#it’s like if a renaissance painting became a song

[mimicmockingbirds]

OK, but hear me out

Say Ride the Cyclone were to be adapted into a film; imagine how much fun it would be to see it animated.

Because for the main plot, like the intro song and the mostly dialogue scenes in limbo, you could easily do a stylistic, but still grounded in realism style that a lot of modern animated projects are doing right now (think Arcane or Into the Spider Verse). But once each of the kids go into their respective songs/fantasies for what their life could have been? What if those were done in completely different styles?? Imagine the additional, visual storytelling that would tell about who they are as characters?

Like say, for Ocean's number, WTWN, everything became more simplified, and the characters (especially Ocean herself) turned into a more rounded, chibi-like style to enhance just how cutesy and likeable she's trying to portray herself throughout that number.

Or for Noel's Lament, everything goes black and white, and the characters become even more 2D stylized, and the film scales down to a smaller millimeter frame, more reminiscent of cartoons from the early 20's, when animation was just starting out, to enhance his idealization of "the olden days" (as Ocean puts it).

Mischa's song, This Song is Awesome could be animated with a more choppy frame rate, and the character designs turn a little more jagged around the edges, kind of like animated music videos (I'm thinking a Gorillaz band vibe). But as he transitions into singing about Talia, the colors start to bleed out over their lineart, and become more paint-like and Talia herself moves like a rotoscoped character (think Loving, Vincent that came out a few years ago) to enhance the sense that she's somewhere between a real person and a fantasy Mischa's built in his mind.

Ricky's song would, of course, be stylized after those sci-fi cartoons from the 90's, like X-Men or Captain Planet.

For the Ballad of Jane Doe, I would love to see something like what Wolfwalkers did back in 2020, where most of the characters (in this case, the other kids) are for the most part, animated like traditional, 2D characters with very clean lines and neat movements, whereas Jane herself stands out for having messier, sketchy line art, and looks more and more unfinished in her animation as the song goes on, because she can feel more and more of her own identity being lost.

Constance's Sugar Cloud I could see done in the classic 2D Disney style (i.e., the Renaissance era of Disney, like the Lion King or Little Mermaid days) because not only is it really smooth and colorful and just all around nice to look at, but it reminds the average moviegoer of their childhood growing up with those movies (among others, obviously), which ties in nicely with Constance's preceding monologue about remembering her own life, and the good that came with the bad.

I'm even tempted to envision the first half of the finale song in a different style, when the stage production would show a quick projection of Jane/Penny's life after she returned to the world of the living. Imagine watching this animated film, and for that segment alone, it becomes that really hyper-realistic, almost uncanny valley CGI animation style, to show that she really has joined the world of the living, i.e. our world, among us, the living breathing movie goers watching this, and watching the other kids still in limbo fade back to that main art style for the final number.

I don't know; it just feels like something that would be so engaging to see from an already compelling storyline and characters. Especially with more experimental animation projects on the rise right now

[loverhymeswith]

Sweater Weather || Davin McDerby

Day One of the October Dreams 1K Follower Event

Pairing: Davin McDerby x F!Reader

Summary: Summer might be over but your feelings for Davin won’t fade so easily.

Word Count: 2.2K

Warnings: Drinking, language, Davin being tooth-rottingly sweet

A/N: This was partially inspired by the song Sweater Weather by The Neighbourhood and my undying devotion for Davin. Shout-out to @a-reader-and-a-writer for assuring me the opening was ok, and to @runnning-outof-time as I know you love Davin too <3

Coffee, alcohol, cigarettes; the things you desire most are so often bad for your health. 

Davin McDerby is no exception.

You met him in the summer. A scrawny kid, thousands of miles away from home. Skinny ankles and pink lips unreasonably delicate for the harsh angles of his face, russet hair streaked with copper and pale skin turning darker by the day. He was far too handsome for his own good.

You still remember the white t-shirt he was wearing that first day on the Montauk beach. How it clung to his lithe frame as he wrestled with Robert in the sand. The silver chain peeking out from beneath his collar daring you to look twice.

And you had looked twice. It was impossible to avert your gaze, even if it felt a little too much like staring into the sun. Like so many beautiful but dangerous animals, the warning you beheld in Davin’s bright blue eyes was undeniable. 

Step too close and you might get burnt.

Because while his elegant veneer might have evoked the memory of a renaissance painting, in reality, he was an accident waiting to happen, all wrapped up in a pretty bow.

A self-proclaimed fuck up, Davin McDerby has the world in his hands but his head is firmly in the clouds. Full of overconfidence and bad decisions, he lives like there is no tomorrow. His sole purpose: the pursuit of happiness.

You didn’t want to be just a stop along the way.

He comes to you now after dark, a bottle of cheap wine clutched in his hands and a smile that lights up the October night sky. When he calls your name, you realise with a start that his pleasantly lilting accent has no less effect on you than it did back in the summer. 

“Could’a given me the heads up.” Without waiting for an invitation, he drops onto the seat opposite you at the picnic table. “Didn’t know you were back in town.” 

Music and chatter from your uncle’s bar drifts out into the cold night air, but you barely notice, so keenly attuned as you are to Davin’s presence. His company instantly drives away the chill and transports you back to the long summer days you’d spent together.

“Hello Davin. How are you?”

Despite your sterile, perfunctory greeting, his grin remains. He seems genuinely pleased to see you. “I’m grand. You comin’ to the party?”

“What party? Aren’t you supposed to be working?”

This summer had been Davin’s first in America, but it quickly became apparent that he would have no trouble fitting in. The locals fell in love with him and it was only a matter of days before he’d sweet-talked your uncle Cormac into giving him a job beside you behind the bar. 

And just like that, your vow to keep your distance from Davin had been rendered obsolete.

He’d sidled up to you at the beginning of his very first shift, a dish towel slung over his shoulder and a twinkle in his eye as he’d asked, “do you know how to make a Sex on the Beach?”

You’d rolled your eyes at the cheap shot, but nevertheless had proceeded to watch in fascination as he mixed the drink with excessive flair and a distinctive laugh, his red shirt riding up to reveal a swath of pale skin. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a voice had pleaded, give him a chance.

Perhaps that had been your mistake.

Davin unscrews the wine before taking a long mouthful, straight from the bottle. When he offers you a drink, you shake your head, pretending not to notice how his plump lips glisten under the glow of the patio lights.

“Cormac gave me the night off. Some of the boys are havin’ a Halloween party. You should come.”

“Is it fancy dress?” you ask, though you have no intention of taking him up on the offer. You only came here tonight because you’re a glutton for punishment, knowing very well that Davin was likely to be around. 

“Of course,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“So where’s your costume?”

“This is me costume.” He gestures to his dark sweatshirt and pulls up the hood dramatically, his angular face standing out like a pale moon against the darkness. “I’m the Grim Reaper, see?”

It’s fitting, you think. Past experience gives you little doubt that his appearance is a portent of trouble to come. 

“Where’s your scythe?”

“Left it at home.” Davin shrugs. “So, what d’ya say? You wanna go?”

You turn your gaze to the ocean, the roaring of the waves echoing the rush of your blood as you remind yourself why going anywhere with Davin is a bad idea. “I don’t think so.”

“Ah come on now. You’ve got to. Haven’t you missed me? I’ve missed you.” There’s nothing in his tone to suggest he’s telling anything other than the truth. 

And that’s the problem. 

Davin has never been like the rest of the boys with their painfully obvious attempts to get into your pants. In between your joint shifts at the bar, the only thing he ever seemed to want from you was your company, dragging you along from one adventure to the next; pool hopping, surfing lessons, road trips. And now, Halloween.

Waiting for your answer, he taps his fingers on the table and pouts. “You finally grace us with your presence after all this time, but now you don’t wanna hang out? Come on, it’ll be a laugh.” Almost as an afterthought, he adds, “the costume is optional.”

