#world you have wealth differences and it's stupid to assume that just because you come from an African country you're grateful to arrive in

[wenellyb]

White French people hate it when they get a taste of their own medicine. 

I was discussing with one of my colleagues and she told me how she was planning to go to Senegal for the holidays because she thought it was a good way for her kids to see more diversity and people who don’t look like them (ie Black People).

So I told her it was a good idea because I was 4 the 1st time I saw a White person (and I cried btw...) And she was so shocked, like she couldn’t understand that some Black kids have never seen White people in their lives but somehow doesn’t think twice about the fact that her kids are in a similar situation.

Another time, I was talking to someone else about how I arrived in France when I was young but had lived in many African countries growing up (RDC, Kenya , Gabon, Center African Republic...).

And then that person proceeded to go on a tirade about how I must have felt so lucky to arrive in France, and how I should have been relieved to arrive in a developed country like France, blablaba. I just told him “not really”, because growing up I was told that France was amazing and so wealthy, but the first time I saw homeless people was when I arrived in Europe, so I didn’t really understand why people always talked about Europe like that. And again, the guy was shocked, just because I didn’t say my life in Africa was miserable and sad, and because I said that Europe was from what I had heard as a child.

If you’re going to bring your assumptions without knowing, I’ll retort with mine ( the view of an 8-9 year old). I don’t understand how someone can feel so entitled and assume something about your situation without asking first. I’m sorry the only thing you know about Africa is that one documentary you watched in middle school but leave me alone.

#random stuff #I just give what I get #And I'm not saying there's no poverty in Africa... But people need to understand that Africa is a continent not a country #and I think that even people who understand it don't really understand understand it #what I mean is that all countries are different and even within the countries you have differences and just like any other countries in the #world you have wealth differences and it's stupid to assume that just because you come from an African country you're grateful to arrive in #an European country or a western country #Also you'll have very different opinions whether your coming from east Africa west africa northern africa etc... #They say stuff but then are surprised when you say the same thing back

[bratfiction]

MY GIRL | FELIX CATTON

(🗒️ ᝰ.ᐟ♥︎) 𝒩𝒪𝒯𝐸𝒮 — this came to me in a vision; brainrot about how felix’s savior complex and daddy kink more or less go hand in hand. and just how much he loves you.

WORD COUNT… 1k WARNINGS… 18+ CONTENT, MDNI. f!reader, mentions of nausea + throw up, crying, pet names, daddy kink.

Ever since you met Felix, he’s wanted to take care of you. 

At first it was insulting. He was born into wealth and class, and you weren’t necessarily dealt that hand despite ending up at the same university. You’re not jaded— you come from two different worlds that don’t mesh. Two different backgrounds and your’s happens to be far more tragic. Poetic even, given how far you’ve come. Naturally you assumed he was only trying to get some good guy points by helping you out. Giving you a peek into what it’s like to be in a social circle filled with young adults that vacation in Portofino and have money wired to them every week. 

It took months of warming up to him. Looking back on it, it seems you went from scowling up at him in the middle of conversations to finding his hand in crowded areas before you could blink, with so many fleeting moments of thinking you may throw up on your maryjanes in between. Because surely Felix Catton couldn’t have swept you off your feet so easily. But he did. Lifted you up and kissed your round cheeks in the process, too. 

“I want to take you away while we’re on break,” he says it like it’s so simple, over lunch in your tiny apartment.

“Take me away?” Even you would admit you’re being a bit daft, but it’s fine. 

“Yeah, like… Italy or Greece, wherever you fancy really.”

Oh. There’s that throw up feeling again, mostly due to how casual he is about it. You couldn’t impose like that. Drinking champagne and eating caviar on your uni boyfriend’s private jet— who do you think you are? Not your father’s daughter, that’s for damn sure. However you’re boarding that same jet a week later. Your heart is pounding, hands clammy as you hand off your luggage. At least Felix seems to be having a good day. He helps himself to the complimentary snacks; you can’t even stomach an apple from the fruit bowl. 

And as if on cue, he senses your now visible uneasiness. It’s only the two of you in the cabin of the jet. Beige walls and deep brown, leather seats… throw pillows to give a homey feel, or to give your shaky hands something to grip onto.

Felix reaches out, and his long fingers find your own in seconds, holding them so gently that you remember why you fell for him all over again— “You alright?” 

No. You nod in the opposite direction, regardless. Now finding it in yourself to fake a smile, snuggle close to him and give a big smooch that quells his worries but makes your own grow. It’s childish, you know that. Just say what’s fucking wrong with you. Say that you don’t feel like you belong in this scenery. Go on. Nothing of the sort falls off of your tongue out of your fear of being the bratty, ungrateful girlfriend. And it’s not until long after you two make it to the villa that you’re finally sniffling and sobbing into Felix's shirt. The thin cotton is see through thanks to your tears and drool. 

“I’m so sorry,” you blubber through swollen lips, “This is s’fucking stupid.” 

You two should be going out right about now, but you can’t find it in you to even put on some lip balm through the tears. Let alone slip on a party dress. Felix only holds you tighter. One of his big hands rubs the middle of your back soothingly while he shushes you— “Oh, sweet girl. Don’t be silly, yeah?”

The sniffle he gets in response is expected. 

“Jus’ wish you told me how you’re feeling sooner, little one.” 

You and him both. 

Felix takes your wet face in his hands, cradling your cheeks with the same amount of love he always does. Nothing has changed. Nothing ever will. Especially when you look up at him with those glossy eyes and thick lashes— how precious. Your smaller hands wrap around his wrists whilst he forces you not to shy away from him. 

“Y’know you’re my girl, right?” He starts, leaning in and whispering to you oh-so softly, “Don’t care ‘bout things like that. Just want your pretty self right next to me.” 

You nod, and this time you mean it. Felix kisses your forehead. Then the tip of your nose. Then your lips. Slow and delicate as if you’ll break if he goes too hard on you. At this point, you think you might too. He pulls away, cracks a smile that makes your heart do a little flip and brushes his thumbs under your eyes, collecting the last of your fat tears. He recognizes that dreamy look on your face. Like you’ve been fully pacified, like you feel as safe as you possibly can be. 

“There’s daddy’s girl.” 

He knows just when to get you. Knows to attack when you’re all dizzy and sensitive from crying. Knows that you can’t resist him slowly but surely laying you down, shushing your little sniffles with kisses. More passionate ones, too. The kind that have you gripping at his shirt.

God, that button down is going through it tonight.

You really are a daddy’s girl, now. You’re being taken on expensive getaways, coddled whenever ‘n wherever you need it and now layed to rest on silky sheets. You’re fully his in every sense, and as much as it scares you, the pride in your chest overflows— “I love you, daddy.” 

Both of you stop breathing for a moment, staring at each other with wide eyes before you’re wrapped up in a sloppy kiss. You whine into his mouth, and Felix decides it’s the perfect time to bunch your sundress up, squeezing your waist while he’s at it. He hovers over you, covering your neck and chest with smooches and brushes of his teeth until he drags his lips over your tummy and reaches the waistband of your panties.

You’re already out of breath. Huffing and puffing while he nips at the little bow on your panties, cocoa irises meeting your gaze to let you know you’re in for it… Not the worst way to spend your first night vacay, you suppose.

#⌨️.kit's writing #🤍.saltburn #didn’t wanna make this too smutty soz #felix catton x reader #felix catton smut

[jadagul]

I'm sorry if this is a stupid question. Why is it harder for larger countries to have citizens with a high median level of wealth? What makes it harder for a country with the US population vs, say, Japan? I can imagine obvious challenges, but also reasons why larger countries can make their median citizen wealthier more easily. Economies of scale, more chances for innovation that can later be widely adopted, strong institutions having outsized effects. Can you help me understand the logic more?

It's not a stupid question! It's a common but incredibly counterintuitive thing that comes up in statistical comparisons. The short version is: you get more variance with small samples than with large samples.

To start off, let's point out this isn't just theoretical. According to the IMF, the twelve highest GDPs per capita are in this chart:

(If you use a different source the numbers change somewhat but not dramatically so.)

If you rank countries by population, those are rank 122, 163, 118, 134, 162.5, 95, 99, 115, 3, 191, 169, and 103.5. The US is in position 3 and the next-highest is at 95 (out of about 200).

Conversely let's look at the ten most populous nations:

When ranked by GDP per capita, those come out at ranks 73, 127, 8, 98, 138, 144, 87, 128, 56, and 71.

And notice already this looks different: these numbers are mostly in like the middle half, whereas the others were almost all in the bottom half. And that makes sense based on the theoretical argument I'm about to make.

A big country has a lot of people in it. And more than that, it has a lot of places in it. And while those places all have a bunch of stuff in common (like being part of the same country), they also have a bunch of things different from each other. So you can think of the per capita GDP of a big country as, like, averaging together the per capita GPDs of all the regions in it. (And then the per capita GDP of a region is a weighted average of the incomes of all the people in it.)

If you look at a city-state like Singapore or Hong Kong, you're "averaging" together one city. And for a small country like Ireland or Luxembourg, you're averaging one city with a small amount of hinterlands. That means that if that one city is unusually lucky, the whole country is rich.

(And if that one city is unusually unlucky, the whole country is poor. The ten least populated countries on the list that have IMF data have GDP per capita ranks of 146, 119, 95, 9, 152, 60, 106, 16, 134, 52, which are all over the map. None of them are at the very bottom, and I assume that's because cities are richer than non-cities, in general. And also maybe a city-state that's also dirt poor gets swallowed up.)

And if you look at our list of richest countries, you can really see this effect. Ireland is a tax haven for the EU, and traditionally so is San Marino. Singapore is a weirdly-managed outlier city state, as is San Marino (and Hong Kong used to be). Qatar and the UAE are all drafting off of oil revenue, and for that matter so is Norway.

And to drive the point home, let's look at the list of US metro areas by per capita GDP.

San Jose beats every country in the world hollow. San Francisco is tied with the top entries on the list. And our tenth-richest metro area would place fifth on the list of countries by per capita gdp. (Contrast Paris at €60 and Berlin at like €42k, if my quick googling is right.)

And then to drive the point home, look at the top of the list. The richest metro area in the US isn't San Francisco or New York or Los Angeles (which at 18th and $86k doesn't even show up on that list up there, but would still put it at 8th in the world); the richest metro area in the US is some place called Midland TX. It's a small town that sits in the middle of a giant oil field, and as I understand it it's basically a base camp for all the oil work out there. So it has one thing going on, and that thing is super lucrative, and distributed across relatively few people; so it gets the top spot.

And that's why the richest countries are likely to be small.

#politics #economics #statistics

[thecarnivorousmuffinmeta]

Would Bella still have joined the Cullens if they'd been a cult instead of being vampires? Bella is still depressed, the Cullens maintain their wealth, home, looks (if we're going off how human they looked in the films), and foster/adopted backstory, except maybe Carlisle believes in some superior being and he's talked his family into following it as well. I've always thought the Cullens were a bit cult-like in that they were closed off not only from the human world, but also most vampires, and book Carlisle had such extreme views compared to other vampires. If Bella and Edward had still struck up a relationship, would Bella have heard cult and gone "yep, that's cool Edward, love ya" as much as she did with everything else in the films?

Bella and Cullenism. What attracts Bella to Edward.

Honestly? No, I don't think so, and it's not because Bella's not any less susceptible than anyone else to being indoctrinated into a cult.

The thing about the movies is they're talking about completely different characters (and it doesn't actually make any sense). In the books, Bella's specifically interested in them because they look so inhuman and beautiful. They're not just beautiful, they're stupid unbelievably beautiful and strange looking. They're far beyond the realm of ordinary.

If they're just Hollywood hot I just don't see that drawing Bella in and would probably be a turn off for her as she'd assume they're conceited rich people. Here the wealth would be a turn off because with the Cullens as vampires, it becomes a weird part of their vampire mystique, but as humans Bella has issues when it comes to money and both a) people having it b) admitting she wants it herself. Note Bella never actively pursues money and tries to reject gifts that are too extravagant before she's turned, it's just that becoming a vampire also means being stupid rich so then it's fine to wear Chanel to a creepy parking garage where you meet Saul Goodman.

Any hint of religion is also a turnoff, as Bella canonically is extremely atheist. She doesn't really give Carlisle beef in the books or films for being a devout Christian, it's sort of a "you do you man" (also helping that Carlisle really doesn't go around flaunting it that much with the odd exception of his giant crucifix decoration), but she also doesn't get it and doesn't want to get it. Weird stupid good looking blonde Hollywood rich people wanting her to believe in giant space aliens would have her very unthrilled with all of them and revert back to "wow, this Edward guy sucks".

Add onto that that she would never be interested in Edward in the first place and vice versa. Edward presumably isn't acting like a beautiful inhuman lunatic around her (crushing cars and teleporting across parking lots) and Bella doesn't smell delicious. Bella probably sticks to her first impression after Biology if he still has a similar meltdown "wow, hot but weird and kind of mean".

#twilight #twilight meta #twilight headcanon #twilight renaissance #bella swan #the cullens #meta #headcanon #opinion

[greydaysandstarrynights]

// Ok all the hot takes re ocean gate are getting to me, so, buckle up, this is a Rant. I’m a historian, and let me just say, these post make an excellent case for why studying actual real history, with nuance, and not whatever the current hot take designed to generate the most interest/attention/controversy, is. Clickbait “history” isn’t history, ya’ll. So, here’s some Titanic facts

1. The ship had lower class passengers too, because, contrary to popular belief, it wasn’t just a cruise ship for the top .01% of white society. (And even if it was, great to know that so many people think dying in a preventable tragedy is fine if you’re a rich white person.) 2. The ship was intended as a passenger liner that would bring folks from Europe to the U.S. Consequently, it had designated decks for different social groups. There weee super wealthy folks on the top deck, more middle class folks on the second, and the poor on the third, or steerage, deck. Most of the poor were immigrants coming to the U.S. to work. Btw, this is from ABC News. “About three times as many rich people sailing first class survived compared with poor people traveling in third class. Americans had a 15 percent higher survival rate than the British, Irish and the Swedes” 3. there actually were three people of color onboard the ship, too. From USA Today: “There was only one Black male passenger aboard the Titanic. Joseph Laroche was a Haitian-born, French-educated engineer. He was traveling to Haiti second class on the Titanic with his pregnant, French wife Juliette Lafargue and their two daughters. A biography of Laroche’s life describes him as an “anomaly” among the ship’s passengers. When the ship began to sink, Laroche placed his family on a lifeboat and stayed behind to help other women and children escape. Laroache did not survive, and his body was never found. Today his descendants live in Chicago.” So, presumably, the titanic was headed to Haiti, one assumes with the intent of acquiring more passengers, at least some of whom, presumably, would have been POC. 4. The type of discrimination laws like most Americans think of, the so called Jim Crow laws of the post reconstruction South, did not, shockingly, apply to the rest of the world, with some obvious exceptions, and the term Jim Crow originated in the north, in Massachusetts in regard to segregated rail travel. In fact, “Outside South Africa under the apartheid regime in the second half of the twentieth century, systematic racial segregation has been most closely associated with the Southern United States, from its introduction in the 1890s until it was gradually dismantled in the wake of the civil rights movement of the 1950s and 60s. ‘Jim Crow’, as it was known, actually emerged in the North in the 1840s, when the term was first used in Massachusetts to refer to the railroad cars reserved for black passengers. For a century or more, African Americans traveling to Europe often expressed their pleasure at being able—for a time at least—to mingle freely with others in public places.” 5. The primary barrier to people of color accessing the titanic was wealth and societal pressures/discrimination, not actual laws. 6. To bring it back to the Titan, one of the folks onboard is an actual teenager, and I happen to think kids, even filthy rich white kids, don’t deserve to die horribly. 7. Every single one of you making jokes about how “stupid” these people are is being ableist toward people with intellectual disabilities, so congrats on the rampant ableism.

Open a freaking history book, ya’ll and stop writing edgy hot takes about real people dying because you think it makes you sound cool.

#ooc #mun speaks #That’s enough internet for today

[patriciavetinari]

I had an interesting conversation the other day that brought me to some troubling realizations.

So a coworker and I were talking about our mothers. I mentioned how I resent mine for not socializing me, not helping me much through school bullying. Very breifly, my complaint was that her only ever answer was

a) don't pay attention, they're just jealous of you (for my looks – though i was the fat kid bullied for my weight in a heroin chic era and we couldn't afford nor find in my size any clothing fashionable with the Youths at the time, and for my brains – though I was hardly ever brilliant and kept more towards the middle with my grades and just read a lot to cope with bullying)

b) oh it'll toughen you up, if we change schools that'll mean the bullies won, so you have to Endure (actual literal thing mother said to me)

And

c) just beat them up, I'll talk to the principal if you'll get in trouble.

Interestingly, at no point did mother want to talk to faculty BEFORE the beating up she fantasized about would occur, nor did she ever teach me HOW to beat someone up when you're one against thirty. Anyway.

What I'm coming to is that my coworker AGREED that this was a good method. Because look, it did toughen me up and made me a gorgeous, steel lady who takes no bullshit. Yeah sure.

We're not close enough for me to tell that coworker that steel lady is also chronically lonely, had to socialize herself in her mid to late twenties, and can't get a date to save her life. But I digress.

Anyway, I strongly disagreed with her. I said no, at some point teasing and ganging up on someone and ostracizing and marginalizing one of the group stops being 'kids learning how the world is' and starts being traumatic harassment. Bullies should be stopped. Not everyone needs to be friends with everyone or make school connections last a lifetime, but bullying has to be investigated, noticed and meaningfully stopped. Kids have to be helped through that because there is no pre-installed autopilot that magically helps them figure it out among themselves.

Coworker disagreed back. No, she says. Bullying just happens, it's inevitable, some kids are just assholes, that's how grown up assholes come to be. There's no point in trying for a world where that doesn't happen.

And that's the realization that struck me. People, parents, pedagogues, childcare and education institutions abd just random childless schmucks see bullying as an inevitable part of life. They sometimes make some effort to resolve most outrageous and/or physical parts, like obvious beating (though not even that sometimes, we've all seen outrageous cases of bullying go unpunished). But then there was that post detailing really well how all those anti-bullying campaigns ultimately fail because they assume bullying just happens and targets random kids by the will of the Providence of something, while it's actually a failure of parents and teachers and society to install norms of decency and basic respect, as well as societal acceptance of marginalizing certain groups – fat kids, queer kids, neurodivergent kids, kids that differ from their peers by skin color, nationality, wealth, class or whatever else.

I'm sure there are specialists who know this to be true and are writing meaningful science on the topic, but it's not mainstream, is it? My school had no anti-bullying campaign. It had no socialization efforts. It had no talks of diversity and inclusivity. And not only did no adults help me with my situation, teachers afflicted additional trauma or dismissed me when I did gather my puny little underdeveloped courage and spoke out about my fear of my classmates.

Not one of them suffered any consequences and I was punished for speaking up, and at the same time mother at home was dismissing me in one word and in the next inflating my ego by going through my class photo and calling every other kid in my class ugly and stupid and how I was secretly better than all of them. It was a fucked up way of being a child, and holding on to that false, harmful, dangerous self-importance and superiority was also a way to cope with simultaneous feeling of deep inferiority.

Bullying has to be investigated and stopped. Not only for the sake of the kid being bullied, but someone needs to sit the bully down and fix them. Work with them. With kindness and knowledge of behavior psychology a specialist like a teacher or therapist needs to state a question: why do they feel the need to bully. How can we change that. Yes bullying often comes from some dark troubled background but sometimes, also very often, it's a kid being an asshole because they are young and inexperienced and are getting away with a rush of power over another human being.

Most animals, when they play, sometimes hurt each other with teeth or talons or claws or beaks or whatever, and have to be taught by elders and by peers not to do that, to know the limits between harmless teasing and inflicting trauma. Humans and small humans are not an exception.

Bullies are not the norm. Bullying should be a brief learning curve, not an inevitable part of child collective. It should be treated as a serious matter. Socializing is a skill and I don't think schools are teaching it beyond 'let's all get along' and an awkward made up movie or two depicting situations that never happened. It's a shared responsibility of parents, caretakers, teachers and society at large.

And the truth is, most of us are actually completely fine with 'some weird kid' being bullied, gossiped about or dunk in the toilet, because it has become so ubiquitous and normal and an inevitable part of childhood and adolescence, we're happy to keep the wheel of 'kids will be kids' going.

#personal #childhood lore #bullying #also yeah adult assholes should be stopped #or shown the door #we don't do that either

[drewandareview]

The Charm of Musicals

Originally published October 5th, 2012

I’m Drew and I tend to watch old musicals when I get the chance?  Why?

I just like musicals

I tend to like the songwriting of older musicals more than modern songwriting.

I feel classy knowing about movies most people don’t see.

If I had to pick one thing I liked the most about these musicals, it’s the charm.  It’s a charm that’s hard to not be mesmerized by and even harder to define.  But I want to.  What makes a classic musical charming?

For the longest time, I wanted to say it was the time period.  The fact it existed in a world so different from ours and yet, once existing, is a very intriguing and fascinating concept. But then I imagined the same format of a musical—the characters, the plot, the songs and the dances—set in the modern world.  And I still think it would be just as charming.  

In fact, I think it would be more charming.  People are obviously out of touch with what times were like during classic musicals because most of them are dead now.  I can safely assert that the atmosphere of these musicals was not pervasive in the real world, but I think since we associate classic musicals with their time period, we can accidently blend our ideas of both together.  I know I’m guilty of that.  A classic musical in a modern setting would offer us the contrast.  We know what the world we live in is like and the fun and whimsy of the musical would be much more evident.

However, I do think we can attribute the time period for something.  These classic musicals tend to have a lot of silly “errors” in them.  Weak writing here and there, sloppy moments, etc.  But musicals were very lucrative things and studios were all over them.  Studios are no different these days and when we see something shoddily put together, we get hostile toward the product.  ”LAZY.  STUPID.  DUMB.” we say.  Shouldn’t we say the same things about classic musicals?

Obviously, a lot of time has passed since those days and we’ve learned a lot of things about filmmaking.  I think we’re quick to assume that movies that made mistakes back then didn’t know any better, so we find the mess-ups cute and endearing as if it were a child making them.  We view modern movies as grown-ups.  They should know better.

I think to an extent this is true.  We have learned a lot.  But we have to give the past more credit.  There were phenomenal movies coming out at the same time as these musicals that employed a lot of the thought many of these musicals lacked.  We can be forgiving of musicals for their mistakes, but they weren’t entirely oblivious.  Some of the mistakes were made intentionally; lazily and stupidly.  But since it’s a grey area between whether or not they “knew better,” I think we’ll always render the classic musicals with innocence, and that’s something that’s really a product of the time.

But there may be something called “intentional disregard.”  Musicals that intentionally weren’t perfect, intricately woven masterpieces to give that sort of childlike, innocent, fun and fancy free feel to it.  Now I have no way of knowing if producers and writers of that time were crafty enough to employ something like this, but I do know it’s a feasible tactic you could incorporate into a modern-classic musical.

Childlike.  Fun and whimsy.  Is that the real source of charm for these musicals?  That despite the wealth of knowledge and maturity society had grown to acquire, classic musicals chose to focus on the simpler and happier subjects?  I really think that’s it.  I think it invites you into a fantasy world you can really relate to.  It looks just like yours, except all the bad and worry has been sucked away and you’re left in a very pleasant place.  It doesn’t just bring you back to the care-free days of being a child.  It makes you feel like you can keep living those days no matter what age you are.  And I think that makes up for a lot of the charm.

But not all of it, because there’s one facet left: The song and dance part.  The very part that makes it a musical in the first place.  Now I personally have a preference for the style of songwriting that existed back then and I personally think there was more effort put into it, but I can’t be sure.  And if I have to look at things objectively, I would say songs written then and songs written now exerted the same amount of effort into their craft.

But obviously, they are very different sounds.  You can hear a song and predict whether it’s from the time of classic musicals.  They have a very distinct sound.  And of course, you can guess which songs are more modern.  But it begs the question: Is there really a charm to the sound?  Is the composition and arrangement related at all to the overall feel?  Or is it psychological?  Because of the mental associations we already have with classical musicals being charming, do we assume the music they used was the paradigm of charm and anything deviating from it is less charming?

I think that’s exactly it.  At first I didn’t.  I thought that classic music was softer and not very aggressive.  I thought some modern music could compare, but since there was much more variety in music, there were also very harsh and grating songs out there.  Not necessarily bad, but not something that you could call “nice and playful.”  But then I realized: Music from the older times had music that was just as hard and aggressive.  They just didn’t have the gamut of instruments we do today.  But I’ve heard some pretty wild songs written from those days.  So no, I don’t think music then was capable of more charm than music now.  But I think the difference in arrangements combined with already instilled psychology makes us disposed to think otherwise.

But this may be a tangent.  The question I have to ask is, what kind of music did classical musicals use?  Well, I guess I would have to say—both kinds.  There was a soft sound, but almost every classic musical I saw had a blaring brass section.  While I wouldn’t impulsively call that a harsh sound, I think I objectively should.  The music in classic musicals is only made charming by the specific composition and arrangements of the time that we psychologically associate with charm, even though modern music is capable of producing the same feel of music.

It’ll be tough to incorporate any modern musical styles since people (myself included) would think it loses charm if it strays from the “classic” sound.  But notwithstanding psychology, I don’t think the specific music or dance influences charm. I think we just believe it does.  It’s the music and dance itself that’s responsible for the charm.  It’s obviously not something we do in real life and it adds this warm layer of fantasy.

So to summarize what wound up being a pretty lengthy article (especially for being entirely improvised), what makes up for the charm of musicals?

the (questionable) innocence of how they were put together

the focus on light and cheerful material

the specific sound of their time (psychologically induced to be charming)

the singing and dancing

Do I think a modern musical can exist that emulates that kind of charm?  Yes.  It can certainly use the same innocence and the same focus as classic musicals in a modern setting.  And of course it can employ singing and dancing.  I think it’d be difficult going against the musical style of the time, but I also think our flawed resolve that the style matters should be driven away.  Maybe by making a modern musical that captures everything else deemed charming, we’ll grow to accept a broader range of sounds and realize that the instruments don’t make the charm.  It’s the journey itself, into a world like no other where it’s easy to smile.

[iwadori]

Can you write a pure angst, using 10 and 35 please ( Idc about the characters ) :)

Getting hurt with the haikyu boys part 3 (Iwaizumi)

Part one Part Two Part three

Word count: 2.8K

Genre: pure angst

Authors Note: I am sorry for just how shit it is lol. I had an idea and it kind of got worse as it went along but I hope you like it anyways.

You were pregnant.  

You wanted to cry.  

You stared at the test in front of you. Two lines. Positive. There was no denying it, as much as you wanted it to be negative. You could tell you were pregnant before you even took the test, all the throwing up you were doing, the nausea you felt when certain foods were being cooked at work and the ongoing foot and back pains you felt.

Iwaizumi first approached you at your job, some shitty dinner that only paid you enough so you can make ends meet. You could tell he had money, the way he dressed, his demeanor even the way he talked. ‘What was a man like this doing here?’ you thought.  

Apparently, he’s seen you around for a while, your city was small you’d only really leave this place if you had a fair god mother or died and of course you are clearly alive and don’t have a fairy god mother...until you met him.

He ordered a coffee, didn’t drink it though (probably knowing that your boss spat it in whenever he was in a bad mood or because he just needed an excuse to be around) just waiting for you to finish your break. You sat in a corner booth for ‘privacy,’ not that anybody was even in the place.  

