

“A lamb and her shepherd,” His mother says, voice pitched low for only him to hear. “Bo-Peep will soon abandon his charge, and that, Steven, is when you will make your introduction.”

It’s all he can do to school his features and recede into himself; eyes glassy and blank, face a mask. Polite and charming, affable even. And while his mother thinks she is being helpful, it’s hard not to believe she isn’t pouring poison in his ear. Half expects her to say something akin to, “Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under't.”

She doesn’t, and for that he is grateful. Instead, she melts away into the background and loops her arm through his father’s. And, sure enough, your brother does eventually leave your side only to be replaced by Mrs. Fairchild, who slips your wrist through a dainty loop of cream ribbon with a dance card and a small pencil attached.

The room stills, a pack of wolves lying in wait. Drinks are set aside, conversations cease; Amelia gives her son an unceremonious push forward, her gloved hand on his shoulder tipping him toward the inevitable. Steve nearly stumbles from the shock of it all.

Because in one moment he’s just another man in the crowd, an eligible bachelor at yet another ball prepared to drink the night away. And in the next, his eyes lock with yours, and he feels himself falling. It’s hopeless to fight it, this gravitational pull you seem to have over him; haven’t exchanged even two words, and he’s already in your thrall.

He can see your chest rise with your sharp intake of breath, eyes widening at his approach. Steve’s trying not to spook you, really he is. He thinks back to his favored horse, Balius, the clomping hooves and fierce breaths, tries to calm you in the same manner— a slow approach, a small smile, and soft words.

And while he would never bow to the stubborn dappled stallion, Steve does bow to you and says, “Steven Harrington, a pleasure to meet you officially Miss Fairchild.”

Your eyes light in recognition, of his name or him he cannot tell. But you curtsy all the same and offer him your hand, as etiquette dictates. He takes it gladly, marvelling at the fine fabric of gloves adorning it. His finger finds the racing pulse on the underside of your wrist, running along it slowly.

Another sharp intake of breath at the sensation, a heat skittering underneath your skin as his fingers loop around your wrist, your pulse thudding in their wake.

He opens the booklet and takes his time writing his name, well aware at the gathering of eligible suitors at his back. He’s loathe to release your hand and leave you to all of this, the wolves at the gate, but as much as he wants to whisk you away from what is sure to be an uncomfortable and tiring evening, Steve is required, as is everyone else, to play the game.

And Steven Harrington is playing to win.

Mr. Harrington—

It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance this past Friday, and thank you for your presence. I do hope the evening passed pleasantly for you and my apologies for not seeing to you more frequently, but other obligations, as you well know, prohibited me from seeking your company. Furthermore, I must apologize for being remiss in not offering my sincerest gratitude for the lovely flowers and the gracious use of your equipage. You are truly a generous man, and I am grateful for your friendship.

Cordially yours,

Miss Fairchild

P.S. Merci pour le sauvetage de Monsieur C—. Je n'avais aucune idée sur sa relation avec Mademoiselle C—. J’espère que vote intercession ne reflétera pas mal sur vous. Je vous suis redevable.

_

Steve’s postscript: Please accept my sincerest and deepest condolences on the passing of your parents.

Nell’s postscript: Thank you for the rescue from Mr. C—. I had no idea about his relationship with Miss C—. I hope your intercession will not reflect poorly on you. I am in your debt.

[tarotphlow]

Astro Observations 4

☀️a person with Urnaus in the 1H can go through many physical changes in their life, from dyed hair to shave hair, from weight gain to weight loss, they just always changing

☀️ Having Moon opposition ascendant/rising ☍ is technically a conjunct aspect cause essentially it means the moon is conjunct your descendant rather than your ascendant This placement is also known as Moon Conjunct Descendant or Moon Setting (it’s more of a fun fact than an observation but I just thought this was soooooo coool😝

☀️Having Chiron in the 12H is so hard to decipher, cause y’all’s trauma is subconscious and hidden, it’s like you’ll be going about your day and what not and literally when your about to sleep a moment from when you were like 7 flashes back and it’s like, “Oh wow, I-is this trauma??” I swear this placement is unfair, cause that one moment will never happen until like a year or 2 later 😭😭 on the plus side, y’all can become really good therapists.

☀️having a lot of Uranus aspects can make you a weird individual but I believe the Uranus aspect that makes a native one of the weirdest is possibly Uranus sextile Chiron. They have an interesting cacophony of personality traits that can make a native feel out of place in society but having this aspect makes you sooooooooo smart, like on some inventor type beat smart. (Ofc being weird isn’t necessarily a bad thing, in a positive context it means your just so smart your mannerisms and way of thinking is just too different to comprehend if that makes sense)

☀️Mercury in the 10H can make you look younger than you actually are! My cousin has this placement and they can pass for a sophomore in high school despite being 21🫢

☀️something about fire signs and always trying to win the argument even though their dead wrong. IM LOOKING AT YOU ARIES MOON🫵🏽

☀️sun in cancer conjunct moon in cancer = big bewbs 🍒

☀️daddy Jupiter and daddy Saturn giving bad karma to whoever wrongs their kids >>>>>>> / i.e Capricorn & Aquarius risings have their ruling planet as Saturn and Pisces and Sagittarius have Jupiter as theirs, Saturn rules karma and Jupiter rules luck, so if you do good you get good if you do bad you get bad, but this is applicable to people that interact with them too, do good with these risings, you can probably expect good things but mess with them and your gonna get what’s coming 😡.

