#(there’s certainly a pattern of one partner who looks like an adult and one partner who looks like a child…

[earmo-imni]

Always disappointing to go into a subreddit for something you just got into only to see a bunch of people nitpicking and complaining about the thing…

[taintandviolent]

deflowering ; James March x virgin!Reader

{requested by anonymous} summary: 7k words! after a little dancing, more than a little champagne, you decide to take James March up on his offer of going up to one of the new rooms of the Hotel Cortez, to break them in, as it were. Little does he know, he's about to break you in, too. w a r n i n g s: virgin!reader (adult), mentions of alcohol, rough sex, explicit descriptions, canon divergence, rough sex, thigh riding, cunnilingus, blowjobs, aggression, use of 'daddy', dom themes.

full fic under cut! ↓ / ao3 link here! / ♪ recommended playlist here! ♪

t a g l i s t : @kaismanwich / @redwoodghost / @elsamars / @silverzoomies / @kaissweetlamb / @thewolveswithin / @80strashbag / @twinkiemaximoff / @spill-the-t / @stucktothetwo / @evansb1tch / @enchanting-evan / @petersevans / @yesdevineruler / @enchanting-evan / @anonymous0316 / @eventually27 / @violetharmonscupcake/ @my-own-walker / @kai-slut / @evanpetersfansblog / @fuckedbykai / @iluwmycats / @nova-kayne67 / @dewberryobssesed / @the-goblin1 / @dirtyfairy97 / @jellyluvr / @strangerthings420 / @kai-anderson-whore / @piecesofcain / @lilthbunny

It was the twenty-third of August, 1926, and you had just finished your second glass of champagne in the Hotel Cortez. Usually, you never drank this much, but it was a celebration after all. Some fellow named James Patrick March had finally completed the arduous construction of his new hotel and tonight was the opening night. Crowds had flocked to the entrance, dressed to the nines and all eagerly craning their necks for a peek at the glamorous inside. Those who weren’t explicitly invited were turned away by the doorman in his starched uniform.

You, of course — you’d been invited by your friend’s friend’s friend and when you showed up in a beaded, green dress and the mink stole your mother had given you four birthdays ago, you waltzed right through those doors without a single question. You looked like you belonged here as much as the group of actresses that walked in before you. The moment you entered, the hotel stole a gasp from your lips, dazzling you with its prestige and innovation.

It had been toted as “an overly ambitious project” and you could certainly attest to that. Mr. March, whomever he was, had written a particular aesthetic into the design of his hotel and from the hexagonal patterned carpets to the ornately panelled gold walls, everything fit the opulent theme. The Blue Parrot Lounge was a name you’d heard whispered several times, waiters coming down the curved staircases with trays full of delicate champagne flutes. You learned shortly after that the bar was on the second floor and overlooked the entire hotel lobby.

But downstairs in that lobby, a band was set up, their instruments exhaling the liveliest melody you’d heard in ages. Easily, they persuaded the masses to kick their heels up. The grand chandelier above your head twinkled like your own personal galaxy, shimmering every time you moved. In fact, everything twinkled. You felt ebullient, as light as a cloud, and didn’t have a care in the world.

There had been a brief pause where Mr. March welcomed everyone to his Hotel in his dangerously cordial way, making a show of popping champagne. Everyone applauded, congratulated and then quickly dispersed, eager to return to the complementary libations. You’d eagerly taken to the dance floor and quickly found a partner in a jazzy white suit. He had blonde hair, sharp, chiseled features and deep green eyes - handsome enough. You two paired alright, enjoying each other’s lively moves.

He’d clearly been drinking more than you, judging by the way he slurred his compliments to you, dabbing nervously at the sheen of sweat that decorated his forehead. After an hour or so of dancing, your feet were sore and your curious nature had wrapped its tendrils around your throat, ordering you to investigate the rest of the hotel.

A server held another glittering tray of champagne high above everyone’s heads, and you snatched one as he passed you, hurriedly bringing it to your mouth. The effervescent liquid tickled the bow of your lips, the tiny bubbles popping as you sucked in a delicate mouthful. You dabbed at the corner of your mouth with your middle finger, trying not to gulp too loud.

As the song changed, the band racing into another upbeat melody, you swung your shoulder around, prepared to sink deeper into the hallways. Instead, you nearly collided with a broad shoulder. “Oooh! ‘Pardon me!”

“Mm.”

You recognised him right away. In the wicked and honest parts of your brain, you were thrilled that, of all people, you’d bumped into him. During his speech, all the women were staring with illicit gazes and hungry tongues. You’d mapped the direction of their eyes as they scanned along his face, and down his body as they openly and dissolutely lusted after him. The audible whispers that scattered the room when he cracked open the champagne, allowing the fizzy stream to spray into his mouth would’ve been laughable if you hadn’t been one of the whisperers.

He seemed slightly less personable now, almost curt in nature. Something about the dismissive way he’d flashed his brows at you as if he was annoyed sparked a fire in your curiosity. He was too handsome to let slip through your fingers, and surely, there must be a reason for his clipped response. You gulped down a mouthful and cleared your throat.

“Say, aren’t you Mr. March?” You asked coyly, knowing full well who he was.

He stopped then, like he’d been challenged to a duel, and with a slight bow, turned gracefully on his toes. To him, it was a challenge. You hadn’t run off with your tail between your legs, offended by his sternness, and that was a challenge for conversation, for flirtations and perhaps… indulging himself.

“Indeed I am. Enjoying yourself?” He eyed the half-empty glass in your tiny little hand, taking note that it clearly wasn’t your first.

“Oh, very much so. This is a ssswell party, Mr. March.”

“Splendid! And please,” He took your hand in his, pressing his lips against your knuckles. “Call me James.”

You cooed in acknowledgment, watching him from the rim of your glass. He lingered for a little too long and you would’ve bet your last penny that you saw his nostrils flare slightly as he inhaled a deep breath of your scent. After a moment, James straightened up, keeping a firm grip on your hand.

He had indeed; you were sweet, like a delicate pastry with the slightest hint of fruitiness underneath. There were notes of a perfume, floral, something moderately expensive — surely, something you’d saved up all your pocket change for. The way your eyes glimmered awoke a deep hunger within his core. He’d play with this.

“Tell me, my dear. Can you dance?” He asked.

The moment you said you could, he’d wrapped your slender arm around his forearm, holding onto it tightly as he towed you back towards the dance floor. Thank god your mother had insisted you learn how to dance properly. And thank heavens your friend, whom Mother detested, taught you how to dance improperly. Mother had always said these new trend dances were for immoral and loose women, but when James March insisted you dance the Charleston with him, you’d never been gladder for immorality in your life.

Keeping a tight hold on your hand, he swung you out into the clearing. With his fee hand, he made a quick gesture to the band. They responded by starting up the familiar melody, and James stepped to your side, lifting his brows in a silent confirmation that you were as ready as you looked. You gave him a short nod, and you both took one step backwards, beginning the shuffling motions.

His feet moved quick to the rhythm; behind and in front of each other, his heels kicking out to the side. All things considered, you made a worthy partner, keeping up with his lively, bobbing movements. Your hands were at your waist, fingers splayed out, swishing from side to side. You both leaned forward in unison and sent your right heels up into the air. The moment you straightened up again was when you realised that a small crowd had gathered in the lobby of the Hotel Cortez and all of their eyes were on the two of you. Everyone was watching as you two masterfully stepped the Charleston and you felt like a celebrity, a performer with the most handsome partner.

There was one woman in particular, a gorgeous brunette gal, who looked on with narrowed eyes. James stepped in front of your line of sight, flashing a villainously personable smile, and spun you back to his side. Though he wouldn’t dare voice it, the beginning twitches of an erection had his cock stirring in his pants. You were delectable and lively, something he’d take great pleasure in snatching away from you. All the more arousing that she hasn’t the slightest clue….

As the song ended, you couldn’t help but dissolve into a fit of giddy laughter, falling backwards into his chest. You couldn’t be sure, but as his arms enclosed around you, you thought you heard a syrupy laugh deep in his throat. Both of you were tuckered out, chests heaving, a misting of sweat covering your décolleté and his forehead. After a moment in his strong arms — ooooh, his arms — he brought a handkerchief from a pocket, dabbing his forehead gently. Modest applause peppered the crowd, along with a few glad compliments.

“I don’t mean offence by this, but…” You swallowed, wetting your throat. “I didn’t think you could dance like that!”

“I’m full of surprises.” He answered.

James swooped around you, circling you predatorily. His fingers ghosted over the back of your neck, sending a convulsive shiver down your spine.

You two locked eyes then, staring wordlessly. Both of you unable to ignore the need, the pulling draw, the hunger to touch each other. It was the sort of gaze that started rumours. His tongue scraped along the roof of his mouth, longing to taste the churning arousal between your legs. He knew it was there, told plainly by the way you fiddled with the hem of your neckline, nervously, trying to placate your own licentious thoughts.

“Beautiful hotel, really.” You finally whispered.

“Allow me to show you the best room in the house.” His eyes flashed to yours, sensing the apprehension. You rolled your shoulders inward, prepped to decline as politely as you could.

“Oh now, now… no need to be shy. I’m a gentleman first and foremost.”

“I don’t know if your lady friend will enjoy that…” You retorted.

“You are the only lady in my company.” He assured.

You gazed behind him one more time and met eyes with her — an action you’d immediately regretted. Her gaze was as comforting as a jail cell, and her full lips were pulled into a tight, frustrated line that held back a myriad of hatred. You opened your mouth to speak, but a forefinger was pressed hurriedly into your cupids bow, shushing you quickly. He looked down at you, brows furrowed in disapproval.

“Now, now. Shh. I’d hate to have to cut out your tongue, my dear. I had plans for it later.”

Your brows pulled together, eyes displaying nothing but sheer confusion. What on Earth did he mean by that? Either of those things? You were too afraid to broach the question, partly in fear that the answer would’ve frightened you, or worse, aroused you.

As though he read your mind, heard your innermost thoughts, he added quickly: “If you want to find out what… well, you’ll have to follow me first, my dear. Shall you?”

He extended his hand to you, palm up.

Against your better judgement and without thinking a second more about the repercussions, you took it and managed to squeak: “To the moon, James.”

When you glanced over his shoulder a final time, that woman watched you as he led you away, that tumultuous anger burning in her eyes. Something about her piercing gaze sent a shiver down your spine. She looked innocent enough, but underneath the done-up exterior, there was a cruelness, a hostility that you wanted nothing to do with. You hurried your steps, pinning yourself closer to James.

The journey took longer than you expected as every few moments, he was stopped by a hotel guest and congratulated. Everyone from stuffy elderly couples to actors you recognised from pictures all wanted to shake hands with the man that had created “the hotel of the century”. You hung on his arm, politely silent, offering agreeing nods and kind smiles when they’d look at you. They must’ve assumed, of course, that you two were an item, and for that brief, fleeting moment, you were thrilled by the idea.

Once he’d pushed open the door, allowing room for you to walk in, you realised that the room he’d led you into was the room he’d cracked the champagne in — except it had been expertly cleaned within a few hours. There were no crowds, no remnants, no sounds aside from a pair of breaths; yours and his. Although, if you listened hard enough, you thought you heard the dull, muted music from below. It sounded hazy and slower up here in this room.

The lock clicked into place and James had you in his arms, his face buried in your neck, his pencil-thin moustache tickling the sensitive flesh under your jaw. He whispered seductive words of veneration into the nape of your neck, praising your appearance between breaths and tastes of your salty flesh.

“Forgive my eagerness,” he whispered into your ear, before nipping at your skin. “I find you… irresistible.”

Delighted by the sensations, your lids fluttered. You extended your neck to him, allowing more. He kissed your neck over and over again and began sucking too hard in certain spots. You let out the tiniest little hums of discomfort, trying to stretch away from him then. However, somewhere deep in your core, you craved that pain, the burn of his suckling kisses.

“I want you to kiss me.” He declared, finally pulling away to gaze upon your face, like he was studying it. “Kiss me, but don’t hold back. I want to feel your passion.”

You nodded quickly, feigning all the courage in the world. Nervous? Who, me? Never! Your lips clashed together as you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling yourself as close to him as you could. His mouth parted, allowing his tongue out to swirl around yours, and you could taste the champagne that lingered on it like a fading memory. He deepened the kiss, moving further into your mouth and all you could do was moan into his. Silly girl, he must’ve thought.

His hand left your side, trailing further down. With a cruel tug, James yanked your stocking from its front clip, tearing a generous hole in the nylon, then repeated the process with the other. You broke the kiss to watch this fiery display of arousal in awe, feeling a new, unfamiliar fire in your stomach. You’d been aroused before — hell, even pleasured yourself shyly under the sheets… but the hunger. The hunger that clawed at your insides with reckless abandon was speaking in a foreign tongue… but it was one that you wanted to translate into physicality.

“Oooh, easy tiger…”

His fingers splayed out over your now bare thighs, exploring the smooth skin ravenously. As he neared your centre slit, he snarled in response — whether intentionally responding to the animalistic nickname you’d given him, or because he’d felt the slippery nectar dripping from between your legs, you couldn’t know. You thought it might be the latter. You hoped it was.

Abruptly, he pulled away, leaving you to wobble forward with want. He made a beeline to the nearby alcohol cart that had been arranged near the door and poured amber liquid into one of the glasses and golden champagne into another. He brought the darker coloured one to his lips.

“Mmm…” He growled as he swallowed, locking eyes with you, walking confidently towards the nearby chair. Though his head was turned away from his destination, he didn’t stumble, just gracefully sunk down into the chaise lounge without spilling a drop of his precious liquor.

You were in awe of this man’s finesse, of his charm, and the adoration for him displayed all over your cheeks. You didn’t need to bring out your compact to know that the flush had travelled down your neck, and your pretty little doe-eyes were as wide as saucers. He set the glass of champagne down on a nearby end table, presumably where it would stay until you reached for it.

“What’s underneath that ravishing dress, hm?” He asked. You gathered your lips to one side in a coy expression.

“Let’s see,” you tittered. "My bra and my knickers. And…. A pair of torn stockings and shoes, if you’re a specifics kinda’ guy…” You knew he was.

He waited.

You raised your brows, cocking your head to the side in affirmation — that was all. You were a woman of style after all. In this outfit? You wouldn’t be caught dead in a corset or a slip. Besides, corsets were for stuffy old broads nowadays. Everyone was wearing bras.

“Take it all off. Everything but the dress.”

Surely, the dress would be the first thing to go? It was an odd request, even for your virgin experience. You’d heard stories of men and their covetous desires. The idea of keeping the biggest article of clothing on seemed unorthodox, but you weren’t about to question his demands.

Obediently, you bent down and undid the buckles of your shoes, stepping out of them carefully. With a shy bat of your lashes, you turned away from him, shimmying and shrugging out of the straps of your dress until they fell into the crooks of your arms. Reaching around behind your back, you unlatched the satin bra, letting your supple breasts spring free of the compression.

Your heart pounded as you bent down again to slide the satin underwear over the curve of your ass and down your equally satiny thighs, giving the man behind you the tiniest previews of what was to come. Facing him again, you held your dress at your chest, carefully sliding the straps back up your arms one by one.

With a drink in one hand, the other stretched over the back of the loveseat and a delightedly smug expression, James watched your undergarments fall to the floor piece by piece. His cock throbbed in his pants, the thick fabric doing a damned good job at keeping the beast at bay. Free of everything, your dress hung a little different now, and his black eyes were aflame with the realisation. You swayed back and forth, the strands of sequins brushing lightly against your thighs.

As you bent down one final time, reaching for the nylons, came his voice. “Leave those.”

After a small sip, he pat his thigh twice with his free hand; the sound of his palm snapping against the taut fabric atop his thigh echoed in the room. For a brief, insecure second, you were frozen. A deer in the headlights. Except the headlights weren’t headlights, they were the eyes of the hungriest tiger you’d ever seen and you’d already succumbed to your fate the moment he locked the door.

“Come to daddy.”

