#and i grew up pretty solidly middle class too

[discipleofkleio]

I am kind of annoyed at all these "easy recipes" I see everywhere where you need all the popular electrical appliances like a blender, air fryer, and rice cooker. Not everyone has those things, rendering "easy" recipes that rely on them impossible because no one explains how to do the recipe in any other way.

[omgthatdress]

Re-living my childhood and working on doing a fashion history spam of the American Girl dolls!

Oh my god I can’t begin to tell you what a huge part of my childhood those dolls were. Before I go on, let me clarify my family’s financial circumstance growing up: I was a pretty solidly middle-class only child. I definitely wasn’t rich, but my mom was willing to spend a lot of money on buying me a shitload of American Girl stuff because A.) she thought they were cool, and B.) they provided a much smarter alternative to Barbies. And when I grew up and got too old for them, I was able to give my stuff over to my younger cousins.

Looking at what the brand has to offer now, it’s pretty clear that the brand has changed over time and that the emphasis has gone from the historical dolls to the modern ones. Honestly, that’s not a 100% terrible thing. I fully embrace change as a part of the universe, and if it’s a part of the survival of the brand, so be it. As long as the historical dolls remain in tact and the brand integrity is respected. And for the most part, until very recent years, it looks like it has been.

Mattel bought the American Girl brand in 1998, and from then on, you can see the brand shifting away from the original five dolls. I’m going to get waaay more into this with the spam, but really, the historical dolls until very recently have actually remained pretty great. If there’s one really broad critique I could give, it’s that the overall color palette skews towards the modern, with a lot of very bright colors and a heavy emphasis on pink, but when taken individually, the pieces remain very accurate.

HERE’S THE THING! In 2016, a new historical girl was released: Maryellen, repping the 1950s. She’s blonde and has blue eyes, following shortly on Julie, who repped the 1970s and also had blonde hair and blue eyes. You can kind of see a theme developing here. The girls from the 30s, 50, 70s, 80s, and 90s are all blonde with blue eyes. You’d think that girls in the 20th century were only blondes. But anyway I’m getting away from the point. Maryellen was released with only TWO books! The fuck?! Maryellen’s collection remained the same very immersive collection that I love about the brand, but clearly, shit’s changing.

The next historical dolls, Nenea (repping Hawaii after Pearl Harbor), Melody (repping Black girls, Motown, and civil rights in the 60s), Courtney (repping blonde hair blue eyed girls with 80s nostalgia and very little historical engagement), Claudie, (Black girl in the 1920s Harlem Renaissance) and Isabelle and Nicki (again blonde girls repping 90s nostalgia with little historical engagement) all only have two books. The brand has LITERALLY been diminished. The books were an equally important part of the playset, not only providing context for the garments and objects you were playing with, providing REAL, often complex lessons about history, making history feel real and relatable, but they fleshed out the girls, their lives, and the worlds they lived in. They made what you were playing with more than just a playset, more than just a dollhouse or Barbie accessories, they were a whole universe for girls to explore.

Like I said at the beginning, I didn’t grow up rich. I definitely had more privilege than others out there, but I still wasn’t the rich kid villain from a 90s kids movie. I had a lot of American Girl shit because my mom saw the value in the brand and was willing to spend a lot of money on it in a way that she wouldn’t be willing to spend a lot of money on Barbies.

Honestly, I don’t know the toy industry, I don’t know what little girls today want out of their dolls. I know that times change, and that what’s beloved in one generation isn’t necessarily going to be carry over to the next. But I find it hard to believe that little girls straight up no longer are interested in history, and that moms no longer want to give their daughters toys that will actually teach them things. I’ve read a lot of articles about how the brand is struggling, and I don’t think it’s a generational divide. Mattel has fucked up the brand, and I am not just saying that out of Boomer toxic nostalgia that says that everything from the past is GOOD, everything today is BAD, and that anything that changes is inherently not only bad but a personal insult. The stuff that made these expensive dolls worth buying just isn’t there.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for not wanting to tell an ex-friend why I broke off our friendship?

So me and this ex-friend (let’s call him John) had been friends since we were in kindergarten. John is white and very securely upper middle class. I am mixed-race white and Cherokee, and am solidly lower middle class. Our friendship was based mostly on the fact that I was autistic and nobody wanted to be friends with me, so he swooped in and “saved” me from having no friends. As kids, we were super into fantasy stuff. By we, I mean he was and I pretended to be. In our larger friend group, I was always sidelined in favor of a (white upper middle class) girl who John had a crush on. Me being a background character in activities/groups that were supposed to include me is a running theme in my life. When John gave me attention, I felt like I was special and stood out from everyone else. When he didn’t give me attention, I felt like it was my fault nobody noticed me except to ridicule me. When K think about our friendship now, the red flags pop up often and frequently.

I have a younger brother, who is about two years younger than me. He quickly became friends with John, and often joined us in hanging out. As we grew older, the things we did when we hang out didn’t age with us. John and I were in, like, fourth grade and still pretend-fighting in fantasy settings because he wanted to, and I just went with it.

So, I don’t clearly remember the inciting incident, but once when we were hanging out, when I was in late elementary school or early middle school, John assaulted me. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t sexual assault but I’ve tried to block it out of my memory, and it was over something small. I think I might have accidentally hit or tripped my brother and didn’t want to apologize, because my brother had threatened to hit me earlier, and I wanted him to apologize first. I don’t want to get too deep into the assault, but I was pinned down and forced to apologize to my brother, who stood there and egged John on. John said he would his family’s wealth to make sure nobody would believe me, and told me nobody would want to associate with my family if I was public about the assault. I eventually escaped, and I didn’t tell anyone for about a year.

From a few weeks after the assault until literally this month, John has been trying to get in touch with me. I’ve told my mom to pass on the message “You know why we can’t go back to being friends”, to which he responded (via him telling his mom telling mine because I’ve cut off contact with him) that he doesn’t know what he did and he just wants to hang out with me again. Which. Nah. Absolutely not. He keeps persisting, and I have to go to the same school as him this year for the first time since third grade (I’m in high school). My brother keeps taunting me with this information, and I’m just so tired of him acting like it was me just being a dramatic. I know he doesn’t view assault as “that big of a deal,” but damn. I’m his sibling. He also keeps hassling me about reconnecting, and has repeatedly said he won’t leave me alone until I provide an “actual” reason to not be friends with John? He claimed I was being an “unfair asshole”, a “drama queen”, “too sensitive”, and a “bitch” about it.

TL:DR My ex-friend who I had a pretty fucked-up relationship with and who assaulted me wants to reconnect with me despite my desire to go completely no contact. My brother thinks I’m the asshole for this, and that I’m making a big deal of not wanting to interact with the ex-friend at school this year. AITA?

What are these acronyms?

[thebreakfastgenie]

Like, okay. I see it this way, though bear in mind there are inconsistencies with nearly all these characters' backgrounds:

Radar is rural working class. His family are farmers and live on that.

Klinger is urban working class. There are indications some of his relatives obtain money and goods through shady dealings to supplement this.

Trapper is never defined in the show. I've always felt his background was working class, though not dirt poor, but there is really no canon on the show version of the character. He seems to have a relatively comfortable middle class life with his wife and kids, though details are thin on that too, which makes me think he was out of residency and in practice for a couple of years before being drafted.

Mulcahy is from a large Irish Catholic family that is at least implied to be working class. I would not be surprised if there is a decent amount of education in his family via the church, however.

Henry seems to be from a middle class background, but I don't think he's from multiple generations of doctors. His father was probably either a skilled tradesman or a professional, with a high school education not likely not more. Henry was also born around 1905, for reference. His connection to the army may well have been that he became a reservist in order to pay for his education. He's achieved middle class success in his adult life by the time we meet him, owing to his successful private medical practice.

Frank is also from a middle class background. He's said to have married into money, so he probably did not grow up with much, but I don't think he grew up in poverty. He's also implied to have skipped specialized training to go right into private practice and start making money. Because this is so early, I suspect it's a reference to the book version of Frank, who did not complete a residency and instead went into practice with his father, who was also a doctor.

Hawkeye is from a financially stable rural background. He was never struggling, but did not grow up with luxuries either. He probably did not have financial support available from his father during college, medical school, or residency, so he probably had a poor student phase. He doesn't seem to have made much money in practice prior to being drafted, but he was on track to do so eventually. Unless he returns to a surgical career sometime after the war, he will probably remain more or less how he grew up: a financially stable rural doctor.

Margaret is middle class, but being an army brat makes her cultural background a little different from someone with a middle class civilian upbringing. She never had the stability of staying in one place for very long, but was always provided for by the army. Her father was also a well-regarded officer, so there is a certain level of social clout associated. Her marriage to Donald, had it lasted, would certainly have increased her wealth and social standing.

BJ is solidly middle class. He grew up with certain luxuries. He's also a third generation doctor. From the one episode that discusses it, I get the sense that Peg's parents were relatively well-off as far as ranchers go. We also know that Peg supplemented their income. BJ seems to come from a background where education and professional success were expected.

Potter is perhaps the most upwardly mobile character. He grew up on a farm, though seemingly a pretty successful one. His uncle was a veterinarian, so there was some exposure to life outside agriculture in his family. But he seems to have achieved social mobility primarily though his military service. He started as an enlisted soldier then used the army to get an education and continued to serve as a doctor and officer. He enjoyed a comfortable middle class life with Mildred as a result of this career.

Charles is upperclass and wealthy. He has family connections and elite education.

[goodlucktai]

Could you write something about natsume getting a hug?? Just, from whoever n for whatever reason. I keep thinking about how no one ever really hugs him n it makes me sad

x

The absolute last person Joji expected to see today was Natsume Takashi.

Joji slows to a stop on the corner of the street, a block away from the train station, and stares shamelessly.

It's been a decade since the last time he saw Natsume, but he recognizes him immediately. Of course he does. His light hair and eyes aside, Joji has thought about him on-and-off since junior high.

Joji remembers that rainy day when he was thirteen, an empty desk in the middle of his eighth grade classroom, Ito leaning over in his chair to whisper, "Did you hear? Natsume was in the ER. He almost died. The police are looking at his foster parents."

It was as if he'd been plunged into a pool of ice water. He sat there, frozen, while their teacher called them to attention for homeroom and announced that Natsume wouldn't be in their class going forward.

What was the last thing Joji had said to him? "It's no wonder your parents didn't want you." Why the hell had he said that? A book, if he remembers right. He'd lent it to Natsume and Natsume gave it back all water-damaged, like he'd gone for a swim with his backpack on. Natsume's eyes were on his hands, on the ruined book, and he'd tried to apologize, said he'd pay for it, but Joji just snatched it away, ticked off.

"This is what I get for trying to help you, I guess. It's no wonder your parents didn't want you."

Joji is almost twenty-four now. He's going into pediatrics. His fiance, Sakura, is a foster parent. She is currently the proud and fiercely protective mother of two beautiful twin girls.

Sora and Miu are terrified of adults and they go everywhere together and sometimes they make up stories. Sometimes they lie, about why their uniforms are torn, why they're home late, why their lunchboxes are covered in dirt. They have this look in their eyes sometimes like they're just waiting to get hurt again.

Sakura has the patience of a saint. She never raises her voice. She stitches their torn uniforms, replaces their lunchboxes, and, on more than one occasion, has marched into their junior high school and threatened the staff with physical violence if her babies come home with bruises one more time.

Needless to say, Sora and Miu adore her. It took them longer to warm up to Joji, but they're there now; no longer flinching when he moves in their direction, greeting him happily when he comes over for breakfast, smiling shyly when he staggers into the apartment underneath the weight of two giant stuffed rabbits that cost nearly half his paycheck, because it's their birthday, Sakura, they need them.

Joji tries to imagine someone telling them "this is why your parents didn't want you" and goes absolutely breathless with rage.

Natsume glances up from his phone to look right at Joji, as if someone had pointed him out. Caught staring, Joji shuffles in place for a moment, and then squares his shoulders and heads over.

He's expecting the Natsume of his memory; he's expecting him to curl his shoulders and duck his head, the way Joji's girls still sometimes do when a stern auntie wants to talk to them.

He's not expecting Natsume to level him with a clear, politely confused gaze. He pockets his phone, and shoves his hands into the front pockets of the cardigan he's wearing; a size too big, like something he borrowed out of someone else's closet, but it's a charming look on him. He's dressed well, in dark-washed jeans and white high-top sneakers, and his silvery hair is long, probably long enough to fall past his shoulders if he didn't have it piled up in a bun. There's a squat calico cat at his feet, glaring up at Joji with judgmental green eyes.

"Can I help you?" Natsume asks kindly. His voice is a shock to the system; Joji remembers him like it was yesterday.

"Oh," Joji says, stymied. It never occurred to him that Natsume might not recognize him in turn. "Um, I'm Watanabe Joji. We were classmates in eighth grade."

"That's right," Natsume says with gratifying quickness. He looks a little embarrassed now and returns Joji's short bow. "Sorry, it's been a long time."

And we weren't exactly friends, he doesn't say, but that common knowledge sits neatly between them.

"Ten years!" Joji replies with some forced enthusiasm. "Is that why you're here?"

"Sorry?"

"The, ah, reunion this weekend? Ito, from our homeroom back then, put together a whole thing. Our whole class is getting together for dinner and drinks."

It occurs to him that Natsume might not have been invited. Joji thinks that's less because he isn't welcome and more because Ito almost certainly didn't have his contact information. The few times his name has come up, Joji's friends have gone quiet and melancholy. A few of them are parents now, or aunts and uncles at least. All of them know better than they did when they were mean, shitty little teenagers.

Joji opens his mouth to assure Natsume that they'd love to have him, but Natsume cuts him off with a laugh.

It's not a mean laugh. It's not unfriendly in the slightest. But it stings anyway, because Natsume is laughing out of pure disbelief.

"No, no," he says, waving a hand, "god, no. Could you imagine?" he adds, glancing down at the cat. The cat huffs, settling a little more solidly against Natsume's ankle. "We're just passing through, actually."

"We?" Joji asks dumbly. Did he mean himself and the cat?

It's Natsume's turn to get cut-off, this time by a long, drawn-out shout of "Takashiiii!"

A short, russet-haired young man around Joji's age comes barreling down the sidewalk toward them at a flat-out run. Joji's first inclination is one of alarm, but Natsume steps forward with his arms outstretched, and the stranger collides with him in an embrace that looks like it hurts.

Natsume is laughing again, but it's softer this time. It's the warmest sound Joji has ever heard him make.

"What's this for?" Natsume is saying, patting him on the back.

"Just missed you," his friend replies.

"You saw him twenty minutes ago, Satoru," comes the exasperated call from further down the road, and Joji glances over to find a small group headed their way, laden with shopping bags.

"Yeah, exactly," Satoru says, leaning back without letting go, just enough to gaze up at Natsume with a cheeky grin. "I'm all Takashi-deficient. It's pretty serious."

"Sounds serious," Natsume replies, and agreeably keeps an arm wrapped around his shoulders as the rest of their group catches up.

A tall, dark-haired man stoops to pick up Natsume's cat, and it settles agreeably in the crook of his arm. The brown-eyed woman beside him lets out a coo, shifting all her bags to one hand so she has one free to scratch it behind the ears.

"We're being rude," the dark-haired man says in a soft, pleasant tone. "Who's this, Takashi?"

Natsume introduces Joji as an old classmate, giving absolutely none of their history away in tone or expression, but somehow all of his friends seem to clue in to something anyway. Their collective demeanor shifts, in an unidentifiable way, even if their polite smiles don't slip an inch as Takashi introduces each of them in turn.

All but Nishimura Satoru, still tucked up against Natsume's side, who gives Joji a positively poisonous look.

"Okay, Satchan, you're going to lose privileges if you can't be nice," Kitamoto says dryly, and extracts him from Natsume's person with a deftness that speaks of years of practice.

"Nooo," Nishimura says, but it's curbed quickly by Shibata shoving a bag at him and snapping, "Carry this! It's that stupid lucky cat statue you just had to have, and it's heavy!"

"It looks just like sensei! Tooru loves it, too!"

"I do," Taki admits.

It's a warm afternoon, right at the end of August, the sky turning golden with the beginnings of dusk. Joji still manages to feel cold.

He grew up, but Natsume did, too. He always regretted what he did, he always wondered if Natsume was okay, wherever he went, but Natsume hasn't seemed to spare him a second thought. He's got his own friends now; bright, kind people who look like they'd raise hell for him. Who run to meet him.

Joji missed the chance to have a place in Natsume's life. He's a footnote, now, and not a very good one.

"Jojojojo!"

The bright voices have him spinning around, forgetting everything else, and he lights up when he spots Sora and Miu waving at him from the other side of the street. Sakura has a firm hold on their jackets so they can't go spilling out into the street until the pedestrian crossing sign lights up, and then she releases them like a couple of eager hunting dogs.

Natsume's friends shuffle to one side politely, and Joji steps forward to catch his girls when they reach him. They're so beautiful and he missed them so much, this weekend they were away to visit Sakura's parents. He kisses them each on the head, and then kisses Sakura on the head in the name of fairness, and it makes all three of them laugh.

Taki coos just like she did with the cat, hands clasped together under her chin.

"What sweet girls!" she says. "Are they yours, Watanabe?"

"Yes," Joji says proudly, putting one arm around each of their shoulders. They've come so far, not hiding behind him from the group of strangers, even if they press into his sides shyly. "This is Miu, and this is Sora. We're adopting them."

Sakura shifts her weight imperceptibly, a barely-there tell. Waiting, he knows, for the surprise, or outright condemnation. She's dealt with a lot of bullshit for taking these kids in, from family and ex-friends and even total strangers. It rolls right off her, and she usually gives as good as she gets, but she hates when Sora and Miu have to hear it. They don't deserve to hear it.