☀️This is up for discussion( like I’d love to hear thoughts and opinions on this🤓), but air signs might be the most caring element in the zodiac. My reasoning is because air signs have a vibe of “Protection of humanity and people as a whole” while other elements like… water or earth or fire are more caring towards people they are close too. I mean come on now, Aquarius is the “water bearer” right, but also know as THE HUMANITARIAN. I just feel as though the air element comes off as cold and whatnot, but they’re thinking about others emotions too, I don’t think their mental prowess just stops at academia/ logical thought.

End of observations! I’m so happy that y’all are enjoying these!

(Likes and reposts are appreciated! 💛)

[r0mantic-f00l]

quite a sweet one for james! actually don't mind it

Secret Admirer

Pink and red was in every shop, hearts in every window and along the ceilings, couples walking hand in hand as they giggled and hushed secrets and stopped randomly on the pavement to kiss their partner as if it was a necessity.

You rolled your eyes at it all. Valentines Day was not a truly real holiday. It was created by companies that wanted to exploit society for more money because they knew they would get away with if because of course, people obsess over anything to do with love.

People cry at romance films, though the plots are always so predictable, people smile at the sight of red roses, though they are just flowers like every other flower, people scream their lungs out to the sound of love songs, though they are just a cacophony of drums and guitar and pitch singing.

You hated Valentines Day. Everyone would always claim it was because you were single for every Valentines Day since the day you were born. But no, that wasn't the case. You just hated it. No particular resson as to why. No reason why you scoffed at people giving chocolates and sneaking love letters into bags, whilst you felt slightly disappointed when you searched through your bag (for no reason, of course) and discovered no letters, no chocolates, no flowers.

Valentines Day was also created to make single people feel bad, you proclaimed.

But I'm single too, some of your friends would say. I'm single and I don't mind Valentines Day, they emphasised in an annoyingly cheery tone.

You rolled your eyes at them too.

For some perplexing reason, a golden ray of sunshine with the name of James Potter found you endearing whenever it was close to Valentines Day. He would smile when you rolled your eyes at couples, he would laugh when you purposely shoved your way through kissing couples on the pavement, he would frown as you searched through your bag only to find nothing.

He liked you. He really liked you. And when James Potter liked someone, it wasn't just a crush, no, it was borderline infatuation. His poor friends were stuck listening to his incessant rambling of how adorable you looked when you pouted, how beautiful you could still be even as you glared, how the sound of your voice could be so heavenly as you told couples to move out of your way.

It was nice, really, to hear James gush over you, but it was starting to become grating, especially when the only way his sentences would start was "Do you know what she did today?"

He was such a hopeless romantic. He knew that, he had no shame in it. So he decided to slip little notes for you into your bag when you weren't looking, then eventually he began to drop bars of your favourite chocolate in there too.

He even went as far as to decorate the tables in the Great Hall with your favourite flower, resulting in a detention when he was caught by a first-year and ultimately was ratted out to Professor McGonagall, who had given him a detention that same day (she did let the boy leave early when he apologised and called her 'Minnie').

Valentines Day had finally arrived and you woke up with a fury.

If that person who had been mercilessly pranking you with stupid loves notes and stupid delicious chocolate and stupid beautiful flowers would do it all again, you were convinced you would murder the prankster (well, maybe not murder them, but certainly you would have given them a hard time through the rest of the school year in Hogwarts).

You stomped passed couples who were exchanging gifts, some exchanging spit, as you made your way into the Great Hall, only to see your favourite flowers everywhere; on the tables, somehow hanging in the transparent ceiling, and even on the Head Table where teachers grumbled at the sight but nevertheless let a little smile show.

You stopped in your tracks and groaned before storming out again, failing to notice James Potter standing by your self-designated seat with a chocolate hamper he had made himself the previous night.

You made your way to the library where you were safe, plopping yourself down and resting your head on the table as you sighed, your frustration clearly to any passerby.

"Well, someone's not in a good mood," Marlene, who you had become good friends with, sat beside you, smirking when you lifted your head with a scowl on your face.

"Is it the Valentines Blues?" She teased.

"No." You mumbled.

"It's something else entirely."

"What is it then?" Marlene inquired, resting her head on her hand as she prepared herself for your typical 'I hate Valentines Day rant'.

"This moron has been pranking me over these last couple of weeks." You answered.

Immediately, Marlene's mind drifted to Sirius Black.

"How so?"

"Well, they've been placing these stupid love notes in my bag," You pulled out a handful of notes and smacked them onto the table, ignoring the glares of other students nearby.

"And chocolates. And flowers in the Great Hall!"

Marlene picked up one of the notes and read the first line, immediately identifying who the 'prankster' was.

"Hm. And are you sure this person is pranking you?"

"Of course. Everybody knows I hate Valentines Day. They're just doing all this to get a rise out of me and it really isn't funny!"