You shuddered in response, your tummy doing backflips like an acrobat in a circus act. His words held such command and purpose, you had no choice but to saunter over to him, swaying your hips a little more than you usually did. He seemed to enjoy that; a tiny smirk played out over his mouth.You pressed your knees against his, struggling to not come undone at the contact. With a deep breath, you manoeuvred yourself in between his parted legs.

“Good…” He replied. “Atop my thigh, my pet.”

With your flesh turning a deep shade of red, you walked over his thigh, resting one knee on the edge of the cushion. You felt the air on your cunt, the chill of the room touching the wetness and making it tingle. You looked down at his groin. The fabric was pulled taut. You could make out the faintest outline of a swelling cock underneath —

You snapped your attention back to him, embarrassed. He downed the rest of his drink, set it carelessly on the table next to your still-full champagne and lifted his hand to your legs. The pad of his middle finger caressed the back of your knee, sending a shockwave through your entire body. No man had ever touched you like that, the sensation was erotic and overwhelming to your core. Inch by inch, his fingers trailed higher.

You reached for the champagne, and despite the sting in your nose, you downed the entire glass, setting it back on the small table.

“Lower.” He commanded, amused.

You obeyed, bending your knees.

“Lower.” He repeated.

He’d lined it up perfectly; James pressed that same finger into your slit as you lowered, wiggling it further in, then flicking it up to your clit. You let out a shrill mewl. Your knees nearly buckled as he circled the bundle of nerves, bringing the sensitivity higher. You squeezed your eyes shut as hot, salty tears bit at the corners. Your muscles had begun to quiver, overwhelmed by the strain of hovering over his thigh. His skilful fingers manipulated your cunt, simply playing with your wetness.

James abruptly yanked you all the way down, forcing you into a straddle. Your cunt was spread, pressed tight against his thigh and you needed no instruction on what to do next.

“Ooooh,” he growled, watching your hips as they ground your weeping cunt against the expensive fabric of his suit pants. “Good girl. Your desire is intoxicating… show me how much you want me…. yes.”

James chuckled, knowingly. Despite your best effort in trying to suppress your moans, he saw through the act. The skin of your neck had flushed red. Your soft jaw hung slack, tiny little moans floating out every time he touched you. Your sweet little eyes rolled back into your head every time he so much as flexed his thigh muscle. He knew the effect he had on you. Every slight movement from him ground against your cunt, sending shuddering waves of heat into your core.

“I said,” he started, gripping your jaw hard between his thumb and pointer finger. “Show me how much you want it, my dear.”

You winced, but allowed instinct to kick in. You began bobbing up and down on his thigh, whimpering as the wet spot on the fabric spread. The slick glistened on the fibres as you ground back and forth. Eventually, the friction of dry against wet lessened, and you found a rhythm, bouncing. His leg bumped into your sensitive, aching clit over and over again.

As you rode his thigh, James gripped your dress at the shoulders, kissing up along the curves of your arm. There was a warmth on your skin, a tugging, though you were too deep in the sensations to pull away. A cacophony of ticking began; tiny beads scattered across the floor, bouncing and dancing into crevices where they’d never be found again.

When you finally glanced down, a look of shock painted across your features. Your dress had been ripped at the seams, the delicately beaded fabric now hanging limply at your hips in a mass. James looked on, adoringly, his hungry, inky eyes dancing over your exposed breasts, and the way your nipples had hardened in the slightly colder air.

“What’s wrong, my dear? Are you frightened?” He asked. The lilt in his question was too revealing, but alas, who was he to deny the delicious aroma of fear?

“Who me?” You laughed breathily, like a fool. Sweat pooled in the hollows of your collarbone. No time like the present, you thought. You’d reached the point of no return, and surely if you didn’t say something now, he’d find out when he took you. “Oh, no, it’s just that… I’ve never been with a man is all.”

The realisation swept across his face, the expression telling all the tales of how he felt about being the first man to have a woman. “Aaahhh…. And do you…. wish to be…?”

“With you?” You swatted the air dismissively. “More than anything.”

“Brave. Brave girl.” With that, he scooped you up in his strong arms, and got up from the chair. You wrapped your legs around his torso as he carried you effortlessly to the table. The journey was short, and before you knew it, your bare back was laid on cool wood. Your legs hung off the edge, and with one strong yank, James pulled the tattered dress from your hips, tossing it heedlessly behind him.

“Knees up — heels on the table.” He then ordered, sternly. Pulling your knees towards your chest, you adjusted yourself on the table and swallowed hard, feeling vulnerable. Short of hearing the snap of latex gloves, you were left feeling like you were about to be examined by a doctor.

James disappeared from your view then, sinking down below the edge of the table. With nothing to look at, you gazed up at the ceiling with wide eyes, anticipating the next move. When it came, you let out a yelp, your legs closing on either side of his head. James had pressed his lips against her, peppering little kisses against your centre, and after a moment or two of that, opened his mouth to slip his tongue deliberately along the folds. The sensation of his tongue darting out to taste you was enough to send you to the moon, but he continued, delving further into you. Your legs opened again, exposing more of your aching cunt to him.

You felt his nose press into the mound of flesh as he flattened his tongue on your clit, lapping at it hungrily. Your body responded by squirming, a desperate whimper pouring from your throat. His hands were suddenly on your pillowy thighs, holding you tight where you were. With a vibrating groan, his tongue abruptly changed techniques; he began flicking the tip of his tongue into the underside of your clit. Your moans - though they were teetering on the edge of screams — bounced off the walls of the empty room.

In a delirium of ecstasy, you’d gripped the hair at the crown of his head, pulling it hard. He grunted into your pussy, sending vibrations deep into your core. His hand came down on the side of your ass with a resounding slap. You shuddered violently, your sopping cunt clenching tight against his chin, wetting it as your first orgasm came in sudden waves. James slipped his tongue deep inside of your entrance, feeling the pulses as they gradually subsided. Before pulling away to look at the flower in front of him, and what he’d done to it, he let out a throaty, pleased growl. A small puddle had formed on the table, your slick arousal leaking from the hole like sweet nectar dripped from the centre of a fruit.

“Ahhh…” he exhaled. “Divine.”

His eyes darting to the side, James made a mental note to have Miss Evers re-polish the table. After this, it would certainly need it.

The way he gazed upon you, seemingly satisfied with just how wet you were drove your head into the table with a thunk. You arched your back with a whimper, somehow still unsatisfied. From the side, came his voice. “Use your words, my darling.”

Your eyes snapped open, startled that you hadn’t heard him move around. You swallowed, looking up at him piteously. For a moment you dug deep into your own mind, battling with coherency to find the correct words. And, disappointingly, all you could muster was: “I… want more.”

“Yes….. yes, you do.”

Gently, with two fingers, James pulled your jaw towards him, moving your head so that your cheek laid against the table. There was a certain predatory nature in his gaze as he looked at you. “Open up,” he demanded, his thumb prodding your lips. “That’s my girl…”

He smeared his thumb along your warm, strong tongue, depressing it and feeling around the rest of your mouth. He glided over your smooth teeth, digging the fleshy pad into the decently sharp points of your incisors.

“Don’t bite me… too hard.”

With that, he began unbuckling his trousers with one hand, sliding the belt from its loop. You watched intently as this handsome, charming stranger handled himself; taking himself out his undergarments and his trousers, roughly adjusting his cock so that it was free for your devouring. He closed his hand along the length, pumping it several times. A generous droplet of precum leaked from the red, sweating tip and before it had time to string away, he guided his cock to your mouth.

He smeared your lips over the head, coating it in his own dripping seed. His hips then bucked the length into your mouth, bringing a whimpering gag from deep within your throat. Gentle, he thought. With the way your mouth eagerly worked him, doing your best to suck and lap at his aching cock, that thought was whisked away seconds later.

Wet sounds filled the room as James fucked your pretty little mouth, your lipstick smearing waxy, blood-coloured streaks on the shaft of his cock. In your peripheral, it was quite a gruesome sight, but he seemed to enjoy it, tilting his head to watch.

You closed your lips around the tip as it slid out, letting your tongue flatten on the underside of it. You felt every throbbing vein, but every time your tongue or lips grazed that one, the protruding one, James making sounds that you’d only ever dreamed of hearing a man make. It was a breathy, higher pitched moan, or a choking gasp, and each time he did, the corners of your lips curled up into a smile, delighted with eroticism. You pressed your tongue hard into it, sliding it up and down. From this angle, you realised, you couldn’t do much else… but perhaps that’s how he’d wanted it.

You remembered his previous mention of biting, so thinking that it was something he favoured, you began toying with his sensitivity by grading your teeth along his shaft. He hissed, ceasing his thrusts to crane his neck back, revelling in the amalgam of pain and pleasure.

“Harder,” he demanded.

You furrowed your brows in concern, daunted by the new territory that lay ahead. You closed your mouth a little more, the ridges of your teeth gently clamping down on his swollen cock. Suddenly, James gripped your face hard, squeezing your cheeks together like a fish. You winced as he leaned forward to hiss in your open mouth, his demeanour suddenly callous and dreadful. “I said not too hard.”

He released it sharply as you did, and punishingly bucked his hips into your wanting mouth. His thrusts were quick, and marvelled at the tiny, pathetic gags that broke from your throat every time he hit the back of it. You were so delicate, but so… willing.

Suddenly, he pulled his cock from your lips with a sick, filthy slurping sound, and holding it in his right hand, moved back to the head of the table. His breaths were ragged, hungry. You blinked away the tears that had accumulated.

“You nearly ruined my makeup…” You whispered, wiping the slimy collection of drool and precum from your chin.

“I’ll do more than that.” Gripping you at the knees, James yanked you down the table’s length, your ass slipping easily against the polished wood.

Briefly, you felt the velvety hot tip of his cock teasing your cunt. He slid it between your wet folds, exhaling loudly at the slickness that greeted him. He teased you with a thrust of his hips, the tip of his head slipping slightly. You whined as he pulled away.

“What did I say about words?”

Like a toddler throwing a tantrum, you moaned shakily, gritting your teeth. “Don’t do that…”

“Do what?”

“Tease me…”

“Oh, but it’s fun. I’ll do so until you beg for it.”

“PLEASE!” You howled a moment later, taking fistfuls of his shirt and yanking him closer. You wiggled your hips at his groin, your cunt trying to find his cock desperately. You writhed around like a cat in heat, whimpering and leaking more cum onto his expensive mahogany table. In one of your hip sways, the hot tip brushed past your entrance, leaving a springy line of pre-cum in its path. In response, you rocked your hips against his, trying to pull him in further. The sensation had you gasping, rolling your head from side to side. “Please, please, please, I simply mu—

Your screams faded away into the back of his mind, dull and muted like they came from behind a brick wall. James watched your lewd, begging performance with a bemused smirk, chuckling through closed lips. Every anguished whimper, every desperate plea that his lack of action brought forward from your lips seemed to send you closer to the edge of madness. He enjoyed that. Too much, perhaps.

He reached up, running a single finger down the side of your neck, pausing to feel your pulse throbbing away beneath the skin. Such liveliness, such… James swallowed, suppressing the dark sludgy desire that clawed at his insides. His urges had been worse and worse lately, and now with the hotel open… Not now… not with her.

“What do I need to say?”

“Nothing more.” James took hold of his cock, stroking his fingers over the tip, dragging the slickness along his shaft. He exhaled, lining himself up. At first, James popped only the tip in and out, playing with his food. Each thrust, he slipped a little farther in. Out of the kindness of his heart, James was gradually getting you used to the feeling of fullness, but once he felt your slick walls, he grit his teeth. He had told you that he was a gentleman first and foremost, but… such is life. He swiftly sank his hard length into you with little friction. You were soaked and all it took was one determined thrust.

For a moment, you felt nothing but a searing pain as the thickness of his cock stretched your cunt wide open. Tears welled in your eyes, a cry bouncing against your rolled lips. The stinging was replaced with a dull ache, and finally, a warmth.

“My, my…” He admired. “Taking it so well already.”

You nodded feebly, doing your best to muster a smile amidst your punishing euphoria. Had you not been as wet as you were, it would’ve been excruciating. And when he started pounding, it almost was.

James must’ve sensed your discomfort because he brought his hand to your pussy, his thumb circling your clit. Mercilessly. You cried out like a wounded animal and that seemed to only drive him to continue, stroking his finger down length of your pussy before returning his attention back to the bundle of nerves. Your hips swayed back and forth on the table, desperately trying to get away from the pressure that was blossoming deep within your cunt, just above your bladder. It felt like a tangled mess of fire, and your whole centre was aflame.

You shakily lifted your head, watching as his pelvis smashed into yours, over and over again, his cock slipping easily from your aching, drenched cunt. Your hands climbed his torso. You fiddled with the buttons until his shirt hung open lifelessly, like two ghosts on either side of his body. He moaned as your fingertips explored his stomach, his ribcage, and then curled around the small of his back, forcing their way up underneath the restraint of his clothes. You felt uneven skin, the way that flesh raised once it had healed over deep lacerations.

James suddenly picked up speed, drilling into you harder and that released something in you. You felt devious, immoral, and wanted to howl like a banshee. In fact, you did. You let out a shrill, dirty moan, the kind you heard coming from those brothels as you passed them by. Tears pooled at the corners of your eyes before streaming down your temples, disappearing into the hair that laid on the table. Your fingers flexed, nails digging into his back and leaving crescent-moon shaped indentations amongst his scars. Feeling your clenching, he growled and lolled his head back in ecstasy.

You pulled your leg up, pressing your nylon-covered toe against his jawline and gave it a little push.

You heard his breath hitch.

You pushed harder, craning his neck off to the side. His moan said more than any words could’ve. With a devious smirk, you drug your toe down the length of his throat, pressing hard into his windpipe.

James jerked his hips harder and harder until you felt his cock twitch inside you, hot and angry, the first spurt of his orgasm planted deep inside you. He then backed his hips out slightly, just enough for the thick ropes of cum to cover your cunt. His cock bumped into your clit with tiny thrusts, forcing every last milky drop onto you. James straightened up, clenching his fists tightly.

“Ravished. Deflowered. Desecrated!” His words echoed loudly off the walls.

His arms came down with a loud thud on either side of your head, his shirt acting as blinders. There was nothing else in that moment; just you and him and the way he’d claimed you, taken every ounce of innocence you had left.

His hands traced along your collarbone, up the sides of your neck. The black thoughts wormed into his brain, screaming for sating attention. Which weapon would he use? Where he'd cut first - an artery? Arterial blood was always so… satisfying. Would her screams be as such? The final moment, the look in her eye? Perhaps, he could hear those desperate, soprano shrieks if he just…

Thunk-thunk-thunk.

Your lids peeled open, one by one. The blazing light that filtered in through the crack in the deep red curtains burned. You hardly remembered being in a hotel room… alone, and the hotel room you remembered wasn’t the one you were in now. This one looked more or less like any new hotel room that you could’t afford. Moving yourself into an upright position, you let out a depressed bleat… the headache. How much champagne did you have last night? You couldn’t remember.

Sleepily rubbing your eyes, you stumbled towards the door. “Just a minute!”

You were completely nude. That wouldn’t do to answer the door in. Panicked, you looked around the empty hotel room, considering the bed sheets for a moment. Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted a Praising the gods for the robe that had been hung on a hook by the door as you slipped your arms into it and hurriedly tied it round your waist. You caught a glimpse of yourself in the reflection of the framed photo near the door; your hair was a wreck, makeup smeared, and there were the faintest whispers of new bruises along your collarbone and neck.

The doorway was empty, as was the hallway.

Except for the box at the floor.

Despite giving a complete stranger your virginity last night, you had more sense than to bend down and open a foreign box. Clutching the robe at your chest, you began gingerly prying open the edge of it with your foot, wiggling your big toe underneath the fine cardboard until the lid popped off.

Inside, carefully arranged and wrapped in delicate pink tissue paper, laid a dress; a dress that was terribly similar to your own, but considerably more expensive. Atop it, a package of fine silk nylons. And atop those, in exquisitely elegant penmanship, a handwritten note lay. It read:

Thank you for a splendid evening, my dear. My deepest apologies about your dress — please accept this as a replacement. As for the flowers, it only seemed fair, considering the circumstances.

xoxo James P. March

You picked the box up, again checking the hallway to see if the deliverer was there. Still, empty. With a sigh, you shut the door, leaning against it. As you leaned there, holding the box in your arms, the corner of it digging into the middle of your neck, you winced at a sudden pang of soreness.

