#to “feral fish woman who was never actually socialized”

[artbyblastweave]

Many years ago J. Michael Straczynski wrote a miniseries for Marvel's MAX imprint called Supreme Power, which was itself a spin on the classic Marvel Faux Justice League The Squadron Supreme. And in this miniseries you've got a Flash Expy, The Blur, who in a very compelling way is like the inverse of A-train from The Boys. They're both black speedsters from impoverished backgrounds who use their powers to become walking billboards instead of going directly into conventional superheroism- at least in part because there isn't actually a lot of call for conventional superheroism. They even share a color scheme.

But unlike A-Train, whose moral core is thoroughly corroded by celebrity, Blur's apparent crass commercialism ends up being thematically linked to the fact that he's easily the most moral and considerate of the entire first wave of superheroes, because he's literally the only one of these people who's ever had to work any kind of day job, and thus the only one who's really in any way beholden to the logic of human society and its associated common courtesy.

[ultranos]

I've been asked more than a few times for something like this, so here's an attempt at organization.

Exist on AO3:

salt & ashes: roleswap au between Zuko and Azula where the major change is that Ozai favors his firstborn son, and everyone else remains the same. Also takes the fanfic trope of "Azula is murderous but it's good if it's for Zuko" and asks is it really? https://archiveofourown.org/series/1845337

i don't want to set the world on fire: aka dragon au. Things go sideways after Ba Sing Se, Azula ends up finding out some very surprising things about herself, and the Gaang ends up with two Fire Hazard siblings instead of one. Well, one and a now-fire-breathing-lizard. https://archiveofourown.org/works/29812665

Exist as freewriting snippets, may or may not become full-fledged fic:

modulus of elasticity: post-canon divergence. 2 months after the comet, Azula escapes the asylum Zuko put her in and vanishes. 10 years later, she's pretty much presumed dead. Which makes it very surprising when he and the Gaang stumble over an alive-and-well firebending artisan in a rural United Republic village with blue flames, who also grew up to be a very different person than they saw last. This and kinematic studies are where some of the genderqueer subtext gets played with and Azula is nb and has a wife by the time Zuko shows up.

kinematic studies: riff off of modulus-verse, except instead of spending 10 years in the United Republic, Azula ended up still in the Fire Nation. First at the northernmost island with the family that adopted her, and later in the actual Caldera, working as a toymaker. Ironically, she actually does get declared dead in this version, which ends up causing some serious issues later, both in the Royal Family and in the realm of Fire Nation politics.

firewalker fallout: Basically: in which Ozai is Caesar, Azula is Joshua Graham, and 4 years later, Aang takes the role of The Courier and follows the rumor about a strange war ghost in the badlands of the Fire Nation.

the tiniest firelord au: age gap between Zuko and Azula is 8 years instead of 2. Sometime after Zuko's banishment, Ozai ends up dying suddenly and the Palace and Fire Sages decide to keep it a secret because their only royal is 5. Iroh fails to answer desperate coded pleas to return home, thinking it's a trap for Zuko. So Zuko and the Gaang are very surprised on DoBS when they kick down the doors to the throne room...and find that the Fire Lord is all of 8 years old.

tiny ryuujin: someone asked to mash up the dragon au + tiniest firelord.

go fish: 5-year-old shipwrecked and semi-feral Azula ends up in the Northern Water Tribe, because La decided to be pro-active about protecting their wife. Azula grows up weird, Yue grows up terrifying. Meanwhile, Ursa is even more protective of Zuko and never leaves the Palace, and Ozai's reign is suddenly a lot more dangerous when he has someone like that he'll listen to at times on his side.

a universe that runs on irony: the "what if Azula was Iroh's kid instead of Ozai's?" au.

smallest nail: the "what if Azula did have a positive influence?" au. This one is the young woman who became her wet nurse as an infant when Ursa suffered PPD. Years later, Azula gets information on where she went after she left the palace, and for various reasons, her faith and loyalty in Ozai is shaken deeply, runs away for good. Zuko and Iroh find themselves now suspected of Azula's murder by the Fire Nation. Meanwhile, the Gaang run into a sarcastic, socially awkward golden-eyed girl in the middle of the EK.

[rocorambles]

Can I req Ushiwaka having a fubu who is Shirabu's sister and one time she thought Shirabu was out so she invited Ushiwaka but Shirabu caught them in the kitchen. Up to you how it'll endd bc idk if you write incest or you're uncomf wid it. -🐢

I actually went fairly soft with this because I love the idea of Shirabu just being an overprotective younger brother and I took some liberty with exactly where he finds them doing the do~ 

 Warnings: NSFW

You know this isn’t what an older sister should do. You know there’s every potential for rumors to spread like wildfire if people found out exactly what type of relationship you have with the captain of Shiratorizawa’s prestigious volleyball team. You know the significant social consequences it could have for Ushijima, for Shirabu, for the entire team if their esteemed captain got caught in a scandal. But more importantly, you can’t help but feel the pang of guilt every time Shirabu looks at you like a surrogate mom, bright eyed and always excited to tell you about how practice was, how his day was despite the fact that he’s fully outgrown being just your kid brother.  

Would he still look at you with that love in his eyes if he knew exactly what you were doing behind his back with his captain? Someone else he has nothing but admiration and respect for? 

But maybe you don’t care nearly enough because here you are, continuing your secret little dance, plastering a cheery smile on your face as Shirabu tells you he’s going out for a study hangout session with some friends, pride mixing with shame inside of you as your heart soars at how diligent and hardworking your little brother is, only to have the feeling dampered by the text lighting up your phone.  

“Are you free?”

You snort when you see the text. Which person your age writes in complete sentences with perfect grammar, capitalized letters, accurately placed punctuation? For a booty call? 

Ushijima Wakatoshi. That’s who. 

You’re not even completely sure how this strange relationship had begun. Well, you do know, but you can barely remember the night, only foggy memories of a third-year house party and too much alcohol prevalent in your thoughts. But your face heats up when you remember despite the way your body was barely keeping it together, stumbling around like a drunken idiot, the immense attraction you had felt when you laid eyes on Ushijima in all his stoic and stiff mannerisms, glued to a wall away from the heart of the chaos. 

The last thing you remember is bounding towards him, olive eyes widening in alarm when your body presses against him and your hands hook into the front of his shirt, trying to pull him down for a sloppy kiss. And then you blank out. 

You find out the next morning that you had promptly passed out from the insane amount of alcohol you had consumed, saved from falling into a messy heap on the floor by Ushijima’s reflexes, and you groan when you remember the awkwardly hilarious photos your friends had taken of the giant athlete gently laying your limp body on the ground at his feet before resuming his uptight standing stance, looking strangely like an intimidating bodyguard guarding your passed out form splayed at his feet. 

Your friends tell you to laugh it off. People do stupid things when they’re drunk. Don’t sweat it. 

Sure, that’s all fine and dandy, maybe even true. But most people don’t have to see the victim of their drunk stupidity on a daily basis and you want to sink into the ground when you pick up Shirabu from practice, nowhere to hide from olive eyes that look at you with recognition. And your foot taps impatiently, wanting nothing more than for your brother to pick up the pace so you can leave your shame behind. 

But what you don’t expect is a large body making its way towards you, a looming shadow covering your body as Ushijima stands in front of you. 

“I wouldn’t mind repeating what you were trying to do last night when you’re sober.” 

Straightforward. Never one to beat around the bush. Never one to mince words. The sentence is everything you should expect from a man like Ushijima, but the implication of his words and the embarrassment it dredges up from your core make your jaw drop and just like that, the two of you are in the world’s most silent stand-off. But Ushijima is a busy man who doesn’t have time for...whatever it is you’re currently doing just standing there like a fish out of water, and without thinking you tell him your phone number when he asks, still in a daze as he politely bows to you before walking away. 

The rest is history. 

Your “hangouts” started off a little shakily with your shyness and his stiffness clashing against each other in a messy tango as you hesitantly and tentatively explored each other, tasting each other’s mouths, fingertips gently grazing warm skin, mapping out new territory. But Ushijima is a quick learner, sharp instincts and awareness making him a dangerous opponent in the bedroom, and before you know it, he’s seemingly completely figured you out. 

You’re left screaming, writhing, and moaning, a different sort of mess from the woman he had met that one night. And as prim and proper as Ushijima has been raised, he can’t help but want to wreck you even more, see just how filthy you can become because of him. 

Tonight’s no different and you’ve barely opened the front door to let him in before you’re swiftly being hauled up and carried by strong arms, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as you hungrily kiss each other, practically devouring one another as he brings the two of you down hallways and turns he knows like the back of his hand by now before dropping you on your bed. 

Clothes are being pulled off and haphazardly thrown, a slight shudder running through you as the cool air hits your body, quickly replaced by a warm body settling on top of you and you sigh in content as Ushijima’s body blankets yours in its comforting and familiar presence. But there’s nothing soothing about the way he roughly presses against your lips, one calloused hand gliding down your hips, squeezing in a way that has your back arching and mewling into his mouth, desperate for more, more, more. 

Ushijima is gifted in more ways than one and even after countless rounds of mind numbing pleasure, he still insists on thoroughly stretching you out, remaining firm about not moving forward until he deems you ready. For once, you are not a fan of his meticulousness, finding it almost torturously slow as he stays resolute in his decisions, gradually adding finger by painstaking finger inside of you, never increasing his pace, never increasing the stretch inside of you until you’re beyond ready, a thrashing pleading begging mess on the verge of frustrated aroused tears. 

Only when your pussy is gushing, juices leaking everywhere, salty drops trailing down your face does he finally press his tip against your entrance. Your nails claw into broad shoulders as he sinks bit by bit inside of you, the stretch always overwhelming and deliriously satisfying no matter how many times you’ve had him inside of you, and your mouth opens almost comically wide when he finally bottoms out inside of you, his balls pressing against your ass as he forces himself to still, letting you adjust to his generous size. 

But you don’t have his patience and you pointedly squeeze your tight walls around his cock, a sharp upwards tilt on your lips when the powerful man above you loses his restraint, groaning and instinctively thrusting his hips further inside of you from the feeling of you clamping down on him. And you know you’ve awakened the predator inside of him when a dark feral look gleams in his narrowed eyes, heart racing as he pins you down with a hungry look you know all too well. 

You’ll blame the loud clapping sound of skin against skin, the symphony of your pleasured wails and his grunts, the rustling of bedsheets and movement of bed frame, for not hearing the front door open much too soon as Shirabu returns home in search for a textbook he’d forgotten, intending to just quickly go in and out. 

He’ll blame his morbid curiosity and overprotectiveness of you, heart and mind already knowing exactly what he’s hearing from the direction of your bedroom, knowing he shouldn’t look through the open crack of your door to confirm his suspicions, knowing he should respect your privacy. You’re an adult now and this is what adults do. It’s fine. It’s normal. Yet he plants his face against the crack, eye narrowing as he tries to make out who the fucker is who dares lay a hand on his sister, only to jerk in surprise, accidentally creaking the door open further when he realizes exactly who is in between your legs. 

Both your heads whip towards the doorway at the sound of the hinges squeaking and there’s a tense stillness in the air as the three of you freeze, different varieties of mortification and shock expressed on your faces. And then Shirabu is fleeing, slamming the door shut behind him, a strangled stuttered excuse of needing to go back to his friend’s house echoing behind him as he makes a beeline back towards the entrance, itching to leave the seared image of Ushijima and you so intimately together far far behind.

He isn’t mad. He doesn’t know exactly what he is as a litany of emotions ransack him. But he knows he isn’t mad. 