“My names Iwaizumi Hajime” he said keeping a blank facial expression  

“What do you wan-”

“Miss L/N, I think I’ll do the talking here. Okay?” he said with a smirk appearing on his face after seeing your slightly shocked face when he revealed knowing your last name.

“I’ve seen you around for a while now, you’re beautiful you know that right?” he said making your cheeks heat up a bit. “Anyways, I think you’re gorgeous and a man like me needs a pretty girl like you on his arms. By the lack of response to my name, I assume you don’t know who I am...but I guess that works in my favour”

Your face is getting bored by the second not really listening as he rambles on about himself, “I need you to be on my arm every night that I go out to one of my boring business meetings.”  

“Business meetings?” you ask  

“You know, a bunch of ‘business’ people go out and talk ‘business’ together.” he said sarcastically as if you were stupid.

“I know that, I just thought you’d elaborate about it.” You sighed “What do I get out of this?”

“Finally, you’ve gotten to the interesting part, you my dear get money and lots of It” he says finally catching your attention “I’ll pay you 1 million Yen per night, and all your dresses, outfits and expenses will be paid for so you won’t have to worry your pretty little head about finances again” he ‘smiled’ at you.

“What's the catch?” squinting your eyes  

“The catch is just that you have to accompany me to all my events.... and you have to stay in my condo.”

“Wh-”

“Don’t worry dear, it’s a nice place” interrupting you “probably better than any shithole you live in”

“Fine, fine” his words were convincing you “Is there a contract you have for me to sign?” you ask wanting to at least be somewhat ‘protected.’

“No contract, just this verbal agreement. Between me and you right here right now.” he winked “so you’re in agreement of our arrangement?”

“Yes.”

That was your first mistake believing Iwaizumi Hajime.

Sure you could defend yourself now and say ‘I was poor and in need of help’ but you’d know it would just be you in denial talking.  

The first time you attended a meeting with Iwaizumi, you came home from quitting your job since Iwaizumi said ‘you’re on my payroll now.’ You found a beautiful red dress laying on your bed accompanied with shoes and accessories and note saying, ‘I trust you to be able to do your own hair and make up my dear – I.H’

You didn’t have any family, or any friends. Most people that have had even a single encounter with you have deemed you to be ‘Not Likeable’ saying you’re not a people person or just lack any sociability. You were stuck in this town because of the debt your father has left you in before he supposedly ‘passed’ away. Leaving you drowning in all his financial woes, meaning you couldn’t go to university or become a professional *insert dream job here* like you wanted to be.

When you exited your building, you saw Iwaizumi leaning against a flashy car parked outside. “You chariot awaits m’lady” he says with a cheeky grin on his face making you roll your eyes. You got in the car and he started driving, humming along to a random song slightly agitating you.

“So, when are you moving to my place? It’s a part of the agreement.” he said in a sing song voice in the tune of what he was humming.  

Iwaizumi reminded you of JD from heathers, he was nice when he wanted but he did have a screw loose that was triggered when things didn’t go his way. Like a small child who didn’t get the toy he wanted when he had a million other toys.  

Him being the child. You being the toy.

“Our agreement is bullshit, just verbal.” you say mockingly “remember?”

“don’t start with me Y/N I'm not in a pleasant mood today” he says gritting his teeth “and I don’t need you fucking with me tonight.”

He puts his hand on your thigh, a little too harshly making you internally wince. “Okay here’s the rules for the night. You stay on my side for the night, only speak when spoken too, don’t drink too much since no one likes an alcoholic of course.”

“Oh, so all I need to do is sit pretty like a good little girl.” you say sarcastically

“Precisely” he lessens the grip on your thigh making you breathe in relief.  

The event was boring to say the least, you did as Iwaizumi said stood next to him with a fake smile plastered on your face all through the night. You’re sure that people did ask you questions, but you were in your own little world only stepping out of it when Iwaizumi either pinched your arm or gripped your thigh.

The end of the night was ‘eventful’ to say the least, before you entered the car a hand wrapped around your waist and you were pulled into a back alley. “We couldn’t end the night so boring, could we?” it was Iwaizumi, of course it was.

He started peppering your neck with kisses and roaming his hands all over your body. He eventually trailed the kisses from your neck to your lips, leading you both into a full blown make out session. It was fast and you couldn’t really think straight. Iwaizumi was getting a bit too forceful, gripping and kissing harder than he needed to, leaving marks as if to say ‘you’re mine now.’

That was your second mistake. Getting sexual with Iwaizumi Hajime.

He said you had to go back to his house which was basically now yours. You complied, obviously had no other choice since he didn’t offer or ask. He told you too.

Waking up in the Iwaizumi residence was an ‘experience.’ Iwaizumi wanted you awake when he was awake and asleep when he was, never giving you a moment too yourself. You swiftly came to the learn of the reason why he wanted you in his ‘care’ (as he called it anyways) he wanted his eyes on you all the time.

You carried on attending the events bored out of your mind and the nights went the same way. Fancy dress, long car ride, not paying attention, getting fucked in the back alley then sleep in Iwaizumi’s expensive silk sheets.

You didn’t know much about Iwaizumi besides what you could find. In the day time, Iwaizumi spends it cooped up in his office whilst giving you the ‘permission’ to roam around the house. Iwaizumi kept all his important stuff in a small box under a creepy floorboard in his basement original idea I know. All the information in there was just stuff about generic stuff about his childhood. Him being brought up into wealth, how much he weighed as a baby and all the allergies and boring shit that he had.

Iwaizumi Hajime was an enigma.

You and Iwaizumi did get along. Sometimes. You did do things that weren’t strictly fucking and going to business meetings. He took you on what you could only be able to describe as dates, and outings showing you off to all his actual friends. That’s when you learnt the difference of the ‘two’ men, Iwaizumi and Hajime.

Although they were the same person by name, Iwaizumi was rough around the edges and cold at heart not caring about you at all. Hajime, whilst still being rough around the edges, basically made you out to be his girlfriend giving you the love and care you needed. You really liked the times when you were with Hajime.

That was your third mistake, falling in love with Iwaizumi Hajime.

As things progressed, your quality of life seemed to dwindle (not that it was great in the first place.) Iwaizumi was barely in the house, claiming that for these particular ‘business meetings’ he didn’t need you.

On one night, a simple phone call definitely changed your whole dynamic.

“Yes babe, I’m coming over tomorrow I can’t wait to see you and the girls again.” he said to the other person on the phone.

“Why do you question my love for you, of course I love you.” he said again

“I love you, the girls even the dumb dog that Haru forced me to get for her 8th birthday I love. You guys are my family. My lovely wife and out girls”

Your stomach churned, you backed out of the hallway that you were in. He had a family, of course he had a family. You went into the guest room, where you kept all your things, you couldn’t do this anymore. Although you pretty much lost all your morals when you formed this whole agreement but you refuse to sleep with a married man with kids. You couldn’t. Being the reason why a family might break up is something you wouldn’t ever do.

Iwaizumi heard all your commotion and entered the guess “Woah darling who’s moving out?” he asked jokingly  

“Hmm probably your wife and kids, after they realise their husband is a CHEATER!” you spat

“Woah, woah Y/N” he said getting closer to you “You don’t know what the fuck you’re on about”

“I think I know pretty well; you’ve always been a pompous ass Iwaizumi; it was my bad for thinking that you weren’t married throughout all of this.” You finished packing up as much close as you possible can and headed out the room.

“You need to watch your mouth Y/N” he says aggressively  

“Or what Iwaizumi, or should I say Hajime” you shout “Or is that only reserved for your WIFE!”

This seem to really tick him off, “You don’t know anything Y/N, you really think I could love a dirty slut like you? Huh? Well, I didn’t know that you were important enough to be able to know the details of my personal life.”

“I'm not a slut” you mumbled. Which was completely true, Iwaizumi didn’t notice that the first time you slept together was the first time that you slept with anyone.

“repeat that again for me y/n?” he said mockingly

“IM NOT A SLUT!” you shout in his face

“You are what I say you are darling”

“Fuck you.” You try and push past him hard, to get out the house but you’re no match against his anger and brute strength. So, when he slams you against the wall, he banging your head. Leaving you concussed and bleeding. Before you completely pass out all you hear is a repetition of Iwaizumi Hajime murmuring “I'm sorry, I’m sorry” whilst wrapping his arms around your comatose body.

You woke up, thinking that was all a dream but the ache in the back of your head proved otherwise.  

“Y/N, darling your awake!” he said making you flinch

You moved away from him when he sat on your bed looking at you with ‘love’ and ‘care’ in his eyes. He goes to stroke your cheek whispering “you’re so be-”

“Fuck off” you say. That bang to the head was a wakeup call literally reminding you of all the hot and cold moments you had with Iwaizumi that you submerged into your head for the sole reason of ‘wanting to be happy.’ But you weren’t happy. Deep down you knew that.

“But y/n, darling I love you.” he said and you closed your eyes shut wanting to tune him out “I love you Y/N.”

“You don’t" you replied back harshly with your eyes still shut tightly

“But I do Y/N, I love you” he repeated the ‘I love you’s’ over and over making you want to scream out in frustation.

“Shut up!” you yelled “You don’t love me, stop saying that” your head throbbing with every word “Just stop. Make it stop! Kill me if you have to! Just make it stop” you say thumping at Iwaizumi’s chest becoming a hysterical crying mess. You weren’t talking about the physical paint he caused you (even though that hurt ALOT) you were talking about the constant heartache it was just being around him.

He didn’t know what to do. So, he just put his arms round you again and you yelled your frustrations about him to him into his chest.

You woke up into a new place, not your old one or Iwaizumis just something brand new.  

With a note on your bed side table saying:

‘I love you and I’m sorry’

Making you tear it up and toss it out.

You had no further contact with Iwaizumi, you figured that the new house you lived in was already paid for, but you didn’t want Iwaizumi to show up one day saying that you owed him money so you decided to get a job. A small one, that didn’t require any strenuous Labour or heavy shift times.

It was a few weeks after Iwaizumi left you and you felt sick and heartbroken. After finishing your shift at your job you felt hot headed and extremely ill making you run to your toilet to spill out your guts.

Which lead you to your predicament now.

Pregnant.

You were pregnant.  

You wanted to cry.  

You stared at the test in front of you. Two lines. Positive. There was no denying it, as much as you wanted it to be negative. You could tell you were pregnant befonhre you even took the test, all the throwing up you were doing, the nausea you felt when certain foods were being cooked at work and the ongoing foot and back pains you felt.

You didn’t know what to do. There was only thing you could do, but you certainly didn’t want that. ‘Call him’ the voice in your head urged. ‘That would be the best option right?’ you thought ‘I mean he did love you afterall...’

It took a whole day of pacing around and wondering on what you should do. But you knew that leaving the situation longer would only make it worse. So you kept his business card on you when he gave it to you since that was the only phone number you had. He was all you actually had.

You called and the phone rang 4 times, your heart beating faster and faster as it rang.

“He-”

“Hello this is Sakura Iwaizumi speaking” a feminine voice said “Who is calling?” you hear someone say in the background. ‘Iwaizumi’ you thought, your face smiling. You realised you haven’t responded so you rushed out  

“I’m Y/N L/N, I need to speak with Iwaizumi.”

“Haji dear, there's a girl on the phone for you... someone of the name called Y/N L/N”

You heard muffles in the background and Iwaizumi saying “Just hang up the phone she’s not worth it.” Your heart stung ‘She’s not worth it.’ Did he really mean that? As much as you claim to hate him, you didn’t really. As you’ve said before you always liked his loving and caring side over his cold hearted one.

You put the phone down and just cried, wailing your heart out for him. Why? You don’t really know to be honest. This was all a dumb agreement, he used you because he was bored and he probably already knew you were pregnant from when he gave you that concussion. But ‘he doesn’t want you’ you reminded yourself because ‘I’m not worth it.’

AUTHORS NOTE: once again, i’m sorry lol. But im most likely going to do a part two of my ‘long shot’ series with Akaashi or a character of your choosing. 

#haikyuu x reader comfort #haikyu angst #haikyu x reader #haikyu scenarios #iwaizumi x reader #iwaizumi angst #iwaizumi fluff #iwaizumi hajime #iwaizumi x you #iwaizumi headcanons #signedwithane😌

[ayatosmlktea]

Late Night Devil

A/N: This is my fic for the Citrus Dome Server collab! I’ve spent many hours crying over it, I hope you enjoy it! Make sure you check out the other pieces of the collab too because they’re written by amazing writers!! @lemonlordleah-shinzawa-kitten​

Read the other fics for the collab here!

Word count: 5.7k

Thank you @suckersuki for saving my ass and making this beautiful banner 💕

 Worship has always been a part of your daily routine. Each season you place the fruits of your labor at the altar. Every day you pray. It’s human nature, seeking answers from the Gods. But you never expected one to answer…

Warm summer breeze tickled at your face, your hair flowing freely in front of your face making your nose itch. Tucking a stray strand behind your ear, you tune out the conversation your parents are having in favour of focusing your attention on the pavement ahead of you. Your eyes stinging and heavy from the lack of sleep you’ve been getting since the breakup. A bitter aftertaste stings the back of your throat as the events replay in your mind. The breakup had been sudden, although you couldn’t say you were completely caught off guard. Regardless of how underwhelming it had been, the way you’d been humiliated so carelessly had hurt your pride.

As you approached closer to the temple, a strange feeling of anxiety crawled into your stomach and pushed down heavily on your chest. It was unlike you to feel such unease coming to the temple of the gods, normally the divine power helped bring a sense of peace into your life.

Today was another story it seemed, maybe it was the fact that your emotions were all over the place and the pain and hate you felt slowly bubbling up over being cheated on were muddling with the rest of your feelings. Warm orange rays of sunlight slowly begin to peek over the tops of the mountains, shrouding the forest in a comforting glow. The sky is light with pinks and oranges, the dark blue night sky slowly fading away as a light cerulean takes over. It was barely six in the morning, but your family had always been adamant about being early to bring your offerings for the gods.

Nature seemed to come alive around you, birds chirping, flowers blooming with lush petals and vibrant colours. It was the summer solstice, a period of time where the gods’ presence was closer to the human world than any other time of the year.

However, despite it being such a juvinating day you were feeling anything but jovial. The basket resting on your arm was nearly filled to the brim with seasonal fruits that you had picked earlier that morning. The better quality the offerings and the more abundant they were signified a better season and prosperity blessed upon your family from the gods.

“Y/n what’s the matter?” your mother asks, eyeing you suspiciously.

“Nothing, just tired” you mumble hoping that she’ll stop questioning you before it starts.

“Well make sure you don’t walk into the temple like that, we can’t afford to attract any negativity this season” she scolds, something you’ve heard since becoming your family’s link between your world and the God’s.

When it had happened you were instantly filled with dread, the wellbeing of your entire family rested on your shoulders. Four times a year you needed to make sure that your emotions were in check, a single negative thought even for a fleeting second would have an impact on your family’s future until the next solstice. The gods were very picky when it came to their offerings, being the so-called spokesperson for your family meant that for the entire time you were in the temple you couldn’t think of anything else.

One minor distraction was enough to send a year’s worth of bad luck onto your family. You had never once messed up in the ten years that you’d been doing this, but it never stopped your parents from reminding you incessantly that you needed to be in the right state of mind. It was annoying, but you’d gotten used to it over the years.

Today however, you had little patience with your mother. Resisting the urge to roll your eyes you give her a tight smile and nod, returning your gaze ahead of you.

The sun was beginning to rise higher in the sky, light pinks and oranges gradually fading into a light blue. The ruby red pillars of the temple gradually came into view, peeking through thick tangled branches.

The closer you got to the temple, the heavier the lump of dread feels in your stomach. It’s so close to swallowing you whole that you can feel the bile creeping up your throat. Sticky black fingers made of tar wrap themselves around your throat. The second you step foot onto temple grounds you can feel the atmosphere change.

A harsh warm breeze whips against your hair, running along your exposed arms and face. Almost like a warning, you need to get yourself together. Shoving down every negative feeling that’s made itself home in your body you take a few deep breaths and focus on calming your emotions.

From the corner of your eye you can see your parents give you a wary side eye but you flash them a reassuring smile. You can do this. You’ve done it a thousand times before, one stupid break up will not be the reason you bring bad fortune upon your family. You’d never hear the end of it.

As you walk up the narrow winding steps to the shrine you can feel the spiritual energy radiating from the soles of your feet up to the top of your head. The concerned gazes of your parents burn holes into the back of your head. Not only were you more in tune with the realm of the gods during the solstice, but the energy of the earth as a whole intensified as well.

Deep breaths in and out. Focus on the wicker handle of the basket digging uncomfortably into your arm. Anything to distract your mind from thinking about finding Bakugou kissing Cami-Nope.

Your grip around the basket handle tightens, small pieces of it begin to poke at your skin giving you something to focus your attention on.

When you finally reach the top of the stairs, your rage has finally simmered down enough to allow you to ease your death grip on the basket.

A heavy hand on your shoulder draws your attention up to your father’s solemn eyes. You were usually good at hiding your emotions, the fact that everything you were feeling now was on full display was irritating you to no end.

“I’m fine!” You reassure them once more but you can tell they don’t believe you. You can’t blame them, you haven’t told them anything about your relationship ending and you don’t intend to either. You knew you were acting differently these last few weeks but you didn’t need anyone else knowing about the humiliating way things had ended between you and Bakugou.

Your parents accompany you into the temple but being the spiritual link for your family, only you are allowed to enter the inner rooms which host the shrines for each god. In the beginning it had been exciting to you, but now years later it was beginning to feel like a chore. It didn’t matter where you were, four times a year you needed to come home and pray for good health and wealth and prosperity. You pass by Izuku on your way into the room, his presence was usually calming but the sight of him now only served to remind you of Bakugou. Forcing a polite smile on your lips you give him a small nod of acknowledgement before continuing on your way towards the altars.

The prayers had gone well, at least you had assumed they had. You had no problems with the gods, other than Enji who usually gave you a hard time regardless of how good of a mood you were in so you didn’t take it personally.  Grabbing the empty basket you exit the room and make your way outside. Finally able to let your emotions pour out once more, you find yourself becoming fixated on the onslaught of hatred, revenge, and hurt that were lying dormant under your skin. You wanted revenge, you wanted to humiliate him the way he’d hurt you. 

You didn’t understand why he’d done it, you had been under the false presumption that your relationship was fine. If it hadn’t been for Bakugou cheating on you in your own apartment, with the girl he’d told you so many times NOT to worry about you might have felt less bitter. But there was nothing that could quench your desire for revenge other than making him regret what he’d done to you in a way that would stick with him forever.

Blinking out of your daydream you realize that you’ve wandered into a part of the temple that you’ve never been to before. It’s darker and the energy feels heavier compared to the other sections. Your feet seem to move of their own will as you approach a door that looks as though it hasn’t been opened in ages. You expect to find it locked, but much to your surprise the handle twists open with no resistance. 

The room is even darker than the hallway, a small window being the only source of light casting a gloomy look throughout it. Along the back wall of the room is what you think is another altar, except as you approach it it’s covered in dust. It’s apparent to you that no one has been in this room for a long time. Cautiously you wipe away the dust covering the plaque on the front of the altar.

“God of vengeance, Dabi” The second the name leaves you lips the door slams shut making you jump in shock. Your heart is pounding in your chest, and every nerve is screaming at you to run.

“Lost, dollface?” A voice you’ve never heard before but feels so strangely familiar at the same time makes you nearly jump out of your skin and whip around to face them. You had been facing the door ready to walk out, no one had been in here before you so where did the man standing in front of you come from.

You’re suddenly so dumbstruck that you can’t even formulate a response, your eyes are too busy taking in his unusual appearance. Spiky black hair, the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen with patches of his skin on most of his face and neck that are stapled together. Your eyes travel down farther and notice that not only is his face badly burnt but a significant portion of his body is.

The energy you’re getting from his presence is overwhelmingly not human, but it’s not demonic either. At least, you’re fairly sure it isn’t. Meaning that the person standing before you was a god.

“Don’t look so shocked, you did wander in here didn’t you? What were you expecting to find?”

“Who are you?” The question feels stupid of you to ask.

“Shouldn’t you know that already?” Your mind is racing with a hundred different things to say, but none of them make it past your lips. Something about him is different from the rest of the gods you’ve met before. There’s what feels like an underlying evil in him despite being a god.

“What’s on your mind doll? It’s obviously important enough to be thinking about while you’re in the presence of a God” His coy smile and low voice laced with honey and temptation make you want to answer him even though you know you shouldn’t.

“Why do you care?” Raising an eyebrow questioningly, a tiny voice at the back of your mind begins to scold you for speaking to a god so casually. Not only could he clearly incinerate you in a flash but he could also influence the fate of your family’s fortune. But you couldn’t be bothered to give a shit. For the last decade of your life you’ve spent it dedicated to bringing your parents good fortune only to end up with your own misfortune. You knew you were pushing it, you knew that one slip up and you’d never hear the end of it. But the rage bubbling it’s way slowly up your body almost feels like it’s growing stronger in his presence.

“I always care about pretty little things who wander up to MY altar with such negative energy.”

“Your altar? Funny how I’ve never heard of you before. Can’t be that important if your altar is blocked off from the rest of the temple. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m leaving” Turning on your heel you start walking back to the door hoping that you’ll be able to leave before digging yourself a deeper grave.

“Now now, is that any way to speak to a god?” Within seconds the atmosphere changes, andBlue flames sprout up around you blocking you from leaving the room. They’re hotter than any fire you’ve ever been near before, you don’t even need to be standing directly in front of them to feel how much heat they radiate. Dabi’s eyes are glowing with such an intense gaze of lust in your eyes that it works its way under your skin.

It doesn’t take you long to understand why his shrine had been locked off from the rest of the altars. Dabi might have been a god but there was nothing heavenly about him. Gradually the smell of smoke began to fill your lungs in an unpleasant way despite nothing in the room burning.

“Wanna try that again? Maybe a little nicer this time huh?” Dabi’s body was right behind yours, his lips ghosting the shell of your ear. Hot breath hitting against you making you shiver involuntarily.

“Don’t you have better things to worry about?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, you’re standing in front of the god of vengeance. The one god who can help you work out this little problem you’ve got going on”

“Why do you want to help me so bad?”

“I like to think of myself as a generous god” He jokes but you can already tell that Dabi is anything but  generous. His expression changes when you don’t lighten up at his attempt to change the mood of the conversation.

“What can I say, I love a good revenge story. It doesn’t hurt if they’re not bad to look at either”

Sighing, you begin to mull over his proposal in your mind. You can’t deny that it would be just a little satisfying to have a god on your side. It was petty, the dumbest kind of revenge that anyone could plot for but the images of Bakugou making out with someone who wasn’t you in your own bed no less were branded permanently in your mind. Maybe summoning Dabi was a blessing in disguise, besides, he was a god after all. It wasn’t like he was going to ask you for your soul.

“Fine, what do you want in exchange?”You figured the most he probably wanted was a bigger offering next season.

“We’ll discuss that when it comes up”

.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。..·

You weren’t even sure why Dabi had decided to waste his time in the human world. In his own words he was bored of being in his own realm and figured that sticking around your “depressed ass” would give him some form of entertainment.

Thankfully you didn’t live with your parents anymore, you weren’t sure how you were going to explain having a random man they’d never seen before stuck to your side twenty-four hours a day. In all honesty, you didn’t know why he’d been so interested in helping you get revenge on Bakugou but there wasn’t any need for you to question it. He was the god of vengeance after all.

Even if this did seem like a small and petty reason to help you out.

The first week you had been so caught in helping Dabi adjust to human life that you’d almost forgotten why he was there in the first place. You would have thought that for a god he’d have been at least somewhat competent at learning how to work something as simple as the shower.

You definitely hadn’t expected him to be standing in the bathtub naked, with the cockiest smirk on his face while you yelped and covered your eyes, willing with every fiber in your body for your heart to stop racing.

“Could you at least cover yourself before calling me in here?” You complain, still shielding your eyes as you walk over to turn on the shower for him.

“Can’t you just use your godly powers or whatever to just do it for you?” Mumbling mostly to yourself, you adjust the temperature before hurrying out of the bathroom, trying not to think about his dick and how badly you would’ve gotten on your knees for him if he had asked.

“That would be a waste of my godly powers then, don’t you think?” 

You don’t even need to look at him to see the cocky smirk on his face. Slamming the bathroom door shut behind you, you rush back into your room hoping that he at least possesses enough common sense to know how to turn the shower off.

The following days go by with Dabi finding a new way to tease you, whether it was walking around the house shirtless or him walking in on you taking a shower. To say that you were up to your neck with the desire to have him fuck you senseless one minute and wanting to strangle the life out of him the next was an understatement. But according to Dabi, once you had both verbally agreed on the deal you’d made he couldn’t leave until the job was finished. 

Meaning, that until you got revenge on Bakugou, Dabi was going to be sticking around. Throughout the time that you spent together, Dabi had told you more than you thought you would get out of him. How he’d gotten his scars, why his altar had been separated from the others. As much as people needed vengeance, praying to a god as powerful as Dabi meant that in the wrong hands his powers could very well cause irreversible damage. Not that he had a problem with it, but the priests had decided long ago that his altar needed to be kept away from vengeful hearts. 

Until you came along of course, he’d immediately noticed your energy the second you had stepped foot in the temple. No matter how hard you tried to conceal your feelings, Dabi had noticed them and led you straight to his altar. You had been a little mad at first, having been so easily caught trapped but the more you thought about it the less you cared. Besides, you were beginning to enjoy his company around your empty apartment. 

.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。..·

Finally, after almost three weeks of putting up with him,  the opportunity to get back at Bakugou presented itself.

“Have you ever been clubbing?” you ask over breakfast that morning.

Leaning back in his chair, Dabi’s curious eyes meet yours.

“What are you planning?”

“Bakugou’s best friend is having his birthday party at this club and he’s probably going to be there too. You don’t have to come with me if you don’t want to. I can find someone else if you’re uncom-”

“I’m not uncomfortable. That’s what I’m here for right?”

“Well I was just asking since you’re like, what, a couple centuries old? It might be weird to go dancing with all these young people” you flash him an innocent smile at his unamused glare.

“Last time I checked your eyes were practically begging me to fuck you” He retorts making you choke on your coffee. Smirking in victory he leans in closely to whisper in your ear.

“Try harder next time doll”  

.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。..·

The rest of the day flew by and the closer the time got for you to leave, the more anxious you felt. You couldn’t help but start to doubt everything about your plan for revenge. For all you knew, Bakugou could care less about who you were hooking up with as long as he was getting his dick wet.

“Are you doubting me?” Dabi teased as you make your way to the club.

“No, but you don’t know what he’s like.”

You didn’t need to wait long to get in the club, your tight black dress and Dabi’s “charm” were more than enough to allow you to skip the line and get in. His hand never leaves your lower back  as you make your way through the crowd and towards the bar. The two of you down a few shots, the alcohol makes its way through your veins and before long you’re feeling pleasantly buzzed. 

Grabbing Dabi’s hand you drag him to the dance floor, it doesn’t take him long to get the hang of grinding up on you and for once you’re not mad about him being a tease. His hand is firmly resting on your hip, you’re a bit more tipsy than you had wanted to get but the song the dj is playing is setting the mood making you hot and bothered. When Dabi’s lips start kissing their way along the side of your neck you’re more than willing to give him more space to leave a few marks.