Your eyes drifted to the clock on the nightstand. “Nearly noon!? Oh, RATS!”

You pushed yourself off the door and changed hurriedly, throwing the robe off your shoulders and onto the floor. Mother! Mother would be furious and nothing was more terrifying than her rage. You’d rather be chopped up and filleted than have to deal with Mother’s anger, even as an adult. You pulled the nylons up as far as they could go without clips, and snatched the mink stole off the bed.

You threw open the heavy door and turned to your left, hoping for the best. You began running as quickly as you could down the lengthy hallway, barefoot. The straps of your shoes were hooked around your middle finger. With no markers, and no indication of where you were going, anxiety climbed your throat. Somehow though, after winding back and forth and up and down for what felt like hours, you managed to find the lobby.

As you emerged from the hallway, it was considerably less busy than last night. Where the band had been, waiting chairs and tables had been placed, a courtesy for guests waiting to check in. The cleaning team of the Hotel Cortez was marvellous, you had to admit. As you ducked your hips away from the edge of a chair, you spotted him. James March was leaned against the bar, chatting gayly with the bartender. The bartender nodded, swiping a rag over the spot directly in front of him. A glass of bourbon sat in front of James, perspiring. Much like you were. So it hadn’t all been a dream. He looked the same as he had last night, no hint of a hangover or fatigue. Just… charming. You inhaled and headed for the door.

“A perfect fit!” He called out from the balcony, his glass raised in a cheers. A few guests turned, searching for the voice. You jumped. The man had a talent for startling you — you’d give him that. You turned, your brows upturned in the middle, asking silently for clarification.

“The dress!”

“Oh! Yes! It does…. Thank you! It’s beautiful, Mr. March!”

“How’s your neck!?” He asked, lowering his head slightly.

The question threw you off. “….fine, but I really must be going, Mr. March! Bye!”

“Come back to the Hotel Cortez any time, my darling! As my guest.”

James watched you hurry out the door, knowing that if you did come back for a second time… it would be the last time.

[weebsinstash]

Ok! OK! Back to normal posts! Or at least normal for over here!

So I've been getting a lot of Hazbin and Helluva content in my YouTube feed recently and, as an interesting but also kind of disappointing fact, the way a Sinner dies directly influences how they appear in Hell. If you drown on a sinking ship like Baxter (scrapped side character who still has an enamel pin for some reason?), you might have an aquatic fishy look. Angel Dust died of a drug overdose, and he now has a prominent heart on his chest symbolizing the heart attack he died from

So, like. Obviously there are cool ideas on how maybe you could catch attention or appear down there, but, could you imagine how fucked you would be with like literally any yandere HH/HB character if you go down there very obviously dead from suicide. Platonic, romantic, sexual, it doesn't matter. You can't keep that shit secret

Charlie meets you and you're like a zebra with horizontal stripes and she thinks you just look so neat and interesting, and wow you're so sweet amd fun actually, what are you doing down here? And then she sees you have stripes going vertically down one or both of your forearms and she suddenly feels a little hope die inside of her because, what does it MEAN for someone like you to be in HELL for... suicide? That's not your fault! That's so sad! She would vow to be your new best friend and do her best to give you an amazing afterlife to make up for all the time you didn't get to have "up top"

Angel accidentally walks in on you changing and sees you have a heart on your chest and is in instant sibling mode because he knows the second Val sees that he'll go crazy for it since he loves that aesthetic (Also extra bad luck if you're chesty and the heart is like in between your boobs or like you know nestled in your cleavage or whatever because then you're getting forced into constant push-up bras) but, also, if you were an addict, that means you're vulnerable. For Val, that makes you a target, and for Angel that means you're probably miserable and spiraling like him and he doesn't want to see you go down the same roads he has

Alastor who meets a version of you that has a certain old timey kinda twang or is kinda theatrical and showtuney in your voice/mannerisms and maybe you glow a little and it's because you put your radio in the bathtub 💀 definitely don't let your extra special "platonic friend" find out you killed yourself from crippling loneliness, partially caused by not having a partner!

Valentino who sees you're literally blue-faced with a certain pattern around your neck and instantly knowing that this interesting little cutie he's curious about is an emotionally vulnerable mark. It won't be TOO hard to pour drinks down your throat and maybe lend you some of this joint until you're spilling all your intimate secrets, he figures

Blitz already has multiple instances of family trauma and feeling rejected and isolated, so how do you think he's gonna empathize if you're some.... yellow skinned aquatic demon who literally drank like a fish and died of liver failure/alcohol poisoning. The imp watching you get piss drunk all over again and bawling how you're a failure and no one will love you? You're crashing on his couch tonight cuz he doesn't wanna leave you alone. And also the next night. And the next. And the next.

Stolas certainly would be awfully sympathetic to a teen or adult child abused by their family and ending their life because of it, coming down to Hell with spots like a dalmatian or leopard from where you were beaten, and bright red on one specific patch of your hair from where you hit the ground after jumping from a great height

Annnnnnnd as a bonus, Asmodeus and a Darling with visible handprints on their neck who was choked to death during sex, so not only is he horribly protective of you as someone killed by a lover, the act of even being lovers something he considers pretty intimate and important, but also because you've now got these horrible sex related traumas and.... honey baby cutiepie, he's gotta fix all that if the two of you are gonna bone down something nasty. You're at least gonna let him cuddle, right 🥺

[extraordinaryhistories]

#15 – 'Kill' (A Sun Came, 1998)

In 2016, a man named Marc Rebillet (yes, that Marc Rebillet) decided to search through a dumpster outside Sufjan’s studio in DUMBO, Brooklyn, which is a very mature and adult thing to do and reflects fantastically on Marc as a person, and certainly should have no consequences on his thriving music career. In that dumpster, he found an odd-looking CD – an unreleased album with a black-and-white cover titled Stalker, claiming to be performed by Sufjan Stevens. It had been recorded some time in the 1990s, and on a quick listen (the album was swiftly leaked online), it certainly sounded like early Sufjan, back when he did wild electric guitar freak-outs; his hushed but nasally vocal tone from that era is unmistakeable.

Everything seemed normal, except for the fact that the album was about tracking, sexually assaulting and then murdering people. It contained songs with titles like ‘I Know Where Your Kids Go to School’, ‘Baby Give Me a Feel’ and ‘U Kan Wrun But U Kan’t Hyde’. None of it was metaphorical. Sufjan recorded a noise rock album in the 90s that was quite literally about fucking stalking people. And then, not five years later, recorded ‘For the Widows in Paradise, for the Fatherless in Ypsilanti’. It boggles the mind.

At the time that Stalker was released, a significant portion of the Sufjan fan community cast doubt on the veracity of the leak. One of the major concerns was that the subject matter was far too direct, far too gruesome, for a Sufjan song. He would never be so brutally direct. He would never. Right?

‘Kill’ is a song by Sufjan Stevens that features the following as its chorus: ‘I want to kill him / I want to cut his brain / And when it's over / I know I'll feel okay’. Ah. Case closed.

The third-last track on A Sun Came, ‘Kill’ is a knotty piece of songwriting that may be the most multi-layered lyrical construction in his early work. Even purely on inspection one can see this to be true – it is a song with a clear narrative, some clear themes, a roiling balance of light and dark within it, which is far more than can be said for much of this era. But then you get to the allusions this song pays to other literary and musical sources, and things only begin to complicate further. I, personally, have not quite made my mind up about ‘Kill’. It is a song loaded with possibility.

An initial reading of ‘Kill’ gives the strong suggestion of a relationship narrative, and I do think that this is what lies at the song’s core. The relationship in this song need not be romantic, but given the sheer depth and fury of the passion here, it seems highly probable. There is a narrator who exists in what is very much a lopsided power dynamic with another (male) figure; very rarely is the narrator an active subject in this song, instead being subject to the figure’s curation and exploitation. The figure ‘took the stable / Bred me to be a mare / Made the brethren able / Gave me a room’, all of which are ostensible acts of kindness that nevertheless confirm a ruler/ruled dynamic. 

We receive that same confirmation in the next verse. ‘I never asked him / I never meant to stay’, says the narrator, and very quickly the song sours. The narrator finds themselves being used and abused, ‘never [leaving] the stall’ while their partner readily leaves their side. Any sense of a romantic relationship in an ideal sense – two partners, ‘riding side by side / Into the frontier’, tackling the world’s challenges as a single, symbiotic unit – is long defunct. Only misery remains for the narrator, with hope long-dashed by a pattern of careless exploitation.

With this as our narrative foundation, we reach the song’s climax, one of the most striking and instantly memorable moments in his catalogue on account of how utterly depraved it is. We are left with no doubt that Sufjan’s narrator is in a state of abject misery up to this point. But misery in Sufjan songs is so often detached, poetic, dejected, somehow fundamentally stoic. Not in ‘Kill’. The narrator has no remaining emotional bandwidth for stoicism. All that’s left is a carnal desire to exact onto the narrator’s partner some fraction of the pain that the partner exacted onto the narrator, and the only way to do this is through murder. 

You will not find a gnarlier image in the Sufjan catalogue than ‘I want to kill him / I want to cut his brain’, and the reason it has so much guttural power is because it does not quite read as psychopathic or unstable. The narrator only wants to do this. They never will, and likely never even could – the verses of this song are in the past tense, and by the time we reach the present tense of the pre-chorus, the partner has left the narrator forever. ‘Kill’ is a logical conclusion, an exhausted final attempt to lash out in a situation where the narrator knows they have no power to do so. When the chorus finally breaks down at the end into a futile repeated ‘I want’, the song’s message is complete. It is violent, but the violence is less a horror tale, more a tragedy.

This is the interpretation that a direct reading of ‘Kill’ provides us, but there are all sorts of semantic curios in this one that complicate interpretation. I am, of course, referring to the extended horse metaphor that this song seems to be pushing. Both narrator and villain are referred to as mares in this song; there is talk of stalls, of stables, of riding into battle in a literal sense. It is rather late for me to mention that ‘Kill’ has a source text, but it seemingly does – Sufjan cites an obscure Sherwood Anderson short story named ‘The Man Who Became a Woman’ as the basis for this song, but has refused to elaborate further. The surface-level parallels are very clear given that ‘The Man Who Became a Woman’ is a story about a horse trainer, but from there the complications begin, because Anderson’s story is a) incredibly obtuse and b) seems to reckon far more with gender, and to a lesser extent race, than it does dysfunctional romance as a theme. The narrative in ‘Kill’ certainly does not retell that of its source material, at least not in a manner discernible to the listener. But the connections are there nonetheless.

A Sun Came is an album that brims with loving, albeit surface-level, tributes to Sufjan’s musical and literary influences, and ‘Kill’ is one such example. But Anderson isn’t the only reference point for ‘Kill’. It is highly probable that Sufjan is intentionally referencing Elliott Smith’s ‘Roman Candle’ in the chorus of this one. Sufjan sings ‘I want to kill him / I want to cut his brain’; years earlier, Smith sang ‘I want to hurt him / I want to give him pain’. And this is almost certainly intentional given Sufjan’s professed admiration for Smith and the various comparisons that have been made between the two songwriters over Sufjan’s career. (What makes things even more interesting is that ‘Roman Candle’ is a song about Smith’s violent step-father. The same systematic patterns of abuse are present in the lyrics of both songs, albeit expressed with more eloquence in Smith’s. Even if not Sufjan’s own stepfather – Lowell Brahms is by all accounts a beautiful, caring soul – one wonders if the subject of ‘Kill’ might have a real-life referent.)

One could spend days attempting to decode ‘Kill’, and this is fortuitous, because musically it does not offer much. The bulk of the song consists of a repeating guitar figure that has a sort of leaden weight to it, dragging it down into the muck. It is vaguely reminiscent of – and inferior to – the ‘Abraham’ ostinato that Sufjan would pen a few years later, but this one is played almost entirely on the lower strings and as a result lacks the same ethereal pop and spring that many Sufjan songs capitalise on. There is some double tracking, especially in the chorus and pre-chorus, but it doesn’t add anything substantial to the arrangement. Neither does Sufjan’s strained, upper-register vocal melody, but there is certainly a sort of confessional quality to it that suits the subject matter. 

All of this comes together to create a song that is resolutely, undeniably un-fun to listen to. It is most likely for this reason that Sufjan chose never to play this one live, unlike some of the other stripped-back folk ballads on A Sun Came. When Sufjan dips his toes in depravity – ‘John Wayne Gacy Jr.’! ‘Saturn’! – incredibly compelling, listenable, rich things tend to emerge, but at this early stage of his career, it seems that the pieces are just not quite in place yet. But there’s no denying that ‘Kill’ is a fascinating and in many ways remarkably compelling song, just one that does not feel as listenable as it could be. It’s fine. Early days yet. All of these songs helped create our modern concept of Sufjan Stevens.

[piracytheorist]

Anyway so if you ship Dami/anya and are sensitive about it you might wanna skip this post.

Now I don't know who this will help, it will certainly help me, but it may, idk, speak to some people who share my opinion and are tired of all the constant shipping. Maybe it's only me. Idk. My blog my rules. Block me if you will and I don't mean that ironically.

So yeah look people will ship what they wanna ship and that's okay. I'm just saying that sometimes when you're an outsider (aka aroace who didn't ship her first ship until she was 21 years old) you can see... some patterns.

And shipping this ship screams of amatonormativity and compulsory heterosexuality to me. Like when some people see two toddlers, a boy and a girl, playing together and they immediately go like "aw they're boyfriend and girlfriend!" which like. 99,9% of those people have pure intentions and thoughts about it but still. The fact that you see two toddlers interact and your immediate thought is to connect their interactions to something sexually active adults do, just because said toddlers are of the opposite gender, is exactly what amatonormativity is about.

Amatonormativity is about how the only way for someone to prosper and be happy is with a romantic partner. Other relationships they may have don't matter, their personal success and growth don't matter; if they don't have a romantic partner then they're "sad" and "unfulfilled". And growing up with this makes us cling onto the tiniest possibility of where romantic relationships can happen, and yes, leads us to see two toddlers of opposite genders and say "They're a couple!" Yes it's a joke. Yes it has good intentions. But the toddlers themselves don't follow your rules. They have no concept of romance. They just see a human their age, who is as willing and energetic for play as they are, and they cling to them because they've found a person who "communicates" in the same way. Amatonormativity is when you take that, a connection between two people and, no matter the context, you interpret it as romantic (or potentially romantic). Because god forbid anyone is happy with only platonic partners, right.

Similarly with compulsory heterosexuality, where heterosexuality is considered the norm and natural instinct of humans. It leads us to prioritizing hetero romance above all else. It leads us to seeing two characters of the opposite gender and focus only on how a romantic relationship between them can work, and only that. Nothing else.

As I said, I'm aroace, and even though I didn't realize that until less than ten years ago, I was always confused, always, since my pre-teen years even, about why there was so much romance in media, and when I entered fandom spaces I was very overwhelmed with how much people did the shipping stuff. I still don't connect with it very much but at least now I'm used to it and expect it.

So yeah. I don't think there's anything creepy or wrong with shipping this ship. But the way so many people lean to doing that says something about how our society conditions us to only have one way of thinking, the "right" way of thinking.

But Nette!, I hear you say. What about shipping twiyor? Doesn't that fall under the same circumstances? They clearly establish their relationship as one without romantic interests involved, yet look at the swarms of people shipping them!

And to that I say yes, it does. Again, I'm aroace and didn't actually ship my first ship until I was 21. You have no idea how much obsession with romance I see around me and go like that vine of "Can I please get a waffle?"

But I am a blogger that focuses a lot on narrative, and I love understanding what the author wants to tell me. I like it so much that I'll consume a bigoted piece of media just to understand how the author's bigotry works. That's how much I like understanding Author's Intent and use of narrative.

I'm not saying what I do is right, or the "best" option. It's just how I work, and that this, along with being aroace, gives me a wholly different and "outsider" perspective.