Still in shock? Maybe. Mortified and unsure how he’s ever going to look his captain in the eyes ever again? Absolutely.   

But you’re still you and he can feel the guilt twist his insides at how distraught and panicked you sound as you desperately try to contact him, mentally wishing he was a stronger man ready to face his problems instead of shying from them as he tries to slowly process what had just happened. 

He knows the right move is to go back home, sit down with you, and talk it out. He knows that he’ll eventually go back home. He knows that he still loves you regardless of who you share your bed with. He knows all this and yet it’s daunting, the thought of returning and looking you in the eyes after what had transpired, his feet feeling like blocks of lead. But it’s a four word text from his captain that ultimately gives him the final push he needs. 

“Please come back home.” 

It’s jarring to witness the man he looks up to calling his house “home”. But...not in a bad way and Shirabu’s eyes stay fixated on that single word, mind playing imaginary scenarios of Ushijima walking with both of you back home, of you holding up a poster with both their numbers during volleyball matches, of you scolding both men to not slack off in their studies. 

He doesn’t hate it. In fact something curious and warm floats inside of him as his imagination runs wild and he can feel the scheming strategic wheels in his brain twist and turn the more and more he thinks about Ushijima and you. 

There’s not many men Shirabu would easily let into his sister’s life. But Ushijima? Ushijima would be at the top of that allowed list if he had one. And although he’s sure that what the two of you currently have is just a friends with benefits relationship (banking on the fact that his sister would never hide her actual boyfriend from him, even if it is Ushijima), he smiles, already planning ways to pierce both of you with Cupid’s arrows as he makes his way back home.

[greensword101]

This is for @barely-nok. I’m sorry it took so long to get some Obake content out for you to consume. I hope you find it tasty lol.

Obake never drank on principle. He needed to keep a clear head and heads were meant for thinking. And thinking meant he could create what he wanted to the limit or even beyond that.

But even sober, his brain would...fizzle if Kei ever so much as blinked at him prettily. Or pouted. Or cheerily threatened to sing “I’m Henry the Eighth , I Am” if he didn’t agree to take a break and - urgh! Just acknowledging the phrase made him feel filthy - spend some “quality time” with a coworker.

Personally speaking, Obake would have preferred the term “expendable” or “replaceable” or “unpaid intern that wasn’t getting extra credit or the merits of knowledge.” Oh, but he would pay anything to get DeciBull out of his sight! And hearing range.

Then again, hearing range would be preferable. Wild cards like Kei were acceptable. DeciBull - or Wil as Kei had casually greeted him by to the former’s chargain -  was more of a Jack; weaker than Obake, but still a threat nonetheless.

If Kei hadn’t taken the car and driven off to God knew where, he would have stormed out of the bar and left that arsehole behind. Maybe steal his glasses and see if the chubby man with a guitar gimmack could find his way back home without falling off the pier.

Wil had barely touched his first bottle and was glowering at his phone for the past half hour. This suited Obake swimmingly, if not for the fact that Kei would know that they hadn’t made any attempt at all and would be tormenting him with that song again! And she would enlist Noodle Burger Boy this time, he was certain. And possibly Trina, though he was certain she would be directed towards Wil instead.

Obake collected himself and recited the longest formulas in the Periodic Table before he rigidly glanced over to Wil.

“I’m surprised you aren’t taking advantage of the karaoke here.”

Wil yelped and fumbled with his phone - mumbling apologies to the bartender as he passed - before gaping at Obake.

“Interesting...” Obake murmured.

“What?” Wil asked bemused.

“You almost looked like an intelligent being for a moment.”

Wil scowled, “Funny.” 

Then a smile crept onto his face. Obake stiffened. He knew he could take the man, he was slimmer and certainly wasn’t sluggish, but bars were always tricky to maneuver around in. Inebriation, sympathizers, or anyone looking for an excuse to be aggressive would make Obake beating Wil up...troublesome.

“Something amusing to you?” Obake took a sip from his own glass to appear ignorant and casual.

“Just thinking how whipped you must be if Kei could make you spend time with me,” Wil leaned in conspiratorially, “Tell me, does she make you sleep on the couch when you misbehave?”

Obake sputtered and and gave Wil a hard stare. Wil stared back undaunted.

“Shut your mouth and have your bloody drink, why don’t you?” Obake snarled and took another, deeper sip from his glass. He was used to dealing with the aggressive and almost territorial behavior Wil demonstrated back at the base. He did not want to be sober to process that Wil was capable of having bloody cheek.

“How can I have my ‘bloody drink’ if my mouth’s shut?” Wil asked innocently.

“Test my patience and we’ll find out soon enough,” Obake growled under his breath. He could do it.  One stab between the ribs and he could slip out in the noise and confusion. He just didn’t want to put up with Kei pestering him when he got back and possibly annoying her with a potential murder.

Wil sniggered and had another swig of his beer. He went back to his phone, but he barely seemed to be reading what was on the screen.

That was...unexpected. But it was a better alternative to dealing with a feral monkey by himself. Obake found himself enjoying the Manhattan more than he expected and finished it off. He was beginning to fish the cherry out when Wil spoke up again.

“Was it good?”

Obake groaned and glowered at Wil, who was starting at his empty glass curiously. What didn’t that fool understand about having a little peace and quiet?

“I don’t typically drink myself,” Wil mumbled into his bottle and drank. He sputtered for a few moments and continued, “I just stick to a beer once in a while.”

“Thank Heaven for small miracles, then,” Obake narrowed his eyes and waved the bartender over, “Another one, if you would be so kind.”

“Me too,” Wil smiled at the bartender and held up his empty bottle. Amazingly, the bartender smiled back and came back moments later with their second drinks. Wil called after him as he walked off, “Thanks, Jim!”

“You frequent this place often?” Obake ventured and helped himself to his second Manhattan. Screw sobriety, it had been so long since he had anything that tasted so good touch his lips.

“I used to,” Wil admitted, “Just for a bite and maybe a bottle. That’s kind of how me and Kei met, actually.”

“A little nip before beddybye?” Obake cooed mockingly at him.

“Crime and I have something in common,” Wil smirked, “We rarely sleep.”

“Tragic,” Obake chuckled and raised his glass in mock salute, “To your insomnia, I suppose.”

Wil raised his beer in kind, “And to good company if I ever get any.”

Now, they both laughed for real. Obake noticed for the first time how pleasantly red Wil’s face had become. Was it the alcohol or the first genuine spark of life he was expressing? If it was the latter, that would mean Kei was behind it somehow.

Suddenly, the good feeling popped like a soap bubble and Obake hid his displeasure by finishing off his second Manhattan. Wil gawked at him.

“You should slow down, Kei is gonna freak if she has to pick us up from the ER because you got alcohol poisoning or something.”

“Kei this, Kei that, you haunt her like a lapdog!” Obake spat out. Damn that woman and her silly, childish notions of fun and damn that boulder she decided would make good company!

Wil blinked and leaned back a little. A moment later, he was glowering back with that familiar hostility, “At least I don’t treat her like a nuisance like you do! Do you have any idea how much she cares about you?!”

“Cares?” Obake snapped his fingers at Jim for another glass and leaned closer to Wil’s face. His nostrils flared and he could feel Wil tense inches away from him. “Why would she have to care about me? If that’s what you call pity, then I’ve no need for it! She can pretend all she wants that we’re all supposed to be some family, but in the end, that’s all it’s going to be. A stupid dream! Why would she care about making me ‘socialize’ with the others or spending ‘quality time’ with her silly boyfriend?”

“Boyfriend?!”

Obake jabbed a finger into Wil’s chest, “Don’t play coy! I know you think I’m a prat to her! And I know you won’t believe that she can almost make me feel human! But you don’t have to worry about me getting in the way, Prince Charming! She’s all yours, so you don’t have to worry about me -”

“I’m gay.”

“And I’m Bob, the pleasure’s all...what.” Obake had to take a moment to process Wil’s flat retort.

“Gay. I like guys. I love them. I love kissing them. And I’m already taken.”

Obake opened his mouth and closed it again. He noticed that his third Manhattan had arrived and wasted no time downing it. Wil didn’t repeat how it wasn’t safe to do this time, and he was thankful for that. 

Suddenly, he felt someone standing right behind him and stilled.

“Is he giving you problems, Wil?”

“No worries, Eugene,” Wil smiled at the person behind him, “Just clearing up a misunderstanding over here.”

Obake felt a little dizzy and pinched his nose, “Let me understand this correctly. You have never had feelings for Kei?”

“Platonically, yes. Romantically or otherwise? No.”

“And this whole time, yo - you’ve...” Why couldn’t he find the right words? “You’ve...acted harshly because...?”

“Because she’s one of my best friends and I don’t want her to get hurt,” Wil said firmly. He pointed at Obake with a fiercely protective look, “I can’t help who she wants to connect with, but I won’t stand by and let her get hurt. She’s gone through too much to deserve that.”

“Alright, I’m just going to butt in for a moment here,” Eugene moved from behind Obake and stood to Wil’s left, wrapping an arm across him protectively. He was pleasant to the eyes; tall, broad, dark brown hair and a scruffy goatee. He looked at Wil, bemused, “You weren’t here scooping for another cutie, babe?”

“Wh...why...why would he...?” Obake’s tongue felt like lead. Dear Lord, he could barely speak, he was so embarrassed.

“Because this is a gay bar?” Eugene supplemented as if it weren’t obvious. Obake blinked. Come to think of it, it was rather odd no one had come to bother them when they came in. Did...did that mean...?

Somewhere in San Fransokyo, Kei was laughing herself silly. Obake was certain of it. 

“Everything alright over here?” Another voice, deeper than Eugene’s mischievous and light tone asked.

“Hey ‘Nan! This is an acquaintance of mine,” Wil helped himself to his beer, “and apparently he thought I was stealing his girlfriend until a few moments ago. Bob, this is Kanan. My other boyfriend.”

“Other...” Obake’s head was swimming. This was too much to process...

“Yeah,” Wil said shyly, “We’re...we’re kind of a poly sort of thing.”

As if to prove his point, Eugene promptly gave Wil a deep kiss on the lips that was eagerly returned. Kanan came into view and Obake noticed how dark skinned he was and the ponytail before he decided he was too sober to handle this all right now.

He made to stand and tripped over his stool. And a moment later, his Manhattans returned and splashed all over the floor.

In hindsight, he should have checked how much alcohol was in each glass...

It was about a half hour later when Kei found all four of them outside the bar with Obake being supported by an irksome Wil and amused Eugene. Kanan looked torn between disapproval and laughter.

“Was it fun?” Kei asked hesitantly. Obake took one look at her and sighed. It was his own fault for drinking too much.

“It was something,” Wil supplemented as he helped buckle Obake into the backseat, “And educational, apparently, so that’s a plus.”

“We were there at the tail-end,” Eugene added helpfully, “It was kind of entertaining.”

“You sure you can take care of this?” Kanan asked Wil.

Wil looked at Obake and sighed, “We’ll be alright. Thanks, anyways.”

“See you at the next heist meet, babe!” Eugene blew a kiss.

“Tell Raps and Hera I said hi!” Wil called back as they drove off.

“And here I thought I’d be picking you up at the police station for a bar brawl,” Kei half joked.

“Stay with me, Bob!” Wil shook Obake gently, “Don’t go to sleep. First rule in treating alcohol poisoning.”

“Piss off...” Obake slurred.

Wil sighed and let his head sink against the headrest for a few moments. Why didn’t he just become an accountant like his parents wanted?

“Wil...” Obake said sluggishly, “In..in the...event...I survive this with my memory intact. Would you...do it again?”

Wil blinked in surprise and chuckled weakly, “Only if you watch what you drink next time, lightweight.”

