#the delusions are delusioning across generations in this family

[marimayscarlett]

Not my delusional self shopping for earrings today which might fit my Rammstein-concert outfits. We have February and yet I'm already stressed out style-wise smh 💀🧐

[sistertotheknowitall]

Some Guy on Fear Gas (can apparently turn invisible)

Masterpost

“Danny was supposed to be in class today.”

There was a round of sighs in the coms. See Danny didn’t react in the same manner as the rest of the population when exposed to fear toxin (or in general, but they were mostly used to that). See Danny didn’t scream, he didn’t cry, he didn’t get violent. He got unnervingly paranoid.

He got so unnervingly paranoid about being watched, specifically by the government if the muttered and whispered words were to be believed. His eyes tracked nothing while he slowly moved around invisible people. It wasn't like dealing with someone in an active hallucination experiencing a psychotic break. It was like dealing with someone in a paranoid delusion. He wouldn't let any of the bats near him and often took off, disappearing into the chaos.

Four months into seeing this kid everywhere and their suspicions were confirmed when he literally disappeared after the second time being poisoned.

Danny was a meta and he was afraid.

That’s not the reason for the exasperation felt by this family though. It was what always happened after. The first time he ignored every vigilantly when they tried to bring it up. After the second time he attempted to avoid everyone, extended family included.

(He had asked Kate if she was also Batman’s kid. “More like their aunt.” “Oh okay so it really is a family business. Like that show Unnatural. You don't happen to have also lost your parents at a relatively young age and now go on to fight a dark presence in their honor, do you?.” Kate had stared passively at him, the others had warned her. “….. okay… are you more of a Zuko honor type?”)

However, it was like the universe conspired against Danny. Even Bruce agreed that there had to be some god or being doing this (nothing is ever a coincidence). They kinda felt bad for him. He was very obviously trying to avoid them and he was either really bad at being evasive or a deity was laugh at him. Once he had thrown himself behind a lamp pole smaller than himself and closed his eyes to avoid Stephanie.

(It was very awkward. He could turn invisible and knew they knew so why…..? She had politely continued past so not to embarrass the poor guy further. Cause this was embarrassing and they both knew it.)

Finally it was Duke who pulled them all out of limbo. He had come across Danny on the roof of another bank. A lesser known capital union closer to crime ally this time.

Danny hadn’t been avoiding Duke in the same manner as everyone else. He still stopped to give Duke food but he never spoke and he ran after. Duke thought it would be weird to chase him but it was also weird to turn around, have an orange shoved into his hands then watch his friend run away.

However, this time Danny didn’t run as Duke approached so Duke sat next to him. Pulling out a granola bar, he handed it to Danny, “that’s why you feed me all the time right? Cause you know how many calories we need as metas.”

Danny had laughed, “no actually, that was a bit that morphed into a habit. I just thought it was funny.”

“….what.”

“Don’t get me wrong, now that we’re friends I am more than happy to feed you but yeah. The first candy bar was a thank you and then the second time I thought ‘I have fruit.’”

“….. wow… okay.” There went his plan of empathizing. They sat in silence as Duke tried to reorganize his thoughts.

“I’m sorry for avoiding you all.” Duke turned his head to face Danny, who kept his eyes forward, “you know no one cares that you’re a meta.” “Obviously. It wasn’t the invisibility that I was upset about," Danny said.

“The muttering. The paranoia.” Danny grimaced and didn’t say anything.

“You don’t have to tell us till you’re ready, man. Just let us know if you need help. Please, are you safe?”

Danny nodded and Duke nodded back and they had both continued to sit. When they parted ways Danny handed Duke a small bag of chips.

Danny had apologized everyone one at a time even though they had heard it from Duke. Danny never explained nor did he want to talk about his it. His power of invisibility was also a subject off limits. All of them were worried but they didn’t want to force him to talk about it. They had to trust that he would one day feel comfortable doing so with any or all of them. (Still, it was hard seeing their friend so paranoid that he flinched back from them. )

Post Six

[hiraya-rawr]

I can go anywhere I want, anywhere I want — just not home .

characters !! diluc, thoma (ft. ayato), kaeya, kazuha

content !! gn reader, kamisato reader (thoma), character lore spoilers, can be platonic/romantic, found family themes

about !! you encounter someone who can go everywhere but home

inspired !! my tears ricochet - taylor swift 🎵

— diluc .

“I hope you know how generous I’m being,” You say, sliding a bowl of mushroom soup to the redhead, “Not everyone would let a stranger stay in their home for a few days. More so if said stranger refuses to say a thing about themselves.”

It’s been a few days since you found the wanderer on the brink of death, snow piling on top of him by layers. Snezhnayan winters were not kind, if it weren’t for your dog demanding to go on a walk, you wouldn’t have bothered to check for any dying men on your street in the middle of nowhere.

“. . . I have offered my thanks,” He mutters, grabbing a spoon for the soup, “And I’ve told you. I’m simply traveling.”

“Travelers don’t usually lie soaked by their own frozen blood around here.” You sit across from him, your own hot bowl of soup nestled between gloved fingers, “But seeing as you have a delusion, I suppose you’re trusted by the Fatui. It makes me wonder why you won’t simply ask them for help instead.”

“. . .”

At his silence, you chuckle, “Calm down. I don’t know your story, but I’d understand why you’re hiding away from them. They tend to abuse their authority, but I guess that’s the government for you.”

“Not Mondstadt. . .”

“Pardon?”

“Nothing.”

You point your spoon at him, a large smile on your face, “You said Mondstadt. You’re a Mondstadter, aren’t you?”

He doesn’t reply. Not that he needs to, you’re already rambling away with the newfound knowledge, “I knew it! Your accent suits Mondstadt the most! Not that I would know much. I’ve been in Snezh my whole life– oh, oh but what is it like? Out there? The land of freedom and song–“

Diluc finds himself sitting back, amused by your outburst. It’s certainly the most you two have talked in the days he spent recovering from his injuries. Despite initially not wanting to divulge any information about himself, he can’t help but beam with pride at the praise for his beloved nation.

“–And the wine! Oh, the wine- I’ve heard all about it. They’re imported here at a very high price, I could only imagine what a dandelion wine would taste like-“

“It’s not that amazing as it’s made out to be. But there are other drinks worth noting-“

“Like Death After Noon?”

“. . . I was going to say grape juice and cider.”

“You’re a little on the boring side, aren’t you?”

He rolls his eyes.

The conversation flows. The topic? Mondstadt. He tells you about the giant statue that looms over the city, one that you’ve only seen in paintings. You ask about the fields and weather, and he tells you of Dragonspine’s cold akin to that of Snezhnaya. When he starts to talk about the seashell filled beaches, you note the longing look on his face.

“. . . You really do love Mond, don’t you?” You ask, pushing aside the now-empty bowl.

“I do.” He answers, it sounds soft but firm.

“Then why are you here?”

It’s a question you were scared of asking. In fear that he’d hide away in his shell again. He goes quiet, looking down on his bowl.

"I. . . I can't go back."

"And why is that?"

Because going back would be acknowledging his father's death, his brother's betrayal, he's running away— he wants to go far, far away from the reality he's found himself in and fulfill a vengeance that couldn't be satisfied—

"There are things I have to do." He places down his spoon. It clanks on the hard wood of the table. "Please leave it at that."

He ends the conversation and you bite back your lip. He was building his walls again, walls that took you too long to crack down. You stand, taking his bowl in your hands along with your own to wash.

As you turn away from him, you hear him reach out softly.

"But. . . If I ever go back," he starts, "And if you'd like to explore beyond Snezh, then. . . " You turn to him, an eyebrow raised. "You're welcome to seek me out. I wouldn't mind touring you of my homeland." A small smile graces his face, it's the most expressive he's ever been since arriving.

“So you can smile!” You laugh, turning to the sink and starting the tap. He’ll have to help you wash them. “You look more prince-like when you do. Like a noble.”

He nearly chokes on his drink.

It takes years before you found the courage to ever step foot out of Snezhnaya, much less enter Mondstadt. One of the first things you signed up for was a tour of the ancestral Dawn Winery fields. Imagine your surprise, spotting a certain young master jotting down stocks as he looks over the vineyard.

Your shock mirrored his own, before it forms into a smile.

"I believe I promised you a personal tour?"

— thoma .

"What do you mean the borders are closed?"

"The borders are closed, the ports are closed, no ship is allowed to dock, these are the orders of the Shogun under the new decree."

Trapped in a foreign nation with little to no knowledge of its culture; with only ten mora in his pockets and a bottle of dandelion wine for a father he can't even find, Thoma finds himself in quite a predicament. This happened hours ago, with no idea what to do or where to go, Thoma sits under a shady tree.

"I don't think I could even buy myself a meal tomorrow. . ." He sighs, glancing down on the only thing he could afford. A measly looking meat bun wrapped within rice papers.

"Woof!"

Thoma turns to the side. A dog looks at him with eager and beady eyes.

"Hello there," he grins, "You on your own too?"

"Arf!"

The dog eyes the meat bun eagerly, tail wagging. Thoma really shouldn't, he really, really shouldn't be offering his only (and probably last) meal he could afford to a stray.

So he turns to the side, holding the meat bun closer to his chest. It's his meal.

"Woof woof!"

He nearly sobs in defeat. "Alright, alright, we can half–" ripping the meal into two, he gently places it in front of the stray who's only too eager to wolf it down from him.

"Arf!" A second dog appears by the first, eyes just as sparkly as the other as it eyes the half Thoma's holding.

Curse his weakness to puppy eyes.

He sighs, offering the other half to the stray, "You're lucky you're cute. I'm willing to starve because of y–"

"You there! What suspicious things are you offering to my dogs!" Several footsteps make their way to his spot, he looks up at the sound of the voice. Two individuals approach him, their garments clearly worth more than anything Thoma has ever owned. One was a taller male with a mole on his face, the other a little younger, following them was a small entourage of what Thoma could only assume were guards.

"A-ah, suspicious things?" He stutters. Did he somehow trespass into some noble's territory?

"Yes! That thing you handed. Are you poisoning my dogs?" You huff accusingly. This foreigner was a little suspicious. In the first place, it was strange to meet anyone foreign in the land of eternity, much more someone lounging about in the streets holding a bottle of alcohol.

"Poison? No way! It's just a meat bun! They looked hungry so I offered them my meal."

"A. . . meat bun?" You repeat carefully. That measly thing can't possibly be a meat bun, right? You turn to Ayato, whispering to him with a hand held up between your lips, "Brother, what do we do? Father said to be wary of suspicious individuals. I think he's suspicious. He's feeding the dogs weird things!"

Ayato smiles in amusement, "That meat bun certainly looked odd, but I don't think he's suspicious-" He turns to the blonde, standing upright, "You said that that was your meal?"

Thoma isn't sure why they looked so wary, "Yes? I mean, I'm aware it isn't much. But it isn't poison or anything!"

You share a look with your brother, Thoma recognizes that look to be pity. Was he really being pitied right now because of his meal? He wanted to groan away in embarrassment.

"Look, I don't want any trouble," Thoma says reluctantly, "I wasn't aware that these dogs were yours. If it solves anything, I can find another place to sit–"

"Brother, this poor foreigner must be starving! We must help him!" You whisper rather loudly to the boy next to you who only nods in agreement.

"I agree. How kind of my sibling to think of others." He pats your head, turning to Thoma with that same somewhat sly smile.

"These dogs are strays my sibling often feeds. They must've bothered you for your. . . meal since we're late to arrive today," Ayato explains, approaching him, "To repay your kindness of feeding the strays we're responsible for, you're welcome to join us for lunch."

A maid lays out a blanket across the ground, while another server brings out various goods from a basket. Thoma isn't sure how to reply as he finds himself seated between the two nobles.

"Um- ah, is it really alright for me to be eating this?"

Still a little shy about being on the receiving end of kindness, he gestures to the quality looking meat sandwiches.

"Eating this? No, this isn't for us." You state, reaching to grab a sandwich and handing it to an eager puppy, "This is for the strays. What my brother meant was that we'll treat you back in the Teahouse."

"Erm. . . teahouse?"

"Yup! Komore Teahouse. They serve excellent cuisines."

"O-oh, I've never been to one."

"Where are you from anyway?" You ask curiously, eyeing the blond's pretty green eyes.

"Mondstadt."

Ayato smiles, "You're a long way from home. . . The situation for foreigners now is rather difficult. If you stay with us, perhaps my family could offer you some assistance."

Thoma stares at the two of you, he's weighing his options. He needs a place to stay, maybe find a job, at least until the decree is stopped.

It's only temporary. Surely, he'll find a chance to go home someday.

"Alright."

— kaeya .

"I know I said I'd accompany you for the day, but don't you think we've traveled all of Mond already?" You whine, massaging your aching knees. It's been a long day of walking; from Springvale to Starfell Valley to Windrise, collecting Calla Lilies, Lampgrass flowers, and seashells by the beach.

It was an odd adventure, and an even more unusual request from the cryo user.

"I simply don't feel like being alone today." He told you hours prior. The tone was flirtatious and it almost made you blush, but you're not exactly an ignorant person. You're aware of the date.

It's April 30th.

To many, it's simply another day on the calendar; but to two brothers, it means so much more.

You never did find out what happened on Master Diluc's birthday. You were aware that it marked the passing of Crepus Ragnvindr, but that was pretty much it. The events that followed were more important to you; from befriending the seemingly lost Kaeya (you might never forget the heartbreaking look on his face back then) to witnessing his significant change into Cavalry Captain.