And Twiyor growing romantic feelings for each other? It can provide something to the narrative. From the very beginning they were already in a phase of working together as platonic roommates, because of how kind Yor is and how adaptable Twilight is. They reached the "mutual respect" point almost immediately. But Yor is also socially inexperienced and Twilight is also emotionally constipated. Having them grow romantic feelings for each other can provide something on par with Spy x Family: humor! Because none of them know what it feels like to be in love, and those feelings can develop while they're under layers of denial, for different reasons for each character. With Yor feeling insecure and Twilight having zero self-consciousness, it can actually make for some humor where the audience will know and the characters will not. And that can be fun! And eventually, when they do recognize their feelings, it can be a step of them knowing themselves better. All that can add layers to the romance and not do it just for the sake of romance.

That is, they don't have to become a couple to make their characters complete by the end of the story. Though it would be interesting to see how they handle the identity reveals if they come after they've developed romantic feelings, how Yor will handle physical intimacy within a romantic setting, seeing how her instinctual move upon physical proximity is to beat the other person into another dimension, and how Twilight will handle a romantic relationship that he for the first time is emotionally invested in after having faked such relationships for his missions.

Now, for the other ship (that I don't mention by name simply because I don't want this post ending up in search results and their shippers being exposed to something they most likely won't like), they're both too young to even comprehend the concept of romance - Damian has a school crush. That's all. I had one too in his age. Didn't develop into anything deeper than wanting to spend more time with the classmate in question. It cannot develop into anything deeper because six-year-old brains are naturally incapable of that. Most of what creates romantic feelings are hormones, in other words, your hormones liking another person's hormones. And six-year-olds do not produce such hormones, nor have developed receptors to analyze such hormones around them, so romance is simply naturally impossible for them. Not even mentioning sexual activity here.

So we're not talking about actual romance here. We're just talking about a 6yo boy developing fond feelings for a fellow 6yo girl. Feelings which he fights because said girl defied him and he's not used to being defied. Neglected and ignored, yes, but not defied, especially from someone whom he considers less important than him.

And while that gives him character, he's still part of the narrative. And the narrative doesn't focus on him! He's just a recurring character. The narrative focuses on Anya, and by putting her against a character who is fighting his feelings for her and ends up bullying her harder for that is not for romance; it's to provide conflict.

Stories where the characters achieve their goals easily without any obstacles are not interesting. We want our characters to face difficulties because those can help the characters grow and develop, express their feelings, prove how resourceful and adaptable they are, etc etc. It's what the matter of conflict in stories is about. Damian liking Anya creates conflict for him, and him existing in the story as he does creates conflict for her. He's literally there to make Anya grow as a character, not as a source of support, but as a source of conflict.

Let me elaborate on that: Anya has to approach Damian for the sake of the mission. In multiple cases she's shown a refusal to do so because he's mean to her and she'd rather spend time with someone who treats her well, aka Becky. Ironically, Damian growing feelings for her makes it harder for her to approach him, because he's ashamed that he has a crush on a girl of a lower class, and even more so a girl who punched and defied him. And because of that, he ends up treating Anya worse than he would be if he didn't have a crush on her. If he didn't have those feelings he would just be a decorative brat that would either ignore Anya completely or consider her pathetic for how hard she would try to approach him. Not a very interesting plot line, nor an interesting character. The "romance" there is what makes Damian layered, more relevant and interesting for the story.

As for Anya, as I said, this "romance" gives her external conflict and nothing more. She doesn't like Damian and would rather not approach him, but feels she has to to complete her "mission". And as of where the anime stands, any of her attempts towards that have led to her being insulted by Damian but progressing the mission even slightly. Her punching Damian gave Twilight a conversation starter with Donovan, and her challenging Damian to go meet his father resulted in Twilight meeting with him as well. She just had to operate under difficult circumstances because of Damian's treatment of her, but it's that that makes for an interesting story.

And so it can be very telling when people ignore all that narrative importance and focus on "But romance tho!"

Not saying it's bad or wrong. Just influenced by amatonormativity, as I said above. No-one to blame in this but the patriarchy. In this blog we fight the patriarchy by not shipping a ship the author doesn't want us to ship. W for liberation.

Yeah jokes aside I do find it an interesting way fandom works. I mean it's still a result of a toxic and harmful mentality that conservatism and patriarchy inflict upon us, but it's telling how it can influence even the way we enjoy fictional stories and what we prioritize on them when doing so, often even ignoring what the author wants to tell us.

[seamsterslocal]

PINNED POST

who am i?

someone who’s been sewing since being voluntold into the puppet factory at age 7. (yes i did grow up in a circus.) a legal adult for decades now but immature enough to get away with calling myself a boy until i die. trans man who dresses like an off duty drag queen. undiagnosed autistic with sensory intolerance for synthetic fibers. proud of my weight gain and not shy to block fatphobic bigots. too arthritic to give a shit about typos or capitalizing. former professional alterations-er. white usamerican who believes strongly in class solidarity across all lines. faggot.

what will you find here?

ive never been good at keeping my tumblr self organized but i’m really going to try to keep this one focused. at first i’ll be posting project round ups and picture tutorials as i work through the immense backlog of my stash, but i’d like to answer questions and help folks troubleshoot their own sewing, fitting, and mending problems. theoretically i’d like to do video tutorials but i dont have the time or equipment. certainly some anti-oppression based political analysis and references to the leather community will filter through, and probably some garden and pet pictures. i’m going to be coaching my life and business partner through making their first clothes pretty soon here so that will be posted in some form as well. tips for adapting clothes for sensory issues and physical mobility based disabilities. me fixating on pattern matching to a truly asinine degree. all black projects covered in cat and dog hair that are really hard to photograph well ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

what do i make?

ive made everything from thirty foot puppet costumes to these-jncos-arent-wide-enough industrial high fashion jeans to back support corsets and more but currently my own projects are all about providing me with a wardrobe that a) keeps me warm b) doesnt trigger any sensory issues c) makes me look like hot shit. you could call what i’m working on a capsule wardrobe but really i’d just call myself broke. my idea of looking like hot shit involves seamlessly blending the fashions of a sixty year old redneck who goes to town twice a year, and the hardest fem at goth night.

what am i interested in?

i really like historical fashion, especially viking and pre-viking era scandinavian, medieval british isles, and irish/scottish/english/american from about 1800-1960. (NOT saying that other places dont have incredible clothes and fashion traditions, but sewing is pretty much the backbone of my ancestor work—not nec. reverence bc not all of my ancestors deserve it frankly (though some do) but connection and understanding—so i focus my research and construction where my own ancestors were (if you call yourself folkish you can fuck off and die in a dumpster fire right now and if you dont, dont bother googling they dont deserve your attention)). i often take historical undergarments and adapt them for contemporary outerwear, or blend methods of fit or construction that were traditionally used exclusively for either mens or womens fashion in a single garment. somehow i ended up specializing in flattening out princess seams.

perks

follow me and maybe i’ll get someone to video me using the treadle machine which has belonged to my great grandma, my gay great uncle, my gay great uncle’s widower, my mom, and myself

new build project masterlist

alterations project masterlist

tags masterlist

“you’re really into anti-oppression, why aren’t you adding image descriptions?”

a couple reasons. as i mentioned i have a host of disabilities (physical and otherwise). my dayjob involves a lot of computer work, sewing is really hard on my hands and body, i cant always look at screen for very long, and if i made myself wait to post until i could do image descriptions, i would never post at all. i don’t think requiring disabled folks to do things they can’t is the best approach to radical hospitality. if anyone feels moved to add image descriptions to anything i do, i will reblog their post with the tag ‘image descriptions added.’ my main aim in starting this blog is to share my knowledge with trans/disabled folks and other people that experience gender dysphoria, body dysmorphia, sensory issues, or physical difficulties getting clothes on and off without pain. the typed writeup that will accompany each picture tutorial is my best attempt at sharing my knowledge and processes with anyone who uses a screen reader

[thebreakfastgenie]

I was thinking about the idea of Wilson putting House before his wives/girlfriends and I took stock of all the ones we know of and I've come to the conclusion that this only happened once. I do think the way it's presented when we meet Bonnie is supposed to establish that it's a pattern, but let's look at the other relationships we know about:

Wilson's first marriage, to Samantha Carr:

House had nothing to do with this one, Sam filed for divorce before Wilson met House.

Wilson's second marriage, to Bonnie:

Bonnie resented House because he always needed Wilson and Wilson always went. This is the clear example. It's also worth noting that Bonnie is pretty needy, too, so just Wilson being drawn to neediness isn't enough, he's drawn to House. This is partly because House is needier, which plays into their overall dynamic which I'll discuss a little more later.

Wilson third marriage, to Julie:

We see very little of this marriage, but it's not at all clear that House was a definitive factor in the marriage breaking down. It's certainly possible, but nothing confirms it. Wilson is happy to ditch her to hang out with House on Christmas because the marriage is already on the rocks and he doesn't want to be home. The final death knell was his wife confessing that she'd had an affair. It's implied he neglected her, and maybe House was part of the reason, but so was his work and his over-involvement with his patients. I think this one is as much about who Wilson is as a person, constantly needing to be needed and help people and give his time and attention away to an unhealthy extent, and completely failing to prioritize the people he should. This is not unrelated to his dynamic with House, which I will get to later.

Wilson's affair with his dying patient, Grace:

This one was fucked up and House did play a role in ending it by forcing Wilson to confront how fucked up it was. House was actually right here. Also it was a weird storyline. But it was not Wilson prioritizing House over a partner. I almost didn't count this because it's not a serious relationship but he was living with her and I think it plays into the larger pattern of Wilson being attracted to neediness.

Wilson's relationship with Amber:

Wilson does not prioritize House over Amber, which infuriates House who thinks he should. Like with Bonnie, it's somewhat framed like House has always been able to muscle in and take Wilson's attention before, we just haven't actually seen many examples of that, and Amber being a strong, House-like personality doesn't put up with it. If anything Wilson seems to favor Amber, if only because Amber is better at taking his attention than House is (mostly via sex). There's that episode where Cuddy has to negotiate shared custody and House throws a fit because Wilson is five minutes late because he was having sex with Amber, and I think you can easily interpret that as something a normal adult would be more relaxed about and House is just being insane, or as a deliberate power play on Amber's part to remind House that she's in control (because she's sleeping with Wilson and he's not). House is convinced it's the latter (because it's what he would do) and given what we see of Amber... he could easily be right, or Amber could just be a person who wants to spend time with her boyfriend. This is the kind of ambiguity the show trades in.

Wilson's second relationship with Sam:

Sam and House hate each other, and yet House has nothing to do with this breakup, either (at least directly; I'll get back to that). Wilson prioritizes Sam to the point of kicking House out of the home he specifically bought for them when House was released from the psychiatric hospital and his psychiatrist said he shouldn't live alone. Their breakup is ultimately about Wilson; he's convinced she did something against the rules in order to help people and tells her he knows and admires it and it makes her angry because he doesn't believe she didn't do it (whether she really didn't or she's just angry that he didn't believe her denial is ambiguous).

That's not to say the relationships with Julie, Amber, and Sam (round 2) aren't about House and Wilson, just not in the simplistic "Wilson always chooses House over his romantic partners" way.

With Julie, even the parts that aren't about House can't be entirely separated from House. Wilson is drawn to neediness and neglects his wife in order to be a hero to needy people. House is an endless supply of neediness. House and Wilson's personalities complement each other that way, it's absolutely toxic and codependent but it fits so well, which is what the universal recipient/universal donor blood type conversation is about (and yeah it's about sex too, have you ever heard of a double-entendre?).

With Amber, the whole point of this arc is how much Amber is like House and how Wilson is drawn to that. It almost makes more sense if Amber is, on some level, a substitute for House. (I also think there's a really good fic in House realizing Amber is using sex to get the upper hand in the fight for Wilson's attention and decides two can play at that game.) There's also something to the idea that because Amber is as demanding as House, Wilson is forced to actually try to learn how to balance things for the first time and he struggles with it, which only adds to the guilt and resentment when Amber dies in an accident connected to House.

With Sam, Wilson's actions demonstrate either House's influence on Wilson or an inherent part of Wilson that explains why he and House get along so well, and at this point in their lives it's probably a little of both. That's the kind of rule-breaking House and Wilson both believe in and House would have responded well to how Wilson handled it. It easily reads a cue that Wilson and House are better suited to each other, or that Wilson has been so corrupted by House he can't have a functional relationship with the nice blonde lady. The must fun read, as always, is a little of both. They're meant to be toxic together.

It's not as simple as Wilson choosing House over his wives and girlfriends because he'd rather spend time with House. It's about Wilson being so enmeshed in that dynamic that whether he chooses House or not, he always ends up spending most of his time with him.

[parabellvvm]

what would you trade the pain for? — THE RANKS OF B WING

more subject to change draft material!

I havent done that much research on police divisions yet (let alone older versions or european versions) but I imagine the B Wing to be the pretty standard "patrol" wing. look for problems, report, take care of them until someone more specialized shows up.

LIEUTENANTS Břetislav "Břeti" Souček (pronounced breh-kyi-slaf) — Senior adult man with short & patchy ginger hair and a thick mustache, discernible by the unusually patterned moles on his face. Grouchy, stubborn, & uncompromising. Often seen getting after Junior Officers for their behavior. Rumored deadbeat and/or absent father.

Patritsiya "Siya" Volkov — Older adult woman with thick & greying black shoulder-length hair. Energetic, determined, & independent. Near workaholic, with the highest amount of closed cases among those of B Wing. Mother to twins, one of which is deceased. Has also outlived her late husband. Yefreitor.

The lieutenants are technically work partners - however, they are rarely seen together, let alone working together. Sometimes they convene for precinct-encompassing issues. Otherwise, they seem to prefer working by themselves or with other lower ranking officers.

SERGEANTS no fucking clue what im doing with this position right now. gotta figure out a couple weirdos to shove here 👍 might introduce an AU character like Nicolas from Fallout or Vance from Cyberpunk. Vance would never be a cop though 💖

PATROL OFFICERS Kirill Heidrich — Young adult man with wild, long blond hair that is usually tied back. Still looks like a teenager, and is often mistaken for one due to his trouble growing facial hair. Has a precinct-wide reputation for being impulsive and violent, especially in the absence of his partner. Spreads conspiracy theories and rumors.

Lucas Orlowski (pronounced luy-ka) — Young adult man with short brown hair that is greying early. Has a few tattoos he likes showing off. Neurotic, put bluntly. Often worrying more about appearance and reputation than actual work - a suitable anchor for Kirill, who actually listens to his concerns. Needs consistent reassurance and isn't afraid to ask for it.

Almost constantly attached at the hip during work hours, sometimes even on time off, Kirill & Lucas have found a strange synergy together that keeps them happy, and the RCM happy. Most consider them to be unhealthily dependent on each other, but it seems to work for them.

Vincent Travart — The one and only. Young adult man with short somewhat spiky black hair and black rectangular glasses. Anxious, curious, compassionate. Looking to fill a void. Partner of Joakim.

Joakim Virtaenen (pronounced yo-ah-keem) — Young adult man with short, dull, light brown hair. Quiet, loyal, discreet. Hopes to prove himself capable to both his peers and superiors by serving the RCM without question. Partner of Vincent.

Sloan Siebert — a huge work in progress. he's certainly here. silly, talkative, tends to steal things.

JUNIOR OFFICERS Gwendoline "Gwen" Aulbert — Teenage girl with black shoulder-length hair, sometimes badly dyed blonde. Has a collection of little scars on her face and arms that she makes up stories for. Headstrong, pushy, snide. Gets away with almost everything due to her uncanny ability in gaining thorough witness testimonies. Hasn't been assigned a partner yet due to her tendency to follow around Kirill & Lucas.

Mikael Wyrzyk (pronounced mee-ka-ehl) — Teenage boy with short & somewhat wavy light brown hair. Needs corrective lenses that he absolutely refuses to wear in public, but will sometimes be seen with when doing paperwork. Confident, optimistic, & calm. Adept at talking others in circles in order to get out of telling anything about himself. Hasn't been assigned a partner yet.

[dungeonaspects]

Solianna Valefar: Tiefling Noble Cleric

"Pain tests all, but gives strength of spirit and true pleasure to the stalwart and the true."