“Momma’s boy.”

“Evil Brit.”

“Four Eyes.”

“Nnnnnnnnnnneeeee~rrrrrrrrrds!” Kei cackled as her passengers bickered with each other without any former hostility from before.

[ratfuck]

Is it crack, ma'am? Is that what you do? Do you smoke crack? He was a positivity blog who's last post was about how much his mental state had taken a dive! That's your fault! In your post (hey, I wonder why it was fucking deleted, hmm?) You only quote jokes by him as proof that he's a pedo.

since your response is to ask me if I smoke crack while you singlehandedly express you have no fucking literacy in regards to what I have posted,

It doesn't matter if it's a positivity blog, that makes things worse. Time and time again he has shown that he doesn't appear to actually care about important topics unless he can gain clout from it. He constantly trivializes and infantisize civil rights groups like Black Lives Matter. His support for trans people or any other marginalized group at severe risk goes nowhere outside of posting a photo made in microsoft paint of his goldfish png pasted in front of a pride flag. Whenever he screws up, like the time he offended lesbian woman by making them seem like violent men-hating ferals, he immediately starts cry typing until his fans start forking over money to patreon, make tribute art for him, and harass the people who call him out on his bullshit. There is a difference between actually showing support for marginalized people, and using marginalized people as a way to propel your own popularity by making yourself seem woke. Even if he does go by any pronoun, and says he's pan, you still shouldn't put yourself in front of other's voices if you have nothing to contribute besides trite made to make people clap for you.

His mental state did not take a dive, and he was no suicide threat. This behavior is consistent with other internet shitbags who generate sympathy when they're caught doing dumb, bad shit. He made one comment about having an intrusive thought after some weirdo made fun of him, and then left for a month while you people starved for content and attention from him. Except he didn't really leave, because he was making private posts for the people who pay him for "content" on Patreon.

I deleted my posts a few days after that worthless CreepshowArts youtube animator/rantsona made a 20 minute essay on me, instantly fucked up and misgendered me before immediately uploading a "corrected" version (I honestly do not buy that this was an accident, if someone's going to stare at my blog for 20 minutes they should be able to pick out "trans woman" in the fucking header, and the people telling me that it's my fault I got misgendered because of my blog theme are HUUUGE assholes). Almost instantly I got sent hate mail telling me to kill myself, calling me a tranny/trap/fag, anons writing graphic descriptions of raping me and killing me, and a 14 year old wrote a fantasy about me where they abducted me, tortured me for hours with a knife, then stab me to death. I have a perfectly good reason to have deleted my post, because I was being singled out as a trans woman while the other people who made the callouts didn't receive any of the type of harassment I received.

Yet again you dumb fucks cherry pick what you see and stick to it. You completely disregard the incident where his discord was moderated by hand-picked people who openly expressed how they think MAP is a sexuality, that talking with minors about sex is perfectly okay. You disregard that Fish, despite claiming how he hates pedophiles and never interacts with them, is still friends/mutuals with that Gaud fucker who was outed consuming similar pedo content and being a transphobe. You conveniently disregard that he followed accounts that posted loli content daily (even if it IS sfw sometimes, its pretty fucking concerning that an adult is following an account that posts drawings of little girls in swimsuits or lifting up their skirts in front of the viewer), an artist that openly states that their pedophilic shipping of Kid Icarus characters is their life (which they draw CONSTANTLY), an account that posted Spiderverse adult/minor shipping, and a Rick & Morty account that posted incestuous/pedophilic art of the characters engaged in a relationship. Of course, when that evidence IS brought up, you people just claim that he did that on accident. How do you know that? You say it's follow-for-follow, but why would a Japanese account that posts lolicon material that is speaking Japanese ONLY have any interest in some performative idiot who makes Gay Rightz posts as a goldfish? How come none of these accounts followed or liked, commented on, or retweeted Fish's tweets at all? Your failure to read into the stuff I posted, as well as the other information gathered by individuals isn't my fault.

Most importantly, how do you people see this shit and conclude that it's not problematic in the slightest? Some of the people defending him straight up are saying that it's okay if he consumes that content, because he's not ACTIVELY sexually abusing minors? The only evidence YOU have is second-hand, word-of-mouth BULLSHIT spewed by people who are actively biased towards him. You have NO screenshots to confirm that he followed these accounts on accident or purely out of an innocent follow-for-follow game. You have NO testimony from him or people he's been involved with that state he is this pure source of positivity and enrichment. You have NOTHING besides a collection of 13-17 year old who are clearly absorbed in his cult of personality, pedophiles jumping to the rescue for someone accused of consuming pedophilic materials, and edgy internet trolls who just want a chance to harass a trans woman for warning people of a manipulative, creepy fuck spouting the same, tired, uninformed, uneducated, sympathy baiting rhetoric over and over and over again hoping for me and the OTHER people who made these posts about him to delete so you can go back to your delusion that everything is alright.

Until you have actual, serious, damning proof that me and other people are entirely wrong, and that I'm some sort of sick twisted fuck doing this SOLELY to harm some nobody positivity blogger on some backwater social media site, YOU NEED TO SHUT THE FUCK UP.

[captainkurosolaire]

LF Contacts : Captain Kuro Solaire

NAME: Captain Kuro Solaire AGE: 35 (Appears 29) - (’Temporarily Immortal’ Limited on deaths before next story-arc, or, life is dependent on another to pass.)

RACE: Seeker of the Sun, Miqo’te

GENDER: Male

SEXUALITY: Straight, Dom

MARITAL STATUS: Married/Poly/Open Relationship

SERVER: Balmung

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE ––––

HAIR: A slick jet black texture, Kuro’s hair is majority of the time unkempt with downward spikes often cascading across the sides of his face and more light spikes here and there, sometimes when grown-out it’s placed in a bandana and combed on the sides. Under rare occurrences the length of his hair can be lower then his shoulders and without being straightened leaving a shaggy and feral look. Often sporting an accompanied goatee, through more veteran experience and age has extended that further with a stubble to boot and long sideburns.

EYES: One eye is often left visible with an amber glow, while the other eye lays remained behind an eye-patch for a particular reason that is usually left in speculation to other onlookers.

HEIGHT: 6 fulms, 0 ilms.

BUILD: Built as a complete ultimate fighter. 

DISTINGUISHING MARKS: Scattered scars from a gash hidden underneath a leather collar from his first defeat and near end. To followed historical injuries to dragon claws swiped across his hip to rib nearing his chiseled abs, to lance wounds on his pec, bite-marks from a fanged creature nearly always adorned near his throat or shoulder-blade. Scratch marks from passion on his back. To matching fiendish talons shredding the opposing side of his rib-cage. With a gashed-cut draped across his right-eye. Lastly an X incision on his chest crossing over his upper-torso and halting near his shoulders to his pecs. This is all left to be seen as he’s often shirtless for all to see. Additionally, he’s got a tattoo on his forearm of runic engravings with summoner lettering’s that seem to be serving as a seal. Compass on his left-hand to prevent him losing memories of being a sailor that points in all four-directions. The south-seas etched above crossing over his bicep. Behind his back on left upper-most shoulder is the Goldbrand Crest. A forgotten ritual that has since been lost among the Crew as little carry it left but two-survivors him and another included.

COMMON ACCESSORIES: Talisman across his neck that has several link-pearls attached to a string with a feather which represents ‘freedom’,  the pearls mainly allow him to keep in-contact with crew-mates and a bundle of criminal orientated allies or other like-minded individuals he’s met in his travels with arrangements of companionship with many varying in uniqueness. A combat satchel attached to his belt that allow him quick accessibility to ‘Get out of dodge methods’ not to mention golden earrings the eye-patch of some sort always. With a very symbolic tricorne hat that is leather matching his often outfit of black leather and being ever mysterious and imposing a scoundrel aesthetic.

PERSONAL –––-

PROFESSION: Captain of the Goldbrand, navigation, commanding, claiming panties all over Eorzea and providing pleasure where others need the lesson or reminder. Along with a thief, smuggler, diplomat and a veteran sailor. He’s also a chaser of treasure from old relics to folktales passed on in Legends through very little evidence of the existences but scrolls & charts that he reads and plans out accordingly before attempting his plunder for fortune.

HOBBIES: Drinking, Ocarina, Women, Pleasure, More Pleasure, Even more Pleasure, Entertainment (Former Pleasure Dome worker as a Dancer and Escort.) Juggling, Acrobatics, Jury-rigging, Swimming, Teaching, Training, Mentor, Fighting, Fishing, Brawling, Working out. Exploring. Adventuring. Landing into Dangerous situations. 

LANGUAGES:  Fluent (Mostly) Eorzean, Xaelic, and Hingan, Pirate Tongue. (Working on venturing past his horizon to open trades and communications with beast-tribes for business escapades or other relationships.)

RESIDENCE: Ul’dah

FEARS: None. (Backstory behind that) Though not immune to psychological damage or other borderline issues in his mentality plus he’s got things that put him in discomfort as the following dictates. - Authority - Confinement - Rules - Fees - Harm to loved ones - Loneliness - Discrimination - Ribbons

RELATIONSHIPS –––-

SPOUSES: Ayla Moenwyb / Sivir Ka’vaul

CHILDREN: Bastard children all around, who knows you might be one. He’s often out there being ever the manwhore and shameless about the fact. So, just call him Daddy regardless.

PARENTS: Hoku Solaire (Father - Alive) Rokeia Solaire (Mother - Deceased giving birth to Kuro Solaire)

SIBLINGS: Unknown but Father was a former Nunh so would be reasonable to say there’s tons out there.

OTHER RELATIVES: Many unknown. Though Sol Akagane / Founding GB Captain Gark would be considered along with his OG Crew as Family in a more surrogate / adoption style way.

PETS: A list of women out there. ~ Oh, that kind of pet.... --- KY, Levi and Box.

TRAITS –––-

extroverted / introverted / in between

disorganized / organized / in between

close minded / open-minded / in between

calm / anxious / in between

disagreeable / agreeable / in between

cautious / reckless / in between

patient / impatient / in between

outspoken / reserved / in between

leader / follower / in between

empathetic / unemphatic / in between

optimistic / pessimistic / in between

traditional / modern / in between

hard-working / lazy / in between

cultured / un-cultured / in between

loyal / disloyal / in between

faithful / unfaithful / in between

ADDITIONAL INFORMATION –––-

SMOKING HABIT: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess.

DRUGS: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess.

ALCOHOL: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess

POSSIBLE HOOKS –––-

If your character keeps up to date with gossip or visits the ferry possibly heard of a pirate crew whispered about and a charismatic Captain that shows up from time-to-time stirs up trouble for the locals or swoons women in the residence.

Few Wanted warrants on him by this point but nothing overly grave but still enough to be sent to the gallows if captured with a lot of disturbances or complaints about public indecency potentially could even upset or have effected someone emotionally enough to slaughter instead of thinking twice about imprisoning.

If your character is also in the crime or shady organizations / dealings no doubt heard of inklings about him and often offers services to make smuggling deals across the Five Seas as this current-point or human trafficking. He’s also contributed in black-markets or to show up voluntary but his bravado can even potentially irk that who are the closest to him in nature.

If your character visits Ul’dah will often might see an encounter with him there and his ever showman and brazen self on display but he doesn’t have his payments ever overdue and has shown to be quite difficult to get out of the tavern by a legit reason outside of his exotic behavior mostly enforcing or provoking scuffles but pending and tricking others to take the fall while not fighting back depending on his cheery mood.