"Truly, I'm grateful for the good company," Kaeya chuckles at your display, snapping you from your thoughts, "How about one last stop? Then I'll escort you back home."

You hold back a sigh, reminding yourself that he does seem a little melancholic today. Besides, you don't exactly abhor his company.

"Very well."

He smiles, leading you up the hill near Springvale, where the Anemo Archon statue rests. It was a scenic view; the wind was gentle and the sun was slowly sinking into the horizon. As the archon statue comes into view, with fluttering crystalflies wary of your presence, you notice Kaeya's pace slowing.

He pauses right before the statue, but his starry eye was set on a more distant view.

The Dawn Winery.

There's a certain look on his face, something you can't quite identify but it clenches your heart all the same. Somehow, you want to reach out and hold him.

"You can place the flowers here." Kaeya says, kneeling by the statue and taking out the seashells he collected from the beach.

"I didn't take you for someone religious." You raise an eyebrow curiously, yet you follow his instructions and start arranging the flowers.

". . . There's a gravesite in the winery. It's entrance is reserved for family only." He says softly, fingers brushing over yours to hold the bundle of flowers. "Perhaps Barbatos would be so kind as to bring our prayers with the wind. That it may reach F- Master Crepus."

You stay silent, biting your lower lip. He's showing that face again, the one you've always hated on him during the early days of your friendship.

"If you ever feel. . . " Lonely, you think, but the word sounds like it could scare him away, "Like you need company, you could always invite me again. We can go anywhere you want."

"Anywhere I want, huh?" He smiles at you, a rare and gentle smile, "Alright."

The offerings did reach the tombstone that evening. Though it wasn't by Barbatos' grace, but by a redhead passing by the statue and recognizing the odd combination of gifts.

— kazuha .

"Captain Beidou doesn't take kindly to stowaways." You point your sword at the man. It was a normal day, having just left the port of Inazuma. You decided to check on the stocks below deck to ensure that nothing falls around as you go through a thunderous storm.

Imagine your surprise upon seeing a ragged samurai hunched behind crates with one bloodied hand holding onto something shiny.

You frown at the lack of reply. "What's that you go there? Something you stole?"

In all honesty, you're a little scared at his dead expression. His eyes are faraway, distant, like they're refusing to acknowledge a reality.

". . . are you hurt?" You ask, this time trying a different approach. His sword rested ways away from him, he seemed defenseless, almost like a lost kitten seeking shelter from the storm. You slowly kneel in front of him, weapon still by your side as you try to peek at what he's holding onto so tightly.

It was a vision without a glow. A musty fog seemingly trapped inside the crystal.

You've heard of the vision hunt decree— it's why the crew was in such a hurry to leave the archipelago, after all. You knew visions were being forcibly taken away, placed like trophies on the archon's statue. Frankly, it disgusted you to be displayed like that.

But why was this one murky? What had happened to the owner?

You weren't sure what kind of look you had on your face. Maybe it was confusion or anger, but the wanderer's eyes landed on your own and he pushes himself to speak.

"Please. . . don't send me back." He says and it sounds heartbreaking with the softness of his voice. You clench your jaw, holding back a sigh as you stand back upright.

"I'll inform Captain Beidou about you. I don't think she'd send you back, but. . . we should also get your hand treated." You say, reaching out to help him stand, "I have some bandages in my quarters. Do you think you could make it there?"

He nods once, grasping your hand as you both make your way above deck. Later, you'll find yourself with an incomparable travel companion. One that hums of songs that can lull any pirate to sleep. You'll reach every end of Teyvat with him, with the ocean welcoming you in every turn.

You're never stationary with him, always on the move. Despite that, perhaps he could find a permanent home with you.

m.list 2 || consider supporting me on ko-fi !

note !! this was written before i played kazuha's quest. in the lore, im aware that kazuha escaped inazuma thanks to the yashiro commission and not as a stowaway hahahah

taglist !! @absolut-wildflower @boundedbyfate @sadlonelybagel @eissaaaa @ladycoleigh @milkypompon @bloodreaper08 @irethepotato @x-zho @roriver @mich-cola @mxsomn @ackrylik @nicebonescomrade @starforecasts @stygianoir @nejibot @yuminako @eccedentesiast-sapphic @nebulaera @nuttytani @r4gnivindr @stygianoir14

[bits-and-babs]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 — 𝐒𝐈𝐌𝐎𝐍 ‘𝐆𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐓’ 𝐑𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐘

synopsis : photographs from a gangland crime scene just beyond mexico's border send ghost into a spiral. as his superior, you feel it is your duty to bring him down from delirium by any means necessary.

pairing: simon ‘ghost’ riley x f!reader (colonel)

warnings : 18+ mdni. heavy use of the canon comics, gory imagery, mentions of torture, brainwashing, corpses. ptsd, delusions, simon in a submissive headspace. d/s themes, softdomme!reader, praise kink if you squint, oral (f receiving), fingering, cumming in pants, i wanted to write simon as a sub so i fucking did. please note this is a fic about using sex to navigate trauma. it will not be for everyone.

ghost masterlist ୨୧ main masterlist ୨୧ join taglist ୨୧ ask

He's like a spectre in the back of the briefing room, his shadow looming over the gory photographs spattered over the table and smothering the map beneath them. Snapshots of gruesome, twisted corpses reflect in the honey liquid of his irises, his usually expressive eyes made mute by the ghastliness of the savaged bodies.

Ghost's vast frame appears to shrink the longer he gazes at the glossy, printed pictures. 

Price continues his mission briefing. His forgotten cigar smoulders in the cigarette dish placed haphazardly over the map, ashes building an eminence of embers on the glass platter. His tar-drenched lungs rasp as he talks, gritty voice booming as it ricochets from the walls in the tiny box room. 

"Intel confirms a congregation of armed cartel members just beyond the Mexican borde-…."

Leaning against the wall, Ghost's shadow retreats from the tabletop and slinks back into the corner. He crosses his arms over his vast chest, charcoal grey fleece sleeves pushed to his elbows to expose the ebony ink scrawled across his chalky skin. His scarred knuckles bleach when he tightens his grip on his bicep, silently stewing in his own conviction. 

He knows. 

It's as though you can see them play like a film reel in his gilded irises, flickers of his trauma in Mexico. Ghost's file had been heavily redacted during your time as his equal, reams and reams of black ink ribbons distorting the writing and camouflaging his colourful history. Serving alongside him, you learnt that the SAS Lieutenant approached conversation similarly, censoring himself by remaining relatively silent. 

Since your promotion to Colonel, you had gained access to transparent files and learnt precisely why Simon' Ghost' Riley kept mum about his time in Coahuila… You'd seen those gnarly scars, pink and magenta and silver welts that raised or gouged into the porcelain of his pale skin. Yet, the answer to your concerned queries was always a singular, gentle remark. "Classified." 

Ghost's attempted brainwashing and the ultimate death sentence were confidential. He'd never told you that the scent of the decaying body of his Judas commanding officer, Vernon, had clung to the walls of his nasal cavities for weeks after escaping the coffin. Never revealed the way his hand sunk into the putrefying corpse when he attempted to break his way out of the casket. Wouldn't admit to ripping the jawbone from the rotting carcass to pry open the lid. 

His reason for convalescent leave was also confidential. Extreme temper-management difficulties handing the vulnerable Ghost over to ex-teammates Sparks and Washington and the conclusive massacre of his entire family. Three generations, blown away with a bullet through the skull. 

And the man at the centre of it all, Manuel Roba, stared back at him in the pictures of horrid, mangled, ripped flesh littering the table and pinned to the map. Puncture wounds from being elevated on meat hooks, emaciated following daily meals of mind-altering drugs––

"Riley." 

Ghost's honeyed eyes dart from their fixated aim on the pictures towards Price. Concern furrows the Captain's brow as he observes Ghost's self-preserving body language. "You hearin' me?"

"Loud and clear, sir," Ghost's gruff voice rattles like gravel in his chest. His eyes appear hollow through the gaps in his ski mask, black grease paint making him look particularly gaunt. 

It's a split second, momentary, but Price casts a precautionary glance your way. You know that expression, can translate the concerned crevices on John's face; he knows. 

"... Good Hunting," Captain Price issues his dismissal, pointed looks urging the members of 141 out of the room quickly. The rubber soles of your boots stay rooted to the floor, gaze set on Ghost as the task force leave the conference single file. The Mancunian doesn't budge, his eyes aimed at their target on the table. 

It takes a handful of moments, Gaz and Soap gawping over the brutal torture details and Price urging them both with an insistence to 'shut up' that was far too authoritative for them to ignore. Then, finally, the door swings shut, clicking in place. Ghost blinks at the sound, a minute, barely there flinch that wouldn't register with outsiders, but you notice it. 

Silence creeps through the room and settles between you like a blanket of gunpowder, charged and ready to blow. Ghost's body is tense, oddly postured in an attempt to retain his intense emotions. 

"Ghost." You say his codename, and immediately he moves his head in a slight shake—a silent urge for quiet. He pushes his back from the wall, slowly approaching the table he had glared at for hours. 

"It's him, isn't it? Roba," Ghost's voice is tight with fury, those gravel pieces sounding a lot more like glass shards, "He's come back."

You watch, lungs seizing behind your ribcage when you hear him speak Manuel Roba's name. The vile man had lived like a ghoul amongst Simon's memories, fictitious as long as he remained unmentioned. Talking of him was almost like speaking the behemoth into existence. 

"I know you read the file, Colonel," Ghost spits through gritted teeth, reaching forward to pinch a photograph from the table. You see it, the almost imperceptible tremor in his fingers as he does. "He did this to us- Strung us up like pig carcasses-"

"I understand that you're scared-" You begin your attempt to ease the spiral that Ghost appears to be silently falling into, his almost normal outward appearance betrayed only by microscopic symptoms of panic. 

"I'm not," he insists, agitation edging his tone of voice as he holds up the image of a gutted corpse, "I'm not scared; you're all tip-toein' around this like I'm fuckin' stupid!"

"Riley."

The use of Ghost's surname makes the hulking mass of man stop in his tracks. He swallows the words he holds on his tongue, realising his disrespect to a commanding officer should not, and would not, be tolerated under any circumstance. 

Stepping forward, you gaze right back at the shell-shocked man before you. "Manuel Roba is dead. You killed him. You know this. Shot him right between the eyes."

You demonstrate the bullet trajectory by tapping between your eyebrows with your index finger, triggering a visual for the shaken Ghost to project the image of the slaughtered drug dealer. "The bodies you're seeing are probably a result of his control over the Zaragoza Cartel. Remnants of his fighters lashing out in a last-ditch effort to obtain some power." 

Ghost nods slightly, a singular tilt forward of his head as his hand lowers to his side, fingers loosening their hold on the gory picture so it falls to the ground. He clears his throat awkwardly, eyes following the path of the image as he casts his gilded irises to the floor. You note how vulnerable he looks, flayed raw by his memories and the stalking PTSD that had gripped him without detection.

"You're right. 'M sorry," he lets out a shaky sigh, chest trembling as he attempts to expel the tension in his chest, "Don't know what I was thinkin'."

You dismiss his embarrassment with a wave of your hand. "Don't mention it." 

"How much do you know?" Ghost asks, the question uttered in a whisper. 

You consider his query carefully. A good question. How much did you know? Had the files revealed the total of Ghost's catastrophic timeline from Mexico to Manchester? Or was there still unforeseen information hidden behind censorship walls that even you couldn't worm your way behind at this high a rank?

You're careful in your choice of words, attempting to curb any particular language that could trigger upsetting recollections. "I know Roba used to brainwash you. Drug you. Make you fight."

"And?" Simon urges you onwards, his aureate irises staring coldly at you through the blackness of the grease paint and mask–– awaiting the agonising stab of the truth.  

"He used to offer sex or death as a means of control." You carefully place your palm against his shoulder, a warm and weighty presence to help ground him as you speak. "Attempted to hardwire your brain to find arousal in fear."

Ghost swallows. You see the bob of his Adam's apple beneath the thick material of the ski mask. A minuscule quiver of his eyebrow indicates his inner turmoil, the usually composed and inscrutable Lieutenant Riley slipping away as you peel away each layer of his trauma.

"Do you still? Find arousal in fear?" 

Silence twists your stomach; Ghost's incessant, piercing stare causes the hairs on your forearms to stand up. 

"On your knees, Riley."

"Yes, ma'am."

Simon sinks to his knees, slow and deliberate, in a latent attempt to please you. It's as though Everest has crumbled, its foundations bending beneath its enormous weight. Simon is an unshakeable force, an indomitable summit, yet when his patellas hit the floor, his giant palms meet the edges of your thighs in reverence for you. 

His touch is precious and delicate with its weight–– not as though he's afraid he'll break you, but more like he's trying so hard to earn your favour as his superior. His blonde lashes dip low, heavy-lidded, unable to stand looking at your face when he's laid bare for you like this. 

"Please." When Simon speaks, it's as though the cocktail of gravel and glass shards has excoriated the walls of his throat. It's broken, choked and pitchy as he begs you. "Please."

"Please what, Simon?" You query, maintaining an even, commanding tone. His eyelashes flutter slightly, trembling so prettily for you as arousal floods his spine. 