Your eyes are closed as your bodies grind together and you don’t notice the way Bakugou is glaring with murderous intent at Dabi. Just as you’re starting to loosen up a distance voice snaps you out of your trance.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Opening your eyes you find Bakugou standing in front of you with his arms crossed.

“What does it look like I’m doing. I’m dancing” the song that were dancing to ends and another more upbeat one follows.

“With him? I knew your standards were low but I didn’t think you were that desperate” He snorts, your blood instantly boils making the back of your neck prickle with rage.

“Hmm, let’s take this outside. What do you say?” Dabi asks with a playful tone in his voice.

“Whatever” Bakugou grumbles before shoving his way through the crowd of drunk dancing bodies.

Dabi and Bakugou confronting each other was something you hadn’t thought was going to happen when you’d agreed to let Dabi help you get your revenge on him. But as luck would have it, here you were standing in an alley outside of the club with Dabi in front of you and Bakugou glaring daggers into him.

“Oi, I don’t know who the fuck you think you are but she’s mine.”

“Yours? Aren’t you the dickhead who cheated on her? Why would she want you back” Dabi’s laugh isn’t teasing like the ones you’ve heard before. It’s condescending, and you start to feel an energy you’ve never felt before radiating off of him.

“Tell me, dollface.” His voice is deeper and when he turns to look back at you his eyes are darker with what you hope is  “Is this mutt really the one you want fucking you right now?” Bakugou’s jaw twitches and he clenches his fist ready to swing at Dabi.

“Tch, down boy” he sighs and just like that Bakugou’s body is slammed down to the cement. You’ve never seen Dabi use his powers before and it does nothing to calm the raging storm of lust about to boil over in your.

“Now, if you don’t mind I’m going to pick up where I left off before you rudely interrupted.” Your wide eyes are still focused on Bakugou’s form kneeling behind Dabi, until he grabs your jaw with one hand and backs you up against the wall.

“I’d much rather you focus on me than him” He mumbles, giving you a sly smile before claiming your lips in a heated kiss. His lips are so much better than you imagined, soft and yet rough at the same time. The cold staples on the corner of his lips lightly scrape against your skin but you don’t care. Sliding your hands underneath his shirt you wrap your arms around his waist, pulling him in closer to you.

Your nails clawing at his back hard enough to make him hiss and bite down harshly on the sensitive skin where your neck and shoulders met. If your brain wasn’t so muddled with pleasure it might have been more painful but it only sent sparks throughout your whole body. It didn’t matter how tightly you grabbed him and pulled him closer into you, it wasn’t enough.

 Dabi hooked your right leg over his hip, the other hand trailing up the back of your neck tangling his hand in your hair and pulling it back. The feeling of his lips sucking dark marks onto your flesh elicited a loud wanton moan from your lips. Your fingers buried themselves in his raven locks tugging his head up so you can slip your tongue between his lips. The hand holding your thigh tightens as a carnal growl makes its way up his throat.

Kissing a god was nothing like you’d ever experienced before, it felt like with each kiss he was stealing the air right from your lungs.

If you were being completely honest with yourself, Dabi could have ended your life right then and there and you would have let him. Throughout the past few weeks he’s been living with you, you’ve pictured this in your mind countless times. But you’d never thought that there was a chance in hell that it was ever going to happen. Yet here you were, back scraping against the brick wall of the club’s alley with Dabi’s fingers digging into your hips in a way that would leave their mark there for days.

His lips moved against yours like he was a man starved of touch and affection, his teeth bit harshly against your bottom lip pulling a half strangled moan from your throat. His hands, which felt like they were growing hotter every time he brushed against your bare skin, tightened their hold on your hips to grind you against his dick. The sharp hiss he lets out goes straight to your already throbbing pussy, something about knowing that you’re the one making him feel like  this and lose control of himself just makes you want to push him farther and see how long it’ll take to break him.

Reaching down between your bodies you grab his hips trying to bring them closer to yours for more much needed friction. The action makes Dabi chuckle against your lips.

“Impatient aren’t we princess?” Dabi tries to come off as nonchalant but he wants it just as much you do. He’s been holding out for weeks, at first he just enjoyed making you flustered, pushing all your buttons to see how you’d react. But the longer he spent with you the more his feelings turned from curiosity to genuine interest and the small embers of lust that lay dormant in his gut had erupted into a fire that was rapidly consuming him.

It was dirty and rushed, teeth clacking together as you both tried to bring your bodies closer together until there was not an inch of space left between you. Your dress was now barely hanging on to your hips, but you couldn’t care less because the only thing on your mind was feeling Dabi inside you NOW. Rolling yourself against his dick the best you can while having one leg on the ground, you can’t help but smirk when Dabi moans into your mouth. His hand slides down your stomach, fingers teasing your thighs where the hem of your dress meets your exposed skin before inching closer to where you want him most. His arm sets your leg down in favour of spreading your legs wider for him, tugging your dress up even higher to give himself a better view.

“So fucking wet and I haven’t even touched you yet” Dabi laughs in your ear, enjoying the way you inhale sharply as his fingers circle your puffy clit.

“Dabi, don’t be a tease” you shoot back, trying to sound as dominant as you can but instead it comes out as a breathy whine. The contrast of his soft top lip combined with the roughness of his bottom lip against your neck was making you dizzy.  It was the perfect combination of pain and pleasure, and it was only serving to turn you on even more knowing that you had provoked him into doing this.

“You know, I was going to fuck you anyway but don’t you think it’s a little more vengeful if I show your charming ex how to really make you scream?” You were so distracted by the feeling of finally letting out your sexual frustrations that you’d forgotten all about Bakugou who was still under Dabi’s influence.

Before you can answer him, Dabi slides two fingers into you with ease curling them at just the right angle to have you panting against his neck. His movements are anything but gentle and he gives you no time to adjust to his pace as he works his fingers in and out of your dripping  pussy. Your hands wrap around his biceps, allowing you to have some sort of stability while he’s finger fucking you fast enough to leave you light headed.

“Such a fucking tight pussy you’ve got doll” he chuckles breathlessly. His thumb nudges against your clit tightening the coil of white heat rapidly building up in your lower stomach. His fingers are hitting against your sweet spot so perfectly, every thrust knocking the air out of your lungs in breathy moans as he increases his pace.

 The wet sloppy sounds of his fingers in you are only heightening your arousal. Dabi’s lips start sucking against the space between your neck and shoulders, making you tilt your head to give him better access. You’re so close you can feel yourself coming undone, without warning Dabi bites down hard enough to break the skin sending you towards your first orgasm.  You don’t even care that you’re moaning loud enough for anyone to hear you, Dabi’s fingers don’t stop giving you no chance to recover.

“Come on princess, I know you’ve got another one for me. Cum on my fucking fingers like a good slut” his rough voice right against your ear does nothing to help bring you down from your high. You’re helpless to do anything but let yourself become putty in his hands as another orgasm leaves you breathless and nearly sobbing against him.

You whine at the feeling of his fingers pulling out of you, but you don’t have to wait long before he turns your body around to face the wall,  bending you over and unzipping his jeans to free his aching cock.

“Remember when I said we’d discuss what I wanted in exchange for helping you out?” he asks, his voice raw with arousal as he slides the tip of his cock against your dripping folds. You can barely remember what he’s talking about, your mind is so focused on wanting to feel him inside you that you can barely keep track of what he’s saying.

“I think this is a pretty good exchange don’t you think?” Not giving you a chance to respond he grabs your hip with one hand and tangles your hair with the other while sheathing his cock fully inside you with one sharp thrust. Your nails dig into the brick wall as you fail to bite back a scream. He’s so thick that you can feel the veins of his cock rubbing against your walls with each thrust. The hand fisting your hair tightens its grip, pulling your head back towards him. Dabi’s hot breaths are hitting against the base of your neck, the feeling of him inside you is making your head spin with pleasure.

“Go on, tell  him who’s fucking you this good” Dabi’s hips are slapping against your ass hard enough to bruise but you could care less.

“You are” you whimper but it’s not good enough.

“Say my fucking name” he growls in your ear before reaching down to rub hard circles against your clit.

“F-fuck! Dabi! You feel so fucking good” you cry out as another orgasm washes over you making your legs feel like jelly.  You’re almost certain that anyone within a two block radius can hear how loud you’re screaming but you don’t care. Before you can process what’s happening Dabi pulls out of you flipping you back around to face him and lifting you up. Wrapping your legs around his waist he slowly pushes back into your hot walls.

“Such a greedy cunt you have, dollface” he grunts and you can’t do anything except nod. Your back hits the wall as Dabi’s hips rut against yours, the new angle allowing him to hit your g-spot with every thrust. His hand wraps around your throat, restricting your air flow and making your pussy clench around him.

“You like it when I choke you? Such a nasty little whore” he laughs, tightening the grip he has around your neck until the edges of your vision start to blacken.

“Your pussy’s so good I might have to keep you” You’re not even sure how he’s still managing to speak in full sentences, if there was anything that reminded you that Dabi was a god it was his insane stamina. He’d already fucked you through three orgasms without being anywhere near cumming. Not only that, but the force he was using the fuck you with was sure to leave you unable to walk for a week.

Your thighs tighten around his waist as he begins rubbing your clit once again making you whine loudly.

“Too much”

“You can take it baby” His fingers show you no mercy causing you to throw your head back against the wall. Your hands push against his shoulders trying to move him away but Dabi is a lot stronger than you gave him credit for.

“Cum on my fucking cock, you can do it. Show him what a good little slut you are for me” Your fingers are gripping his hair so hard you’re sure you’ve pulled some out as you cum around his dick, your eyes struggling to stay open as you feel liquid splashing against your thighs.

“That’s my girl, squirt all over my cock” His fingers grip your jaw as he brings your lips together in another heated kiss. His thrusts become sloppier and more rushed as he chases his own release.

“Fuck Dabi cum in me” you moan against his lips and he curses under his breath as he spills thick ropes of hot cum inside you. Your breath is coming out in short pants and you can barely stand on your legs when Dabi puts you down. You can feel his cum start to drip down your thighs as he presses a soft kiss against your lips. Your eyes finally gaze down towards Bakugou who looks like he’s about to burst a vein. His eyes are burning holes into your neck where dozens of dark marks litter your skin. From the sounds he’s making, you can tell he wants to say something but under Dabi’s control he’s powerless to do anything.

“How was that for revenge?” Dabi smirks.

“I don’t know, might have to try again at home” you reply cheekily.

“What makes you think you’re making it back home? I meant it when I said I was keeping you”

Masterlist 

#server collab #Mha x reader #bnha x reader #dabi x reader #my hero academia x reader #boku no hero academia x reader #dabi fanfiction #mha imagines #bnha imagines #dabi smut #mha smut #bnha smut #dabi mha #mha au #bnha au #mha x you #bnha x you #dabi x you #mha fanfiction #bnha fanfiction

[sun-to-my-luna]

-𝓛𝓲𝓪𝓻 -  

Her fiance at the beginning begins to explain how he can’t believe he found his missing piece. That person that has “a one of a kind beauty with a glow that makes the moon look like a sad chipped tooth”

Followed afterwards  her fiance in this scene is going to give Camila  a necklace because they’re apparently (based on context clues) celebrating their recent “engagement.” 

This is where the symbolism begins.  As he cheekily describes the type of person he found himself with Camila takes a huge gulp of wine.  A sign that shows she’s uncomfortable with what he’s saying or feeling guilty about something.

The bus boy “accidentally” spills a drink onto Camila’s fiance and gets his expensive suit dirty. The fiance begins to yell at the bus boy. Camila becomes fascinated putting all her attention onto the bus boy.

A.

She falls in love with the bus boy at first sight and  then he leaves a note on the table for Camila.

Since the “Liar” cover art  has to do with cupid. The heart that forms after the buss boy cleans the drink he spilled on the table represents “falling in love at first sight.” In other words the drink that the bus boy spilled was cupid’s arrow. 

 B.

The buss boy already knew Camila. He spilled the drink on purpose because he knew that she was  in love with  him and not Reese. He knew she was making a mistake. Therefore was trying to prevent her from marrying a guy she’s not interested in.

In this situation Camila is shocked and nervous because of her fiance’s reaction  but she was smiling at the buss boy while he was yelling. That meant that  she liked what he did for her.   

“Oh no, there you go, you're making me a liar I kinda like it though.”

After meeting with the buss boy she can’t say that she “loves”  the necklace her fiance gave her. Why? because that would be lying. She’s chocking because her  body is literally preventing her from spilling out lies, and wants to speak out the truth. 

“Oh no, there you go, you're making me a liar Got me begging you for more.”

Then she wakes up in her mansion next to her fiance to find the television turned on.

Parodying what ALL tabloids do every time celebrities are rumored to be together.  In a sense think of her fiance as a “PR” partnership.  Her character is in love with someone else and she’s not with Reese Witherspoon because she loves him.  She looks at the note that the buss boy left behind because she can’t stop thinking about them. The other thing that’s important to pay attention to is the fact that she’s “living” inside a mansion.

 So, she wakes up and she remembers that the buss boy gave her a note at the table while he spilled the drink. At this point I’m going to assume that the buss boy had already known Camila before she got with Reese because she sneaks out of the room as if she was keeping a secret away from him.

We further on can see her actually running away from Reese in circles around the house, looking at the note, but pushing it away. Proving that she is keeping a secret from him. The secret being her relationship with the buss boy that she’s having behind his back in secrecy. This next scene is extremely important, and brings me back to why I said her living in a mansion is something you should pay attention to.

Camila is caught cleaning the mansion, she lives in, herself with her normal regular comfortable sleeping gown instead of the cleaning staff. If this was a normal everyday situation there wouldn’t have been a reason for her to be shocked if he caught her cleaning.  However at this point I gathered one of two things.

A.

Wealth, Money and Fame.

Reese Witherspoon symbolizes wealth, money and fame itself. He bought her all those materialistic items. He has all these maids, cooking staff, and butlers. He has this big ass mansion and he expects her to dress the part and act accordingly so to her new rich lifestyle. That’s why he bought her what to wear and the necklace at the beginning of the music video. Going back to the reporters in the music video. At the beginning when he was describing her I felt like in itself was mimicking or mocking fake love and affection because what he said was cheesy and she wasn’t interested in it.   (Kind of like her posts about Shawn, and Matthew.)

B. 

She doesn’t care about money, wealth, or fame.

That fact that in this scene she just smiles and looks at him and feels comfortable wearing what she’s got on while she’s cleaning shows that she just wants to be herself. She doesn’t want to wear what he buys her to show off. She just wants to be herself.  Therefore in that moment at the start of the MV when he asked her what she thought.. she was making a decision between Real Love or Wealth, Money, and Fame.

Then we get a flashback to where we started except this time she comes to a realization. She tries to change the outcome but  it’s the same. The heart on the table still appears and the buss boy is still there. “I said I won’t get too close but I can’t stop it.” She starts to crack and let’s out a bit of the truth and as she does she feels relief. Things start to get better. The truth starts to spread, and people bring out their real colors.

Reese gets confused about her rejection, but  Buss Boy has hearts in his eyes meaning that he appreciates her courage to be honest.

BUT then she gets crushed by an elephant. She didn’t say the full honest truth and this is an idiom for “there’s still an elephant in the room.” 

She once again wakes up except this time it’s not just with a note. She wakes up with both men in her bed. The buss boy she’s actually in love with never leaves her mind and wakes up with her while Reese ( her wealth, money and fame) lays next to her fast asleep. The more people talk about them the more anxiety Camila seems to have every time she sees the news reports.

She gets terrified of the fact that Reese could wake up and see him being with her in the same bed and starts running away from her thoughts and problems again. With the note in her hand.  This could very well be interpreted in many ways.

Considering that Reese represents fame she’s scared that her real relationship that’s a secret will be discovered so she runs away from it but she can’t stop thinking about them. That’s why she’s continuously running around in circles in Reese’s mansion. 

“But what if he kissed and what if I like it?”

Changes the lyrics to “she” in this part and the meaning changes, but in the music video it stays the same because the Buss Boy is her secret relationship.  I know a lot of people before me already pointed out that Flamingos = Gay... so I’m going to point you in a different direction. She is among a flock of  Flamingos, and they are believed to be a powerful spirit animal.

  Reference: “Spiritually, if this spirit animal comes up– you need to listen to your heart and follow what it says in all that you do. This is because it will assist you in choosing the true path of life. In case, you consider this bird to be your spirit animal, then you should let out your emotions. It is necessary to vent out your feelings & expressions to the entire world without any modifications. You should also allow these feelings to help you lead to your life path. Listening to your heart will allow you to derive proper solutions to overcome all problems in life. If you find it tough to come up with a decision, then you should allow your heart to take over. This spirit animal teaches you to follow sincerely your heart to enable you to derive the best results.”

Again, she’s looking at the note, trying to follow her heart and making a choice between Real Love and Wealth. (Which follows the same pattern in Shameless, and another song.)

He comes out showing off his butlers and staff and again the stupid thing he bought her to wear. Then we go once again back to the start of mv where she’s thinking about things and coming into realizations.  She spews out even more truth, but doesn’t get hit by the elephant again. However she does get hit by people riding their bikes.

It seems like no matter how hard she tries or wants to say the truth she can’t. That’s why she’s getting attacked by elephants and drones, and people because when she does they stop her from continuing to live by the truth. The more she resists saying the truth though  the more the truth haunts her.

It’s interesting to me that this scene is included with the whole, “trouble in paradise.” The whole world is watching her fake relationship crumble because she doesn’t want to be in it anymore and she just wants to choose who she really loves.  I think that this song is ultimately aimed at Roger or her team who make her seem like she’s a “Liar.”

We have her here once again laying next to Reese (wealth), but she’s surrounded by thoughts of the person she really loves so she’s trying to burn the love she has for the other person she shouldn’t love. 

While in that process she actually ends up burning herself, and running away from the situation.  The “Truth Police” actually end up catching her and want to know why she did what she did.  The truth police mention in my opinion could be someone that intervenes with her life. Someone close to her.

Anyways, Wealth and Fame starts investigating  and questioning her. She starts getting really nervous that they’re going to find out the truth as to why she went insane and burned down the mansion. Even though they probably already know as she looks over at the Buss Boy who is pretending to read the note he obviously didn’t give to her himself.

She won’t tell them  the truth so she starts screaming at the Buss Boy, and blames him for giving her the feelings that she’s feeling, but the Buss Boy stands his ground and acts as if saying, “is that so?” 

Reese is surprised and presumably seems as if he’s asking what’s going on. The Buss Boy and Camila are arguing back and forth, but they start dancing and get really close.

At that point the truth was discovered and Reese was devastated and angry. The lie detector showed that she really loves the Buss Boy, “her real love” and not Reese. The person she was pretending to be in a relationship with. The person that bought her fame and wealthy things.

In the end she wakes up in her normal house, with her normal clothes, and inside her normal bed. Without pretending to be someone else or in love with somebody that she’s not in love with. She loves Disney, and the bird to me says that’s her real fairy tale ending.

In the end she chose her real love over everything and will always choose love over everything.  But also remember how I kept saying she can’t stop thinking about the person she really loves?  That’s what the note is about. She only thinks about the person she actually is in love with. Not the person she shows she’s with.

“All I do the whole day through is dream of you.”

#gaymila #camren #camila and lauren

[burnedbyshoto]

mamihlapinatapei

— mamihlapinatapei: wordless yet meaningful look shared by two people who desire to initiate something, but are both reluctant to start. —

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pairing: todoroki natsuo x fem!reader

warnings: 18+, smut, daddy kink, praise, choking, cockwarming, orgasm denial

word count: 8,903

a/n: a commission for @redbeanteax​, sorry it took so long. my back is in so much pain and good god did i feel like i was cheating on shouto when writing this. i hope you enjoy it!!!!

message me to join my taglist!

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Soulmates were an old concept.

It was this phenomenon that had first occurred so many years ago. It was a miracle that allowed the two perfect halves come together. 

In its initial introduction, divorce rates and plummeted to all-time lows! For an entire generation, divorce rates were at an all-time low of zero. No one in the world were getting divorces, choosing to stay with the person that was deemed worthy of them. It seemed for some time that people were going to fall in love with their soulmates and find happiness and prosperity for them.

That is until soulmates crossed borders, seas, racial tensions, economic differences, and sexual preferences…

The rich stopped trying to bring someone in for a rag to riches effect, choosing to instead marry within their own class circle, choosing wealth over love. International soulmates couldn’t figure out a common language, they’d sit in front of each other with lousy translator apps, unable to talk freely and openly, and soon their relationship was destroyed. Racial tensions were especially hard. There were reports of soulmates waking back up into their bodies to find their home destroyed and family hurt because their soulmate could not stand the thought -- the idea -- of the race of their soulmate. There were still homophobic people in this world of soulmates who could not accept their sexuality when presented to their soulmate who was the same gender and would not leave any means of contact behind.

Soulmates, while excellent and loving when it is something within your reach, turned out to be a pretty fucked up thing.

But nevertheless, it didn’t stop you from ever hoping that whoever your soulmate was, it would be someone who would love you precisely who you are, no matter who they were.

Your tired eyes focused on your paper, your eyes scanning the different lines that glowed on your computer screen, trying to find a better way to propose your thoughts. There wasn’t much to this paper, it was a reasonably simple paper about the pros and cons of soulmates for your anthro and philosophy class. Since you were little, you revered in the concept of soulmates, your excitement to be in love with someone for the rest of your life was a pretty solid thing, even at a young age.

As you grew older, you held onto this idea, choosing to ignore the issues with soulmates in favor of optimism and positivity. There were still many, many happy and in love, soulmates! After all, there was still an 87% rate for soulmates marrying each other, the opposing 13% came from the worst of people, the most disadvantaged of people, and the most influential people. It’s how it was.

For a college student in Japan, you figured that you had a solid chance of having a soulmate that you could love and have their love in return. But your issue was the mystery behind it, the unknowing of it all. While you knew that soulmates did mean pure love, there was a part of you that hoped that there this someone out there was someone you already knew.

Well, there was one person in particular.

“I’ll proofread your paper if you look at mine,” a tired voice croaked from hours of not being used.

Your eyes felt dry, and you glanced up at the white-haired boy who was the holder of your affections for about two years now. 

Todoroki Natsuo.

“Only if you don’t make fun of mine, I’m so bad at this philosophical bullshit,” you groan, rubbing your face. You heard Natsuo snort, his arms stretched above his head, and your eyes dropped back down onto your screen, not wanting to be staring at him. 

“Oh please, I’m sure I’ll feel leagues smarter by the time I finish reading it,” he grinned, and you felt yourself looking back at the white-haired man who was pushing his laptop towards you.

“You’re annoying,” you sigh, but there’s an undeniable smile on your face when you hand over your own device.

“Sure, sure.”

What was there to say about him?

You had met him two years ago during freshmen orientation, he was in your introduction group, and coincidentally in the same classes as you. The two of you ended up getting fairly close over the first semester of college, and by the end of your spring semester, you realized in horror that you had a crush on him.

These feelings weren’t bad, he was a respectful and caring boyfriend, that was something you knew without a doubt. Of course, knowing that he is that, and not hypothetically assuming it meant that he had a girlfriend. Yes, Todoroki Natsuo was a taken man.

You’d never really met his girlfriend. You knew who she was, how she looked like, her favorite things in the world, and her least favorite things, that’s how much Natuso talked about her. You had the pleasure of meeting her once, and the only thing you could remember is that she had mouse ears and the personality of a mouse. Scared, timid, and squeaky.

She barely talked to you, and after the initial meeting would never join Natsuo and you anywhere.

You didn’t take it personally, you wouldn’t really want to hang out with her either, especially with how you felt about Natsuo. It was a conflict of pretending that you and Natsuo were falling in love, ignoring the impeding time you had to be with him, and of course, the guilt that coursed through your body whenever you rested your head against his shoulder during these late-night studies. 

In two weeks, it was July 2.

Somehow on this day, you would swap bodies with your soulmate when you fell asleep, and when you woke up, you had five minutes to figure out how to get them to reconnect with you. Most people left their phones unlocked that day, letting their soulmates leave their phone numbers in their phone, sometimes they’d leave their address, and Instagram and Twitter handle. After so many generations of soulmates experiencing this, and the ever-evolving technology, this was the way that people effectively found their soulmates once the five minutes were up.

But unlike what people had once assumed, there was no exact age as to when you would swap bodies. Some people were lucky to swap bodies at the age of sixteen, and the oldest recorded case was when someone was twenty-four. You were nineteen, as was Natsuo, neither one of you had this soulmate experience yet, but unlike before, you had a strong feeling that this was your year.

“It looks great,” Natsuo whistled lowly, his head shaking while giving back your laptop. 

You felt your face grow warm at the praise, your fingers highlighting another sentence for him to correct, “Thanks.”

“What you thinking about mine?”

You sighed, pushing away from the table so that you were looking into his grey eyes that looked at you with curiosity and high respect. 

“I’m a bit confused about your position,” you admitted, your fingers brushing back your hair so that you could look at the man whose lips pursed in thought. “You’re saying that soulmates are bullshit, but you believe it regardless?”

Natsuo nods his head, an embarrassed blush stretching across his face, “Well yeah, they kinda are. How is some cosmic thing the thing in charge of telling me about who I am to truly love?”

“So when you find out who your soulmate is, you won’t love them, but you’ll stay with them?”

“Yes? I don’t know… I know that my parents aren’t soulmates, and that didn’t work out. It’s hard for me to explain, but I really like Mausua, and I want to see how far things can go with her,” Natuso explains his thoughts to you, that stupid grin spreading on his face that always appeared whenever he talked about her. “I mean for years people didn’t marry their exact soulmates, but they were happy and in love for ages. Why can’t I try that out?”

You tried to hide the fact that those words hurt you. It shouldn’t have mattered, after all, there was no saying that the two of you were soulmates, and the probability of that happening was entirely slim to none. 

“Yeah, why not?”

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June 30 - one-week left

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You were slumped on top of the table, your head banging against the cool wood while Natsuo recited his notes to you. The both of you were in the middle of some argument that had tailed off in fifty different directions, neither one of you admitting defeat.

“Natsuo, I don’t give a flying fuck if that’s what the notes say!” you yell, throwing your eraser at his head, an act that he easily evaded while continuing to read off his notes. “You don’t give the baby the torch flame!”

“You’re not even listening to what I’m saying,” Natsuo insists with a laugh, his notebook coming to hit your back slightly. “If you give the baby the flame, they’ll be unbeatable!”

If you could roll your eyes any harder than they did now, you were sure you would manage to see your brain, but instead, you shifted on the table so that you were facing Natsuo, and you stuck out your tongue.

“Put your tongue back in your mouth before I pinch it.”

“Sowwy, I donth understhand,” you retorted your nose, turning up towards the ceiling.

Natsuo’s hands grabbed your wrists, and you shrieked, immediately trying to fight him off while he dragged you towards him. Screams and laughter filled the air until Natsuo accidentally pulled you off the table. So there you two sat, on the floor of the study room, in hysterics.

Your hands clutched your sides, breathing failing you while your ass stung slightly from the pain of falling. Natsuo’s face was red, his feet slamming against the floor periodically enough that you almost assumed that he was going to pee himself. 

“Just go to your stupid date already,” you groaned once your laughter subsided, your eyes resting on Natsuo, who was now laying on the floor exhausted. “You’re going to be late!”