Isn’t without being imposed to battle, train, mentor anyone he sees with promise though his eye cannot help but glance at any woman as his greed isn’t that of gold and gil, but more of a carnal lust a whole different hunger entirely sees him think with the head between his legs instead of his actual noggin.

If your character is a prude, uppity, or a noble, You though can probably consider him rather riled up or anyone with governmental leverage or oozing ‘authority’ He can’t stand with anyone in SUPPORT or relation to those who supposedly have ‘political power’ he believes strongly in freedom and will often contest them. 

Hes dealt with voids and other relics so can be seen with other people unlike that are standard city-folk. But adventurers or other expediting travelers or mutual connections may have grumble his name out before. If there’s something to learn or culture to be taught to him then he’ll wish to learn it. He’s all about the social interaction and the moment made to leave behind memories with those of the denizens across Eorzea enough he’s faded and nothing but a fragmented set of syllables left off words of old as a tale in passing.

Hes participated in a few joining with Captaining of unlikely circumstances and a War among the Depths under a civilization buried under the Rohtano Seas where a massive criminal empire laid as many of his battles and advisories involve rivaling other pirate crews in a ‘robbin hood style’ of sorts, namely it’s out of creative story plots usually playing the other antagonist crews and giving them their own morale, roster, beliefs.

WHAT I’M LOOKING FOR ––––

Crew. Not just a crew, ‘The’ Crew select band of individuals to go to high heights of grander with. 

Creating stories with meaningful relationships. Friendships, Business Associates, Teachers, Students, Sparring Partners, Rivals, Long-term Romance Partners(Can be discussed/depends), Flings, Shorts, Playing ‘Villainous’ roles. Boosting credentials like Law enforcement etc. or joining with fellow corrupted figures.

OOCLY, I AM ––––

Bedridden (Sick) Usually takes some works around and patience but if that is tolerable and doesn’t see you packing, we’re going to get along well can already consider me your BFF for all the juicy topics.

Overly chill and outspoken along with communicative being my prime focus, though, don’t get me wrong I am always down to meet and learn of other peoples characters despite the image that may be seen!

I para-rp but do nearly ever format and style usually, I don’t go without matching my partner.

I plot with everything and genre just about though Dark/Romance/High-Fantasy/Fantasy/Erotic//Dramatic seem to be more where I often am seen engaging-in.

Nerd, +14yrs Dungeon Master / RPer / Former event runner /  Former Owners/Leaders for Discords and Linkshells / Tabletop Creator (Slacked off on that obv.)

I’m CST. But, can’t go on that. My health makes my sleep lately all over the place, I used to be a Vampire as nightly used to be my prime time but now I have no official time, I stick with. So, It’s a lame process to catch me.

YOU CAN CONTACT ME VIA ––

Twitter -  Captain Kuro Solaire

Tumblr - I try to follow everyone in FFXIV Community so should be able to DM me.

Discord: Kuro Solaire#0508

Ref Sheet - Captain Kuro Solaire

+18 F-list

(Branch out further more sometime)

[sazzafraz]

crashing tide 2 eclectic bugaboo

got my ass kicked accidentally coming off lexapro and had to tidy this up for people who aren’t me. 

arc title: a timebomb

so rachel (hanko. do not call her this) is more of an anti-fan. a peerless cucumber, if you will. she died dissing the war arc. when she arrived she immediately left ninja school and forced her way into a cooking apprenticeship. she aims to eventually make the malaysian food of her childhood accessible to the masses. this is all before she finds a kid upside down in her dumpster. nart, with half a grilled fish in his mouth, hisses at her. rachel, tired and strung out on not-coke, hisses back. this is her dumpster to steal bad fish from. eventually she shows nart the best spots for getting decent food on the cheap. then she feels bad. she knows that the war restricted produce from the other nations and she doesn’t have the money to spend. so, dumpsters. why the fuck is a kid here.

she ignores that he is naruto

for like awhile. during which she bullys him into a nicer apartment (because the hokage pays for it) with a good kitchen she can cook in. she doesn’t live with him but shes around a lot.  so nart grows up w a weird millennial who’d rather have plants than children.  

nart grows up. and rachel isn’t nice she’s blunt and casually dismissive of people and terrifyingly weak when nart pushes too hard and takes things too personally. but she’s a person. so nart grows up with a handful more social skills and different incomprehensible fear drives. rachel being rachel ignores that this is the protagonist until people try to kill him. naturally. 

rachel nearly dies. like rachel is 90% dead. naruto taps into the kyuubi much earlier. its a shitty back alley with shitty men who are shiity about pretty redheads and demon children. after nearly dying rachel doesn’t speak to naruto for like six weeks. what? she’s busy. she’s busy and it was scary. when she gets sent to an outpatient program run by the hyuuga she meets a slim man names touma. who immediately locates that she’s a transmigrator who then scolds her for messing with the plot

rachel:.........thE PLOT-

two hours later they stop fighting and bringing up specific fights they had on forums. two hours after that rachel gets Read In on the whole situation with the other transmigrators.  touma asks her to look out for her kid but otherwise accepts that she could not give a shit. 

fast forward. some weirdo throws a weeks worth of meals thru her window with a heartfelt note attached. touma sends her a coded letter saying that sasuke’s guardian is like them and making some moves. the hokage comes to visit. it is not a very nice visit. she ends p on the couch over night holding naruto. they both cry.

mirako disappears for a year. this is good. rachel sharpens her knife.

fast forward again and rachel has a knife and a tired uchiha at the end of it.

rachel has some expectations here: she remembers the uchiha and how snobby and insular and frankly scary they were. she also remembers that they were weird and silent and scared. mirako is some of those things but she’s also just straight up a shinobi. she has the eyes of someone whose killed and doesn’t care about it.

mirako throws her hands up! fuck it! lets get drinks!

they get drinks. rachel gets really specific and mirako is like. oh. its you. i remember you. did you ever get over the Itachi twist because like. you were too mad about it. they bond a little.

at this point we switch back to mirako fully who realises that...sasuke has to go to ninja school. he has to go to ninja school and that sucks. see now sasuke has several things OG him didn’t. he knows how to make friends! he has a conception of the world that doesn’t focus Konoha or Itachi! he has a weird aunt and cousin! what he doesn’t have and mira can’t take off time to teach him is a basic ninja foundation. her mom could do it, but she extremely does not want him to internalise what her mom has. she can probably undo Fire’s brainwashing, she cannot undo her mothers. she’s tried. 

so mirako nuts up and goes to the hokage. during this meeting, crashed by dan, she meets danzo for the first time and something is just.......fucked there. danzo literally screams with parts of her family. she can sense the book womans work, unwilling, and knows the only reason he doesn’t have her eyes is because danzo is cursed.

‘oh shit’ mirako thinks

‘what a way to find out THOSE fairytales were true’

but she gets through the meeting despite the wailing and terror of again. her literal family. drifting off this old man. she and dan settle up there debts for the time being. she’s more than repaid him for what he lost and she’s feeling centred enough to let SOME water pass under the bridge.  

she and dan genuinely part on good terms.

some months pass. sas goes to school. mirako goes bask to work. rachel becomes a fixture in mirako’s life. she never ever brings naruto and mira accepts this as a protective measure. after enough time that her paranoia settles mirako begins to look into the bookwoman to try and get a handle on what the fuck is up w danzo

things she finds: recipes for napalm, arrows embedded with the blood of divine beasts, pages of script so dense with seals they make her brain hurt, secret techniques she is never going to have the chakra to use. 

she finds no evidence this woman ever existed. she has three options: talk to dan, who might know by virtue of magpie-espionage. talk to touma who also has magpie techniques. talk to her mom, who was raised uchiha.

she chooses option four and hunts down hatake kakashi.

now this is hard, and stupid. but she has two things on her side: he is a main character and she is raising one. and two, he canonically stalks naruto. so she and rachel essentially bait a trap.

okay they surprise him when mira knows he’s chakra depleted and emotionally blackmail him, still! a temporary ally! 

kakasi doesn’t have useful information but he does have access to secret black ops nonsense and when rachel is done using her strategic hatred of kishimotos character building to create a backdoor to kakashis empathy he agrees to have a look.

more months pass. sasuke grows enough that we have another shopping interlude. this time he comes home with a series of lovely pale green and lavender undershirts (dramatic robes) that are like, lovely? but his whole deal makes a little much? mirako regrets that her self-soothing method for them is watching wuxia/xianxia.  

hey! it’ll be kakashi’s problem! she can give him that along with occasional medical care.

right: kakashi occasionally drops his bleeding ass on her doorstep. he’s sniffed out shes a trained medic and that she is thrilled when she can make him leave. perfect! no matter how many times she points out that she’s a fucking beautician now he still ends up bloodying her good towels. shameless. 

its been another year and a bit. sasuke doesn’t have friends in konoha because everyone is still Too Intense but he did remember his promise to let nart do the shit he’s good at and judge him by that. now sas turns up in front of him makes rude demands and then leaves. they truly aren’t friends but their relationship is stronger. naruto has more people around him and sasuke has friends outside of konoha. mira needs to know more about the bookwoman but it’s fine right now. the hokage got what he wanted and they have a few years before The Plot. it’s fine.

sasuke is probably close to nine now. he’s still well mannered and a little feral. he cares Too Much and he wields a training sword like his favourite actor ( WWX no we will not talk about it) and has a hauntingly lovely collection of bespoke fashion that mirako can’t actually object to. mirako has more money than ever thanks to touma’s investments. she takes time off for her and sasuke to travel a little and teaches him Ancient Uchiha Nonsense. they never leave for long paranoid about the other transmigrators but they genuinely eek out a good few years for sasuke. enough that she’s cautiously optimistic about his chances.

hahahaha

four days after a trip, when rachel and touma are also mysteriously away, kakashi crashes through her front window covered in blood. in his arms is a young girl with pink hair absolutely riddled with knife wounds. 

enter the full cast of team 7 

end ‘timebomb’ arc pt 1 

[mummifymecaptain]

ghost in your eye

Read me on ao3!

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/OC

Rating: Mature (18+)

Chapter One

The thing Lena hated most about her job was, without question, having to leave it every day.

Abandoning the cozy solitude of her basement workspace— full of artifacts, old papers, and yellowed newspaper clippings –for the unchartable conversations and missed social cues of the outside world. It wasn’t that Lena hated people. Rather, she loved them. She just...wasn’t good with them. She didn't understand them and they, in turn, didn’t understand her. Any attempt at friendship always ended painfully awkward.

“Managed to tear yourself away, Miss Lena?”

With the exception of Hank.

Kind, sweet, mild-mannered Hank, the museum’s nightguard. Arguably the closest thing to a friend she had in this world.

“Mary keeps denying my request to move in down there.” Hank chuckled, as though he’d thought she’d been joking with him. She wasn’t.

“Maybe next time, eh?” It was the same exchange they had almost nightly and the familiarity was comforting. All she would have to do is make some sort of noncommittal gesture or noise, breeze by the admissions desk and then it was just a short jaunt to her apartment building four blocks away.

She made it about halfway to the doors before her steps faltered, head canting to the side slightly to watch the shadow that paced. Hank was still at her back, stationed at his post, when she said, “Did you know that there were 12,000,000 soldiers enlisted in the US Army by the end of World War II?”

“I did not.” A rustle of fabric as he shifted in his seat. When he spoke again, his tone was fond. “You learn that from your artifacts?”

The smile she sent him over her shoulder could only be described as enigmatic. “I found an old lockbox of World War II memorabilia today. A few letters, a handful of coins and medals, and a couple of loose dog tags.” She thought of the worn journal in her satchel, nestled between her collection of stolen pens and spare pair of gloves, with its warped pages and newly inked list of names. “I’m going to see what I can find about who the stuff belonged to. Maybe they’ve still got family in the area.”