Joji will have to explain it to her, later, why he brought it up. Why he knew it would be safe to bring it up in front of these strangers.

Sure enough, all their faces soften immediately, a gentle transformation. Natsume crouches, gazing at the twins with an expression that Joji remembers from his childhood. The delicate resilience, the willingness to reach out even if he got hurt.

The look on his face ten years ago when he handed back that ruined book, owning up to his mistake and trying to fix it, buying Joji a replacement even after Joji said something unthinking and cruel.

"I was adopted, too," he says.

"Really?" Sora asks quietly.

"Really," Natsume tells her. "My parents died when I was little. I wasn't an easy child to care for, even though it wasn't my fault, so I got passed around a lot. It took me a long time to find my place, but I found it. Did you find yours?"

"I think so," Sora says, glancing around Joji at her sister.

"Me, too," Miu adds.

Sakura clutches Joji's hand hard enough to bruise. She won't cry here and now, but he already knows it's going to be an ice-cream-for-dinner kind of night.

Natsume looks up to meet Joji's eyes when he says, "That's good. I'm glad to hear it."

It's forgiveness. Joji hears it plain as day. He didn't get a chance to ask for it-- isn't sure he deserves it-- but there it is, freely given. And it's reassurance, too.

When Joji's daughters used to curl their shoulders and duck their heads, it would always tug at the memory of a boy he used to know, who was as kind as he was desperate for kindness.

Now, he thinks, when his girls are making a mess of the kitchen trying to follow a pancake recipe with their friends, or dragging a stray cat inside with big, hopeful eyes, it'll remind him of this afternoon. Natsume's clear, bright eyes, and the protective cluster of friends surrounding him.

The world wasn't fair to him; it left a mountain in his life that he had to climb, complete with all its pitfalls and crumbling paths and bad weather.

And here he is on the other side, goodness intact. Smiling. Loved.

He found his place. Sora and Miu found theirs.

And god, if that doesn't give Joji hope for everyone else.

"It was nice to see you," he says thickly, hoping Natsume hears his honesty. "Don't come to the reunion, that was-- a stupid thing to say, but-- would you-- dinner?"

Natsume hears it. He tilts his head, considering, and then says, "We missed our train, anyway."

"And I'm starving," Tanuma says agreeably. Clearly, he says it more to agree with Natsume than anything.

Nishimura is the hardest sell, watching Joji with hard eyes. But then his gaze dips to Sora and Miu, and all his sharp edges go soft, like butter melting in the sun. After a handful of tense seconds, he visibly gives up on his anger with a huff. His friends, watching patiently, all give absurd little cheers when it's clear he's on board.

"Fine, but if you live farther than three feet away, we're getting an Uber," Shibata threatens, rustling the shopping bags in his hands with annoyed fervor.

They drift in the direction of Joji's home, and Kitamoto talks Shibata down from the Uber with the promise of ducking into a 7-Eleven for ice creams instead, and Taki and Sakura are fast friends, rolling their sleeves up to compare tattoos-- Taki's is a strange, occult-looking circle that Joji makes a mental note to ask about-- and Tanuma lets Sora carry the fat cat, while Miu pets it with reverent fingers.

Natsume walks beside Joji, calm and unhurried, with Nishimura on his other side. He grew up with so much grace.

"Can I add you to the class groupchat?" he asks without thinking.

"Good luck with that," Nishimura butts in, not unkindly. "He's the most unreliable texter you've ever met. He left me on read for like two days once, and we live together."

"You'd have better luck with an email," Natsume says apologetically.

It's more than Joji thought he'd get; they exchange contact information, in the middle of this chaotic, noisy group making its way down the street toward the well-lit combini on the corner and then, beyond that, home.

Natsume doesn't seem to have any interest in reconnecting with his old classmates, and Joji doesn't blame him for that. Even though it will certainly piss Ito off to be kept in the dark, even just for a few days, Joji decides it's for the best.

Nishimura's goodwill can't be stretched that far.

[kirisaki-daichi-scenarios]

How generous is imayoshi, hananiya and seto with their money? Are they invested in economy in general and do they spoil their s/o with expensive gifts to brag or rather not because they're cheap? I want answers to this because I've always been interested in the kirisaki daichi being a rich school (i just tossed imayoshi into this, although I've always seen him as some kind of bohemian nomad lol, my headcanon. If you want, please let me know your thoughts on that as well! Imayoshi is a treasure)

Seto Kentaro

lowkey seto strikes me as the kinda rich person who has no idea how much things cost

as in, he doesn’t particularly buy much anyway - scrolling through online shopping sites tires him out, let alone going outdoors to buy something in person

but when he does buy something, half the time it’s for way more than what he should have paid for it (to be fair, that’s probably also cause he’s grown up in tokyo, so is used to higher prices)

long story short, seto has ‘academically intelligent but very much lacking in any common sense’ energy

as far as spoiling an s/o goes, don’t expect much from seto - he won’t shower you with gifts, majorly cause he wouldn’t know where to start

but, on your birthday/valentine’s/etc, if he gets you a present, it’ll probably be on the more pricey side (but very good quality, will last you a while though)

Hanamiya Makoto

if you’ve been reading this blog for any amount of time, you’ll know that i hc hanamiya not coming from a particularly well-off family (see more info here), so he’s somewhat on the stingy side

he buys himself books secondhand (also necessary cause he reads pretty fast), notebooks too, and he doesn’t spend unnecessarily ever

cause he probably doesn’t have time for a part-time job, with his commitment to the basketball team (though i wonder if he occasionally gets editing gigs or some similar freelancing work in the summer to earn a little extra cash), and he doesn’t want to spend his mother’s hard-earned money either

anyway, with that in mind, it’s no wonder that hanamiya keeps gift giving to a minimum - and he’s also more likely to give you a gift that’s cheaper, but definitely something you’ll like

honestly the only time hanamiya might buy something more expensive is if he’s out with his rich boy buddies, but that’ll be bought 100% with his own savings

Imayoshi Shouichi

imayoshi’s vibes are so whack that he definitely has some bohemian vibes (though more in the sense that he’s Mr Reject Modernity, rather than being exceptionally creative/optimistic)

i do feel like imayoshi knows a good amount about economics (hell i think he knows a good amount about everything)

but the fact that he doesn’t bet money despite being pretty knowledgeable about horse racing, makes me think that he’s careful with his money

i'm guessing imayoshi’s from a solidly middle class family too, so he wasn’t raised to be a lavish spender either

plus, it’s very possible that he either grew up in osaka, another city in kansai, or maybe even the countryside - either way, life in tokyo will have proven more costly

again, don’t expect him to shower you with gifts but do expect the occasional very weird gift, and the occasional lack of a gift on a birthday or whatnot

he’s not massively stingy though; he has a collection of very random shit in his room that he paid for, for no particularly reason (alongside a bunch of cheap and broken glasses that he used to wear)

imayoshi’s room be like: some very high quality fishing gear, some very cheap and poor quality fishing gear, a random piece of god-knows-what that he fished out of the local river, a wind-up radio (from susa? for susa? no one will ever know), a bunch of horse racing magazines that he paid very little for, some samurai films that he paid a suspicious amount for

yeah what can you expect from imayoshi really

[recurring-polynya]

POLYNYA please tell me about the sea/your Soul Society sea(s)!!!!! (I also wanna talk about the sizes of things but I will save that for later, haha.)

My entire writing/worldbuilding self is just an agglomerate of about 10 different books/comics I read when I was 19, and one of those is Books of Magic. The major thing I took away from Books of Magic, a thing I think about every single time I read or watch something with a magic system, is the idea that humans have their own magic which is fundamentally different and in some ways more powerful than the magic of magical beings, and that they aren’t bound to a lot of rules and restrictions that magical beings are. A lot of media that features other worlds tends to split into the human world (which has no magic) and the magic world (which has magic). Sometimes the human world has technology and the magic world doesn't, I don't care, that is boring to me and I reject the idea that magic is technology you don’t understand. The thing about Books of Magic, which featured a lot of traffic between the human and the faerie realm, was that humans can do magic that faeries can't. Faerie magic is all illusion and glamour. It cannot affect real change. It is much harder for humans to do real magic, but their magic can actually transform things.

This is foundationally the way I approach worldbuilding in Soul Society. It seems like Soul Society is more powerful and magical than the World of the Living, but that’s only true for a limited set of circumstances, and much of Bleach takes place within those circumstances. Taken in a broader sense, though, Soul Society is not a complete world, it is a projected world, constructed of memories and ideas. Hueco Mundo is the same, but it's even less complete. My husband always gets really irritated by physically impossible moons, like this one:

but I actually think that's appropriate, because it's not the moon, it's the concept of the moon and this is a very romanticized concept of the moon. You cannot build a rocket in Soul Society or Hueco Mundo and get to the moon. The earth is not round in Soul Society. Its borders are limited.

What is Soul Society even for, anyway? I have been watching Hotel del Luna, a kdrama about a hotel where ghosts can stay for a little while and rest and work out some of their issues before they go to the afterlife. I feel like Soul Society is the next step after this. It is too big a shock to go from being a human to becoming a few motes of reishi, so you get another stage of retaining your human form and living a half-life where you don't need to eat or drink and your family has the idea of being a family without all the actual past-to-future connective tissue of a family. It's my impression that when you die in Soul Society, you don't get reincarnated as yourself. You become reishi, and that reishi gets mixed up with everyone else’s and new souls are created when new human children are born. Soul Society is also a sorting mechanism for separating out powerful sources of spiritual energy (that is, shinigami) and putting them to work as balancers, while letting the less volatile soulstuff flow through the reincarnation cycle without cavitating the impellers, so to speak.

That being said, seas are important. I have lived my entire life on the east coast of North America, never more than a few hours from the Atlantic Ocean. I think about moving inland sometimes and I think I would die. My husband grew up in the mountains and he feels a similar connection to the mountains, you can feel him becoming more powerful every time we drive north. I think it is necessary that Soul Society contain the geographic features that anchor people to the physical world, because ghosts need these things to feel as though they are still people and not vague amorphous spirits.

You need a sea. Also, as noted in the post that inspired this one, people in Soul Society eat a lot of fish and it’s gotta come from somewhere. So I think there is at least one sea in Soul Society (I like to put it in East Rukongai), but this is a sea built on human memories, it is not a sea based on the power of the sea, because that is not a thing that can exist in Soul Society. You can fish in the sea and you can swim in the sea, and an ocean god visiting from another realm might be able to pull a little power from this sea, but it is not a true sea. You need a different magical realm for that, a Sea Society, if you will. The Living World, in contrast, is a true world with true oceans, which draw their power from the Sea Society, just as there is death in the Living World because of its connections to Soul Society and other assorted afterlives. (it has been 2 sentences and I am already sorry I called it Sea Society).

Earlier, I mentioned that the borders of Soul Society are limited, and I think that it is surrounded by impassable no-man’s-lands on all sides that, if you could cross them, would lead you into a different dimension. This is not my original idea, it’s something I have picked up from numerous fanfics, but I think it’s a good one and I am adopting it. I think that, as a border between Soul Society and something else, each of these borderlands represents different kinds of death. I think I’ve figured they are a jungle, a desert, a mountain and, of course, an ocean. 

The power of the ocean encompasses both life and death, but this ocean or at least this part of this ocean is only death. It is cold and it is dark and it is full of things with horrible teeth. If you sail a boat into it, you will not come back. I do not think that dimensional borders are, well, two-dimensional, so to speak-- if you could somehow cross this ocean, you might end up in Sea Society, or you might end up in some other death realm, because a lot of afterlives are connected and you get to a lot of them via waterways. The Slavic afterlife, Nav, for example, is ringed with a river, and you cross the Styx to get to Hades. Come to think of it, both of these are sometimes portrayed as being full of unhappy spirits, so maybe the death ocean is an afterlife in and of itself.

This is a little off the topic of oceans, but it is on the topic of natural resources. For all we know, everything that everyone eats in the Seireitei is grown in reishi vats, like the chickienobs in Oryx and Crake. That actually makes more sense, honestly, than fishing and farming, but I have always assumed that many of the upper districts of Rukongai do, in fact, have Nice Things, which turns into jobs and commerce and an improved class of life. The quality and quantity of these resources thins out severely as you go outward. Why don't people in Inuzuri grow their own food, I asked myself? Well: poor soil. Unpredictable, violent weather, so if you can get anything to come up, it either bakes or drowns. A general miasma of low-grade toxins in the air that tend to stunt growth or prevent things from breeding true. Obviously, I think about South Rukongai more than I think of other directions, but I think it’s easy to imagine this process also working as you approached cold rocky mountains with cutting winds and rockslides, or dry, dusty desert where it never rains.

The canon concept of Soul Society is that everything in Rukongai sucks and everything in the Seireitei rules, but this honestly vexes me constantly. It must be ungodly expensive to own and maintain property in the Seireitei, which is why most of the shinigami seem to lead solidly middle class lifestyles and take advantage of on-base living arrangements even though they are allegedly the best of the best. If you're a noble, and especially not Great Family noble, I think it may make sense to maintain a large estate in a pretty part of Rukongai as opposed to a townhouse in the city-- I've mentioned the Kira family estate before, in North Rukongai, which, in my mind, is sort of overgrown and run-down, very Wuthering Heights. Alternatively, if you are super-rich, maybe you have a second property out somewhere nice, hence the Lake District. Did I just make these places up because I want to set a fanfic there someday? Probably yes. 

When I was writing Between Tides, the most basic, raw part of that story was just "Rukia and Renji get sent on a lonely mission near the sea" that was the thing I wanted to write. Back when it lived in my head, it originally took place in Soul Society, but I wanted it to have a melancholy, tourist-town-in-the-off-season vibe, and that didn’t feel like a place that would exist in Soul Society, so I moved it to the World of the Living. I guess I feel like if there’s beach tourism at the Soul Society Sea (I should name it but then I would be forced to write a story about it), it would be sort of Old Timey, and I’d don’t know much about what an Old Timey Trip to the Beach would look like in Japan, if that’s even a thing.

Anyway, sorry this was so rambling, this concludes my thoughts about THE SEA in Soul Society. I am happy to hear everyone else’s headcanons, please and thank you.

[guudak]

andante, andante

pairing: jungkook / oc genre + tags: college au, f2l, alcohol, pining word count: 7,522 The aftermath of your best friend singing that ABBA song, clumsily flirting with you and then drunkenly professing his love to you multiple times in the same night.

“Is he ok? Namjoon, what’s he doing?” 

“He’s severely hungover,” he explains to you, propping an arm on the windowsill. His hand gestures. “This is his remedy.” 

You look out the window again, overseeing the frat’s backyard, and down below at the deck - is the person you sought. The gales shake the trees, you can hear it howl, and not to mention the downpour of rain that had you soaked to the skin through your jeans between your sprint from the bus stop to here. You look back at Namjoon, disbelieved. “What, sitting in a hot tub outside in the middle of a hale storm?”

“Erm, well, not the storm bit. That was just unfortunate. Sitting meditatively in a hot tub though, yeah. He does that a lot, moreso when he has something on his mind.” He peeps a discreet eye at you while you claim a seat on the ledge. Your arms cross, huddling your oversized cardigan over yourself as you glance back at the mop of matted black hair on the deck. Jungkook is sitting very still, laying back, eyes closed and his neck craning upwards towards the gloomy sky. A breath of air expels from your nose when you imagine how cold the rain must be. 

“I really wanted to talk to him in person … I don’t know, do you think I should have waited a few days?” You turn to Namjoon who shakes his head. 

“It’s good you came here. I think it would have left him to assume the worst and overthink otherwise, and you know what he’s like - better to confront him sooner than later. He’s been in a kind of sad, mopey daze since this morning.”

Your lips purse together as you mull this over. “I don’t necessarily want to confront him about it now, not if he doesn’t want to yet. I just want to see him and … make sure he’s ok. Because you know, that … overthinking thing he does.”

The upward lift of Namjoon’s lips is soft, the same kind of softness that’s perceptible in his eyes. The look reminds you of Jungkook’s own gentle demeanour. “I think seeing you here will disorient him a litte, but I think deep down he’ll be relieved. ” 

He invites you to sit in the warmth of the lounge downstairs while you wait. The house of Beta Tau Sigma is cosy, and your favourite visits are always during the winter period when they’d decorate the interior, reminding you very much of the setting of a classic Christmas movie. Alas, however, it isn’t winter, and there are still strewn cups around and a broken lamp on the table in front of you; consequence of the party they hosted the previous night.

You’re surprised Jungkook remembers. He’d been so far-gone yesterday, yet you woke up this morning to four successive texts from him -

i’m sorry

im so so sorry.

can we talk

please

You’d thought over a tactful reply; taking into mind Jungkook: despite the calm, rational front he has - is emotional, an individual with a soul as sensitive as they come. You had to be careful with what you said, but soon after aborted all efforts when you’d found yourself backspacing each time. You prefer face-to-face conversation, and for something like this - you couldn’t possibly venture any other approach that would be befitting. For anyone else, perhaps. But Jungkook isn’t just someone else. He’s your best friend.

You check the text in reply that you’d left for him from two hours ago, which is still left unread.

 hi jungkook i’d love to talk

are u ok

Sleeping it over had dulled the shock from the night before, as hearing it from him had been a double whammy for both your head and heart. You hadn’t known what to think, hadn’t known what to say.

In his tastefully tipsy state he’d been very happy. The chirpy go-lucky sort of happy that made you coo. Tipsy Jungkook is sweet and endearing, more affectionate and made it his mission to pull you with him to the karaoke machine. You’d been friends with him long enough to know that he could sing. He’s a soft singer; has a voice that could be lullaby to late sleepy evenings, it’s one you’d heard snippets of because he did it without conscious thought; he hummed in the car, while waiting in line - one of his many mannerisms that makes clear when he’s in his head.