"Please, ma'am. Can I be of service?" It's spoken through his gritted teeth as though he's mortified that he's voicing these torrid desires, even in the vaguest terms. You slip your naked palm beneath the woven canvas of his mask, clutching his jaw and forcing his face upwards. 

It's amusing, you think, that Simon believes himself unreadable as long as he wears the skull mask. It couldn't be further from the truth. His eyes are so expressive, constantly betraying his innermost thoughts without even exposing the expressions of his visage. 

The probing gaze you offer him has him twitching in his camo cargo pants. You see his thick length bob against the fabric, aroused by the ease with which you read him. 

"Is that what you need, Riley?" It's rhetorical; you both know it. He's never required anything so desperately in his life. Simon had been lost in the Congo jungle without food for weeks and escaped a kidnapping attempt that had him stumble through the Iraqi desert without water, yet he looked at you with those keening eyes as though he'd die without a taste of you. 

"Tell me."

"Yes," he gasps, inhaling sharply as though he'd forgotten to breathe, "Yes, ma'am. Please, I need to tast––"

Simon barely manages to finish his sentence before he pushes his trembling fingers beneath the hem of his mask on his throat, shoving it over the point of his chin and balancing the bunched-up material on the bridge of his nose. He groans out as he fumbles with your khaki belt, unwinding it with great difficulty. 

While Simon busies himself with your zipper, your fingers delicately trace the silvering scars on his throat, many of Manuel Roba's love letters to evil etched into his ivory skin. The files had labelled each laceration and its cause; S2 below his chin issued by a butcher's knife, S5 against his clavicle the product of a dagger during a spar with another brainwashed hostage. You can't help but smile when your fingerprints find S7. 

"S7 - a two-inch superficial scar from a tricycle accident."

A desperate groan rumbles in Simon's chest when he shucks the waistband of your cargo pants over the flesh of your hips. Your hand quickly grasps the edge of the table when he buries his nose against your clothed cunt, your heavy-handedness knocking more of the long-forgotten gory images to the floor. 

"Fuck," Simon exhales, his warm breath fanning across the soaked fabric of your panties. "Thank you, Thank y- fuck."

Your gasp of pleasure catches even you off guard as Simon drags the flat of his tongue against the wetness of your underwear, a groan sneaking from his open mouth as he relishes in the taste. 

"This good, ma'am?" he breathes, hot and heavy against your core. He's desperate to please, a slight flush to the lower half of his cheeks that you can see. It takes you a moment to compose yourself, overwhelmed by the exposed flesh of his face. 

"Yes," you praise him as he uses his fingers to push aside the cotton in his way. "So fucking good for me, Simo-nhgn-" 

The tip of Simon's tongue seems to find your clit almost instantaneously, curling around the sensitive bud and teasing it as though he knew exactly what you needed. His moan is muffled and pathetic against your soaked cunt, lapping at your arousal and drowning himself in you. 

He keens when your fingernails dig into the soft flesh of his shoulder, digging reddening crescent moons into the skin. They blend amongst the charcoal of his tattoo sleeve, but they're there, little arches among the skulls, guns, and warfare. 

Simon paws at the backs of your thighs, spreading the wingspan of his fingers across the curve of your asscheeks and squeezes, using his hold to drag your body impossibly closer to his mouth. He nuzzles in, the tip of his nose teasing at your clit as he sinks the hot, wet flesh of his tongue into your entrance. 

"Hah-" you gasp out, Simon's moan vibrating against your needy clit forcing you to grind forward against his face in search of more friction. Your fingers find purchase in the fabric on the top of Simon's head, curling your knuckles around it but ensuring you don't lift the mask from his face. 

The Lieutenant feels your grazing fingers against his scalp, burying his face further into your pussy as he tastes your arousal from the source. He sighs heavily, shakily into your cunt as he savours the ambrosia on his tongue, greed forcing him in for more–– licking and tasting and sucking and swallowing more of you. 

"So good for me, Simon," you reward him, voice trembling as he assaults your cunt with his probing tongue. He retreats from the soaked flesh of your cunt to tease at your clit again. You can feel your pulse concentrating in it, thudding against his tastebuds. 

"Mhmm," he huffs, vast chest heaving with heavy breaths that add another layer of pleasure to your arousal as they waft over your wet pussy lips. You could cry when you look down at him, his eyelids drooping (one lower than the other thanks to the scar that ran across his left eyelid. "S4 - a superficial scar from a fist fight during detention in Mexico").

A single, calloused palm skirts around your waist, splaying wide across your lower abdomen as Simon feels the muscles beneath his hand tremble and tense at his ministrations. He groans again, his other hand teasing at your pussy lips from behind in a silent plea for entry. 

"Simon- Simon, do it," you urge him, desperate to be filled as he teased at your clit with his nimble tongue. You'd never had guessed a man so intent on disguising his countenance would have the perfect face to sit on. 

"Yes, ma'am," he responds, only momentarily before reestablishing the relentless rhythm of the swipe of his tongue. Then, without much warning, he sinks his index finger into your entrance. A delicate press of his fingertip at first, testing the waters, so to speak. Only when you let out a blissful sigh does Simon continue to ease the digit into you. 

His fingers are so thick. You stretch around him, your head dipping back between your shoulder blades and gasping a curse to the naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. The bliss that sweeps through you is overwhelming, toes curling in your combat boots as you attempt to escape the onslaught of pleasure. 

Simon won't let you. 

"Please," he moans in bliss as he pulls you closer again, your feeble body unable to fight his firm control when your limbs are gelatinous and malleable to his whims. 

His cock is bobbing beneath his cargos, a dark patch of precum soaking into the camo print. A flood of arousal drips through you, your eyes rolling back at the realisation that he might fucking cum in his pants, untouched, just with the taste of you.

"S-Simon-" you wail, losing all control as your voice cracks. "Right there-"

God, he ratchets up the intensity of your bliss by sinking another finger into you. It faces no resistance, sliding down to the knuckle with an ease that had you seeing stars when it pushes up against something utterly devastating within your abdomen. 

"There!"

Simon groans around your cunt, lathing his tongue over your throbbing clit with an eagerness that seems so alien for the stoic, unreadable Special Airforce Soldier. His fingers ease in and out of you ever so slightly, rocking back and forth against that mind-numbing spot inside you that has your knees buckling beneath your weight. 

"Oh my g-aha-" you choke on your words, both hands now fumbling to hold onto the table with a white-knuckle grip. Tension curls in the pit of your stomach, twisting and shape-shifting.  

You feel it before you hear it. The vibrations of Simon's desperate groans of bliss rock through your cunt before the sounds reach your ears, his mouth sloppy on your cunt as his own arousal begins to take root. The fingers not buried inside your walls take a bruising grip on your waist, branding you with his prints.  

He notches that paradisical spot inside you one more, and your failing knees quake at the vicious burst of ecstasy it unleashes. You moan loudly, the lewd sound wracking through your body as though Simon had just set off a stun grenade, light bursting through you with a crack. Your hips buck against his chin and nose mindlessly as you ride through the peak of your bliss. 

Simon lets his jaw hang loose, tongue flat as you ride against it— pathetic, utterly disgusting groans of delight drip from his lips as you use him. He pants, and you only just manage to force your eyes open as a particularly pitchy wail of your name to witness his undoing. 

His hips rock forward against nothing, just barely finding friction on the seam of his pants as his orgasm rocks through him. You watch his eyelids flutter and his brows twitch as he cums in his standard-issue military cargos. He slumps back slightly, jaw loose as he sucks in deep breaths. It's utterly unbecoming of someone who appeared so unshakeable, a submissive, needy man taking his place. 

At first, you allow him some space. The forceful inhale and trembling exhale of his lungs tick like a clock, in and out, in and out. Simon's hand delicately smoothes over the flesh of your ankle, a feeble attempt to feel close to you in this moment without overstimulating his vulnerable mind. 

When he lifts those honeyed eyes to you, searching for your comfort, you allow your palms to smooth down the fabric of his ski mask and offer him some privacy, restoring some dignity to the usually stoic Ghost. 

He leans into the weight of your palm for just a second. A barely there moment, like the grip of his biceps from earlier, the twitch of his brow. It fades quickly like his S7 scar, the dripping molasses of his eyes hardening beneath the skull image. 

"Not a word," you order him, tone aggressively authoritarian when you issue your directive. 

Ghost is glad for it, a curt nod of his head indicating his return to lucidity as he begins to rise to his feet. 

"Yes, ma'am." 

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[brutalisttarot]

Pick An Image: How are they currently perceiving you now?

Pile 1

You could be financially worn off right now/ education may not be going as good for now. However, you’re being perceived as taking the effort to improve emotionally, and becoming more secure and attractive, through becoming a more nurturing person. I see that you might’ve become impulsive or there’s a rash attraction that came quickly with attracting a significant other/ lover. It made you fall into delusions and now you’re trying your best to recover and walk away from them or getting rid of your emotional attachment to them.

Pile 2

Okayy pile 2 y’all got the flex that you’re probably feeling at the top of the world right now. You guys could be celebrating something major, with joy socially and emotionally. Some of you guys may have a family or entering a more secure lifestyle. I see you guys venturing into acquiring wealth. Y’all may have graduated or feel more empowered in putting your skill into a particular job market, industry or using intellect for a business opportunity. You guys come across as rather wise, rational and cut throat, very much being straightforward right now. However, you’re seen as not really looking your best right now since you’ve been working hard. You guys may lack in sleep or not taking yourselves so do take the time if needed.

Pile 3

You guys look like y’all are abundant in your life especially in terms of career or school or work. Y’all look like y’all got the drip, got the bag focused, partying big and letting loose emotionally. You come across as rather emotionally generous right now, not really the defensive type, you’re more open and relaxed. The person or people you’re asking about could see this as malicious mainly because they suspect that you might’ve communicating poorly and not putting effort into understanding as much. You could be cutting off communication short and brief rather than being emotionally invested or letting ideas develop and evolve. They find your situation to be rather shocking and sudden. You could’ve gone a 180• or haven’t met this person in a long time and so they find your change sudden and triggering.

[daquila]

MASTERLIST!

[ if it’s not obvious, i really like gojo ]

-> Lost in The Sea of Stars ! [ g. satoru x reader ]

|| about you both being researchers in a post-apocalyptic society! my first fic so it’s quite rough

-> Happy Birthday, ‘Toru ! [ g. satoru x reader ]

|| silly fic about you painting a surprise for gojo! megumi, yuji, and nobara help you complete the work.

-> My Heart’s Delusions ! [ g. satoru x reader ]

|| angst and references to toru being a bad boyfriend when reader was in highschool

-> Long Days at Work ! [ g. satoru x reader ]

|| just reader being stressed about jujutsu life— nothing else!

-> I’m Not Coming Home ! [ g. satoru x reader ]

|| slight mentions of shoko and suguru. a fic about reader dying LOL it’s just pure angst hehehe

-> Selfish Desires ! [ g. satoru x reader ]

|| in which reader doesn’t die but it ends up with gojo becoming toxic…. mentions of satosugu and gojo seeing reader as suguru ☹️

-> Hopefully, In Another Life ! [ g. satoru x reader ]

|| gojo confesses but reader has issues 😑 slight or maybe just angst in general….

-> A Way Back Home ! [ g. satoru x reader ]

|| reader being really sad at a clan gathering because gojo has been sealed… then megumi notifies her on a way to unseal gojo!

-> I love you ! [ g. satoru x reader ]

|| ‘toru feels insecure in your relationship. you reassure him that he’s the only one that you love.

-> Goodnight ! [ g. satoru x reader ]

|| doing late night paper work in school is stuff, especially when you have a man-child taunting you.

-> Satoru’s Birthday Surprise ! [ g. satoru x reader ]

|| second part to his birthday fic hehe

-> This Is Me Trying ! [ g. satoru x reader ]

|| the love that he lost. practically him pointing all fingers at himself for what happened to you! angst/no comfort hehe

-> The Things That He’d Do ! [ g. satoru x reader ]

|| head cannon or drabble list hehe

-> New Year’s Eve ! [ g. satoru x reader ]

|| it’s quite noisy outside, so you woke up feeling hungry. now you find yourself watching fireworks with satoru from your balcony window

-> Pancakes ! [ g. satoru x reader ]

|| casually spawning satan himself into the kitchen, surprisingly, results into disaster! Satoru is a HORRIBLE chef

-> Confession ! [ g. satoru x reader ]

|| like what the title says, he confesses his love for you

-> First Time I’ve Ever Saw You Cry ! [ g. satoru x reader ]

|| satoru despising the higher ups for what they said about you // implied that reader is hospitalized due to a mission but there’s no description of injury whatsoever

-> Wanna Dance ! [ g. satoru x reader ]

|| just slow dancing with ur husband hehehehe // kind of wrote it while listening to ulap by rob deniel

-> Cream Bun ! [ g. satoru x reader ]

|| short story of satoru taking a bite out of your cream bun

-> Nostalgia ! [ g. satoru x reader ]

|| looking back at a sickly sweet photo of you and husband while getting ready for your wedding

-> Debating with Mr. Silly ! [ g. satoru x reader ]

|| a sickening, sweet, and silly story about how a debate brought a confession out of satoru’s lips (my fav one yet tbh haha)

-> My Wife ! [ g. satoru x reader ]

|| (prequel to nostalgia) about cleaning a closet and stumbling across something you wore on the month he proposed to you hehe

-> Three Promises || One, Two, Three ! [ g. satoru x reader ]

|| [ timeline: highschool era -> 28yr gojo x reader -> post-shibuya gojo x reader ] a series of three promises that you’ve made with gojo satoru.