The box she’d found— a dinged up, tarnished thing –stamped with U.S. ARMY, looked as though it had been abandoned long before the war ended. Lena had surrounded herself with enough history over the years to know what that meant. Her empathetic heart wept for boys she did not know, dead decades before she’d even been born. And forgotten, judging by the layer of dust she’d cleaned off first.

“That’s our Lena,” Hank teased, not unkindly. “Always lookin’ for a mystery to solve.”

Her answering shrug was anything but nonchalant, too stiff and jerky. Her hands started to sweat inside her leather gloves, fingers clenching against the strap of her bag. Did he know? “No one deserves to be forgotten,” she said after an awkward beat, pleased that her voice had remained steady. “Isn’t that why we have museums? To remember history we might otherwise forget?”

“Wise words, Miss Lena.” She heard him shift again and chanced another glance over her shoulder, quickly averting her eyes to the shiny waxed floor. Still there. “You a smart girl. Whatchu doin’ hidin’ away in our dusty basement for?”

“I happen to like dusty basements.” Hank gave another amused chuckle and she felt a glow of pride in her chest for a successfully landed joke. Still, she risked raising her gaze to fix him with a brief mock glare. “It’s starting to sound like you’re trying to get rid of me, Hank.”

His smile was bright and encompassing, taking years from his weathered appearance. “And miss our talks?”

Her own laugh was genuine. “Highlight of my day. Night, Hank.” She twiddled her fingers at him over her shoulder, finally unsticking her feet to walk forward.

“Night, Miss Lena. You be safe gettin’ home now!”

He’d said the exact thing to her every night since she’d started, first as a volunteer, before slowly carving out a job position for herself. On paper, she was an Assistant Curator. Never mind the fact that the museum already had one. In actuality, she was a walking, talking, living archive. She kept a record of every single piece that passed through the doors, displayed or not, all inside her head. And she spent her days in the basement, cataloging the mismatched mess of abandoned items. Mary, the museum’s actual curator, had told her that most of what was down there had been for the better part of twenty years, and that despite working there for nearly thirty five herself, even she wasn’t positive on what all it contained.

The basement itself spanned the entirety of the upper floors, and in her own four years of her self-appointed project, she’d organized maybe a third of it. For every new thing she discovered down there, days of research followed in an attempt to learn everything she could. And some things...some things she simply couldn’t resist touching with bare hands.

They spoke to her when she did that. Shared their stories through impressions and still images in her head. The more history an object held, the more it would tell her. But opening herself up to them also invited the ghosts.

They never stayed for long— thankfully –and they never acknowledged her, too busy reenacting events that had been stored inside, but their presence was...unsettling, at best. And since she’d been unable to ignore the call, brushing a single, ungloved finger over one of the dingy medals, she now had the haggard ghost of a young soldier unknowingly dogging her steps.

From the brief glance she’d gotten at his first startling appearance, it was clear that he’d gone through something heavily traumatic. There was a reason she made a point to not touch items she knew to be from wartimes. A notion she had idiotically disregarded upon finding the lockbox.

Her unwanted companion dragged silently behind her, despite the heavy limp he now held from his plainly broken leg. His clothes were dirty and torn, hair in a complete disarray and patchy stubble hiding what had once been a youthful face. But it was the eyes that stuck with her, visible even when she closed her own. They were wild and empty at the same time, giving him a constant feral expression. The way his irises had shifted the room, seeing untold horrors invisible to her, had made her heart throb. Whatever incident had earned him that medal couldn’t have been worth it.

He was still there when she stopped in her building’s lobby to check her mailbox. It was always empty, but she still checked it every day.

“Empty again, pet?” She would have started at the voice of her neighbor, Mrs. Boyle, had she not been expecting it. For months now, she’d been catching Lena in the lobby after work, trying to convince her to go on a date with her grandson. She frowned. Maybe she ought to consider forgoing the mailbox. “No letters from home?”

Her frown twisted into a reluctant fond smile. “Most people don’t write letters anymore.”

She’d hoped it would be enough of a deflection and she could make her escape, but Mrs. Boyle wasn’t going to let her off easy tonight, it seemed. The soldier made a sharp, jerking movement, mouth wide in an unheard scream of agony. She hurriedly reverted her attention back to her nosy neighbor. “You do. Every morning. I see you drop a letter in the box when you leave, when I take Starla out.” Her expression was nearly one of pity. “They don’t write back?”

“I never expect them to.” She left it at that, climbing the stairs, her war-torn ghost trailing after her. “Have a good night, Mrs. Boyle.”

Lena knew that, one day, her carefully practiced aversions would no longer be enough. But how could she possibly confess to the woman that she wrote letters to the dead? She was aware that it was an odd practice, even by her own standards.

She spent her days surrounded by the left behind belongings of those who’ve passed on, items that have slipped through cracks of time, hidden from the world and consigned to oblivion. However, Lena’s ability granted her the unique opportunity to rectify. By opening herself up to the various articles, gleaning what she could and piecing together all the little bits, she’d been able to identify original owners, and eventually, their final resting places. Then, she would write to them, explaining who she was, and what she did.

Logically, she knew it was a silly thing to do. The people she wrote to were long departed, mere bones and ash beneath the earth. There was no one to read her letters, let alone respond to them. But was almost cathartic, in its own way. And there was naïve hope she carried in her ever-bleeding heart that she was somehow making a difference. That maybe, just maybe, the dead would know that they hadn’t been forgotten. That she would remember them, even if no one else did.

Her keys hitting the counter was harsh in the otherwise quiet of her apartment, sliding across the already scratched up worktop. Haphazardly strewn papers and research books on loan from the library littered most of the island, the odd mug of half-finished tea squeezed in wherever she’d managed to find room. A chaotic, disorganized mess to anyone that wasn’t her. Despite the clutter, she knew the exact location of anything she might need.

Her ghostly compatriot lingered near the paint chipped door, his visage wavering at the edges as he wordlessly shouted orders to comrades she could not see. He would be gone soon enough, and she would finally, truly be alone.

Well, aside from Carlyle, her lone fish.

Lena had attempted introducing friends to him at one point, but it hadn’t ended well. Which she could definitely sympathize with. Granted, he’d eaten all of his tankmates. She was just terribly inexperienced when it came to dealing with people. And given that she could hardly stomach eating animals, she didn’t think she was in any danger of suddenly developing a desire for human flesh.

“And how was your day, Mr. Carlyle?” she asked the striped blur zooming around the tank. She paused, canting her head as though listening intently to his reply. “Well, that sounds absolutely riveting. You certainly know how to live life to the fullest, my friend.”

Resting her chin in her palm as she rested her elbow on the countertop, her soft eyes tracked Carlyle’s wild movements as he weaved in and out of the decorations she’d placed for him without a care in the world. There were times in her life where she was almost...envious of him. How nice it must be, to be able to pass from day to day without worry or responsibility. But even Lena knew that such an existence would be terribly dull. For all her oddities and peculiarities, she was not immune to the plight of dullness.

“They reported another sighting,” she told her fish, blowing her short bangs from her eyes. They immediately fell back into the same place. “Just a glimpse. Some hotel in Calgary. It’s the first one since D.C.”

For all that she loved history, in all its forms, Lena Taggerty held one specific area in the highest of regards.

She loved the conspiracy theories of history. The ghost stories. The unknowns and unanswered questions. Endless mysteries, all waiting to be unraveled by her fingertips.

After the events that had transpired in Washington D.C., just two months before, events that even Lena— disconnected from the modern world as she was —caught wind of, had brought forth whispers of what was, arguably, the greatest historical ghost story of them all, and had her nearly chomping at the bit.

The Winter Soldier.

A topic of much controversy on the forums she’d frequented since learning the name. Some believed that it was a title, passed on throughout the decades, making it appear as though the same man haunted behind the scenes of the criminal underground over several lifetimes. Others claimed it was a group, operating under one name so as to keep their identities and intentions secret. And others still believed that the Winter Soldier wasn’t a man at all, but an idea. A violent threat used to inspire fear and upset.

The only thing that anyone seemed to agree on was that whoever the man from D.C. had been, Winter Soldier or otherwise, was extraordinarily dangerous. A fighter of immense skill, based on what little footage had been recovered. Not someone to be trifled with. And definitely not someone’s radar you wanted to be on.

Lena was fascinated. Truly, utterly, fascinated.

The story of the Winter Soldier was possibly the biggest unknown mystery on Earth at the moment. There was virtually nothing on the man, and what she’d managed to uncover at first often contradicted itself. Nearly every time, in fact. Almost as though someone were purposefully trying to spread misinformation. Which, naturally, only made her all the more curious.

Her secret pet project. A mystery no one had been able to solve. One that, until recently, most didn’t even know existed.

Though not owning a computer of her own, she’d spent hours at the local library, pouring over the recently declassified files that had been leaked online in the wake of D.C. Admittedly, most of what she’d read in those early days had gone straight over her head. Anything that sparked a note of interest, but wasn’t relevant to her current investigation, was printed off to be carefully filed away for a later date. It was this exact practice that had led to her accidental breakthrough.

For weeks, she and the internet alike lamented over the lack of information regarding the Winter Soldier. He was well and truly a ghost, even among the organization that employed him. The name hadn’t been found in any of the examined files at the time, and users on the forums were frustrated over it, Lena among them. She found it difficult to believe that of all the thousands of documents now accessible to the general public, not a single one mentioned him.

The answer had come to her late one night, as she’d lied in bed, unable to sleep.

What if he went by a different name?

It was the internet that had dubbed him The Winter Soldier, taken from long ago leaked files, back before the internet had really taken hold. So, it wouldn’t make much sense for that to be the one appearing in the documents. With a renewed sense of purpose, she abandoned any and all idea of sleep that night, pouring over her printouts for anything that might smack of the person she was looking for. And on the second night, she’d found it, while reading a mission report recounting the successful termination of a target by ‘the asset’.

She’d read a similar report before, of a failed mission that had been compromised by the Winter Soldier.

By the asset.

Lena had returned to the library early the next morning, having not slept, and armed with her find. Now that she knew what to look for, she’d ended up with hundreds of hits, file upon file upon file that had ‘the asset’ sprinkled liberally throughout. She’d saved every single document it appeared in— regardless of whether or not she understood it or even knew the language.

She’d since added learning Russian to her to-do list.

Settling down on the one cushion of her secondhand couch that wasn’t covered with her research, she shoveled a forkful of instant noodles into her mouth, breathing in sharply as she stupidly burned herself in her haste. Balancing the foam up on the arm of the couch, she reached for a stack of papers she’d printed off days before.

They looked to be mission reports of some nature, different from the ones she’d encountered before in that they were inordinately coded and completely in Russian. Much of the top page was scored with thick black lines, and the same heavy redaction treatment appeared on the subsequent pages. Resting the Russian/English dictionary she’d checked out on one knee and a spiral notebook on the other, she picked up where she’d left off the night before in translating the documents.

From what she’d had so far, which wasn’t much thanks to an unfamiliar alphabet and more than half of the information missing, ‘the asset’ had been dispatched to an undisclosed city in Belgium at some point in 1977 to retrieve an unnamed scientist of some import. Extraction had gone smoothly, with the intended target being delivered with only minimal injury to his person.

Blowing her cheeks out in exasperation, she stretched cramping fingers and shook out her hand. The only genuinely useful information was that he’d been in Belgium in ‘77. She circled both findings as a reminder to add them to her timeline map and flipped to the next file to begin the process again.