Some tiefling suffer under the fear of other races, letting hatred crush them. Not this family, the Valefar family wears fear like a cloak, drinking in the disgust while trampling any who insult them underfoot.

The blood in their veins is a boon, the fiendish features a mark of pride to be embellished. Each member of the family must demonstrate their fealty to the family and patron deity through the regular mutilation of their flesh.

The Valefar family are worshippers of Loviatar, The Maiden of Pain, while not a secret, due to the private nature of the families activities only other noble families and close allies are aware (though many suspect something amiss). To most that do know this is a most wretched fact, for any to actively follow an evil deity it would be shameful, a secret to be hidden, yet not this family. They walk the world under the Willing Whip and relish the pain they inflict on themselves and bestow upon others.

Was this but a normal family, they would have been punished long ago for their terrible obsession and been lost to history, yet their patron would not allow them to fall. It is said that though the family are merchants of shrewd calibre they have Loviatar whispering in their ear at all times, hinting on ways to bend the competition to their will and when is best to drop a trusted ally for greatest profit in coin and pain. To many looking at the family from afar they are cruel, sadistic, and calculating, should you see a Valefar do business with a merchant they would certainly be profitable, but if they disappoint in any way then they will soon fall into ruin, seemingly by forces outside the families control, leaving the merchant destitute.

It was within this family that Solianna was born, a child of the current matriarch and soon to be discovered cleric of Loviatar. Growing up in this family was one of constant tests, rights, and worship. Each milestone was met with rituals to carve one’s flesh, horns, and claws. By the time Solianna was ten she had barely an inch of horn and fang without a flowing pattern or symbol carved into them, the majority of her body laden with scars. The Maiden of Pain gifted the child clerical powers, the matriarch paying close attention to her as she practiced their faith. Often Solianna would be tasked with self-flagellation to the point of breaking, then using healing magic to renew herself and begin again.

By fifteen the girl had become entirely devout, her lips having been clawed away during a ritual, showing the pointed teeth and now serrated canines she wears a mask over her lower face enchanted to allow her to speak freely without the mutilation interfering with her speech. Her claws had been surgically altered, the bone carefully revealed to elongate the pointed bone carved again deeply with flowing patterns and symbols. As with most higher clerics within the family she has poured liquid gold into the carvings on her horns and claws. She is tall, regal, educated, and infinitely dangerous. Much like her mother she continues on the path of the cleric, upholding the family values.

Now an adult Solianna has begun to work for the family outside of the estate, while most members of the family are deeply beholden to their elders this daughter has the makings of a matriarch and is entitled to much more freedom yet far more scrutiny than others of the noble house. Expected to rise high in Loviatar’s esteem this woman will explore the world, gaining power and knowledge to bring the house into a new age of fortune, may the world be left bleeding in her wake.

Some Ideas

This character was created by my partner, the history and family carefully pieced together in a campaign I ran for a short time. I loved this devilish character so much that I created an accompanying character who is a younger sister to Solianna who I will be writing up as well to give you some further details about the family, and one of the more secret rituals.

You can likely guess that Solianna would typically fit into a darker campaign, but there is also some wiggle room for a more neutral campaign as, while the family worships an evil deity she is a deity of Lawful Evil and of pain. If the world collapses into chaos then there is less meaning in suffering, the confines of law bringing its own torture that lasts a lifetime. The family would be loyal to the country if not the people, recognising that meaningless suffering achieves nothing, if a Lich wishes to kill everyone then no one can feel pain and pay homage to the Maiden.

In terms of combat Solianna is calm and collected, favouring magics that harm and debilitate. Woe be to any that tries to engage her in melee however as with her strong will and constitution she often outlasts foes while flaying them with the barbed end of her whip.

This is a bit of a different one for me as this is a two part story and ultimately wasn’t my creation, but if you’re interested in playing this character she is in this instance a noble, calculating, sadistic, and devout woman, ready to snuff out any enemy in their way.

Of course it’s up to you how you play her, will she remain loyal to the family and Loviatar? Or could her faith waver, the wider world opening her eyes to new possibilities? Pain has its place in the world, and punishing the guilty with pain is simply the way of the universe.

Part two should be coming soon, Vellie is excited to meet you too.

Art by: Felicia Bremin

This art piece is beautiful, regal, and perfect. The horns, claws, the paws, the fierce expression. I love her so damn much. While the character my partner made was a lot creepier and with a lot more scars and details on the carvings etc this is still fantastic. She is powerful and wonderful, thank you.

https://www.artstation.com/artwork/B19oD9

[funkymbtifiction]

Hi! I'm 25 years old and I always considered myself sp-blind. My dominant instinct is social but lately I am not sure about that sx in the second place. I am extremely intense person, when I like something I love it so much I want to "put it in my veins". I never put much thoughts into my health (my sleeping routines are messed up, I eat unhealthy food and my mind can't comprehend that it's bad for me, I spend money a lot and can't save it) even though I noticed these things in people with sp as well, especially 9s and intuitives. Most of all I always expected others to take care of me. My mental attitude is "I shall be the loveliest person and they will want to take care of me".

But, now that I have come into certain age I realized that I'm not unaware of my physical needs. I know when I'm hungry, when I'm tired, if I'm uncomfortable. I lovee to be cozy and make myself feel comfortable. I don't do anything reckless, like sleep with someone or do something physically dangerous.

I also believe I'm Se inferior, so could all this sp blind stuff just be low Se?

Should I reconsider my instincts?

Also, do you think that we shouldn't type ourselves or others before age of 25? I certainly think so, many of my friends who are under this age, simply walk in the dark with enneagram. They assume they know themselves and they really don't and then they mistype or jump from one type to another.

And we also have many behaviors that are linked to growing up. For example, I typed myself as a 4 until 22 because I was over emotional and dramatic, then at 22 it just disappeared. And don't make me start on what I have discovered now at 25.

I think we should not type anyone before certain age.

It might help to remember that sp and sx are the opposite of each other. SP is the basic human drive to survive and do whatever you must to ensure your survival. In the animal kingdom, most animals are sp-driven -- it's about their next meal. In a human, sp means survival, resourcefulness, and independence -- the ability to take care of yourself, and the belief that only you can count on yourself; the awareness that you are the person you're going to live with, your entire life -- that you will live and die as yourself, and it's on you to take care of yourself until you die. It's an awareness of mortality.

Sx is the anti-sp, because in the animal kingdom, the act of attracting a mate takes away from sp. Various creatures of all kinds neglect their self-care in desperate attempts to attract and secure a partner. They take risks, they are vulnerable, they don't eat, they preen, they run the risk of being eaten by other creatures, because their entire focus is on fanning their tails and puffing up their chests and trying to attract a sexual partner. In a human, this means a lot of the person's time, attention, and focus, their sense of desirability, goes to -- am I hooking you? is there chemistry here? would I abandon my self-preservation / security to chase this thing even if it caused me to lose something in the self-pres realm (my money, my security, my safety)?

so/sx is Rose in Titanic choosing to stay on the boat with Jack. No thought of personal safety or security -- she wanted fusion and risk and sx. An sp would have gotten on the boat, because they would be aware that they COULD die. Rose is a good metaphor for sx -- it's about total self-abandonment, throwing yourself "recklessly" (from an sp's point of view) into something because it holds heat, fusion, sexuality, intensity, chemistry, excitement.

In response to your second question, Richard Rohr said that you need to be at least 30 before you are capable of truly identifying your core influences and desires -- mostly because by then, you have enough adult history (ten years if not more) to look back on the underlining patterns of your life and how you self-destruct and self-sabotage. By 30, people have usually calmed down and have more self-awareness, they have more responsibilities and can see how they react to them, they have had to enter adulthood in some form or another, and how they do that is going to speak a lot to their type. So yes, I think it's best to wait to "firm up" your self-typing until you're at least 30.

[eliwray]

As I get more down on paper, it’s all connecting together in directions that are hard to separate out into sections! I feel like the what’s-his-face meme with the conspiracy board with all the strings!

Anyway, let’s talk about sociability and masking.

So there have been studies done on “likeability”, where nonautistic interviewees are shown photos/videos of various folks in social settings -- some of the depicted folks autistic, some not. Within seconds, interviewees would decide that they liked the autistic folks less than the others, and that perception did not change with longer exposure. Interviewees also reported less interest in pursuing social connection with the autistic folks than the nonautistic ones represented. This held true when interviewees were shown audio, visual, or audio and visual footage. Intriguingly, written transcripts of the interactions gave similar scores of likeability across autistic and nonautistic folks portrayed. This indicates it’s not content but style of communication that puts off NTs.

And. Well. *gestures at Wolfe*

But let’s look more closely at this unlikeability of his, a trait he wears as both curse and badge of honor. He knows he rubs people the wrong way. He knows others know of his reputation of doing so. He uses it sometimes to make his own life easier, pushing away social obligations, but he also has to swim through that to have the impact he wants to have politically. It also seeps into his own sense that he’s a good partner for Nic, or is at least a part of that equation.

But! This is also the man who tells Naomi just what she needs to hear in a war zone. Who emotionally supports a hurt Izumi on the translation platform. Who organizes the prisoners in book 4. Who negotiates with the Welsh, and has a history of doing so with many armies on battlefields. Who sends pivotal and persuasive letters to find allies. Who gives Nic what he needs. Who - once he decides his remaining postulants will be served better by education than by removing them from the Library’s grasp - is an engaging and exciting teacher. When the students become his friends, we often see his charming side.

He is certainly not ineffectual or a disaster in all relationships or social situations. He is not lacking the capacity to persuade and sometimes inspire others. What he lacks are fucks to give specifically around everyday social expectations that are, to him, superficial. (I initially just called them superficial in that sentence but hey, I’m autistic. They mean more to other people, I forget!)

Some of the difference in the two categories above is how much leeway loved ones give him in intimate settings to be a curmudgeon, sure. But also, sometimes the difference is masking.

Autistic masking is camouflage, behaving the way others want or expect us to behave. Someone like Wolfe, who builds his understanding of the world on patterns of power and consequences he sees around him and in history, he can adapt his behavior for short periods of time to communicate better with friend or foe. He can behave as someone who will get the best outcome at the negotiating table. He can be someone who communicates love and care that someone needs. It doesn’t matter whether it came naturally to him to put a hand on Izumi’s head when she was frightened; he knew channeling his care and pride into that might communicate his message to her that she was not alone.

Devon Price in their amazing book, Unmasking Autism makes the point that afabs, people of color, queer folks, and folks who overlap those categories are culturally expected to show some level of submission, more so than cis white men and even boys. This leads to a much higher level of masking for us, and is why so very many of us went under the radar as kids, and got no autism diagnosis. Structurally, autism is overwhelmingly defined as how cis boys present with it.

This relates to Wolfe’s situation in that pivot point of submission. Even as an adult male with considerable privilege, he must submit to the Library. That has shaped what he shows others of how he functions. He hasn’t chosen his mask by some random definition of strength. He has shaped it to survive his very specific situation. Masking is deeply exhausting, and he pours his efforts into only what gains him what he values. Likeability be damned.

Once one knows the rhythms of masking, you can also see it in how he and Nic handle public displays of affection. We’ve discussed how they aren’t really in the closet. Everyone seems to know about their relationship, especially their superiors who would be the biggest threat. But Wolfe compartmentalizes. Because for him, he’s masking or he’s not. And his affection for Nic is authentic and real and not part of any camouflage he wants to use to accomplish anything.

Keep this in mind - Wolfe shaping what he shows about his ND - when we talk about the next thing.

Hi there! So this series of posts is written by an autist - nearly a year out from a late diagnosis - and I am sorting out a looong resonance with Christopher Wolfe and building a case for him being autistic.

The idea that Wolfe is autistic isn’t going to surprise anyone ever! But my reasons for it might surprise you, depending on what you know about autism. So, without further ado, let’s start what will inevitably be a lot of words on this topic.

First, a few words about autism. Like many things in oppressive systems like ours, a personal perspective of autism built on information passively gathered in our culture can easily be chock full of misinformation. Autism has been overwhelmingly defined by non-autistics describing how autistic kids’ trauma-induced behavior impacts other people, rather than the lived experience, gifts or needs of actual autistic people of any age. I would encourage actively seeking out input from actually autistic people, in order to be informed.

Quick terminology note: ASD (Autism Spectrum Disorder) is a list of problems made by non-autistics and put in the DSM. Autism is a neurodivergence that I have a lot of pride in. The largest overlap of the two is, again, what non-autistics get bothered by in autists with PTSD from being mishandled all our lives. Living and thriving with and inside autism is a whole other ball of wax from that.

I’ll mention this too, because it’s the largest misconception and it impacts Wolfe’s characterization. Non-autistics decided at some point that autists have no empathy, when in fact most autists are easily overwhelmed by an abundance of empathy for other people, animals, and even objects. Check out “the double empathy problem” for further information, but the gist is, empathy works VERY differently for autist and nonautist brains, and communicating across that gap is fraught and complicated. And nonautists have the power to define most everything about mental health. And they decided a long time ago that the miscommunications mean autists have no feelings or compassion. That is incorrect.

Okay. Next up, Christopher Wolfe, autist. This will be a nonexhaustive list of ways he embodies autism, which I thought would come with a reread later this year but my brain wouldn’t let go of until I started writing it!

More to come.

[awakeshedreams]

sugar and spice ( 2 )

pairing : resident bad boy!jjk x model student!reader

setting : highschool!au x stepbrother!au

summary :

a messy highschool!au x stepbrother!au where model student reader who has quite a few dirty little secrets sees her world take an unexpected turn when her mother comes home one day with an engagement announcement, to the father of none other than the school’s resident bad boy…. Jeon Jungkook.

genre : smut, for laughs, kinda pornish, slow burn with collosaly overwhelming sexual tension

rating: soft m ( for now ) due to adult content

warnings : unconventional relationship of sexual nature, tropes and clichès, teenagers partaking in porn-esque activities, made up things with made up people happening in a made up world, don’t like don’t read XD

wordcount : 3k

a/n: honestly overwhelming response for the first part. thank you so much ����💜💜😳

here's the second.

somehow, this took up a new genre for itself while editing and became sort of a bit enemies to friends to partners in sin.

that is to say, I have a template for this but this could go any ( dirty ) way.

let me know if you like this and are curious to know how things play out.

also, spot the cameo. it's so dumb but still. I couldn't think of anything else.

enjoy.

1 2

Paranoia was an old friend of yours.

Very real, very scary and not very nice to you, your peace of mind or your tested soul.

In your head, you already played out a million different ways the image you’d spent years building could come falling apart.

All because of him. Jeon Jungkook.

Though much to your surprise and fortune- he didn’t tell anyone.

You spent the entire weekend fretting over nothing.

It was almost like none of it ever happened.

Like your parents weren't about to tie the knot soon. Like you weren’t about to become step siblings.

Like he didn't walk in on his said step sister to be masturbating in front of a camera.

In the aftermath of that inexplicably humiliating incident, you had to make up some dumb excuse to satiate your viewers for ending the stream so abruptly.

It was your cat they heard speaking, you told them.

Cats don’t speak of course, certainly not in a deep baritone. But they were effectively distracted by the string of full nudes you posted soon after that.

Those few accusatory comments saying that you did have a boyfriend after all were buried by those coming from very horny people who were over the moon about the little apology gift.

That was out of the way, but you had a more pressing matter at hand.

That night, Jungkook had walked out after saying what he had to say without another word, leaving you feeling stunned and oddly cold.

It was like all the heat in your body just ceased to exist the moment he closed the door behind him and left you there all on your own. You didn’t even get to finish but that was beside the point.

The point was, you thought that meant like with many other things, and as people should since this was a free world, he didn’t give a shit what you did with your free time or your body.

But as the days progressed, you couldn’t help but wonder if you were gravely mistaken.

Because contrary to that, he seemed to be up to something.

These days, he came around very often. Completely unprovoked and on his own accord.

It didn’t help that your mom loved having him around and feeding him.

Sometimes he was there for lunch after school. Other times he was there to fucking read the books in the study.

It was all ridiculous and quite honestly it was starting to get on your fraying nerves.