“ABBA? Good choice,” you’d commented, after he jabbed the numbers on the remote. He budged over so you could sit beside him on the armchair. So cramped and close that you moved to drape your leg over one of his, and he welcomed it. “Not their most popular song, but definitely one of their most soulful. That’s a good one, it’s one of my favourites,” and then he stilled. 

At the cease of his movements, you’d found your spine straightening just slightly, as if on guard, but for what you hadn’t been sure. You were about to ask him if he was ok, only to be taking the brunt of his bright puppy eyes that smile at you.

“Me too,” he’d said, with that characteristic gentleness shining in his orbs. 

A few hours later, he’d morphed from sweet boy-next-door with the angel voice to himbo football jock slash and quote “pussy-whisperer,” courtesy and words verbatim of Park Jimin, who vibed with Jock Jungkook like a long lost brother. 

The amount of girls that suddenly flocked to him and sat on his lap had you reeling in hysterics to the extent that you had to bury your face in Hoseok’s shoulder. Even when Jungkook’s on the football team, you’d never thought of him once as a jock. Didn’t they say all jocks are athletes, but not all athletes are jocks? He’d never lived up to the greasy college stereotype. Turned out maybe some alcohol was missing in the mix. Was this what you were missing? Who knew he had it in him?

“How many have you had, man?” Hoseok had asked, and Jungkook grinned, mouth lop-sided, before then thwacking him solidly on the back. 

“I’m good, thanks for asking, man.” 

“That wasn’t what I - ok,” Hoseok winced, clutching at his shoulder blade, and exchanging a bemused look at you. 

You were alert to the sliding gaze of Jungkook on you. He slid into the chair close beside you, and you propped your elbow onto the counter. Head resting in your palm, you’d anticipated it.

“Hey, cutie.”

And there it was.

Your mouth twitched during your attempt to stifle your laugh, but you were eager to play along. You straightened, not shy to look him direct in the eyes, even when his own wandered to your midriff. “Hey.”

A moment’s pause, before he let out a wistful sigh. 

“Holy shit, I love your boobs.”

Hoseok spat into his cup, a succession of coughs after.

“No, I’m just saying, from a non-biased, impersonal point of view …” He made a vague, rounded motion in the air with his hands, “- they’re really nice. I’m saying this objectively.”

“Objectively,” Hoseok wheezed. You aimed a calculated kick at his ankle.

“Thanks! They’re not much but they’re cute, I grew them all by myself.”

Jungkook hummed in acknowledgement, a critical eye on you and his head bobbing solemnly. “You did a good job.”

“Oh my God,” Hoseok was crying; head ducked, full-blown tears of laughter, ears pink and slapping the countertop. “I’m not drunk enough for this.”

“Yours are pretty neat, too,” you told him. 

He looked down at the outline of his chest. “You think so? I’ve been working out but they could do with a bit more volume.” 

Hoseok was doubling over, desperate to leave but at the same time rooted to the spot, thumping his chest to stop himself from choking. “I can’t take this anymore. I’m gonna die if I stay any longer. See you, guys.”

He left, leaving you alone with Jungkook and a few others in the kitchen. “You alright?” you asked, and he nodded again, smiling tiredly and head lolling a little to the side.

“Did you like the song I sang for you earlier?” 

“You sang it for me? How sweet of you,” you cooed, cuddling up to his side. “You know, if you wanted to touch my boobs, if you asked I think I’d be ok with that.”

He seemed hesitant. “You’re bullshitting.” 

“Ok, maybe I am a little,” you chuckled, feeling the rumble resonating from his chest. 

“Seriously,” he murmured, and for a millisecond, you swore you detected the tone of the Jungkook - not this Jungkook who was a confident force, but the one you were most familiar with, “I think I’d -”

Jimin’s voice boomed above the stereo, “Jungkook! It’s your turn! Get your ass back here!”

A heavy sigh was drawn out from him as he slid his chair back. Though, he waited for you to lift your head from his chest before doing so. 

“See you.” He winked at you before following Jimin’s ongoing calls. Though, more of a wink and a half. He never could wink properly with just one eye, both had to be involved.

Then came the finale.

The most recent drunken Jungkook phase - one you’d never witnessed beforehand. If there was anything you could have concluded, it was that beyond his sober level-headed exterior, he must have a lot of pent up anger. Jungkook in drunken phase three transitioned between a three colour spectrum of moods and you’d barely caught up. 

Exhibit one -

“The ocean is so important!” he cried, literally cried as he began bumbling about blue whales and the sheer plastic in the ocean, morosed how the first piece of plastic ever produced still hadn’t decomposed. 

It was no help that Namjoon enthusiastically joined in - the fucking nerds, until Jungkook started bawling and knocked back the salt shaker on the countertop mistaking it for a shot of tequila. 

You’d panicked and dragged him to the nearest bathroom to wash it out of his eyes. The seconds that followed afterwards, was you rubbing his back while he sobbed and puked the hearty contents of his stomach into the toilet.

Exhibit two - 

“If any dude is giving you a hard time, chances are - you’re hotter than them. And on top of that, they made you cry, making you a better person than them!” he proclaimed. Once you’d helped him clean up, he’d bumped into Ola - a girl you recalled was in his media class, and was crying outside of the door of the bathroom you and Jungkook had been in. 

She’d sniffled her way through a story about a boy she’d been talking to for six months, and Jungkook was as revved up as his ocean speech while he pep-talked her about how heartless the guy was; that he gave good guys a bad rep; and that she simply deserved better. Of course, you’d agreed with him. It sounded all too familiar to something you’d said in the past, though who could blame him for adopting your mannerism of speech when he’d spent so much time with you?

Exhibit three -

“Hey, Chad! Why the fuck do you hate poor people?!”

You were mortified. “Jungkook! Literally, where did you get that conclusion from?!” 

“He plays lacrosse and owns a golf cart!”

You groaned, yanking at his arm away from Chad - captain of the boys’ lacrosse team, and who’d also fortunately passed out on the couch, otherwise Jungkook for sure would have had his face beat in. Though, you’d like to think that Jungkook would win, for sure, but you promised sober Jungkook that you’d take care of drunk Jungkook. 

So that was that. 

By now you’d contracted a stress-induced migraine, by which your own best friend was accountable for. And you thought - by God, did he have to deal with this every time you went to a party together while you’d run rampant? This had been an eye-opener, and you should definitely be considerate next time because drunk people were babies, and not in the cute way either.

And finally: exhibit four.

“Hey.” 

You endured all the pet names, had endured being called the Apple of his Eye, Angel Face, and his Compass Star, because flirty Jungkook had been throwing pet names around all night. You’d seen and heard it yourself. But nothing would have prepared you for what he’d say next. 

You glanced at him, just a second to look away from your phone screen. “Yeah?” 

His eyes drooped, form slouched, and head atop his folded arms on the countertop. It was just after midnight, and the kitchen was a quiet lull, besides you and Jungkook who were sitting together; and then there was Jimin and Taehyung, and Seokjin by the sink in their own private conversation … and whatever it was that Taehyung was doing. Admittedly you hadn’t been paying much heed nor did you endeavour to find out.

Body curling into himself; Jungkook looked so much smaller than when he stood to his full stature. 

“I’ve got it bad,” he mumbled, wistfully, “real bad. So bad - I’m doomed bad. End of the fucking world baaad.”

Your hands rubbed at his nape, tender fingers toying with the longer hairs there. He’d been growing it out, and he looked good. You tucked a tuft of hair behind his ear. “What makes you think that?” 

Again - the glossy puppy eyes that gazed up, contemplating you like you’d fallen from heaven. 

His smile was meek, as shy as the drawling voice that spoke, “I … I really think you’re my soulmate. I don’t like saying it too much but I … like, love love you, but we’re only best friends. Someday you’ll date for real - instead of flings, I’d have to accept it. I don’t think I’ll be ok, but I will be, jus’ will take time to get over you. Have done it a few times before. I’ll be ok.” 

Your hand stilled, fingers still tangled in his locks. 

Rendered motionless, like air had been punched out of you from the stomach, unable to bring yourself to salvage the words. Breathless, all you could bring yourself to do was to weakly call his name. 

He hadn’t heard you, and he yawned, leaning into your touch. His body trembled with his giggles. “One time, you were sooo drunk. You were so drunk, don’t think you remembered - blacked out. You flirted with me that whole evening. After that … after that I became obsessed with you forever.”

It was with a sinking stomach when you’d realised that you couldn’t recall that night at all. 

Gulping, you peered down at the mop of tangled hair on the countertop, wishing for nothing else but to properly see his face, but it was half-hidden where he’d snuggled into his arms. 

“Jungkook?” you whispered, gently moving away the hair that flopped over his eyes. “Jungkook?’

No reply. Just steady, heavy breathing.

No reply, because he’d fallen asleep.

It’s a splitting headache that rouses Jungkook from heavy sleep. One of those slumbers where he wakes up groggy, as if he hasn’t rested at all despite it being hours since. He tries to get up, but to no avail. His limbs are leaden heavy, and he collapses back onto his bed within seconds of mustering the strength to hoist himself up.

There are a series of knocks on the door but what’s the point of knocking when Jimin barges in anyway. He snickers seeing Jungkook: a sad, spectacular heap on the bed with a bitching hangover to boot.

“Oh, how the mighty have fallen.” 

“Shut up,” Jungkook drawls, barely recognising the cadence of his own voice. He throws an arm over his face, brow tightening as he shuts his eyes to recall anything that happened hours prior, but even that’s too much of a Herculean effort that his brain isn’t willing to commit to at nine in the morning. Hangovers are not worth the night before for this - this is a different kind of hell. 

Jimin places a glass and a jug of water on his bedside table. “Good morning to you too, sunshine.” 

“Thanks,” he replies. He at least has enough strength to reach for the glass. When he sits up a hand goes instantly to knock against his temple, as if it would stop whatever invisible vice it is that’s squeezing and hammering at his brain from all directions. He notices Jimin’s narrowing scrutiny on him. 

“You remember anything from yesterday?”

“Honestly, not really. Just some bits here and there.” 

“Blacked out, huh.” If Jimin hesitated it’s only for a split second, he stuffs a hand into his hoodie pocket for his phone. “There’s something I wanna show you. Not sure if you’re gonna like it much.”

“Can’t be that bad,” he says, but Jimin proffers a look, and Jungkook frowns. “... Right?”

Jimin licks his teeth in a way that makes Jungkook’s stomach drop just slightly.

“Famous last words, bud,” is all he replies.

 /

The slide of the back doors from the kitchen is what jerks your head up, followed by the sound of feet pattering on tiles. Suddenly, there’s a rise of anxiousness. Until you drum into your head that, no , this is nothing for you to be anxious about. There are the natural nerves budding that stem from confrontation, and you think this may be it.

Towel around his shoulders and dampened hair swept back, Jungkook doesn’t notice you at first when he appears by the doorway. He walks, gazes ahead like his legs are functioning on autopilot - but when he does notice you, he could have skidded. The way he halts and how his body almost springs backwards into the kitchen as soon as he sees your form huddled on one end of the couch, and how Basil - the frat’s cat, is curled by your lap, peacefully asleep and indulging in the soft stroke of your knuckles on his head. 

His expression mirrors a man who wants so desperately to sink into the floorboards. Or to dash back into the hale storm and fully immerse himself head to toe into the hot tub’s waters and never surface again.

The first few seconds of silence is heavy. As if you’re both still trying to process the presence of the other. It’s an uncomfortable silence you’re not accustomed to when with Jungkook. He’s always leaned more to the quiet side of the spectrum; introverted, introspective. But silences had always been comfortable, even when you two clashed. 

You endeavour for eye contact but he’s suddenly so transfixed on a shadow upon the wood flooring. 

“Hey,” you begin, quietly, like the walls are listening in on you. It’s enough gentle encouragement for him to peer up. He hides his hangover well but the mirth, the glint; the starry eyedness that reflected in his orbs from the night before is absent, and no amount of hot tub therapy could conceal the physical and mental exhaustion. 

“Hey.” He sounds almost breathless, smothers the tremor in his voice with a cough. “You’re … you’re soaked.”

“So are you.” Your tone is apologetic, “Sorry I came on short notice, I messaged you but I don’t think you saw it.”

He winces. “Right - sorry. My phone died. Haven’t checked it since.”

You muster a small smile. “I thought as much.” 

Another breath. Another nervous lilt in his voice. “I’m sorry. Not just the phone thing but everything I said to you last night.” 

You sigh. “Don’t be. It’s just … I’m surprised you remember what you said.”

He takes a breath, bicep flexing when he rubs anxiously at his nape. “I don’t,” he admits. “Jimin told me. It’s in this video he took last night of Taehyung eating cake off the floor, you could hear my voice in the background.” 

“Ah. That explains it.” Your lips pursed. “Did you mean what you said?”

His eyes round and flash to yours. He chews his lip, throws a glance at his feet. “... Yeah,” he whispers. 

“Not just the alcohol talking?”

“No.”

You’re quiet, continuing to stroke Basil who’s still fast asleep beside you.

“Sor—“

“Stop apologising,” you snap. You didn’t mean to, but his shoulders tense, and it makes you wallow in guilt that only he out of everyone has been able to make you feel. You haven’t thought this through and now you’re here you’re saying all the wrong things and asking all the wrong questions. But you remember it’s him, and recollect yourself. “Jungkook - it’s just … it’s just a lot to unpack.” 

You peer up, his nod is slow, but he gets it.

He’s tired, you see it clear as day. See it in the trudge of his walk, the dim in his eyes, and neither of you talk on the way up. Not until you reach his room. 

Despite your protests, he insists you help yourself to his draws for a spare change of dry clothes. It’s with that thought when you realise you still have yet to return several shirts to him with the promise of them all being washed and folded; washed and folded they are, but you never have been great at remembering to give them back. Putting it into perspective - maybe it is a little weird. Weird for two people who fall under the label of best friends. But then again you borrowed clothes from your own roommates all the time to the point you sometimes forgot whose is whose. It isn’t weird. Right? 

While Jungkook goes for a brisk shower, you peel off your soaked clothes, hang them over a spot on his clothes rack. His room is mostly devoid of personal touch, though there are a few photos of his high school football days and some of him and his friends pinned to a board. Otherwise, he’s never had much interest for interior decoration, but he likes his room clean and uncluttered. 

There’s a knock on the door a few minutes later. “Are you …?”

“Yeah,” you say. “I’m done.”

The door cracks open, and Jungkook appears, adorned in another change of clothes. His hair is still damp, fluffed at the patches that have managed to dry and his cheeks are pink from the heat of the shower, but he’s less rugged than earlier. Still tired, though. So tired that you don’t question it when he makes a beeline for his unmade bed and collapses face-first into his pillow. You perch on the edge, pulling his duvet over him. 

He wriggles closer to the wall, like he’s making more room for you to sit. You appreciate the gesture and shuffle closer. Outside, the wind still howls.

“You should dry your hair properly,” you murmur, fingers at the damp ends of his nape. 

“Yeah … prob’ly should,” he sighs, muffled where his mouth is buried in his pillow.

You came here to talk about yesterday night, but maybe it’s a conversation for another time. You out of everyone should know how strenuous it is to have a heart-to-heart while being victim to a hangover that gives you the same capacity as someone half-dead. 

You’re staring blankly at the wall, so occupied with the whistle of the winds, so lost in the strands between your fingertips - that when you peer down you’re met with half-open shining eyes, and a lazy blinking gaze directed upwards at your face.

“Yes?” 

“Nothing,” he murmurs, like clockwork, and buries half his face again into the plush of his pillow. It’s enough time for you to catch the shy tilt of his lips before they hid again. It’s almost ironic, how you’re the one next to him while he nurses a hangover when it’s always been the other way round. Here, he’s so vulnerable. Your mind wanders to the possibility - what if it was the other way around? An alternate universe where it was you who serenaded Jungkook with karaoke and confessed. 

In whatever reality, you imagine him to confront you in the way you did now. Perhaps approached it a little differently, would perhaps be a little gentler, but he would never give you the cold shoulder.

For now, you both pretend there’s been no drunken confession. Best friends, like how it’s always been, and you’ll discuss it all when the time comes.

At some point you’re lowering yourself next to him; your head on the same pillow, and your bodies beneath the same blanket. He’s warm. 

And it’s peaceful, as comfortable as it always has been. 

/ 

“Oh my God, where the hell’s your shirt? I haven’t seen you swim once so far,” you scoff, and Hoseok pulls a sour face.

“You’re talking big for being the one in the string bikini.”

You look at him in disbelief. “Yeah, but I actually used the pool?”

“Scooch over, babe.”

Your eyes roll skyward as he plops beside you on the loveseat. It’s another weekend, another frat, another party, another excuse for Hoseok to walk around without a shirt because there’s a pool. Correction: a further excuse for hoards of frat boys to walk around without a shirt, but at this point you’re desensitised to it.

The music booms, a dull vibration you feel through the ground. 

Kappa Omega is infamous for their extravagant parties (at least, as extravagant as college parties can go). Compared to others it’s vastly over-the-top, with most of the guys getting in through connections just like how their college applications got past admissions, but it is what it is. They’re not all bad people, they hold parties for fundraisers but sometimes it can’t be helped not to feel sour when you see what they blow their money on. The Kappa Omega mansion is so big that you’d spent a good portion of the beginning of the night lost.

“Lucky bastards,” Hoseok mutters. He’s said that several times this evening. He’s only here for the booze and the cheese tray. He pops open another beer, chucks the bottle opener onto the low table in front of him, besides the cheese tray he stole from the kitchen. “Which frat party was it again when you blacked out and dived into the pool fully clothed? I can’t remember anymore.” 