-> Found Family ! [ g. satoru x reader x fushiguro siblings ]

|| babysitting the two siblings and it turns out that they are fond of you and would like to be part of a family with you :3

[literary-illuminati]

2024 Book Review #14 – And Put Away Childish Things by Adrian Tchaikovsky

This book I basically came across by chance. Or, well, not exactly chance, but I’d never even heard of it before until I checked what Tchaikovsky books my local library system had copies of and saw it. Which in a sense is a terrible way to come into this – it’s an incredibly dramatic swerve from any of Tchaikovsky’s other stuff that I’ve read – but coming in totally blind pretty much worked, I think. Genuinely very fun read.

The story follows Harry Bodie, a children’s TV presenter facing down middle age with a career that’s never really lived up to expectations. Somewhat desperately, he signs on to a tabloid-ish program about digging into the family tree, hoping to use the residual fame of his grandmother and her fairly famous and successful series of postwar children’s fantasy novels as a career boost. Instead he gets his face rubbed in the fact that his great-grandmother is only recorded as an indigent madwoman, and the famous author was born in a sanitarium. That the famous Underhill stories were, in fact, based in large part on delusions told as childhood fables and family histories.

Somewhat unsurprisingly, the stories turn out to be less delusional than previously reported. Bodie is in quick succession accosted by a faun, approached by a suspicious PI, and kidnapped by a surprisingly moneyed fan-club-cum-occult-coven. Soon enough he’s getting his first taste of Underhill first hand – or, at least, what’s left of it after a century and change of economizing and entropy.

I’m on record as being fairly dismissive about the whole category of ‘stories about stories’, and I guess I need to eat my words a bit because I actually really enjoyed this. To an extent that’s probably just because it doesn’t get too meta – storyland is a work of deliberate artifice, the stories themselves don’t shape the world or do magic, it just generally never tries to get too cute or didactic about it – but still. This is a book where the hero at one point describes his situation as ‘Five Nights at Aslan’s’ so there’s no real principled distinction for me to cut here. One of the main characters is literally a folklorist.

Though, it’s less about stories than one specific story in particular. The unremarkable schlub plucked out of their mundane life and told that they’re special, that they’re the hero or the true heir and possess some inherent numinous essence that makes them the most important person in the world. This is a terribly appealing story, and one Harry feels the lure of very keenly – he’s self-aware enough to say quite clearly that he goes back to the frozen, decaying world full of half-dead monsters less out of morality or rationality than simply because it was a place where he mattered, for good or ill.

It’s probably not reading too deeply into the book’s themes to note that the story is a lure in a fairly literal sense, or that the true heir is destined to ‘save’ the world by being hollowed out and possessed by those who came before them.

Of course as much as this is in conversation with Narnia et al, it owes at least as much to whole genre of ‘what is nostalgic children’s property, but fucked up?’ creepypasta. Fairyland is choked with fungal growths and creepy, staticy not-snow. The scampering, troublemaking faun is miserable and worn out with bad knees. The Best Of All Dogs is a rotting, terrifying hellhound. There’s even a titanic evil scary clown. Aesthetically the book owes far more to r/nosleep than Lewis Carroll.

Harry himself is an absolute delight as a main character. By which I mean he just sucks so bad, but in very mundane and endearing ways. Who among us can not relate on some level to a failing middle-aged actor who always made a point of not trading on his family name but is secretly pretty resentful it hasn’t helped him more? He refuses the call to adventure then decides his life’s kind of shit and he’d rather get stabbed to death by goblins, so he comes crawling back and begs for a second chance. He’s left a glowing magic sword that will defeat all enemies, but it’s stuck in the body of one of his kidnappers so he just runs screaming and it spends the rest of the book in an evidence locker somewhere. I love him.

I really have no idea to what degree it was intentional, but it also does rather muse me that – okay, you know the standard bit of feminist media analysis where male characters are the actors, while female characters are generally walking set decoration and plot devices? It really deeply amuses me that Harry spends the better part of the story as a magical blood bank getting led around or terrified and awaiting rescue, whereas Seitchman (our counterfeit PI/folklorist) repeatedly forces herself into things through obsessive research skills and a complete disregard for her own safety (and at one point an enthusiastic if unpracticed willingness to sword people). Though to be clear this was mostly amusing to me because it was absolutely never highlighted or commented upon.

This is probably the first book I’ve read that’s recent enough to be set during lockdown without really being a COVID novel, if that makes sense? You could set this the year before or the year after without really losing much, and it lacks the ‘this was written in quarantine’ vibe of a lot of books I read last year. But it definitely adds a sense of specificity and timeliness to it that I rather enjoyed.

So yeah, do not open it expecting anything like Children of Time, but good book!

[artbyblastweave]

Cauldron has this cultivated aesthetic of being the adults in the room. Like many of the most powerful capes- Scion, the Slaughterhouse 9, Sleeper- They very noticeably eschew typical cape iconography in favor of fairly grounded clothing. Dr. Mother dresses like a doctor. Contessa wears a suit. Number Man dresses like an accountant. When it comes to their superheroic members, Alexandria- the one most in the know- picks the least superheroic costume she can get away with, a stark black bodysuit with subdued and deliberately obtuse iconography. Eidolon wears a costume designed to assist him in fading into the background whenever he’s not needed. 

When Number Man is mentally ragging on capedom as a concept, painting the entire thing as a ridiculous delusion enabled by power, he namedrops Legend- a guy he’s in the room with on a regular basis, and also the only one of the bunch who genuinely believes in superheroism as it was sold. Everyone in the organization who “matters” wants very badly to come off as above the pell-mell of the cape game, more detached, more objective, less theatrical.

This is, of course, bullshit. 

Doctor Mother was a college-aged young adult on her way to a club when she got shanghaied into saving the world; she’s Larping Doctorhood. Fortuna was eight when she got her power and is fundamentally infantilized by it; Alexandria went from thinking about Maggie Holt to subverting democracy with her Ferrari-brain in two years and change. Eidolon spent his whole life as a sheltered, disabled ward in a small town in the middle of nowhere before abruptly being handed borderline omnipotence. Number Man abandoned being a serial killer because it was “immature” and then immediately started dressing like the platonic ideal of a “mature adult” that he had in his head, all while using his power to play real-life monopoly with the economy. 

All of them are like this. All of them had their development, their life experiences stunted in a way that also made them powerful enough to purchase the right to have everyone take them seriously, in the exact way that Number Man mocks Legend for. They’re dressing up as much as anyone else in the cape game; in the meeting where Taylor is seething at the amount of work everyone is putting into maintaining their secret identities while the goddamned world is ending, Cauldron is sticking to their particular brand of dress-up as much as anyone else in the room in how hard they attempt to come across as the mature, informed adults, right before they begin to create co-ordination problems due to how invested they are in that self image.

Cauldron is a case-study in why secret identities are so massively important to Wormverse capes. The general Cape population is arguably playing dress-up, but the artifice involved inherently leads those capes to a recognition of their own affect. Legend might put on a goofy costume, but he can recognize the costume, take the costume off, and go home to his family. Cauldron? Nearly to a man, lost in character.

[capricores]

Hello! How are Pisces and Cancer risings different? They sound very similar in everything I’ve read.

hi! this is a great question and i love q's like these!! they definitely have a lot of overlap, both being water signs. however, here's some main difference in how their outward personalities may manifest:

OUTGOING VERSUS RESERVED:

pisces risings tend to be bubbly and outgoing! even when they're shy or anxious individuals, even when they aren't actually that social - when meeting new people, in new environments, when dealing with customer service: they're almost always very bright, cheerful and bubbly.

cancer risings come across as kind and caring, much like pisces risings, however - they generally are not what i would consider bubbly or outgoing! they tend to be a lot more reserved, and come off as more shy even when they aren't. pisces risings tend to chatter a lot, and enjoy conversing with strangers; cancer risings generally don't. they'd much rather stick to themselves and keep public interactions short.

OPTIMIST VERSUS PESSIMIST:

this one is pretty straight-forward! pisces risings lean towards optimism. they usually see the world through a dreamy, hopeful lens and like to look for the best in things. it's very hard to crush a pisces rising's ability to dream and have high hopes for the future. sometimes they can be almost delusional 😭 cancer risings do tend to lean more towards a more realistic (even pessimistic a lot of the time) view on the world and people around them. they aren't as trusting and hopeful as pisces risings tend to be, and often view the world through a cautious lens. sometimes they can be overly negative as compared to pisces who can be so positive it leads to a delusion/dream world.

ADVENTURER VERSUS HOMEBODY:

cancer risings are much much more of homebodies than pisces risings. pisces risings really enjoy going out and exploring, traveling, social events, etc. cancer risings have a shorter fuse and smaller social battery. they much prefer to stay at home, hangout with smaller groups of friends/just one friend, read at home, etc.

MOTIVATED VERSUS NEEDS MOTIVATION:

cancer risings are cardinal: they start shit. and i don't mean that in a bad way! they are the leaders, they get the ball rolling. they're always first to tackle projects, organize things, take on the boss position. pisces risings tend to lack motivation. it can be hard for them to start things, and very hard for them to finish anything. it can also be hard for them to lead as they're often more soft-spoken and have trouble telling others what to do; they prefer to follow. cancer risings are more firm and have no problem giving others directions. pisces do have amazing ideas and are so so creative; but they tend to lack the follow-through or planning. cancer risings are the ones always starting new projects. they're also more likely to be a workaholic as compared to pisces risings, who'd much rather be making their pinterest boards!

ANTI-CHANGE VERSUS FREE-FLOWING:

pisces risings go with the flow. they're mutable water, so they're extremely adaptable. they handle change easily; and probably experienced it so much throughout childhood that it's second nature. they generally seek out change and aren't huge fans of routine. you'll find pisces risings re-arranging their room at least once a week, and updating their personality/finding a new niche interest/changing career paths at least once a month. cancer risings are suckers for routine, and they don't generally like change. they'd much prefer to live in their hometown their entire lives, and you will not catch them re-arranging their furniture more than once every two business years. pisces rising would much rather move to a new country every year than be anywhere near their hometown. pisces has the eternal travel bug, cancer has the "let me stay within a 50km radius of my family/home at all times" bug lol.

some other little differences:

cancer risings are petty, they do not do the "forgive and forget"; pisces risings are very much the forgive and forget type (both parties to a fault, usually)

cancer risings, despite being very kind-hearted, can often come off as very cold at first! hard shell, as their representative animal would suggest. pisces risings are immediately very open and friendly with people

to add to that, cancer risings generally have a lot of walls up; pisces risings are open books

cancer risings are much better than pisces rising at deflecting people's negative vibes/comments; pisces risings are ridiculously influenced by their environment and people around them (ie: someone uses the wrong tone of voice, pisces rising might cry - cancer rising? not so much)

cancer risings tend to have more stable/consistent moods as compared to pisces risings (although this can also be a negative at times, when they're sad; it can last weeks, whereas pisces rising bounces back quite quickly)

pisces risings tend to have more sharp physical features, and generally look kinda fairy/elf like. cancer risings usually have softer features, and generally rounder features/faces as well

disclaimer: i also cannot stress enough that the ascendant, like any other placement, is only one piece of the puzzle! if someone has planets in their first house, strong aspects to their ascendant, a chart that really contradicts their ascendant, etc - the traits/etc listed above might not exactly apply. as always, the entire chart matters in interpretation ☺

hopefully this helps a little bit! let me know if you have any other questions!! <3 the ascendant is very much how we come off to others (outwardly/publicly especially), it's also how we view and interact with the world. it shapes our life path heavily and i consider it much more than just a "mask" as some people would say. i've also heard the interpretation (i think it was donna cunningham who said this but don't quote me on it) that the ascendant is who we were forced to become due to what we went through in our childhood!! which is an interesting way to view these placements. anyway!! tysm for asking this i missed getting astro q's!

[lryghe]

MDZS as tarot cards

Word count: 1526

Reading time: 5 min 30 secs

I've seen some posts about lovely interpretations of MDZS characters as tarot cards, but I was so beyond shocked at some of the choices behind it. It appears that oftentimes, people are associating cards with their name, rather than their actual meaning, so, as a loser who has familial history surrounding tarot, I’ve come to propose my own renditions. 

To begin with, my interpretations will have a major arcana card, as well as a suit/minor arcana card. Keep in mind that these interpretations are INTERPRETATIONS. This is not concrete.

For clarification: “words, words” = upright meaning | “words, words, words” = reversed meaning

First up, Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji!

Wei Wuxian

The Magician

“Willpower, desire, creation, manifestation” | “Trickery, illusions, out of touch”

After some serious deliberation over The Hanged Man or The Magician, I eventually ruled that the upright meaning of the card was something that is the very essence of Wei Wuxian’s character. Wei Wuxian is introduced to the reader (beyond his death) as an incredibly intelligent and intrinsically creative character. Throughout the story, his ingenuity in situations that need solving and his out-of-the-box thinking (the water ghoul in Cloud Recesses, the creation of talismans and flags, his use of demonic cultivation after losing his core, discovery and unveiling of Jin Guangyao) is something that drives the majority of his actions, and also places him in serious situations with serious (unintended) consequences. Yes, he’s a sacrificial fool (something that assigning The Hanged Man would have recognised), but I think his spark and general genius is something that is important as well. Key descriptions of The Magician revolve around one hand held to the heavens, and one pointed to the earth, with the rest of the arcane suits (wands, swords, cups, pentacles) placed nearby, symbolising the magicians inherent connection with every element. 