He didn’t even live there! You grumbled in pure frustration internally every time your mom asked you to add an extra plate for him on the dining table. This was your place!

Intentional or not he seemed to just love spending his time at your house for some reason.

But that just wouldn’t do.

The thing was you didn't know how to tell him you’d like to have the peace of mind he’d robbed you of by being all up in your living space every other day back.

He couldn’t just keep coming around.

Things were awkward enough without you having to see him often so already in between fleeting glimpses at school and lingering glances over the occasional dinner.

He might have been able to play it cool because it didn’t matter to him but this was a big deal for you.

He knew your secret and what else were you to do but be on edge and fidgety around him even though it seemed like he wouldn’t say a word of it?

But in the end, you couldn’t voice out your concerns. Not to him and certainly not to your mom.

So you were stuck here.

In between a massive rock and a very hard place.

Forced to endure even though you really felt like you’d been pushed past your limit.

Because he was there all the time.

For the most random reasons doing the most random things at the most random places at the most random time.

One time he had been casually listening to music while smoking by the pool and stroking the strings of his damned, matte black guitar.

You had been so stressed from all the work at school with the elections for new committee members amongst the juniors coming up so you thought to go for a swim to relax your self.

You honestly thought no one was around.

It was a Wednesday at noon so your mother was at lunch with some friends from high school. Plus, in the back of your mind, you’d reasoned that Jungkook usually only ever came over when she was around.

So you put on your best little bikini, grabbed a floatie and a soft drink and you went out.

Only to pause when you saw him sitting on one of the white lounging chairs, just looking at you with his earphones on, fingers having stilled mid strumming with a soft veil of smoke over his face.

You didn’t need to think twice to turn back.

There had been something about how his heavy lidded gaze took you in through the smoke as he did that thing where he cocked his head to the side that made you step back and quickly go back in.

You felt yourself get impossibly hotter when you realized you were probably giving him an eyeful of your poorly covered ass in motion.

You knew he was looking. You could feel his stare. Heavy. Intent. Dark. Swirling.

Like when he'd walked in on you.

You were hot and bothered the entire day.

In the end you couldn’t get anything productive done with a straight mind. And it was all his fault.

.

It took you about two weeks to crack.

That particular evening you were decided on telling your mom about this dilemma you were in.  

Coincidentally, your mom had gone and invited him and his dad over for dinner.

Great. Just great.

You had no choice but to deeply consider the possibility of having to spill the beans another time.

Because choosing now to tell your mom meant you would probably need to tell his dad as well since they were attached at the hip every time he came over.

But no, you wouldn’t expose him in front of his father too. You weren’t cruel. Also you didn’t need the school's menace resenting you for making his strict, uptight dad turn on him.

If he didn’t have a reason to expose you before, he certainly would have one if things spiraled out that way.

So you bit your bitter tongue.

This time around, dinner was a more relaxed affair.

The weather was nice so your mom decided on a barbeque at your back yard.

This meant you wore a flowy sun dress like your mom did and he wore a loose navy shirt with the sleeves rolled up and some black casual beach shorts.

His tattoos were on full display.

You stared.

You were only distracted by them and how the patterns dance on his skin when his muscles flex as he flips whatever he is cooking on the fire because she’s never seen them in full before, you strongly reasoned.

Even with his sleeves rolled up when he was uniform, you'd only seen what he had on his forearm briefly other than the ones on the back of his hand.

That night didn’t count. It was too dim to see well. Also, that night technically didn’t exist.

Your eyes were particularly drawn to the little something peeking out the collar of his shirt.

You were too busy trying to figure out whether the curling ink around his collar bone was the flick of flames or the end of a dragon’s tail to notice that he’d lifted the hem of his shirt to wipe at the dots of sweet at his brows.

When you do, you suddenly found yourself being given an eyeful of impossibly ripped, ridged pure muscle.

You almost dropped your glass like you did your jaw.

What the holy fuck?

At that exact moment, he lifted his gaze and caught you staring.

He was probably expecting you to look away. Any decent human would expect that if they caught someone staring at them so openly. Gawking, to be completely honest.

But you didn’t. You quickly recover, pulling yourself together, and you met his gaze squarely.

You clutched the drink in your hand tight. Your pride wouldn’t let you look away.

In your own way, it was your little pay back, weak as it was.

He held your gaze with an unreadable look on his face for a moment with that signature slight tilt to his head and an added lift to his brow, before he looked away. Wordlessly, he let his shirt fall to push his hair back with his hand and went back to grilling.

You let herself breath then and tried not to think about how his biceps flexed at the motion, how his hair slicked back made him look even more dangerous and how the little smirk you caught on his lips was making you feel things she shouldn’t be.

.

Your mom suggested you all hang out at the pool once you were done eating.

You hadn’t been there since that day with him and quite frankly, you would rather not be.

Not with him.

You knew your mom had a swimsuit underneath her dress. She made you wear one as well.

She probably told them to come prepared for a swim too.

Just thinking about it made you short circuit.

You tore your gaze away from where he was standing with his father at the poolside, staring blankly at the surface as the older man talked to him about something.

You'd just come back from clearing the table with your mom.

When you guys got close enough, the men look your way. Jungkook’s eyes immediately landed on you. Meanwhile you just stare at your mom, trying to ignore his inexplicably fixed attention on you.

‘It’s shame we can’t swim.’

Your mother said, reaching for her boyfriend’s hand. She gave Jungkook a soft, apologetic smile.

‘Maybe once the weather is not so chilly.’ She sighed regretfully. ‘If I had known you were sensitive to the cold I would have suggested something else.’

‘It’s fine.’ Your eyes flicker to him. The smile he puts on is small and polite. ‘I’m not a very good swimmer anyway I’m afraid.’

‘Nonsense.’ She dismissed in good nature. ‘I heard you were quite the athlete in middle school. It’s all your father ever talks about sometimes. Right, honey?'

His father just grumbled.

You couldn’t hide your surprise at this revelation. You didn’t know this before.

Jungkook was quiet for a moment. Then he smiles a little with a shrug.

‘That was in the past.’

Your eyes just glided to him when he said that.

The tug at his lip looked wry and sad.

You’d never seen him like this before.

Solemn. Sombre. Not serious or intimidating or indifferent.

It felt like you were viewing him in a new light.

.

You settled on drinks by the pool. It was what your mom does to lighten things up.

It seemed like the gloom from earlier wasn’t all part just a part of your imagination.

Her mother suddenly chirped in between the light conversation.

'Why don't you guys get together and have a little group study?'

You suppressed the urge to groan and roll your eyes to the back of your head. You knew what she was trying to do and you wanted no part in it.

You had the words no way sitting at the tip of you tongue.

You had the words no way sitting at the tip of you tongue.

He beat you to it.

'That sounds nice,' he dared to say, even politely addressing your mom with Mrs. alongside her surname in the end uttered just the way she liked. 'I'd like that.’

You gawked at him in disbelief. Complete and utterly speechless.

Was he insane ??

'Doesn't it? Great!' Your mom is over the moon. 'Dear, take him to the study. You guys can do your teenager things and get along over books there.'

.

Your mom was loving and caring and she only ever wanted the best for you. You knew this.

Maybe she wanted them to get to know each other. Or maybe she just wanted to have some alone time with her man.

Either way, she practically shoved you two into the house with so much enthusiasm you wondered if she really loved you because suddenly you found yourself stuck inside your house with the last person you wanted to be with and you did not feel safe or rested.

The walk up the spirally stairs to the study had got to be one of the most intense, dragging moments of your whole life.

He remained a few steps behind you all through out the journey, following your lead in his own leisured pace.

A few steps too damn far behind in your opinion.

From that angle, you had a strong inkling that he could see your underwear from beneath your dress.

You knew this because you were familiar with what it felt like when he was staring.

What you couldn’t quite explain is why you didn't do a thing about it.

.

If awkward silence could manifest into a solid form for being so intense, there would have been a third occupant in the room the moment you two walked into the study.

It would’ve been so massive, all the high shelves and wooden tables lined up would have been demolished.

Jungkook remained the quiet person he was, looking around and skimming through the books on the shelves.

You were standing a safe distance away from him, absently doing the same. The books were interesting and all but you were admittedly more taken by the ink on his skin.

Up close you could clearly see the artistic patterns and symbols etched onto him.

While staring at the tats on his knuckles you couldn't help but also notice that the titles he picked up were rather complex.

Certainly not the kind of thing even high intellects reached for. Evidently, those tomes had been collecting dust in there for ages.

You were decidedly curious. Itching to ask. Hell, dying to know.

You dived before you could overthink it and find reasons not to satiate your rabid curiosity.

'You like Reader?' he paused and looked at you from the corner of his eyes. At his questioning look she gesture to the book he was holding. 'That's the third book of theirs you picked up.'

'Yeah.' he said casually, nodding a little while flipping through it. 'Their books are nice.'

A crippling lapse of silence ensues.

You tore your gaze away from his profile to stare at the titles in front of you with a burn at your cheeks, fiddling with the polished spines.

How fucking awkward. All of this.

He probably felt the same.

What were you even doing?

You thought about telling him to ignore your mom’s attempt at trying to make the two of you get along. He obviously wasn’t looking for company or a friend. Quite frankly, neither were you. Certainly not from him. You were just trying to be not rude. Something you aren’t really surprised he probably failed to understand in all honesty.

But then he spoke, dragging you out of your reverie.

'What about you?'

Your head shot up and you found that he was standing a lot closer than before, having moved to reach for yet another complicated book to idly browse through at the top shelf.

This close, you could can smell him. Soft mint and clean soap and moonlight, not smoke. He disregarded the pages in his hands to give you a side way glance.

‘What do you like?’

There was a perpetual spark swimming in the dark depth of his eyes. It was striking. Pretty even.

When he lightly raised a brow at you, your thoughts jumbled all over before it fell back into place and you realized you were staring very openly.

But this time was different from the last time. When he had been miles away, flashing you his ripped abs.

In your reverie, you hadn’t notices that he had leaned a little to meet your eyes, and that he was real close. Like real close, looking at you intently with his head cocked to the side questioningly, like he was wondering what was going on inside your head. You could feel his breath fanning your face.

Shit.

'Uh,’ you scrambled for an answer, quickly tearing your gaze away from him to appraise the bookshelf. Your face felt like it was on fire. Considering how he hadn’t moved, he could probably see just how blazed in the face you were. Out of pure instinct, you grabbed a random book and shoved it into him to make some space in between your bodies.

Maybe with a little too much force. There was a dull thump and it made you wince.

'This.’

You hated how squeaky and breathless you sounded. Like you’d just ran a marathon. Might as well have, with how hard and fast your heart was pounding.

Jungkook took it from you, and you allowed yourself to look at him as he looked the cover over, completely fine, like you hadn’t just smacked him in the chest with a book.

The corner of his lips lifted a little as he flipped it over, cocking his head the other way before he chanced you a glance, making you blink rapidly and stand on edge.

'You sure?' he asked, sounding pretty amused. You were confused for a moment until he held  it up for you to see, flashing you a full on toothy grin like you’d never seen on him before. 'You like books about horse gentilia?'

The jump in your chest was something you quickly dismissed as being one of sinking dread rather than anything else.

All the color that had been congesting your face washed away.

If there was a time you truly wished the ground would swallow your entire existence whole, it would be right then and there.

 

word is telling me I made up the word genitilia but I’m pretty sure it’s real because it just rolls off the tongue ( smooth ) like butter like a criminal under the cover.

the hole is one of the recurring characters so please be nice to it.

alot of things happening here if you squint and look closely.

any-whomst've, hope you all liked it. let me know if you did and I don't know come say hi? 😳 have a nice day 💜

[the-blind-assassin-12]

Kar’taylir Darasuum

AN ESSAY ON LOVE IN MANDALORIAN CULTURE 

A/N: This post has been a long time coming and I am SORRY for that. The lovely @darkmist111​ wanted to know more about courtship and romance as it pertains to the world of Resol’nare, and well... I sort of got carried away with research and head cannons and... well, you’ll see. 

Quick links: Resol’nare // Hokan’yc // Mando’a Dictionary

WC: 2.3k

Warnings: mentions of violence, death - they are a culture of warriors, my friends, it’s unavoidable. 

thank you so much for this ask and for your patience while i worked on it! oh boy buckle up here we go: 

Courtship 

Courtship in Mandalorian culture is often a very short time period. Relationships move quickly from one stage to the next, because Mandalorians know better than many cultures that tomorrow is never promised. That being said, they don’t just pair off indiscriminately, and while physical appearance holds little to no weight in terms of attraction, there are other things that do certainly tip the scales. 

For someone like Din, brought up in an extremely strict covert with an adherence to The Way of the Mandalore that leaves very little room for interpretation, the most attractive trait a person can have is skill as a fighter. Knowing that the person they are pledging their soul to is capable of not only watching their six in battle, but protecting themselves and any children that might be in the family (foundlings or otherwise) is extremely important to Mandalorians. As such, many courtships begin while Mandos are in the final stages of training, when they begin to leave the covert to go on missions. (See Hokan’yc for Din’s story of young love at this stage in his life, and meet Aashi Zurn, the Mando who bested him in the sparring chamber and won his heart in the process.) 

Trust and loyalty are extremely important to Mandalorians when seeking a partner. Marriage in Mandalorian culture is meant to be forever- eternal- as Mandalorians believe that their souls live on after death, and remain connected to their loved ones until the end of time. Depending on the level of anonymity the individuals in question choose as a lifestyle (i.e. helmets on at all times or removed in front of others, names known or unknown), Mandalorians might show their trust in a partner by telling them something personal about themselves, something that they would normally keep a secret either out of pride or protection. This is usually returned in kind, a sort of exchanging of secrets that begins the binding of their two souls together that will continue throughout their relationship so that if/when they choose to marry, they are speaking the truth when they say that they know one another- in a way that no one else ever will. 

Some small ways that Mandalorians will show affection or appreciation for one another during their courtship and long into their relationship (because Mandalorians don’t just fall in love and settle, they keep falling deeper into it, letting it grow stronger) include: helping them clean their armor or weapons, tending to any aches and pains from old injuries- most Mandalorians make their own herbal salves that they use to soothe inflammation or to help heal scarring, and sharing from your own personal blend to provide comfort for your partner goes a long way. (This will come up in more than one way in Resol’nare, so look out for that in the future.) sharing or preparing a favorite meal, and in the event that they really want to emphasize their feelings, they will give a piece of their own armor to their partner, showing that they are ready to view them as a part of themselves, ready to protect them with their own life if necessary. 

The tradition of wearing the armor of their beloved comes from ancient times, when a Mandalorian fell in love with another who was a member of an enemy clan and had been captured by her people. To protect her lover from those who would kill them on sight just based on the sigil or coloring of their armor, she traded some of her plates with some of theirs so that they could escape unnoticed. Once two Mandalorians are wed, not even blood feuds between clans can come between them, so the exchanging of armor became seen as a sort of intention to marry for many Mandalorians.

Because Mandalorian culture takes root in various other cultures, some traditions from those other cultures cross over into theirs. For example, while no Mandalorian would ever make the mistake of asking a woman’s father for her hand in marriage and Mandalorian women are seen as complete equals and therefore able to make their own choices when it comes to their partners, some clans will still partake in common practices like introducing their intended to their family or announcing their engagement to their families and loved ones before making it known to others in the community. While jewlery is extremely uncommon in Mandalorian culture (unless it is functional, such as a beskar collar style necklace) engagement tokens like pendants engraved with the two names or rings either without stones, or rings with low profile stones inlaid into the bands- in some cases a gemstone will be embedded within the metal on the underside of the band, where it makes contact with the finger- are considered standard in most other cultures, so they are sometimes still exchanged but are in no way necessary to solidify an engagement or an intent to marry. 

Marriage  

The actual vows exchanged between Mandalorians are short and to the point, and there is no required ceremony, no officiant or witness needed, no record keeping of any sort, so the actual wedding is usually done just between the two individuals in private. Traditionally they are as follows: 

"Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde" which translates to "We are one when together, we are one when parted, we will share all, we will raise warriors."