“We don’t talk about that, thanks,” you utter, wrapping your long cardigan tighter around your torso. “Have you by chance seen Jungkook around? I thought he’d be here by now.”

He looks up, mid-way from tipping back his beer. “Yeah, I saw him some time ago.”

“What, where?”

“Sat with some food by himself somewhere.” His arm gestures vaguely. “He looked a little sad. You know, in signature Jungkook fashion, you know how he gets sometimes.” 

Your form slumps. “Right,” you murmur. It’s been over two weeks since the last time you saw him. Not that it’s unprecedented. He has football among other commitments that strung him away for days and sometimes weeks at a time, and you had your own as well.

Be that as it may, somehow it feels like the both of you are drawing the whole thing out. Not purposely, but definitely unnecessarily. Neither of you brought it up in your messages to each other either, and it hit you recently that, well - you miss him. You’ve seen him around campus, but never for too long. Nothing more than fleeting sightings of him and his disheveled hair in a half-pony while he rushes to class after football practice; a hand usually holding onto a snack while the other held onto the strap of his half-open duffel bag, but you only had time to exchange a wave and a look that held promise of your next meeting. The fact remains that you miss your best friend, and it would kill you for your friendship to be awkward because of what happened. You had every intention to talk to him tonight in person, and no dallying or delays this time.

Hoseok’s eyes squint your way. “What’s going on between you guys, anyway. You guys a thing or what?”

You sigh, “That’s the thing, I have no idea yet.” 

“Yet.” His lips purse, contemplating you. “He really likes you, you know. So, like, go easy on him.”

Your eyes narrow. “How long have you known, then?”

“As if it was hard,” he scoffs, sitting back. “Guy wears his heart on his sleeve. You have to be thick as a brick not to notice.”

“Wow. Thanks,” you deadpan.

He stabs his fork into the blue cheese. “You know why him and Yerim broke up?” 

“Oh no,” you morose, frowning, “don’t tell me it was because of me. I talked to her after they broke it off and she said it wasn’t.”

“Not entirely. But I think she was bending the truth a little so that you wouldn’t berate Jungkook about it. She’s a cool girl, really nice and a good sport. Knew you two were close and accepted that like a champ. But -” and he pauses for emphasis. A pause which is seconds too long, and then finally he puts his fork down, clutches one of your hands in both of his, and waits for you until you’re hanging on to his every breath while he chews and swallows the remaining in his mouth. He resumes, brightly, “it’s not my story to tell. So you better go and find him.”

You shove him. Harder this time - enough that he topples over, and he cackles obnoxiously. 

“Prick,” you laugh, but rise to your feet. Your gaze spans the backyard, the pool. You spot a hot tub, but it’s filled with other students who are laughing and raucous. 

“Ok, I’m going,” you announce, glancing at Hoseok who’s still very much captivated by the cheese tray before him. It does look really good. “See you in a bit.”

“Yeah, yeah, bye.”

 /

The problem with knowing so many people, and having the same friends as those people - is that in situations where you try to pull yourself away from yet another drinking game you’re taken by the elbow by someone else. Having all of your mutual friends congregated in one domain that is the Kappa Omega House has made your search for the ever-elusive Jeon Jungkook a grand Pain in the Ass. He’s like gold dust. You’ve texted him but you’ve yet to receive a reply.

“Hey, have you seen Jungkook?”

“I saw him at the front porch a few minutes ago?”

“... Seriously? I’ve literally just been there.”

You even scrambled over a balcony and leaped over a hedge when you tried to get away from Chad’s third invitation to join the game of chicken fight in the pool (a parkour stunt that you like to think would put Peter Parker to shame). You give yourself a quiet moment to catch your breath. 

It’s then you realise you’re in a part of the backyard you swear you haven’t been in before. You can presuppose why. It’s dimly lit, less people, and the boom of the stereo is still loud, but is more of a distant noise in comparison to the other parts of the house you’ve been in. Like what the hell, how big is this place? 

“Sooo, you’ve found him yet or what?”

You hear the voice before you see the face. 

Unbelievable. So you cross paths with shirtless Hoseok for the third time and yet haven’t so much as had a hair’s glimpse of Jungkook. 

“Nope,” you reply, quite miserably, hands stuffing into your cardigan’s large pockets. You feel for your phone. He still hasn’t seen your message. At this point you’re one teetering step away from letting go of the remaining wisps of your dignity and yell his name through a megaphone with a hope he'll come to you instead … you’ve probably done that while drunk before but you’re nowhere near tipsy now, and that’s besides the point. 

Behind you, Hoseok hums, quite serene. When you look back you see he’s lowered his back onto the grass, his eyelids shut.

Eyes scanning this part of the backyard, it’s a different ambience to the atmosphere by the pool. More relaxed. There are students either sat or lying on the grass in small groups, their conversations a low murmur with the occasional twinkling sound of someone’s laughter rising above it. There’s a slabbed stone pathway that leads further up the grass, which then disappears behind a tall row of hedges, and with that you find yourself on your feet again. 

“As much as it pains me to leave, there’s only so much of you I can take in one evening before I go crazy,” you tell Hoseok, who’s unbothered reply is no more than a lazy thumbs up from his spot on the grass.

It gets darker the further away you are from the house, but you’re led by the quiet warm-white glow of the lawn lights that highlight the path. It calms your mind to a lull that puts you at peace, something you desperately sought after your hopeless goose-chase just minutes prior. 

The waters of a hot tub glow blue up ahead. You skid to a stop when you come closer and see someone’s in there; shoulders immersed and their head just above the water’s surface. What’s the phrase? When you stop looking for something, it finds you? That’s probably not how it goes, but it doesn’t matter. After futile searching, hedge jumping and greasy frat boy dodging, you finally found him. Of course he’d be in a place like this.

His eyes are dazed, mesmerised by the ripples in the water that his smallest movements create. He hasn’t yet noticed you coming.

You pad closer. “... Jungkook?” and like a switch, his spine straightens, goes rigid as a ramrod at your voice. He’s blinking, head shaking side to side as if to snap himself out of the trance that clouds his head. 

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” you exasperate.

He blinks. “You … you have?”

You scoff, amused at the way his brows knit. “Yeah,” you sigh, stopping so your forearms can lean on the sides of the tub. “May I join you?”

After a beat of hesitation - “Of course you can.” 

You shrug your long oversized cardigan off of your shoulders, and double check that your phone is still in the pocket before you chuck it in a heap on the bench. You secure your footing on the step, eyes intercepting his own. His Adam's apple bobs when the rest of your body comes into view, and you shiver at the breeze but warmth engulfs you the second you’re in contact with the bubbling water.  

“Feels good?” he asks, and you sigh contentedly, leaning back.

“Yeah.” If you really wanted to, you could fall asleep right here, right now. “What is it with you and hot tubs? Always knew you had a thing for them but never asked specifically why. Or does it just feel good?”

“Mainly that. The guys on my team use the excuse that it breaks up the lactic acid in your muscles after training, but it just feels good when you’re sore.” 

“Huh.” When you crack an eye open, he’s already looking at you. 

His lips purse. “Did you want to talk?” and when you nod he sighs, wearily. “I wanted to, honestly. But I … I guess I never felt ready to hear what you’re going to say.”

You frown. “What do you think I’m going to say?” 

“I don’t know. That you don’t feel that way about me, which I’m fine with. I was never meant to let it slip, but I ended up saying all the things I didn’t want you to hear yet. And while I was drunk, of all things.” 

You consider this, broach your tone carefully. “Were you ever going to tell me?” 

His eyes avert to the water. “... Eventually. It would have been after graduation. No step three beyond telling you, no secret ploy to get you to fall in love with me, I only would have wanted you to know how I felt. I’d leave you alone and we’d finally move on with our lives. And what better timing than after graduation? But that’s not how it turned out, did it?” He laughs, but it’s with rueful discomfort.

“How long?”

He exhales. “A while.”

“I see.” You think hard for a second. “Even when you were with Yerim?”

He gnaws on his bottom lip, but you can tell he’s honest when he replies with, “Yeah. But I never pretended she was you.”

“Of course you didn’t, you’re not that type of person.”

At last, he does smile at that, and seeing the tilt of his mouth settles a warmth in your heart.

Part of you wants to ask what happened between him and Yerim, but you think perhaps it’s for the best you don’t know, at least now. It’s not your business nor his obligation to tell you.

Before you could dwell too much on your oncoming words, you continue barging forward or you’ll chicken out from what you’re going to say next.

“Jungkook,” you begin. “What if I said yes?”

A pause. 

“What do you mean?”

“If you asked me out, and I said yes.”

He’s so bewildered he looks as if he’s just been slapped. Suddenly, something more serious shadows his features. “You know I’d never want you to date me just because. I’m fine with rejection, seriously, I’ll get over it. But I don’t want you to settle for less than what you want. You deserve someone you want, and if I’m not that person, that’s fine. You deserve -”

“Last time I checked, you don’t get a say on what it is that I do and don’t deserve. Who I deserve is for me to decide, so stop cutting yourself so short because you’re more decent than most of the guys I know.”

He shifts, looks away. “So what are you saying?”

“Should we try it?”

“What if it doesn’t work out?”

“Then it doesn’t work out,” you say, simply.

“But then it’ll be awkward.”

“You telling me that you became obsessed with me after I flirted with you for one evening while I was drunk already made it awkward. Not like we have anything else to lose.”

A breath of air expels from his nose in a chuckle. “Oh, ouch.”

“Jungkook,” you sigh. “It’s so easy to be around you. If it doesn’t work out, then it doesn’t work out, but how are we supposed to know how it’s going to turn out if we don’t even give it a chance? It’s going to be awkward either way but we’ll figure it out. Like with all the other crap we’ve gone through. I’ve been with enough guys to know that guys like you come far and few between, I trust you enough to want to do this. You’re one of those few guys I know I can trust, alongside Hoseok. Even though he can be a real bitch sometimes.”

Jungkook doesn’t rebuke you, but he laughs. It’s a sound you’ve never been more relieved to hear. 

“So what do you think? I don’t want to force you into it. If you don’t want this, I’m fine with it. If you do, I’m fine with that too. Everything on my end is fine, so what about yours?”

If him confessing happened a year, or maybe two years earlier, you don’t think you would have confronted it in the way that you’d done now. You understand why Jungkook wanted to bide his time. You’re stubborn, fiery, and don’t think things through in the way that Jungkook does. If this happened two years ago, you can imagine you’d have yelled at him on impulse, asking him why, why he let it happen.

But there’s a very particular fondness you’ve honed for your best friend that has unfurled in the years of your friendship, to the point you couldn’t possibly imagine yourself putting blame on him for his feelings. It seems being friends with him has really mellowed you. While Hoseok is the friend you’re most similar to, your other pea-in-the-pod, Jungkook is the friend who balances you out. Someone so different to you, yet someone who still knows what makes you tick.

He’s a friend who doesn’t judge, but yet is always first to call you out whenever you’re out of line. A friend who waits until you’re inside of your dorm building before driving away. The type of guy who pays for dinner and doesn’t expect you to pay him back. A friend who makes sure you’re back home safely when you’re drunk, puts a glass of water next to you and watches over you to make sure you don’t choke on your vomit in your sleep.

Finally, after careful consideration, he nods. He nods, finally.

“So we’re doing this then.” You crack a smile, and he finds it difficult to suppress his own.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah, I guess we are.”

With an unchanging temper, as still and as serene as waters below the turbulent surface - Jungkook is your anchor, he always has been. The anchor that tethers your feet to the earth when the elements threaten to topple you over.

In the blue glow, you shuffle closer forward on your knees. 

“Can I kiss you?” you murmur, and he chokes on his saliva, spluttering. You smile sheepishly. “Sorry it’s weird, you don’t have to let me if that’s going too fast. I just … I want to see what it feels like.” 

He hesitates. “Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure.”

He mulls it over, but it doesn’t take much thinking. He stares at you, hard. But then you disrupt the stillness with a disarming smile, and unable to resist, he beckons you over. “Come here.”

It’s odd to straddle his lap at first. In the same way it is when you’re getting on a bike for the first time or any kind of first. He doesn’t make any first move, it’s you who he waits to initiate. 

The path of your fingers trail slowly upwards, until they’re splayed against his chest. They remain there, and you detect the quick pattering of his heart, the rise of his chest. His breaths are deep but they’re controlled, and he feels sturdy beneath you. 

Jungkook is stupid handsome, with the body to match. But that’s not what swells your heart. It’s not what pushes you to move further forward in his lap and finally press your mouth to the seam of his lips before you could think twice.

It’s how tenderly he gazes up at you. With the same sincerity and adoration he’d shown the night he’d confessed drunk. His eyes, an opening to his soul which is a whole other wonder. 

When was the last time someone looked at you like that? 

The kiss is soft. No sparks, no butterflies on your end - not yet, but somehow it still feels right. Like missing pieces that have finally fallen into place. Warmth and love spills from him. It saturates your body to the very tips of your ears, all the way down to your toes, like a slow, spreading glow. It feels good.

When shy pecks don’t become enough anymore, you get needy, touching and grasping for more of him. His palms press against your lower back, massaging the skin there, and eventually your mouth parts pliant for him. 

“Oh,” he croaks, his head leaning forward so his cheek brushes yours. You can’t see his eyes, and you attempt to move but he curtains the planes of his face with his hair. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask, having to strain to catch his whisper. 

“I’m embarrassed.”

You chuckle, warmth spreading from the spot on your ear that his lips hover over. “How come?”

“Like, there are probably bricks softer than my dick right now. And … I really, really don’t wanna jizz my pants in a Kappa Omega hot tub. I would have hit my lowest point in life if I do.” 

“Oh my God.” You’re almost crying, shoulders shaking with how hard you’re laughing. 

“Please, I’m so serious right now. I’d never be able to redeem myself.”

“Would jizzing in an obscenely expensive hot tub be so bad?”

“Yes,” he emphasises. “Really bad, actually. Have you heard of that guy who ejaculated in a swimming pool and accidentally got twenty girls pregnant?”

“That sounds like fake news. There’s no way. Sperm aren’t homing torpedoes, Jungkook. They’d be unviable as soon as they’d be in the water. But if you want me to move back, I’ll move back.”

His face is taut, like he’s trying so hard. “Yes, please.” His eyes go stern, but there’s a nervous jitter you feel with the skin beneath your fingertips. “And just because I think it’s worth mentioning, I don’t think we should have sex straight away.” 

“Oh. Right. I see,” you deadpan.

It’s his turn to cackle at the dead-set, disappointed look on your face. “What’s with that?”

Your eyes roll. “You know I’m kidding.” You brush the hair out from his eyes. “Jungkook, will you wait for me?”

His expression softens, and he hoists you until you’re pressed impossibly closer.

“Of course I will. However long it needs to be.”

a/n: when jk says you flirted with me the whole night and i became obsessed w you forever, yea that was from b99

originally posted on ao3! thx for reading!!! <33 

[lesbiansandgayssupporttheminers]

I'm glad you've had an ask that brings ethnicity and migration into the class equation! It's something I've long thought about because it's always been pretty clear to me that many of us do not neatly fit any of the traditional class signifiers At All

I mean, the most classic thing is that in a racist society, Blackness almost always knocks off a few 'class points'. You can be part of a solidly successful West African family, but your starting point in the UK will be social housing or whatever. Former professionals suddenly demoted to low paid cleaning work if they have to leave their home country.

The other thing that further underlines how inconsistent and not-universal the class experience is, is that throughout the commonwealth, most societies were feudal when colonised, then pushed rapidly into the post-industrial age on independence. This does interesting things to the concept of class.

My parents were, (if we stick to these definitions), peasants when they were born in the late 30s/early 40s Gold Coast. There wasn't a true industrial 'working class' speak of. Their education was severely limited due to poverty. Neither was able to get a full secondary education. But conversely, there were still huge opportunities available to them because the world was changing so very fast. Ghana was born, and some of my family have strong connections to people involved in the independence movement and Ghanaian politics since then. Even the most elite, cosmopolitan Ghanaian tends to be just a couple of generations away from 'the village'.

My mum trained as a nurse (because she was bright and *you could do that then*, even without a full secondary education), Britain wanted staff for its new NHS, and my mum needed to earn money to support her family & put her younger siblings through school in Ghana (giving them the educational opportunities that she didn't have).

There's just a whole bunch of stuff that makes my parents early lives closer to that of a late C19th rural Brit, and a lot of that still came through when we were growing up in the 80s & 90s. Like the level of responsibility we were expected to have, or the things that made us 'spolied' (like running water. There's nothing you can say when your parents tell you your spoilt because you don't have to fetch water before school like they did, or accidentally split your leg open with a machete when you 'go to farm'...I mean, I always had a smartarse comeback about 'should I go down the River Lee with a bucket', but it never turned out well)

So, with all that, I grew up in a very working class part of London (Tottenham & Edmonton pre-gentrification), with peers from all kinds of backgrounds. Peers from immigrant/refugee backgrounds frequently had a similar 'from the village back home' thing. The white British kids were all working class - until I went to secondary school. Because it was a grammar. So much for social mobility...

Things like 'teatime' seemed exotic to me. I don't think I heard my mum say the word 'lunch' until I was in my teens. But my parents had hardcore educational aspirations for us (hence me going to the grammar). We had extra maths lessons on Saturday, even though it meant my mum doing extra shifts etc. My mum as a midwife and with 3 kids in this country, bought a 3 bed house in Tottenham in 1979 (my Dad was still studying as a mature student and working as a cleaner, so she was the main breadwinner, even as he changed jobs later on). I'd be stunned if a midwife could do that now. Everything has changed way, way too much

And as a side note, this is why I always roll my eyes when I hear people say stuff like eating avocado makes you middle class. Some of us eat it because it's the food of our heritage! And, by extension, when you live in places like London that are so multicultural, your corner shop will have those foods because it reflects the diverse heritage of the community

I mean, stuff like hummus and couscous is truly food of the people. You go right across the Levant, North Africa and West Africa, you will find variations that are all extremely basic staples.