The placement of the arms is something that is very important to the card, but also its connection to Wei Wuxian. It appears to be saying that the earth is a reflection of the heavens, the heavens a reflection of the earth. Wei Wuxian is driven by loyalty and his own internal beliefs, that lead his entanglement with Lan Wangji, his protection of the Wens, his sacrifice of his golden core. Those higher ideals represent the hand in the heavens, and Wei Wuxian’s own anger (and perhaps arrogance) in the fact that the people of the world don't echo his morals. The hand towards the earth is like his eventual downfall, the growth that comes with recognising that not everyone can be like him, can have the same giant heart he does (and is something that we only get very subtly near the end). I think that the depiction of the suits is something that's pretty rudimentary to understand. Wei Wuxian is a genius, adept in everything he does (except naming things), so like The Magician, of course he is able to wield all suits (which represent the elements of fire, water, earth, and air). If we want to get real picky with it though, perhaps it’s also a representation of how Wei Wuxian’s genius and care for others translates across numerous sects. He is not bound to the one suit or clan, he is free to give his loyalty to whomever he pleases.

I also considered the reversed meaning of every card I assigned, and felt that “trickery, wasted talent, illusion, deception” was a very accurate presentation of Sunshot Campaign/Yiling Laozu Wei Wuxian. Wei Wuxian’s incredible creativity was used to hide a lot of things during this time, including the actual removal of his golden core, which would fit the delusion and trickery aspect of the reversal. My favourite part of The Magicians reversal however, is the wasted talent. Because we as readers know that Wei Wuxian is anything but, but that's not how he’s viewed in the story. The very first chapter, everyone is shocked on how someone as renowned and gifted as Wei Wuxian ended up “where he is now”, which is to say, a heretical demonic cultivator who killed 3000 skilled cultivators in one day. That wasted talent is a key part of the context of the novel, and is so important to Wei Wuxian’s characterisation, the idea that he fell off after the events of the Sunshot Campaign, even though we know it was just a product of his ingenuity that no one else really cared about.

The Knight of Wands

“Action, adventure, fearlessness” | “Anger, impulsiveness, recklessness”

To begin with, Wands is associated with the element of fire, and represents passion, inspiration and willpower. The Knight of Wands depicts a knight atop a horse “reared and ready for action”. The upright meaning alongside the horse depicts the usual vibrancy of Wei Wuxian. He is always ready for adventure, he finds joy in the smallest of things, and is always confidently leading the way in situations that require it. I feel that the reversed meaning of the card also suits (yet again) Yiling Laozu Wei Wuxian. A reverse Knight of Wands can translate into a loss of power and needing to compensate for something one doesn’t have total control over. Doesn’t that sound familiar?

Lan Wangji

Temperance

“Middle path, patience, finding meaning” | “Extremes, excess, lack of balance”

I would like to begin this one with a very loud fuck you to the mischaracterisation in the MDZS fandom. I’ve seen first hand the love and tenderness held towards Lan Wangji’s character be watered down to caveman with no emotions and no respect. (Update: I wrote this post like 7 months ago, um wtf was my issue, i’m sorry)

Continuing onwards, Temperance was the card I eventually chose for Lan Wangji after way more deliberation than was probably needed. The upright and reversed meaning of this card is pivotal to Lan Wangji’s character in reference to pre and post timeskip. Lan Wangji at 16 years old is a menace, a stickler for rules, and someone who simply cannot see the other side of the coin. Yes, he’s honourable and stands up for what he believes in, but his flaw in this is that he forces that ideology onto others, unaware that other people have different life experiences and morals, and therefore cannot be like him. This leads to a sort of arrogance that drives him away from his peers, since they, as immature teenagers, don’t want to adhere to Lan Wangji’s immature teenager beliefs that everything he does is how everyone else should be doing it. 

The literal depiction of the card features an angel who is half in the water, half on land, mixing waters between two goblets. The angel is almost giving the advice to try all options before continuing, testing the water gradually before jumping into the deep end. Which sounds very much unlike Wangji in many places, but as a reminder to the unreliable narration of Wei Wuxian, Lan Wangji is only ever a fool around him.

Time quite literally tempers Lan Wangji. At 16 he is an isolated loser with no friends, and by the time he’s thirty-something, he’s been worn down by a decade of grief and mourning. He’s calmer, sees all angles with his almost omnipotence, and is much calmer than before. While he was easily riled up as a teenager, older Lan Wangji is smart enough to either let it go (walking away from Jiang Cheng in the very beginning), or simply act without explaining (throwing around silencing spells like they're going out of fashion). He finds his place in the world and grows into the name he was titled, Hanguang-jun, the bearer of light, and is comfortable and secure enough to have found his path. Patience follows every one of his actions in the timeskip, and his meaning in life? Love and cherish the man he lost all those years ago. Romantic!

The Knight of Swords

“Direct, focused, perfectionist” | “Tactless, forceful, arrogant”

I genuinely enjoyed assigning a minor arcana card for characters because through this I can draw parallels between them. Notice how both Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian are Knight cards? An excellent reminder of the parallels between them both. The Knight of Swords depicts a young knight in armour riding atop a white horse in battle, the whiteness of the horse being a reference to the pure nature of the knight, his righteousness that drives him to raise his sword. The knight, despite having the background showing storm clouds and strong winds, charges onward regardless, displaying his forceful and arrogant nature, and Lan Wangji is mostly noted for his almost single minded determination to complete his goals. He will never sacrifice others for it (separating him from ruthless ambition), but he is almost arrogant in his actions as a Jade of Lan and darling of the cultivation world (the morals he keeps pushing onto others, telling Wei Wuxian to come back to Gusu with him, quite literally dragging him there (he enjoyed it though, I guess), and so on and so forth). 

All cards shown are from the Rider-Waite tarot deck.

[lokischocolatefountain]

1. For Old Time’s Sake || Red Tape, Red Line

Series Masterlist

Fandom: Narcos

Pairing: Javier Peña x Reader

Rating: G (check ratings for each chapter)

Word count: 3.4k words

Summary: Javier runs into an old friend in DC.

A/N: Javier for Day 3! Thanks for the love for the last two fics. Here’s more and here’s my favorite- Javi. I do have a series of him in my Married!Javi fics. Buuuut, it doesn’t follow a chronological order. Unlike that, I’m trying to have a coherent storyline here. Writing a linear story happens to be my downfall so I’m gonna wait and see how this pans out. Hope you like the first instalment of this story!

Wallet, keys, ID, gun, badge.

He froze with his hand on the hotel side table holding only a generic lamp after he’d taken his possessions- wallet, keys, ID. There was no gun to slip into the back of his pants and no badge to strap on to his belt. After eight years of the routine, he’d grown used to the metal digging into his lower back, used to the danger it possessed and the illusion of safety it gave him.

When he’d woken up that night from an imagined bullet to his chest, he reached for it on the same table, his heart seizing up when he found it empty. The quiet streets of DC and the streetlights pouring in through the window helped ground him, told him where he was. He’d taken to repeating the mantra that had been helping him come to after his nightmares. You’re home. It’s over. You’re home. It’s over.

As he slipped into his suit jacket, he wondered if the mantra was even true anymore. When he told himself that it was over and he was home, did he mean the states? Because DC wasn’t home. But was the US home anymore? Laredo? Bogotá? Shit, if it wasn’t the first three, it definitely wasn’t that last one.

He bent down and pulled his suitcase out from under the bed, hand slipping inside to retrieve the red pack of Marlboros he stored inside. Everything was perfectly packed- shirts and pants ironed perfectly, socks rolled up and underwear folded neatly. With everything else in chaos in his life, this bit of orderliness brought him comfort. He once took some pride in how well he could pack his life up within minutes. Not since that hijo de puta rubbed in his face that despite his shit lifestyle, he had a wife and children to go home to. A family man, he’d called himself.

While he couldn’t even look his dad in the eye or bring himself to visit mom’s grave, men like Berna took themselves home to wives and children every night. It must need some level of delusion to be able to do so.

It wasn’t over. Nothing was over. He’d been fired- well, he resigned. Columbia was supposed to be behind him, but there was still work to be done, paperwork to write up, politicians to schmooze. As the day passed, he was passed around from desk to desk, bureaucrat to bureaucrat, all praising him or letting him know just how hard he’d made their lives. State, Defense, DOJ, CIA, the fucking White House— Javi of the past with the hot blood, wide eyes and the need to prove himself would be ecstatic to know where he’d land up in the future. He wouldn’t be too pleased with the journey, though.

He’d won.

At least that was what the ambassador had said. But it didn’t feel like it. While he’d grown up and let the cynicism of life get to him, there was still that younger Javi taking up too much space in his head, telling him that he had failed in what he’d set off to do and sold his soul in the process. That the last eight years had all been for naught. I went after Medellin and Cali and all I have to show for it is the fucking nightmares. Now that would make for a wonderful print on a t-shirt.

“Good afternoon, how may I help?”

“I have an appointment with The Assistant to the Chief of Staff. I’m Javier Peña,” he said, sliding his ID across the rich mahogany desk to the woman. She took his ID, checked her computer, his face, the ID, repeated the process and then slid the ID back to him.

“Mr. Peña, Mr. Reed is in another meeting right now, but he’ll be happy to see you once it’s over. I can direct you to our waiting room.”

Great.

He smiled, nodded and followed the woman through the state department his eyes roving over the workers as he wondered how many of them had to stay late nights to fuck up the progress he and his fellow agents made on the field. How many of them typed up letters from the Secretary of State with directives to back the fuck off right when he was about to nab a valuable target. How many of them were assigned to Colombia, how many to other countries where they played around in their own interests.

He’d always held these people with contempt and not much had changed. They got to sit in their cushy office with the nicest computers and air conditioning while he and his colleagues chased goons in the streets of a foreign country. These couch potatoes who wrote condemnations and pulled visas and told them how to do their fucking job as though they knew what it was like to have a kid threatening to kill you with a hand that was too small to be wrapped around a gun if you didn’t drop your own.

Did any of these people think about men like him? Think about what it was like when you lost yet another partner and had to live with the image of him bleeding out on the road as you woke up from yet another nightmare with yet another realization of what you should’ve done to save his life in that moment.

They did not, he decided when the clock ticked and ticked but there was no word for him. The receptionist came by once or twice to apologize on her boss’s behalf and offer him coffee. Coffee to add to his sleep deprivation? No thank you.

He politely declined both times, willing himself to not take his anger out on the poor woman. She was just doing her job.

When the clock hit six, he got off his chair and stepped out of the waiting room. He’d known frustration. More often than not, he was left clutching his head in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other as his lungs burned from the cigarette between his lips as another step in his mission failed spectacularly. He knew frustration, but nothing like this brand of idle frustration where you had nothing to do but sit on an uncomfortable chair in the office of some prick who got paid more money a year than he would make in his entire life for doing fucking nothing.

So much for being a hero.

“Javier?”

He stopped outside the elevator door, turning around to see the face that called out his name.

Goddamn.

Her name slipped out through his lips, his tongue rolling around with as much practiced ease as it had done all those years ago. She looked exactly the same, yet completely different. Slightly taller as she walked up to him with the same smile, lips painted a deep red. Her hair was down instead of up in a bun. Her eyes gleamed with the same light he’d found in them over a decade ago. Although there was a new addition— crinkles at the corners of her eyes when she smiled. She’d exchanged the more practical field uniform for a nice blouse and skirt. A matching jacket hung off her arm and her hand was wrapped around the handles of a handbag.

“What are you doing here?” They asked at the same time. They exchanged smiles and he followed as she lead him into the elevator.

“I was supposed to meet someone. A Mr. Reed.”

“Ah. He wasn’t here for most of the day. Some fire to put out.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah. Did they have you waiting the whole day?” She asked, removing the lanyard with her ID. She hissed when it caught in her hair and he stepped in, untangling the thing from her hair and taking it off for her. He took the card between her fingers and read her name out loud.

“Policy Analyst. Damn, Glasses,” he trailed, using her nickname from their time in Quantico. “You really did get yourself the nerdiest job. Can’t say I’m surprised.”

He handed her ID back to her and she shoved it into her bag, smiling at her nickname rather than shoving him like she used to. Or threatening to tell on him to their training officer. “Alright, Pissy Pants Peña. You got me.”

He let out a laugh at her rebuttal. The name surprised him just as it had the first time she used it against him in a moment of weakness even though she’d claimed that nicknames were “so unprofessional and rude. I will not call my fellow trainees rude names just to look cool around other trainees.” The first time was when he’d aggravated her more than usual and she spat out the name he’d earned when he had so much to drink that he pissed his pants.

“Are you free to grab a drink? It’ll be nice to catch up,” he asked, hopeful that a drink with an old friend would make his terrible day a little less terrible.

“As long as you don’t piss your pants,” she joked, lips curving up in an easy smile before she gave him a clear yes.

She took him to a nearby bar, a favorite of the State Department staff, she said. Many recognized her there, including the bartender who asked her if she’d like her usual.

“You don’t do tequila shots anymore, I’m guessing.”

“Ah, no,” he chuckled, thinking back to his training days when they went out and got drunk on the rare days off from their intensive routine. “These days, I—”

“Whiskey?”

“Yeah. How did you guess?”