“All this time? Davin, it’s not even been two months.”

“Yeah well, it feels like longer.” He takes another swig from the bottle and you find yourself inclined to agree. 

As the Manhattan trees started shedding their leaves and the end of summer bled into the beginning of fall, your thoughts never strayed far from Davin. You thought that after hightailing it back to the city, you’d be able to shake him, that the distance would somehow help you to forget. But like cotton candy caught between your teeth or the last grains of sand stuck in your sneakers, the memory of his rosy cheeks and freckled shoulders followed you all the way back to New York.

Davin lapses into silence, occasionally sipping from the bottle as he watches you intently across the table, the ghost of a lop-sided grin beginning to form across his lips. With every passing minute it feels like you’re fighting a losing battle. 

Unable to conceal your unease any longer, you reach across the table and swipe the bottle of wine from his hands. “Would you stop staring at me?” 

“Now, why would I wanna do that?”

Before you can offer a suitable response, Davin rises to his feet and rounds the table, pulling you up from your seat. His hand is surprisingly soft and warm as he laces your fingers with his own.

“What are you doing?” Despite your protest, you make no attempt to shake him off.

“I’ve decided.”

“Decided what?”

“That you’re comin’ to the party with me. Won’t be any fun on me own.”

Something tells you that even without you, Davin would hardly be on his own. But against your better judgement, you let him lead you away from the bar, that little voice in the back of your mind traitorously gleeful that he’s managed to draw you in all over again, just like a moth to the flame.

The big, white-stone house overlooking the beach is crowded when you arrive, the party already in full swing. The music, loosely themed for the occasion, is too loud and you have to lean in close to hear Davin over the speakers.

“You want to drink or dance first?” he shouts.

“Drink first, dance later,” you reply, thankful that the party is so busy that no one will notice your lack of costumes. The guest list boasts a colourful array of witches, vampires and monsters; even with his hood still drawn up, Davin looks as underdressed as you.

“Fine, but you owe me a dance.”

The drinks flow freely over the next few hours, but the two of you spend most of your time talking, abandoning the makeshift dance floor to squeeze onto the end of a worn leather sofa, so close you’re practically sitting in one another’s laps.

“I’m glad you came back,” Davin tells you after a while, his warm breath tickling your neck as you battle against the rising volume of the sound-system.

“Temporarily,” you remind him, uncertain of whether it’s the alcohol or Davin’s proximity that is to blame for your current light-headedness. “Why’s that?”

He tugs down his hood, finally, and leans in closer, the lengths of his soft hair brushing against your cheek. “Well, after you left without sayin’ goodbye, I thought I’d done somethin’ wrong. It’s usually my fault, you know. Drivin’ people away. Story of me fuckin’ life.”

You draw back to look at him properly and find his usually carefree expression marred with concern. “It wasn’t about you, Davin. I had to go back to college. And I’m just…I don’t know. I guess I’m bad with goodbyes.”

Lies. Lies. Lies.

He shakes his head, as if he can see beyond your facade. As if he can read your innermost thoughts. “Ahh look, I know I made mistakes. And I feel bad about them. Really, I do.”

There’s no hiding the apprehension in your voice, or the pounding in your chest when you press him for more details. “What mistakes do you think you’ve made?”

Almost absently, his hand moves to your waist, specifically to the patch of bare skin below the hem of your cropped t-shirt. You suppress the urge to shudder. 

“Well, for a start I was so busy with the ‘pursuit of happiness’, I never noticed what was in front of me.” His gaze travels across your face.

On bated breath and hyper-aware of his fingers tightening - almost imperceptibly - around your waist, you prompt him to continue. “Which was?”

Davin blinks slowly, his blue eyes even more intense than usual. “You.”

“Me?” 

“Yeah.” He laughs, uncharacteristically nervous all of a sudden. “Cause I never got round to kissin’ you, did I?”

You’re certain you misheard him over the music, even as bells are clanging in your head. “What?” 

“Kissin’ you,” he repeats with more conviction this time, his lips twitching up at whatever he sees in your expression. “I mean, didn’t you ever think it was funny?” 

Your heart flutters, impatient for him to get to the point. “Think what was funny?” 

“That we never hooked up?”

Your mouth opens and closes at least three separate times as you search your whirling mind for something to say in response. You’ve given far too much thought to that very question over the last few months. In fact, it’s the reason that you ran away.

Even though you’d been painfully aware that Davin would wind up breaking your heart ever since that first day on the beach, you had been waiting on tenterhooks for him to make some kind of move. 

But the summer had worn on and nothing had happened. As far as you were concerned, he’d simply put you in the friendzone and you had no intention of trying to claw your way out, despite how much you were attracted to him. Despite how much it hurt. 

You knew he’d slept with probably a dozen other girls, so you couldn’t help but wonder what was wrong with you. What were you lacking? He was content to spend his days with you, but not his nights. Not his bed.

“Umm. Are you gonna say somethin’?” Davin asks tentatively, interrupting your racing thoughts. “Cause if I’m honest, you kinda look like you want to murder me.”

“Don’t tempt me, Davin,” you warn, overcome with the urge to do just that. “Why are you only telling this now?”

He grins, squeezing your waist even tighter, something about your reaction giving him the confidence he needs to continue. “I always thought you were too good for me. I was scared if I made a move I was gonna fuck everythin’ up. But tonight feels like fate or destiny or some other spooky shit. And the way I see it, I might not get another chance.”

“You’re an idiot, Davin McDerby.”

He captures your face in his hands. “Of course I am. Don’t sound so surprised.”

Slowly but surely, he closes the distance, his lips as delicate as petals as they brush over your own. You’re no longer aware of your surroundings, the lights and music fading into the background. The only sound is the pounding rhythm of your heart. The only sight is Davin, wide-eyed as he withdraws to study your reaction, uncertainty cast across his striking features.

You loop your arms around his neck and pull him back in, deepening the kiss that you’ve been waiting for, all this time. 

When the two of you finally part, Davin rests his forehead against yours, his eyes soft as they meet your own and his smile warm and gentle. “Now you have it.”

October Dreams Taglist: @zablife @a-reader-and-a-writer

[strawberry-cow-sorceress]

The historical photo you loved is of Gladys Bentley, she was an American blues singer, pianist, and entertainer during the Harlem Renaissance.

As a singer, Bentley became known for a deep, growling voice and a trumpet-like scat. As a performer, she was advertised by event promoters as a “male impersonator".

Her career skyrocketed when she appeared at Harry Hansberry's Clam House, a well-known gay speakeasy in New York in the 1920s.

She created raunchy lyrics to well known songs and flirted with the females in the audience. She took the songs 'Sweet Alice Blue Gown' and 'Georgia Brown,' and combined them and it became a song about anal sex.”

At a nightclub in Manhattan called King's Terrace, she had a troupe of “liberally painted male sepians with effeminate voices and gestures” perform behind her while she sang raunchy songs laced with double-entendres that thrilled and scandalized her audiences.

Writer and photographer Carl van Vechten based a fictional blues singer in one of his novels off of her, writing that “when she pounds the piano the dawn comes up like thunder.”

Thought you might like to know more about her. 🤗

omg thank you so much for sharing i really did want to know more !!!!! i would’ve spent so much money to see her perform at the King’s Terrace lmao Gladys Bentley the icon that you are.

[arsojebsorkar]

The Evolution of Entertainment From Ancient Times to the Digital Era

Entertainment has always been an essential part of human culture, offering a respite from daily life and a chance to experience joy, wonder, and emotional connection. From ancient civilizations to the current digital age, Entertainment has undergone dramatic transformations, reflecting shifts in technology, culture, and society. This article explores the rich history of entertainment, tracing its roots, its evolution through various epochs, and the ways in which modern-day entertainment continues to captivate and evolve.