"..It kinda is funny."

You turned to Marlene with wide eyes and an angry frown, tilting your head at the girl who snickered at your expression. James was right, you were adorable whenever you were angry.

"Excuse me?"

"I don't think this is a prank, babe. I think someone just really likes you."

You thought for a moment, before scoffing.

"No, it's definitely a prank."

Marlene sighed, reminding herself that she was a patient person before she spoke once again.

"No it's not. I know it's not."

"Wait, you know?" You furrowed your eyebrows as you stared at her confused.

"Yeah, I know. I only know 'cause James Potter can go completely over board sometimes."

Your shoulders relaxed as your features shifted into soft shock.

"James... James Potter? He's doing all this?"

"Yep."

"..And not as a prank?"

"Oh, no, definitely not as a prank. The boy is just crazy."

You smiled, gazing into space as your cheeks turned as red as roses.

"James Potter likes me." You whispered to yourself, gathering up all the notes he wrote you in your arms and holding them to your chest.

Marlene nodded, grinning as she watched you transcend to the clouds where she knew nobody could snap you out of it.

Suddenly, you stood up, your chair scraping across the wooden floor as you threw all the notes in your bag and started walking away as if on a mission.

"He's in the courtyard!" Marlene called out without turning around in her chair.

She chuckled as she heard a quick 'thanks!' before running footsteps.

James was sitting on the stone bench by the footpath, reading through the latest Quidditch magazine when he heard someone frantically running, looking up only to see you as the person frantically running.

He watched as you manoeuvred between people, ignorant to their confused stares.

You finally arrived at the start of the footpath in the courtyard and drew in a deep breath, attempting to walk as elegantly as you could towards James Potter, panting as your hair flew everywhere but where it should've been. He was watching you with a mesmerised stare, and you knew Marlene was not joking if the boy could look at you like that even when you looked like that.

He stood up, dropping his magazine from his lap onto the floor but he didn't notice, only focused on you as you stood in front of him.

"James." You nodded respectfully.

He nodded back, smiling as he stood up straight.

"So you've been the one giving me all this... romantic stuff?"

"Yep. I like to call myself your secret admirer. Well, not really secret, you can ask my friends just how 'secretive' I've been. I tend to talk a lot about y-"

"I like you." You cut off his rambling, smiling as you held your hands together in front of your body, tilting your head when James smiled with the shine of the Sun.

"I like you too."

You nodded. "I know."

"Oh, right, yeah, the notes and all that... other stuff." James sighed.

"Listen, would you want to go out on a date with me? Say, in Hogsmeade around 5pm? We'll go in whatever shop you want."

You bit your bottom lip and nodded, growing timid as James continued to stare at you as if you were the one piece of art he had been looking for his entire life.

"Yeah, okay." You answered, and the boy never looked happier.

"Great, yeah, amazing." He smiled, before standing up straighter and clapping his hands together.

"Well, I better get going to Charms... see you later." He began walking away, before walking back towards you, shaking his head.

"Wrong way." He mumbled as he went past, and you laughed, watching as he stumbled through the hall, still gazing at you unabashedly with a grin on his face.

Perhaps there was no reason for you to hate Valentines Day.

[disruptivevoib]

hi! ive listened to some of chonny jash's songs but did not realize that there was really a story? Or i vaguely knew but didn't have the time/energy to get into it and with the release of the bidding animation ive realized theres like a bajillion awesome animations and art and i want to get into cccc but have no clue how. also why does soul have a trident.

OH man!

The story of CCCC has an overall seeming narrative, but much of it's smaller points are interpretive due to Jash himself leaving it up to fans of the album. But! Overall it kind of goes like:

-Jash or, what most people call Whole, splits as due to mental dissonance and waning mental health. (Time Machine Reprise).

- Whole fades into Soul (End of TMR into Dream) and from there its Mucka Blucka as a sort of introductory song. The recap for a story you have or haven't heard yet.

- (The entire album is a time loop! Which is a big metaphor for the cycles of mental health and illness people go through.)

- From there its the section called "Cacophony" which starts off with Soul, but eventually it turns to Heart and Mind + their fighting and inability to see or listen to one another or their points of view. Of course, as Logic and Emotion, they both have valid ideas or opinions, but believe themselves so contradictory that the other must be evil or out to get them.

- Heart attempts to shoot Mind, as referred to in Ruler of Everything. Literal or Metaphorical as you take this, it is seemingly symbolic for an attempt at one's own life if not self sabotage. If not then both.

- The rest up until Soul Eclectic is sort of just the Mind and Heart fighting and their own personal views each on the situation.

- Soul in The Soul Eclectic reaches his breaking point. Threatening to kill them all (A more direct attempt at suicide)

- Mind and Heart in the subsequent songs decide to get their shit together.

- (Two Wuv) Soul realizes that not only can they be happier now but that trying to force themselves to conform to society's ideas of mental health or belief or love is just plainly unbeneficial. Sort of a song about unapologetically being yourself.

- Welcome To Tally Hall is a tribute to Tally Hall themselves more than anything.