“You look like a whiskey man. I can just picture you sitting in a dark corner of a bar, all alone and serious, avoiding paperwork or thinking about how to bend the rules.”

“Oh? That so?”

“Mhmm,” she said, sipping on her glass of red wine. She was always a wine drinker. A wine snob, one might say. She did that little swirl that wine drinkers did, took a whiff of the drink and then a small sip.

“Is that part of your job as policy analyst? Analyzing lonely men in bars and guessing what’s in their heads…”

“No, but I’ve had to creep on lonely men drinking their whiskeys in my last job.”

“Oh? What was that?”

“CIA Operative.”

He raised an eyebrow at that. She didn’t seem the CIA type. But then again, it could be his generally positive regard for her and negative regard for the CIA that made it hard for him to imagine her being part of those bastards.

“And you left because?”

“I found out that I had to do things I didn’t want to do in order to survive in the CIA. Didn’t have the stomach for it. I thought that if I just followed all the rules and did my job, I could succeed, but…” she sighed before taking a sip of her drink. “I learned that doing the right thing and doing my job contradicted each other a bit too much.”

Under the dim light that hung above her head, she didn’t look as naïve as she used to. Following every little rule will get you nowhere, Glasses. He’d made fun of her for it several times, told her she didn’t know what the real world was like, that she was in for a big shock. Little did he know that he would be in for just as much shock if not more. While she was intent on doing everything by the book, she at least knew that certain things could never change. Her ambitions weren’t too big. While he and their other classmates talked big about changing the fucking world, she said she just wanted to do her part, just help things along. She saw the nuts and bolts of the machine, know how the gears turned and pointed to every mechanism that would stop him from realizing his lofty dream of “winning the war on drugs, baby!”

“There is no war. It’s just money and politics and even more money. And a fuckload of racism.”

Javi of the past chided her for her cynicism, but if she told him that now, he would buy her a drink.

“Oh and there was the time I got shot, so I can’t really be on the field anymore. My insides are too messed up,” she said, moving the fabric of her shirt aside to reveal a healed bullet wound peeking out from under her bra strap. “Guadalajara. And this is just one of seven. The guy was a terrible shot, though. And my surgeon was fucking amazing, so I live to tell the tale.”

“A lot has happened, huh?” He remarked, considering her wound carefully as he wondered where the other six bullets had hit her body. The knowledge that she’d look completely different underneath her clothes compared to what he remembered covering in kisses infuriated him. He needed to relearn the body he should’ve taken more time to learn. To strip the proper clothing off her and acquaint himself with what was new and reacquaint himself with the familiar. Would he even remember what was new? Was the one time enough for him to register her in his mind?

“Hmm yeah. A lot. Like your work with the cartels. You and your guys always found a way to get on our nerves in State.”

“Oh?” He feigned innocence. “I didn’t know I was pissing you off, Glasses. I’m sorry.”

“Aww, he’s sorry. Don’t even try me, Peña. It was almost like you and what’s the other guy’s name…? Murphy? Like you two were fucking shit up just to get on my nerves. And then Duffy and Lopez. Duffy always pissed me off, but then he and Lopez had to go have their faces plastered on the papers. I thought it was just some other Javier Peña but then that happened and I was sure it was you.”

“I didn’t ask Duffy and Lopez to do that, I swear. They did that all on their own.”

“Really? I knew you and Duffy were close back in the day. And it looked like something you would do, breaking the rules like that.”

“Now give me some credit, hermosa. Maybe I’ve learned to follow the rules a little in the past few years.”

“As one of the people who had to put out the fires you started, I’ll have to disagree respectfully.”

“I’m surprised I have your respect now. I didn’t have a modicum of that back then.”

“Oh, it wasn’t that bad. I had some respect for you.”

“That so?”

“Yeah. You always…you wanted to do the right thing. We have differences of opinion on what the right thing was, but you always wanted to choose the option that would do the most good. I always admired that.”

“I’m not that person anymore.” He was the man who lied to his agents that the Ambassador did not prioritize the safety of their Cali insider. He was the man who got into bed with Los Pepes and did it again to rescue Christina Jurado. Whatever good she’d seen in him fizzled away the moment things got hard for him. He wondered how she would’ve done it. Had he been the type to follow rules like her, would he have kept his soul intact?

“I’m not surprised. I’m not the same person either. No glasses for one,” she joked, getting a light chuckle out of him. Her light demeanor dulled just a little and he could see through her eyes some kind of darkness that wasn’t there before.

“Things are rarely as we expect when we’re at the heart of the problem. Making the right choice is more…complex because— we have to choose between option that will all hurt people terribly in one way or the other.”

He nodded and took a sip of his drink, his mind reeling with all the times he needed to make decisions like that. They tended to be a lot more complex that he imagined when he was young and idealistic.

“Job like that, if it doesn’t change you, are you even human?”

“Right,” he said, not fully agreeing with the sentiment. The standards were completely different for the two of them. Sure, she would’ve faced those choices in the CIA. But she left. Long ago, he assumed, from her senior position at the State Department.

Whatever she had to do as CIA operative, it made her leave. Unlike him, she had the moral clarity to do it as early as she did. She looked more at ease now.

Maybe it was the fact that she had a cushy office job now, but the perpetual tension in her shoulders was missing. He’d prefer her version of change to his. Perhaps he should take up an office job, be relaxed, sit back at a desk and attend meetings about when to have meetings. His body sure couldn’t handle the field anymore. His knees and ankles still felt his jump from a balcony when he chased Jurado in Curaçao.

As much as he liked condemning himself to hell for his sins, as much as he liked withering away in shame when people heaped him with praises, it felt good to be on the receiving end of her empathy. The job did change everyone. If Glasses, the goody two shoes, stickler for the rules, ultimate teacher’s pet could understand that… Maybe he should too. If the field had changed someone like her, of course it changed him.

“So, umm… it’s getting late,” she said, looking up from her watch. “I have a rule about not having more than two drinks and,” she held up her second glass, half a sip of red wine resting in the bottom. “I had an early day today and will have an earlier day tomorrow. I got a meeting.”

Shoulders slumped, he nodded at her slowly. He didn’t want her to leave, didn’t want to lose the piece of a much calmer past. “It was great seeing you again, Glasses.”

“Likewise, Triple P.”

He tilted his head to one side, smiling at the new nickname. “Pissy Pants Peña is quite the mouthful, so… And it would be weird if my bosses heard it. We aren’t in our early twenties anymore and stupid shit like this could ruin a career.”

“Well, I no longer have a career to be ruined, so… But thanks anyway,” he said, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet.

“Nah ah ah,” she said in a sing-song voice, reaching into her bag. “You’re in my city, I’m not letting you pay. It’s bad manners.”

“Is it now?” he said, sliding a wad of cash across the bar to the bartender. “Is that one of your rules?”

“It is. You’re a guest in D.C. and it’s poor hospitality to not buy you a drink,” she said before turning to the bartender. “Josh, don’t take his money,” she said, handing the man some dollar bills from her purse. Josh ignored Javier’s money and took hers instead, alluding to whatever loyalty he had for her. She did say that the place was a State Department favorite. It made sense that she was on a first name basis with the guy.

He thumbed his mustache, the bristles scratching his finger gently. “What if I have a rule about that? That it’s poor manners to make a beautiful woman pay for her drinks and mine…”

“Then I’d expect you to say thank you for aiding you in your rule-breaking. I know how you love to do that.”

He grinned and licked his lips slowly, taking her in as she walked ahead of him. She never wore clothes like that before, pencil skirts that hugged her ass and high heeled shoes that made her hips sway in the most mesmerizing rhythm. As though feeling his stare, she turned around suddenly, making his head whip up so fast he could’ve broken his neck. Or it was just his old age.

“So, umm…Lunch sometime? We could continue this conversation,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Or not!” She added quickly. Painted fingernails scratched at each other, chipping away at the already lightly chipped red paint. “I know you’re really busy.”

“Never too busy for you, Glasses. Drinks again tomorrow night?”

“Yup. I’ll see you here at 6:30? If my schedule doesn’t change too much, that is.”

“6:30 is good.”

.

.

.

Advent Calendar Masterlist

Main Masterlist

[laufire]

I'm not replying to those posts because contrary to popular belief I'm not THAT much of a killjoy, I get that there's some degree of tongue-in-cheek, blah blah blah, but. just my two cents.

I'm seeing a lot of attention to jason & alfred's dynamic lately that's all "oh alfred HATES jason, thinks he's the worst, jason's the one that considers alfred family but alfred's classist ass hates him" and listen, by all means, insult alfred, I don't want this to come across as me looking like I give a fuck about how you talk about his character lol. he is not just classist but straight up praises feudal England as the "better days" ajskkdkd. but alfred was perfectly nice in his interactions during jason's time at the manor, telling bruce unprompted that he likes having the kid around, helping him with & praising him about school assignments... and there's "the delusions of alfred pennyworth" in gotham knights #34 aka that adorable, bittersweet story where alfred sees jason's ghost playfully mess around the house.

my point is that alfred is not a consistent character in the comics. you could say that about many people in detective comics comics but imo alfred is a particularly malleable character that functions more like a prop than an independent entity. I think you can unite all of those things into a compelling picture, if you cared to. that compelling picture is not gonna be "lol alfred hated jason and wanted that street urchin gone from minute one 🤮" like that's just... flat and banal. similar to the "lol tim hated robin!jason for replacing his Idol, Dick the True Robin, he hated jason and celebrated his death!!". it's just taken a fanon trend you don't like (alfred behaving grandfatherly with jason or being a Jason Understander, jason being "tim's robin" and all the titan's tower tropes that come with it. I get it, I find those boring as hell too), and going so far in the other direction in the name of "canon compliance" that you actually just land into a particularly baffling, irksome caricature that ignores canon just as much (not that I think it's going to take off, fic wise, just like I don't think "tim hates jason" has. because again, there's nothing there to pull from in a creative way, while the uwu fanon, like it or not, at least enables some level of inventiveness).

meanwhile, look. I don't incorporate whatever prime earth!jason does into my belief system as a general rule (unless it's good and I like it. that happens rarely), and either way at the current point I'm at there's very little to say about jason's view of alfred (which I'm sure will change when alfred is killed and gets canonised). there's that scene where he and tim shit talk his cooking only behind his back (waffles, iirc??), or one scene where alfred scolds jason for not seeing how much he was mourned or something, and then geoff johns tries to convince me it was alfred who put up jason's memorial case in the cave, as if there's a universe where that makes any goddamn sense. and to my knowledge, there's not even an equivalent to alfred's shitty inner monologue about kid!jason in UTRH, so those things don't even exist together (UTRH would have to exists in the first place lol).

regardless, focusing on new earth!jason, post-resurrection... I don't think he mentions alfred once. the very few times we get a peek into his mind (lost days) there's zero attention paid to alfred. he seeks out ways to connect with dick or tim (incredibly unhinged ways but, hey). and obviously bruce is the most important person in his world. but he never seeks out alfred, and jason was someone who reached out to people he wanted to connect with (again, in fucked up ways, we're not discussing that at the moment xDD).

I don't want to turn this into the reverse myself ("lol jason couldn't care less about alfred, it's alfred who has the messy feelings here"), which would be equally flat and banal. there's, again, a wide array of options to be taken with this information to put together a compelling dynamic. it's just that "jason holds alfred in the highest regard, over everyone else in the bat clan, and alfred thinks of him as nothing but a pest he's glad to be rid of from the get go" is not something that I see compatible with what I, personally, know and believe of canon.

[shineonyoucrazyyandere]

I am happy you liked my JJL brainrot, ‘cause there’s more to come. This time with Mitsuba and Jobin (Local Milf and Dilf 🥵). I feel like these two would share their darling, and have a soft spot for a shy s/o namely because they could spoil their s/o to the moon and beyond (Pun very much intended 😉) and seeing they're easily persuaded comparing to a headstrong darling.

At some point their affection kinda goes into the overbearing territory (Like Mother, Like son I suppose 😭). If their darling tries to leave, debt trap time that or they’ll use their connections to make sure their darling stays with them.

Jobin has his family business running, so money won't be an issue at all (He gives me sugar daddy vibes). Won't hesitate to buy anything his darling’s eye lands on. After all, he likes to see a smile on her face by any means. I can see him buying beetle like accessories to his darling. It makes him go 🥵 at the sight.

While Mitsuba has her modeling career money, too. I feel she would take her darling to shopping spree, and would fawn over the fact that she and her sweet darling are both matching in clothing.

Bonus point; If their darling is good with children, especially Tsuguri. It will just further their delusions beliefs on how you’d be an excellent addition to the family. I wouldn’t put it above Kaato to start assisting her son and daughter in law to gain their darling. After all, she literary got rid of the one bully who had harmed Jobin when he was younger. What makes you think she won't do anything for a future family member of hers? Platonic! Yandere! Higashikata family? You bet.