Ancient Beginnings of Entertainment

The desire for entertainment is as old as civilization itself. Early humans entertained themselves through storytelling, music, dance, and games. In prehistoric times, cave paintings might have served both a ritualistic purpose and an early form of visual entertainment. The ancient Egyptians held grand festivals and celebrations, filled with music, food, and dance, while the Greeks and Romans elevated entertainment to new heights with theater, gladiatorial games, and chariot races.

Theater in ancient Greece, particularly during festivals like Dionysia, showcased plays that ranged from tragedies to comedies. Playwrights like Sophocles and Aristophanes became cultural icons, and their works laid the foundation for modern drama. Meanwhile, the Roman Colosseum became a center of violent but highly popular entertainment, where gladiators fought to the death, and massive battles were recreated for the audience’s enjoyment. These events were not merely pastimes but also social rituals that bound people together in shared experiences.

Entertainment in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance

With the decline of the Roman Empire, the Middle Ages saw a shift in entertainment that reflected the era's religious and social structures. Religious ceremonies, morality plays, and festivals continued to provide entertainment, often with a strong focus on moral lessons and community engagement. Troubadours and minstrels roamed Europe, singing songs of love, valor, and adventure, which kept people connected to their cultural roots despite widespread political instability.

The Renaissance, however, marked a flourishing of the arts, and entertainment became more intellectual and varied. The printing press, invented by Johannes Gutenberg in the 15th century, revolutionized access to literature and knowledge, allowing the masses to experience stories and ideas beyond their immediate environment. Theater also grew in prominence during this period, with the works of Shakespeare, Cervantes, and Dante establishing the standards for narrative and character development that continue to influence literature and entertainment to this day.

The Rise of Mass Entertainment in the 19th and 20th Centuries

The 19th century saw the birth of new forms of entertainment designed to appeal to a wider audience. With the Industrial Revolution came a shift from agrarian societies to urban centers, leading to the rise of public spaces like theaters, opera houses, and music halls where large groups could gather to be entertained. The advent of photography and, later, motion pictures in the late 1800s revolutionized visual entertainment. The Lumière brothers’ invention of the cinematograph in 1895 gave rise to the motion picture industry, leading to the silent films of the early 20th century and later the golden age of Hollywood.

Cinema quickly became one of the most dominant forms of entertainment, offering people a glimpse into different worlds, cultures, and ideas. Stars like Charlie Chaplin, Marilyn Monroe, and James Dean became cultural icons, influencing fashion, behavior, and attitudes. Radio and, subsequently, television became the next major platforms for entertainment in the 20th century. These technologies brought music, news, and serialized dramas directly into people's homes, creating a new communal experience around entertainment.

Music, too, experienced a revolution with the invention of the phonograph and the rise of recorded sound. Jazz, rock ‘n’ roll, and pop music transformed the cultural landscape, with artists like Elvis Presley, The Beatles, and Michael Jackson shaping not just entertainment but entire cultural movements. The 20th century’s advances in technology allowed for the mass production and distribution of entertainment, making it accessible to people of all walks of life.

The Digital Era: Streaming, Social Media, and Gaming

The 21st century has brought about perhaps the most significant transformation in entertainment: the digital revolution. The internet has democratized entertainment, allowing creators from all over the world to reach global audiences. Streaming services like Netflix, YouTube, and Spotify have changed the way people consume media. No longer bound by television schedules or theater release dates, viewers can access films, TV shows, and music whenever they want, often in binge-watching marathons that were unheard of just a few decades ago.

Social media platforms like Instagram, TikTok, and Twitter have turned ordinary people into entertainers. Influencers, YouTubers, and content creators can amass huge followings, sometimes rivaling traditional movie stars or musicians. The interactive nature of these platforms allows audiences to engage directly with entertainers, blurring the line between creators and consumers.

Video games have also risen to unprecedented popularity, becoming a dominant form of entertainment. Games like "Fortnite," "Minecraft," and "The Legend of Zelda" have large, dedicated fanbases and offer immersive worlds that provide not just passive entertainment but interactive experiences. With the advent of virtual reality (VR) and augmented reality (AR), the boundaries of entertainment are being pushed even further, creating immersive experiences that were once the stuff of science fiction.

The Future of Entertainment

As technology continues to evolve, so will entertainment. Artificial intelligence (AI) is already being used to create music, write scripts, and even produce visual art, raising questions about the future of creativity and human involvement in entertainment. Virtual reality and augmented reality are likely to become even more integrated into our daily lives, offering new ways to experience stories, games, and even live events like concerts or sports.

Moreover, the rise of the "metaverse" — a collective virtual space where people can interact in real time — could radically change the way we think about entertainment. In the metaverse, entertainment won’t just be something we consume; it will be something we live inside, interacting with others in real-time virtual environments that blur the lines between reality and fiction.

In conclusion, entertainment has come a long way from the early days of storytelling around a fire to today’s immersive digital experiences. As technology and culture continue to evolve, so too will the ways in which we entertain ourselves. What remains constant, however, is humanity's deep desire for stories, music, games, and experiences that bring joy, connection, and a sense of wonder to our lives.

[whymusic]

Best Album of 2023 - Jessie Ware "That! Feels Good!"

Not sure when Jessie Ware randomly decided to become the best artist of the decade but I respect it

By all accounts, the hay days of disco should be far behind us. Back in the ‘70s and early ‘80s, club dance floors sparkled and shined under the illuminating gleam of disco balls; polychromatic floors flashed with a wide array of vivid, eye-catching colors. Mesmerized and seduced by the vibrant, glistening glow that paints the room, and probably under the influence of a shit ton of drugs, people Moonwalked and Macarena’d to Off the Wall and Heart of Glass, throwing their cares to the wind and enjoying the moment. Disco was the perfect soundtrack to losing yourself to the moment; basslines ripped straight from the playbook of funk coalesced with the overwhelmingly rich orchestral aspects of soul and conventional song structures/direct yet breathtaking vocal performances of pop music, usually with lyrical themes of pouring yourself out over a lover. It was music for living for today and not worrying about tomorrow. Blunt and catchy, it’s not difficult to see why disco became such a sought-after sound. But as the era of the disco ball began to fade and the ‘80s began to depart, disco faded out of popularity. It saw a slight renaissance in the early 2000s with the works of Kylie Minogue and Madonna’s Confessions on a Dance Floor, along with the development of nu-disco, which introduced more modern electronic elements into the tried and true disco formula, though that wave of disco revival was short-lived. Aside from that, for nearly three decades, disco fell to the wayside behind other styles of straight-to-the-point popular music like synthpop and dance-pop.

But something magical happened at the turn of the recent decade. A resurgence of ‘80s pop trends began to boil up at the midway point of the 2010s, though really hit a fever pitch in 2019-2021. Some of pop's most substantial names were calling for a revival of the same sounds that populated those glitzy dancefloors all those years ago (i.e. Dua Lipa’s Future Nostalgia, The Weeknd’s After Hours, Lady Gaga’s Chromatica). But the most surprising part of it all was that the one doing it best wasn’t necessarily the most popular- in fact, it was somebody who wasn’t at the forefront of anybodys' minds. Jessica Lois Ware saw a brief moment of success in the early 2010s with hits like Say You Love Me and Wildest Moments, but the hype behind her quickly began to fade as her typical, and honestly quite generic, R&B aesthetic began to run thin. After dawning a new era beginning in 2018 with a couple of singles though not fully getting the chance to flourish until 2020s' What's Your Pleasure, Jessie Ware began to re-invent herself. How? Through that same disco revivalism that was driving the mainstream.

Though what separated Jessie from the crowd is she was not just paying homage to disco aesthetics by sprinkling disco undertones on songs of more contemporary genres like dance-pop or synthpop- instead, What’s Your Pleasure was a full-blown disco album, no holds barred. It wasn’t just a cheap imitation done by an artist desperately yearning for commercial success, it was evident by the musicianship displayed on What’s Your Pleasure that it was an album built out of love and care for disco. Back-to-back-to-back quality that harkens back to the undeniable grooves of decades past.