- This transfers into Concord soon after! Concord is Whole or Jash by himself, though many of the songs seem to carry themes from Cacophony in them. Self sabotage, disagreement, importance placed on the wrong thing, the idea that no one person is better off than another. It concludes with Taken for a Ride. Which is also sort of CJ's epic "im burnt out as hell" song towards the end. But exaggerated to my knowledge for lyrical shenanigans.

That is CCCC as neutrally told as best as possible. I highly recommend forming your own ideas on it, but I'd be happy to also discuss more in depth my opinion on each song should you or anyone else express interest!

Getting into the Trident: The fandom took the metaphor of "Tridential Sovreignty" and "This trident he formed (found? Lyrics.) is both weapon and motive" and said "Soul's got a trident" to which Jash responded with "Absolutely yes he does now" Same with the crown most people put Mind in, and that is referenced in the "Trident, Crown and Blindfold" line.

Soul really did get noose imagery, a trident and a mask. All Heart n Mind got were a blindfold and crown. Lmao

Though Heart is also commonly drawn with wings. Which is semi-canonical according to album covers. I choose to ignore them because I don't particularly have an attachment to the idea!

Getting into the fandom itself, I can recommend looking around for the Chonny Jash Fan Server (CJFS) Discord link. But it can be extremely intimidating and even I just stick to discussion and one other thread channel. (Sides from my au channels which pop up every once a month or so).

Important note is that only Tally Hall covers have to do with HMS. Any of Jash's other music (of which I highly recommend, always) is unrelated. There is also a fan QnA somewhere that was done like a year ago now which has some neat answers in it.

I, again, am happy to go into my interpretations of HMS and the music as a whole but skdmsm saved you the reading hopefully should that be undesired!

[xxsycamore]

Catboy!Mozart headcanons

╰┈➤ 😼 What if Mozart was a catboy? Meowzart, if you will?

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart x MC • rating:G • wordcount: 920 • masterlist

a/n: First it was Nyapoleon and now I'm presenting you with... Meowzart. Thank you TheCarmineWanker on AO3 for proposing this idea, hope you enjoy!

When Mozart took his chance at afterlife, accepting the offer of the mysterious gentleman standing at his deathbed, he had no idea he'll be incarnated as a vampire… much less as a catboy vampire. He blames it on his own strange antics during his former life.

Strangely enough, Mozart feels at home in his new body. After all, he's always had that catboy in himself. Back in the day, despite being a member of the elite society of his time, he couldn't help his bursts of quirkiness when bored, and could be seen leaping over tables and chairs… He hopes noone would remember him for that.

The first thing he does upon waking up in the 19th century in the mansion of Comte de Saint-Germain is to… look for a mirror. Not just to observe the curios new attributes of what once was a human body, but to groom himself. It comes so naturally to him that he cannot find peace until he's thoroughly taken care of himself.

The pristine white fur on his cat ears and tail is short, but much like his human hair, it tends to get a little wild unless groomed and kept in order. The first request he extends towards the master of the house is not for enhancements of the piano room, but rather for top-quality hairbrushes and toilette products.

It's such a burden, to be reborn with the intention to devote yet another lifetime to music yet to still face obstacles in the way. Not that he can complain much. Having a near-immortal form that needs less sleep is a delight, if the price he has to pay is distracting himself for a portion of rouge every now and then, then so be it. But god, his catboy genes. They're a gift and a curse.

For one, he finds it harder to fight boredom. Which is funny because that's exactly how this side of himself manifested back in the day, when he reached his relatively low threshold of boredom.

Much like how cats need constant entertainment, Mozart needs something besides music in order for his brain to produce dopamine. He's never been the kind to move around much, and would prefer it if he never has to leave the mansion at all. Especially not via carriage. He claws at the carriage doors when someone tries to put him in one.

But catboy Mozart gets the zoomies every now and then, and he can't do anything about it. It often happens at night. It starts with the strange urge to trash his hand along the row of piano keys, pressing them in a random, chaotic order, creating a godawful cacophony of noises.

It feels good to do that. He has no explanation for it. It'd normally feel like nails on a chalkboard for him, yet bringing disorder after hours and hours of precise work feels so refreshing to him.

Then he exits the piano room to exhaust his pent-up energy elsewhere. He runs in the halls. Jumps over the long dining table and various other pieces of furniture. Thank god everyone else is fast asleep. Or are they?

He's a clean freak, so he cleans after himself. It's just a part of his routine at this point. He feels equal parts of satisfaction wreaking havoc and then bringing order afterwards.

As for the positive aspects of having this new form, Mozart is astonished to find his hearing greatly enhanced. He hears everything. It's all a musician like him can ask for.

You know how Mozart becomes chatty and giggly when he's drunk? It's only worse if we're talking about a drunk catboy Mozart.

He meows at people. Loudly. You can't have a normal conversation with him; to every question, he'll tilt his head with a curious "miau". The others are forced to meow back in some dire attempt to communicate with him to get down from the chandelier.

Upon the arrival of MC in the mansion, Mozart doesn't play around showing his "beast" side to her, being more than sure that she won't be able to put up with him. Her futile efforts at making friends with him are laughable and she needs to know exactly who she's trying to domesticate. He warns her about getting her face clawed at if she enters his room at the wrong time.