Every Saturday after you and Natsuo were done studying, he would have a date night with Mausua. It was something he never missed, something he always made sure they did, even when his nose was dripping with snot, and he had the worst migraine. It’s just how he was.

Natsuo paused, his eyes looking at you with a shine of pain, and you sat up despite the soreness of your stomach. There was something wrong.

“She broke up with me,” Natuso admitted with a stiff smile, his shoulders shrugging. “Last night, she had this feeling that this was her year to find her soulmate, and well, I don’t know…”

His hand dragged across his face, and your eyebrows scrunched together. Scooting closer to him, you sat shoulder to shoulder with him before you nudged him with the back of your hand, “You feeling okay?”

“Yeah, actually I am,” Natsuo responded despite the wry smile on his face, “I mean, it sucks, but what can I do about it?”

“Cry, scream, we can go buy cats and put them by her front door,” you began listing off a bunch of different things, most ideas being straight near criminal, but it made Natsuo laugh.

“Remind me to never mess with you,” Natsuo shoves you with his shoulder. The force of that alone nearly sends you flying, but you merely grunt in response. “But, I’m fine.”

“You sure?” you ask, obviously unconvinced.

“Yeah,” he nods, “I will take a hug if you don’t believe me.”

Rolling your eyes, you stood up, stretching out a hand you helped Natsuo to his feet, and without a second thought, you wrapped him into a hug. Your body feels just a bit warm when he held you close. 

“I’ll show up at her door with a cat and a baby with a blowtorch, just say the word.”

“Stop, you menace.”

“Shut up, you know you love me.”

“Have I ever denied that before?”

“Yes.”

“True.”

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July 1 - one day left

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“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!” You screamed, shoving a birthday present into Natsuo’s face the moment he opened the door. 

Natsuo graciously accepted the present, his face brightening with a smile while he thanked you for the gift. “I thought I said I didn’t need anything.”

You shrugged, walking into the house and taking off your shoes, “That’s what you thought, but I am far wiser and know exactly what you need!”

Natsuo snorts, closing the door behind you, and the two of you make light chatter while walking into the house. It had been a while since you came to his house. The last time you had been around, he was still living under the same roof with his dad, but this one was without him. The house had a different energy to it, one that was nothing similar to that of the old house. It was comforting and warm, despite the coldness the family preferred.

Today was Natsuo’s birthday, and he had invited you over for his birthday dinner with his family, something that he didn’t do last year with you. Thankfully you had met most of his family, his sister Fuyumi was an obvious one, and you also had the chance of meeting Rei the other month while running into the mother and son at a tea shop one day. You also had sort of met his baby brother Shouto, who you only really knew because of the U.A. Sports Festival.

Dinner was lovely, the four Todoroki’s, and you enjoyed a bunch of sashimi while talking. The family dynamic was also bizarre for you to experience. Fuyumi was obviously used to being the conversationalist. She was very talkative and inquisitive during the entire night. Shouto was trying his hardest to -- in the most helpful way possible -- act normal. He was stiff but a good conversationalist if you overlooked the often weird phrases he had to say. Rei seemed to be the mediator, trying her best to enjoy the situation but also getting involved within these sibling discussions. And of course, there was Natsuo, who for the first time since you’ve met him was being quite the Drama Queen. 

It was endearing to watch Natsuo quarrel with his sister and brother over matters that seemed so trivial and pointless. They were all very strongwilled, it seemed.

“How about you, y/n-chan,” Rei smiled at you, interrupting the ridiculous argument between Shouto and Natsuo about how Natsuo wasn’t going to wake up in someone else’s body the next morning. “Are you expecting to wake up in your soulmate’s body?”

You smiled stiffly, the searing gaze of the two Todoroki brothers burning into your body while you stared at Rei, was this family always this intense?

“Well, I haven’t yet,” you laugh, brushing your hair to the side, “I would definitely like to, but there’s no saying.”

Shouto seemed to sigh, his finger pointing at you, then motioning over to Natsuo, “But is Natsuo going to wake up knowing his soulmate?”

“Shouto!”

Dinner ended with a scoop of ice cream, and you listened in horror and fascination. At the same time, Shouto explained to his family about the insane adventures he’d had at U.A. After helping with cleaning up and thanking the family for dinner, you ended up following Natsuo into his room.

It took no time for you to fall onto his futon, your arms spread out on his bed while Natsuo grabbed your present for him.

“I wonder what this is,” he sang, plopping down next to you.

You immediately sat back up, a grin on your face due to the excitement that flooded your veins, knowing that this was a pretty damn good present. 

“Obviously, it’s a photo album of me,” you teased, and he seemed to agree that it was that while he unwrapped it.

From the bag, he pulled out a hoodie that he had been raving about for months now. He had never bought it because he sucked at saving up money for this exclusive hoodie. It was a navy blue sweatshirt that had English print all over it, you couldn’t read what it said as you didn’t learn English while in high school, but it was supposed to be pretty cool.

“Y/n,” Natsuo breathed slowly, his eyes wide and round, his fingers barely touching the fabric. It was as if he felt the material too much it was stain with his fingertips or complete disintegrates within his touch. “How did you? It was sold out, I checked!”

“You told me about how much you wanted this months ago. It was too late for Christmas, so I bought it in advance for your birthday,” you explained with a grin. Warmth flooded your chest while you watched his starstruck expression, and you only felt your heart beat faster when he turned his attention onto you. So you smiled, even more, your eyes closing in your mirth, “Happy birthday, Natsuo!”

You expected him to hug you, to bring you in close and tell you how grateful he was for this gift -- if that much. But when his fingers touched your cheeks, your eyes flew open to see his gaze focused on your lips.

“Can I kiss you?”

There was nothing you could say, your words failing you entirely because this is what you had wanted for years. Tonight was going to be life-changing for you -- whether it was a pleasant change or an adverse change, you had no idea. You’d wanted this for too long to deny him a just a kiss, right?

Your heart is hammering so loudly you swear he can hear it, and with a shaky placement of your hands on his wrist, you seal the space left between the two of you.

While you had never officially dated anyone before, you’ve definitely kissed other people before Natsuo. Most of the other kisses you had were -- quite frankly -- unideal. Stiff and cold lips, rigid bodies, too much saliva pouring from their mouths, disgust soaking your spine, and awkward hand roaming. But this? This was more than anything you could have ever hoped for.

His lips were gentle against yours. A soft rose petal that warmed you from the inside out, a flexible coax that reminded you that despite your ideals, this is what you wanted most. Your head tilted to the side, allowing your meeting lips to connect further, your bodies coming together in yet a bigger and more powerful wave. 

But as the sensations that riled your blood and nerves, the actions the two of you grew bolder, riskier, much more passionate.

His fingers released your chin, moving to grip onto your waist, pulling you in. You gasped against his lips, the demanding actions catching you off guard. Your hands pressed onto his chest, your legs shifting so that you were now straddling the larger boy, and you swore you could see stars the second his tongue skimmed your bottom lip.

Closer.

Better.

Wistful.

Your back arched, your chest meeting his when his tongue traced the roof of your mouth, and your hips involuntarily ground against his nearly trembling thighs. He hissed, barely loud enough for you to hear, but his cold fingers slid under your shirt, and you shuddered.

There was no time to react, you felt your body being flipped, and Natsuo was on top of you, his hips grinding into you emphatically, continuously, and unrelentingly. Your hips met his with every movement, your legs wrapped tightly against his waist, trying your best to get him to lose his train of thought with every roll of your hips. The growing bulge in his pants was only a clear indictment to what you were doing to him. Of what was to come of this night. Your head fell back, your jaw-dropping, while you made choking noises, refusing to let such a loud audible noise escape your mouth. But it seemed that Natsuo wanted to hear you moan, to feel you squirm against his hold.

This was making your body explode with sensations you didn’t think was possible from someone who wasn’t your soulmate. 

Natsuo’s lips pressed down your neck to your chest, your mind swam with the word soulmate, and your tongue was drenched with his name.

Soulmate.

Tonight was the night you were going to find out.

“I’ve been in love with you for so long,” Natsuo groaned, his tongue leaving wet stripes against your chest, and with the feeling of his fingers tweaking at your nipples through your shirt, you panicked.

“Get off me!” you squeaked, your hands shoving at his shoulders, your legs unwrapping around him.

“What’s wrong?!” Natsuo panics, his hands checking up and down his wrinkled clothes, his body on edge and filled with worry. “Did I do something wrong?!”

“I can’t do this!” you pant, your body feeling itchy at your conflicting emotions. You could do this, you knew that. It would take nothing for you to spend the night with one Todoroki Natsuo, but not on this night, not when you were so sure that you would figure out who your soulmate is. Not if they would wake up in your body with a naked man beside them. No, you couldn’t do that. “Tonight is the special night… and I can’t… we can’t! Not when there’s a possibility that someone is waiting for me!”

Natsuo’s eyebrows furrow, his face setting into an icy frown. There was a clear understanding on his face, emotions that let you know that while he was very disappointed, he understood.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your gaze no longer able to reach his.

“It’s okay,” he smiles weakly, but his voice is distant and terse. “I’ll see you out…”

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Your eyes focused on the ceiling of your bedroom.

Even though it was three hours since you’ve left the Todoroki residence, your heart was still unfairly beating at the thought of Natsuo kissing you, and the implications of what the both of you wanted to do but hadn’t mustered the courage to do. 

You thought about the fact that he had just broken up with his girlfriend seven days ago, maybe he was projecting his no longer met hormones on you? There was no way your best friend was in love with you and chose not to say anything about it until now. But then again, because he was in a relationship, that confession would have been a dick move. But if he did love you, and not her, why would he have stayed with her?

You’re not really sure when you managed to pass out, considering that you had been tossing and turning for literal hours. But soon, you drifted off to sleep, with nothing but a prayer that when you woke up that you would be in someone else’s body. 

Your eyes opened when a crack of sunlight hit your face, and you slammed a hand against your face. But your hand came down heavier against your face, and you groaned in pain. But it wasn’t your voice…

Shooting up from your bed, your eyes searched the room around you. It wasn’t yours, you knew that much. But there was something familiar about the color of the walls and the furniture of the room. Rushing to your feet, you saw a mirror and looked into it. 

You were met with grey eyes, gentle, kind, and familiar grey eyes. Your fingers traced the pale skin and felt the white hair on your head.

What were the chances?

Todoroki Natsuo was your soulmate.

A smile spread across your face, an unbelievably gracious joy filling you up. But then Natsuo’s phone began to ring, and you picked it up to see your contact picture showing. It was a rather good picture of you and him, a memory from club rush during your first semester of college. On the top were your first name and a pure heart emoji.

Grinning much broader, you picked up the call, placing the phone to your ear, you spoke.

“Hello?”

“What were the chances?” you heard your voice respond back to you, and it took everything not to giggle lunatically within Natsuo’s body.

“I’d say less than zero.”

“Yet here we are,” he teased you, and you went to push back nonexistent hair behind your ear. Dropping your hand to the dresser, you shake your head.

“Are you disappointed?” you couldn’t help but ask, your worries about you being a distraction for him still hot on your mind.

“Definitely not,” he spoke softly, “I know what you’re thinking, y/n. That you were nothing but a distraction from Mausua, or how when I blurted my feelings, they were too in the moment. I should have broken up with her ages ago, but I don’t know. You just didn’t seem attainable to me.”

“You’re an idiot for thinking that, Todoroki,” you sniff, tears welling in your eyes.

“Hey, now,” he reprimanded you, but the teasing was still heavy in his tone, “it’s Todoroki-san to you.”

A smile grew on your face, and you scoffed playfully, “Todoroki-san? I’d much rather call you daddy.”

Now you knew what noises you made, you were nineteen, nearly twenty with a few sexual experiences yourself. Now the sound that escaped Natsuo’s voice was one of approval, and heat spread through your body.

“We have less than a minute,” Natsuo spoke as lowly as your voice could go, and it sent goosebumps down your spine, “I’ll meet you at your place. Are your roommates here?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Your eyes closed, and you listened to Natsuo’s directions. His voice flowing from your voice and slowly ended with his own. Your eyes fluttered open to see yourself standing in your bathroom with your cellphone to your ear. Heat flooded your body, and you realized just how cold his body was. 

“I’ll see you in twenty minutes,” he spoke sharply, and a smirk curled onto your face.

“Okay, daddy,” you accentuated.

You couldn’t see him, but you could feel his nostrils flare from the opposite end of the call, a dark look on his face. The line went dead, and an internal panic flared through your veins.

Twenty minutes to prepare, could you even manage that?!

You took the fastest five-minute shower in your life, nearly slipping against the slick bathtub while shaving your legs. Hopping out of the shower, you were quick to brush your teeth, putting product in your hair, and once you were done, you scrambled back to your room. Your hands throwing on the first set of lingerie you found, it was a navy blue teddy that had a deep plunge between your breasts. You hastily slid your sheer navy blue thigh highs up your legs, and just managed to slip your large t-shirt back over your head when there was a knock on your front door.

Looking into your mirror, you felt your chest tighten, your stomach filling with butterflies that left you feeling dizzy. It felt like an eternity when you walked to the front door, rising to the tip of your toes to see Natsuo standing outside of your door. His signature white with grey jacket over a dark grey tank that seemed just the perfect fit, you noticed black joggers on him too, and your teeth buried against your bottom lip, your heart beating erratically.

“Who is it?” you asked teasingly, watching the way Natsuo’s eyes snapped up, and you grinned at the way a coy smile stretched across his face.

“Open up and find out?”

“Mm,” you sigh, pressing a finger to your chin, “I don’t particularly want to find out.”

But nevertheless, your fingers found themselves on your doorknob, opening the wood door to see Natsuo standing there. His eyes were drinking in your face, and there was such a loving smile that emerged on his face.

“Hi, soulmate,” he whispered.

It was no different from the typical way he greeted you, but the simple addition of soulmate sent fire to your cheeks and stomach. 

“Hi,” you whisper, stepping aside, letting him in. 

He walked in, and you shut the door behind him, waiting for him to take off his shoes and remove his jacket, you stayed put. Your hands were behind your back, just waiting for him to look at you again. Your thoughts trailed to what was going to happen, would you two have sex? Would he grip your waist so tightly you would be left with purple bruises? Would he enjoy having you as a partner for the rest of his life? You licked your lips as your thoughts wandered.

When he was finally ready, Natsuo took a step towards you, knocking you from your internal turmoil and having you stare straight into his grey eyes. 

“Can I kiss you?” he asked you again, and like before, you didn’t answer him.

Reaching up, you brought him down for a kiss, but unlike before, the intentions were already known. The barriers and the restrictions between the two of you were gone, and you melted.

His hands gripped the back of your thighs while he took a confident stride forward, and you followed after him. Your lips were glued to his. Every divet, every line in his lips was smoothed out and memorized against yours. It made your head spin, this was your soulmate, he was yours. 

Natsuo’s mouth dragged away from yours, moving downwards on your neck. His teeth bit and pulled at your sensitive skin until you were moaning his name. His hands were running up and down your curves, measuring them against him. A small gasp escaped your lips when your thigh rubbed against his clothed erection, and you shivered when his fingers traced the part of your skin where the thigh highs ended. Growling against your skin, Natsuo’s fingers pulled at the elastic and let it go. The fabric came back against your skin, and you whimpered loudly.

“Natsuo, don’t tease,” you muttered, your fingers pressing against the incredibly defined muscles that were hidden underneath his jacket. You wanted it off. But Natsuo didn’t seem to notice your needs, choosing to continue to press searing kisses against your neck.

“Address me by daddy,” he growled, his lips parting with your skin so that you could stare into his eyes. His gaze was ferocious, drowning, and near angry, but for some reason, it sent heat right to your core before he slammed his lips back against yours into a bruising kiss.

You could barely keep up with his moving lips, your eyes rolling to the back of your head when his hot tongue dragged against your lips.

Your hips weakly ground against his, and Natsuo met your needy hips until you were crying against his mouth, and his tongue invaded your mouth. Your fingers flew to his white hair, fisting the soft tendrils until he snarled. One moment you were on your feet and the next Natsuo’s hands cupped your ass and lifted you up.

Your legs wrapped around his waist, and you felt him walking towards your room. 

Your tongue danced against his, your mind doing everything it could to not fall under his spell. To keep fighting, to make sure that this wasn’t going to be easy, no matter what he wanted to be called. Curling your tongue in his mouth, you could feel the shiver go down Natsuo’s spine, and you pulled your tongue back in your mouth.

“Where are you taking me, daddy?” you whisper against his lips, your hips now grinding down against the head of his hard boner. Delighting in the fact that his grip on your ass becomes bruising, your rolling hips don’t slow down.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, baby girl.”

A chill slammed down your spine at that nickname, and you bite down on his lower lip. His gaze met yours, his eyes flaring with an internal fire that only aided to the light between your thighs. Fuck, did you want this man.

The door opened and closed when Natsuo entered your room, and your tongue lapped at his lips. 

His right hand left your ass, and you felt him fumble with the waistband of his joggers. You looked down to see his joggers and briefs fall, but had no time to admire the long and thick cock that sprung free from that restraint.

In what seemed like a perfect and fluid motion, Natsuo sat on your bed. He then shoved the panty of your teddy to the side.

“I don’t particularly like being teased, and last night was a lot,” he admitted, his fingers pressing between your already wet folds, and you cursed. Your hips ground against Natsuo’s fingers, and he grinned, seeing your reaction. “I think you deserved to be punished, don’t you think, baby girl?”

“No,” you breathlessly state, the feeling of his thick and cold fingers against your heated core formed goosebumps all over your body. “I think I’ve been perfectly well behaved, daddy.”

“I see we have a liar,” he chuckled, and before you could think of something to return with, his hands gripped your waist and sank you against his cock.

“FUCK!” you screamed at the feeling of his thick cock stretching you out in such a way that had your forehead slamming against his shoulder. 

Your hips moved, trying to find a way to adjust to Natsuo’s girth that nearly sent tears to your eyes. You could feel the way his cock twitched within you, your tightness, and slick heat getting to him too while he whispered senseless praises into your ear. Your hips moved forward, both trying to relieve the pressure that demanded to be attended to and to bring the mindnumbing pleasure that your body begged for.

But Natsuo’s hands gripped onto your hips, keeping you against his girth. Your jaw dropped to complain, but his left hand lifted to press his fingers in your mouth, effectively silencing you. You gagged softly against his fingers, and you made a whining noise while his right arm wrapped around your waist.

His right fingers dug into your skin, most likely leaving behind purple bruises while his mouth trailed to your ears.

“You’ve been naughty, baby girl,” he sighed, his fingers pressed against your tongue, spreading out slowly when they traveled further back in your throat. Your breathing piqued, trying to remain calm while your throat attempted to constrict around his fingers. “Now, you’ll sit on my cock until I think you’re ready to be fucked.”

Your eyes fluttered when his fingers began to slide up and down your throat, your hips twitching in an attempt to get the friction you craved, and your inner walls ached around his softly throbbing cock. His finger curled in your throat, and your tongue lashed around his fingers, a desperate attempt to remain calm in this situation.

Forcibly, you clenched your inner walls around his cock, and he hissed out your name.

It felt like an eternity with his cock buried balls deep within you, your mouth trying to please Natsuo’s fingers while you resisted the urge to move. 

“Daddy’s gonna fuck you now,” Natsuo muttered and you felt an incredible wave of joy shoot through you, you wanted him to fuck you until your eyes were rolling to the back of your head, drool pouring from your mouth, and his name the only word you could utter.

Suddenly you were on your back, and Natsuo’s cock was no longer in you, nor were his fingers. You shuffled onto your elbows, but Natsuo’s hands grabbed the hem of your shirt and tore it over your head. Your chest rose and fell with your approaching excitement, and Natsuo’s eyes took in the lace teddy that you wore. It blended in with your skin with such refinement that you took in pride at the way his fingers trailed against the fabric.

“Like what you see, daddy?” you ask in almost a whisper, and Natsuo’s snap up to look into your hooded ones.

“You’re so beautiful, baby girl. So perfect,” he agrees, his fingers dragging upwards, moving against your sensitive breasts, making your body arch up into his touch. The stimulation of his cold fingers against your nipples in such thin clothing, along with those sweet affirming words, sent sparks of electricity throughout your body. 

His fingers hooked under the straps of the teddy, and soon it was pulled off your body, joining the t-shirt somewhere in the room. It’s removal left you with nothing but the thigh highs, and by the looks of it, he liked that.

You couldn’t find words to tease him with because his finger trailed against your inner thigh, and you trembled at his touch. 

Natsuo smirked down at you, placing a soft kiss against your cheek before continuing to kiss along your jawline, to your neck, and then down your sternum. “Tell me, baby girl, what do you want?” Between every word, he trailed further down until his mouth was nibbling at the skin between your thighs, ignoring where you wanted and needed him most.

“I want you to fuck me,” you panted when Natsuo pinched one of your nipples, rolling the hardened skin as his teeth bit against your thighs, making your chest arch up into his touch, and made your legs tremble. Your pussy clenched desperately at his ministrations, your aching clit begging to be touched. 

“Do you deserve to cum?” Natsuo pulled away from your thigh with a pop. His fingers trailed back down your stomach, grazing your labia, chuckling at the way your hips twitched against him. 

Natsuo slipped two fingers into your cunt, keeping them still inside you as he maintained eye contact. He watched as you writhed beneath him, your hips snapping to relax against the fullness his fingers gave you. Slowly your movements began to feel good; your actions, to feel good, soon became a desperate attempt fuck yourself against his fingers. Slowly Natsuo began to thrust them in and out of your aching core ignoring your throbbing clit that you couldn’t muster the energy to touch. 

“Please, daddy,” your hands found themselves holding onto his forearm, fiercely trying to get him to do more with his fingers. “Fuck me good.”

Growling lowly, Natsuo arched his two fingers towards puffy inner walls, pressing down against it, and he watched your face contort in pleasure as a low whine left your lips. Natsuo grinned when he saw the way your eyes clenched closed, musical moans pouring from your lips when his fingertips brushed against your g-spot. Your jaw dropped, your hips taking over his finger fucking so that you were fucking yourself on his fingers. The clenching of your walls grew more and more, your toes curling with the impending orgasm approaching you, the build-up overwhelming. 

“So needy, baby girl,” Natsuo suddenly removed his fingers from your heat, your whines and desperate cries ignored while you bucked your hips up towards him, desperate for a release. You watched as Natsuo examined your slick essence on his fingers before looking at you. “Suck it off the baby girl,” he said, putting his fingers between your mouth, and without a second thought, your mind is broken from the denied orgasm you opened your mouth and sucked your sweet essence from them as you writhed beneath him. The taste of yourself on your tongue drove you almost insane; you liked the taste intermingled with the taste of him. What would you have to do to get a taste of his cum with yours? “You’re not allowed to cum until I say you can, baby girl.” 

Your mouth loosed against his fingers, and you whined at his instruction. Natsuo only shoved his fingers further down your throat and roughly fisted his cock, using his hand to glide it along your slit, gathering your juices along the tip with a low groan. He pressed the head inside your tight cunt, watching as your body reacted to the sensation. Your hips pushing forward, trying to get him to go deeper. Natsuo chuckled while he rubbed his cock along your slit again, teasing you, not giving you what you craved most. 

“Tell me what you want me to do, baby girl,” Natuso mockingly asked, knowing exactly what you wanted. His fingers removed from your mouth, and you gasped with the needed breath, and when you were ready, you spoke. 

“Fuck me, daddy, I need you to—” Natsuo’s fingers pressed against your clit, making you shrill in pleasure. 

“Such naughty words,” Natsuo ran his fingertip over your clit, smirking when your tongue came out in a pathetic pant, trying to control your desperate and needy breathing. The action made Natsuo groan, immediately imagining how that would feel on other parts of his body. His restraint wavering when he pulled back, steadying himself between your legs before he slammed into your aching pussy without warning. The sensation of feeling completely full after being denied sent you soaring towards your release. 

“Such a good girl,” Natsuo pressed a sloppy kiss to your lips, thrusting into your pussy as he watched your mouth fall open in pleasure. A constant slew of gibberish leaving your lips as you became lightheaded from the desire, and your arms wrapped around his shoulders to bring him closer. Natsuo’s cock fit inside you perfectly, the prominent veins on his length brushing against your inner walls were now moving, no longer stagnant, and only added to your pleasure. The tight feeling in the core of your stomach began to overwhelm you, the tip of his cock consistently pounding against your sweet spot, your climax threatening to wash over you. “Do you know how fucking gorgeous you are? These thigh highs are fucking driving me crazy… so pretty, so beautiful against your skin. It’s like you dressed this way on purpose, trying to get me to fuck you like you deserve to be fucked.

You whimpered while you shifted your arms around Natsuo’s neck, pulling his body flush against your own as he continued to rut into your tight heat. The angle at which his snapping hips were drilling into you had his pelvis rub against your clit, your legs tightening around his hips as his cock rubbed against your inner walls. You cried out his name, your clit throbbing at the sensation, your body stiffening as he moved faster.

“Who do you think you’re addressing?” Before you could attempt to respond, Natsuo’s right-hand leaves your hip and slams to your throat, choking the response from you. “I want to hear you correct your answer.”

His hand remains heavy and tight around your throat, his hold barely allowing oxygen to travel through to your lungs. Your vision fuzzed, and you could feel your heartbeat in your head, but your core shook with Natsuo’s now reciprocating and rhythmic slams.

“Y-You are, daddy,” you moan loudly, your thighs trembling with the feeling of his fingers around your throat.

Choking and clit stimulation with his cock pounding into your cervix, Natsuo chuckled into your skin. His thrusting hips were becoming more precise, angling into you in a way that made you audibly choke when you needed to gasp. Maybe it was the lack of oxygen to your body that was making you delirious, or perhaps it was the fact that he was slamming into you with the strength of rearranging your guts, but your hips began to swivel at an inhumane pace. Your cunt held a vice grip around his cock, yet it did nothing to slow Natsuo down, but the growing heated pit in your lower belly was making your legs tremble against his. Still, you tried to keep up with his rough and cruel pace, and Natsuo enjoyed knowing that detail.

“You’re fucking beautiful, baby girl. Your pretty little pussy is so fucking tight, I bet you’ve been saving yourself for me? Such a good girl, taking my cock like this, you’re fucking amazing.” He praises, his teeth biting down against your bottom lip. Your breathless moans slipping past your lips. “You enjoy being choked, baby girl?”

Your head nods, “Y-Yes, daddy!”

“Do you need to cum? Maybe I’ll allow it, your pussy has been so good.”

His hand against your throat tightened, and black dots littered your vision. His teeth sunk far into your skin, enough for you to feel your skin breaking as his tongue moving in cold strokes to calm your now throbbing skin. Then there were his nimble left fingers running against your clit and pressed delicate circles in time with his hammering and throbbing cock. But your swiveling hips held no value anymore, Natsuo’s hips snapped upwards fast enough and powerful enough to overcome and overwhelm you. The only thing you could tell was that along with the tip of his cock hitting your bruising walls, the sounds of your sopping wet pussy crashing against his forceful hips frantically rang in your ears.

Your bodies moved together entirely, his thrusts pushing you back further into the bed as he followed your movements. The bed frame hitting the wall with every harsh thrust, and your mattress springs creaking heavy in your ears. The noise of the headboard slamming against the wall was almost as loud as your moans of pleasure as your fingernails ripped into Natsuo’s shoulders, calling out his name in a mantra. 

“I need to cum, daddy. P-please, let me cum—” Natsuo could feel your body shaking underneath him as your orgasm was so close after being built up and denied. 