Got to laugh that here it's 'posh'. But then again, I remember seeing an iceberg lettuce priced at £10.00 when I went to Ghana 15 years ago... Definitely a status symbol there!

Thank you for this super interesting and insightful ask!

I’m definitely not the one to talk about immigration and class, but it is definitely interesting to think about the intersections of the two!

[hopeshoodie]

i remember you saying once that marisol’s view of feminism is very much Girl Boss™, break the glass ceiling, how come it’s only men in power exploiting the working class women can do that too! which i hate but i’ve also accepted as canon lmao and i think a lot about how my mc would have to help her work on that stuff which got me wondering if you have any hcs like that specific to your mcs and their lis (that was a long walk to get to the point and i’m not even sure it makes sense i’m so sorry)

I think that was in my islander’s political leanings post? LOL yeah I think Hope and Marisol (and to a lesser extent Chelsea) are solidly locked into liberalism (as opposed to leftism or conservatism). But! To be fair! I think it comes from a different place.

For Marisol, her views on politics and feminism have always been gamified because she grew up around privileged people who treated political debates as games instead of a matter of policy that affects people’s lives. She’s already very competitive, so it’s just another arena to try and one-up people on (and she’s never been disadvantaged enough for it to matter, being “”Straight””” for most of her life and coming from a middle class family). I definitely think living with/sharing her life with someone who’s farther left can get her to think more critically about the issues instead of just the debate. Your MC (and my MC Sveta) could absolutely get her to become more progressive.

But for Hope? Her politics are rooted in her get-mine mentality. She wants to be in the room where it happens, she wants to make a lot of money, and she’s pretty classist. Her politics are still liberal, but she likes the systems at work because she wants to use them to get ahead. I don’t think Hope would be as easily swayed. I have a friend who’s like this- she can contextualize that capitalism and the institutions of America are hurting people, but because they’re not hurting her she just doesn’t care enough to demand changes. This is obviously intersectional, but I think Hope really likes Kamala Harris- a WOC in power who wants to maintain but reform institutions.

As for my headcanons about my MC...

My S1 MC Clara is a centrist leaning conservative (because she came from Money TM) so Talia’s probably the more progressive in the relationship. I don’t think they talk politics much because Clara doesn’t actually care, she just parrots a lot of the privileged views she grew up around. It doesn’t matter much in their relationship, except on key issues like gay rights and the minimum wage. Clara thinks “we have marriage equality, that should be enough” which is WRONG and that “if you want to make more get a better job” which is YIKES, and Talia knows that’s shitty. They generally avoid the topics.

S2 MC Sveta doesn’t use a label but she’s very left leaning and considers herself a progressive. . The two LIs I always end her with are Marisol and Noah. Noah’s pretty liberal and understands a lot of social and economics issues, so I think he supports a lot of socialist policies but not abolition of the state. But because they’re both progressives, it doesn’t cause a lot of friction, especially because Noah loves doing praxis alongside MC even if he doesn’t call it that. On the other hand, Marisol would need a lot of what you talked about- debate and convincing her. It’s definitely frustrating at first, because Marisol wants to turn everything into a Debate when it’s really important to MC, but I think Marisol would slowly adopt more left-leaning ideas. I don’t think she’ll ever be a leftist, but at least she can recognize the value of progressivism. 

My S3 MC Delia is a straight up collectivist anarchist babey. I headcanon that Lily is also a leftist, she probably considers herself a marxist, so they definitely don’t have any push/pull in that department. I’ve imagined them signing up to be poll workers together and I- 😍😍😍 I would say the biggest difference between them is that Lily is of the ‘punch a fascist’ and ‘if you go far left enough you get your guns back’ persuasion whereas Delia is a street medic and backyard garden kind of girl 

[priorireverte]

This is the admin application for LILY POTTER. Please note that there is not the expectations that all applications been this long; I am aware that this is somewhat excessive.

OUT OF CHARACTER:

NAME & PRONOUNS: Emmy, she/her

TIMEZONE: Pacific Standard Time

ACTIVITY LEVEL: On the dash daily, aims for two long paragraph posts a week.

ANYTHING ELSE: Hoping to have a lot of fun!

CHARACTER DETAILS:

NAME: Lily Ruth Evans

BIRTHDATE: January 30th, 1960

GENDER, PRONOUNS, and SEXUALITY: Female, she/her, Panromantic, Heterosexual

BLOOD STATUS: Muggleborn

HOUSE ALUMNI: Gryffindor

OCCUPATION: Returned, no employment yet (Unemployed before death as well)

FACECLAIM: Sophie Skelton

CHARACTER BACKGROUND:

POSTBELLUM:

Finding herself in a world where twenty years have passed by without her would be hard enough. Catching up on world events, figuring out how technology has changed (at least the Wixen world is somewhat stagnant on that front, something she never thought she’d be grateful for), learning the story of the war that followed after her. Then there is the struggle of grappling with how the baby boy who she’d help in her arms not so long ago was now a full grown man who hardly needs a mother anymore. In some ways, having so many lost friends coming back with her is a comfort. At least she isn’t alone in that.

Yet on top of all that is having been dumped into this new world from the thick of the war. The expectations of peace pair ill with her extreme caution and jittery unease. So many expect her to be fine, when she’d not had any time to truly mourn all of those she lost—a list that is only longer now, with James, Sirius, and Peter all gone. (Peter, another subject she’s broken her heart on that people want her to be au fait with; she still cannot understand it.) Lily has only just begun to heal while so many around her are years, if not decades, ahead of her.

PERSONALITY:

As someone who is at her best when connected to people, Lily strives to ensure the comfort and happiness of all those around her. Her empathetic nature thrives off of that happiness, and she struggles to be comfortable and at peace when she knows others aren’t. That connection to other people can sometimes slip into dangerous territory when she starts defining herself by those relationships. It leaves her open to taking on their woes as her own, overburdening herself, as well as putting her in a position where being pushed away or having her help refused can deeply damage her sense of self-worth, depending on how close she is to a person.

Of course, having come of age in the middle of a war she has had to grapple with not being able to help or be there for everyone. It has worn Lily down, damaged the cheerfully optimistic outlook of her childhood, leaving her calloused, a bit jaded, and thoroughly exhausted with trying to be hopeful. She has had to become more careful with her inner self and what she gives away.

Her sense of closeness with someone is a large factor with Lily for the simple reason that there aren’t a huge number of people who she is really close with. While always a friendly, welcoming person, she has never had a great many actual friends; people she would confide in, lean on for support, turn to for the sort of help she so readily offers others. Thus the few she has are a big deal, and she clings to them, because she knows what it is to lose those precious few. As much as that steadfast loyalty is a defense against the outside world, it leaves her innerly vulnerable to the faults she overlooks in those loved ones. They slip past her judgment, and she will make excuses for them, justify their actions even against her own moral instinct, to a very far limit. That too is something the war has strained, with mere existence pushing her towards those limits, let alone having to grapple with the less savory parts of her friends.

It would be easy to think that Lily, by virtue of being ‘the pretty one’ in the family, was blessed with not having to concern herself with her appearance. In one way at least, that is true; she isn’t concerned with her hair or her face, doesn’t spend time fretting over the less than easy things to change. Yet she grew up in a bored factory town, where everyone knew everyone and appearances mattered within the strict hierarchy built around the factory company. What you wore, how you behaved: these things were taken as reflecting on the family as a whole. Don’t talk back to the child of your father’s superior, that will get you in trouble! Let the foreman’s wife take the last eggs at the grocery, lest your husband lose a shift at work.

That awareness of what other people think and perceive only sharpened for Lily at Hogwarts, under the constant scrutiny a Muggleborn endures. It took her a long time to be able to break free of trying to earn that approval of her peers by being the best, well behaved, friendly person she could be in the eyes of others. That approval, being well liked, keeping things genial and going smoothly is something she craved until she was forced to realize it simply isn’t feasible because of who she is, unless she wanted to sacrifice a large part of who she is. Lily had to grow up and let go of a lot of her insecurities, and build a defensive shield around the others, as a matter of survival.

With that awareness of perceptions and the judgments that come with it, it has to be said that Lily applies different standards to herself than she does other people. She values her actions, what she does, over what she says. Perhaps because she is aware of her flaw of not always thinking before speaking. Yet with others, she tries so hard to take them at their word, believe that shows their true intent over what actions they take. She wants to believe people, trust in them, adhere to her idea that people are good.

This is why, in part, she turned a blind eye to Severus Snape’s questionable actions for so long. He would explain himself, manage to make it sound not so bad, and Lily would discard her judgment because he didn’t mean to do bad, he told her as much! And she knew him, deep down.

Understandably, that instinct to take words at surface value has been scorched and damaged. She's wary, cautious of doing so, but oh, how she wishes she could once more. Instead, she has had to become more realistic in her estimations of people.

A desire to believe people innately tend towards goodness does not mean Lily is free of judgment. She can, and does, scrutinize people and weigh what they say and do and judge the goodness of that for herself. Her empathy doesn’t always extend to others that she sees as being in direct conflict to her morals and ideals and goals, and that leaves her open to dismiss people out of hand for those differences. Granted, a lot of that is tied to her ideals being forged in the fire of a life as a Muggleborn, of an existence of constantly being attacked. It leads to her stubbornly digging her heels in at a challenge, to get defensive rather than hear another side out when she’s already preemptively passed judgment based on what she thinks she sees.

One of the worst ways these critical evaluations can surface is in her deep rooted capacity for envy and jealousy. Regardless of whether it is because she believes she deserves the thing she is envious of or thinks herself unworthy of it, getting a handle on the streak of irrationality and pettiness that can erupt from her when faced with self-discontentment is something she struggles with. Partly because she would prefer to pretend it doesn’t exist. Everything is justified, even in the depths of those irrationalities. Lily would never even think of herself as a jealous person.

BRIEF OVERVIEW OF FAMILY:

While the Evans may have fallen in the middle class of Cokeworth, that placed them only at the upper edge of poor in the larger scheme of society. A shift manager might be someone in the hierarchy of a small factory town, but meant very little outside of it. Lily grew up with that dichotomy of existence, always aware of that dual standing, of the expectations and visibility. It was something she deeply internalized and operates on her subtly, never so much a conscious influence, but powerful all the same.

The Evans were a warm, close, essentially good family. They were helpful to their neighbors, went to church, were charitable. They didn’t really think twice about Lily’s friendship with a boy from the ‘wrong side of the tracks’; it was only Petunia who worried about these things that would only be a source of concern for the parental Evans if the pair had been older. Of course, by then Lily and Severus were beyond the pale, wondrous others. In many ways, Jonathan and Fiona Evans stopped trying to parent their younger daughter once they knew she was a witch. How could they impose morals on their daughter who half-inhabited a world they knew nothing about, and were frankly in awe of? To be fair, they took a largely equal laissez-faire attitude towards their older daughter once she reached teenagedom as well. Thankfully they’d instilled a sturdy moral foundation and compass in their daughter, so she could largely self-regulate through their passive parenting.

HISTORY:

Despite Jonathan Evans' job as a shift manager at the factory Cokeworth was build around setting the Evans family solidly in the middle of the town's society, in truth they were bottom of middle class at best, the difference between the poor floor workers and the managers amplified a thousand times over by the small snobberies and strict social hierarchy of a small factory town. That didn't make the family any less of a happy one. Jonathan working long hours while Fiona stayed home to raise their two daughters. Petunia, the elder, was perpetually trailed by her shadow that took the form of her younger sister Lily, who adored and idolized her big sister. It wasn't a life without stresses, but they got by, even as work slowed, workers got laid off, tensions in the town rose, and strange things started happening around little Lily. It was the last thing that concerned the Evans' the most, unsure of what was happening and what it would mean for their daughter, scared of what would happen if others found out. Petunia, picking up on this in the way children do, no matter how oblivious their parents consider them, encouraged Lily to refrain from such strangeness, trying to suppress and hide all those odd things, like the garden blooming two months early or a tantrum causing cookie floating out of the jar to waiting hands.

The relief from those worries came from an odd place; a grubby little boy from the other, wrong side of town. Severus Snape opened up another world to Lily, one where what she did wasn't cause for concern or anxiety, but something that made her remarkable and special. As those bursts of uncontrolled, unwanted abnormality dwindled, only Petunia seemed to not be won over by him. Lily, though, adored him; he became not just her guide to that mystical other place, but her best friend, someone with whom she planned a thousand wonderful futures with.

None of those plans approached the tarnished reality she was soon present with. From day one, things were different than she'd thought they would be. While to her, being sorted into a different house from her best friend didn't seem something to be concerned over, it quickly became clear to her that plenty thought otherwise. Always eager to please, Lily threw herself into being the best she could, becoming someone pointed to as the model of an ideal Muggleborn. Yet nothing she did was ever enough for this world she had dreamt of for so long to accept her. Something had to give.

All those tension gave way on a sunny day after her final OWL. With one word, Lily realized the futility of her efforts. Her dearest friendship shattered, she was left hurt, lost, broken and unsure of herself.

In the subsequent year, because life must carry on, Lily re-evaluated and reflected on everything her life had been built upon. No longer allowing herself to be define by what others wanted her to be, Lily reconsidered so many of her hard held ideas. Old opinions shifted and new friendships formed—most notably and remarkably with James Potter, who she'd so long damned as nothing more than an arrogant prat.

Seventh year ended and instead of finding her life beginning, Lily ground to a standstill. Unable to find a job, for no one wanted the liability of hiring a Muggleborn, she followed James and their friends into the Order, despite, or perhaps because, of the small number of Muggleborns in their ranks. She could no longer run from the war that she had found herself in the middle of as a young girl.

Lily lost and won and mourned and celebrated; she lived more in a few short years than anyone should ever have to. In the midst of such unfettered living, accidents were bound to happen. Finding she was pregnant, Lily and James decided to get married; the only way to live, after all, was without hesitation for there might not be a tomorrow. All too soon, that fact was brought to bear on the young family. A threat against baby Harry forced them into hiding; an imperfect solution. Not even eighteen months old and Harry Potter was orphaned, Lily's life sacrificed for the son she loved more than anything in the world.

OOC EXPLORATION:

WHAT ARE YOU MOST LOOKING FORWARD TO? The concept of this game is one that has been near to my heart for a long, long time, and I’m very excited to bring it to the tumblr rp community!

ANYTHING ELSE? I’m not clever enough for pinterest boards or spotify playlists. That’s what blogs are for, and I’ve got a few with years worth of writing Lily on them. (Which is also why this app is so excessively long)

[trumpets0ng]

82- A Place at the Table

Beginning / Previously / Next

(For easier reading, the above is also captioned under the cut.)

D: So Walker, how was the hunt?

W: Really good actually.

O: Yeah, she put in an offer for a place over by Langerak Commons yesterday.

C: Look at you! Oh that’s not too far from here either!

D: Ah, maybe once you’re our neighbor, you’ll convince this guy to finally make the move. We’ve been trying for ages.

O: *chuckling* I already told you I’m a Metropolitan sim. I can’t do suburbs like you folk out here. *everyone laughs*

D: Bruh, how many times I gotta tell you? This ain’t the suburbs!

W: Baby, as someone who grew up in the suburbs, I can wholeheartedly tell you, Mirage Park is not the suburbs.

C: Where did you grow up Walker?

W: Willow Creek. I’m from the Parkshore Township.

D: *lets out a low “wow” whistle* Why would you move here?

C: *elbows Donno* What Dumbo here means to say, is that’s a pretty affluent area.

W: *chuckles airily* I wouldn’t call it affluent per se, more like solidly middle class. *seeing Donno’s expression* Ok maybe some upper-middle class too. However, that’s more my parents than me.

C: What do they do?

W: My mom is General Counsel for her –my alma mater University of Britechester. My dad is an Elder Statesman for Willow Creek County.

D: *chuckling to himself* Hate to be the one to break it to ya, but you grew up rich.

W: *laughing before saying sincerely* Richer than some, perhaps, but not as rich as many in our peer group. But again, that’s my parents not me. I don’t have their bank accounts.

O: Walker is paving her own way, which I respect to no end. *Walker gives him a shy smile, which Carmen quickly picks up on*

C: Well we look forward to your being here and I for one, hope you get the apartment.

D: I’m still dumbfounded that you just rolled up and was like *mimicking Walker’s tone* “I’m good. This is it.”

*everyone laughs*

W: Well Donno, this ain’t my first rodeo *winks*. When I first heard about the area, not gonna lie, I was unsure. Everyone made it sound like a gentrifier’s dream! But I took a step back, did a little homework, and was heartened to find a community of fighters. The fact that you have a local inter-generational coalition of residents pushing to keep the Park area accessible, made me give it a second look.

O: *smirking trying to hide his pride* You done interrogating my girl D? *everyone laughs*

D: So... what do you really think?

C: *smiles* I hate to admit it but you’re right. They’re a good match…

D: *teasing* What’d you just say woman? I don’t think I heard you correctly!

C: *laughing* Boy! Hush up and go wash the dishes!

[meshugana1]

Could you turn me into an attractive maid? My friends keep making fun of me about how I'm single because of my looks, my shy and timid personality. Plus, I need a job to pay off a bunch of debts.