I have this scenario buried in my head for some reason, a blurb if you will.

~~~

Morioh, S city, Japan. At one point, it used to be your hometown. That is until your mother got a lucrative business offer in USA. A famed investor was willing to to sponsor your family’s bakery, that had been opened for generations. Which forced you and your family to leave Morioh for a long time.

When you’re younger, you remembered throwing major tantrums wishing not to leave. Though the reason why you did so was murky. However seeing your hometown again, made your eyes shed tears and a shy of a smile was painted on your face as nostalgia flooded your mind.

You were finally here. As the only child in your family, it was your duty to carry on where your mother has left. To continue managing your family’s bakery. Moonlight Delight.

Over the years from your mother’s shrewd mindset/experience and your baking skills, it went from a local bakery into having multiple branches across the globe. Though, for some unknown reason your heart wanted to manage the Morioh department and that what you essentially did.

The first few weeks, business was booming. Customers were coming in hordes to try some of your family secret recipes and specialties. To say the least, seeing your customers leaving with a smile is making you satisfied. After all, life is too short and desserts are everlasting. That was the motto of your shop, at least.

One day, however, a lady you could immediately recognize has visited you. It was Mitsuba Higashikata. You have heard of her from your mother and different modeling sources—since you may or may not have an interest in fashion magazines.

She was a beauty; With her slim build, short brown hair, and a confident smile on her fair visage. Her sleeveless pink shirt, alongside her checkered skirt which highlighted her build, and her heels did her wonders as well.

“Good afternoon, Ma’am. Welcome to Moonlight Delight? How may I serve you?” You greeted; Your voice was as upbeat and friendly, trying your best not to fumble in front of one of your favorite models.

(1/?)

Dw; There’s more to come from this blurb. Bettle boy would come in the next part and things will get interesting, since both he and s/o has shared history. Which may open old wounds.

You could tag me as JLL anon🫧, if wish. I am the same anon that gave you the Toru and Pucci Hc’s.

Sheesh I’m like fresh out of words here, once again fantastic work here JJL anon. I always knew Mitsuba and Jobin could be a great platonic Yandere pair. I’m feeling every last bit of this post.

[dr-george-ordell]

"Don't linger in front of your own reflection, child, or it will steal your soul."

As a child, Aaron always had the silly little wish that someone would take him away. To be whisked away to a distant land of utopian desires fullfilled.

His father had always told him those desires were dangerous. Never directly, but Aaron had always heard the nagging warnings the paranoid man always gave him about superstitious, of old wives tales muttered only in the last dregs of sunset and fairytale-like stories that had seen war, life, death.

The decrepit old man had been especially obsessed with the Fair Folk. He had forbidden him to call it by their true name, the Sidhe. A few verbal lashings and slaps certainly delivered the message across permanently.

Another way his senior had drilled the lesson of how dangerous the Fair Folk were, was through precautionary children's tales. Constant lines from books hammered into him, alongside cryptic rants and long lectures lasting hours.

"Don't linger in front of your own reflection, child, or it will steal your soul,"

The older Siegel would warn, scowl, scold, all while pointing his finger accusingly. It was as if he could see through Aaron's carefully crafted mask around him, easily find the most minute cracks and flaws and glare deeply at them until he reached the innermost mechanical workings of Aaron's heart. In that heart made out of steel and copper, was the secret wish to belong. A painful childish longing for someone to take him away to a place that felt warmer, that embraced him softly like quilts on a winter day. He would've much preferred it to the icy frigidness of his father.

"Snowqueen," Aaron would silently mutter under his breath. He often thought of the story, reminicing over each line and repeating it until it burned into his mind. It was soothing repetition, one that comforted him during the freezing nights in which his father kept him out in the glistening snow.

One particular time Aaron was locked out, he remembered how numb and red his fingers were, his breath fogging as he struggled to breath in the dry, arid air.

His immune system had always been terrible, worsened by the fact his father seemed to enjoy locking him out the house. What he didn't know was asthma at the time severely plauged him, leaving his younger self wheezing with rattling lungs.

It was as if someone was dragging semi-molten glass shards through his chest even if he took the most shallow of breaths.

Aaron had to find somewhere to shelter. And fast before he became part of the crystalline frost.

Treking away from the woodland mansion, Aaron only looked back once he was at the edge of the forest.

The house was dark, as it usually were in winter, one dimmed, smothered light present in a window on the third floor. Frost-glazed windows shimmered in the dim glow of the moon, icicles having formed upon the many windows, giving the home a resemblance of a prison rather than a place that people raised family in.

During that moment where he stood, he hated, despised, felt like a savage beast being held back from snapping back at his father. He had always made excuses for the cruel man, desperately hoping one day that the older man could be one day be proud of what he did, declare that his previous actions were rough yet justified as he began to love Aaron like a parent would.

But at thirteen, he realised mirror shards of misery passed down from father to son for generations had embedded permanently within the elder Siegel's heart. He had only had been snapped out of one-sided delusion by walking past a frozen puddle, and staring wistfully into it, ignoring his father's lesson. On its reflective surface, Aaron saw the man he hated the most, his chiselled face and marred, red rimmed eyes glaring back at him with raw beastial hate.

It had hurt, and it still did, it caused a nauseous ache, it almost caused those mirror shards to root into his own heart. Even if he could finally let go of the guilt and shame of being a horrible, needy child. Aaron wept bitterly that cold, uncaring night. His innocent self grieving the fact his father didn't want to be saved, didn't want to change his ways.

His sobs reverberated broken and unrestrained, sounding more like a wounded, fearful animal than a human child. His face and eyelashes already being decorated by falling specks of white, lips burning in pain from the arid winter air. He was shaking, shivering as he hugged his knees, his toes stiff and numb in his boots. Aaron had curled himself into a fetal ball hiding within the oak hollow, attempting to shake the droplets of frozen water from his damp hair.

He was rocking back and forth almost violently, a desperate attempt for any peice of comfort he could have. Out here in the dead of night within the chittering forest, no one could hurt him if he was hiding away. But nature didn't coddle its subjects, nor was she soft or gentle.

Nature was just like the Fair Folk. Chaotic, yet symbiotic, predictable yet erratic.

Aaron wanted to laugh, but he found himself too weak to even move his lips. His father oh so desperately wanted to protect his child from the Fair Folk, from the monsters who lurked and lived on the edges of the wild. But the only thing Aaron was in danger of was succumbing to an awfully mundane death from the cold.

He hadn't remembered much from then on. It was a jumbled, blurred, a mess of glacial hands, warm hands, mumblings of children from a boyish voice, and a lyrical language spoken in a baritone voice foreign to Aaron's ears.

Someone had picked him up, a person with hair whiter than the snow, and porcelain-like skin. They appeared to be one with the snow, the resulting child of the unforgiving winter hail and blizzard. Icicles dangled like jewels off the edges of their thick winter cloak, adorning them beautifully like an ornament. What stood out the most was those amethyst eyes, boring into him as if they could penetrate through secrets most dearest through his heart.

That was all he recollected, until everything had became static.

-

[yonemurishiroku]

What do you think of Jason Grace x Alabaster Torrington, it could be a nice relationship

This is for both anon and @nicosavior456 since Nov 2023, bc I failed to get it tgt sooner.

In regard to Jason/Alabaster, I think it's an indeed interesting ship.

Hear me out. These two have surprisingly many crossings. The first that comes to my mind is that there is a chance Alabaster knows of Jason - as far-fetched as it sounds.

I'm talking about Alabaster's sword of Imperial gold. Imperial gold is the main weapon of Camp Jupiter. I've always wondered how Alabaster, a betraying Greek demigod of the Titan Army, managed to get his hands on such a weapon.

Which then leads to the second crossing - Jason toppling Kronos' throne on Mt. Othrys.

This poses as a perfect excuse for a scenario wherein Kronos (and in general the Titan Army) is aware of Camp Jupiter, and as one of his high-ranking followers, Alabaster should, too.

Taking both in account, I can practically make a headcanon about Alabaster stealing the Im. gold sword from Camp Jupiter's armory, how he and Jason could have encountered in a hypothetical infiltration into said armory, how they could have come across again in the advancing of the Mt. Othrys. i'm probably delusional, but you get what I mean.

tbh it would make quite a compelling story, you know, the praetor and the thief. sort of like a locked-up princess and the piper that comes across and tells her of the wonders beyond the bar. Ok maybe less romantic and more resentful. Alabaster as this enigma that, literally, sneaks into Jason's life and somehow turns it upside down. He comes back every night, magically bypassing Terminus' shield, curses Jupiter and his whole family, destroys everything Jason's been taught to believe in and then leaves in a flash of green light like a torch going out at the first sudden breeze. His visits always end up in fights, and yet Jason finds himself looking forward to them, as if looking for a breeze of fresh air - and things just devolve from there.

Look me in the eyes and tell me it doesn't sound exciting.

What about their dynamics, then?

An interesting thing is that, fundamentally, Alabaster is what Jason might become. It is the same way that Jason and Luke parallel each other? - I suppose.

Alabaster is a bitter one turned traitor. At that time, Jason should have been bitter if only he just allowed himself to feel. Jason is what Alabaster despites, pities, and hates to become the most - a loyal soldier to the mafia gods. Whereas Alabaster's existence clashes with everything Jason (at that time) is taught to believe in. He's against the gods and wants to bring down the Olympians instead of worshipping them.

He isn't what Jason would have considered one of them, but he has what Jason doesn't have and doesn't realize he needs yet - the courage to resist.

A spectacular turn of events would be that Alabaster manages to teach Jason the freedom to choose - the freedom they have been robbed of, the lack of which has been ensuring Jason as a useful soldier to Jupiter all this time. And what might come out of that? - perhaps, Percy would have an equal child of the Big Three as his enemy.

Also. It just occurs to me how funny that is that Alabaster... actually has a quite amicable relationship with his godly mother, whereas Jason is just estranged. But as it turns out, Al is the bitter one.

All in all, these two are such fun! 🤗 Hope you enjoy my delusions

[thatsmzbitchtoyou]

Breaking the Class Ceiling Chapter 3

This is set in early 1900s U.S.A., during the Edwardian era with some style changes into the upcoming Art Nouveau period. I've changed history a bit for this. Pretending that America didn't have a full Civil War and trying to create a more optimistic outcome for the purposes of the story. I've also tried to research what the rules for society/socializing were back then, and tweaked some of them.

Warnings for upcoming chapters: minor character death, some sexual harassment/assault (but nothing too graphic or traumatic), smut

“You’re courting the Barnes boy?  A clerk?  You can’t be serious?!” your uncle Alonso yelled.  After your announcement and making plans to see Bucky again soon for different parties and outings to make it publicly official, your uncle had been polite to the Barneses’ faces, but the simmering anger in his eyes was enough warning to you that he was livid.  “After all the work I’ve put in for you to meet the men of high society in New York, get you audiences with each of them, I was making plans with the Rogers boy and the Rumlowe lad.  His uncle Alexander Pierce would be a great asset to our–” he cut himself off quickly, knowing he messed up, “your, your investments.”

You scoffed.  “Brock Rumlowe?  I’d rather eat my own hair than associate with that pathetic man.  And his uncle Pierce?  You know he’s been caught dealing with American enemies and defaulting on his loans, don’t you?  And as for Rogers, as wonderful as he is, he’s near betrothed to and hopelessly in love with the Carter girl.  Even if I wanted him, why would I get in the way of that?  Have you no honor, uncle?”  You stared at him in disbelief.  

Alonso was stumped, his mouth agape as he internalized the information you had.  “Alonso,” you started, feeling exasperated and done with his meddling, “I made myself clear while we were on holiday.  I let you come with me because I genuinely wanted to have a familial relationship with you after I lost the rest of my family.  But you made your intentions clear from the start as you tried to marry me off to every man of status in Europe.  As I have told you before, you do not speak for me,” you reiterated your stance, glaring at him.  “I get to choose, I get to decide.  This is my life, I have access and authority over my inheritance, thanks to my father, not you.  I am under no delusions that you are trying to use me for said inheritance, to financially better yourself.  So how about I make you a deal, since you like to pretend you're a great businessman?” you mocked him, sitting down at the desk and throwing a contract at him.  He picked the paper up, examining it as you continued.  “I’ll pay you to go away.  A yearly stipend that in your old age should last you as long as you don’t gamble it away like you have the rest of your money.”  Alonso glared back at you, his fingers tightening around the paper.  “I think it’s high time for you to go back home to England, uncle.  You will leave with dignity, not reach out to me, and leave me to live my life.  It’s either this, or I will throw you out of my house and you can fend for yourself on the streets of New York and stow yourself away to England.  The choice is yours.”

Alonso frowned, “Well what choice do I have, really?”

You smiled pettily.  “None, really.  It’s more than generous.  So sign it, pack your things, and go home.  I will send you a wedding announcement when the time comes, but you are not invited.”

“You cannot be serious that you want to marry Barnes,” he accused, his eyes flaring again.

“I don’t know if I will marry Bucky, uncle.  We just barely announced our courtship, don’t jump to conclusions,” you waved his mock concern away.  “Your worry is misplaced and unwarranted, and quite frankly does not affect or concern you.  Now sign it, my patience has worn thin,” you warned him through gritted teeth, shoving a pen across the desk.  

***

The courtship was met with surprise, which you both expected.  But times were changing rapidly, and you as the progressive woman you were did not care for others’ opinions.  Bucky was still getting used to you and felt himself catching up constantly.  You were open with calling him pet names, touching him, removing your gloves and letting him kiss your bare hands in public, all to cause a stir and make it clear you were taken and unapologetic about who you chose to associate with.  He played into it, kissing your hands at random times, standing what would be considered too close while in public and at parties, whispering in your ear, and while at the shows you went to reach over to hold your hand and then squeeze your thigh randomly.  There were lots of rumors and gossip, but you couldn’t care less as you paraded him around that summer season. 