That! Feels Good! is not a sister album that merely treads the same ground as What’s Your Pleasure; instead, it feels like an extension of that sound. While Jessie’s vocals on What’s Your Pleasure typically feel a bit restrained to emulate a feeling of sensualness, this record really feels like Jessie’s freeing herself with a more assured and expressive delivery. The luxurious, more maximalist, and even more expansive instrumental palate- bringing in lush, soaring orchestral sections that feel even larger than the orchestral moments on What’s Your Pleasure, flashy brass instrumentation, and influences from house music aplenty- take on a totally separate strand of disco also deviates That! Feels Good! from its predecessor. The more overtly sexual energy That! Feels Good! has compared to any of Jessie’s other material is also quite notable. As many will take notice, That! Feels Good!’s lyrics carry a lot of sexual energy, which are topics deeply tied to the genre of disco. Like disco legends such as Donna Summers that paved the way for her, she marries erotic, lustful themes with more nuanced, lovey-dovey romanticism. This right here is Jessie Ware’s horny album.

That sexual energy is channeled best in the listener’s first taste of the album, the title track, a song about unloosing yourself by putting your responsibilities to the wayside. An undeniably punchy and irresistible bassline akin to Stevie Wonder’s most powerful cuts, bombastic horns, and an ensemble of vocals sexually moaning out the album’s title at the onset of the track, which the artist herself has stated she included to stimulate the feeling of a musical orgy, punctuate Jessie Ware’s vocal elasticity as she does parkour from one melody to another, seducing the listener into a hypnotized state which forces them to bop their head up and down with her gorgeous voice. Vocal layering causes Ware’s vocals to swirl and spiral around your speakers as they tumble over each other, creating this oddly overwhelming feeling that makes it nearly impossible not to groove along to the song. It all culminates in a sexy-ass trumpet solo that will surely make you smile if the rest of the song hasn’t yet.

Free Yourself is yet another liberating song about doing exactly what the title indicates. Cascading pianos reminiscent of Europop circa ABBA and Diva House in the vein of Beyoncé’s Break My Soul are intertwined with a lavish orchestral section backing the song’s emancipating chorus. Vocally, Jessie is really letting it all out here, adding to the song’s themes of unbinding oneself from the restraining shackles of reality. It’s her most ferocious, fiery performance to date; fervid performances are what help differentiate this album from What’s Your Pleasure more than anything else. Whereas What’s Your Pleasure felt like Jessie Ware trying incredibly hard to be the shit- which is not a knock on that masterfully refined record, I actually feel as if it allowed for a more mature, subtle, and controlled album- That! Feels Good! feels like Jessie Ware knows she is the shit. Confidence is key; her dramatic vocals glide over the dazzling assortment of strings and brass on These Lips, and the charmingly child-like “La La La La” refrain on Pearls is sure to capture the listener's ear as it fades in and out with kaleidoscopic color. Yet that newfound confidence also comes instrumentally with Jessie taking an everything-but-the-kitchen-sink approach to What’s Your Pleasure’s grandiose orchestration; the pounding, bouncy, and consistent house of rhythms of Freak Me Now along with the glamorous trumpets that underscore Shake The Bottle carry just as much flashiness as Jessie’s own performances, the ladder of which has captivating Talking Heads influences aplenty encoded into its DNA.

I cannot end off this review without giving a nod to Begin Again, perhaps the best Jessie Ware song to date. It’s That! Feels Good!’s most unabridged and uncompromised ode to disco; at five and a half minutes, it’s a multifaceted, wild homage that brings the listener back to years of those classic ‘70s dancefloor anthems. Drums heavily influenced by the music of the Brazilian culture, more specifically the sound of Samba, a tropical-sounding piano bridge, and celebratory horns/eloquent strings populating the background all work in tandem to create handily the album’s most infectious grooves. Though Jessie Ware’s vocal splendor delivered in this song really steals the show, it’s truly something to behold. It is her most dynamic and compelling vocal performance yet, perfectly balancing euphoric highs that contain layers of vocals tumbling over one another, each one fighting to be the most noticeable in the mix which makes the song feel all the more untamable, and more lowkey moments where the song calms down while Jessie croons over some more subdued instrumental sections, all before reaching its monumental crescendo where every instrumental and vocal element that has been building up coalesce in an intense explosion of groovy magnificence. Begin Again really captures the spirit of the entirety of That! Feels Good!; it’s a collection of instrumentally dense, lyrically carefree songs where every track sounds like it has had hours on top of hours spent on it just to make sure it’s as thoughtful of a tribute to the sound of disco as possible. Stop being that old pretentious asshole for a minute and enjoy some fun music for once; That! Feels Good!’s sure to get a couple of good head-bops out of even its most reluctant listeners.

Favorite Tracks: That! Feels Good!, Free Yourself, Pearls, Hello Love, Begin Again, Beautiful People, Freak Me Now, Shake The Bottle, These Lips
Worst Track: Lightning (if I had to pick)

[swagbreadstranger]

Que sera, sera.

An original by Alyzza Yzzabel N. Fatalla

To live and let die

To smile with tears left on the eye

To shine and still sigh--

I lived with a dye

Painting colors to a life that’s dry

An A+ student with auspicious questioning

A progeny esteemed for reigning

A dancer who pulls off a beat with grace

A known artist plunking away their aches

I met everyone in an abysmal situation

We, the renaissance of medieval

Torn between valleys like Percival

Pierced hearts with possible retrieval

We lived a life anchored to qualms

A youth who aged years ago deep the swamps

The future of the world which the present thumps 

Yet we continued with chortles, we kept calm

So what will I do after high school?

After the beams without ground rules

After the good times of the young fools 

After the careless computations of molecules 

After knowing nothing yet continuing?

The answer is.. I don’t know

Let my future watch the present with disposable films?

Let myself lick off the reaper’s grim?

Or maybe, live and leave everything engraved on my limbs

Sing the song that became my heart’s hymn:

Que sera, sera; whatever will be, will be. 

Live wild and free, will you?

The poem I wrote is entitled “Que sera, sera” inspired from my comfort song with the same song title by Doris Day. I connected the concept of “Whatever will be, will be” to ease my worries from what will happen in the near future. Kaloka na ang college applications right? I often hear that from my peers and fret not because just like everyone else, I feel the same. I feel lost. Like, all of a sudden, I started at zero. A child lost in a department store yet not finding any customer service around, CHAR. The first verse of the poem basically implies the idea of just letting anything flow no matter how clueless you are of what’s lying ahead of you. Experiencing downs and ups at a young age, I became used to the bahala na mindset because I sincerely don’t know what to do. Will I gain friends? Or will I be like a pushover during high school who’s tired of attending classes because of feeling-superior colleagues? Then, the second and third verse of the poem came tackling about the different types of people I met during high school. Actually, that’s just SOME of those I met during this stage of my life and I find everyone equally amazing in their own ways. I felt relieved because in the environment I reside in right now, I feel just as amazing as them. It was also mentioned there the things that I think all of us underwent together like the pressure, fun, and accomplishments. Ironically, we kept calm and stood on our grounds, like a narra tree trying to push through amidst the typhoon. 

But just like how trees and flowers come to pass or like seasons that eventually come to their end, this phase of my life will soon say goodbye to me. I can feel it coming but I am glad that I am experiencing the finale of high school with the same people. Never did I regret being in this stage where I felt belonged and appreciated. High school is such a wonderful experience and a ground to hone myself before I step to the next stage of my life. Right now, I don’t know what to do but I am certain that this uncertainty will go soon just like how I faced the start of my high school. 