   My breath grew cold and heavy in my lungs like I had inhaled a block of ice. The center of the room felt like it was dangerous all of a sudden and every cell in my body screamed for me to avoid it. I couldn’t though, this was about personal growth. I wanted to slap myself but that would look really weird. Come on, come on, you can do this Jack. You’re the man, this is easy as pie. The scene played out before me. I had unconsciously crossed my arms as a woman asked a seated man about airfare to the Bermuda triangle. “What do ya want air rates for? We don’t even know if there’s no airports there anyway,” the travel agent said.“Well yes but ships always go missing in there,” she said.“Yeah, but we at least know there’s a couple docks so it’s probably safer.”“Probably? How often do ships go missing there?”“All the time. Every ship we send never comes back.” Come on Jack, jump in.“If no ships ever come back how does your company have such positive reviews?”“Well, no one’s come back to give us a bad one.” The crowd surrounding the pair chuckle and laugh, all but me. I’m still too nervous, a million lines and ideas are all competing in my head and it’s all too much. I’m sure a vein is throbbing somewhere in my head.

   “Hey man, I thought you said you’d get up there tonight? I’m bummed I didn’t get to see you freeze up in front of everybody,” Alan said. He was the lovable asshole that first suggested I come with him to his improve class to ‘break out of my shell’. I was perfectly fine in it, but it still got lonely. It was over nine years since my last girlfriend, and I’m not even sure how that one happened. “Sorry, I just got a little sidetracked thinking of what to say,” I said as I popped two Tylenol to squash the headache I gave myself. “That’s the fuckin problem dude, you don’t have to think in improve. You just do, ya know?” I didn’t know in fact. I can’t remember the last time I didn’t take a weekend off to plan out all the conversations I was going to have the following week. I was always just so scared of saying the wrong thing. “I’ll try better next time, I need to get to my night job or that dick boss of mine is gonna fire me.”“Ya know, I’ve heard you call him dick, asshole, fuckhead, motherfucker, cocksucker, pissant, and douce, but I don’t think I heard his name yet.”“Yeah, I may not like it but I really need the money. I have those student loans I took out remember?” This made Alan laugh, way harder than I thought was necessary. “Oh yeah, you were all set for a law degree and you got kicked out like the first day cause you called some woman ‘the most fuckable MILF you ever saw’.”“Yeah.”“And who did she turn out to be, again?”“The dean, alright? She was the dean.” Alan laughed so hard I thought he was actually choking. Part of me wished he would.

   I waited for Alan to recompose himself, he was the only one of us who could afford a car. I scanned the dimly lit hallway of the rec center. Looking for anything that could take my mind off my friend’s enjoyment of my situation. I saw a worn out cork board on the opposite wall lined with various ads. Better than listening to him choke on my misery. One said there was a snowmobile trailer in like new condition for sale, only $8500. Another advertised an old woman’s piano class, three times a week for only ten dollars a lesson. That was actually pretty good. A bright pink one hidden beneath a wanted poster from 1993 proclaimed the need for a groundskeeper at a country estate and offered to pay a hundred dollars an hour plus room and board. “What!?”

    A hundred friggin dollars an hour? I work a total eighteen hours a day between both my jobs and I barely bring home three hundred a week! “What’s wrong?” Alan said.“This lady want’s to pay someone a hundred dollars an hour to mow her lawn and stuff!”“No way, let me see,” Alan said grabbing the flyer from me. “Oh dude, that’s that old Haderly place like five miles outside town.”“So?”“Dude, she like a shut-in. But from what I hear she’s a total babe and makes all her money from doing cam shows online. No way you can work for a woman like that.”“Wow, I’m not used to hearing you so mature Alan.”“What? No, you can’t work for her cause you’re shy, short, and um, a homely guy. She’s not gonna want to hire you. She probably wants some super stud around to ogle at and get her in the mood. Sounds like a job for me!” Now it was my turn to laugh. He might have had a little nugget of a point, but he wasn’t exactly much better looking than me.“Don’t you dare. If anyone needs this job I do. You make plenty of money at your job.”“Not a hundred fucking dollars an hour. Don’t worry, when I’m loaded and she and I start dating we’ll let you live in the attic or something,” he said with a smile.

   It was an expensive Uber ride out to the property, but one hours wages from this lady would pay it back and more. It was early, the sunrise only just began to blind me as I walked down the path to the house. My fingers traced along the flyer as I walk, I would have called but there was no phone number on it, just this address. The air was so clean and filled with moisture I could hardly believe it. And the yard was nothing less than colossal. I had no idea there were even yards like this in the area. It looked like you had to measure it in acres. It took me nearly thirty minutes to walk it straight down the middle, no wonder the salary was so high, this was a full-time job. I was finally close enough to make out the detail on the ornate wooden doors when I saw another door at the side of the house open wide and a man stepped out. He was huge, built like a brick house and wore a really tight white shirt and jeans combo. He raised a Panama hat to his head and looked over the property with a steely gaze. Was this guy the lady’s husband? Not a second later did he reach back and grab a shovel and rake from the same doorway. Oh shit, was he a groundskeeper? Am I too late? Fuck, no wait. This place is huge, maybe she needs two? Oh please god need two, the ride back is gonna kill my wallet.

   The closer I get the more beautiful the house looks. This might actually be an old plantation home. That would make sense given the size of the yard. I can tell it’s solidly built as I step on the porch. Not a single creak or grown from the wood at all. I take a second before I knock on the door to check my appearance. My shirt is tucked, my shoes are clean, and my hair feels good. Ok, you’ve reversed this a hundred times since last night. Knock on the door, she answers. I say hello and offer a handshake, not too firm. We exchange names, I ask about the job. She asks my qualifications, can’t be too complicated for yard work. She either says yes or no, shake hands again and say thank you. Then I go home and wait for the call. Easy. I turn to knock on the door only find it already open, with a very beautiful woman laying against the doorframe.

   “And how can I help you young man?” she said. Her hair was a light brown color, accented with thin streaks of white. Her face looked beautiful despite light evidence of aging. He skin was still tight, but there was the odd wrinkle here and there. She wore a burgundy silk robe that failed completely at masking her impressive figure. Her hips made waves in her robe as they rested on the bawdy flesh. She looked like an ex-playboy bunny. “Young man? How can I help you?” she said. I hadn’t realized but her sudden appearance had thrown me off. “Oh, um, well,” I said. I fumbled with my hands trying to produce the slip for her. “I, well I was hoping that you could maybe hire me as a gardener. I mean the groundskeeper job,” oh god. I totally fucked this up. She had a questioning look on her face as she grabbed the flyer. “Well first off if you’re begging for a job you should probably lead with your name.”“Right, it’s Jack. I mean I’m Jack,” goddamnit Jack, you totally fucked up.“Thank you, Jack, my name is Irene Haderly. Secondly, I’m sorry to say that I filled that position over two years ago. This is just an old flyer, you probably already saw my groundskeeper, Samson, this morning. He’s more than enough for the property. What I really need right now is a maid. My last one quit about a month ago and it kills my knees cleaning this place by myself. So unless you want that job I can’t really help you.”

   I knew it was too good to be true. I never catch any breaks, I’m gonna be in debt for the rest of my goddamn life. But as she turned her back to me I felt this little ball of white-hot anger in my stomach grow. I was pissed at everything. My shitty apartment, my negative bank account, my stupid shyness, and it just sort of exploded. “Does the maid job pay just as well?!” I said. God, even angry I’m pathetic. But my whiny ejaculation seemed to peak her interest. “It does, actually. Even better, one-fifty an hour plus room and board. You would be expected to live here while you’re employed by me, and there is an appearance code that needs to be followed, are you up for that?” It was even better than I hoped, except for the appearance code. “Um, you’re not going to make me crossdress, are you?” Hell for that much money I wouldn’t even mind. “No, no. Nothing like that. You would, of course, need to sign an agreement, I lose maids so often I would just feel better if you made a commitment to working and living here. Would six months be alright with you?” Six months? At one-fifty an hour? With no expenses? “Could we make it a year? That sounds great!”

   I followed her inside and boy it looked awesome. It was the first time in my life I had an occasion to use the word opulence. I followed her down a naturally lit hallway, the sunlight blinding me on more than one occasion until we reached her office. She removed a simple looking brass key from her robe, it looked kinda heavy but I don’t remember seeing its outline in her clothing. “Now, other than tending to your duties, the only rule of the house is that you are never allowed in this office unless accompanied by me. Is that clear?”“Yes, ma’am.” That’s a pretty easy rule to follow. She handed me a fairly wordy looking piece of paper and told him where to sign. I had finally dotted the last I and crossed the last T, “Alright, ma’am, I think I’m done.” She smiled in a very loving way. “Perfect, now we just need to get your appearance up to snuff, follow me,” she said. This was the most nerve-wracking part. Was she actually going to make me crossdress? She said no but the thought was still chipping away at me.

   I was both happy and confused when she lead me instead of her closet to a side room in her office. It looked like a pantry filled with mason jars. It looked like they were filled with various spices, maybe she made her money with some artisanal spice company. But why bring me here? She looked like she carefully considered each jar, then she reached up and grabbed a small one and dumped the contents into her hand. She brought her hands together and rubbed the spice into her hands repeatedly. She brought her hands close to her mouth as she rubbed and it seemed like she was whispering into it. “Now, this is going to feel a little weird but don’t worry, it won’t hurt a bit.”

   What? She lifted her palm to my face and blew the dusty spice in my face before I could ask what she meant. I coughed violently as the powder flew down my throat and into my eyes. “What the hell was that!?” I said trying to rub the powder from my face, oddly enough though, she was right in that it didn’t hurt at all. “Sorry, I thought you read the contract? This was all explicitly stated.” I was about to tell her that nothing in there said anything about getting sand blown in my face, but all that came out was slurred speech. My knees were getting weak too. I didn’t feel any pain at all. But it was like I could feel the little bits of powder burrowing into my body. My vision got really fuzzy but I could feel everything so much clearer. I could feel really big, powerful hands grab my shoulder and cradle me in even more powerful arms. I knew we were walking but I didn’t know where until I was placed on a bed. It felt like little tacks all over my body just scratching the surface of my skin. It was heavenly.

   My whole body felt like the head of my dick when I masturbated. I tried to reach down for my cock but my whole body felt like jelly. Then after what felt like an eternity, it started to die down. I could finally feel how heavy I was breathing and it was like a had weights on my chest. My back was arched somewhat awkwardly too, but overall I just felt a bit out of sorts. My vision was still cloudy, like my contact lenses had fallen out. Without them, I could barely see a foot in front of my face, but I could make out the shapes of two people on the opposite side of the room. One was Ms. Haderly, but the other one took a little thinking before I could recognize Samson’s broad shoulders. “Finally awake I see, well good. You woke up a lot faster than some of the others.”“Woke up? Did you drug me or something? This isn’t some kinda kinky snuff thing you have right? Please tell me it’s not.”“Don’t be silly, you just had to be altered to fit the appearance requirement, and you turned out pretty great too If I do say so myself.” What was she talking about, turned out great? Oh shit, this was totally like the human centipede. In a moment of cinema-induced paranoia, I reached a hand behind me and, for a brief moment, fully expected to feel the face of some other poor guy who got caught in her trap. I did end up grabbing a lot more flesh than I usually did, but it wasn’t someone else’s face.

   It was my own ass, but it felt gigantic. My bottom was, at its apex, a boney little thing that only by the most generous definitions could be called an ass. This thing I had my hand digging into though, this was a real ass. It was curved, meaty, springy and pretty responsive to touch. I could feel the blood rushing all sorts of places as I fondled my way to understanding. Unconsciously my thighs rubbed together, and when they did I noticed a distinct lack of testicular pressure when I did that though. I wasn’t alone in the room but I really had to be sure. With my free hand I reach to my crotch I closed my eyes and uttered one last prayer and tried to grab my dick. Instead, my palm slaps into a flat, slick, cleft.

   I’m not some super macho guy, so being emasculated wasn’t exactly earth-shattering to me but who wouldn’t start freaking out after losing something so important? Other than my ass and my chest my body felt so light and wispy. I felt a rising nervous energy in my toes and I started bouncing on my heels. Ms. Haderly moved to my side quickly. “Now I know this is a shock, I would be pretty flustered too. But let me just explain what’s going on, okay? Samson, why don’t you leave us to some girl time?” He didn’t say anything as he turned around and left. I still teetered on the edge of a meltdown, but if she did this to me she was the only one who could undo it. So I just listened.

   “You have probably guessed already but I’m something like a witch. And you may not believe me but this was all spelled out in that contract, and I wasn’t kidding about the pay scale. Every hour you live here you’ll make one-hundred and fifty dollars, now a young guy like you probably needs cash like that. And this is only for a year. Now do the math, 24 hours a day at one-fifty an hour, you’ll be a millionaire by then.” That stopped me in my tracks. That was so much money it was crazy. “Why do I have to be a girl though?” “That’s just the way the magic works. Aside from the looks, which are much improved by the way, it also comes with the knowledge of how to execute your duties. That and, well let’s just say the job comes with some really great benefits,” she said. Her nails glided along my thigh, and her hand reached and grabbed what I assumed to be one of my breasts. I hope that’s what it was because I still couldn’t see well, and they felt amazing to be held. She moved in closer and kissed me. Her much larger chest pressed into mine and her tongue darted around my mouth. When she separated I didn’t need my glasses to make out the sultry face she was giving me as she licked her lips. “So, what do you think?”

   She led me to my room a half an hour later, it was towards the front of the house on its left side. The room was directly beside Samson’s it seemed. When I stepped in, from what little I could make out, it was huge. It looked bigger than my crappy studio by three times. She guided me over to a bed and for a second I thought we were going to resume what she started upstairs, but instead, she told me to get dressed and start going through the list of chores. I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised by the uniform she wanted me to wear. It looked like a sexy french maid’s costume, but the thing I was excited about was the glasses on top of the pile of silky clothes. I wasted no time or thought in putting them on, and oddly enough they were my exact prescription. The room instantly became clear and I took in its full rustic splendor. A room like this in the city would cost no less than six thousand a month, and it was mine for just the cost of my cock and balls.

   I was nervous as I crept into the hallway in my new uniform, but not nearly as much as I expected or was accustomed to. This was the most flesh I had ever had exposed while still being dressed. My legs were encased in the thinnest white fabric stockings I could have imagined. The air passed right through and stroked my legs as if they were naked. My heels actually confused me in his easy I took to walking in them. They were over five inches tall, and at first glance, I had no idea how I could walk in them without undergoing training. But as my feet slipped into them it felt just like riding a bicycle, and not once did I even buckle in the slightest. The bra and panties went on in much the same way, but the feel of the silk underwear still caused a blush across my body. They were tight and the panties clung to my new sex, creating a slight camel toe. The bra seemed like it was intended to make my, really rather impressive, chest pop and call attention to itself. There I stood, dressed only in my new underwear and heels, like a lot of porn I had watched, with a chest that begged to be touched. I really wanted to, like really really. But Ms. Haderly had given me a list of chores to get to, and if she could do this to me to help my work go easier, then I really didn’t want to picture what she could do when she was mad.

   My incredibly short skirt bounced as I walked the halls and cleaned the rooms, with a feather duster no less. The house was kept mostly immaculate and only required light upkeep. Still, the house was large and the sun was setting by the time I had finished. I had been required to make Ms. Haderly both lunch and dinner, now I hadn’t made much more than Kraft mac n’ cheese for the last few years, but as I entered the kitchen I flitted about like a master chef. Before I knew it I had made her a hearty seafood salad for lunch, and that evening I made her a two-course meal, a simple Caprese salad and a roast beef for the main course. She even praised the meal, saying it was simply delicious. I had no idea magic could make someone so effective at something so complicated.

   Not only the cooking was different, but I seemed to have an intimate knowledge of the layout of the house, and my own timetable, and well…I seemed to just do everything in the sexiest possible way. I don’t think I ever bent my knees once the whole day, always at the waist and displaying my round ass to whoever was lucky enough to be behind me. My walk was punctuated with a side to side thrust of my hips with every step. Whenever I was in Ms. Haderly’s presence I always had my hands clasped in front of my stomach, which squeezed my breasts together making them look even larger. Honestly, I didn’t mind as much as I would’ve as a guy. I wasn’t good looking, not hardly, but now I was hot. Like really hot, and I kinda loved flaunting it. The sun was finally gone and as I returned to my sizable room, I ran into the groundskeeper Samson as he returned to his.

   I had never actually been introduced to him. A few times I saw him through the windows as I cleaned them, he mostly didn’t wear a shirt all day. That was concerning me. Normally I would be jealous of his intense physical fitness, he was as big as Schwarzenegger and as toned as Bruce Lee. I was jealous that I didn’t have his body, just not in the way I normally would be. He still didn’t have a shirt on and his body glistened with sweat and his tanned chest and face were planted with small, light patches of dirt and dust. “Oh, nice to see you awake. I’m Samson. So I guess you’re staying then?” he says. His rock solid arm reaches up and rubs the back of his neck. His body is so toned I can see each individual muscle move when he shifts his weight. “Y..yeah, it’s really good money, ya know?” My thighs rubbed together absentmindedly, feeling much hotter than I thought they should. “Yeah, that’s what drew me here a few years ago. What was your name again?” he said.“It’s Jack, but you can call me Jaclyn if you think it sounds better,” I said, blushing harder than I had for a long time. “That’s a pretty name, suits you much better now. It’ll take some getting used to though believe me,” he said.“Wait, did she…?” I said.“Yup, two years ago. My name was Samantha, if you can believe it,” he said. I very easily could. I moved my hands behind my back and took a few steps forward, hips rolling with each step. “So, did she change everything on you too?”