“Cum for me, y/n.” Natsuo groaned as your inner walls clenched around his length at his vulgar words, “cum all over my cock.”

Your eyes clamped closed, almost in synch. Your head nods, the heated pressure in your belly scorching. Your walls clamp down against his hammering cock, but it doesn’t slow him down, only encouraging him to increase his speed and strength until the bed shuddered against your weight. The sopping noises of your meeting sex filled your ears, and you moaned loudly, your teeth biting down onto your lip.

It takes his cock brushing against your g-spot for your legs to slam outwards, your arms nearly succeeding in choking Natsuo as you try sitting up as your orgasm slams through you.

“Fuck, fuck, FUCK!” You scream hoarsely. Your scream only increases in great thrill when you feel Natsuo’s cock twitching unrestrainedly within you. But Natsuo ignores his own near, his hips continuing to drill into you, his hand clamping tighter against your neck, cutting off your voice. 

Natsuo isn’t done yet, not yet.

His hands move to grip the exposed back of your thighs, his grip bruising your supple skin. He slams into you faster, his cock continuing unaffected by your convulsing walls. There are no other noises except your wet cunt meeting his cock, your muffled shrieks of approval, and Natsuo’s heavy breathing as he continues to drive into you. Your convulsing walls body only making Natsuo stammer and curse loudly.

His lips find yours, and there is nothing to say, the kiss is messy, saliva coating your lips like lipstick. Spit filled kisses were exchanged between the two of you without care, while he chases his orgasm. His intense pace continues, your name growled from your throat, until one last thrust and one final clamp from your cunt sends him over.

Natsuo soon collapsed on top of you, his typically colder body burning with an almost feverish heat while his fingers traced against the frill of your thigh highs.

“That was something,” you mumble into his ear, and Natsuo snorts softly, his head nodding in agreement.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he whispered, pushing off your body; his eyes examined your raw body.

“Nah,” you disagreed with a smile, your fingers brushing through the bangs of his hair. “If you did, I liked it.”

“Masochist,” he teased, his lips pressing against yours in a soft and tender kiss. 

“I just might be, and if I am?”

“Then I think we’ll get along just fine, baby girl.”

“Okay, daddy.”

Soulmates weren’t perfect; you knew that more than anyone! But, while you lay there with his head against your chest. Hours after the two of you had cleaned up and gone for a few more rounds, you realized that this was what you wanted. You and your soulmate. That’s all that mattered when you were together, and things worked out.

#todoroki natsuo #todoroki natsuo x reader #natsuo x reader #natsuo smut #todoroki x reader #todoroki smut #bnha #bnha x reader #mha #mha x reader

[speechlessxx]

For Better, For Worse II (Ransom Drysdale x Reader)

Summary: In which the reader honors her vows.

Warnings: Language, Soft Ransom (is that a warning?), SPOILERS (if you haven’t watched Knives Out & you should get on that lol), bad writing, angst, flashbacks, slight violence, hints of mental illness, it’s also not proofread

Word Count: 1762

Feedback is appreciated!

READ PART ONE HERE

When you first met Ransom, he was nothing short of a complete asshole. He flirted aimlessly and got what he wanted – a true spoiled brat. You were the first girl he ever encountered that simply shrugged him off and told him to ‘get lost’. From that moment, he was infatuated with you.

You remembered how he’d walk you to class despite his being on the opposite side of the campus. He asked you out on multiple dates and you shot him down every single time. You remembered how your friends discouraged you from falling for him. Like them, you were under the notion that Hugh Ransom Drysdale was nothing but a trust-fund prick. But sometimes – and it was rare, you promised yourself – you found yourself enjoying his company.

It would be as you were walking from the library back to your dorms. You would drop your books. And like a scene straight out a movie, Ransom would materialize out of nowhere and help you pick up your belongings.

It would be at a party and your friends had gone off with their significant others, effectively leaving you stranded and alone. Ransom would wave away at his friends as he took the empty spot next to you on the wall.

“I hate Professor Fitzgerald.” He muttered to you.

“You don’t have that class?” You tilted your head.

“No, but you do. English 1302.  And I know you hate him.” Ransom smirked as he took a sip from his red cup.

“And how would you know that?” You asked.

“Because every time you’d walk out of his lecture, you have the cutest little crease between your brows.” You frowned at his words.

“I do not,” you scoffed.

Ransom only chuckled, pointing at your face. “See! Right there!”

You laughed, pushing him away. “You have it, too.” Ransom frowned, mockingly. “Aha! Right there!”

“What a pair we are, huh?”

“Fuck off, Drysdale.”

“Keep saying it enough, it’ll be yours.” He laughed.

“What?”

“My last name. Keep saying it enough, it’ll be yours.” He said, matter-of-factly.

“Whatever, Hugh.”

You remembered months after his constant ‘courting’ of you, he showed up to your dorm. It was in the middle of a Friday night – your roommate had gone to a party – and it was pouring. He was soaked from the rain and he gave you a sluggish smile and held out a bouquet of lilies, your favorite flower. You were about to slam the door in his face when he stopped it.

-=+=-

“Why don’t you want me?” He asked you and for a second, he sounded hurt. You scoffed in response as you tried to pry his hands off from wood of the door. “Seriously,” Ransom continued, “I’m trying.”

“You’re trying?” You laughed, coldly. “You’re borderline stalking me, Hugh.” He cringed as his first name left your mouth. “You’re just playing a stupid game. How much did you bet?”

Ransom frowned. “Bet?”

“Yeah. How much are your buddies giving you once you announce to the world you got me in bed? How ‘bout you just tell your friends you bagged me and leave me the fuck alone!”

“It’s not a bet, (Y/N).” Ransom shook his head, a small smile creeping onto his. “I’m not playing a game. If anything, you are.”

“How am I playing a game?” You snapped.

“Because clearly, I like you and you just keep playing hard to get. But fine by me.” He coughed a bit. You stopped trying to slam the door in his face – and possibly his hand – when you realized how pale he looked. “I’ll keep playing your game. I’ll keep putting in more and more effort ‘cause damn, you’ve got me under your spell.”

“Ransom…” you muttered as he broke into a fit of coughs. “Oh god, come in.” You opened the door wide enough so that the poor boy could come in. “Take off your clothes.”

“Woah, woah… I don’t know what you think of me, missy,” he laughed, “but I’m trying to take you out on a date first.”

“That’s a first, huh?” You teased.

“Believe it or not, yeah.”

“I’m trying to dry them, dipshit.” You laughed as he shrugged off his coat.

-=+=-

He had the world fooled that he was a complete dick, but the more you got to know him, the more you realized, it stemmed from his insecurities. His attitude was a defense mechanism because of how awful his family could be.

But with you, he was different. He was kinder and softer. And the more he let you in, the more you fell in love with him.

The Ransom you fell in love with wasn’t a monster like how the news articles said he was.

The Ransom you married wasn’t a murderer.

And yet, he confessed to you that he was.

He told you that if it weren’t for dirty cops and what was left of his mother’s wealth, he’d be locked away for his crimes.

He told you the story. And, no, he didn’t tell you any lies. Ransom was many things, but he could never lie to you. Not you. He told you the complete, unfiltered truth with all the grimy details that he didn’t even tell the cops or his lawyers.

So, where did that leave you?

-=+=-

When you first told your family that you were separating from Ransom, they were happy for you. They told you he was no good. They said that you were blessed enough that you didn’t bear his children – that nothing but your last name tied you to him.

But that wasn’t true.

Your heart still belonged to him. Every beat called his name.

So, maybe that’s why you didn’t run. That’s why you took him into your arms after he told you the story of how he killed Fran and tried to frame Marta for his grandfather’s death. Maybe that’s why you kissed the crease between his brows and told him that you love him despite it all.

-=+=-

“Your father called,” Ransom sighed as you walked in the house, arms filled with groceries. He walked over, grabbing the bags from your hands and setting them on the table.

“What he say?” You didn’t need to ask. You knew. You knew your family’s opinions about the man you married and the family you were marrying into. You knew they’d support your separation more than they’d support your reunion.

“Called me a monster,” Ransom huffed. “Oh, but what’s new, huh?”

“You aren’t a monster, Rans,” you muttered, kissing his cheek as you began to unload the groceries.

“You don’t want a divorce?” The words stunned you. Divorce. It was so ugly. The mere thought made you cringe. “That’s what your father told me to tell you. File for divorce as fast as you can before you’re next.”

The house quickly became silent as a tension filled the home. The thought hadn’t crossed your mind until a few weeks ago when you were on the phone with your parents. They talked your ear off, telling you that staying with Ransom was the worst decision you ever made. ‘You’re taking a risk just by being in the same house!’ your mother cried. ‘You’re going to be his next kill, (Y/N)!’.

You never thought you were in any danger around Ransom. Despite what the world may think of him, he wasn’t a coldblooded monster. Not when it came to you.

But the possibility was still there. Your parents reminded you of that every time you spoke.

“No, Ransom.” You said. “I don’t want a divorce.”

Ransom’s face was expressionless as he stared at you. You sighed as you continued to put away the groceries. Your father had no right to tell your husband that. Your marriage – and your decision to stay in it – was completely your choice.

“You don’t think I’ll hurt you?” Ransom blurted. You stopped what you were doing. His tone was different. It was colder. “You don’t think you’re next?” You stayed silent because you knew he was about to explode. “Because… that’s what the news thinks. That’s what the police think, too, I’m sure. That’s obviously what your family thinks – I’m sure mine think the same. Everyone thinks that I’m some coldhearted murderer and that my naïve, sweet wife will meet the same fate as the housekeeper.” His voice got louder and louder as he got closer to you. He slammed the cupboard shut, making you flinch at the sound. “So, tell me! Is that what you think? Do you think you’re next, huh!” You stayed silent. “Answer me!”

“Ransom,” you whimpered. His eyes quickly became soft as he took a step back. In his rage, he had frightened you. He scared you. He scared his one ally.

“I’m sorry.” He muttered.

“It’s okay.” You nodded. “It’s alright.” You weren’t scared at all. You understood his frustration. Everyone was assuming one thing – Ransom was a monster – and that simply wasn’t true.

“No, it’s not.” He backed away. He wasn’t trying to manipulate you into feeling sorry for him by any means. He was afraid of himself. He was afraid that on one bad day, he’d snap. He had taken one life away, what’s to stop him from killing the love of his life? Ransom wouldn’t be able to forgive himself. “I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have – “

“Ransom, it’s fine,” you shushed as you rushed over to him. You carefully wrapped your arms around your husband, stroking his back. “You won’t hurt me. It’s okay.”

“But what if one day I do?” He asked. Ransom sighed as he looked down at you. “Sometimes, I can’t help but feel angry. Like there’s something in me that’ll just snap, and I’ll lash out. And it’ll tear me apart if I lash out at you.”

“Have you said that to your therapist?” You asked him. The court had assigned a therapist that came by your home once a week. Ransom didn’t like him – or so he said he didn’t. Ransom huffed in response. “That’s something you should bring up in your next session, Rans.”

“I’m just afraid I’ll hurt you.”

“You won’t. I trust that you won’t because you aren’t a monster, Ransom. Despite what everyone might think, that’s not who you are.” He dug his face in the crook of your neck, finding comfort in your arms. “And one day, everyone will see you how I see you.”

“I love you, (Y/N).” He muttered though it was muffled. He placed a delicate kiss at the base of your neck.

“I love you too, Ransom.”

#ransom drysdale #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale imagine #chris evans #chris evans x reader #chris evans imagine #knives out imagine #knives out #ransom is my kryptonite #i love him alot #fluff #angst #lots of angst #imagine

[bunnys-beetlejuice-blog]

bangs pots and pans together loudly FIC UPDATE COME GET YALL SOME JUICE

Apparently the vital, missing component to enjoying school was having a friend there. Go figure.

He and Kevin only have that first period class together, but they make the most of it, passing notes back and forth between the two of them, the teacher too tired that early in the morning to notice, or care. Lunch isn’t depressing anymore. They sit together under the shade tree, and Kevin does seem to also appreciate the view. “Can you even imagine working up a sweat, on purpose?” Betelgeuse pats his gut. “You know I can’t.”

“I can’t believe how little the track shorts are. That’s obscene. You think I’d look good in them?” “You join track and I’ll come to every meet, an’ it won’t be for th’ love of th’ sport.” He doesn’t think normal friends talk to each other like this, but he doesn’t actually know. Does everyone flirt with their friends? Are friends just cool people you wanna fuck but haven’t yet? Is it demon hormone bullshit, making him read into everything? Unclear.

It’s all going so good, until it isn’t, suddenly.

One lunch, two months into being there, Kevin pulls a huge and impressive old book from his backpack. “Look what I goooot,” he sing songs, waving it in Betelgeuse’s face, and he sneezes in response. “Smells old.” Emily and Lydia would love it. “It is. It’s very old,” Kevin confirms, and he moves so he’s sitting next to Betelgeuse, shoulder to shoulder, both their backs to the shade tree. “It’s about demons.”

Betelgeuse loses interest immediately, and focuses on not going pink at their shoulders touching, instead. “Z’at so?” he grunts. Kevin doesn’t seem to pick up on his moodiness, though. “It talks about all these ancient beings,” he explains, flipping pages. “Their summoning circles, their aspects,” he gives Betelgeuse a nudge at that, “all the things they can do for you, and the boons they grant.” He feels uncomfortable. “What’s with this? You obsessed with me, or somethin’?” He tries to play it as a joke, but that glint in Kevin’s eyes is back, and he doesn’t like it. “Of course, who wouldn’t be obsessed if they learned all this shit is actually true? It’s like there’s a whole secret world behind a locked door, and I’ve got the key.” Kevin looks back up at him.

He gets the feeling he’s the key. It’s not a good feeling.

“Where’d you even get this fuckin’ thing?” he lifts a finger, and the book slams closed in Kevin’s lap. His friend huffs. “Internet, of course.” “No, I mean… why were you lookin’ for somethin’ like this?” “I want to learn more. Don’t you?” Kev presses, and reopens the book. “I mean, what if there’s something amazing you can do, and you just don’t know, cause you’re not bothering to try?”

“So I’ll never know, so what?” Betelgeuse feels like this is a losing argument, but he tries anyways. “What’s so great about bein’ weird? You’re lucky you’re human.” “Dude, don’t even start with that. You can fly.” “So can humans,” he points out. “Wh- A plane and fucking levitating for fun are not the same, and you know it, BeetleJerk.” Kevin honestly can’t understand why he’s not excited over this. “I just mean… I’d rather be human, than this.” He blinks at his own words, because he’s never expressed that out loud before, ever. But it doesn’t feel untrue. “You’re out of your mind, more so than usual. Every human alive wants to feel special, and do the stuff you can do. Why are you acting like it’s so miserable all of a sudden? You use your powers all the time, I’ve seen you literally teleport five feet because you’re too lazy to walk.”

“You don’t get it.” He’s feeling sullen now, and he wiggles a little away from Kevin, and crosses his arms. “BJ, come on-” Betelgeuse teleports away to under the bleachers, and he eats his lunch there, until the bell rings.

He’s waiting for Emily after school, not feeling particularly friendly, when Kevin approaches. They stand there awkwardly. It feels tense, and weird, and he waits to see what the breather does. “Don’t be mad,” Kevin says, finally. “M’not mad.” “You sound mad.” “You know what mad on me looks like,” he finally turns to look at his friend, amber eyes burning with irritation. “First hand.”

Kevin looks down, and kicks at a rock that might not actually be there. “I thought you’d be excited. BJ, come on, I don’t wanna.. Not be friends over this.”

Betelgeuse signs, and scratches at the scruff on his chin. “It’s not like that,” he relents after a moment. “I just, I don’t care about that stuff. An’ I don’t wanna sit around, focusin’ on it. I don’t exactly like feelin’ different. Yeah, I do tricks an’ use my magic an’ stuff, but it’s hard to control. I lose my temper once an’ I could seriously destroy somethin’, or hurt my family. It doesn’t exactly feel good, knowin’ that. No one else my age can stand me, cause they can tell I’m weird. Before you, it was fuckin’ lonely, Kev.”

He feels a familiar pressure, because Kevin has taken his hand, and the human gives it a squeeze. He accepts it, melting a little against the other boy. “Still friends?” Kevin asks, and Betelgeuse purrs in response, resting his head on Kevin’s shoulder.

It’s not till later, at home, that he realizes Kevin never actually apologized.

```````````````````````````````````````````````````````

It’s like that, for a while. He knows Kevin still has the book. He knows he’s reading it, and sometimes Kevin will bring up demon stuff, but Betelgeuse has almost exactly a minute and a half of patience for answering questions or hearing about it. Still, Kev doesn’t stop. He might feel angrier if the breather wasn’t so god damn cute.

The air is starting to go cold, and leaves are beginning to fall. October is settling in, getting comfortable, and mom’s starting to break out the Halloween décor. It’s the middle of a kind of gloomy, Autumn day, when things get weird.

Kevin has the book open, much to Betelgeuse’s annoyance, and he’s blabbing away about a demon that supposedly grants wealth- “Do you think you could do that?” -when Betelgeuse looks down at the book, and sees Juno looking back at him. It’s not really her, it’s an illustration, but he’d recognize the bitch anywhere. She’s ink, glaring up from the page, those same age lines etched into her face, confirming his private theory that she’d been an old hag even when she was young. The slit neck is prominent, and as he stares, he sees smoke billow out of it. Oh, fuck no.

He grabs the book and slams it shut, startling Kevin, and then he teleports it directly under them, a mile down in the rock of the earth. Kev blinks for a moment, confused, before looking at his friend. “Wh.. Dude, WHAT?”

“Possessed book,” he croaks out, feeling tense, because he can smell cigarette smoke. “And you’re afraid of it? Why? You are also a literal fucking demon!” “That’s why I’m not messin’ with it!” Betelgeuse stands up, uneasy. The ground around the tree feels weird, now. He doesn’t like it here anymore. “Cause I actually understand why it’s a bad fuckin’ idea! God, you should have instincts that tell you not to mess with this stuff! You’re deficient, Kev, seriously.”

“Me deficient? Seriously?” Kev snaps, which hurts in a new, unexpected way. “Whatever, asshole. Give me my book back.” Kevin stands up, too, but he’s not uneasy, he’s angry.

“It’s better off where it is.”

“Which is where?”

Betelgeuse glances down. The grass around the tree is starting to wither. Kevin follows his gaze, but doesn’t seem to notice the dying vegetation. “You buried it? Come on!”

“Leave it, Kev.”

“This isn’t just your cool secret, anymore, it’s mine too!” Kevin glares at him. “You can’t keep me out of it, BJ. That’s not fair. God, at this point, I know more than you! You should be listening to me!”

He feels his volatile temper flare.

“Ex-fuckin’-scuze me?”

He waits for Kevin to take it back. Instead, his friend doubles down. “Demons have to listen to humans,” Kevin crosses his arms. “If they’re summoned. It’s in the book.” “Nobody summoned me,” Betelgeuse snarls, letting his real snake eyes show, an intimidation tactic that works for about half a second. Kevin’s too used to him, at this point. “I’m up here on a deal.” “Bet I could do it. I bet I could summon you. Then you’d have to listen to me.” “Yeah? Well, good luck without your stupid book!” He storms off, leaving Kevin standing there.

```````````````````````````````````````````````````````

The rest of the day sucks. He’s moody all day, annoyed in the car, grumpy in his room. He cranks metal and wishes he’d learned to play a guitar instead of his rinky, happy sounding ukulele. The instrument isn’t going to produce the noise he wants to express himself, right now. He throws it across the room, into a wall, where it smashes, and reforms a minute later, because… it’s still his favorite, after all. Even if it’s no good for expressing his teenage angst.

He can hear shuffling, and talking, outside his room, though he can’t make out what’s being said over the music. After a moment, though, there’s a knock at his door. “Hey, Bug?” Emily calls. “Can you come give me a hand with something?” He wants to tell her to piss off, go away, to leave him the hell alone, but.. It’s Emily. The CD player lets out a strangled choke and suddenly stops, and the door swings open, all without him moving from his flopped position on the bed. “Sup, ma?” he grunts. Emily peaks her head into the room, and smiles when she sees him, the expression radiating warmth and adoration and.. Oh, God/Satan, bless his sunbeam of a mother. “Just wondering if you’re free to do a little decorating?” She reaches behind her and grabs a fake severed bloody limb from the box he assumes she’s dragged into the hallway from the attic. “Don’t you worry it takes away from the “wow factor” to do Halloween twice a year?” He asks, standing and stretching, before apparating in the hallway behind her, and giving the decor box a nudge with his boot. “What? No way, there’s never enough Halloween!” Emily grins. “Get that, please.” The box floats along behind him as they head downstairs. They pause in the entryway, as Emily thinks out loud. “So, maybe the kitchen should be-” “Functional as a kitchen, please,” Charles calls from the living room. Emily rolls her eyes. “Okay, fine! Spoilsport! We’ll focus on the entryway for now,” she decides. “You wanna put up cobwebs in the rafters?” She gets on tiptoes to reach into the floating box, and he lowers it a bit for her, as she grabs the fake webbing. “I could just instantly decorate the whole room,” He takes to floating next to the box. “Could make sure it’s all normal human stuff, too,” He adds, before she can respond. “I know you can… But I like decorating,” Emily says brightly. “It’s not about getting it done quickly. It’s about, you know, doing it together.” “So why are dad and Lydia slacking?” Her smile doesn’t falter, but becomes softer. “It kinda felt like you needed some mom time, today,” She says simply. God, she can read him easier than Kev can read his stupid book. “We got in a fight,” he admits. She hums at that, because he only has one friend. It’s not hard to guess who he could possibly mean. “I’m sorry, Bug. What over?” He hesitates. So far he’s not let any of his family in on this book business. He’s been sort of hoping it could just go away on it’s own, and not be a thing. Kevin’s made it into a thing, though, and not telling even his mom feels… bad.

“He’s really into demons. Like, really, really into em,” He rasps, floating up and beginning to put up the spiderwebs, as his mother takes down the usual, sort of spooky wall hangings and trades them for her very intentionally spooky Halloween ones. “He’s got this book, an’ it’s all about demons an’ like, how to summon them, an’ their powers, an’ stuff… Sometimes th’ way he talks, it’s like.. Are we friends cause we’re friends, or friends cause you think I’m gonna be... useful?”

Maybe that doesn't make any sense, but that’s how it’s been feeling, like there’s an invisible shoe hanging midair, and it’s about to drop. His mother waits until he’s finished before looking up at him. “And you fought over that?” She prods. “Not exactly.” How the fuck can she even tell that, though? Damn her mom powers. He really, really didn’t want to talk about this, not to her, but… “I saw Juno. In th’ book,'' He lowers back down to the floor, and digs through the box, pulling out fake body parts. Back up he goes, to stick these in the fake webbing. “It was just a drawing of her, but it started like.. Billowing smoke-”

“From the neck,” His mother remembers, suppressing a shudder.

“Yeah. I could smell the smoke. So I got rid of the book, buried it in th’ school yard, but Kev got all pissy about it. He thinks he’s an expert on this shit, an’ he’s gonna mess with somethin’ big if he keeps this up.” “I’m sure you’ve told him that.” “He doesn’t listen. He gets this look in his eye, like it’s a game, or like… I dunno. Feels sometimes like he thinks he’s…” He searches for the words. “Like he thinks he oughta be the boss a’me, or somethin’.”

He rubs absentmindedly at the moss on his nose. It clings, stubborn as ever, same with the patches by his hairline, and he’s found it’s easier to just add another little layer to his glamour than try to do anything about it.

Maybe that’s indicative of a bigger problem. It’s easier to do a bit of magic and make everything look better than to actually fix the underlying problem. Ugh, introspection, how absolutely miserable. He wants to keep thoughts like that locked away tight, but they have a habit of slipping past his mental defenses and making him feel worse. Absolutely no one can make him feel shittier than he himself can. He sinks to the ground, going purple, and he’s instantly wrapped in his mother’s arms. “It’s okay, Beetlejuice,” Emily has both her hands on the back of his head, and he pushes his face into the crook of her neck. “I just.. I’ve only got the one friend,” he groans. “I don’t wanna stop bein’ his friend, but.. Fuck, ma.”

“I know.” Her voice is a soothing balm. She works her hands through the mess of purple hair at the back of his head. “I know, sweetheart. I know it’s lonely at school, but school isn’t forever,” she tries to assure him. “If your friend is treating you this way, well.. He’s not a very good friend. Do you want to be around someone who makes you feel this bad? Does it feel worth it, to you?”

He knows the correct answer is, “No,” but he’s not sure if his self esteem is high enough for that.

“I like him a lot,” He grumbles, and she hums again. “He’s handsome,” She says, and then pulls back far enough to pinch his nose. “But not as handsome as my son, of course,” and it’s silly enough to help knock away his mood, so that’s something, at least. “What should I do?” He doesn’t pull away from her, just soaks up the mom energy for as long as he can. “I think you need to have a talk,” Emily tells him. “Lay out how you’re feeling. Try to get his side of things, and make sure he hears your side, too. Then, at least you both tried, you know?”

It’s such a mom type answer. He groans again.

“I was worried you’d say some shit like that.” She fuzzes his hair, and he feels the tingle in his scalp that means it’s changed colors. Back to green, he assumes. “You know your moss changes color along with your hair? And your creepo-stache?” “Leave the stache alone, it’s tryin’ it’s best,” He pretends to be defensive.

“It makes you look like the founder of a forum for people who marry their cars,” Lydia offers, from the bottom step of the staircase, where she has apparently been just chilling and listening.