Hello nakamas (friends), especially to those who will miss the breeze of youth after this year! : )) How are you? You think you can continue? At such a young age with such a young heart, I know we’ve gone through a battlefield and are still going through it right now. We think so highly of ourselves yet we feel like what we do is still not enough for us to take a next step to our dreams; but it’s okay, alright? It’s normal to not know everything and be not okay about it. Just like how we faced the early stages of our lives all the way to our adulthood, I know we, you, will manage to shine on our own. Even with sighs and tears, no matter how hard the life outside high school or comfort zone will be, let’s all trust the process and live life just the way we want it to be. Whenever you feel despondent and have nothing to keep you going, just remember how you stood your ground countless times before. Surely, you’ll be able to do the same this time. Take the worries off your back and whisper to yourself, Que sera, sera; whatever will be, will be. I love ya!

                            - alyzza

[arandomobject]

thinking about Achilles come down and feeling. something.

[aimfor-theheart]

COIN TOSS– PART I

(18+ MINORS DNI)

PAIRINGS: Tomura Shigaraki x Reader, a little Shouta Aizawa x Reader

SUMMARY: As you fall asleep, you wonder faintly, almost sadly, if you’re the first thing he’s fully touched without losing in a long time.

You are Eraserhead’s troubled protege with a Quirk that cancels out others the moment they touch you. Tomura Shigaraki takes great interest in you.

(Enemies to lovers, a lot of angst, some hurt/comfort)

WARNINGS: Unhealthy/complicated relationships, age gap/power struggle, violence, gore, Tomura’s trauma specifically, (in later chapters) murder, heroes’ abuse of power, smut, some blurred lines, rough sex, a smidge of a spit kink, a smidge of somnophilia (let me know if I’ve missed anything!)

If you are under the age of 18, you should not be reading or interacting with this!

A/N: oof it’s been a hot second. this became way, way too long. and i cut A LOT out, too! i struggled through it greatly and almost gave up several times but i finished it! and i am proud of myself if only for that! this will end up being 3 parts! it's already fully written, so i'll post the next two chapters soon! i tried to keep tomura in character but MAN was it HARD!! i’m always open to constructive criticism/feedback! let me know what you thought!!

thank you again to @randomrosewrites for beta-ing this!! i really appreciate your help!!

Read on Ao3

***

The first time Tomura sets his eyes on you, it is against a bleak, grey sky. You are a dramatic slash of movement against it, all bared teeth and scorching eyes, vivid in your darkness. He thinks of Renaissance paintings- the dynamic body, the tragic face. He thinks of the jagged cut of a lightning bolt. The sea when it’s surly and blue-black and hungry. You’re a gash, a striking, open wound against the pale sky behind you.

There is something so youthful in you, too, so viciously full of life, of vitality. You’re all heat, all fight. All living, breathing, messy life.

(He doesn’t want to admit it, but you’re a siren song. The moment he laid eyes on you, he knew somehow, someway that you were different. Some part of you calls out to some part of him, lures him in, ensnares him.

He gets his answer in just a moment, but he likes this part, when he doesn’t know a thing about you, when you haven’t completely flipped his world on its head.)

You favor close combat, he realizes. Close enough to cut, to strike, to touch. He does, too. He watches you slide beneath the explosion of blue flames that Dabi sends careening towards you. You are so swift that he nearly misses how you latch onto Dabi’s wrist- his flames gutter out like they’ve been doused- and use your momentum to knee him in the chest, sending you both rolling backwards.

You end up atop him, three, gleaming blades between your knuckles now pressed up against his throat. Dabi lifts his hand again and Tomura almost winces, prepared for the flames, the blast of them, the heat of them that will incinerate you.

But they never come.

“What the fuck?” Dabi curses, flexing his fingers like he’s trying again. You dig the sleek little knives deeper into his throat and blood wells up. Tomura sighs. Is he really going to have to save Dabi from you?

He lopes closer, comes to stand behind you, has every intention of simply letting you fall away into nothingness. He doesn’t have time to deal with you. Doesn’t care– no, no matter how intrigued he’d been, he doesn’t care. That’s what he tells himself, at least, when all five fingers close around your shoulder.

And absolutely nothing happens.

What the fuck?

Tomura squeezes, as if that will trigger something. And when it doesn’t, when you don’t fall away into dust and bone, he nearly panics–

“I see you’ve met my new protege,” A low voice comes from a little too close, before pain explodes in the side of Tomura’s head.

He drops like a stone, teeth clicking together, jaw lancing with pain at how hardly he clamps down. His temple throbs. He thinks he can feel blood trickle down the side of his face.

When he turns, Eraserhead is already a flurry of movement. His capture weapon nearly snags Tomura, before he manages to roll out of the way.

Why didn’t you decay?

Was it Eraserhead?

Tomura rises back to his feet, swiping blood from the side of his head, “So it seems,” he agrees on a rasp, “How’s the elbow?”

Why didn’t you decay?!

All he gets from Eraserhead is a scowl, just before he catches movement towards you and Dabi. Tomura’s eyes follow, and he watches as Dabi finally manages to get you off, shoving you off so that you roll into the stone wall. And the moment you’re off of him, his flames come roaring back to life.

“Void!” Eraserhead shouts and his capture weapon is so fast that it’s just a blur, it snags you, draws you to him so he can throw an arm around you, hunch over you to keep you safe from the flames.

How sweet, Tomura thinks bitterly, glaring at you just as Eraserhead’s eyes flare crimson and Dabi’s flames are cut out again. Dabi curses, looks at Tomura. They share a silent conversation.

They hadn’t intended on dealing with Eraserhead. They hadn’t intended on dealing with you, either, but you were just a runt compared to your mentor.

His mind is all unsettled now, like a broken record asking;

Why didn’t you fucking decay, though?

Regardless, they needed to get out of here. They could use a portal.

He barely catches the quiet murmur of Eraserhead, “–just like we practiced.”

And then you’re a streak of darkness rushing for him. Eraserhead’s capture weapon is tightened around your torso, wrapped around your waist. You feint, to dart around Tomura, and then back around so that he can feel the weapon near his calves. You’re wicked fast, a sly little thing as you try to wind it around him, to trip him up. But all it takes is Tomura snagging a part of the capture weapon. Immediately, it begins to crumble away, spreading out slowly but surely.

You lurch for him, your little hand closing tight around his wrist, and your eyes flaring into a bright, feverish pink. His Quirk stops in its tracks. Gone.

Tomura snarls, trying to lurch away from your hold, but you claw into him. What’s left of the capture weapon snags, pulling so that the two of you end up falling.

For a moment, time feels suspended as he falls with you. Your lips are pulled back to bare teeth, vicious little thing that you are, growling in his face, wild and untempered.

(He’ll remember this moment– he’ll think you looked perfect and horrible. It’ll haunt him.)

Your eyes are startlingly bright, burning. Your grip on him is tight and there is nothing in the pit of his chest where his Quirk usually rests, like a cemetery behind the gates of his ribs. There is no fizzling, creeping decay, no hungry destruction ready to spread from him onto the rest of the world. Nothing. Just a void.

Ah, so that’s where your name comes from.

He lands hard on his shoulder as all of time rushes up to meet him. You’re on him in an instant and he scrabbles for you, sinking all five fingers down again on your wrist, only for nothing to happen once more.

What the fuck?!

“She can nullify Quirks with a touch,” Eraserhead says and his eyes are still on Dabi, capture weapon finally pulling away to go after the arsonist. “She’s probably the only person you can touch without decaying, ever.”

It’s supposed to mock him, maybe. Boast. Clearly, you’re Eraserhead’s favorite pet.

But that sentence rattles around inside Tomura’s head, sinks down into his bones. It distracts him, allowing you to gain an upper hand on him, another small knife sliding from your sleeve, to press beneath his chin.

The blade is sharp. His vermilion eyes slash to yours, meeting the scorching pink of them.

“Is that so?” he rasps, prompting you as he looks up at you, stupidly wishing to hear you speak.

To hear you speak to him.