   Not five minutes later I was thrown on my bed as he used his powerful muscles to strip me bare. I undid his denim jeans with my teeth and his hard cock slapped against my face, the heat of his solid manhood made my glasses fog up. We were just about to get into it when we heard a that clear near the door. It was Ms. Haderly, dressed in the same robe from this morning. I was horny as hell but nervous, terrified I had broken some unknown rule. “You naughty, little servants should know better. You need to wait for your mistress before getting started.” She stepped forward and her robe slid off revealing her still tight and erotic naked body. She joined me on the bed and began to lick and tease Samson’s cock. Her hand was pawing at my supple ass. It was then that I had made up my mind, this was the best job ever.

The end. Hope Y’all like it!

[sparatus]

1 and 7 for Teia? :)

“blast in the past” oc questions

thanks!!! sorry these took so long to answer lmfao

1. Where is your OC from?

she’s from the citadel!! i haven’t really pinned down exactly where on the station she grew up, but i figure her family was generally pretty solidly middle-class, sometimes dipping down to lower-middle depending on how work was going, probably in a pretty turian-heavy area cause her parents were traditionalists, but still somewhere where she had friends of a variety of species (still mostly turians, but there was at least one asari, plus a couple drell)

7. Do their childhood friends live in their hometown?If so do they still interact?

nah, most of them have scattered by the time she moves back to the station with ierian for his work. most of her turian friends ended up going to mandatory like she did, and they all got scattered to the four corners of the empire in different squads. she lost contact with the rest pretty quickly after leaving for basic, so she has no idea where they are now, but she hasn’t run into them whenever visiting her parents, so she assumes they’ve moved on.

the others who went in with her she tried to keep up with, but eventually they faded out, too. they were all too busy and starting to find their own interests, and over time they just. stopped being able to relate well. her old boyfriend and the asari friend she’s still in touch with, and every now and then they get together to hang out and swap stories.

[desolate-rose]

Chapter 11 growing, glowing, knowing

This plant is super weird.

Like seriously, I had expected that the seed the korok gave me was going to be weird but wow.

A few days after the picnic mother had followed through on her promise and a small pot filled with rich soil had been delivered to my room. It was a pretty little thing all white ceramic with graceful blue lines sweeping across its surface to create a stylized dragon swooping over small blue flowers.

It honestly made me a little nervous. It looked way too expensive to be placed in the clumsy care of a toddler. A smart toddler but still a toddler. It seriously looks like some sort of antique ming vase or something that should be in a collection at a museum or on a shelf in a mansion some wear housing an equally prettily expensive bonsai of some sort.

I mean technically I am a princess who would have these sorts of things, but my solidly middle class broke teenager mindset was shying away from touching something that looked so expensive and breakable.

So I had gently, gently placed the little pot on the floor in the corner of my room right in a patch of sunlight from the window. (I was too short to reach the top of my dresser or the table by my bed without climbing on something and I was NOT risking the vase by climbing with it.) Then I carefully planted the little seed in the damp dark soil.

That's when things got weird.

Within seconds of planting the dimly glowing seed, it had sprouted. I had still been patting the soil down when it had sprouted into my hands. Literally sprouting into my finger tips. The little sprout hasn't grown since.

I had diligently watered the little sprout daily since. Carefully experimenting with the amount of sunlight and water it received each day. I had even started talking to the thing based on the half recalled hearsay that plants grew better when you talk to them. (his name was now neville.) It was surprisingly nice to have an excuse to babble away in english again and be able to express my true thoughts. (even if no one could understand me.) nevertheless nothing had seemed to affect the little sprout. It was still perfectly unblemished and unchanged.

It was weird.

I had decided to start a field journal to record my observations of the odd little thing. It was a part of my push to be more organised in my research. I had finally reached a point in my literacy to be able to make the most simplistic of notes. It was also good writing practice. (I would have probably started earlier if I thought of it, but welllllllll, I had been distracted.)

I had separated my notes into three journals, one for Neville, one for the history of the world that I had discovered so far (and what I remembered from the games), and one for what I could find out about magic.

The first two were progressing decently, Neville's journal being mostly data tables recording his nonexistent growth and the amount of water and sunlight he had gotten that day, whereas my history and plot journal had been filling slowly but steadily from what i could read and the stories that granny or dotty would read me before bed.

My magic journal on the other hand. It was frustratingly empty. All that i can find is either one, stupidly beyond my level, two, stupidly complex in a way I don't understand, three, stupidly simple in a way that doesn't explain any thing, or four some how a stupid mix of all three.

All in all, I'm feeling frustrated.

But it's fine, I'm fine.

Oh! That reminds me! It's been a week or two, surely that squire has returned my (hopefully undamaged) book!

I had kinda forgotten about it with all the commotion but I never had gotten to finish reading that book on special plants! Neville! I know what we're going to be doing today! carefully adjusting Neville's too pretty pot so that he was fully in the sun, his two small perfect leaves practically glistening in the golden sunlight. Perfect!

“Granny?” I looked to where Granny was carefully filling out some probably important forms on the couch while watching over me, white hair carefully pulled up and away from her tan and careworn face.

“Yes, my princess?” she replied, clever hands carefully placing her quill down.

“Can we go to the library?”

“What’s the magic word?” Ughhhhhh, I somehow keep forgetting how annoying being three is.

“Can we go to the library please?” I said, giving her my best puppy eyes.

She elegantly stood sweeping up her paperwork. “Of course my princess.”

Off we go!

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

THERE WAS SOMEONE ELSE IN MY SECTION OF THE LIBRARY!

it wasn’t unusual to see people other than myself and Mr. Tommieson, it was a semi public library after all, But the section of simple childish books I could actually read was usually empty other than myself. I mean why would you go to the royal library for children's books? And yet, there was a knight in my library.

Looking again, he wasn’t quite a knight yet. His dirty mud covered tunic had the symbol of a squire instead of the distinctive armored appearance of a knight, but the point still stood. What was he doing in my haven of literature!

Now normally, I would be all for people getting educated, (go get you an education man!) but I was decidedly wary after my unfortunate encounter with those in my father’s army. (The Hylian royal line was matriarchal, my father had married into royalty. Before that he was a general of the Hylian army and he still kept in the practice of overseeing the troops.)

I shouldn't judge an entire contingent by the actions of two lazy soldiers. Still I hesitated. He didn't look too intimidating, tall and gangly in the way that all teenage boys were after a growth spurt, messy brown hair, brown eyes, and a non discriptly perfect face in the way that all hylians had perfectly even features.

All in all just a normal teenage squire who is for some reason holding MY COOKING PRIMER!

Before I had consciously thought to move I was at the young man's side staring up imploringly at the startled squire.

“Ummmmm, hi? Are you lost?”

“Is that ‘How to Cook and How it Works’ by Lana Dodson?!” I was practically vibrating as my eyes locked on my target. I could finally finish my book. My magic notes will finally be more filled out. I was a literary shark and had locked eyes on my prey.

The squire blinked surprised, “Oh, yes…”

There was a moment of silent dead air between us as I buzzed in place.

“...Did, did you want it?”

“If you're finished! I wouldn’t want to interrupt you!” I would just make you incredibly uncomfortable by staring at you until you were done to insure that the book wasn’t damaged.

“Uhh, go crazy with it kid.” He hesitantly handed me the book with a bewildered expression on his face.

I bobbed into a clumsy curtsy with the book that was aporoquamently half my size clutched in one arm. “Thank you sir!” Sucker, I mentally cackled. now to go enjoy my book and finally get some info to add to my note book on magic.

I wonder how much of the ‘magical’ ingredients in cooking are magic and how many are hormonal reactions like coffee or chocolate? I had so many things to investigate!

The next two weeks were spent in a fevered state of research and questions where I would haunt the library until Granny or Dottie would literally drag me out.

But even through my focused daze, I noticed the odd squire repeatedly visiting my section of the library, by the time I surfaced from my research I had decided that I needed to talk to him.

I was curious, sue me. it wasn’t often I saw a squire repeatedly visit the children’s section of the library.

____________________________________________________________________________________________

This was it.

I was going to talk to him.

I can do this.

I've had 17 years of social interaction before this, I might be a little rusty, BUT talking to people couldnt be that hard could it?

Who am I kidding? I KNOW it is that hard.

But nothing worth doing is easy, so I squared my shoulders, gathered my courage and approached the wayward solder.

Eye contact! Eye contact is important! My teacher would tell me to make eye contact during an interview, the same rules probably apply here right?

God I hadn't tried to talk to anyone in the last three years. Keep it cool Zelda.

“So uhhhh, you come here often?”

Granny muffled a surprised snort from behind me.

ABORT ABORT MISSION ABORT.

OH S-

“Oh I'm sorry did you ask me something?” The squire tilted his head curiously looking up from where he had been studiously scanning a simple book on the animals of hyrule. It was basic, elementary even not going into detail on any of the creatures and only listing a few but interesting from what I've managed to gather from it.

“Um uh, I've seen you all the time here i'm just uh, wondering what brought you to my side of the library?”

God someone, kill me now. I have completely forgotten how to people.

“Oh uh, I’m uh,” the kid flushed, rubbing the back of his neck, “I've been teaching myself how to read.” He glanced at granny hovering behind me and winced. “Before I became a squire I didn't have access to a library, we don't have much access to anything beyond the basics out in the countryside.”

My eyes widened. “Really?”

He shrugged, uncomfortably glancing away.

“That's so cool!” I gushed excitedly and unconsciously started to beam at him. “What?” he whipped his head back around to look at me surprised, why was he surprised? I fully understood the hell that is learning to read and write in this stupidly pretty language.

“It's super impressive that you're teaching yourself how to read! Hylian is super hard to read and write in! I'm having the worst time at it! Do you have a teacher or tutor to help you?”

He still looked a little shell shocked as he shook his head. “Uh no, I've been pretty much teaching myself.” I gaped, it’s been hard enough learning to read with the help of granny spots and mom to do it on your own!

“Wow! Thats incredible! I would have never been able to read without the help of my teachers! Do you think you could help me with my reading too!” This was awesome! Finally I could talk to someone who understood! Learning to read and write was hard!

He flushed a darker red. “Umm, I’m not all that good at it yet. I’ve mostly been guessing and trying to work out what words mean from context.” relatable! God finally someone who understood my struggle!

I gave him my biggest grin, “That’s okay! I'm pretty much doing the same thing! Do you want to work together? Having someone to help always makes things easier!”

“Uh,” he glanced once again at granny hovering over my shoulders, I ignored the sassy eyebrow she lifted at him as if to say ‘I’m not the boss of her’

He shrugged and gave me an unsteady grin, “Sure, why not. Where are you at with your reading?”

“Oh!” I gasped smacking myself on the forehead. “I forgot to introduce myself, im so sorry that was terribly rude of me!” I dropped into a proper curtsy before beaming up at the still bewildered looking squire. “Hi! My name is Zelda, it’s a pleasure to meet you!”

His face turned white then green as he glanced again at Granny, a new wariness in his gaze. My heart dropped and I could feel my smile dim. I had forgotten the whole princess thing in my excitement of meeting someone new, who had the same hobby as me. It wouldn't be entirely unrealistic for him to try and bow out now that he knew-

He looked at my face and let a tired resigned sigh, the color returning to his face as his grin reserfaced, smaller and far more exasperated but also more real.

He swept into a half bow from where he was sitting. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, your majesty. My name’s Jiro.”

It turns out that I was better at reading than him, that's okay. I was happy to finally have a study buddy. Perhaps even a friend.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

A few weeks later, I was helping my young padawan in the ways of the stupidly complicated symbols once again when I noticed he was slightly down.

I frowned “hey Jiro, what's wrong? Are you feeling okay? Should we cancel today's session?”

“No no, I'm fine, it's just...” He sighed dejectedly.

My brow furrowed in worry. “It's just what?” I gently prodded, I couldn't have my only friend upset!

He frowned before putting his charcoal stick down.

“The captain of the guard and his family just died.”

“What!” I gasped in shock. I had never met the man, but my father spoke of him fondly. “What happened!” Surely nothing good could take down one of Hyrule's best soldiers.

“His family was attacked by a group of monsters on their way to visit some friends for a wedding. I didn’t even know him that well, but from what I saw he was kind, and… they never even found his son's body. He was only 4.” I felt a chill go down my spine. This was the first real mention of monsters that I had heard and it made my heart drop to my toes. This was real people dying, and there was nothing I could do about it. This wasn't a video game where you could just respawn when you died. It was real and these people’s deaths were permanent.

He glanced at my white face before his eyes widened and he hurriedly back tracked. “But you don't have to worry about that princess! You're perfectly safe here in the castle! No monsters could get past the guards, or more importantly the queen!��� I could literally see the moment he remembered I was only 3 and not the young adult I tried to project myself as.

The young adult I used to be.

I gathered myself and took a deep breath falling apart now wouldn't help anyone.

“Are they certain that his son did not survive? You just said that they didn't find his body.”

He wavered, not wanting to hurt me with the truth but also knowing I was smart enough not to believe the pretty lies one would usually tell.

“Please,” I asked, conviction in my gaze.

He sighed, “I highly doubt it, he was only four he would have no chance to out run the monsters, besides even if he did…” he sighed again face grim. “They found the wreckage beside the lost woods. If he ran and ended up their… he’d be as good as dead.”

My throat went dry. He had only been four, really for not four plus seventeen extra years of a past life. I swallowed. Even before the Calamity, the world was growing darker.

________________________

*Zelda gushes about how cool he is and gives him the kicked puppy look when he looks anxious about her being a princess*

Jiro: well I guess I’m a big brother now

Also on FanFiction.Net! https://m.fanfiction.net/s/13547505/11/

[skeletonscribbles]

At Least It’s Not Sports (Part Four - Senior Year, First Semester)

okay I am SO sorry about this but I thought I posted this yesterday and then I looked and it...wasn’t there? so if you’re getting tagged twice in this, I’m sorry. either tumblr ate this last time, or I’m a big idiot. (well...I’m always a big idiot.)

anyways. I decided to break up senior year, so here’s that sweet part 1 for ya <3

Title: At Least It’s Not Sports (High School Drama Club AU)

Pairings: Reddie, Stanlon, Benverly, Bill x Audra

Rating: they’re 18! it’s explicit now whoops

Summary: “Things will be different this year, mama,” he said softly, looking at his Keds. “Can I go?” Things would be different. Things were already different, but she didn’t know that yet. Hopefully, she wouldn’t have to know that at all.

Warnings: sexual situations, some cliche Reddie tropes (window climbing etc)

Freshman Year / Sophomore Year / Junior Year /  Senior Year Pt. 2

Read on Ao3!

(sorry for the Crucible Cast Party joke with myself but it’s relevant to the content I swear) Sonia kept Eddie pretty much confined to his room all summer, which was kind of a blessing, but mostly a curse.

The curse part was pretty straightforward. Eddie finished his summer work at the beginning of the third week, and from then on had absolutely nothing to do but daydream and (God forbid) spend time with his mother. Time with Sonia usually started with the television and ended with the bible, so on most days, Eddie picked the first option. He curled up on his bed with a book or a notepad and lost himself thinking and drawing and dreaming of thick glasses, freckled shoulders, and big hands. It would have been sweet and romantic, except that it was a far, far cry from the real thing.

The blessing part came in the form of the real thing, by way of the drainpipe.

On a hot night in the middle of July, Eddie was laying on his bed, Pride and Prejudice folded open on his stomach (it was his fifth readthrough - Lizzie Bennett was up there with Elle Woods on his list of role models) and Whitney Houston playing on his small alarm clock radio. He was in the middle of one of his favorite daydreams - the one where he and Richie ran away together to New York - when he heard it.

Something was tapping against his window.

Eddie, figuring it was a squirrel or some other annoying form of New England wildlife, tried to pull himself back into the daydream. He focused on the shade of Richie’s eyes and the slow, easy stretch of Richie’s mouth, and was just about back to the fantasy when the tap came again.

Cursing under his breath, he set Jane Austen aside and went out to see what was making noise.

When he drew back the curtains, the sight he was met with made him trip over his own feet and fall backwards onto his pink rug.

Richie Tozier was trying to curl his whole body around the frame of Eddie’s window, hanging on with his fingertips and looking terrified as shit.

Once Eddie wrapped his mind around what was happening, he jumped up to open the already cracked window the rest of the way up.

“You could have let yourself in, dumbass,” Eddie chastised him breathlessly, smiling in spite of himself.

“It didn’t seem polite,” Richie replied, gently uncoiling himself and gingerly hoisting his way into the room. He wasn’t very good at it - it took him a couple of different tries to fit his long, stickbug legs through the window in a way that made sense. Eddie did his best to stifle his laughter, but he wasn’t strong enough to choke it back, so he settled for giggling under his breath.

“To what do I owe the displeasure?” Eddie asked, still smiling as he watched Richie try and regain his bearings on the floor of his room. “And how did you know where I live? You’ve never been over here before.”

“I asked Bill.” Richie didn’t seem embarrassed about that in the slightest. “Anyway. I figured you were lonely up here in your prison, and no one else was confident in their drainpipe shimmying skills, so…voila.”

“Voila,” Eddie echoed, drinking in the details of Richie’s face like a man starved. (It had been almost two months; Eddie supposed he was starved, in a way.) “I…uh. I don’t know what to say.”

“Well, I do,” Richie said, and launched into a spirited soliloquy about Bev’s most recent Target shoplifting excursion like they were at the lunch table at school rather than in the middle of Eddie’s dimly lit bedroom that Richie had, within the last five minutes, effectively broken into. Eddie was having trouble listening…not because the story wasn’t interesting, but rather because he wasn’t quite sure if Richie was real or not. After about five minutes, he held up a hand.

“Richie, why did you come here?”

Richie stopped mid-sentence, obviously thrown off. “Huh?”

Eddie squirmed a little. “This isn’t…we don’t see each other except at school. We don’t hang out in the summer. I don’t understand.”