Lena worked well into the night, her meager dinner all but forgotten. She’d finished translating three and a half documents before her eyes grew too heavy to continue, burning with gritty sand every time she blinked. Digging her palms into them, and dislodging her reading glasses in the process, her groan was pained as she unbent her stiff legs.

Stumbling her way to the bedroom, she barely managed to chuck her glasses on the end table by her alarm clock before collapsing on top of the covers with another groan. She was asleep within seconds.

She did not dream.

✪ Chapter Two ->

[tisfan]

WinterIron Mistletoe

Part One

co-written with @27dragons for @ajanamyth

This section contains jealousy, flirting, some magically induced non-con kissing and accidental nudity.

Part Two

Bucky was counting the minutes until it would be acceptable -- meaning Steve wouldn’t ask stupid questions -- to leave the party.

There were all the basic reasons to not want to be at a Christmas party, even an exclusive event for the Avengers and some of their friends and family (and those persons with whom they needed to remain on good terms, even if no one actually liked them). First off, there was still the dark part of the Winter Soldier that lurked -- most of the programming had been removed, but there were certain… mind-sets that sometimes jumped out at bad moments, that had to be left in, or risk Bucky being downright useless for combat, and he’d always known that there would never be a time when someone wouldn’t want to shove a gun in his hand.

But he mostly had a handle on that.

What he didn’t expect, and therefore did not have a handle on, was Tony coming in on the arm of a stunning, leggy blonde with a dress split up to her hip and showing cleavage all the way down to her fucking navel and staring at Tony as if he’d hung the moon. Not that Bucky could blame the little hussy for that -- Tony was pretty damned amazing -- but he’d never personally wear his heart on his sleeve like that.

Bucky found a nice corner. Keeping his back to the wall settled some of the itch in his brain, and he could watch the entire room from his position. And then he put his don’t bother me face on. It wouldn’t keep away Steve. Or Nat. Or even Clint. But none of the guests would pester him with small talk.

Wine and eggnog and Christmas cake made for a loud, somewhat tipsy group -- for those of them who could get tipsy. Thor’d promised some Asgardian mead for the more alcohol tolerant people on the team, but Thor hadn’t made his appearance yet. Bucky wondered what fashionably late for as Asgardian Prince meant, exactly, because he could damn sure use a drink.

He’d thought -- obviously, he was wrong -- that he and Tony had been having some nice, mutual flirting. Getting to know each other. And that maybe, maybe, the man might be inclined to step out with Bucky, once in a while. See if there was something that could be made from the spark that Bucky, at least, had thought was between them.

But Tony barely glanced in his direction, spending most of his attention on the blonde. Bending close to whisper in her ear and then they were both laughing at some private joke. One of the guests greeted him, and while he turned a smile on them, he barely listened for a moment before taking the blonde’s hand and tugging her along, deeper into the throng.

Bucky made one foray into the crowd, mostly to secure a plate full of food. There was no other pleasure to be had at the evening’s entertainment, since his plans of asking if Tony wanted to dance went out the window with the way the blonde was clinging to him. He made a little, barely there effort to socialize with Steve, and then was determinedly ambushed by Sharon Carter, who insisted he dance with her once, and then made his way back to his corner, bristling like a feral hedgehog.

A mostly-empty champagne flute dangled from Tony’s fingers as he and his date made their way through the room. They stopped by one wall where Bruce was wallflowering nearly as determinedly as Bucky, and Tony introduced them with lot of of waving hands, nearly sloshing his drink out of the glass.

The woman giggled and produced a sprig of mistletoe -- where had she gotten it? She wasn’t carrying a purse -- and held it over Tony’s head. She seemed to be laughingly tipsy, and Bruce smiled indulgently and leaned over to kiss Tony’s cheek. Tony turned his head at the last second to catch the kiss on the corner of his mouth, and all three of them laughed.

Bruce swayed gently on his feet for a moment, then took Tony’s arm on the other side, and accompanied the couple around the room, talking animatedly with Tony -- and sometimes with the blonde, but even when she seemed to be listening, Bruce was staring at Tony with something close to interest -- the whole time.

Oh, come on. How was that even fair? It wasn’t even a real kiss, Bruce should not be acting like Tony just offered him a Nobel prize for science or something. It was even weirder, when Tony dragged both of them out onto the dance floor and bopped along merrily to a pop version of Deck the Halls. Bruce did not dance. And he didn’t drink, either.

Bucky scowled.

“You know, if you keep making that face, it’s going to stick that way,” Nat mentioned. Bucky didn’t bother to ask where she’d come from.

“Good,” he muttered. What the hell did he have to smile about anyway? Tony was whispering in Bruce’s ear, and the woman was all but gloating. And then Tony sent Bruce off somewhere with a goddamn pat on his ass?

“Are you growling?”

(read more under the break or at A03)

“Shut up, solnyshko,” Bucky said.

“It’s probably a science thing,” Nat said, reasonably. “You know how those two are.”

“Bruce was dancing with him,” Bucky pointed out. “He doesn’t even dance with you. That doesn’t bother you?”

Nat made a noncommittal sort of noise. “If you want, I can go fishing. Find out about the--”

“Tart.”

“You are jealous, aren’t you?”

“And you went to spy school t’ figure that out,” Bucky retorted. “Just… figure out who she is.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. Tony sometimes thinks he needs to maintain his reputation.”

“He can maintain it with someone who cares about him, and not his money, his connections, or his--”

“Brains? Heroism? Charisma? Charm? Style? Sense of humor?”

“You want me to throw you out the window?”

Nat swanned away, the tinkling bell of her laughter trailing after her.

Tony smiled broadly when Nat approached and put his arm around her shoulders to introduce her to his... companion. Nat took the woman’s hand in what seemed like genuine pleasure, and soon they were all three talking like old friends. Bucky tried to relax -- Nat was going to ferret out who the woman was, and they’d figure out together what to do from there -- but he couldn’t stop watching.

And there was that damn mistletoe again. Seriously, was she keeping it down her cleavage?

Nat cast a look back across the room at Bucky, and her mouth curved wickedly. Oh, no, hell no-- but yes, because there was nothing Bucky could do to stop it. Nat curled her arms seductively around Tony’s neck and planted one on him that left Bucky breathing hard.

Jesus, he knew Nat could seduce a stone, but did she really have to? And could she stop? Any time now would be good. Great. Bucky would throw a damn party of his own if Nat would get her tongue out of Tony’s mouth sometime before New Year’s.

At least Tony’s date didn’t seem to mind, which meant she wasn’t actually interested in Tony for his person. She was actually bouncing from foot to foot like an excited thirteen-year-old. Nat finally backed off, and Tony’s lip was swollen from kissing her, his lip red from Nat’s lipstick. He looked… well-used and pleased. Bucky was going to be sick if this kept up. The blonde handed the spring of mistletoe over to Tony, linked her arm with Nat, and drew her away, chatting eagerly.

Nat… kept looking back at Tony.

Tony waggled his fingers at her, then turned away, oblivious to the look she was giving him, strolling off into the party. He pulled up where Steve was refilling a plate in between trying to one-up Sam’s seemingly endless supply of Stupid Shit I Have Done stories. Tony said something that made Steve laugh, and then Tony’s hand was on Steve’s elbow. What even the fuck?

Bucky was starting to hope, maybe, it was some sick practical joke that Clint had set up and gotten everyone in on, because--

Jesus Christ, when the hell had Steve learned to kiss someone like that? Because honestly, Tony lolled backward over Steve’s arm like a dame in an old talkie, practically swooning. Sam was staring, his eyes practically popping out of his head.

That was it. Bucky was done. Tony might not be interested in him -- or if he was, it was only as a heart to add to his collection -- but Bucky didn’t need to stay to watch, either. He shoved up from his chair, just as Thor thundered into the room.

Thor held up the horn of some impossible beast, capped at one end with gold, with a tiny wooden stopper at the other end. “Ho, there, friends,” Thor said. “I have brought mead, and choice victuals from my father’s palace. As well as yon creature that I discovered roaming the halls, if any have misplaced their pet.”

The cat tucked under Thor’s arm was dwarfed by Thor’s muscles, but it seemed happy enough to be there, rubbing its head against Thor’s bicep and pawing at him, pay attention to me me meeeeee.

Tony glanced up at Thor’s boisterous entrance and looked rather sour -- unusual, because Tony and Thor generally got along well. Maybe Tony didn’t care for cats? Bucky would have pegged him for a cat person, if anything, but he’d been wrong before.

About a great many things, apparently.

Mead. Bucky really, really needed a drink. He snagged a cup on his way by the food table, not even looking at Tony, because Steve’s hand was still lingering on Tony’s hip, and Bucky was trying damn hard not to notice, because if he noticed, then he might feel obligated to do something about it, and-- yeah, not looking, not looking. “Happy Holidays, Thor,” Bucky said. He couldn’t remember what mid-winter holiday Thor actually celebrated, but it seemed every culture, everywhere, had some sort of solstice festival, and Asgards were no exception. “Hit me up?”

“Of course, friend Barnes! I shall be delighted!” Thor was always delighted. And loud. And sometimes annoying. But Bucky was going to let it pass, just this once, because he was afraid if he rained on Thor’s parade, Thor might try to one-up him. Besides, Thor had mead. The honey-sweet liquor glimmered gold in Bucky’s cup and promised sweet oblivion. At least for tonight. Tomorrow, it promised Hel’s own hangover.

“Thor! And Barnes, of course,” Tony said, smiling that smile that was not like Tony’s real smile at all. “Glad you could make it!”

“I did give my word that I would so attend,” Thor said, puzzled. His brilliant grin dimmed a little and he tipped his head to look at Tony curiously. “You seem not quite yourself this evening, my friend. Did you… cut your hair?” He offered Bucky a grin. “That is what I must always ask my fair Jane when she looks different. What do you think? Is it the suit? Or the manner in which he is carrying himself this even’?”

Bucky scowled. The only thing different he’d noticed about Tony was his propensity to fucking swap tonsils with everyone in the room, and that he had his press-smile on. If something bad had happened, Tony would have told someone, wouldn’t he have? “No, I’d say it’s just like Tony… not one-hundred percent a dick.” But getting really damn close tonight.

Tony chuckled. “Maybe it’s just that I’m on my best form tonight,” he said. “Has your lovely Jane told you about our quaint Midgardian custom surrounding mistletoe?” He showed the spring, spinning it idly between his fingers.

Thor looked grave. “She has indeed, and I am told that the tree itself gave great apologies for the harm it did one of my people, thousands of years before. It has become frivolous, as many Midgardian customs are; not the solemn and serious tradition, held in reverence for the mourned dead, that it should.”

Bucky raised his cup. Apparently, Thor was going to decline to add himself to Tony’s roster of necking partners for the evening. “To your people’s loss,” Bucky said, then downed the contents of the cup in a single swallow.

Which might have been a mistake. He barely licked his lips, the honey-sweet taste flooding his mouth and brain and making everything seem… deliciously soft.

“I thank you,” Thor said, clapping Bucky on the back soundly. “I shall carry your respects to my father, whose kin was slain by an evil spell and an arrow of mistletoe.”

Bucky blew his hair out of his face, feeling comfortably numb suddenly.

Tony pouted. “It’s a night for partying, for making merry,” he complained. “What about you, Barnes?” He dandled the mistletoe over his head. “Care to take a dare?”

Thor’s cat was snarling at Tony, fur standing up on its spine, making the little thing look twice its normal size.

“I think I’d rather kiss a cat,” Bucky said, and matching actions to words, he leaned forward, fully expecting the animal to become a ball of pointybits and claw his face off for his audacity.