Your knees are on his chest. He doesn’t care, the weight of you solid and one of his hands is still gripping your wrist, small and seemingly fragile in his hold. He wants to inspect you, take you apart, lay all five fingers along your rib cage, your spine, over your face just to see, just to check if you’re real, if it’s true.

He could break your wrist, he even considers it. Are your screams as pretty as you? Do you whimper? He doesn’t think so, maybe he wants to try and pull the noise from you, though.

“That’s so.” you finally speak and he hates that you have his attention. Hates that your voice does something to him, touches some part of him that is hidden and trembling. “Meet your match, Shigaraki Tomura.”

(He loves how you say his name. He hates that he loves it.)

And he can’t decay you, can’t decay anything with you atop him, but he grabs for the knife, trying to wrench it away from his throat, from your grasp. He slits his palm for the trouble, but he manages to twist it in such a way that you yelp, and he can toss it away from your grasp. He hisses through his teeth, cut stinging, just as he surges up to to knock you from him. You both go tumbling, rolling with each other. It’s more artless than he cares to admit but at least he’s got you under him for a moment and he doesn’t need to decay you to wrap his hands around your throat and squeeze—

A portal rips open in the alleyway.

“That's our cue,” Dabi says, and then, “Move, Shigaraki.”

He lurches away the moment Dabi gives the order, leaves you gasping and heaving for air. He rolls towards the portal, just as blue flames sear towards you and Tomura thinks you’re toast for a moment, you’re gone, in and out of his life as quick as a lightning strike.

He only glances back when he’s near the safety of Kuogiri’s portal. You’re back beneath Eraserhead’s arm, your clothes singed. The blood from his palm is smeared in a messy dash, the shape of his hand on your throat. You look half feral.

You wear the shape of him, the blood on your neck, well.

The two of you watch him and Dabi disappear. The portal closes behind them.

Kuogiri returns them to base.

“What the fuck was that?” Dabi snaps at him, “You let some sidekick nearly kick your ass.”

Tomura heaves a rattling sigh, “I think I stepped in to save you from her in the first place.”

“I didn’t need you,” he responds and Tomura only rolls his eyes.

Still, he doesn’t like how heavy you’re weighing on his mind, how he can still feel your skin beneath his hand. The searing pink of your eyes, the snarl pulling at your lips, flashing your teeth. All volatile and hungry. All that brutality, all your vitality.

You’ve left an imprint on his mind, like an ink blot, haunting and twisted.

Eraserhead’s words wind around his mind, clinging to them, like they’ve seared themselves to his brain.

She’s probably the only person you can touch without decaying, ever.

Ever.

The word feels like a death knell, rattling around inside of him, all echoing and final.

***

Shouta is careful with your bruised throat as he wipes away the drying blood that has clung to your skin. You think maybe you should be more grossed out, but you’re exhausted and sore, and the cloth he uses is warm, surprisingly soft.

“You shouldn’t have rushed for them like that,” Shouta scolds softly, wedging himself further between your legs so that he can peer at your neck better. He doesn’t need to do this, you’d told him so. But when you’d gotten back to his home, he’d only given you gruff instructions. One worded. Terse.

Bathroom.

So you’d gone. He’d followed you in a moment later.

Sit, he’d said, nodding to the sink counter. You’d done that, too. And now here you are, with him fretting and fussing over you in his own way. He takes care of you after patrols, it's become habitual. So long as you don’t need more medical attention, he’s the one bandaging you up, the one taking care of you.

Shouta has always cared for you like this. He’d taken you under his wing, guided you. You think he feels responsible for you, in some way.

A little over two years ago, freshly eighteen and just trying to get by, he’d found you. You’d stolen from the gas station and just so happened to be in his line of patrol that night. You had put up a fight, trying to cancel his Quirk as you pawed at his hold on you. He’d only realized you’d manage to cancel his Quirk when he couldn’t use it on you while you touched him. He’d almost been amused. How’d you manage to erase Eraserhead’s Quirk?

Other than that, you don’t know what he’d seen in you, don’t know why he decided to change your life— pity, maybe, looking at you, so youthful and frail. So hungry and angry, hissing and feral, maybe just to mask all that fear. He’d offered to just walk you home. You told him you didn’t have one. Parents? In and out of foster care your whole life, just some orphan that aged out of the system on your own. Someone society forgot.

You had no one.

(Later, you’ll hear everyone say it— “You like strays, don’t you, Aizawa?”

He has three cats. All strays, once ill-tempered and now docile. Loving. A little wary of strangers, but adoring of him.)

He hadn’t been certain what to do with you at first— too old to go to UA, his school. At first there were mentions of college but you’d barely made it through high school. Not because you weren’t smart, only because you’d barely done the work. Barely went.

Besides, you decided quickly that you wanted to be a hero. Like him.

(Maybe it was just because he was the first person in your whole life who gave you any sort of attention— who cared what happened to you. Maybe you didn’t want to part from that, wanted to hold tight, take all that he would give you.)

Reluctantly, he’d agreed to train you.

He had asked a favor of Principal Nezu, set you up in a tiny studio dorm that was beside his. Right next door. Your very own space for the first time in your life.

But you often stayed with him. Nearly attached at the hip. You often crashed on his couch.

(Or in his bed— the nights that you’d fall asleep watching movies in his living room, only to wake up curled in his bed, and find that he’d taken the couch. Sometimes you nap there, while he’s teaching. His cats join you, curled by your legs, sprawling and taking up space.

He never wakes you when he finds you like this.)

And your training had been non-stop for those two years, a rush to get you your provisional licence so that you could patrol with him and then a rush to get your official hero licence, too.

They needed heroes now more than ever. Especially with the fall of All Might. The rising of the League of Villains.

Two of whom, you’d just run into.

Shigaraki Tomura’s blood is currently being cleaned from your neck. It should frighten you more. He should frighten you more, but he doesn’t.

He’s only two or so years older than you. You feel like you could’ve known him, could’ve seen him in and out of orphanages and foster homes with you. You feel like maybe you would’ve talked to him. Another young face forgotten by society.

He can’t hurt you, not with his Quirk anyways.

“I didn’t want them to get away,” you finally answer him, your voice raw, probably from nearly being strangled. .

Shouta sighs, dragging the cloth over your neck gently, like you’re something fragile, “You can’t take two of our most notorious criminals on by yourself.”

“I wasn’t by myself,” you counter, tilting your head off and to the side, offering up your throat. It feels vulnerable, with him so near.

This is how things usually go. Shouta fusses. You give him a hard time. He’s always scolding you for some reason. And you’ve never had that attention before, never had someone that cared about what you did or how you acted, never had anyone to care if you rushed into danger. No one has ever reprimanded you the way he does.

You like it. You crave it.

And it’s not like he can ground you or stick you in detention. You’re not one of his little students. You’re not his daughter. You’re an adult, so all you get is a stern talking to while he cleans you up.

You like to remind him of this a lot.

What are you going to do? Ground me? You smirk when you say it, lift your eyes up to his, I’m not your daughter, Shouta.

Maybe you say it too often. More than you should, almost calling attention to your relationship with him, what it might be, or is not.

Not one of your students, either, you tell him slyly.

There is an eleven year age difference between you and Shouta.

You don’t think eleven years is so bad in hindsight. But you can’t decide if you’re too fresh faced for him, can’t decide where you sit in his eyes.

He takes care of you like a child sometimes, takes care of the child in you that was never cared for. He looks after you, cooks you breakfast– knows your favorite foods, knows what you won’t eat. Sometimes, he will swipe those foods from your plate and bring them to his. He dresses your wounds. Makes you ice your bruises.

He also lets you sleep in his bed. His clothes, too. He’s bundled you in coats and sweaters, you have at least two of them sitting on the floor of your bedroom now. His eyes linger on you, on your form in your catsuit that you wear for hero work.

He practically comes home to you.