Once the vows are said, the marriage is official and the Riduurok bond is forged and must be acknowledged and respected by all Mandalorians.

Newlyweds will lift the helmet of their spouse once the vows have been sworn so that they may be sealed more intimately. In the case of Mandalorians who keep their faces hidden, this may be the first time that one or both of them sees the other without their helmet. In other cases, the removal of their riduur’s armor is merely symbolic. 

Although there are no formalities that need to happen in order to legitimize a marriage, there are of course some traditions and rituals that are completed which Mandalorians believe safeguard and strengthen their bond with their spouse. These include getting specific tattoos, and adding each other’s sigil to armor or weapons.  

Riduurok Tattoos 

Tattooing is an important part of Mandalorian culture. Regardless of their culture of origin, where they come from, or how they choose to interpret the Creed, it is rare to come across an adult Mandalorian with no tattoos. Even the New Mandalorians under Satine’s pacifist regime continued to carry on tattooing, though not as extensively or ritualistically as the more orthodox communities like the one that Din, Paz and The Armorer come from. For them it was done more for decorative purposes. Though their designs still pay homage to shapes and motifs that are meaningful to all Mandalorians, they also include more aesthetic design elements such as florals, vines or stars. 

Typically a Warrior will receive their first tattoo when they complete their training at thirteen; a thick black chevron shaped cuff on their left bicep. This symbolizes that they are part of the larger Tribe of Mandalorians outside of their own clans, and serves to remind them of the duty that they have to protect all Mandalorians. They have to look at it each time they don or remove their armor, and in the abhorrent event that they are stripped of their armor in defeat, the ink serves as symbolic beskar so that they remain protected in the afterlife. Bands and chevrons are added to symbolize achievements in battle or heroic action to protect their covert.(Din has five bands on his left arm, the latest one just below his elbow- his first when he completed mandatory training at 13, his second when he completed additional elite training, his third when helped relocate the covert to Nevarro- see Hokan’yc- his original covert was located on Dantooine- his fourth when he was injured protecting a group of foundlings, and the fifth after claiming the Darksaber. He would absolutely have more bands had he not spent so much time away from the covert. He absolutely will have more bands by the time Resol’nare ends.)  For Mandalorians who live a long life or are extremely skilled fighters, it is not uncommon for these bands to cover the entire arm from mid bicep to wrist. If more space is needed, another chain of bands is added to the left thigh ranging downwards. It is said that no Mandalorian has ever completely covered their entire left side, simply because in a war-based culture, life expectancy is cut short. 

Mythosaur skulls, clan signets, troop affiliations and words or short phrases in Mando’a are also typical designs that Mandalorians may choose to have done. The Mythosaur is usually tattooed on the back while the right bicep is where Mandalorians will honor their families in their chosen way. Usually it is by adding their clan signet, names of loved ones or parents, or even symbols or patterns that are significant to their culture of origin. ( Navina has a tattoo on her right arm to pay tribute to her mother’s- who was a foundling- culture. It will be revealed in an upcoming chapter so that is all that I can say about that! Din also has the Mythosaur skull inside of a triangle on the right side of his chest, and his Mudhorn signet on his right shoulder.)

Riduurok tattoos are placed on the left side or center of the chest, over the individual’s heart, and are done as soon as possible after marriage vows are sworn. Taking the shape of the Kar'ta Beskar, Mandalorians personalize them by adding their spouse’s name in Mando’a in the empty space in the middle of the design. Like the arm bands, these are also meant to symbolize armor of sorts. They represent the way that married couples remain connected no matter if they are together or apart; that they are one, an integral part of the other, even in death. They also signify the strength gained through marriage, as well as the protection a Mandalorian vows to provide for their partner. Love is seen as something that fortifies, never weakens, and that is represented in this tattoo as well. 

(Terrible graphic made with love by me)

This particular tattoo comes directly from a Mandalorian myth predating modern record keeping. Legend has it that long ago, a Mandalorian warrior returned home from battle, eager to see his riduur after so much time away. When he arrived, however, he found only her lifeless form, the soul of the one he had tied himself to no longer inhabiting the flesh and bone of her body. She had been slain, taken from him and from their life together, and it opened in him a new capacity for rage, something far more fierce than fire. It is said that in the moment that the Mandalorian warrior saw what had happened in his absence, vengeance itself was unleashed into existence. 

The warrior, fueled by this new urge, this extreme desire to avenge the death of his wife, tracked down the marauders who were responsible for her death and killed them one by one. The last of them, as he watched the Mandalorian take his accomplices’ lives, did not beg or grovel. He could see that it would do no good. Instead, he confessed that he did not think that Mandalorians had the capacity to love so deeply as to inspire such retaliation, that he did not think Mandalorians were open to things that could make them weak, things like love. 

“Only fools like you would think that love makes one weak.” he spat at the man. “True love is power, it is strength- it is the joining of two into one and nothing, not even death can diminish it. But you? Death will erase your soul and before long you will be forgotten.” 

The Mandalorian warrior killed the final marauder then, and as he did the pure rage that he felt upon discovering the death of his riduur quieted. Instead, he felt her presence, as though she were there to wrap her arms around him. He felt her strength enter his heart, and though he would mourn her loss immensely, he knew that she would never truly be gone, that he would always carry her and that they would reunite when his journey came to an end. As a tribute to his riduur and what she would always mean to him, the warrior etched her name over his heart in ink, encasing it in the oblong diamond shape of the Kar'ta Beskar, symbolizing that she is the source of his strength, a kind of armor that protected him from facing eternity alone. From then on, Mandalorians added the Riduurok Tattoo into their marriage rituals.   

Clan Sigils 

In the case that both Mandalorians have already been assigned sigils, or if they have sigils that they inherited from their own clans, they will either combine both symbols into one new one, or they will add their spouse’s sigil right beside their own on their armor and/or weapons. (In Resol’nare, Navina’s beskar kal that she inherited from her father- thanks of course to Firo- displayed the sigils of both of her parents, as well as her own name)  

If only one of the two can claim a sigil as their own distinct mark, they will extend it to their spouse as they extend every part of themselves through marriage, and if neither one has been assigned a sigil, they will both take the sigil of the first one who is assigned one.  

It is completely up to the individuals regarding whether or not they will choose to take their spouse’s name- the important thing is that they are under the same sign, as their sigils are yet another bond that they carry into the afterlife that helps them reunite once both have rejoined the Manda. 

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THANK YOU AGAIN TO @darkmist111​ for this request. I had a lot of fun thinking about and writing this, and it was a great way for me to finally dive back into the world of Resol’nare. :) 

Thank you for reading! Please feel free to let me know if you would like to be added to or removed from the tags! :)

tags: @something-tofightfor @alraedesigns @pheedraws @valkblue @malionnes @gollyderek @fific7 @becs-bunker @commanderlola @greatcircle79 @cannedsoupsucks​ @dihra-vesa​ @marauderskeeper​ @disgruntledspacedad​

[iam93percentstardust]

Haii so i have a promot for you, it’s stuckony and it’s based around a carrie Underwood song called “ Renegade Runaway “

So basically Steve and Bucky are outlaw, who rob trains, banks, and gamble

Tony is a sharffes and teacher kid, who is also one hell of a gunslinger (like Doc holiday,bat masterson, and Wyatt earp), he’s also a blacksmith

Also happy early birthday! 💙

Thank you for the birthday wishes! This ended up being a lot sadder than I originally intended and I wasn't able to include everything, but I hope it still lives up to expectations!

As always, this fic is also on ao3

~

Tony has his pistol out almost before the door closes behind him. He peers into the darkness of the yard behind the smithy, silently complaining about his eyes taking too long to adjust from the bright fires to the gathering twilight. It puts him at a disadvantage for whoever is waiting out there for him.

“Aw darlin’, is that any way to greet your two favorite outlaws?” someone drawls.

Tony snorts and holsters the pistol again. “Two outlaws, you might be, but my favorites? Far from it,” he snarks.

Bucky Barnes steps into the light spilling out from the window, hand dramatically placed over his heart. “Tony, that cuts me to the quick. Really, the cruelty of your words, they break my heart.”

“Uh-huh,” Tony says, unimpressed. He turns his back on Bucky and locks the smithy door. Peter will leave through the front when he’s finished sweeping and extinguished the lights. Everything else is already stored in the backroom for the night, so there’s no reason he needs to worry about leaving the door unlocked, though he certainly could. Timely isn’t the sort of town that invites trouble, not like some of the lawless towns further west.

When he turns back around, Bucky has moved closer, nearly looming over him. Tony leans back against the door, letting Bucky press against him. Bucky will do it anyway, it’s easier to just give in to him now instead of putting up a fight they both know he doesn’t want.

“You gonna apologize for bein’ so mean?” Bucky breathes into his ear.

“No,” Tony says flatly, crossing his arms. “It’s the honest truth.”

It’s not. Nearly everyone in Timely knows Tony’s sweet on Bucky and his partner, who must be around here somewhere since Bucky mentioned both of them. But it wouldn’t do to be too easy for them. He’s not one of Natasha’s girls after all, giggly and flirtatious and willing to turn their skirts up for a little bit of coin. He likes to make his boys work to get him soft and smiling.

“Now that’s just an outright lie,” someone else says. Tony turns his head to see Steve’s bright blue eyes much closer than he’d expected given that he’d only sensed one of them in the yard earlier. “You love us.”

“Don’t,” Tony denies, turning his head in the other direction so he doesn’t have to see either of them. Steve may be right, Tony isn’t nearly as annoyed by them as he pretends, but loving the two of them makes his life so very hard that it’s easier to pretend he doesn’t have any feelings for them.

“Tony,” Steve murmurs.

Tony stubbornly refuses to look at them. These two outlaws waltz into town all too rarely, typically on the heels of some mess that’ll raise the rewards on their heads yet again, and turn Tony’s life upside down for the brief time they’re in Timely, only to break his heart when they inevitably leave. Sometimes, he wishes he’d never met them.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he whispers eventually, keeping his eyes fixed on the side of the saloon down the street. “The sheriff’s in town tonight. If he catches wind of you—you know Howard wants to be the one to bring you in.”

“Your father’s on a wild goose chase, honey,” Bucky says. “He got word we were hiding out in Howling Canyon.”

“Are you?”

“Do we look like we’re in Howling Canyon?” Steve asks amusedly.

“No. I meant when you’re not—” He stops, biting back the last few words. When they’re not in his bed, he means, but he can’t bring himself to say that. After an awkward pause, he finishes, “When you’re not in town.”

“No,” Steve assures him. “We’re staying—”

“Don’t tell me where,” Tony interrupts, finally turning back to look at them. They both look worried, and he wonders if they know how tired he is of this game they’ve been playing for five years. “You know I’ll have to tell Howard if he asks.”

Not that Howard would. The sheriff is one of the few people who doesn’t know that his son houses the two outlaws when they’re in Timely. He couldn’t even imagine that his son would dare defy him under his nose like that. But both Steve and Bucky know what happens when Tony doesn’t jump to Howard’s every order. They were the ones who took him to Dr. Banner’s after all, after Howard broke his arm for taking too long to finish the horseshoes for Jericho.

Steve’s eyes are stormy at the reminder of Howard’s wrath. Bucky’s mouth is set in a tight line. Neither of them approve of Howard. They’ve told Tony once before that they would take him away from here if only he would let them. But he won’t. There’s too much keeping him in Timely: his mother and Rhodey, even young Peter, who’s only been apprenticed to him for a few months. He can’t just go gallivanting off into the sunset, no matter how badly he wants to. And besides, he knows that the only reason they ask is so that he can get away from Howard. He doesn’t delude himself there. They’d let him go with them just out of range of Howard’s reach and then they’d cut him loose. It’s pity that makes them ask, not—not anything else.

“Just—” He sighs and ducks out from under Bucky’s arm. “Come on. Howard isn’t stupid. He’ll figure out you’re not in Howling Canyon eventually, and I’d like both your cocks at least once before he does.”

~

Tony once had aspirations of being one of the best gunslingers in the west. He had the best aim this side of the Mississippi and he was quick. He’d been planning on making a name for himself, same as his father had.

Bucky’s bullet through his left thigh had put an end to that dream real quick.

He’d been young—hardly even an adult��foolhardy, and unwilling to listen to Jarvis’ warnings that he wasn’t ready to take on Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, who’d been terrorizing the towns in their small territory for the last three years. He’d been so convinced that he would be the one to bring them in and collect on the bounty. He’d studied their movements, known how they thought, and when Timely had gotten word that the two outlaws had robbed a bank in Faircreek, he’d ridden off on his own toward Harshaw instead of Tombstone like all the evidence pointed to.

He’d been right; the trail to Tombstone had been a false one. But he hadn’t had long to rest on his laurels because he’d been noticed. Steve and Bucky hadn’t been as lax in their vigilance as he’d assumed and they’d lain in wait for him, ambushed him, and ultimately shot him.

To this day, he doesn’t know what drove the two outlaws to take him in instead of leaving him out there to die in the desert, but they had. They’d carefully nursed him back to health, taken care of him when his injury had led to fever, and eventually, after nearly two months together, brought him to their bed with sweet words and sweeter kisses. He’d thought he would have done anything for them after that night, but the next morning, they’d sent him back on his way to Timely with nothing more than a promise that they’d be dropping in to check on him. It had been kind, though the damage had already been done. Tony’s injury ensured he’d never be the gunslinger he’d once dreamt of and his heart had been shattered. He’d apprenticed with Happy, taken up blacksmithing as a trade, and moved out of his parents’ home and into a small house not far from the smithy as his bad leg kept him from walking any great distances.

And when Bucky and Steve had kept their promise and stopped by his house to see him, well, his resolve to send them packing had withered. He’d made sure no one had noticed them and welcomed them inside, his poor heart still beating against his ribs in the pattern of their names.

~

They love him, he thinks, or at least they love him as best as they can, which is to say they don’t love him as much as he loves them. They certainly don’t love him enough to take him with them. And he understands—he does, despite what Rhodey thinks. His bad leg is a hindrance to outlaws such as themselves, particularly when it isn’t like they have a home base they could leave him out while they go out to commit whatever crime has struck their fancy. No, they’ve been nomads for as long as Tony has known them, never tied down to any one place, and he’s grateful that they at least love him enough to stay in this area instead of moving on to greener pastures.

He checks that the street is clear and then hurries them into his home. It’s changed slightly since the last time Steve and Bucky were in Timely. Pepper gifted him with a rug to go in front of the fireplace six months ago and Peter’s aunt made him a series of sketches of the view from the top of Howling Canyon that he hung in the kitchen. But other than that, the house is much the same as it’s always been, and he isn’t surprised when neither Steve nor Bucky pay any attention to the changes in favor of following him to the bedroom.

They strip him in silence, hands so gentle he’d call them reverent if he didn’t know any better. But he does know better. They don’t love him enough to be reverent. Reverence is saved for each other, for how Steve looks at Bucky in the early dawn when he thinks they’re both still sleeping, for Bucky saving Steve an extra cup of coffee, for the way they know how to tack each other’s horses just as well as they know their own. Reverence isn’t saved for him.

But he treats themreverently. He’s always treated them that way, since the night they took him to their bed. He’s never known any other way to love. They had been his first, the ones to ruin him for all others, and a small part of him hates them for that even as he kisses them hungrily, savoring these few moments he gets to spend with them.

He goes to his knees for them, worships Bucky’s cock with his mouth while Steve undresses, then lays down for Steve to open him up. He lets them fuck him, moans their names while they whisper praises in his ear, and pretends that this is enough, that he doesn’t want more. He imagines it though, imagines Steve lifting him onto Nomad and following Bucky out of town, never to return.

Bucky falls asleep when they’re done—he always does—so Steve is the one who stands and finds a washcloth from somewhere in the house. He wipes the three of them off and then lays down on his side, facing Tony.

“You’re sad tonight,” he says quietly.

“No,” Tony denies. He doesn’t want them to know that he wants more, that he’d do just about anything to get it. They’ll only feel bad that they can’t give him what he wants, like it’s any fault of theirs.

“You are,” Steve insists. “You try to hide it, but you are.”