Richie fidgeted with his glasses, obviously embarrassed. “I told you…I figured–”

“Richie,” Eddie said, not interested in putting up with bullshit, “I know what you said.”

Richie huffed out a breath. “I…thought things were different, this year.”

Eddie’s heart leapt. Different?

“Different how?” he asked, searching Richie’s expressive face for any sign of…well, anything.

Richie was truly a consummate actor. He gave Eddie absolutely nothing. “Just…different.”

“Oh.” Eddie willed himself not to feel disappointed. “Carry on.”

Richie did.

He was right, in a way. It was different, one hundred percent different, but not in a way that either of them had to talk about. In fact, talking about it would have ruined whatever electricity was in the air.

Richie talked to him almost all night, and only left because the birds were beginning to sing. After that, his visits became a weekly ritual, and whatever was crackling between them grew stronger and stronger every time. Nothing ever happened, they just sat and talked and stared and smiled, but there was a promise in it - an understanding that it wasn’t ‘if’ something was ever going to happen, but ‘when’.

Even with that being the case, the summer wound down without Eddie’s relationship with Richie escalating at all…except for the fact that they were finally on good enough terms that Eddie wasn’t dreading seeing Richie in school in September.

This year, Sonia had taken up the mantle of dreading Eddie seeing Richie in school in September.

“What are you to do if you see him in school, Eddie Bear?” She had gone all out for his last first day of school - made him a full breakfast, took one million photos, the whole shebang - and now she was trying to use all of her “kindness” to her advantage.

“Avoid him, ma, I know.” Eddie rolled his eyes, itching to get out the door.

“And if he–”

“I won’t touch him, I won’t talk to him, I’ll make friends with girls.” Eddie rattled off all the things he knew she wanted to hear, biting back a long, tortured sigh.

“Good.” Sonia seemed satisfied. Well, almost satisfied. “I still don’t know if it would be wise to let you rejoin that club…”

“The drama club needs me, ma,” Eddie insisted. “I’m the only one who can run their backstage stuff. It’s important.”

Sonia fixed him with her most intimidating stare. “If things start to go back to the way they were, Edward, I’ll have to make some phone calls to doctors. Do you want me to make phone calls to doctors?”

Eddie felt nauseous. There was no question what kind of doctors she’d send him to - in fact, he was pretty surprised he hadn’t been shipped off there already.

“Things will be different this year, mama,” he said softly, looking at his Keds. “Can I go?”

Things would be different. Things were already different, but she didn’t know that yet. Hopefully, she wouldn’t have to know that at all.

“Yes.” She tapped her cheek, and he quickly stepped forward and kissed it, stomach still churning. “Have a wonderful first day, sweetheart. Senior year!”

“Senior year,” he repeated, numbly pushing his way out the door.

Richie was waiting for him by the side entrance to the school, where all the drama kids snuck in to hang in the band room before classes started. Eddie thought of his mother…and pushed the thought aside, instead choosing to smile as he approached Richie, heart thrumming in his chest.

“All right, Eds?” Richie smiled back, and Eddie noticed with a little jolt that the remnants of the little bug-eyed kid that flirted with him at their first ever drama workshop were still visible in the crinkles around his eyes; the stretch of his lips. So much had changed, so much was different…but it was the same, too. Eddie kind of liked that it was both. Different and the same.

“Don’t call me Eds,” he said warmly. “Are you ready?”

“Senior year?” Richie laughed, loud and full. “Are you kidding? I’ve been waiting for this my whole life.” He slung an arm around Eddie’s shoulders and began to drag him inside. “Let’s go ruuuuule the schooooool.”

Eddie followed. He was ready, too.

—-

The fall was…tense.

For once, it wasn’t Eddie’s fault. He and Richie fell back into old habits, to the point where Eddie wondered sometimes if he’d imagined whatever spark he was feeling over the summer…but it was okay; it was probably better that they were being professional about their working relationship.

(Eddie didn’t want to be professional about their working relationship…but how was he supposed to tell Richie he didn’t want to be professional when he, the stage manager, was meant to be the apex of professionalism?)

“You’ve got to stop calling me about this,” Stan had told him exasperatedly, after Eddie had called him for the forty-sixth time asking about how he’d managed his relationship with Mike.

“I’m dying, Stan,” Eddie whined, curling into himself on his bed.

“Please do that on your own time.” Stan hung up.

Even with that being the case, the drama club tension was still concentrated hard on Bev, Bill, and Audra. Bill and Audra were still together, and while Bev was pretty solidly over Bill, she was still annoyed by the whole thing.

She was also playing opposite Bill in the fall play. Eddie had groaned upon seeing the cast list - it was clearly one of Ms. Starrett’s reconciliation techniques, and it was absolutely doomed to fail. Offstage, Bill and Bev were more separate than ever, and onstage, their animosity was bleeding into their acting. Richie was all but tearing out his hair over having to share the stage with them.

The worst day of it came in early October, when Bill came to the lunch room from a study-hall meeting with Ms. Starrett with capital ‘N’ News.

“She liked my puh-play!” Bill said excitedly, sliding a copy of the piece he’d been working on in creative writing for the last three years across the table. “She wants to do it this winter!”

They all gaped back at him, astonished. “She wants to put on your student play? As like…a school thing?” Eddie asked, not sure if he’d heard him correctly.

Bill nodded. “She does.”

There was another moment of stunned silence at the table, and then Bev broke it by getting up to leave.

“Bev, seriously?” Bill asked incredulously, clearly fed up with her attitude.

“Seriously what, Bill?” Bev whipped around, glaring daggers at him. “When’s the other shoe gonna drop, huh?”

Bill furrowed his brow. “I don’t follow.”

Bev threw up the arm that wasn’t clutching her stuff. “Oh, I don’t know. You cheat on me - no repercussions, you’re still in a relationship, I’m left out to dry. You write a play, we’re doing it, no questions asked. What about us, huh? What about me?” Her voice broke, and she looked away. Ben reached out a hand to her, but she recoiled from it, clinging so hard to her things that her knuckles turned white.

“I’m sorry,” Bill said, soft and open. “I’m really sorry, Bev. I didn’t do any of it right.”

“You didn’t,” Bev agreed hotly.

“We should have broken up months before,” he continued, “but I didn’t know how to tell you that, because I wanted so badly to be your friend.”

“Well now what?” Bev asked, softer now. “We’re not friends.”

“You’re right. We’re not.” Bill looked at her, unwavering, and Eddie found himself impressed by the way that Bill was handling things. In another life, Bill might have served as a good leader for the group…but they were beyond that, now. “I want to try again.”

Bev turned her gaze to Audra, who had kept mercifully quiet though the whole argument. “And what do you think?”

“I think it’s a good idea.” Audra’s eyes remained on her tray of food. “He wants you to be his costume designer, and I think it’s a good idea, Beverly.”

Bev snapped her eyes back up to Bill in surprise. “Is that true?”

Bill nodded. “And I was hoping Ben could do sets and luh-lights, if that’s of interest to him.”

Ben looked at Bev. “I’ll think about it.”

There was a silence as they waited for Bev to speak, and then:

“Me too,” Bev said, almost inaudibly. “I’m….me too.”

Eddie and Richie looked at each other, hopeful and amazed.

They were right to have hope. Things slowly started to improve after that. The anger seeped out of Bill and Bev’s acting, first, and then out of their time at rehearsal, and finally it dissipated altogether. Lunch was suddenly a much more comfortable and inclusive experience. Ben in particular was smiling more than Eddie had ever seen him smile before in his life.

The only downside to the reconciliation was that it meant that Eddie and Richie’s not-relationship was back to being the group’s Big Shitty Feelings Thing. Bev specifically would not shut up about it, and so Eddie was forced to rehash every single Richie encounter to her in horrifying detail. He wasn’t really sure why she wanted to know, but he indulged her anyway (because he felt like he had to…definitely NOT because he enjoyed it at all in any way, shape, or form).

“He keeps leaning up against me at the lunch table.” Eddie and Bev had set up a little arrangement of chairs in a corner backstage for themselves during the weekend of the fall play, and when Bev wasn’t on stage, that space was their new gossip headquarters. “One of these days, I’m just going to fall over and die, I swear to God.”

“I was thinking, actually,” she said, picking at her manicure.

“Dangerous,” Eddie replied, arching an eyebrow.

“Definitely.” She looked over at him and smirked. “What about the cast party?”

Eddie stared back. “What about the cast party?”

“That’s when you should make your move,” she said, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

Was it the simplest thing in the world…?

His responsibilities to the fall play would be over, so he wouldn’t have to worry about professionalism, he’d be surrounded by friends, so he wouldn’t have to worry about comfort, and as for courage…

“Your Aunt is hosting, right? Will there be substances?”

“Wine and beer,” she confirmed.

To his excitement and mild horror, the beginnings of a plan were already starting to form in Eddie’s mind.

“That might not be such a bad idea,” he conceded to Bev as she got up to listen for her cue. “I guess we’ll see.”

—

The plan in its finished form was simply to get absolutely blitzed and find Richie, and within his first hour of being at Bev’s, Eddie was most of the way finished with step one.

“I just really miss you, Stanny,” he slurred into his phone, slipping across the kitchen in his socks. (He’d taken his shoes off by the door like a proper houseguest.) “I wanna…you’re just such a good friend! Such a good friend. Best friend.”

“Is there a way to record phone conversations?” Stan, on the other end, was entirely sober, and apparently bitter about it. “I want to tape this one so I can play it back to you the next time you insist you’re not annoying.”

“Bev wants me to find Richie,” Eddie continued, undeterred, “but I can’t do that r’now.”

“Why?” Stan asked, without any real interest.

“No control,” Eddie said, rolling his eyes because wasn’t it obvious? “Dunno what I’d do. Might be dangerous.”

“What you’d do, huh?” Without warning, hands appeared on either side of Eddie, boxing him in against the counter island. Eddie knew exactly who it was, but he made a show of turning around anyway, all the while pretending that his heart wasn’t trying to escape his chest.

Richie was looking down at him with the most intense expression Eddie had ever seen him wear - and he’d seen Richie do basically the whole spectrum of human emotion onstage.

Boldly, Eddie reached up and balled his fist in the front of Richie’s black show t-shirt. He felt Richie’s breath hitch, and felt powerful. “You wanna find out, Rich?”

“For fuck’s sake, you two,” Eddie had dropped his phone on the counter, so Stan was yelling to get their attention, “stop dragging this out and get to it. I’m leaving.”

The phone went silent, and they were left to stare at each other. The crackling feeling from the summer was back, and it was so fucking thick that it was hard to move…

…but Richie managed to, somehow. He fastened a hand around Eddie’s left wrist and pulled him away from the counter, out of the kitchen, up the stairs…into a bedroom.

Holy shit.

Eddie was too drunk to really feel or understand the gravity of the situation, but he knew that whatever happened was about to be momentous, so as soon as Richie closed the door, he crowded his space, not wanting to miss a single second of whatever was coming next.

“Eds?” Richie whispered, somehow both tentative and desperate, and that was it for Eddie. He surged forward, grabbing the fabric around the collar of Richie’s shirt and sinking his teeth into the skin between Richie’s neck and the slope of his shoulders.

“Fuck,” Richie breathed, burying his hands in the fabric of the back of Eddie’s drama sweatshirt while Eddie worked to kiss down his neck. “Eddie Kaspbrak, holy shit, holy fucking shit.”

He pulled Eddie’s head away and moved to kiss Eddie on the lips, but Eddie dodged out of the way. (He’d seen Pretty Woman. He knew what would happen if he let himself get too emotionally invested in what they were doing. Richie was a notorious horndog, and the more Eddie concentrated on that, the easier this would be.) “What do you want, Rich?”

Richie ran his fingers down and under Eddie’s sweatshirt, digging his fingers into the flesh of Eddie’s back. “So much, sweetheart, but I don’t want to scare you.”

Eddie couldn’t help but smile at that. He took a step backwards and took stock of Richie’s wrecked expression, marveling at how different it was from the cocky, lead-actor front that Richie usually put up, and felt a warm sort of pride blooming in his chest. He’d been the one to shake up the otherwise unflappable Richie Tozier. He had that power.

More than that, he planned to exercise it - starting by slowly sinking to his knees.

Richie looked down at him, beet red, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. “Dressing practice?” he joked, but he was too nervous for his words to hold any real humor.

“I want this,” Eddie said, sliding his hands up Richie’s legs slowly - more to steady himself than to be sensual, but Richie seemed affected nevertheless. “I’m not afraid.”

“Gonna dirty talk like you call light cues, huh? Short and sw–” Richie began to say, but Eddie effectively shut him up by going for the button on his pants. “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. Eddie, holy fuck, I…you don’t have…hhhnnn…”

Eddie ignored him in favor of unzipping his pants and pulling them down around his thighs. He huffed out a little laugh at Richie’s lucky Aquaman boxers…and earned himself a soft, high whimper from Richie.

He tore his eyes from Richie’s crotch and turned them up to Richie’s face, trying to gauge how he was doing. He was met with an expression that was equal parts lust and panic.

“Are you sure?” he asked, eyes huge in the reflection of his still-terrible glasses. “I didn’t bring you up here to–”

Eddie, drunk and confident, moved his hand up to grope at the very, very prominent outline of Richie’s dick in his boxers. It was bigger than Eddie had registered it being when he’d come in almost-contact with it backstage…or was that just the alcohol distorting things?

Anyway, he had his hand on it, which was fucking awesome and awkward and everything in between. Richie made a noise like a wounded animal and jerked his hips forward.

“Okay?” Eddie asked, head swimming. “I didn’t…I don’t know what I’m doing, really, so if it’s bad–”

“Not bad,” Richie said quickly, reaching down and burying a hand in Eddie’s hair. “Really, really not bad.”

“Good,” Eddie whispered, leaning forward to mouth over Richie’s still-clothed erection. Richie let out a stream of expletives above him, which was encouraging, so Eddie pressed a final little kiss to Richie’s confined dick and moved his hands up to the waistband of Richie’s boxers. “We never got this far backstage.”

“No, but Jesus…you don’t know how many times I’ve looked down and thought…I thought…” Richie tugged at Eddie’s hair a little bit, obviously still nervous.

“Tell me you want me,” Eddie asked, hazily recognizing Richie’s nerves. “Richie.”

“Fuck, Eds, I’m…I’ve never done this either, I don’t mean to…yes, I want you, yes, yes, yes.”

Eddie filed the ‘never done this before’ factoid away as something to bring up with him later, and pulled down Richie’s boxers in one deft tug. Richie’s dick was right there to greet him; in fact, it all but hit him in the face as it sprang free, which made Eddie laugh a little bit. Classic Richie - even his genitals were overenthusiastic.

Richie, for his part, was looking down at Eddie like Eddie had personally handed him a million dollars in cash. Eddie preened at that a little bit, and used it as encouragement to lean forward and take the tip of Richie’s dick in his mouth.

The rest of it was sort of a blur.

He remembered having as much of Richie in his mouth as he could possibly hold - practically choking - and being thankful for years of practice dry-swallowing pills. He remembered the bitter taste of skin, strong and all-consuming. He remembered Richie mumbling what Eddie assumed was nonsense above him and stroking feverishly through his hair.

It was over in less than five minutes. Eddie was too lost in the spin of the world and his mind to register Richie’s attempts to get him to come up off of his dick, so he ended up with a mouthful of jizz. That would have really freaked Sober Eddie out, but Drunk Eddie didn’t care. He found a box of tissues on the nightstand nearby, took one out, and spit.

After he was finished, Richie sat on the bed and gestured for Eddie to join him. He was flushed and sweaty and there was a huge grin on his stupid fucking face and Eddie loved him, loved him, loved him so much that he could practically already feel his heart breaking with the knowledge that this wasn’t permanent.

Against his better judgement, Eddie crossed to the bed and flopped over onto it, painfully aware of his proximity to Richie.

“Hey.” Eddie heard and felt Richie sink down beside him. “Hey. Look at me.”

Eddie picked his head up to look. Richie was peering over at him, practically close enough to kiss.

“That was fucking incredible,” he whispered, and Eddie felt his insides freeze, because wasn’t that usually a lead into ‘but let’s stay friends’ or ‘no homo’ or whatever?

Richie didn’t keep talking, though. Instead, he tried for a kiss again…and Eddie rolled over, chest clenching painfully. He couldn’t handle intimacy with Richie if it was just going to be like this. He could handle what they’d just done, but some things were…too much.

Richie pulled him back over again. “Are you okay? Did I do something wrong?”

Eddie squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. “Everything’s fine.”

“Obviously not, dumbass.” He felt Richie’s hand under his jaw, and shuddered. “Jesus, Eds…are you drunk?”

Eddie opened his eyes at that, peering confusedly back up at Richie. “We’re both drunk.”

Richie looked like he was about to throw up. “No…no, I’m not, I…oh, fucking FUCK, Eddie.”

“Are you mad at me?” Eddie whispered, watching Richie’s hands moving from his lap to his hair and back again and feeling like he was somehow disconnected from what was happening in his own life.

“No, not you, never you.” Richie yanked his pants back up shakily. “Mad at myself, mad for taking advantage of you and getting my hopes up and just…fuck, Eddie.”

He was leaving. Eddie must have done something wrong, because Richie was leaving. Shit, shit, shit.

“I love you,” Eddie called weakly, feeling like it was the last weapon he had at his disposal.

Richie looked back at him from the doorway, face twisted up in hurt and grief. “No, you don’t.”

Eddie was too woozy to protest.

--- :( Tag List: @nymphadora @sun-nugget @reddieaddict @peonyromance @should-i-gay-or-should-i-go @its-stranger-than-you-think @forever-a-lonely-valentine