You can’t decide if he sees you as a child or an adult. Can’t decide if he sees his students in you, someone to be nurtured and encouraged, or if he sees you as mature, as his partner.

You don’t think he can decide either.

“You know what I mean,” he responds slowly and he’s so close that you can see his dark lashes fanning across his cheek. His scar is a crescent moon on his angular face. You can smell teakwood, mahogany, a little lavender, maybe. Some sweat. It’s familiar. It’s his.

It’s a comfort, you realize, your muscles finally easing. Adrenaline slowly begins to slide away from you, leaving you a little bereft, a little cold, so you cling to the comfort of Shouta. His large, rough palm at your throat, his low, rumbling voice.

“You’re too reckless still. I know your Quirk requires you to get close, but you can’t just go barrelling for enemies and hope you’re strong enough to hold tight to them.” Shouta tells you, “And you need to remember people can hurt you without their Quirks, too.”

Now the cloth falls away and Shouta leans away fractionally to observe the ring of bruises in the shape of a hand on your neck. He takes your chin in hand, tilts it off to the side to see your throat more clearly.

He sighs lightly, wary, “I’ll get you some ice. Does it hurt?”

He finally steps away from you and you have the absurd notion to bring him back. You think it’s the adrenaline wearing off, the sudden neediness, the buzz in your brain slowing, fizzling out to a whine.

You turn to face the mirror behind you, to examine the bruise.

It’s almost perfect, the press of his hand into your skin. Marked. Like a collar of fingers, the shape of his palm.

Anyone else would be dead.

His eyes were so red. You can still see the tilt of the scar on his lip, pulled into a sneer.

You can see the shape of all five fingers pressed deeply into your skin now, a reminder of him that will linger for awhile.

You reach up with a careful hand to press experimentally against the mottled skin, hissing a little at how tender it is.

“It’s a little sore,” you tell him, turning back around, but he is already disappearing from the bathroom.

“Shower,” he commands over his shoulder, “I’ll make us food. You can ice it after.”

“I need clothes,” you call back, but in a moment, he has already returned with a sweatshirt of his, like he knew you would ask– it’s black, crewneck, soft on the inside. Grey joggers, the ones with the tie at the waist, so that you can fit them to you.

You’ve worn these clothes before. They’re familiar to you in the same way your favorite book is, in the same way your pillow is.

And then Shouta is gone again, bathroom door clicking shut to offer you privacy. You stare at the door for a moment, at where he once was. And now you’re alone, with your draining adrenaline, and his clothes in your arms.

You turn on the shower, strip carefully. There is some blood soaked into the collar of your hero uniform.

When you shut your eyes beneath the scalding stream of water, you see the silver dash of his hair. You see the look in his eyes, after Shouta had told him that you could nullify Quirks with your touch– that strange expression, half curious, half wild.

Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

His hands were warm at your throat.

You fit your hand against your neck the way he had.

You wonder if it’s the first time he’s touched anyone with all five of his fingers. You wonder if anyone ever touches him willingly.

You wonder about what it must’ve been like, as a child, to not hold your toys or your pets or your parents with all that you can. With tiny, frightened fists.

You used to cling to anything, anyone.

You’d learned the hard way, but you couldn’t imagine–

You shouldn’t be sympathizing with him. You should be frightened. You should be worried about what he wants to do next, what he’d been doing that you hadn’t been able to stop. You take your hand from your throat like it’s burned you.

You scrub hard at your skin, as if it will clean away your thoughts, as if it will all just rinse down the drain in a swirl.

You shut the water off. You dress in Shouta’s clothes. You are careful not to find your reflection in the mirror, lest you see those bruises again. When you emerge from the steamed bathroom, you wander, bare foot and quiet to the kitchen.

Shouta stands at the stove, shoulders slumped slightly, hair pulled away to expose the curve of his neck. He stirs something at the stove. One of his cats, the sweet calico, Kyoko, is rubbing her head against his shin in a desperate plea for attention. Her tail is botched and she’s missing a bit of her right ear, but you still call her pretty when you rub your finger to her cheek.

She chirps at him, before throwing her head into his legs again.

You watch as Shouta murmurs to her, glancing down, you think he asks if she’s hungry. Maybe something about how sweet she is, too.

The window above the kitchen sink glows softly with the light of night in a city. Gold streetlights. The dash of the moon. The occasional, meandering car on the road. The lights in the kitchen are warm and muted, too. It’s cozy, something you never had growing up but always dreamed of.

You don’t know why, but an ache settles somewhere inside of you. A little bubble of happiness that is twinged with melancholy. You want to go to him, to push your forehead into his chest for attention, too, want to be wrapped in the warmth of his arms. You suddenly feel deeply understanding of the little cat at his feet, can’t stand to hear her small cries for attention anymore.

You move to snag Kyoko, who immediately begins to purr once her little head is tucked beneath your chin. You hold her tight, cradle her to your body to soothe her. Her happy purrs rumble against your chest. The two of you peak over Shouta’s shoulder at what he’s cooking.

Soup with mushrooms and green onions. Steamy and savory smelling.

You realize he made something easy like soup for your throat and that ache inside you only grows, takes root until you think it will spread through all your limbs, all your body. And you will just be a girl with a pit inside her, with the roots of joyful melancholy. Maybe it will bloom through your skin and you will be consumed with flowers.

“Smells good,” you tell him and he glances down to you and Kyoko. You catch the faintest lift of his lips into a smile. He has such a nice smile, if he’d ever share it.

How selfish, you think, to covet such a thing.

“Will you feed the cats? They haven’t had dinner yet.”

You nod, looking down at Kyoko as you ask her if she’s hungry. You set her down again, but she quickly weaves between your legs as you go to the fridge to pull out the cans of food.

The moment a can is opened, the other two come from their hiding places, dashing for the kitchen. The other girl, Yuki, whose a sleek white cat with a missing eye, twines herself around your legs, too, when she realizes you’re going to feed her. Her one, shining blue eye peers up at you expectantly. And finally, Kitaro, the tomcat of the house, whose lithe and black like a little panther, but covered in scars, saunters over.

He is the most temperamental of the cats. He usually swats and hisses at everyone, including Shouta from time to time, but he is terribly fond of you. He chitters at you, flashing sharp little teeth and you smile down at him.

They’re eager when you finally get the food into their bowls and set it down for them.

And the night progresses quietly. Shouta showers as the soup simmers on the stove. When he returns, hair damp and messily braided away from his face, you eat together at the kitchen island, sitting on stools. Your throat does hurt, and you’re thankful for the gentle heat of the soup.

Shouta also makes you ice it after you’ve both eaten. You settle on the couch afterwards, curling up into one corner. Shouta sits at the other end, glasses perched on the strong bridge of his nose, laptop on his thighs, school papers spread out across his coffee table. You share a blanket, one that you’ve pulled up to your shoulders as you lay down, but only reaches part of his legs. Still, if you moved too much, you could probably feel the press of his legs to yours. You could tangle them together.

You don’t. Instead you curl your legs into yourself, even if it jostles Kitaro a little, who is laying in the crux of your knees.

The TV plays softly in the background. The rustle of papers, the quiet clacking of the keys on his computer, the occasional scribbling of pen all soothe you, lull you gently. You doze, eyelids growing heavy.

You curl a small fist around the blanket– it’s your favorite of Shouta’s. It’s soft beneath your touch, the fabric bunching between your fingers and you think of him again.

With his startling eyes and wiry frame. With his warm hands.

As you fall asleep, you wonder faintly, almost sadly, if you’re the first thing he’s fully touched without losing in a long time.

***

It has been weeks since Tomura met you and he is still dreaming of you.

He is already a fitful sleeper, but now that he sees your face behind his fluttering lids, he has resolved himself to staying up most nights. When he does sleep, unconsciousness sweeping in to claim him, he sees you there; dark and harsh and brilliant in his mind’s eye. Sometimes you are moving, a slash of brutality against his hazy dreams. Sometimes you sit in front of him, cross-legged, your face surprisingly calm.