But it lunged forward, out of Thor’s arms, nearly knocking Bucky into Tony in its sudden enthusiasm. It rubbed its face all over Bucky’s -- mine mine mine -- and draped itself over Bucky’s shoulders with a smug purr.

Tony stumbled back with a glare. “Stupid beast,” he growled. “It doesn’t belong here.”

Bucky scratched the cat between its pointy black ears, rubbing the soft fur. “It does now,” he declared. “Come on, baby,” he said to the cat. “Let’s get out of here. We know when we’re not wanted, don’t we?” Bucky shoved his empty cup at Tony, knowing that Tony hated being handed things and doing it anyway, because he was damned angry. Tony took the cup without apparent concern. “Goodnight, Thor.”

Behind him, Tony’s little chippie had finished her conversation with Nat, and was draped all over Thor like a wet dishrag with breasts.

“Asshole,” Bucky muttered to the cat, poking the elevator button with unnecessary force.

The cat purred in what seemed to be agreement. It -- he? -- reached for the bank of elevator buttons, pawing at them impatiently.

“Yeah, we’re going, we’re going,” Bucky told the cat. “I’m on the 88th floor--” He was joking, but the cat actually banged that particular button, which Bucky blinked a few times. “I must be drunker than I thought. Am I slurring? I think I’m slurring.” Maybe Bucky had pushed the button and the cat had just pawed at the light. That made sense. He didn’t remember pushing the button, but Asgardian mead had some strange effects on Midgardians. “Come on, we can sleep it off in my room.”

The cat seemed perfectly content to follow Bucky into his room. He jumped up onto the bed and curled his tail around his toes, watching Bucky with unnerving intensity. He meowed once, and made a strange chirping sound, like he was spying a bird, but those eyes were focused on Bucky.

“Yeah, you said it, cat. Hmmm. You need a better name than cat,” Bucky said. He threw himself onto the bed, knocking the cat over. “Sorry. I dunno. What’s your name, boy? Are you a boy? I don’t even--” He sat up to pick the cat up. Flipping it onto its back, cradled it like a baby, seemed to bother the animal a lot, it squirmed and yowled and pushed at him, although there were no claws in evidence. But Bucky managed to get a good look at its works; male. And not neutered, either. “Huh. Big boy, aren’t ya? Don’t you spray anythin’ in here, okay? Deal? Deal.”

The cat managed to look disgusted, somehow. He squirmed free of Bucky’s arms and resumed his spot on the bed, furiously licking his fur back into place.

Bucky scrubbed at his face with both hands. “Tell ya what, you’re very intelligent-looking, for a cat. I think I’ll call you Sherlock. If that’s okay with you?” He offered the cat his fingers, a little unsteady. Damn that mead was some strong stuff. Bucky felt like he’d been kicked in the head by a small, aggressive donkey.  

The cat bumped its face into his fingers and purred forgiveness and agreement. Sherlock it was, then. Sherlock stood up and stropped its body against Bucky’s side, purring even louder.

“Well, at least someone likes me,” Bucky said. Ug. He was starring in his own personal disaster movie; a rom-com without any rom, and where the com part was only funny to the viewing audience. “What a terrible night. I mean, what the fuck even, was that shit? Seriously, if it turns out that someone was pranking me, I am going to commit murder. I mean that. You don’t know me, but murder’s kinda my thing. I’m really good at it. ‘Bout the only damn thing I am good at. I mean, you didn’t see it, Sherlock, but Tony was… ug. He was kissing everyone.” Well, everyone but Bucky, and by the time he got around to offering, Bucky didn’t want to kiss him anymore, because he knew where that mouth had been. Yuck.

Sherlock growled, as if he, too, was mad at Tony.

“Yeah, you said it,” Bucky said. It was nice to have someone listening to him. “And Nat, too. What the hell was she doing, trying to wind me up? I thought she and Bruce were a thing, and she goes kissing Tony like she’s mining for gold? Was she tryin’ to get me to make a move, or what? What do you think, Sherlock? But… why would she do that? We’re friends. Sort of.”

Sherlock batted at him with a paw, gently. If a cat could look confused, Sherlock managed it.

“Don’t you start,” Bucky said. “Tony… Tony don’t need to know how I feel. He obviously ain’t… interested. Or, maybe he’s too interested. Just… not in me.” He made a scoffing noise. “Ain’t even fair, Sherlock. Probably should have kissed him, when he offered. Like t’ be my only chance at it. Least I coulda had that.”

Sherlock growled and crawled into Bucky’s lap, standing up to rub his face against Bucky’s cheek.

“Yeah, you’re a sweet baby,” Bucky said, rubbing the cat’s head and down his back, tugging lightly on the long curved tail. The cat’s affection was uncomplicated. Bucky swallowed down a lump in his throat. “Good boy. Yeah, you are.” Bucky made kissy noises at the cat, nuzzling against the cat’s nose and dropping kisses along the cat’s head and ears. “I dunno what I’m gonna do with you. Get you a few things? Might have some tinned tuna in my pantry. I’ll give you some if you promise t’ wait til tomorrow to need a litter box. You hungry?”  

Sherlock paused as if considering it, then meowed shortly and jumped down, leading the way to the kitchen and its pantry.

Bucky crawled off the bed, staggered into the kitchen. He found a shallow bowl and poured out some milk, putting that on the floor before searching through his truly epic collection of tinned food. That had been one of those… things. When he’d started coming back to himself, hoarding food was a thing he’d done. “Yeah, don’t tell anyone,” he said to Sherlock, very seriously. “I have some anxiety, an’ everyone worries about it, but… it’s just food, right?” His shelves were well stocked; jarred tomato sauce, pasta of every variety, canned vegetables. Cake mix and bread mix and fifteen kinds of jelly. There was enough food in his pantry to feed even a super soldier for at least a month. “Spam?” He offered the blue can to Sherlock, who turned up a pink nose at it. “Don’t blame you for that… okay, let’s see… ah! Salmon. It’s not quite tuna, but close enough? Fishie fishie?”

Sherlock head-butted the can and purred, his eyes squinting shut as if he were laughing.

“Okay. Salmon it is. But cat food, tomorrow, okay? So don’t get used to it.” He scraped the fish onto a plate and sat it next to the dish of milk. Bucky unbalanced himself a little and ended up sitting on the floor. “Guess I’ll keep you company.” He tipped his head back against the cabinet and sighed. “God, I’m pathetic. Pathetic, do you even know that word, Sherlock? Nursin’ a stupid crush on a guy who doesn’t even look at me? Who spent half the night makin’ out with everyone in the damn room, right in front of me? If that don’t say ‘not interested,’ plain as day, I don’t know what does.”

Sherlock looked up from his meal, another confused tip to his head, then padded over and climbed into Bucky’s lap, purring again. He curled up as if he meant to stay; maybe he wasn’t all that hungry, after all.

Bucky waited a while; there was something just wrong about bothering a sleeping cat. He remembered that from his mom’s cat, who would curl up in the middle of Bucky’s back at night, like his own personal heater, and Bucky would delay getting up to get a drink because he didn’t want to bother the cat.

“A’ight, Sherlock,” Bucky said. “I know you can sleep jus’ about anywhere, but if I doze off on th’ kitchen floor, I’m gonna have an even bigger pile of regret tomorrow. Hop up, would you?” He didn’t actually expect the cat to do so, and was bracing himself to bother the cat and climb to his feet when Sherlock stretched lazily and climbed down.

“Well, that’s nice of you, thanks,” Bucky said. He peeled his shirt off as he walked back into the bedroom, hitting the laundry basket from across the room. “Two points.”

He stepped out of his jeans and hung them over the back of his chair. Absently considered brushing his teeth, but it’s not like there was anyone who was going to be offended by his breath. He’d do it tomorrow. Stripped out of his boxers and turned down the blankets. “You comin’ to bed, Sherlock?”

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment, then seemed to shake all over, almost like a dog, before he hopped up onto the bed. He chose a spot on top of the blankets but curled against Bucky’s side, purring softly with each breath.

Bucky pulled the blankets up over his shoulder, got comfortable on his pillow, and turned off the light. No sense feeling bereft. He hadn’t really lost anything. It’s not like he had Tony. There wasn’t anything to be upset about. He was no worse off today than yesterday.

At least now he had a cat.

[ellwelune]

Contracts

In which we see a side of Elle many do not enjoy.

(Indented sections are taken straight from RP.) (It’s a long one, so there is a cut.)

Jade eyes follow as Leah’Sii leaves the room, Ruckus escorting her to her new office. ”See you Thursday, you cocky little bitch.” With a satisfied sigh, Elle leans back in her chair, propping her feet up on the smooth, dark surface of her desk. She will have to inform Eilithe of the outcome of the negotiation deal, but that can wait until both women are less busy. She stares at her own toes, replaying the conversation in her mind with a frown. People will soon learn that it is not going to be as easy as they think to take advantage of the Harbor and its Overseer. No more making demands. No more forcing yourself on the port or her people.

It is in this state of deep contemplation that Dalen finds her. He returns to her office, his lovely face marred by a disapproving frown. It’s actually quite cute. I wonder if he realizes that? He settles himself against her desk, resting a hand on her foot. “Lady Sunweaver? You never acknowledge your title, much less insist upon its usage by others. Why now?”

She answers him with a lazy shrug of her shoulders. “The Autumntress woman puts a lot stock in titles, they carry weight for her. You saw the pile of papers she presented like trophies meant to send our hearts fluttering with awe and admiration.” A brief flash of memory halts her words for a moment.

The sack of notices, letters, papers and more all land with a -THUD- on her desk as the not-quite elf places them before the purveyor. “While I will still be able and happy to provide any assistance requested when it comes to more mechanical matters, I do have something else I can offer instead. Something that requires no sizeable building, just an office.”

She pauses to grant the other woman some time to  sort through her material- all seemingly wax-sealed or otherwise important-looking documents promoting Leah’s past work. “Six minor noble houses in Silvermoon, five of Silvermoon’s independant magistrates, four trading vessels, two family-owned fishing boats, and a wealth of experience under my own captain and years of practice. If I may, I’d like to open a firm for financial consulting in your harbor instead. Sailors that don’t fall under the direction of your quartermaster are often handled by rather clumsy hands, and I believe everyone in the area would do better if your visiting sailors had a better handle on their money.”

Elle doesn't so much as twitch as the papers THUD onto her desk, though there is the distinct sound of sharp steel slipping out of a leather sheath from the direction of the door. Keeping her eyes locked on Leah's, she raises a hand -the only gesture required to preclude the sound of the weapon sliding back into its home. Weapons aren't necessary...yet. Besides, I can have her full of holes before he gets over here. Barely a glance is spared for the wax sealed documents. "Lady Sunweaver," she states, with a painted on smile and a tone so icy it's a miracle the air around her doesn't freeze solid on the spot. A single hand reaches forward, pushing the documents away from her. Unless Leah'Sii decides to catch them, the whole smug pile will land on the floor -right where Elle feels the aristocracy, name-dropping, the magistrates, and anything involving them, belongs.

“If she wants to see status, I will oblige,” she continues. She leans down and opens a drawer low in her desk. Pulling forth a bottle of bourbon, she gestures for Dalen to retrieve glasses from the small table in the ‘waiting area’ of her office.

As he walks across the room to carry out her request, he continues questioning her. “Thirty percent to the Harbor and another five to the Alley? That is a full twelve percent higher than anyone else pays.”

“I am aware,” she replies, cheerfully.

“Four fifty per month for her rent, too.” He returns to her, carrying three glasses. He takes the bottle from her and begins pouring the liquor into two of them, the third waiting until their companion returns. “May I ask why she pays more than the others?”