“Wh-! Mom, it’s not that bad, right?” Emily tilts her head to the side and gives what can only be described as a condescending smile. “Oh, you’re both in for it now.” He brings the various decor items to life to terrorize them, and then Charles joins his side, sympathizing with his son vis-à-vis bad teenage facial hair, and by the time the whole squabble is over, hardly any decorating has gotten done… But he does feel better. His family’s good like that.

```````````````````````````````````````````````````````

Monday rolls around, same as it always does, but there’s a weird feeling in the air. Halloween is a week away, barely missing getting a weekend date, but there’s some big Halloween bash the school is apparently throwing. There’s fliers for it everywhere, plastered all over lockers and bulletin boards. He’s not much of a participator, though, and his reaction to his locker being plastered over with invites to a party he doesn't care about is to snap his fingers. All the fliers on all the lockers up and down the hall, all instantly fall loose at once, littering the floor. A few students jump back, but no one looks his way, because why would they?

He’s grabbing his history textbook when he feels a tap on the shoulder, and when he turns, it’s a girl he recognizes, but her name is absolutely lost on him.

“You’re BJ, right?” Miffy askes, and he nods. “Yeah, s’right,” and Margo seems to wince at how gruff his voice is, before continuing. “Um, you and that guy Kevin, you’re like…” Milicent trails off, waiting for him to finish her thought, but sorry, baby, he can barely finish his own. “Like…?” He says, with his gravel voice copying her tone and inflection, and she huffs. “Together?” Marge asks, “Like, all of the time?”

He cocks his head, and squints at her, hands t-rexing at his sides, as Lydia likes to say.\

“Usually,” He concedes, and he gets the feeling he’s dragging this out much, much more than Mango clearly wants, because he spies a group of girls a little ways off, waiting for her. One of them is staring intently, more focused on him, but he pushes that thought aside.

“Look, okay, he’s gonna be out for a few days, and I’m just trying to see if you can take him his homework,” McGrubber has grown tired of having to stand here, talking to the chubby goth loser, apparently. “I’m a student aid in the office and they’re trying to make me do it, but I have track practice!” Thaaaat’s where he knows her from. She looks different, not bouncing and sweating and also not half a football field away. “Sure, fine, I’ll make sure Kev gets his work. Wouldn’t want you to miss out on running in a fuckin’ circle, Maria.” Her face sours. “It’s Blair.” So close. “Who fuckin’ cares,” He replies, and turns back to his locker. He can hear her rejoin her friend group, all of them fawning over her harrowing experience of having to speak to him in public. The last thing he hears from Blair is, “He’s just so goddamn weird,” and then the group rounds the corner.

He closes his locker harder than he maybe needs to.

Kevin isn’t in class that day, or the next, or even the one after. The shade tree has withered and died completely, it’s color sapped and gone, and even walking near it makes him feel uneasy. His new lonely lunch spot is under the bleachers, which feels even more voyeuristic of a spot to watch the track team, but even that activity feels tainted, somehow. He’s back to being lonely.

He can’t stand being lonely.

It gets so bad he contemplates sitting, wait for it, on the bleachers, and maybe even trying to strike up a conversation, but he’s too chicken shit. He’s been going to school with these kids for the past three years, and no one’s wanted to talk to him or chat with him in all that time. He can’t imagine that’s about to change.

Still, on Thursday, miserable and lonely, he gives it a try.

Sitting up here sucks. It’s just a hard metal seat on a gloomy day, and when he’d ventured up and sat down, other people had slowly moved away from him, until he was sitting by himself, all the breathers huddled in a different area, away from him. He'd tried talking, but hardly had a "Hey, how ya doin'?" grated out before the migration began.

Figures.

He finishes eating and lies on his back, resting his hands on his chest, eyes closed, and after a while he feels someone standing over him, and something laid over his hands. He opens his eyes. There’s the most beautiful girl staring down at him. She’s got long, bleach blonde hair, darker at the roots, which is hanging down in a halo around her face, and the biggest, clearest blue eyes he’s ever seen. He glances down, to see she’s placed a daisy over his hand. He looks back up at her, amber eyes questioning.

“You looked so still,” She smiles. Her voice is like music. He thinks he can hear harps. “With your hands folded like that. Kind of like an open casket.” He’d been forgetting to breathe, apparently, which happens sometimes. She thought he looked like a corpse, and she placed a flower over him.

“Sorry, if that’s weird. You’re.. BJ?” She asks, and he picks up the daisy, sits up, and nods. “Yeah, you’re…” “Barbara,” she fills him in. “You’re not so good with names.” “Mmm. Buffy tell you that?” He recognizes her now, from that group of girls. Barbara sits next to him, which makes zero sense. “It’s Blair,” she corrects him gently, but not without a giggle in her voice. “Oh, right.” Her name could be fuckin’ Moonpie and it’d make the same amount of difference to him, but he’d agree with anything Barbara said, if it meant she kept sitting there, talking to him. “Are you going to the Halloween party?” She asks. “Supposed to be pretty killer. It kind of seems like your scene.” “I’m not exactly a social butterfly,” which is the understatement of the god damn century, honestly, but she laughs and nudges her shoulder with his. “Well, I think you should come. I bet you’d have the coolest costume. Maybe think about it?”

“I guess, maybe..” He says lamely, because his brain is short circuiting from that small touch.

“Barb, come on!” someone calls to her from a ways away, on the track. Lunch is nearly over. She stands, and smooths down the long skirt she’s wearing, which is modest but flattering. “Later, BJ,” she smiles, and just like that, she’s gone, like an angel going back up to heaven in a beam of light, off to rejoin her friends. He can hear what she says to them, though. “You guys are mean, he’s not so bad. Just shy.”

He keeps the daisy in a little glass of water on his dresser, and strums love songs on his ukulele.

```````````````````````````````````````````````````````

Thinking about Barbara and her smile and the way she nudged him is a fun distraction, at least for a little while, but when it’s Saturday, and he still hasn’t heard from Kevin, he decides it’s time to demon up and see what the fuck is happening with him. He’s been just teleporting Kev’s homework inside his room, and he’s sure it’s falling into a pile on the floor each time and startling him, but no one ever said how he had to deliver it. Today though, emboldened by the pretty girl on the bleachers, he appears at Kevin’s front door instead, holding Friday’s work, and he knocks. It takes a moment, but Mr. Loh answers.

Betelgeuse hasn’t had much chance to interact with Kev’s dad. He looks like a normal, tired dad, wholly unimpressive, and kinda short. Chuck could wrestle this guy to the mat, no problem.

“Oh, BJ,” Mr. Loh says, and then glances at what’s in his hands. “Kevin’s homework? Thank you. He’s holed up in his room… won’t come out.. Maybe,” and he suddenly looks hopeful. “You two are friends. Maybe you can try talking to him?”

Well, that’s what he was there to do anyways, so sure. “I gotcha, Mr. L,” he nods, stepping inside, and heading up the stairs and down the hall to Kevin’s room. The closer he gets to the door, though, the weirder he feels. Something stinks, figuratively and literally. It smells like… It smells like the waiting room. It’s that same, veil is thin type air that he can smell on Halloween night, but how the fuck is he smelling it here? He bangs on Kevin’s door. “Hey, Kev, it’s the B-Man,” he calls, trying to keep his tone playful, but he feels like he’s doing a poor job. What the hell is going on? “Come on, man, open up!” He tries again, when he receives no response. He thinks he can hear a shuffle behind the door. “Dude, I will bust this fuckin’ door down,” He growls, all the play gone from his tone. “You know I will. Better yet-”

He appears inside the bedroom, just in time for Kevin to slam shut the closet door. Kevin turns to look at him, back pressed to the wood. There’s a beat, both teens staring at each other, wide eyed, Betelgeuse in that weird way he does, and Kevin looking frazzled. “What,” the demon grates out, “the fuck, are you getting up to in here? It smells like the netherworld, Kev.” Unfortunately, that makes Kevin’s face light up. “It does? Oh my god, that’s perfect! It must be starting to work!” He crosses the bedroom, going to his desk, where an old book is sitting open. It’s not the same one he took from his friend, it can’t be, that book is still a mile down in presumably solid rock. “Another musty ass tome, great,” he growls, but Kevin ignores him, flipping through the book.

He hates feeling ignored.

A black and white striped arm sprouts from Kevin’s desk, and slams the book shut, which makes the breather turn and glare at him. “Get out of my room, BJ,” is all Kevin says, and Betelgeuse ignores that, instead crossing the floor to get a look at that book. “Where th’ hell do you keep finding these fuckin’ things?”

“This one I bought from a one armed man living out of a 1973 Oldsmobile Delta 88 Royale,” Kevin recites. Betelgeuse squints at him, top teeth over bottom lip. “You’re too gay to know what that means,” he says, plainly, and Kevin shrugs. “He wouldn’t stop talking about his stupid car. I now know more about that antique than I know about geography.” It feels fun, for a second, like this drama isn’t happening, and they’re just having a conversation. It doesn’t last, though. He can’t let Kev off the hook.

“So you bought a second cursed book, this time from some amputee homeless guy, and you’re just, doing the rituals inside of it? And this seems like a super good idea to you?”

“I’m practicing,” Kevin replies.

“So what’s in the closet, Kevin?”

“Get out of my room, Betelgeuse.”

The way Kevin says his name is weird. It doesn’t feel like how it normally feels when a breather says the full thing. He shakes it off, and gives his friend a defiant look, before waving a hand and throwing open the closet door. There’s a cleared spot, in the middle of the closet floor, and a fucking summoning circle in what smells like, “Pig’s blood? Couldn’t get human?” He turns to look at Kevin, who is glaring at him intently. He matches the look.

“Betelgeuse Shoggoth, get out of my room.”

That gets his attention. It feels like an invisible hand is pushing him, and he stumbles back out of the room, confused. “W-what?” Kevin is just standing there, staring at him, and Betelgeuse stares back, eyes wild. “You motherfucker,” he hisses, eyes in snake slits, teeth sharp, claws extended. “You wanna do that “real name” bullshit with me? That the choice you’re makin’ here, Kev?”

Kevin doesn’t even look phased. “I’m working on gaining a bit more control, but looks like that works, for now.”

“You’re cracked!” Betelgeuse growls, absolutely furious. “You’re really tryin’ to summon me? Are you out of your head!?”

“You’re wasting your powers,” Kevin storms forward. “You’re a supernatural being, and you go to school and play your stupid ukulele, and don’t even try to do anything bigger. You could be stepping on everyone under you,” his former friend is going red in the face. “You could be leading, you could be ruling, but you just jerk off in your room and play pretend at being human. But someone might as well profit, here. Why not me?”

“I thought.. I thought we were friends,” is all the demon can say, lamely, and Kevin’s smile is the meanest thing he’s ever seen on a breather. “Once you’re fully listening to me, we can be friends again. Betelgeuse Shoggoth, get out of my house.”

He feels that same invisible pull, and he thinks maybe if he was stronger he could resist it, but a demon’s true name is like a lead on a dog, meant to control them, and unfortunately, Kevin has a tight hand on his leash. He makes it to the front door, and stumbles out, covering his face until he can calm himself enough to reapply his glamour.

Shit, he thinks, straightening up, and staring up at Kevin’s bedroom window. He is so fucked. ``````````````````````````````````````````````` Posted this chapter and another over at Ao3. You can read it right here

#beetlejuice fanfiction #beetlejuice broadway #lydia deetz #emily deetz #beetlejuice fic #beetlejuice the musical

[dwellordream]

“This brings us to the most fundamental fact of rural life in the pre-modern world: the grain is harvested once a year, but the family eats every day. Of course that means the grain must be stored and only slowly consumed over the entire year (with some left over to be used as seed-grain in the following planting). That creates the first cycle in agricultural life: after the harvest, food is generally plentiful and prices for it are low (we’ll deal with the impact this has on trade and markets a little later). As the year goes on, food becomes scarcer and the prices for it rise as each family ‘eats down’ their stockpile.

That has more than just economic impacts because the family unit becomes more vulnerable as that food stockpile dwindles. Malnutrition brings on a host of other threats: elevated risk of death from injury or disease most notably. Repeated malnutrition also has devastating long-term effects on young children (a point we’ll come back to). Consequently, we see seasonal mortality patterns in agricultural communities which tend to follow harvest cycles; when the harvest is poor, the family starts to run low on food before the next harvest, which leads to rationing the remaining food, which leads to malnutrition. That malnutrition is not evenly distributed though: the working age adults need to be strong enough to bring in the next harvest when it comes (or to be doing additional non-farming labor to supplement the family), so the short rations are going to go to the children and the elderly.

Which in turn means that ‘lean’ years are marked by increased mortality especially among the children and the elderly, the former of which is how the rural population ‘regulates’ to its food production in the absence of modern birth control (but, as an aside: this doesn’t lead to pure Malthusian dynamics – a lot more influences the food production ceiling than just available land. You can have low-equilibrium or high-equilibrium systems, especially when looking at the availability of certain sorts of farming capital or access to trade at distance. I cannot stress this enough: Malthus was wrong; yes, interestingly, usefully wrong – but still wrong. The big plagues sometimes pointed to as evidence of Malthusian crises have as much if not more to do with rising trade interconnectedness than declining nutritional standards). This creates yearly cycles of plenty and vulnerability; we’ll talk about the strategies these fellows employ to avoid that problem in just a moment.

Next to that little cycle, we also have a ‘big’ cycle of generations. The ratio of labor-to-food-requirements varies as generations are born, age and die; it isn’t constant. The family is at its peak labor effectiveness at the point when the youngest generation is physically mature but hasn’t yet begun having children (the exact age-range there is going to vary by nuptial patterns, see below) and at its most vulnerable when the youngest generation is immature. By way of example, let’s imagine a family (I’m going to use Roman names because they make gender very clear, but this is a completely made-up family): we have Gaius (M, 45), his wife, Cornelia (39, F), his mother Tullia (64, F) and their children Gaius (21, M), Secundus (19, M), Julia1 (16, F) and Julia2 (14, F). That family has three male laborers, three female laborers (Tullia being in her twilight years, we don’t count), all effectively adults in that sense, against 7 mouths to feed.

But let’s fast-forward fifteen years. Gaius is now 60 and slowing down, Cornelia is 54; Tullia, we may assume has passed. But Gaius now 36 is married to Clodia (20, F; welcome to Roman marriage patterns), with two children Gaius (3, M) and Julia3 (1, F); Julia1 and Julia2 are married and now in different households and Secundus, recognizing that the family’s financial situation is never going to allow him to marry and set up a household has left for the Big City. So we now have the labor of two women and a man-and-a-half (since Gaius the Elder is quite old) against six mouths and the situation is likely to get worse in the following years as Gaius-the-Younger and Clodia have more children and Gaius-the-Elder gets older. The point of all of this is to note that just as risk and vulnerability peak and subside on a yearly basis in cycles, they also do this on a generational basis in cycles.

...Most modern folks think in terms of profit maximization; we take for granted that we will still be alive tomorrow and instead ask how we can maximize how much money we have then (this is, admittedly, a lot less true for the least fortunate among us). We thus tend to favor efficient systems, even if they are vulnerable. From this perspective, ancient farmers – as we’ll see – look very silly, but this is a trap, albeit one that even some very august ancient scholars have fallen into. These are not irrational, unthinking people; they are poor, not stupid – those are not the same things.

But because these households wobble on the edge of disaster continually, that changes the calculus. These small subsistence farmers generally seek to minimize risk, rather than maximize profits. After all, improving yields by 5% doesn’t mean much if everyone starves to death in the third year because of a tail-risk that wasn’t mitigated. Moreover, for most of these farmers, working harder and farming more generally doesn’t offer a route out of the small farming class – these societies typically lack that kind of mobility (and also generally lack the massive wealth-creation potential of industrial power which powers that kind of mobility). Consequently, there is little gain to taking risks and much to lose. So as we’ll see, these farmers generally sacrifice efficiency for greater margins of safety, every time.

Modern farms are built for efficiency – they typically focus on a single major crop (whatever brings the best returns for the land and market situation) because focusing on a single crop lets you maximize the value of equipment and minimize other costs. They rely on other businesses to provide everything else. Such farms tend to be geographically concentrated – all the fields together – to minimize transit time.

Subsistence farmers generally do not do this. Remember, the goal is not to maximize profit, but to avoid family destruction through starvation. If you only farm one crop (the ‘best’ one) and you get too little rain or too much, or the temperature is wrong – that crop fails and the family starves. But if you farm several different crops, that mitigates the risk of any particular crop failing due to climate conditions, or blight (for the Romans, the standard combination seems to have been a mix of wheat, barley and beans, often with grapes or olives besides; there might also be a small garden space. Orchards might double as grazing-space for a small herd of animals, like pigs). By switching up crops like this and farming a bit of everything, the family is less profitable (and less engaged with markets, more on that in a bit), but much safer because the climate conditions that cause one crop to fail may not impact the others.

...Likewise – as that example implies – our small farmers want to spread out their plots. And indeed, when you look at land-use maps of villages of subsistence farmers, what you often find is that each household farms many small plots which are geographically distributed (this is somewhat less true of the Romans, by the by). Farming, especially in the Mediterranean (but more generally as well) is very much a matter of micro-climates, especially when it comes to rainfall and moisture conditions (something that is less true on the vast flat of the American Great Plains, by the by). It is frequently the case that this side of the hill is dry while that side of the hill gets plenty of rain in a year and so on. Consequently, spreading plots out so that each family has say, a little bit of the valley, a little bit of the flat ground, a little bit of the hilly area, and so on shields each family from catastrophe is one of those micro-climates should completely fail (say, the valley floods, or the rain doesn’t fall and the hills are too dry for anything to grow).

...While some high-risk disasters are likely to strike an entire village at once (like a large raid or a general drought), most of the disasters that might befall one farming family (an essential worker being conscripted, harvest failure, robbery and so on) would just strike that one household. So farmers tended to build these reciprocal relationships with each other: I help you when things are bad for you, so you help me when things are bad for me. But those relationships don’t stop merely when there is a disaster, because – for the relationship to work – both parties need to spend the good times signalling their commitment to the relationship, so that they can trust that the social safety net will be there when they need it.

So what do our farmers do during a good harvest to prepare for a bad one? They banquet their neighbors, contribute to village festivals, marry off their sons and daughters with the best dowry they can manage, and try to pay back any favors they called in from friends recently. I stress these not merely because they are survival strategies (though they are) but because these sorts of activities end up (along with market days and the seasonal cycles) defining a great deal of life in these villages. But these events also built that social capital which can be ‘cashed out’ in an emergency. And they are a good survival strategy. Grain rots and money can be stolen, but your neighbor is far likelier to still be your neighbor in a year, especially because these relationships are (if maintained) almost always heritable and apply to entire households rather than individuals, making them able to endure deaths and the cycles of generations.”

- Bret Devereaux, “Bread, How Did They Make It? Part I: Farmers!”

#farming #history #bret devereaux #writing #ancient #medieval

[welllpthisishappening]

On This Night and in This Light (1/3)

Emma Swan knows she's pretty good at what she does.

Helping the magically afflicted and affected find jobs in this realm isn't the most glamorous thing in the world, and, sure, there's a lot of paperwork, but she figures she's helping people and that's the important thing. It's structured. Calm, even.

Until. It's always until.

Killian Jones shows up with his stupid smirk and his tendency to lean against the door frame in Emma's office and his distinct lack of magic. Or knowledge of what they're really doing at Mills Personnel. Everything kind of goes off the rails after that.

----

Rating: Teen, but I’m me, so kissing is guaranteed Word Count: About 6.5K this chapter AN: About a week ago @shireness-says​​ sent me this post, about a job agency that specifically helped people with supernatural abilities or supernatural problems find a job. I believe my exact response was “Don’t do this to me” and then Devon probably laughed or something and over the course of the last three days I wrote about 19-thousand words. Nonsense is guaranteed, as is the kissing, hopefully some banter and a bunch of magic. The next two chapters probably Tuesday and Thursday of next week? 

|| Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll ||

----

“So, that’s basically it. The guy was cursed, super greedy and—” “—Babe c’mon, that’s my dad.”

The guy shrugs. 

Which Emma figures is pretty fair, all things considered. Although she also can’t remember his name, so maybe she’s a quasi-villain in this story. She’s fairly certain it’s in the paperwork. The guy’s name, not her potential villain status. 

In her defense, that one lightbulb above her head is very distracting. Flickering on and off, she’s going to have to tell Graham about it, which will probably somehow alert Regina and Emma isn’t sure she’s capable of dealing with Regina right now. It’s been a very long morning. 

At— she glances at the tiny string of numbers in the bottom corner of her computer monitor, nine twenty-six in the morning. 

“Jeez,” Emma mumbles, drawing the attention of both of the people sitting in front of her. Not very often that a pair comes in. She supposes that’s nice. 

In an overwhelmingly, romantic kind of way. 

God, maybe she’s bitter. 

She’s totally bitter. Thinking anything else is ridiculous. 

And if Emma doesn’t get some coffee soon, she’s going to fall asleep at her desk and inevitably offend this nameless, albeit nice-looking guy who until recently was spending his days as a solid-gold statue in front of an antiques store on Broome Street. 

“Not—not you guys,” Emma says quickly, and the girlfriend’s eyes widen. Her name is Abigail. Emma’s, like, forty-six percent positive. 

“You know he didn’t mean it,” maybe-Abigail says. “It was...well, Freddie was very heroic about it. Protecting my dad and—he was head of security at the building. Kids thought it’d be funny to try and break in, but Freddie was—” “—Courageous?” “Very. The kids wanted my dad’s gift, but Freddie wouldn’t let them near him. Of course that made sure he was close to my dad and he...well, he got touched by accident and....”

Humming noncommittally, Emma lets the rest of the details float into the back of her mind. She doesn’t particularly want to hear this story. Most of them are the same, anyway. Heroic deeds beget undeserved rewards, and there’s always some sort of deus ex machina fix that’s inevitably magical, and she figures that’s part of the deal at this place, but that bitterness of hers runs far deeper than she’s willing to admit. “And you didn’t want to go back to work at the cursed dad’s office?” Freddie shakes his head. “Not really all that interested in security anymore. Ya get frozen for three years and it kinda loses its shine, y’know?” “Makes sense,” Emma replies, and she hates to admit it takes her that long to realize what he just said. Maybe she should have read the paperwork closer. She didn’t have time. “Wait, wait did you say three years?” “And, uh, like fourteen days. That’s right, right babe?” Abigail smiles. That must be the answer. “We’re just looking for a fresh start. My dad is—well, maybe greedy is the right word. He doesn’t view this as a curse, it's...I called it a gift before, didn't I?” Emma nods, trying desperately to ignore the state of that light bulb. “Nothing we do is going to change his mind. He’s going to keep it, and he tries to be careful, but—one wrong move and there’s a golden something right in front of you. We don’t want to risk it again. That’s why we came here. It’s supposed to be the best placement service in the city.”

Biting back the immediate retort of it’s the only placement service like this in the city, Emma plasters what she can only hope is an encouraging smile on her face. The lightbulb stops flickering. 

It dies. Completely. 

She hopes that’s not a sign. 

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” she stammers, before turning back to her keyboard and a monitor with time that must be going backwards. “So, three years removed from any interaction with society and that’s—” Her smile is making her cheek muscles ache. “What kind of skills do you have, Mr. Greyston? Any specific interests or ideas about what you want to do?”

Freddie does not have any ideas. Or interests. Or concerns besides Abigail, it seems. Who is not just his girlfriend, but his fiancée, and a rather vocal wealth of both ideas and interests, none of which fit any of the potential jobs Emma spends the next forty-seven minutes finding. 

Something is wrong with each and every one. Wrong location. Too far a commute. Weird hours. Requires a uniform and—“Have you seen the width of Freddie’s shoulders? There’s no way he’d be able to wear a mass-produced jacket like that.”

Emma hasn’t been paying much attention to the width of Freddie’s shoulders, honestly. 

She’s far more preoccupied with the pain blooming behind her left eye and, somehow, at the base of her skull and she’s a few seconds away from turning both Freddie and Abigail into frogs when she hears footsteps approaching her half-open office door and he actually has the gall to cross his feet at the ankle when he leans against the frame. 

“What about personal training?”

Both Abigail and Freddie freeze. One of them tilts their head. Presumably in thought. Emma can’t be bothered figuring out which one. 

Not with her fingers hovering over her keys, the pop of her lips as they fall open sounding far louder than it should and the stranger leaning against her door frame smiles at her. 

Smirks, really. One side of mouth tugs up, and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled halfway up his forearms. It’s offensive, that’s what it is. 

As is the overall shade of blue in his eyes. 

“Can I help you?” Emma asks. Demands, honestly. One word comes out sharper than the last, drawing a soft chuckle from the questionably good-looking stranger and that’s—

No. No compliments. Just insults. Of the sharp-tongued variety. 

Most curses require a sharp tongue, in Emma’s experience. And she suddenly finds herself fantasizing about the several different ways she could curse this self-assured bastard to the other side of the office. 

“I think, love,” he says, leaning forward like that’s allowed, “I might be able to help you. Couldn’t help but overhear—” “—Because you were eavesdropping?” “Inevitable when your voice carries the way it does.”

Her mouth is already hanging open, so Emma can only imagine what she looks like when it feels as if her eyes are also intent on falling out of her face. Not great, if the increased smirk'ness of the smirk is any indication. 

Smirk'ness is not a word. 

“Personal training could be kind of cool,” Freddie muses with interest. Abigail beams. Emma comes up with twenty-nine different curse possibilities. “Don’t you need something for that, though? Like a certificate or something?” Blue-eyed bastard, fuckface chuckles again. “You do, in fact. ‘Fraid you can’t simply approach strangers and start training them. But the requirements aren’t hard to complete and there’s always a fairly high demand for trainers. People want to get in shape, y’know?” Suggesting that there’s no way this guy with his stupid sleeves could know the exact tone Freddie had used to a voice very similar question not even an hour earlier is as stupid as his sleeves, but Emma cannot rationalize any of this and she should have known he was out there. 

Lurking in the hallway, as it were. 

There’s always some sort of—signal. A smell. A flicker of familiarity that ripples up her spine and latches to the back of her brain and she assumes the migraine that now seems pretty inevitable is not that. It’s just painful. 

Nothing else. She didn’t feel anything. She should have felt something, unless—

“No,” she gasps, and she’s got to get a handle on her audible reactions. “I, uh—I mean, no, no, that’s a great idea, actually. What do you think Mr. Greyston?”

Freddie narrows his eyes. “I...I just said it sounded cool.” “He did,” the wanker with that one piece of wayward hair hanging across his forehead says, “I heard it. Didn’t you hear it?” Nodding emphatically, Abigail is far too quickly swayed by all of this. “I did and that’s—Emma, why didn’t you think of that before?” Anger curls low in Emma’s gut. Rises in the back of her throat and threatens to scorch every inch of her tongue, like that’s something an emotion is capable of. Fisting her hands under her desk, the edges of her nails leave crescent-moon shaped cuts on her palm, but she doesn’t have another outlet for the energy running through her. 

Especially if she’s right. 

She’s seventy-two percent positive she’s right. Which is better than how she felt about Abigail’s name, and she was totally right about that, so. 

Math, or whatever. 

“Didn’t even cross my mind,” Emma admits through clenched teeth. “But thankfully we’re a collaborative effort here at Mills Personnel, and it’s always good to get multiple opinions, including some from our newest—” Swallowing her tongue isn’t the most embarrassing thing Emma can do in a moment like this, but it’s starting to feel somewhere in the top five and if this guy doesn’t stop staring at her like that she’s going to scream. 

Or self combust with magic. 

Her magic appears to be running on overdrive. 

“Killian Jones,” he says, answering a question she hadn’t actually gotten around to asking. “It’s my first day,”

“Is it just?” His answering hum isn’t as sarcastic as Emma’s was. She supposes that’s another failure of hers today. Her brain’s already started making a list. “Did you know they have an espresso machine in the break room?” “I work here,” Emma answers. 

“As I can see. Just—” “—Trying to tell me about espresso?” The other side of his mouth moves. That suggests Emma is staring at his mouth, which she might be, honestly. When she isn’t wholly preoccupied with his eyes or that one strand of hair, and she can’t believe that one strand of hair exists, but she’s also a witch and Freddie was made of gold and she never did ask how they managed to fix that. 

Emma’s starting to wonder if she actually sucks at her job. 

“Make conversation,” Killian says. “And maybe help a little bit. That’s the gig, isn’t it?” None of the muscles in Emma’s neck are particularly interested in nodding, but her hair moves so that must mean she accomplishes at least some sort of movement and the two pairs of eyes sitting in wholly uncomfortable chairs opposite her are watching the scene with open interest. “Alright,” she says brusquely, certain Killian’s eyes get brighter, “Mr. Greyston, let’s start working on a plan for getting your certification and then we can set up some contacts with area gyms.”

She’s not sure when Killian leaves, exactly. 

Only that he doesn’t try closing the door behind him and when Emma walks into the breakroom thirty-one minutes later, there’s a post-it with ridiculously swirly handwriting clinging to the espresso machine. Try this one, it says. 

And that doesn’t really make sense. It’s an espresso machine, there aren’t a ton of different options. Emma’s almost charmed all the same. 

It wasn’t True Love’s Kiss. 