Despite the bumpy start, she naturally doesn't give up trying to get closer to him… until her patience and genuine care pass the test of time and acquaintanceship blooms into love.

Mozart becomes more willing to be himself infront of her, and in turn, MC helps him out by keeping him company when he gets the zoomies. She practically plays with him, makes sure he's not breaking any expensive mansion relics, chases after him and gets chased by him…

MC notices how important is for Mozart to be well-groomed, and begins to frequently brush his hair and cat ears for him.

The first time Mozart's tongue swaps across her cheek, it's shocking for both parties. For Mozart because he didn't even realize he's doing it, and for MC because it hits her what a special brand of affection this equals to.

MC gifts him a collar with a little bell on it, a very elegant one. She knows Mozart's love for certain noises, and he truly falls inlove with it - though he makes it clear that he'll only wear it in front of her. He might be a catboy but he's a catboy with dignity.

Taglist: @arsnovacadenza @ale-teodora @kimi00twin @otomelady @privilegedpancake @g-kleran    @pumpumnnnp @thesirenwashere @ravenarld @kimmy-banana @devonares @galaxyprison @sadshaxk @starshards26 @thewitchofbooks @acethephoenix256 @ikevamp-shrine-2 @nad-zeta @crystal13unny @lordsister @ikemen-banshou   @themysticalbeing @otome-scribbles @rhodolitesrose @coornn @kpop-and-otome @queen-dahlia @kisara-16 @chaosangel767 @ikemenlibrary @queengiuliettafirstlady @aurora-morning @aquagirl1978 ​ @ikemenlover24 @mcofthemansion @joy-the-reader @katriniac @ikemen-writer @tele86 @lovely-bubb1es @aria-chikage @babyblue0t7 @rhodoliteschaos @shrimpy-kitsune @nightghoul381 @xbalayage @lucyw260 @kittygrimm88 @lokis-laugh @judejazza Let me know if you want to be tagged/untagged!

[lacyscabinet]

HEYY HOW ARE YOU BABE? Can you write something about Nat x Reader? But reader is kind of a muay thai fighter and she defends Nat one day

Like reader is the new girl in school and all that shit, and then there is Nat, like, people there talk shit about her, then one day Reader hears and steps in and fight a dude for her (maybe like that guy in the car that called her burnout)? And our girl Nat is???? Shes so hot is she the new girl? is she single?? Lmaoo

Bonus if its in front of the yellowjackets or Reader and Nat go out <3

Thank you honey, hope you have a nice week

A/N: HIIIIIIII I LOVE THIS SM, I'M GOOD THANK YOU FOR ASKING!!!! ALSO WHY IN FRONT OF THE YJ OR READER AND NAT GO OUT LET'S DO BOTHHHHHHH

As always, gif not mine

Not proofreaddddd

The burnout and the new girl

The halls of Wiskayok High were filled with the typical teenage buzz, a cacophony of voices echoing off lockers. You, being new, still didn't compleately settled in the new enviroment, forced to navigate a maze of unfamiliar faces, trying to blend in as much as possible. But it wasn't long before you noticed the whispers, the curious glances, and the pointed stares that seemed to follow your every step.

As you settled into your new routine, one name kept recurring: Natalie Scatorccio, the enigmatic figure who seemed to draw both admiration because of her talent in the Yellowjackets and scorn. Rumors and gossip about her circulated like wildfire, painting a picture of a rebel, an outsider, and someone not to be messed with, or for someone else just a scrap of society.

One day, as you walked through the parking lot, you overheard a group of guys snickering by a car. Among them was a particularly obnoxious character, known for his big mouth and even bigger ego.

"Hey Burnout! Show us your tits!"

Nat, was near her own car, ready to go home after practice, her teammates were just getting out of the changing rooms. She rolled her eyes and brushed off the comments, seemingly used to such taunts. But today was different.

Yes, you were pretty shy but you couldn't stand someone (especially a dude) saying those things to a girl, so unable to ignore the blatant disrespect, you decided enough was enough. Striding up to the guy, you squared your shoulders, meeting the arrogant guy's gaze.

"What is your problem dude!?" you declared, your tone firm.

The guy laughed, seemingly amused by your intervention. "Who's this? Nat's knight in shining armor?"

"Call it what you want" you replied, not backing down. "But she deserves respect, just like anyone else"

Nat, who had been observing the scene, looked surprised but appreciative, she didn't properly know you, but now that she was taking a closer look, she couldn't help to think about how cute you were. Watching the scene degenerate, her teammates got closer to her, standing behind the bleached blonde.

The guy, unwilling to let things slide, stepped forward, attempting to provoke you "What's it to you, new girl?" he sneered.

Before he could react, you swiftly and decisively defended Nat's honor, both verbally and physically. The confrontation escalated into a heated exchange, culminating in a shove and a punch thrown on your behalf.

"FUCK!" the guy yelped and stepped back after your punch landed on this face, quickly he got back on his vcar and drove away.