As the season came to a close you decided to throw one last summer party, expanding it from the grand ballroom inside to your outdoor courtyard since it was hot.  You had been the talk of the town as people wondered what you’d wear this time.  Each party and show you’d gone to had been a new adventure as you modified the American fashions with pieces you acquired from your travels.  Bucky helped you plan everything, writing out the invitations with his expert penmanship, and although he tried to see what it was you were planning on wearing, you wouldn’t budge, only giving him a swatch of bright red fabric and sending him off with Amir to help design the outfit. 

The invitations were sent and the day had come.  The mansion was decorated in a Moroccan theme with brightly colored draping set along the ceilings, flowers cascading from every high surface, bulbous lamps with ornate designs cut into the metal, candles set in jewel toned glasses, and many of the tropical plants that were movable from the greenhouse to the ballroom.  Heavy spices filled the air as foreign Arabian music played interspersed with American tunes.  The guests filed in and stared in wonder at the spectacle of it all, most of them having never seen anything like it before.  Bucky arrived after getting picked up by your car, wearing an outfit called a sherwani that Amir had helped design for the event.  It was a bright red color with intricate gold embroidery around the shoulders and on the chest.  The pants he wore underneath were the same red that tapered down to velvet shoes that felt like slippers on his feet.  Amir had also helped him trim up his beard as he had been letting it grow once you stated how much you enjoyed good-looking facial hair.  Many of the guests showed up in some semblance of Arabian clothing, trying to match with the theme, although many came in their regular dress clothes, unsure of what it meant.  

As the party started and you made your entrance into the room it felt like everything froze in time.  You were wearing a bright red flowing dress that reached to your ankles.  Bucky noted your feet were covered by gold jewelry that were attached to your ankle but otherwise bare.  The dress, which Amir whispered to him was called an abaya, had a neckline and buttons down the front that were embroidered the same as his sherwani was, with gold threading and some sparkling gems interlaced throughout.  The sleeves were connected to the dress in a way that made it so when you spread your arms wide the entire thing seemed to expand like you were spreading wings.  You wore a corset this time, which could be slightly seen through the thin fabric and pushed your breasts up higher than normal, peeking out from the neckline of the abaya.  Your wrists were layered with gold and red bangles, with a red tattoo design covering your hands, henna as Amir explained.  Your ears were laden with long dangling earrings that matched the bulbous lamp decor and some gold cuff earrings along the top of your ears.  Your hair was free flowing and wavy like from an undone braid with rubies hanging from a gold beaded headpiece atop your head.  

Bucky felt like the air was sucked from his lungs as he watched you walk into the room.  The whispers around him were nothing new, but there was a hushed reverence that night as what looked like an otherworldly being was now in their presence.  As you walked to the middle of the dance floor and waited, Bucky rushed forward to properly greet you and be the first to dance with you, as was customary when two people were courting.  He approached you and gave you a deep bow then reached out for your hand.  You gave it to him, then he kissed it before straightening up and giving you an appreciative once-over.

“You look…ethereal, my pretty doll,” he complimented you quietly as the band in a balcony above took their positions.

“You are quite dashing yourself, my darling,” you gave him a head bow back, your eyes raking over him as well.

“May I have this dance?” he asked, squeezing your fingers softly.

“Always,” you smiled warmly, then whispered, “as long as you help me not fall over from how tight this corset is.”  Bucky snickered at your complaint, nodding as he held you.

The night drew on with great success.  Although you were courting you were still expected to dance with others at the party as the host.  You took your turns with different men, speaking politely and promising audiences with their mothers or sisters, and taking breaks with different groups of women you would gossip with before the next dance.  As you spoke to a group of ladies that you had become close with you felt a hand tap your shoulder firmly.  You turned to see Brock Rumlowe leering above you, a sickly sweet smile on his face.

“Lady Y/L/N, may I have the next dance?” he asked, although it sounded more like a demand.

“Of course,” you answered politely, giving him a tight smile in return.  As you excused yourself from your friends you gave them a meaningful wide-eyed stare away from his view, silently asking them to watch out for you.  They subtly nodded as you took his arm and he led you back to the dance floor.

Rumlowe guided you to the center then pulled you in too close for comfort.  You tried to pull away minutely but his hold was unyielding.  He was watching you like prey as you started the dance.

“You look ravishing, Y/N,” he complimented you in a deep voice, his hand on your back slightly slipping lower.  You didn’t stop him at first, continuing the dance as you refused to look at him.

“I don’t believe we’re in the type of relationship for you to be calling me by my first name, Mr. Rumlowe,” you chastised him quietly.  His grip on you tightened, making you wince since you were already sucked in by the corset.

“So, you and Barnes, huh?  I was under the impression that you were looking for someone of status.  Your uncle was quite adamant when he came to my house a couple of months ago,” he droned on, ignoring your previous remark.

“I’m sorry he was misinformed.  I’m looking for someone of substance, not just status, to share my life with.  He’s a good man,” you defended Bucky quickly, praying for this song to be over already.  Rumlowe just oozed a bad energy, and you didn���t feel safe with him, especially this close.

“Am I not good?  What on earth could a poor, insignificant clerk have that I couldn’t give you in spades?” he whipped you around as the music picked up, his hand sliding down again dangerously close to the swell of your behind.  You gave him a warning glare.  “What is it, his looks?  His charms?  Or maybe something a bit more…scandalous?  I can give you scandalous, sweetheart,” he murmured as his hand found the cheek of your butt.  You quickly grabbed that hand and firmly placed it back on your waist, frowning deeply at his grin.  

“You will remember your manners, Mr. Rumlowe, or I will have you removed from this party,” you gave him one last warning, glaring daggers at him.  “I am merely dancing with you out of courtesy, not because I want to.  I am being courted.  You will do well to keep your hands to yourself.”

He chuckled darkly.  “Come on, Y/N, where’s that rebellious spirit of yours now?” he teased, his hand now slipping around to your side.  “I do like a spitfire,” he growled in your ear as his hand came around and groped the side of your breast.  You gasped as you pulled out of his arms, and with as much strength that you could muster slapped him across the face.  He quickly stepped back with a grunt as he held his face.  The slap attracted the attention of everyone around you as the band played on, oblivious to the scene below.  Dancing couples around you gasped and got out of the way as Rumlowe straightened himself, pulling his hand away and seeing a small drop of blood on his fingers from where his lip split.  He gave you a murderous glare as you glared back at him.

“Do. Not. Touch. Me,” you seethed.  Your breathing picked up as you felt a panic attack coming on, your chest heaving as you tried to keep a straight face.  “Leave.  Now!” your voice echoed through the room, catching more people’s attention.

Bucky had been catching up with Steve, unaware of your predicament, until he heard your voice, then he quickly found you and saw you with Rumlowe.  “Shit,” he mumbled and turned to Steve.  “Go find Alexander Pierce and get him to take his stupid nephew home before I kill him,” he instructed him.  Steve took two seconds to assess what was going on, his face hardening as he nodded his head.  “He’s no longer welcome,” Bucky growled, striding toward you as quickly as possible.  

Rumlowe looked around at everyone staring, wiping his mouth quickly then giving you a mocking deep bow.  “As you wish, my lady,” he gave you a menacing smile, then turned and strutted through the crowd towards the punch bowl table.  Your eyes were threatening to well up with tears, your breaths getting shorter and heavier as you watched him leave.  You couldn’t stand the stares anymore and quickly made your way out of the ballroom towards the dark back rooms that weren’t being used.  

Bucky watched you leave and made his way to where you were going through a different door.  He followed the hallway down, unsure of which direction you’d gone, until he could hear panting.  He followed the sound until he found you hidden in a room that was mostly dark except for a few candles in sconces along the walls.  You were breathing fast, your chest rising and falling too quickly, one hand on your chest and the other steadying you against the wall.

“Oh, doll, what happened?” Bucky ran up to you, placing his hand on your upper back and rubbing it comfortingly.  You spared him a glance, tears streaming down your face and your mouth open wide as you tried to get air.

“Rumlowe, he…he touched me,” you panted, your hands now on your hips as you tried to catch your breath.  

“He touched you?” Bucky was seeing red, his anger bubbling in his chest, his heart feeling like it dropped to his stomach.  “I’m going to kill him, where did he touch you?” He tried to distract you and grabbed your face with his hands, rubbing your cheeks and making you focus on him.

“My…my backside,” *wheeze* “and the side of my breast,” you were panicking.  “I can’t…I can’t breath!” Bucky scanned you, noting just how tight the corset underneath really was.  

“Of course you can’t breathe in this, doll,”  he said, then made a quick decision.  He moved his hands to the top of the dress and made quick work of the buttons.  You gasped and tried to push his hands away.

“What are you doing?” you squeaked, your eyes widening.  He knocked your hands away and finished the buttons low enough to get access to the corset.  As much as it gave you a great shape it was too restricting.  He started ripping at the hooks in the corset, pulling it apart from your body.  You were crying, your hands steadying you against the wall as you tried to breathe.  Finally he got to the bottom and pulled the corset roughly, freeing your ribs.  You inhaled deeply, wheezing as you finally were able to fill your lungs fully.  Your body slumped against the wall and Bucky caught you, keeping you upright by pinning you against it without crushing you.  You sobbed as you wrapped your arms around his middle, your fingers digging into his back as he held you.

“It’s alright, my love, I’m here,” he cooed, one hand petting the back of your head and the other rubbing your back.  “Steve’s taking care of it, he won’t hurt you.  I’ll make sure of it.  I’m so sorry, my pretty doll.”

He let you cry as you calmed down, your fingers and arms loosening around him as you relaxed.  You hiccuped and he pulled away, taking your face in his hands again.  Your face was wet with tears, your eyes and cheeks red.  You quickly wiped your nose and mouth, trying to put yourself back together.  

“Thank you,” you sighed, “for helping me.  I’m never wearing a corset again,” you joked, trying to lighten the mood.  

Bucky hummed but didn’t smile, watching to make sure you were alright.  He knew you were trying to save face, but you looked dejected.  “Don’t hide from me, love.  Are you alright?”

You looked down and after a moment shook your head.  “He embarrassed me, in front of everyone.  If there is one thing I cannot abide by, it’s someone purposefully trying to humiliate me.  He t-touched me,” you shuddered at the memory.  “He’s disgusting!”

“He is,” Bucky agreed, wiping your cheeks again with his fingers as he held your face.

“He insulted you,” you mumbled forlornly, looking at him with sad eyes.  “You, my darling, my sweet man.  As if he could compare?  The audacity of that pathetic excuse of a man,” you spat, furiously sniffing and holding onto his wrists.  

Bucky smiled proudly at you praising him.  You had stood up for him, even when it was of great personal cost to you.  He had been falling in love hard over the summer season, and this only cemented the fact that he knew he was going to marry you someday.

“Bucky?” Steve’s voice rang through the outside hall.  You and Bucky jumped.  Bucky turned around and covered you as you pulled your dress back together to cover your indecency, turning towards the wall.  Steve jogged through the door and sighed when he found you both.  If he was surprised by how close the two of you were he didn’t show it.  “Rumlowe’s gone.  Mr. Pierce was quite distraught over the fact that his nephew had offended tonight’s host.  Are you alright Y/N?” he asked tentatively.  

You half turned to him and gave him a quick nod and smile.  “Yes, I’ll be fine, thank you Steve, for your help,” you thanked him quickly before turning away.  

Steve eyed Bucky suspiciously when you didn’t fully address him.  “Could you help find one of Y/N’s maids?  She requires a bit of assistance with her wardrobe,” Bucky eyed Steve back, giving him a lopsided smile.

Steve silently laughed at the face Bucky gave him. “Yeah, sure punk.  You two be good while I’m gone,” he sing-songed as he walked back towards the party.

“Jerk!” Bucky called back.  You giggled behind him at their antics.  “Oh, you think that’s funny?” Bucky whirled back around to you.  You nodded, still turned away.  

Shortly a maid came running into the room, looking horrified at the fact that the lady of the house was spilling out of her bodice.  She shooed Bucky out of the room as you explained to the maid what happened and they removed your corset completely.  Bucky returned to the party to check on everything.  The band had stopped and were looking around confusedly as guests were all gossiping about what had happened between you and Rumlowe.  “What a cad, how dare he?”  “I knew there was something off about him, and that uncle of his.”  Bucky smiled ruefully, hoping this would be enough to run them out of town.  

“Ladies and gentlemen!” he called loudly to the crowd.  They all turned to him.  “Our host Lady Y/L/N apologizes for the interruption.  She will be rejoining us shortly.  She wishes for you all to carry on and not focus on the unfortunate, but rather the champagne!” he clapped his hands as the crowd laughed at his joke.  He was shocked to see waiters come pouring out from the wings with glasses of champagne on serving trays as if he’d made them appear by magic.  Why did they do as he said?  He wasn’t the man of the house, only another guest.  It was strange to have such power in a room full of the most important people in New York.

A few minutes later you walked through another door, your abaya fixed and your face free of the streaks of tears.  The guests applauded as you came back in, congratulating you on handling a rough situation as you rejoined the crowd.  You looked around until you found Bucky, quickly walking up to him and slipping your arm around his.  “Let us take a turn around the room and host, my darling,” you said loudly enough for those around you to hear, putting on the charade of an unbothered hostess.  

Bucky smiled but held back for a moment.  He leaned down so only you could hear him.  “Did you rid yourself of that infernal torture device?” 

You looked at him puzzled, until your eyes lit up and you laughed loudly.  “The corset?  Haha, yes.  I meant it, no more for me.”