“Steve…”

“I won’t ask you.” Steve’s own eyes are sad as he reaches out to run delicate fingers over Tony’s face. “I know you wouldn’t tell me anyway. That’s okay; you’re entitled to your secrets, sweetheart.”

There’s something terribly earnest in Steve’s expression, something that Tony doesn’t think he’s seen before. And he’s so close to blurting it out, begging Steve for something he can’t have. He swallows the words back with difficulty and asks instead, “What did you two do this time?”

Steve shrugs as best as he can. “A train.”

“A—” Tony stills. “You didn’t. Steve, you couldn’t. You’ll bring the Marshals down on your heads.”

“Had to,” Steve says casually. “Was the only way to get enough.”

“Enough what?”

“Gold,” Bucky says from behind him, startling him.

It takes a moment for the word to sink in, but his breath comes faster as he realizes just what they’ve done. “You didn’t,” he repeats, sitting up. He scrambles to the end of the bed, as far away from Steve and Bucky as he can get. The outlaws sit up as well, leaning against the headboard as they watch him warily. “What were the two of you thinking? No, don’t answer that. I know exactly what you were thinking: you weren’t. Because if you were, you would have known better. Forget the Marshals, you’ll bring the whole damn army down on your heads. How could you have been so stupid?”

“We were thinking we’d like to get a house,” Steve says, cutting him off.

“A—a house?”

“Mmhmm,” Bucky agrees. “We found ourselves a little patch of land in California we’d like to settle down in. Needed one last robbery to get us enough money to buy it.”

Tony’s heart stops beating, he swears it does. “California,” he repeats faintly.

“Sure, they’ll never think to look for us in California.”

Bucky sounds so calm, as though he can’t see that Tony’s heart is breaking in front of them. How can he be so cruel? How can he just causally mention that they’re leaving him forever, as though the last five years mean nothing to them?

“When are you leaving?” he manages, and it shocks him how calm he sounds when he feels as though his grief is visible from the stars.

“Tomorrow,” Steve says. There’s something careful in the way he looks at Tony, like he at least might have some idea of what’s going through Tony’s head.

Tony repeats, “Tomorrow.” He nods, blinking furiously to try to clear his eyes of the treacherous tears he can feel welling up. He can’t let them know. They’re leaving tomorrow and he doesn’t want them to go. He knows it would have happened eventually. The lawless west is shrinking more and more each day. It’s only a matter of time before the law catches up to them. Their only option is to leave and go somewhere no one knows them. But does it have to be so soon? He’d thought they would have more time.

“So this is goodbye, then,” he says, twisting the bedcovers in his hands. He can’t look at them, too afraid they’ll know what’s racing through his head if he does.

“…Goodbye?” Steve asks. He sounds puzzled. Tony hates that. What right does he have to be confused? That’s for Tony, seeing as how he’s the one who’s been left out of the loop during all this. God above, how long have they been planning this? It must have been at least a year in the making.

“Yes, goodbye,” he says. “One last fuck to see you off, right?”

“One last… Tony,” Bucky says sharply, “do you think we’re plannin’ on leavin’ you here?”

Tony’s heart stops for the second time in as many minutes. “You’re not?” he asks, daring to peek at them. Steve looks horrified, Bucky thunderous as he leans forward to tug Tony into his arms. Tony doesn’t resist, too tired of pretending, too confused by the twists this conversation has taken to argue. Steve curls up against Bucky’s side, carding gentle fingers through Tony’s hair.

“Sweetheart, did you think we weren’t gone on you?” Steve asks, kissing his forehead. “We’ve been fallin’ for you since you figured out where we were goin’ and chased us down.”

“But you never asked me to come with you.”

“S’pose that’s my fault,” Bucky says gruffly. He gingerly touches the scar on Tony’s leg where Bucky’s bullet had ripped through him. “We saw how much pain you were in an’ we couldn’t bear to make it any worse. An’ that’s just what would have happened if you’d spent every night out there with us. We wanted to keep you safe, thought you’d be happier if you weren’t always in pain.”

“I wanted you,” Tony says, pressing a kiss to the underside of Bucky’s jaw. “I didn’t want to be left behind.”

“Yeah, we, uh, we get that now,” Steve mutters sheepishly. “Tony, say you’ll come with us this time. Don’t make us go off on our own this time. We want you to come, can’t imagine a future that doesn’t have you in it.”

He should argue. He should remind them that in the five years they’ve been riding off and leaving him at home, he’s built a life. He has a business and an apprentice and a little house that he likes. He’s not the wide-eyed child he once was, dreaming of adventure. But then, neither are Steve and Bucky, if they really do mean that they’re going to get to California and settle down.

“Darlin’?”

~

The next morning, Peter arrives at the smithy to find the backdoor locked and the fire cold. He frowns; it’s not like Tony to still be home at this hour. He turns on his heel and heads to Tony’s house. It’s as dark as the smithy is though it doesn’t look like anything is out of place.

Tony is nowhere to be seen. He wonders for an instant if Tony spent the night at Rhodey’s, as he sometimes does when it’s been too long between Steve and Bucky’s visits (though Peter isn’t supposed to know anything about the outlaws). He turns to leave, planning on heading over to Rhodey’s to ask if he’s seen Tony this morning, only to catch a glimpse of something on the kitchen table, glinting in the early morning sunlight pouring in from the door.

Curious, he wanders over to find a single gold coin—and a letter addressed to him. Peter immediately pockets the coin and then opens the letter. It’s written in Tony’s messy scrawl and he reads it eagerly, hoping it’ll tell him where Tony’s gone.

Peter,

I hope you’ve spotted this. The coin is for you. Under the bed, there’s a pouch full of more coins, but those are for Happy. They should be enough to drag Happy out of the quiet life to finish your apprenticeship. I’m sorry I couldn’t stay, but it was time to move on.

If anyone asks where I’ve gone, tell them I’ve run away to California.

Tony

[blue-dream-rhapsody]

After my recent re-read, and with my (Tokyo Revengers final arc spoilers) first theory getting close to its moment of truth if it’s right or wrong, I have another, mostly unrelated theory to propose:

I think Takeomi will be revealed as an antagonist by the end of this arc. Don’t know if he’ll be a major one, or a dramatic mastermind, or anything extreme, but I think some signs point to his having suspicious intentions.

General stuff that makes me suspicious, and also the counterpoints I can think of (me arguing w myself basically):

* He’s a mirror of sorts to Takemichi in several ways, and that usually makes for as strong an antagonist foundation as them being opposites

* Their given names phonetically start the same (not much on its own, but)

* They both start out as “losers” longing for status, but where Takemichi over time begins to mature and values other things more, Takeomi seems to fall back into that pattern a couple times

* Both served as significant partners to their respective gang leaders (who happen to be brothers as well)

* Both are also given authority they don’t feel qualified for at first within those gangs, but receive the support of their friends to help them fight

* He’s part of Bonten as “advisor,” despite Sanzu also being there when their present relationship seems fraught, and his role compared to Koko’s is somewhat unknown but seems to entail closeness to Mikey

* He’s definitely willing to get his hands dirty even in Brahman, as the deal he and Senju are seen making appears to be his idea—and Brahman has a bad rep according to Inupi

* He’s also got history with Mikey and Shinichiro, and that combined with the recent focus on Sanzu and his absence from the battle with KMG suggests he could make a grand, revealing entrance

* His unknown role in the aftermath of Mikey’s harming Sanzu as kids

* His sus observing-Takemichi’s-acceptance-into-Brahman-from-a-room-above panel, not to sound toxic but who might he be talking to in there??

* Inupi heard “from somewhere” according to Draken about the ambush on Takemichi, seems odd that it’s mentioned again that we don’t know from where he found out (note though I don’t necessarily think he’s involved on purpose, maybe was just a middleman)

* Takeomi also just happens to be fairly close by, with more of Brahman, just after Draken’s death, and apart from Takemichi who obviously was close to Draken, his reaction is the most volatile. To the degree he spurs Brahman into all-out war with Rokuhara, despite having told Senju that adults make decisions without letting their feelings intervene

* Counterpoint: they could’ve certainly found out about the ambush themselves, been on their way to intervene, and either bumped into Inupi or maybe even he was with them already when they found out, maybe talking to his old heroes

* Other counterpoint: Takeomi can absolutely just be a bit hypocritical and be bad actually at separating strong emotions from decisions he makes

* Besides which, the original target does seem to be Takemichi, according to both the attackers and Inupi’s report, and not Senju or certainly Draken. Draken being the one to die could have just been such a shock that he reacted more emotionally

* The Rokuhara guys’ ambush on Takemichi may have played out differently during the Bonten timeline before Takemichi leapt back, seeing as he may not have made the same choices his past self would’ve made that led to him getting ambushed in the first place (ex. He sought out Draken because he’d returned from the future and needed to know what Mikey’s situation was. They were together when he first encounters Rokuhara, who had been looking for Draken specifically. Brahman is the one looking to recruit Takemichi, but they show up second. Would he have even been targeted by small fry from Rokuhara if he hadn’t been with Draken that day, to alert them to what he looks like? Has just this already changed the future away from Bonten? Dunno!).

* Despite this possible difference, Senju seemingly does not exist anywhere in the Bonten future and Takeomi is with Sanzu instead, suggesting she may have died then. And now that Takemichi began to interfere, she was supposed to die protecting him. It’s just noteworthy that Takeomi’s sister seems like she was supposed to die, as there’s usually importance to it—and sometimes a plan behind it.

* Counterpoint: I think Takeomi’s protectiveness or at least worry about Senju is sincere. The tiniest gesture of holding an umbrella over her while he’s talking, which is something thoughtful I doubt he’d do if he didn’t care about her, to when she goes to confront South and he tries to stop her (verbally, I can’t say if he could’ve physically at that moment). It’s not impossible he’d still have her killed while caring about her, or even that he’s putting on a front with that much detail, it only seems less likely from that behavior that he thinks of her death as favorable to him more than he cares for her.

* But the FUCKING RAIN. And Draken’s little “it rains even in July huh?” meaning he feels it’s meteorologically unusual (I am not versed on the Tokyo area’s climate enough to say if that’s accurate, though). I don’t know to what degree this supposed rain bringer thing is reliable, and if we start attributing every instance of precipitation to Takeomi t-posing in the shadows I might just explode. BUT WHY WAS IT BROUGHT UP. WHY DID HE SAY IT—nay, why did Wakui ASSIGN THAT TO HIM—only for it to rain a little bit later in the series when both a significant character, who escaped death before, dies for good, AND the very important Three Deities battle gets decided? AKA a pivotal moment in the gang world, which may determine a gang’s position in the future, perhaps to align with something he wanted? Like it’s really hard not to see a connection there, especially because he ends up in a good spot after this if Kanto Manji leads into Bonten. Did it mean he was close by a lot of the time Takemichi and Senju were at the amusement park, since it started raining well before the attack actually happened?

* Counterpoint: The point in time Draken was originally supposed to die, it was also raining. If there is some sort of “fated” element to deaths in the series, seeing as how he and Chifuyu die in the Manila timeline the same ways they previously died, the rain could just be part of that.

* Not a counterpoint exactly but, I would be even more suspicious if we had gotten to see at what point that particular rain ended. The first time, it ended after Takemichi agreed to join Brahman, which was explicitly what Takeomi’s goal had been, whatever his motive for it. The second time it hasn’t even ended after Takemichi got hauled to D&D by Koko, so it’s hard to say there.

* Mikey, who may be a time-leaping Mikey at that point, makes a point to tell Takeomi he’s “better off dead too” after he only talks to him while not being in his way (something we know he hurts people for)

* Waka and Benkei’s presence in Kanto Manji was a shock to Senju, but seems to have been for a reason Benkei specifically had. As the two of them are also Black Dragon, connected to Takeomi…

* They are, however, also connected to Mikey through Shinichiro. It’s unclear yet what this motivation is

* Just generally I’ve seen the “seemingly trustworthy person you nonetheless don’t ever get too close to turns out to be a villain” thing happen

There’s surely stuff I’ve missed! And I don’t really know what extent this would go to if it were true. But this story is too fun to speculate about and I cannot help myself!

[littledewdrops2]

Okaaaaayyy

It really makes me sad when people read about a placement and just hole themselves in that box. Astrology is a reflection, when you think about how the way you are raised effects how you perceive things as an adult, it makes sense if you view your natal chart as a book of your life. I have a lot of trauma, and I'll be honest and say my kids have some inherited placements that I look at and panic at sometimes. You are not doomed to repeat the patterns though, a lot of the placements I see with my kids are karmic and they have generational trauma shown in their charts. For instance they have pluto/moon aspects like me and my mom and my sisters. However, their placement isn't as tight of an orb as us. I view this as improvement that could be built upon if they chose to have children too. My daughter has mercury in 12th, I make sure to listen to her EVERY TIME her soft spoken self talks. I stop other people and give her my full attention. My son has his sun in 8th, I make sure he has space to be alone and process, we talk a lot about healthy expression, and his father all the time. You can do these things for yourself too, make yourself a priority, commit to doing things better because you deserve that. I have a cancer mars and my drive has been something I struggle with and burning myself out while I try and care for others (also my moon in taurus in 12th), I love caring for others but self care is hard. I write, I ask for breaks and take time to process, I go to therapy, shoot I even have a boundary to shower every day. I do what I need to express my anger and sadness in a healthy manner.

Also I wish that more people, when they ask questions about their placements, would use that to examine their life a bit more. You know yourself and your life best. For example I'm a sag sun, in 7th, taurus moon in 12th, mercury conj pluto in 6th. The two people that effected me in the best way were my grandparents. My grandma was a Libra sun and a pisces moon. My grandpa was a Sag sun and a virgo moon. It's no coincidence that my planets fall there because growing up I wanted to emulate the people that treated me best. My grandpa always told me, "if it is meant to be, it is up to me", my scorpio mercury and it's conjunction to pluto in the 6th, is a direct reflection of how seriously I took what he said. My chart ruler is my mercury actually, I have held on to that advice and been determined to turn my life around. (Also my mom and dad have no pisces personal placements and no libra, no virgo)

My grandpa valued having a good time and having adventures. He wanted to provide for his family and be a pillar. Then I grew up wanting a partner who was loyal and fun and kind and makes me smile, one I could build with. I think that's pretty reflective of my venus in capricorn (leo degree), in 9th.

Your parents come with their own ideas, values and unique experiences. Their words to you become your inner voice. Always keep in mind that we didn't birth ourselves. We learned these things somewhere. A bit of reflection helps a lot, what did your parents value/did you get along and want to emulate that/do you have easy aspects or hard aspects/who else influenced you/in what ways/can you see the reflection in that? Before stressing out over someone's comment on your placements, R E F L E C T. My kids would hate me if my chart really determined how my life was going to go (because of all the stressful aspects) but hey here I am doing the work I need to do and my relationship with my children is extremely fulfilling and loving and I see the connection in the things I value and how I parent and my kids charts and what they may have taken from me.

Last long winded example lollll, I deeeeeply value being open minded and non-judgemental, education is important to me and activism is too. My son has a stellium in the 9th house with his moon there. As if his mom isn't a sag sun with venus in 9th lolol. My daughter has sun and venus in 11th. Both my kids are libra rising and my daughter is a libra moon in 1st. I already hear them talking about "doing the right thing", justice and helping people sooo much.

I'm wholly planning on teaching my kids that they have the power to transform their life. On one hand, I know sun in the 8th can be very hard and on the other I believe that that placement can be super beneficial if I can help him tap into the positive energy. My daughter has pluto in 4th. I can't do anything about what they've already experienced except to help teach them that they do have the power to break these cycles. (I don't remember who's blog but I read someone say that pluto in 4th can mean that your mom emphasized being able to transform your life, which would be spot on for us.)

You don't have trouble in love because you have chiron in the 7th. You have trouble because your examples of relationships might not have been the best or you struggle to put yourself above your partner because maybe you don't feel good about yourself etc. Chiron in 7th is reflective of the struggle, it's not the reason for the struggle.

Long af, just to say never give up on yourself and it will be okay. ����💖✨ You certainly aren't doomed. Also envy is a sign that you have an unmet need so maybe if you are feeling envious over a placement, be nice to yourself and give yourself a little extra self love.