As the dust settled, Nat's eyes met yours with a mix of gratitude and a spark of something more. The gossip may have painted her as a troublemaker, but in that moment, you realized that maybe they were wrong.

Hundreds of thoughts ran around in Nat's mind

She is so kind, she is cute, why is she so attractive? that was badass, is she single? do I have a chance? does she like me? I probably look so dumb right now-

"Thank you" was the only thing that came out of her mind "That was...cool"

You smiled at her kindly "You don't have to thank me, I had to, girls support girls right?"

"Right" she agreed "Well, maybe we could grab something to eat, so I can really pay you back?"

Not to be corny, but that caused you to blush "Yeah...It'll be nice"

LITTLE EXTRA:

"They grow up so fast" Van said watching as Nat opened her car's door for you

"Yeah...just moments before she was kicking your ass on the field and now... she's about to get married"

*huge side eye from Taissa* "Too early for that Misty"

[arealphrooblem]

kindly requesting a fire powered hero and a plant powered villain. the hero doesn’t understand why the villain is so upset when they set fire to their plants

bonus points if the villain calls the hero a monster..

make it angst then fluffy >:}

love your writing 💖

CW: mentions eco terrorism, poison

The Hero came to in stages. Their thoughts moved sluggishly in their head like sap. Their heart beat pulsed like a faint drum beat, steady and uncaring.

They couldn’t remember the last thing that happened to them. Everything was sensation. They tried to catalog them, just to make sense of something.

Noise came from everywhere, a cacophony of chirps and buzzing, of distant howls. Something was cold and hard beneath them. They could not move.

“You’re finally awake.”

Hero groaned and squinted in that general direction of the voice. A blurred figure leaned against something tall and brown — a tree trunk? They  pushed off and sauntered closer to the hero. Recognition flashed in the hero’s mind as the figure came into focus.

Villain.

“You,” they whispered.

He raised an eyebrow. “Me.”

Awareness washed over them in a sudden wave. The cacophony crystallized into birdsong and animals. They were strapped to a rusted sheet of metal with scraps of steel tied together with vines.. The canopy above them was the ruins of an abandoned building.

The last thing they remember . . .was walking into their house after a late night grocery run.

“How did I get here?” they demanded.

The villain just looked at them.  

“What do you want with me?” The Hero tried again.

Again, that same smug stare.

The Hero pulled experimentally against the

“Did you know that plants can feel pain?” the villain asked, conversationally.

“ . . .what?”

The villain stroked a fingertip down the length of one vine. One of the leaves curled around it like a hug. “When you level an entire ecosystem for a shopping center, when you rip up flowers for bouquets that die out in three days, when you burn them with fire . . . “

His gaze locked with the hero’s, eyes cold. “ . . .it hurts.”

The hero swallowed thickly, feeling oddly guilty. Which was ridiculous. They burned the villain’s plants because he used them to cause harm.

“When you pull a building down on people, or destroy power plants in the middle of winter, or choke someone with vines, it hurts too,” they retorted.

“This world is hurting far worse than a handful of civilians.”

“It’s not their fault. You’re punishing the wrong target.”

“They benefit from the exploitation of the Earth. You reap what you sow.”

“So everyone forced to participate in society is punished for society’s transgressions?”

The villain gazed down stone-faced and unmoved.

“I didn’t bring you here for a philosophical debate,” he said.

As if the discussion of human life was philological. Theoretical. And not very real people that die in his crossfire.

“Then please enlighten me,” the hero said dryly.

The villain leaned forward until their noses brushed. Hero sucked in a breath at the sudden proximity.

“This is a warning,” the villain murmured. His hand slid up the hero’s neck and buried itself in the hero’s hair, tugging sharply so the hero had no choice but lock gazes with him.

“If you burn my plants again, I will kill you.”

“With what? The plants that I burn?” Hero scoffs, but a disquiet lodges in their chest at the threat, delivered so matter of factly. Like a foregone conclusion.

Said plants slide up the hero’s chest and wrap around their throat, tightening like a boa constrictor until the breath comes in tight, shallow little bursts.

“Can you burn poison? Can you burn away the fire in your blood as your life leeches away. Can you burn away the feeling of your limbs and organs failing you? Can you burn away falling asleep and never waking up again?”

Real fear constricts breath far more efficiently than the vines. The villain had never used such a tactic before, but of course it would be easy for him. Such horrifying things lived in innocent leaves.

“How do you live with being the monster you are?”

The retort sounded childish even to Hero’s own ears but they couldn’t stop the words from spilling out.

The villain gave them a smile, tinged with sorrow and malice like a damasked rose.

“I’m not the only monster here. Perhaps you should be looking for them instead of chasing me.”

Days later Hero watched the news with numb horror as clouds of billowing black poison infected the air from a wrecked train. Listened with growing anger as pitiful excuses were tossed out, as details of the devastation to both land and people piled up. Years and years to regrow and rebuild. Ecosystems ruined. Towns abandoned.

And as the weeks crawled by — no one held accountable. No one considering the responsibility of such careless error worthy to take.

I’m not the only monster here. Perhaps you should be looking for them . . .

Hero had no point of contact for the villain. It took days to track him down.

“I found a monster,” they had said. “Maybe we could take it down together.”