Frederik Greyston wasn’t released from his gilded prison by the most sweepingly romantic bit of magic in the world. It was water from Nostos, which Emma knows is expensive and hard to come by, but knowing the little she does about Abigail’s father, it makes sense and she’s disappointed all the same. 

Six years working at Mills Personnel and still not a single person has been saved by the power of True Love’s supposed Kiss. 

She’s starting to think it doesn’t even exist. 

Honestly, the whole thing is Mary Margaret’s fault. 

She’s the one who got Emma the job after all, and maybe that’s more a commentary on Emma’s disinterest in joining the traditional workforce or being a functioning member of society, but she’s also quick to argue that society hasn’t really done much for her lately. Not a ton of professional options for someone with a record and the tendency to glow every now and then. 

So, Emma had agreed to the interview. 

On a Thursday at two in the afternoon, at the office tucked into the bottom floor of a building on 62nd Street, with etched letters on the door. 

Mills Personnel, it said. 

And still does, really. Not much has changed since Emma first walked into Regina’s office, least of all the lettering on her door, but she’d like to believe she’s maybe a bit more confident than she was that time and—

“Regina, is this a joke?” Emma asks, not able to sit in one of the chairs. Pacing seems entirely more reasonable, even as the muscles in her calves start to ache. “Because it can’t—none of this makes any sense.” “Why not?” “Repeating myself is redundant.” Making a noise Emma can only assume is an agreement, Regina doesn’t bother looking up from the paperwork in her hands. Another client. Another problem. Something else Killian Jones can probably solve. 

Nearly a week after the incident in Emma’s office, the new guy is apparently some kind of job placement wunderkind, able to match any person with their dream position while also boasting a wealth of contacts across the city. Yelp reviews have appeared in droves — sent to Emma nearly every morning because apparently Ruby has some sort of sick sense of humor, and only a few of them mention Killian’s rolled-up sleeves. 

That’s insane. 

Emma can’t imagine not mentioning his rolled-up sleeves.

Maybe she’s part of the problem, actually. Just like—with society, as a whole. 

“You want to repeat yourself, don’t you?” Regina asks knowingly, drawing a strangled sound out of Emma that nearly makes her trip mid-pace. One should not affect the other. And yet. Everything seems to be falling apart in rather quick succession, the kind of worry that’s already taken root in the center of her and wrapped its way around every single one of her ribs, and she’s got no idea how many ribs she’s currently in possession, but she figures it’s got to be a lot. 

Based almost entirely on the constant tightness in her chest. 

“How are you not freaking out about this?” Regina shrugs. “Nothing’s going to happen. People love him.” “People think he’s got a good-looking face.” “You think that and—” Sputtering on her own inevitably witty retort, if only she could get it out, Emma can’t do much more than dramatically exhale as soon as Regina does lift her eyes. Leveling her with that same look she’d used during Emma’s initial interview, like she’s got all the answers in the world and will be willing to share them. 

Eventually. At her leisure. 

“He doesn't have magic,” Emma hisses, feeling as if she’s lost her last tether to reality. No one else is worried about this. Ruby has at least eighty-four opinions on Killian’s face. David’s not totally swayed, but thinks the guy’s at least doing a good job so far. Mary Margaret wants to invite him to game night next week. 

To play goddamn Settlers of Catan. Like they’re normal people. And not witches, or some other unnecessarily gendered description of magic-users. 

“He—he,” Emma continues, and now her hands have joined the fray. Waving them around her head only makes her feel more insane. “How can you think that he’ll be able to place people in jobs when he doesn’t know why they really need jobs?” Her voice cracking on the question can’t help her cause much. 

But Emma needs this to stay the same. She needs consistency and maybe not comfort, but comfort-adjacent and the fucking Settlers of Catan. At some point, she’s going to win that dumb game, she’s positive. 

And Killian Jones poses a very real threat to all of those alliterative sentiments. 

Because Mills Personnel is not a normal job placement organization. Emma’s not even sure it’s an organization, technically. Maybe an LLC.

She’s not a lawyer.  

The point is, it caters to—a slightly different sort of clientele. The kind that’s been affected by magic. Whether that’s because they’re in possession of it, or have been cursed by it, or are only spending some time in this realm while hiding from a revenge-prone dragon in their homeland, who also happened to be their mother, and need a job while they wait it out. 

That last one has always been Emma’s personal favorite. Lily spent three years working for an appraiser on Park Avenue. 

She was really good at it. 

And Emma is good at this. At helping. At providing people with their own plan, and their own possibilities and she has got to get off this alliterative kick because—

“Hey,” Regina mutters, nodding towards Emma’s hands. Both of which are dangerously close to phosphorescent “Reign it in for me, huh?” “Seriously, how can you be so calm about this?”

“He needed a job.” “What? How did you even find him?” Squeezing one eye shut, Regina clicks her tongue thoughtfully and it’s almost enough to make her seem like a normal person. Instead of a person who can regularly summon fireballs from her palms. “Friend of Robin’s. I think you met him last solstice party, but—that’s not the important part. Anyway, we worked with Scarlet once. Or David did, helped him get a job in Brooklyn after he’d been stoned in Wonderland.” “I’m sorry, stoned in Wonderland?” “Mmhm, literally. Anyway, his girlfriend’s known Killian for years and he just moved to New York and one thing led to another and here we are.” “Here we are,” Emma echoes. “The repeating thing isn’t just redundant, it’s obnoxious,” Regina sighs, finally moving the papers. It’s not a victory for Emma. Not when it only ensures Regina can also lean back in her chair, cross her arms over her chest and tilt her head at that very specific angle that practically radiates judgment. “He just needs some money for a couple of months. He’ll be out of here before anyone will have a chance to enlighten him on what he’s actually doing.” “Giving jobs to magical people.” “Not all of them are magical,” Regina argues, “some of them have just been impacted by magical forces.” “Yuh huh. And how exactly are we hiding all of these magical forces from Killian Jones, totally mortal human being?” The head tilt’s at nearly forty-five degrees now. “You are mortal, you know that right? It’s important that you know that.”

“I know that,” Emma snaps, flickers of light falling from her fingertips for good measure. “I just—when you hired me, you made it very clear that the line between magic and the rest of the world was tenuous at best. We just...we exist and hope no one burns us at the stake, but now you’re totally cool with some inherently normal guy being here. Everything we do is going to freak him out.” “It hasn’t already. And so long as you stop sparking at regular intervals, I think you’ll be fine.” “I’m not worried about me.”

Widening her eyes, Regina's judgment reaches across the questionably originate mahogany desk, hangs in the air for all of fourteen seconds and then smacks Emma squarely across the face. In a magical sort of way that makes her skin tingle. 

“Not cool,” she mumbles, but Regina doesn’t do much more than sneer. “Alright, fine, fine, you think this is a totally great idea—” “—I didn’t say it was great. I said it wasn’t going to be as bad as you thought it was going to be, and we’re doing some old customers a favor.” “Sounds suspiciously like nepotism.” “Or good business.”

Emma rolls her eyes. She’s getting another migraine. “Tell all your friends about Mills Personnel, the only option for the magical and magic-damaged to ensure they can keep paying their rent.” “Not as catchy as I’d like, but I accept that it’s a work in progress.”

“Yeah, yeah, something like that.” Having never sat down, it’s easy for Emma to make a quick and relatively drama-free exit from Regina’s office, swinging open the door and marching into the hallway and—

“Ah, fuck,” she grunts, slamming into something far too solid to be anything except another human being. Who smells suspiciously like laundry detergent and salt water. 

“Swan.”

She blinks. Once. Twice. Tries to remember that she is in fact mortal, and that requires a consistent stream of oxygen in her lungs. But breathing is something of a challenge now, and he’s smirking at her when she finally lifts her head. “What are you doing?” “Walking,” Killian answers easily, but there’s a hint of laughter clinging to the word that manages to frustrate Emma and do the exact opposite all at once. “Do you have somewhere especially important to go?” “No, no, that’s—why do you say that?” “Seems you’re in something of a rush.” “Or you take up way too much of the hallway.” Full-blown laughter is at least twenty-thousand times better than the clinging variety or whatever sound Emma’s managed to imagine he makes in the last week or so. She hasn’t imagined it that much. She’s a God awful liar, actually. 

“That might be true,” Killian admits, taking a step back, and there’s a pile of papers resting on his hip. A pen barely stays behind his ear, that same wayward strand of hair taking up residence across his forehead and the rolled-up sleeves of this shirt appear to have some sort of floral pattern on them. 

“What are—” Emma swallows. Licks her lips, Tries not to spend too long thinking about the undeniable way Killian’s eyes fall to her lips. “Where are you going?” “Back to my office. Woman in there who claims her only talent is singing, but she’s not too keen on performing. Says she doesn’t want to draw a spotlight. So, trying to come up with some other options for her.” Mind racing, Emma tries to figure out what the woman actually is or who she’s hiding from, but explaining any of that is impossible and she’s admittedly having some trouble forming sentences when Killian keeps doing that thing with his face. Having one. 

“Any suggestions?” he asks, and there’s no sarcasm. No joke. Just blatant interest and possibly some veiled hope, which is not a word Emma’s all that familiar with. 

That’s more Mary Margaret’s schtick, and at least this is passably cyclical. Somehow this has to be Mary Margaret’s fault too. 

“What about working for a promoter or something?” Emma ventures. “You know—backstage sort of stuff. Keep her in the industry, let her work with other talent, but none of that pesky spotlight. Probably plenty of people looking for an assistant or something.”

Stunned surprise could be very insulting, as far as expression-based responses go. Luckily for Killian and his face, it’s a pretty fantastic look. Particularly when it’s directed at Emma. And mixed in with something that feels suspiciously like awe.

She’s not especially concerned with the adjectives. All she knows is it makes her magic roar in her ears, threatening to knock her knees together. 

“Wow,” he mutters, “that’s genius.” “Happens from time to time.” “More often if breakroom information is anything to go by.”

On second thought, embarrassed regret is her new unexpected favorite. Color dots Killian’s cheeks, a red tinge to the tip of his ears and it really says far more about him than Emma’s powers of observation that it’s only now she realizes he’s missing his left hand. 

“I, uh—” Killian stutters, and Emma can’t help the stretch of her smile, “well it’s not that I’m gossiping about you per se, just...making conversation.” “And I’m a hot topic of conversation?” “No, no, you’re just—” His inability to finish sentences is also oddly endearing, the muscles in his throat moving as he swallows back what Emma can only hope would be a slightly twisted compliment. Regarding her and the word hot. “Well, I appreciate the help. Sometimes it feels like it’s impossible to get a straight answer out of these people. None of them know what they want to do.” Cold sweeps over Emma, in the form of crushing realization and a return to a reality with starkly-lit hallways. He doesn’t know. Can’t know. About this place, or what it really does, and Regina’s surprisingly cavalier attitude aside, non-magic users finding themselves in the entirely magical world never ends well. 

Someone always gets hurt. 

“Yeah, no problem,” Emma says as she takes her own step back, and that shouldn’t be as difficult as it is. “If—I mean if you ever get another hard one or…” 

Her face is on fire, she’s sure. Spontaneous combustion would be a small miracle, giving her a legitimate out of this conversation and the latest expression that’s now standing several feet away from her. Self-satisfied, that’s the word. 

Or phrase, as the case may be. 

“If you need some more ideas,” she clarifies, “I’m around. You helped me with that Greyston case, after all.” It’s not a cease fire or metaphorical hatchet buried under Regina’s questionable taste in carpet, but it’s something and if this is going to happen, then Emma reasons she might as well try and keep it all in check. Helping Killian helps everyone, really. 

She’ll repeat that on mental loop for several hours if necessary. 

Right after she stops obsessing over the precise way he leans forward, ducks into her eye line and says, “thanks, Swan.”

It isn’t until she’s managed to plug her phone in, exhaustion creeping up her spine and fluttering behind half-closed eyelids that Emma realizes she never once told Killian her name. 

When she was twelve years old, she lit up. Like, her whole body. Light hung from the ends of her hair and circled her right wrist, wrapped its way up her arms and settled on either one of her shoulders until it was difficult for anyone to spend too long looking at Emma. 

None of it was on purpose. 

Magic’s always been something almost instinctual, at least for Emma, and the yelling from the living room of the latest foster home she’d only recently been shipped to had been grating on her ears long enough that she didn’t know what else to do. She reacted. Power rippled off her in perfect cadence with her frustration, and she hadn’t known all those words when she was twelve, but she’d known exactly how everyone would respond and Emma was not disappointed. 

At least not like that. 

Standing halfway down the steps, she’d glowed. Bright and determined, like being strong enough would protect the rest of the kids in that house, and that was never really Emma’s job, but she always felt like she could do something more, or should do something else and—

They’d sent her back the next day. 

Something about a bad fit and just not right and that second thing could have been the sub-headline of Emma’s entire life. 

Just not right. 

Nothing about her was right. Her magic was often untempered and prone to outbursts, flashes that Emma couldn’t always control and inevitably led to lingering glances and confused stares that rather quickly morphed into fear when they looked too long. 

Sometimes people pretend they’re not totally freaked out. Sometimes they tell her that she’s ok, every lie settling under her skin like it’s something she should believe in, and it’s been awhile since Emma’s allowed something like that to happen, but she imagines there’s a cliché about scars and the way they don’t always disappear and—

That’s not important. 

History is just that and Emma’s not one to make the same mistake twice. Or at least make it more than twice, and she might be intrigued by Killian Jones, with his smirk and his stupid sleeves, but she doesn’t entirely trust him yet. 

She can’t imagine that changing any time soon. 

She nearly runs into whoever is opening the Mills Personnel front door at five-oh-four on a Friday evening. 

It’s a habit Emma would like to break sooner rather than later, this trend of not looking where she’s going — although, if she’s being honest it’s also because she’s distracted, and has been since the game night announcement, and the phone in her pocket hasn't stopped buzzing for the last hour, the most recent texts regarding pre-game night plottings and alliances for Settlers of Catan or whatever else they decide to play. 

She has respond to Mary Margaret soon. 

Presumably after she apologizes to the woman she very nearly plowed over, and it’s almost the end of business, but this woman doesn’t look like she operates on traditional schedules and—

“Sorry, sorry,” Emma says, backing up quickly. Partially because of good manners. And the rest because of the look on the woman’s face. 

Furious. A little threatening. Decidedly magical. 

“I’m looking for Ms. Mills.” “Right, yeah, of course. She’s, uh—” Emma’s phone buzzes again, and she knows it’s another message about games. What she can figure out is why that particular thought leaves her feeling frozen and a little threatened and the woman’s eyes narrow at the first shift of Emma’s magic. “Still in her office, I think. I can let her know you’re here, if…” The woman doesn’t nod. Doesn’t move, really. And all Emma wants is to sprint out of that office and maybe to her couch, but she can’t seem to move any of her limbs and the clack of Regina’s heels is strangely hypnotic. 

“Zelena. What are you doing here?” Rolling her shoulders back, the woman Emma assumes is Zelena only looks passably annoyed at being addressed by her first name. “We have some things to talk about.”

“That so?” “Several, I’d say. You have a few minutes?” It doesn’t sound like an actual request, hackles that are more likely part of Ruby’s genetic makeup than Emma’s rising as Zelena breezes by her. Glancing over her shoulder, she notices a muscle in Regina’s temple jumping.

“You want me to stick around?” Regina shakes her head. “No, I’ll be fine.”

“Ok, but—” “—Go, Emma,” Regina finishes, and there’s no mistaking the command in those words. She nods once, not running into anyone else on her way out and hoping the sense of dread currently twisting itself around one of her kidneys is only those pessimistic tendencies of hers, instead of the warning she’s worried it actually is. 

The problem is, she likes him. 

Like, as a human being. Mortal or otherwise. No other reason. Nothing to do with his hair or his eyes or that dim, but still visible scar on his left cheek. 

She just—

They might be friends. Emma hopes they’re friends. 

Over the next two weeks she comes to realize that Killian is not only very good at his job — the siren who was certain her only talent was singing in dimly lit clubs and inevitably luring grown men to their doom, but wanted to turn over a new leaf, without telling him any of that, of course, sent a gift basket to thank him for all the help — but he’s funny, and more than capable of working the espresso machine so it doesn’t produce its usual bitter swill, and, Emma realizes, one Wednesday afternoon, a little lonely. 

“Trying to find somewhere to live in this city is impossible,” he announces, slumped in one of the breakroom chairs with a stack of files splayed in front of him. “Like a needle in a haystack.” “Try finding somewhere with laundry on site,” Emma grins, “and then talk to me.” “Sounds like a palace, and that’s far too mythical for me to believe a place like that exists.”

Stomach flying into her mouth, Emma bites the side of her tongue so she doesn’t do something stupid like list all the clients of hers who, at one point, lived in a vaguely mythical palace. She can think of at least a dozen off the top of her head. “No palatial experience wherever you are now? Where are you now, actually?” “Scarlet’s couch.” “Ah, so decidedly non-palatial, then.” Killian grins. “Not as such, no. Although if you could not mention that to him, that would be great. Bastard won’t ever say it, but I've vastly overstayed my welcome and I’m pretty positive he and Belle spend their nights plotting ways to kick me to the curb.” “Metaphorical or…” “Absolutely literally,” he says, and that smile is nearly blinding in a way that isn’t quite like Emma’s magic, but feels as powerful. “You didn’t hear it from me, but I’m pretty positive they want to have a family soon.” “You think I gossip about Will Scarlet way more than I do.”

His ears do that thing again. That blushing thing, that apparently only Killian’s ears are capable of, but it’s also entirely possible that Emma is just far more aware of Killian’s ears than anyone else’s. She’s also perfectly aware what a psychopath she sounds like. 

“Did I apologize for that?”

“For?” “Not necessarily gossiping,” Killian says, “because it wasn’t entirely that, but—getting information on you, I guess.”

Tensing, Emma’s jaw clenches hard enough that she’s briefly worried about what it will do to her teeth. And it takes her a few moments to school her features — more than enough time for Killian’s eyebrows to lift, and the ends of his mouth to tilt down, but she’s almost confident she doesn’t look like she’s totally freaking out when she opens her mouth. 

“What did you find out?” Ah, so not freaking out was a total lie, then. 

Killian’s lips twist as he stares at her, like he’s considering the exact tone of her voice and how to properly proceed from there. Leaning forward, his hand inches towards hers and for one genuinely blissful second Emma is certain he’s going to cover her fingers with his. He doesn’t. He pulls away at the last moment, clearing his throat and sitting up straighter and that’s fine. It’s fine, everything is fine and great and—

“You’re very popular here,” he replies, “good track record of even better work, which is why If we’re also keeping track of required apologies, I should mention I’m sorry for butting in on the Greyston case. Was an absolute dick of a move.” “Would you use of in that situation?” “I mean, I just did so—” “—You were kind of a dick,” Emma agrees, “but that was mostly because you were showing off and it totally worked.”

His eyebrows get higher. Pointier. It’s absolutely absurd. “That so?” “Don’t sound so amazed, you know it did. Freddie the former—” She’s about to say statute. The word sits on the tip of Emma’s tongue, waiting to be said because if she was talking to anyone else she’d be able to say it, but she’s not talking to anyone else and doesn’t really want to and she can’t imagine it’s very comfortable sleeping on someone’s couch for the better part of a month. “Former security guard,” Emma exhales, “is reportedly doing really well at the new gig. Ruby said she saw a bunch of social media posts advertising his recently-certified personal trainer services.” “An ambitious start for Freddie.” “Eh, you know how it is when you get psyched about something. Full-speed ahead and all that.”

“I believe that is the appropriate cliché, yes. So what do you think?”

“About?”

“Accepting my apology for being something of a dick, and because Ruby is the absolute worst gossip in this office who told me in no uncertain terms that she thought our prospective children would be very attractive.”

Emma’s not drinking anything, so the choking sound she makes at that bit of information is not really correct for the situation, but she can’t stop herself. Laughter bubbles out of her, mixing with something that isn’t quite stunned surprise, but might be a hint of put-upon frustration and the overall width of Killian’s smile is in the realm of overwhelming. 

“How did you end up here?” Emma asks, and she’ll blame the state of her teeth on her inability to censor her own questions. 

His smile falters. For just a moment, before it’s back and a little less legitimate than it was a moment earlier. “Worked with Belle at the Central Library in Boston. For years, actually. And you know how it is when you meet someone who...well, they’ll go to bat for you?” “Another good cliché. And yeah, I do.” “It was like that for us. She’s—it’s pedantic to suggest she’s my best friend, but that’s what it is and what it’s been and we’ve always helped each other. So, couple months ago when they cut staff, she told me to come to New York.” “She was already in New York?”

Killian nods. “Has been for a while, ever since she met Will.” “And how did she meet Will?”

If he’s put-off by her twenty question approach, Killian doesn’t show it. He just keeps leaning into her space, like there are magnets involved or several other words and feelings Emma’s wholly incapable of dealing with right now. “Strictly happenstance as far as I know. She was in New York for a library conference—” “—They have those?” “Mmhm, whole bunch of nerds losing their minds over recently stocked books and stories that fascist governments said we should burn.” “Do those normally go together?” “More often than you’d think,” Killian laughs. “Anyway, Will was working at the bar he owns now and—” “—He owns it?”

“If you keep interrupting, I’m never going to get to the interesting part of the story, love.”

Goosebumps explode on her skin. Her heart threatens to explode out of her chest. Magic rushes from the top of her hairs to the toes of sneakers that are now emitting a faint gleam, and maybe Emma should trim her nails. 

So as not to keep cutting up her palm. 

“Took him some time to save up the money to buy the bar,” Killian continues, “but if you know Scarlet, you’ll know he’s something of a stubborn asshole. Which also circles us right back around to the romance of the story. Suffice it to say, there were conversations, requests for phone numbers, a refusal to let time or distance damper their connection and—” He clicks his tongue. “—Two years ago, I gave a very impassioned speech regarding the power of love at a wedding that made several people cry.“

“You included?”

He winks at her. Not very well, but it’s the thought that counts or something and Emma’s starting to have several thoughts about Killian.

None of which are going to make it any easier to keep her magic a secret. 

And part of her isn’t even sure she wants to. The other part of her wants to stretch across this wobbly table, some of which is deceptively sticky, grab the front of Killian’s floral-printed shirt and kiss him until neither one of them think about anything except how fantastic they are at kissing. One another, specifically. 

So, really, she’s absolutely and monumentally fucked.

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #cs fic #captain swan fic #on this night and in this light #not the originally advertised spooky fic #but spooky all the same #everything i write is really just devon's fault at this point

[onecanonlife]

careful son (you got dreamer's plans)

Wilbur gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes.

Wilbur was dead. Now, he is not. He can't say that he's particularly happy about it.

Unfortunately, the server is still as tumultuous as ever, even with Dream locked away, so it seems that his involvement in things isn't a matter of if, but when.

(Alternatively: the prodigal son returns, and a broken family finally begins to heal. If, that is, the egg doesn't get them all killed first.)

Chapter Word Count: 6,567

Chapter Warnings: swearing, minor violence, manipulation/mind control, blood, vomiting, and explicit s.uicidal thoughts

Chapter Summary: Wilbur meets the Egg. It doesn’t go well. At all.

(masterlist w/ ao3 links)

(first chapter) (previous chapter) (next chapter)

Chapter Seven: feet in the fire

A new day dawns, as per usual.

Tommy and Tubbo are waiting for him when he steps outside, shielding his eyes against the sun. They’ve got their heads tilted together, discussing something in hushed tones, Tommy gesticulating wildly, and he takes a moment to stop and smile at them. It’s just like when they were kids, the both of them getting into one mischief or another. Tommy was always the one to be blamed for it, but Wilbur knows better than to think that Tubbo doesn’t instigate his own fair share of chaos. It’s hidden better, but they’re two peas in a pod, in the end.

“Should I be concerned?” he asks, the words coming easily. Today is a good day, he thinks. He feels good, better than he has since his return. The darkness has receded, and his heart almost feels light. He can almost forget about the scar that runs across it.

They both jump, heads swiveling toward him.

“Wilbur!” Tommy says, at the exact same time as Tubbo says, “Good morning!” He glances between the two of them, and feels his lips curl upward into a smile once again. It feels easy, to be smiling with them.

“As long as I’m not the victim,” he says, and Tubbo shakes his head.

“No, no,” he says, “see, we were thinking about the Egg, right? And how it’s just, like, an egg. And we assume that it’s red, because of all of the vines, but we’ve never seen it, so we don’t actually know how big it is. I think that it’s a great big egg, because all these vines are big and thick.”

“And I think,” Tommy interjects, “that there’s no way that these vines are coming from the actual Egg itself, because vines don’t hatch out of eggs. So I think that it’s a regular-sized egg, and they’ve got it on a pedestal or something like that, or a, an egg throne. But it’s gonna look so fucking stupid, because it’s literally just a little egg, and we should smash it with something and see what they do about it.”

He hesitates. “I’ve got to go with Tubbo on this one,” he says. “I don’t think it’s going to be a regular egg.”

“Psh, you don’t know,” Tommy says. “You’re dumb. Oh!” His face brightens. “I forgot, Tubbo brought you some things.”

He lifts an eyebrow and takes a few steps forward, and something in his chest warms at the way Tubbo doesn’t tense up like he did the first day, doesn’t flinch back. There is still wariness in his eyes, but he doesn’t think he’s mistaking the way that it’s lessened.

He hardly deserves it. But today is a good day, and he’ll take it for the moment.

“Yeah,” Tubbo says. “Tommy’s still dirt poor, so he asked me to do it, but here’s some gear. We thought you should have something.”

Tommy is sputtering at the description, but Tubbo ignores him. He opens up his inventory, and then takes out—gear. A couple of swords, shimmering with enchantments, a bow, an axe, a pickaxe. Wilbur feels something in him loosen just looking at them; he hadn’t realized how vulnerable he’d felt, being weaponless, and that’s probably a bit fucked up, actually. He didn’t always feel the need to keep a weapon on him at all times.

(you led child soldiers to battle when you were little more than a child yourself and can you really feel surprised, at the way the metal hums in your hand, now, the way your fingers are more secure wrapped around the hilt of a sword than the neck of your guitar?)

(you learned to play such different songs, the blood bright and accented in your eyes, every scream a crescendo)

He glances up, checking to be sure that Tubbo really does intend these for him. Tubbo nods, so he crouches down to inspect the weapons, now all laying on the grass.

“I’ve got armor too,” Tubbo says, “but I wasn’t sure that you’d want it.”

And doesn’t that carry a wealth of connotations, of memories? There is a sharpness to the words along with the question, and Wilbur

(my L’Manberg, my L’Manberg, a promise of safety you never could keep)

turns it over in his mind, poking at it.

“No armor, thank you,” he says. “I never did like it all that much. I’ll let you know if that changes. Thank you for these, though.” He gathers up the weapons, choosing a sword to wear at his waist and sliding the rest of them one by one into his inventory, and then glances up again to catalog their reactions. Tubbo seems to have expected the answer, but Tommy is frowning at him, and he has to wonder if he’s remembering something else, remembering

(the last time he refused armor, he was intending to die, had written himself off as lost, lost along with his symphony, the only possible redemption in the press of a button, the lighting of a match, and Tommy didn’t know it then but hindsight is twenty-twenty and Tommy has always been too smart for his own good)

the wars and what followed.

Tommy sees him looking, and his expression smooths over.

“Alright boys,” he crows, as if nothing at all had happened. “Egg time!”

Tubbo snorts. “Egg time,” he agrees, and Wilbur stands.