“You heard her,” she replies as she accepts the glass from him. Sipping its contents, she allows the scene to replay for her.

Elle leans forward, resting her elbows on her desk, her fingers steepled under her chin. "As for guidelines, building in the Alley are available for rent or purchase, depending on your preference. Either way, a portion of your earnings will go to the Harbor. Periodically, and quite randomly, Dalen here will drop by to audit your books. If even a single copper is out of line, there will be repercussions. None of this is negotiable. The frequency of his audits will depend entirely on you and your performance. This is only the beginning. Are you with me so far?"

With all the discarded mess tucked away, Leah nods as she shuffles in closer. Each word is taken in and chewed up properly, absorbing all the wisdom and demands the sin’dorei offers her. Everything seemed simple enough. “I have two demands to start off with. First, no less than thirty percent to be returned to the port. Secondly, weekly or bi-weekly audits. Again, I don’t care when. I have not ever, and will not ever, slip up. It doesn’t matter if they’re a pirate, proper working folk, a noble or a horrific being from the void. I’ll give them my time and I’ll do so efficiently enough to put your existing bookies to shame.”

Elle raises a brow, a gentle, subtle curve gracing her lips. "You do not make anything even remotely resembling a demand, 'to start off with' or otherwise. You may make requests until you're blue in the face, but understand that you are in no position to make demands. Not ever."

“She demanded to pay more than anyone else. Who am I to dispute another’s demands?” The smile that accompanies her query, offered over the rim of her glass, is vicious, feral, cold, and cruel.

He snorts and rolls his eyes. “In my experience? The first in line.” 

She waves a dismissive hand. “Besides, someone has to pay for all the overtime Security will be putting in keeping an eye on that woman. It may as well be her.” She looks up as the door opens. “Speaking of Security…”

Ruckus enters the office, already speaking before the door has fully closed. “I do not trust her.” He moves straight for the desk and settles himself on the opposite side of her from Dalen. “She is up to something.”

“Oh, most definitely; which is why I put her in the office between the two of you. And you will, of course, inform security to keep a discreet eye on her and her associates,” she adds, filling the third glass herself and handing it to him.

“Yes, Captain.” He accepts the drink with a nod, glancing toward Dalen. “Audits? Do you perform audits on everyone in the Alley?”

Dalen shakes his head, holding out his glass to be refilled while Elle’s in the mood to refill them. “Not yet. It’s something the Captain and I have been discussing, though.”

“Who better to start with than someone we all agree cannot be trusted, hm?” She finishes filling their glasses and smiles as neither of them can come up with an argument against her reasoning. “Not only is she obviously being dishonest -I mean, really? Who does she think she’s fooling? A child could see through that failed poker face of hers.- but, she is far too big for her breeches.”

She nods to Dalen, who rises and leaves the office to tend to whatever he gets up to when he's not with Elle. "Rent will be four fifty per month, to start. If it proves that your services bring in enough coin, this can be renegotiated in six months time. I will draw up your contract and have brought to you at your office by noon tomorrow. Any questions?"

Light that was a lot of gold. What had Leah gotten herself into? “No, that’s suitable enough. In the event that I’m not around to accept the contract on time, feel free to leave a copy under the door. I’ll get to it when I can, and I should be able to have things up and running within a couple of weeks.” The proximity to the purveyor was not exactly ideal to her plans, but it would have to do.

A low, humorless chuckle bubbles up from her throat to pass rosy lips. "Oh no, Miss Autumntress. There will be no slipping of contracts under doors. You will be available to sign it or you will not. It will be signed by the two of us, in front of witnesses, in triplicate." She cants her head, holding that smile in place. "I am not a difficult woman to work with, however, and I am willing to give you this: If you are not available tomorrow, I will return each day for one week." She holds up a single finger, in case just the word 'one' isn't enough. "If, after that time, the contract has not been signed, it will be burned and we will start all over again."

"Thursday." Leah grunts, exasperation and exhaustion from her social fencing with the insurmountable wall of a woman slipping out all too quickly. "I will be able to guarantee you my presence on Thursday, tomorrow and the day after are shaky. I would rather not have you knocking on a door I can't promise to answer for two days, and I will not have you use that as an excuse to be needlessly frustrated with my person yet again. Let's pin one day and one time down, so troublesome nonsense doesn't bother either of us."

“I don’t mind being the one to resize them for her,” she purrs. Her attention focuses on Dalen again, a single brow rising. “The wards are in place? The extra ones. I already know the anti-portal wards are in place everywhere.”

He nods, though the expression on his features indicates that he does not entirely approve of whatever she’s referring to. “Yes, they are.”

“Good.” She leans back in her chair, eyes focused on her office door, and takes a slow drink from her glass. “That’s very good to hear.”

@eilitheduskbringer

@oil-and-firebrand

@deadsunharbor

[loudlytransparenttrash]

The reality of feminism

Feminists themselves say that they are a movement for gender equality without batting an eye. To them, it is such a normal and simple thing that they can’t believe they have to explain themselves. But of course, action speaks louder than words. You must understand that what feminists claim their movement is supposed to be and what it actually is are two completely different things. 

The plain truth is that: Feminism has never been a movement for equality. Feminism has always been about maximizing women's power at the expense of men. The feminists want: special treatment just by crying victim, privileges without responsibility, advantages just for being a female, government protection and funding, and for men to serve their every fickle whims and demands. Simply put, they want a world that revolves around them. And of course, they will deny this. When have they ever admitted to the truth? I would actually be disappointed if they told the truth about their own nature. Instead, they lie with even greater emotional hysteria and cower behind the word ‘equality’ as usual. 

The reason this lie of ‘equality’ is repeated over and over again by them is because no one would accept its hateful and toxic ideology at its face value. Feminism had to be sugar-coated with the ideals of liberation, freedom, and equality so that the general public would swallow it. And so it happened: everyone from naive women and women with chip on their shoulders to groveling men bought into the ugly lie of feminism. And feminism is a movement that can only exist through lies. Feminism needs deception as much as fish needs water, for its entire ideology is based on twisted facts. And there are no ends to the lies, the double-standards, and the hypocrisy of feminism:

• Feminists have distorted history to make it appear as though they’ve been exclusively oppressed throughout the ages.  • Feminists continue to lie about the wage gap, which has already been debunked many times over. • Feminists lie about rape statistics to whip up the hysteria of “rape culture” to shame, control, and subjugate men. • Feminists complain about how men slut-shaming women when women are, by far, more judgemental of each other's sexual ventures. • Feminists complain about how there aren't enough women in the tech field when, in fact, women are twice more likely to be hired for STEM faculty positions. • Feminists continually drone about violence against women, but they say nothing about the violence against men who are far more likely to be victims in all types of violence. (Why not campaign to stop all violence?) • Feminists complain about non-existent biases against women, but they remain completely silent to alt the biases against men within the legal system from divorce settlements to sentencing for crimes. There are countless examples of women getting away with crimes that men would be punished for which they also conveniently ignore. • Feminists whine non-stop about how there aren't enough women in science and engineering programs, ignoring the fact that women are less likely to opt for it by choice, and also ignoring the fact that women dominate almost all other fields in colleges and universities. To them, having far more women in post-secondary education than men is progress while having more men than women in one specific field is a sign of institutional sexism. • Feminists have done nothing to ensure "equality" for men other than to spread sickening lies, treat them all like potential rapists, harass and attack them, and send death threats and rape threats, yet they want men to take action to do more to help their cause and play a supplicating role to them.

And this is only the beginning. It doesn't matter how many of the above facts you point out to a feminist, she just will not care. She will rationalize them, downplay them, or just flat out ignore them, but she will never accept them. The only thing feminists will do in the face of truth is to double down on their victim rhetoric and scream "sexism" and 'misogynist' to shut you down. Feminists love telling people, especially men, how to think, talk, and behave, but they will not tolerate an ounce of disagreement from a man even if he was a feminist himself. 

You have to understand that these are not sensible human beings that we're dealing with. Many feminists are manipulative and full of spite, zealously looking for men to blame their problems on. Feminism is akin to a cult where its members vent out their blind hatred through their collective hysteria and emotionally directed delusions. 

I cannot emphasize enough just how unimportant the truth is to the feminists. Truth is a mere obstacle as the only thing that matters to them is themselves. The all-important question for them is: Does this further the agenda of expanding women's power while diminishing men's? If the answer to that question is a 'yes', the feminists will not be concerned whether it is the truth or not. They will tell the truth if it serves their purpose and they will tell lies if it maximizes women's power while decreasing their responsibility. Expecting feminists to be honest is as vain as expecting birds to mind where they shit - they simply don't care. 

And I don't believe that feminists themselves understand their own nature. They are delusional to a point of believing in their own lies. Their rational mind is either not functioning properly or have been hijacked by their unstable emotionality. They seem to be living in their own bubbles that cannot be penetrated by the truth, and their weakness and fragility to the real world only serves to cement their group-think. It’s no wonder they believe in something as ludicrous as the “Patriarchy” even as they live in a society that pampers them like children.

The reason they save their most vile hatred for the men's rights groups is because they see them as competitors for the victim olympics. How dare do men ask for rights? There is only a finite supply of victim-privileges given out by society and the feminists can’t stand having competitors who threaten their monopoly.

These same feminists whose entire movement is based on playing the victim will mock any men for adapting to the social situation and using the same tactics as them. Suddenly, when they see others playing the victim, the ludicrousness of it all becomes apparent, but they can’t seem to hold up the mirror to see their own ludicrous existence. Perhaps like Medusa, they implicitly understand that it will be fatal.

Know that feminists are noxious and emotionally unstable individuals who use their equally demented ideology to vent out their rage out onto men. The irony is, they don't even seem to be aware that their entire existence is possible because of all the powerful men in governments and corporations who support them. Do they really expect to be able to harass and attack men on their own without taking advantage of the system and other supplicating men? But as rve said in the beginning, hypocrisy is a fundamental trait of feminists. They will continue to attack men as they get support from them at the same time. There is no irony or contradiction here. 

And what do these feminists want exactly? To understand the kind of world these feminists want to create, you only have to look at the direction the feminist infested societies are heading towards.

We already live in a society that expels men from universities without an evidence or due process with a mere accusation of rape. We live in a society where women can destroy a man's career, reputation, and life just for arguing with her on social media. We live in a society where a man will be charged for rape just for walking past a woman. This is the kind of world we already live in, and the feminists are campaigning to make everything even worse for men just for the crime of being men. 

Will feminists ever be satisfied? No. Since their true goal is not equality, they will never be satisfied no matter how much they're given. You give into one of their demands and they will conjure up ten new ones. They're continuously on the search for new things to get offended by, new ways to police and restrict people, and new ways to define sexism and rape to perpetuate their eternal victimhood. This is a movement with a bottomless pit that will devour any and all notion of human decency. 

From all my experiences interacting with feminists, I have decided that the great majority of them are either emotional vampires who drain your energy to feed their own egos or just complete human trash who exist only to put men down, thus making up for their own insecurities. 

Feminists have destroyed the relationship between the sexes and like any other extremists, they have even attacked the group they're supposedly advocating for: other women, for not accepting their dogma. I don't think feminism will go away completely anytime soon as long as the current socio-cultural system remains intact and as long as their daddy government supports their movement but we have started to see their demise with the country standing up to the social justice circus, they know their movement is slowly dying and just like any feral animal that’s been kicked to the side and waiting for its death, we are seeing them lash out more than viciously than ever but it’s only a matter of time before they collapse. 

In the meantime, I think the best way to fight back against feminism is to laugh at their tantrums and buzzword insults and keep telling the truth so that decent men and women around the world can see it for the disease that it is.