The villain grinne. “I thought you’d never ask.”

[octaviasdread]

I hereby conduct this tortured poets society album meeting in all of its mania and sorrowful blues as I move from unhinged impressions to unhinged first-listen analysis because I am incapable of saying less.

(and to all the Aimees i’m so sorry but that’s on Kim)

This Anthology is taking me so long to process, but nothing feels like the first jarring moments of I Can Do It With a Broken Heart - the cacophony and flashes of a birthday breakdown bopping to 80s arcade game synth. It's crumbled cake and mascara streaks when Bejewelled is actually a delusional Mirrorball,

and The Secret Garden reference in I Hate It Here, oh god, she’s so me:

I hate it here so I will go to / secret gardens in my mind / people need a key to get to / the only one is mine / i read about it in a book when I was a precocious child

I need to come back to that. But the whirlwind of Who’s Afraid of Little Old Me? Plans cancelled. IM THE ONE barricaded in the bathroom with a bottle of wine, actually. It's me chained-up in that poor things victorian mourning dress shrieking elegies in my tortured nightingale screams.

She's Grammys Taylor looking at the crowd of her peers rolling their eyes, she's the litany of snide jokes diminishing her success, and the children, sisters, friends, and girlfriends of those who wronged her loudly singing her songs.

so i leap from the gallows and i levitate down your street / crash the party like a record scratch as I scream / who’s afraid of little old me

i was tame i was gentle til the circus made me mean / don’t you worry folks we took out all her teeth

ohhh, the throwback to Speak Now and the significance of MEAN. The song and its titular word show how childish language encapsulates that pointless spite and the bone deep hurt mean behaviour breeds - but now she’s a phoenix risen, and they hurl her youth and her downfall back in her face - word for word, surprised face - its the dark side the The Lucky One, of not escaping the cage of fame games.

you lured me and you hurt me and you taught me / you caged me and then you called me crazy

i wanna snarl and show you just how disturbed this has made me / you wouldn’t last an hour in the asylum where they raised me / so all you kids can sneak into my house with all the cobwebs / i’m always drunk on my own tears isn’t that what they all said?

PUT NARCOTICS IN MY SONG took me out. This album is funny in the most sardonic and absurdly humorous ways,

like the classic cowboy western guitar strings in her crime songs (I Can Fix Him, No Really I Can - pistols drawn), but especially the ones leading into Fresh Out The Slammer. Fucking genius, and to follow on with static sounds at 2:26ish to the house where you still wait up, is exactly the kinda detail I adore.

Naively, I thought Florence was done with me after Florida!!! It's a lyrical meme for single 20 & 30 somethings who moved away from home,

my friends all smell of like weed or little babies / and the city reeks of driving myself crazy / little did you know your home’s really only / a town you’re just a guest in

and the haunting morphs from the ghost of your girlhood into the catalogue of decisions and delusions which get you through adulthood. Yet it feels almost like an interlude within the song when

me and my ghosts we’ve had a hell of a time / yes i’m haunted but i’m feeling fine / all my girls got their lace and their crimes / and your cheating husband disappeared/ well no one asks questions here

appears like an alternative pov for No Body, No Crime with the girls and their ghosts and their pacts made over wine. Every Action has an Equal Reaction. Run away to Florida, or Texas, and lose yourself to lose the heartbreak. Its self-destruction, it's trauma-healing, bonding, and its breaking.

(what a song for an angsty girl collab, problematic girl in hand with problematic girl, lyrically and thematically, maybe the real love story is the friends we make along the way.)

And that wasn't even the last of it. It's Florence 2.0 with B side Cassandra, but instead of Dance Fever, its Taylor’s glorious mythology with all the allusions, parallels, intertextual and lyrical ruining of my mind:

when the first stone’s thrown they’re screaming / when its burn the bitch they’re shrieking / when the truth comes out its quiet

so they killed cassandra first cus she feared the worst / and tried to tell the town / so they filled my cell with snakes i regret to say / do you believe me now?

No apologies anymore. A girl given the gift of prophecy by Apollo, the GOD OF POETRY, is cursed with her prophecy never being believed: Burning all the witches even if you aren't one, indeed. She saw the truth of the Trojan horse, and the Trojans insulted her. Rep snake branding and the current cultural view of KK and Ye. I don't need to say anything else.

i was in the tower weaving nightmares / twisting all my smiles into snarls

the family the pure greed the christian chrous line / bloods thick but nothing like a payroll / bet they never spared a prayer for my soul

I literally played that THREE times before I got over it enough to finish my first listen,

and i’m still thinking about Clara Bow and that Stevie Nicks tambourine we collectively freaked over from the Spotify installation, and all the silent movie speculation from the track title release.

you look like Clara Bow in this light - you look like Stevie Nicks in '75 - you look like Taylor Swift

Three women whose public profession became entangled with their pain. Silver Springs. Boyfriend songs. The jokes. Clara Bow.

Clara feared being left behind by 'talkies.' Miss Americana. The fear of 30 bringing death to a woman's Hollywood/Musical career,

beauty is a beast that roars down on all fours demanding more / only when your girlish glow flickers just so / do they let you know?