“Egg time,” he says, and then they’re off.

The day really is pleasant, a cool breeze blowing and not a cloud in the sky. Tommy and Tubbo fill the air with aimless chatter and bickering, and he chimes in sometimes and doesn’t even feel strange about doing so. This feels natural, feels right, and if he can have more days like this, days that put a spring in his step and a gentle tune in his ears, he thinks that being alive won’t be such a chore after all. Perhaps he can even learn to be thankful for it, well and truly.

He thinks that would be nice. To love life again. It’s a distant, glimmering possibility, but today it seems a bit nearer.

“It’s under Bad’s mansion, I think,” Tubbo is saying. “But they made another entrance, I’m pretty sure. Should be somewhere around—”

“Hey, Tubbo!” a voice calls. “Hey, Tommy!”

And it is a new voice. Not Tommy or Tubbo. Not Sam. A new voice, and that means a new person, and Wilbur can’t prevent the way all his muscles go taut, can’t prevent himself from fingering the hilt of his gifted sword. It’s partially a leftover instinct from the war and partially his own fear, his own aversion to being seen by anyone, to being forced into a confrontation.

He wasn’t always like this. He used to delight in speaking to people, or in a good debate, twisting his opponent’s words all around into Gordian knots until he has his victory. He’s not sure that that part of him will ever return, will ever fully recover from

(the world is against you and you are alone and you can trust no one for they will shake your hand with a smile in their eyes and stab you in the back as soon as you forget yourself and turn)

those dark days, the days that took his charisma and twisted it into spite and paranoia and manipulation. Words that once were sweet drip down bitter-sharp, or shrivel on his tongue before they can breathe at all.

“Huh—oh!” Tubbo says. “It’s just Ranboo, Wilbur, don’t worry. Ranboo!”

Tubbo can see his stress, then, and that’s bad enough. He doesn’t need anyone else bearing witness to it. But Tubbo is already calling out and waving, and there is someone approaching them from off to the side of the path, someone very, very tall, half their skin pitch black and the other half stark white, a small golden crown perched in their hair. And Wilbur thinks, I have no fucking clue who this is, and a split second later, he thinks, Oh, it’s Ranboo, and the cognitive dissonance threatens to overwhelm him before he figures out its source.

He has never met this guy in his life. But Ghostbur did. Ghostbur—liked him? He’s fairly certain. Ghostbur liked everyone, of course, but they bonded, he’s pretty sure. Over memory problems? Ranboo has memory problems? That seems right?

What a mess.

“Hi,” Ranboo says. “Feels like it’s been a while. Oh, hey Gho—ostbur?” His voice trails off on the last word, going up about an octave and a half, suddenly very uncertain.

What does he remember about Ranboo? Soft-spoken, he thinks. Kind. Generally pretty nervous. A sardonic sense of humor, if you can get to it, one that made Ghostbur laugh. That’s all he can come up with. He was with Tubbo’s L’Manberg, but he doesn’t know what happened to him after—well. After.

He steps forward, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. “Not really,” he says. “Alivebur is more accurate.” He pauses. “Please just call me Wilbur, though. It’s nice to meet you. In the flesh, that is.”

Ranboo’s eyes widen. He’s not making eye contact, fixing his gaze just to Wilbur’s left instead, and—ah. That’s right. Enderman.

“Wow,” Ranboo says. “Uh, yeah! Nice to meet you too, I guess? Um, has this been a thing, or…?”

“Recent development,” Tubbo says. “We’re taking it slow.”

He feels like he should object to that phrasing. It makes him sound a bit like he’s… in their care or something like that, though he supposes that’s not entirely inaccurate. He’s hardly made strides to go and do anything by himself.

“Oh,” Ranboo says. He pauses. “Well, that’s cool. Do you know how?” He seems to regret the question immediately, holding his hands up in front of him, placating. “Not that you have to tell me or anything! But it’s just, I was there when Phil tried to resurrect you that one time, I don’t know if you remember. And it didn’t really seem to work?”

“You’re fine,” he says. “We don’t really know. We’re rolling with it.”

“That’s fair,” Ranboo says, and there is a moment of awkward silence. Wilbur can tell that he wants to ask something else, but he refrains, shifting nervously from foot to foot. “Um, so I was just at the spider spawner. Needed to fix some armor. What are you guys up to?”

“We want to see the Egg,” Tommy says. “Have you seen the Egg, Ranboo?”

“The Egg?” Ranboo repeats. “You mean the one with the, uh—” He gestures around them, presumably at the vines that sprawl across the ground nearby. “No, I haven’t seen it. I don’t really want to, if I’m entirely honest. Kind of creepy, how people are fawning over it. I mean, it’s just an egg. Presumably. So I’m not really interested in getting involved.”

“We’re going to draw stuff all over it if it’s small,” Tommy says. “I’ve decided that just now.”

“Oh?” Ranboo says, and then doesn’t seem to know where to go with it.

“You could come with us if you wanted,” Tubbo says, but Ranboo shakes his head.

“Nah, I should be getting home. I have to feed Enderchest,” he says. “It was nice seeing you guys, though. And you, Wilbur. Um, welcome back to life, I guess?” He hesitates. “I gotta ask, does Phil know? Because we’re neighbors, and I was wondering if I should say anything about it or not.”

“You’re neighbors?” Wilbur asks, and looks at Ranboo in a new light. Young, anxious, in need of a secure place to stay once L’Manberg was destroyed—huh. That fits the bill. That fits the bill exactly. This is the type of kid that he can see Phil getting attached to.

(his heart’s always been too big for his own good, too soft despite all the years he’s lived, though he has to wonder why Ranboo is allowed a place and not Tommy, not the child he took in as his own years and years ago)

(it’s a matter of betrayal, perhaps, perceived on both sides, and which is right, he doesn’t know)

(he’s not going to tell Tommy that he’s not angry about L’Manberg’s destruction, because that might be a betrayal in and of itself)

“Huh,” he says, instead of voicing any of his thoughts aloud. “No, Phil knows, I’ve seen him. Him and Techno both.”

“Okay, good to know,” Ranboo says, and he really does look relieved. “Good luck with the Egg.”

“See you around, Ranboo,” Tubbo says. “You should stop by Snowchester sometime.”

“I’ll make sure to do that,” Ranboo says, and then with a slight wave and a bit of a smile, he’s walking off along the path. Wilbur stares after him for a moment, which is why he sees how he stops and pulls out a book after he’s gone a few dozen meters and begins rapidly scribbling in it.

His memory book. He remembers that.

“See, that wasn’t so bad,” Tubbo says. They start walking again, and then they leave the path and start crossing the grass. The vines become thicker, more frequent. Something about them fills him with a sense of unease. Probably their color; outside of the nether, nothing is quite that shade of red, a dark crimson that reminds him of nothing so much as blood. Not dried blood, not the color it gets when it’s caked on like rust,

(coating his sleeves and he didn’t clean them so the blood is still there and he can smell it and the sword is in his hand and the stains are never going to come out)

but rather, it’s as if it’s frozen in time, still glistening, ready to flow again when the force holding it back gives way.

“I remember Ranboo,” he says absently. “Sort of. Ghostbur liked him. Though I guess that’s not really an accomplishment.”

And then, they’re at a short structure built into the earth, a ladder leading down. He peers over the edge, and can just barely make out a pool of water at the bottom, intended to break a fall.

“The spawner’s down there,” Tubbo says. “But I’m pretty sure there’s a tunnel that connects it to underneath Bad’s mansion, and that’s where the Egg is. Are we ready?”

“Of course we’re ready,” Tommy scoffs. He’s grinning, bright and wild. It’s the promise of adventure, Wilbur supposes, excitement without too much danger. Something new to discover, perhaps a new prank to play. His enthusiasm is infectious, but somehow, he can’t bring himself to join in fully. The sun is still shining, but something heavy weighs on him now, something that he can’t place. It’s the vines, he thinks, their unsettling nature, and he can’t bring himself to be sure that this will be without risk.

But Tommy’s on the ladder. Tubbo’s got one leg over the side, preparing to follow. There’s nowhere to go but down.

They make it without incident, and the sound of at least a hundred spiders hits his ears as soon as his feet touch the ground. He winces, trying to ignore the skittering and shrieking, but it’s impossible to do so entirely. But Tubbo is right—there are several tunnels leading out of this room, and there is a fuzzy red glow emanating from one of them. He exchanges glances with Tommy, who is still grinning, and with Tubbo, who has a smile on his face. Neither of them think this could go wrong, then. He should probably trust to that. He’s been alive again for all of five days. They know the server better than he does, at the moment.

They descend. He keeps his hand near the hilt of his sword.

He wishes Schlatt were here, just a little bit. His presence would be irritating, but reassuring. Reassuring to have another adult here, little help though he would be. Reassuring to have someone who could make fun of the situation, distract him from his mounting sense of dread. But he hasn’t seen Schlatt since yesterday, since he vanished from the prison, and he

(isn’t worried, not one bit)

can’t help but wonder where he is, what he’s doing. It’s not like anyone else can see him, not like he can touch anything. So how is he occupying his time?

It’s warm down here.

The heat is stifling, humid, like a swamp, almost, but worse, because there are fumes as well, and that acrid scent that comes hand in hand with lava. As they enter the main chamber, it is easy enough to see why: there are patches of lava and molten rock all across the floor, and vines hang down from the ceiling and cover nearly every square inch of space. The floor itself is obsidian, he notices. And there, in the corner—

It can only be the egg. He can’t tell how tall it is, can barely see it though the clusters of vines dangling in front of him. But it is very large, and very red, and beside him, Tommy mutters a curse. Too big to vandalize quickly and hightail it out, but frankly, Wilbur feels as though that’s the least of their problems.

“That is a big egg,” Tubbo says. He sounds impressed.

“I’ve seen bigger,” Tommy grumbles, stepping further into the room. He almost trips over one of the vines, and he shoots a scowl at his feet.

“No you have not,” Tubbo says. “Where have you seen a bigger egg?”

“I—” Tommy stops. “C’mon, let’s go look at it.”

“No, no, I want to know where you’ve seen a bigger egg,” Tubbo presses, even as they walk forward, picking their way through the room carefully. “Wilbur, back me up, where has Tommy seen a bigger egg?”

“Maybe he laid one,” he replies, and that response makes no sense at all, but he can’t be bothered to put in the effort. The closer they get, the more his mind is screaming at him

(get out get out get out)

that something isn’t right about this, that they’ve made a mistake in coming down here, and there is a corner of his brain that is filling with static, buzzing and distracting and uncomfortable. And then they’re standing right in front of it, and that feeling multiplies tenfold.

The Egg is several times his height and even wider across, and it is a shade of red that is unparalleled even by its vines. It is a shade of red that seems to move, that seems to scream, that seems to drip and ooze into the air. It almost looks as though it is made of blood itself, as if he could put out a hand and stick it right though, and he almost tries it before he balks at the idea, every instinct he has rejecting the urge.

No. This Egg is not for touching.

“I’m not sure I like this,” Tubbo murmurs after a moment. His ears lie flat against his head.

“It’s just an egg,” Tommy says. “Don’t be a pussy. Wil, what do you think?”

Wilbur opens his mouth and finds that he cannot reply.

“Do you think I could break a piece off?” Tommy asks. “Like a souvenir?”

“You shouldn’t do that,” someone says, and Wilbur jerks violently, his sword half unsheathed before he’s given himself permission for the action.

BadBoyHalo. It’s BadBoyHalo, only not, not Bad as Wilbur remembers him, because his face has taken on an ashen grey pallor, and his capillaries spread out like a web across his face, and they are the same white as his eyes. The same stark white, but somehow sickly, and blood shouldn’t be that color, blood should not be white, and Bad’s face itself looks gaunt and shadowed, half-starved, and his smile, once so kind and genial, is something predatory, something threatening. Bad is a demon, but he has never been a monster, and now Wilbur isn’t so sure that there isn’t a terrible thing peering at him out of those white, blank eyes, a terrible thing that isn’t Bad at all.

Antfrost stands beside him, and Antfrost’s eyes are red instead of blue.

“Hi Tommy, Tubbo,” Bad says. His voice is chipper, pleasant, and yet— “Hi, Wilbur! I didn’t realize that you were back! Have you come to see the Egg?”

Should Bad be this blasé about his appearance? He doesn’t think so. They were never friends.

(and even his friends were not his friends, by the end)

“Yeah, we wanted to check it out,” Tubbo says.

“That’s great,” Bad says. “Visitors are always welcome. It’s a fantastic egg, isn’t it?”

The question is searching, probing. He’s looking for a specific answer. Wilbur thinks that it would be a bad idea to give him the wrong one.

“I mean, it’s very big,” Tommy says.

“It is, it is,” Bad agrees, nodding amiably. “Are you liking it so far? I mean, are you having fun?”

Wilbur opens his mouth, intending to say yes, intending to say it’s the best egg in all the world, intending to say anything and everything that Bad so clearly wants to hear if only it will get them out of here sooner. But his mind is filled with static and he is too slow to the mark, so it is Tommy that answers.

“It’s fine, I guess,” he says. “Your decorations are shit, though. It’s too crowded down here. If I were a decorating expert, which I am, I’d say that you might try to clear some of this out, you know?”

“That’s—an interesting suggestion, Tommy,” Bad says, and his smile is much more strained. He doesn’t bother to hide it. It’s like a thin gash in his face. “I’ll bear that in mind.” He tilts his head. “I like it like this, though. I think it really gives life to the room. And we wouldn’t want to do anything to hurt it.”

“Hurt it?” Tommy repeats, and Wilbur’s heart is suddenly in his throat, with no reason as to why. “It’s a fucking egg.”

Bad goes very still. Very still, and very quiet. Antfrost’s eyes gleam, and his ears twitch.

“It’s a very good Egg,” Bad says. “Maybe you should listen to what it has to say. I bet it has something to offer you.”

That doesn’t—that doesn’t make any sense. Bad isn’t making any sense, and it’s a kind of nonsense that is unnerving, made worse by his apparent sincerity. Wilbur tries to reach out, tries to get Tommy’s attention, tries to get him close, but his arms won’t move. All of his limbs feel thick, heavy, and his head is spinning, airy and light and disconnected, and Bad and Ant are intimidating figures, suddenly, figures that stand between them and the exit. Wilbur thinks that perhaps, he should draw his sword. He doesn’t like the way that Bad is talking, doesn’t like the way that Ant is staring.

Instead, he turns his head to look at the Egg.

Tommy barks a laugh, loud and incredulous, and it’s like someone has driven a pickaxe through Wilbur’s skull. He moans faintly, but no one seems to notice. The room is swimming.

“Have you gone nutters?” Tommy asks. “It’s a fucking Egg. I don’t see a mouth on it anywhere. In fact, if it has a mouth, I don’t want to know about it, because that is fucking disgusting—”

“Actually,” Tubbo says quietly, “I think I can hear it.”

Tommy stops.

“You what?”

“You do?” Bad asks. He takes a step forward. Wilbur wants to take a step back. He doesn’t move. He’s looking at the Egg, and he can’t tear his gaze away, despite what’s happening in the corner of his eye, because there’s something just on the edge of his perception that he can’t—

“What is it saying to you?” Bad continues.

“It’s saying—” Tubbo’s face scrunches up. “Actually, I really don’t think I like this. I think we should go. What I can make out isn’t very polite.” His voice wavers, wobbles, like a spinning top running out of momentum.

“Really,” Bad says. His voice has gone flat. “I think you should stay and listen some more. It might grow on you.”

“Um, no,” Tommy says, “no, I think that’s a bad idea, actually. I don’t want to—is this some kind of cult? Are you a cult, BadBoyHalo? Is this Egg your cult leader? I think we should not listen to the Egg cult. This is weird. This is fucking weird. Tubbo, do you want to go? Let’s go.”

Tommy makes a motion. Wilbur can’t tell what. He’s looking at the Egg, and his vision is blurry. But he can see the way that Bad steps forward again, the way that Ant steps to the other side. Their netherite armor gleams. The message is clear: if they want to leave, they go through them, and Wilbur can barely think past the way his head is pounding, but this was a bad idea. This was so clearly a bad idea.

Was this Dream’s plan all along? Get them down here, get them into—whatever situation this is?

“Hold on just a minute,” Bad says. “I don’t think you’ve given the Egg a fair chance. The Egg wants what’s best for everyone, and that means you guys, too. How about you, Wilbur, do you like the Egg?”

He opens his mouth. No sound comes out. The room is swaying. The Egg is right there. He could touch it.

(static static static and beneath it there is)

Tommy is at his elbow, gripping his sleeve. “C’mon, big man, you feeling alright? You’re looking awfully pale.” A moment, and then, “Wilbur? Wilbur? Tubbo, something’s wrong with him. Come on, Wilbur, let’s go.”

“Do you hear the Egg, Wilbur?” Bad asks, soft and steady, and his voice slices through the fog.

Because he—

He—

(glowing and red and creeping and comforting and sickly and familiar)

He hears it.

A whisper, trailing just on the borderline of audibility. A whisper, rasping and knife-edged, and it feels like a hand, like a hand is reaching into his brain, touching his mind, dragging its fingertips on his thoughts, and he is shaking, and he can’t stop. It is a whisper, and he doesn’t understand the words, but their meaning filters through to him all the same.

It whispers to him of fire. He can hear it crackling. He can hear it burning. He can feel it on his flesh, eating him, eating up his skin and his sinews and his bones until he is ash, ash mingling with the ash of his city. He is on fire and the fire hurts and it is a beautiful pain, a pain to revel in, a pain that he has chosen, a pain that has him grinning even as his lips burn away and bare his teeth, bare his skull, a permanent smile, a smile that means he’s won. His fingers are clenched around the match, his fingers are caressing the button, his fingers are grasping the hilt of the sword as he forces Phil’s arm to drive it forward. But it doesn’t matter, because he is the fire and he is the ash, and he is eaten away and he eats everything else, a serpent consuming his own tail and screaming and laughing and choking all the while.

It whispers to him of fire. You could burn the world, it says, and dance in the ruins, dance on the flickering spark-soaked wind, and it will be of you, their destruction, because if you cannot have it then no one deserves it so why not grant them the wreckage their betrayals have wrought?

His blood sings with it, with the thrill of it, with the desperate, ugly longing for it, the beast that lives under his skin rising to the surface, and unlike the kraken it breathes and it lives and it howls.

“Wilbur?”

He comes back to himself, a bit, and finds that he is smiling in truth, his lips pulled back, his teeth on display.

“Wilbur?” Tommy says again. “Wilbur, we need to go.”

Tommy doesn’t understand. Tommy doesn’t hear it. Doesn’t hear the voice, doesn’t hear its promises, its wonderful, wonderful promises. But that’s alright. He will, in time, and until then, Wilbur can understand for the both of them.

“Everything’s going to be alright,” he tells him. “You’ll see. Can’t you hear it, Tommy? The world is on fire!”

He laughs, giddy. The room is spinning, and he with it, and his head throbs in time with his heart.

It whispers to him of a song.

A song, rife with drumbeats, thudding like the steps of a hundred armies, a million soldiers fighting and dying on the field. He was one of them, once, was Ares and led them all to blood. Blood, red and flowing, and what a lovely color it is. The blood is in the song, too, a plink plink plink of high staccato notes, a thrumming bass line that goes down in steps, a celebration

(no no no it’s a ground bass it’s a lament it’s a lament)

for the life spilling on the ground, for the life that is sacrificed, for the life that is fed to the cause, to the symphony, to the symphony! It understands his symphony, can sing in harmony with it! He’s gone so very long playing by himself, and yet here is something that knows the tune.

“No,” Tommy says, his voice shaking like a leaf on the breeze, “no, no, Wilbur, Wilbur, you’ve got to stop it, you’re scaring me, Wilbur, please—”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” he replies, because he must make it clear, must make Tommy understand. “The symphony’s still there, Tommy, can’t you hear it? It’s kept on without me, but I’m here now. I can continue it how I want.” He widens his smile. “I can leave it how I want. I can leave it unfinished again. I can make sure that no one finishes it.”

Tubbo makes a noise, like a small scream. Tommy is silent.

“The Egg can do it, Tommy,” he says. “The Egg can do it. All you have to do is listen. Please, Tommy, for me, can’t you hear it?”

Finally, finally, he wrenches his gaze away from the Egg. Bad and Ant have moved closer, Tommy and Tubbo farther away. Tommy’s eyes are wide, and blue, and terrified.

(blue)

“No,” Tommy answers. “No, Wilbur, I can’t hear it. I don’t want to hear it.”

“We can fix that,” Bad offers, and Wilbur turns his smile on him. “All you have to do is stay down here for a little while. How does that sound?”

“It sounds bad! It sounds very, very bad!” Tommy erupts. “We’re not fucking staying down here, not when you’ve made Wilbur go all—” He gestures, and Wilbur doesn’t understand what he’s trying to say. He feels fine, feels real, feels exultant, and he’d thought such emotions lost to him, so shouldn’t Tommy be happy for him? “We’re leaving, and if you try to stop us, then I’ll—fuck, I’ll stab the fucking thing and crack it open, and you can be all weird and cultish over the yolk.” As he says it, he pulls out a sword of his own, netherite and shining with enchantments, waving it wildly in the Egg’s direction.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Tommy,” Bad says, and then looks to Ant. “We’ll remove the obstacle. Tubbo and Wilbur can stay here.”

That sounds like a good idea. He’ll stay here, and the Egg will give him everything it promised in exchange for his devotion. And Tubbo will learn, in time, to love it. It is unfortunate, about Tommy, but those who threaten the Egg must either be brought around or they must be disposed of,

(wait)

and Tommy is never inclined to listen after he’s gotten an idea in his head. He’s terribly stubborn like that. So if he’s decided to oppose the Egg, there’s only one thing left to do.

Wilbur draws his sword, and in unison with Bad and Ant, steps toward Tommy. Tubbo shouts a denial, fumbling for his own weapon, but Tommy just stands there, staring at him, a look on his face that

(is horror and betrayal and you promised to protect him promised you wouldn’t hurt him anymore so what are you doing)

does something strange to his stomach, and—

The Egg is calling for his death, calling for his blood. But this—

This is Tommy. His little brother. He’s striding toward his little brother with his sword in his hand, and this isn’t—

The Egg whispers. Wilbur hears it. And it

(is going to hurt Tommy)

is going to hurt Tommy. He sees it in his mind: Tommy’s limbs sprawled on the ground, Tommy’s eyes gazing up sightlessly, Tommy’s shirt wet with blood, Tommy dead and Tommy gone, and a wave of revulsion washes over him. Tubbo is moving forward, is moving to protect, but Ant engages him, and Bad is too close to Tommy, and Bad’s sword is raised, is poised to strike, and Tommy reacts too late and he’s not going to get his own sword up in time and the Egg is so loud and demanding and Wilbur can hear it but he doesn’t want—

He catches Bad’s blade on his own. Interposes himself between Bad and Tommy.

“Get the fuck away from him,” he growls.

Bad’s eyes widen.

“Don’t you want to protect the Egg?” he asks, and Wilbur reels, because a large part of him wants to say yes, wants to say that he will give the Egg anything and everything it wants. But the problem is that there is another part of him, now, a part that puts Tommy’s safety above all else, and that part of him is trembling and shaking and terrified, and the Egg doesn’t feel like a soothing whisper but instead like a snarl, and there are still fingers in his brain but he can recognize them for what they are, for what they’re doing, can recognize that they’re fucking with his thoughts, yanking them around like a marionette on a string, and—

“Get out of my head,” he cries out, and goes on the offensive, and Bad must be surprised, because he allows himself to be driven back. The Egg screams, and he screams, too, because it’s loud and his head hurts so bad and part of him wants desperately to follow its commands and he feels as though he’s being ripped in half.

(it’s in his head it’s in his head it’s a violation it’s scraping off his skin hollowing him out and putting itself inside and he doesn’t want it doesn’t want it he wants it out wants it out out out)

There is a clang, a clatter of armor, and Wilbur chances a glance back to see that Tubbo’s gotten one up on Ant, somehow, and he’s grabbed Tommy’s hand and then Tommy’s grabbing his, and they’re all running. And Bad lets them go, sprints over to Ant instead, and they’re going to get out, they’re going to get out—

The Egg whispers to him of rest.

(it’s in his head and it won’t leave and it’s like worms writhing under his skin but)

He digs his heels into the floor and turns back. Tommy is shouting something and Tubbo is shouting something and they’re both pulling on his hands, but he won’t let himself budge.

The Egg whispers to him of rest, tells him, If you will not take the fire, then why not take the dark, they will be safe and unharmed without you there to burn them and you can find your peace again, that comforting nothingness that allowed you to drift, and

(yes)

yes, he wants that, wants that so badly, because he was dragged back to life, dragged back into the world that cut him down to the quick, that formed all his sharp edges, and for Tommy’s sake, he can pretend, but he doesn’t want to be here. And the red of the Egg is comforting again, its glow soothing and warm, and All you have to do is give in, it says to him, all you have to do is let go and the peace is yours and who could blame you for taking it back when it was wrongfully wrested away from you?

“Come on, Wilbur!” Tommy is shouting.

“It’s offering me rest, Tommy,” he says, and his voice is agonized. “It’s offering—I want to rest, Tommy.”

“Wha—no!” Tommy says, and from the shock in his voice, the horror, Wilbur knows that he understands exactly what he means. “No rest! You—you fucking promised, Wilbur, you told me that you were glad to be here!”

(it’s in his head and it’s using his mouth but it’s only saying what he’s been hiding, has brought these thoughts to the surface, to the light)

“I lied,” he says. “Tommy, I want to rest. Please, let me go.”

(his father stands in front of him, his sword in his hand, and his eyes are bewildered and hurt and confused and terrified, and he knows that with the way he is, it will only take a push for him to get what he wants, only a push to provoke his father into a reaction, and he is so very selfish but he is far past caring, because the symphony is unfinished and he is ready to go he is ready to go)

He looks at Tommy. Tommy is crying.

“Fuck you,” Tommy snarls. “Fuck you, we’re leaving, we’re leaving right fucking now, Tubbo, help me—”

And they are pulling him back, pulling him back and away, but he is struggling, fighting them, because

(please let me go please let me go)

the red is so warm and so soothing and as long as it’s not asking him to hurt Tommy, it’s alright, really, and he wants this, he does, and all of his earlier thoughts about fingers and puppets have dissipated and he wants this, he’s sure that he does, and Tommy and Tubbo aren’t letting him, they aren’t letting him go. And Ant is on his feet again, and he and Bad are advancing, and if he can just get to them, they will help him, they will understand—

And then everything gets very confusing. Because there is another voice, suddenly, one he doesn’t recognize. More sounds of fighting, and he doesn’t know who is fighting who, because the world is fading away around him, and his vision is just red. And then he’s being manhandled, and he wants to keep struggling, but his limbs aren’t responding, and someone is carrying him up a ladder, and then he’s being set on the grass, and the nausea hits him hard and quick, and he’s retching, bile coming up, and he’s choking on it and he can’t get any air—

And there are flashes. More nausea. His head pounding, like someone’s tried to make a jigsaw puzzle out of his skull. Water, cool and refreshing, and the red subsides, but he hurts, hurts so very much.

Tommy’s voice, yelling. A glimpse of Tommy’s face. And then, Wilbur is out.

#mcyt #dsmp #dream smp #dsmp fic #wilbur soot #tommyinnit #tubbo #ranboo #badboyhalo #alivebur #/rp #cat writes fic #long post