Three women who beat the odds - three women whose talent, craft, and popularity carried them through.

But there's something more to unpack here with cycles and patterns - of the past endlessly repeating. It's the transient nature of fame and our fleeting view of beauty mapped out in the untouchable, ever-changing, and culturally worshiped moon.

It's a body of physical craters, a natural body we call discovered, and fight to claim. We project emotions and create rituals of worship - you're the new god we're worshipping. Endless stories are told about her, but we can never fully see the moon with human eyes. Eclipses, shadows, - 'half moonshinе, a full eclipse' - half-truths and half-moons:

this town is fake but you're the real thing / breath of fresh air through smoke rings / take the glory, give everything / promise to be dazzling

There's a play on light and a play on words in the repetition of Dazzling, shining so bright so blindingly bright. Who is dazzled? Who is doing the dazzling? There's an instability between Director - Public - Star. It's Hollywood lights, No one in my small town thought I'd see the lights of Manhattan / No one in my small town thought I'd meet these suits in LA.

She beat the 'War Big Machine' - but for me, there's ambivalence and illusion on all sides of the final lyrics, you've got edge, she never did / the future's bright, dazzling.

(and ‘Edge’ is particularly ironic when you consider the songs on this album…)

Moving again into the B Side, it's Taylor's departure from Invisible string, red strings of fate, and golden threads à la the golden chain of fate in Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities that strikes me.

First, I thought her writing was a complete departure from the themes of destiny and fate, but then, The Prophecy:

cards on thе table / Mine play out like fools in a fablе

it isn't an absent symbol; it transformed. It's the evermore forest amped to the max. Witches, folklore, fairy-tale and fable - a homeric epic. Its the hero's journey distilled as she opens the song with a move from 'full throttle' adventure, to slowing down 'Hand on the Throttle' to appeal for Supernatural aid at the hero's transformative fall.

and it was written / I got cursed like eve got bitten / a greater woman wouldn't beg / but I looked at the sky and said / please I've been on my knees / change the prophecy

Lover asking Traffic Lights becomes spending my last coin so someone will tell me, and this might be the most slept-on heartbreaking line. Her search for reassurance can't be framed as an arbitrary musing anymore. It can't be dismissed as a mere thought on her drive home, or something triggered throughout the day - its intent. It's a quest for answers, a plea, a last-ditch hope difficult to deny.

and I sound like an infant / feeling like the very last drops of an ink pen/ a greater woman stays cool/ but I howl like a wolf at the moon / and I look unstable /

gathered with a coven 'round a sorceress' table / a greater woman has faith But even statues crumble if they're made to wait / i'm so afraid I sealed my fate / no sign of soulmates

She's asking for a gift from the Gods, and when the God's won't answer, she plunges straight down from heaven or Olympus into the self seizure of power in witchcraft. And when it fails, she descends further - Spending my last coin so someone will tell me it'll be okay - paying mortal fortune tellers, even if they lie.

The song leans on figures without redemption, on the Eve's, on the women cursed and punished, and those who scream like infants rather than enduring burdens and pain in silence. She's poisoned, infected like Aurora from the wound of the pricked hand with dreams of him. Is this a punishment?

She's infected, cursed like Eve got bitten, [lyric of all time!!!!] but does a monster always do monstrous things? Who is the monster? Who is the folkloric, the literary Mad Woman? Perhaps she's written from the desperate, the scarred, and the wronged.

and the transition into another tale with Peter? As in Peter losing Wendy? Is it an epilogue to the Betty trilogy? or a different use of the metaphor?

and I didn't wanna hang around / we said it was just goodbye for now /said you were gonna grow up / then you were gonna come find me / words from the mouths of babes / promises oceans deep / but never to keep

The triangle is echoed in love's never lost when perspective is earned, reflecting the different povs of Betty, August, and James, and placing Peter as the new conclusion - the shelf life of those fantasies has expired / lost to the lost boys chapter of your life/ the woman who sits by the window/ has turned out the (porch?) light.

Promises wear out. Wendy's window closes, and so does this chapter in her life.

my lost fearless leader / in closets like cedar / preserved from when we were just kids / is it something I did? / the goddess of timing / once found us beguiling

is also - intentionally or not - Narnia coded. Is the storybook collecting dust in her closet? Or is the closet still holding a portal to another fairytale land accessible only in youth, another home you can't return to (and another folklore parallel with mtr, anywhere I want just not home).

Side B is so harmonious with ttpd being the end of a chapter as the anthology moves through all the seven stages (or Taylor playlists) of grief.

The Manuscript, the signing of the autopsy, is the Death of the Author. It's the Roland Barthes realisation of All Too Well reborn in joy and fan culture, the story isn't mine anymore, of the Eras - 'I hope you hear these songs and think of this night' - Tour. She knew what the agony had been for - art. connection. - and its these things that create the hope lost in ttpd's journey through mania, disorientation, loss and despair. It all leads to healing, nothing left but a manuscript.

So many thoughts from listen no.1 and they’ll probably change, but i’m so exhausted from this 31 song rollercoaster that I'm just gonna let this sit. death of the author, I guess.