The world around you is falling apart in these ones, the very fabric of the sky decaying, splitting at the seams to crumble away. It’s all muted, smoky grey and pale blue, watercolored to bleed together.

He hates these dreams, where you lift your hand up, palm open to him. Fingers spread wide.

“Give me your hand,” you say, voice coaxing, almost sweet. Your features are relaxed, gentle in a way he shouldn’t know. Shouldn’t envision.

Tentatively, he offers up his hand to you, watches as you reach out to flatten your palm to his. The touch is a little surprising to him, your hand soft, almost ticklish against that sensitive skin that is so rarely touched. His hollow chest is heaving as he feels it, feels you.

Then, as carefully as possible, you let each of your fingers press to his. His thumb to yours, his pointer, yours. Middles next. Ring fingers pressed like a steeple. Then, finally it’s just both your pinkies, hovering away from each other.

He doesn’t know why, but he grows scared. He can feel the way his stomach rolls sickly, the sudden lurch of his heart as your pinkies come together like a promise.

Nothing happens, except you smile fractionally.

“Your hands are so big,” you tell him but his heart is still thundering in the cavern of his chest, still rattling around inside of his treacherous body.

“They’re so soft, too.” you tell him and you tilt your head, eyes cutting to his, which shine like twinkling rose quartz with the use of your Quirk, “Like you’ve barely used them.”

“I-I can’t,” he gets out, “I can’t without decaying something.”

“You’re not decaying me,” you say, your voice barely a whisper, eyes lifting from the two of your hands pressed together to find his face.

“No,” Tomura agrees shakily, swallowing, “I’m not.”

“When was the last time you could do this?” you ask softly, but the moment you do, your features always begin to shutter, blur. Your voice grows strange, layered with a child’s. One that he has not heard in many, many years.

And then it’s his little sister’s tiny, fragile hand against his.

He tries to lurch away from her but it’s too late. It’s too late and all of that gore seeps into the grey washed world, bleeds vibrant, horrible color into his dreams. He hates that the image of her falling away into horror, crimson and thick and sickening, is still so sharp in his mind. He hates that he has not been able to fill it with time.

He hates that his brain has not allowed him to forget it, has not repressed or shoved it away for his safety and well-being. He thinks his mind is a traitor.

How is he supposed to live with this?

Some nights, he doesn’t think he can.

He clings to his Master’s words, though, the ones that he takes comfort in. He repeats them like a prayer, a slithering whisper about how he should hold fast to these emotions. To the guilt and the rage and the festering anguish.

He thinks it’s burning a hole through his chest, corrosive and flesh-eating, taking out the tender parts of his body so he is nothing but leanness. So that he is nothing but hollow and starving, crooked and desperate and hungry like some hyena, half deranged with its sloped back and mad yelps and cries. Salivating over scraps.

He thinks of you, wily like a coyote and vicious, small and sharp-toothed and nimble.

Scavengers, the both of you.

He wonders if it hadn’t been the heroes that got to you first, would you be like Toga? Or Twice? Dabi? Some marooned child of society, looking to sink their teeth into anything. You had too much grit to be a hero, he thinks.

You would’ve served better here, with him.

The moment he thinks it, he wishes he hadn’t. Wishes he could rip the thought from his own skull and decay it himself.

But he can’t.

And it sits there, like a tombstone, like a garden bed.

(If he isn’t careful, it will take root inside him and grow. And there is no space for life in a body like his.)

***

You’re not even patrolling when you catch a glimpse of a black hoodie, a flash of icy silver hair again. One of your hands had been tucked into your own coat pocket, the collar of it upturned to keep out the early autumn chill.

The coffee in your other hand, warm, freshly bought, drops sharply as you watch Shigaraki Tomura round a corner, blending into the people going about their everyday lives. Coffee splatters on the sidewalk. You curse, others glance at you, but dart around you, continuing about their day.

You scoop up the now empty cup, breaking into motion. You shove the cup in the nearest trash, snapping your eyes ahead to try and find his form again. You pick up your pace, trying not to sprint, lest you give yourself away, but also trying to keep up with his long strides.

You round the corner, catch sight of him again. You try to force yourself to not break into a run again.

You knock into someone in your haste, brushing past them. They grumble at you.

You manage a vague apology, eyes ahead, on the back of one of the most wanted villains in the country.

Faintly, you hear Shouta’s voice in the back of your mind, urging you not to run straight into danger.

You fish for your phone in your pocket blindly, and you’re about to thumb out a text to him, warn him that you’ve just spotted Shigaraki again.

He’s in class now, though, you know it. It’s doubtful he’ll see it. It’s doubtful he’d see a phone call, too, and the closer you get to Shigaraki, the more that would give you away.

You know Shouta would want you to stay a safe distance away, not to engage. He’d want you to follow as far as you could and then contact him, return back to UA, return back to your little apartment safely. But then this will be the second time that Shigaraki has slipped from your grasp.

You watch as he slyly ducks into an alleyway.

Shit, you curse. You can either try for Shouta or follow.

Your body moves before your mind does. You follow, disappearing down the yawning mouth of the alleyway, too. You try to be silent, your phone still in hand. But the alleway is quieter, darker, especially the further in you wade. You don’t miss that you have now lost the safety of people nearby, too.

Briefly, you wonder which hero is on patrol now for this area, wonder if they could somehow reach you–

Just before he rounds another corner, he glances over his shoulder.

It seems natural for him, like he’s always wary, always waiting for something to catch up with him.

You freeze as the red slash of his eyes cuts to you.

He almost could look normal, without the severed hand clutched to his face. In the simple, black hoodie. Black jeans and red sneakers. He looks your age. A year or two older. You could see him in college, overworked and exhausted. You could see him at the movies, at the mall.

Once more, you are painfully struck with the idea that he could’ve just been some other teen with nothing to their name. Maybe he was like you, wandering in a world that didn’t want him.

But he isn’t.

For a moment, neither of you move. His chest heaves strangely, rising and falling rapidly. His eyes are a little wide, almost as if he’s terrified of you, like you’re some ghost come to haunt him.

But then his eyes narrow, a sneer pulling at his lips to reveal the flash of white teeth in the darkened light of the alley, “It’s you,” he hisses, and you are almost surprised that he recognizes you.

You glance to your phone, fingers suddenly twitching. You need to call Shouta, someone–

The moment he realizes your intention, he lunges, a blur of movement. You try to sidestep him but he is fast, blindingly so, and his body collides with yours. He’s all harsh angles, so sharp you could get cut on him if you’re not careful.

You take the brunt of the fall, the wind leaving your body the moment your back hits the pavement with all his weight on you. Your head snaps against the cement and you’re lucky you don’t pass out, not as black stars flutter to life in your vision.

Your phone clatters noisily out of your hand, skidding onto the pavement. You’re certain the screen is at least broken. Still, you force air into your burning body, scramble for your bearings.

You bring your knee up hard into his stomach, using your momentum to shove him enough to get out from beneath him. You twist, crawling towards your phone. Your knees and palms get cut up against the gravel, but you manage to get your phone in hand again.

You scramble to unlock it, to get to Shouta’s contact, messages, anything—

Your ankle is grabbed, lurching you sharply back to him. It scrapes your chin against concrete, making you yelp as your teeth click together. Blood stings to life, slipping down your chin and to the line of your throat.

You grapple with Shigaraki and it feels childish for who he is. Who you’re supposed to be. You’re both just wrestling for the phone in your hand. It feels absurd until you’re on your back again, belly up and vulnerable, and his body is digging down into the soft parts of you.

You growl in frustration as you stretch your arm away from the two of you, as if that will keep your phone from his grasp. You’re kicking futilely, too, desperately flailing and wriggling under his weight.

Frantically, you try to find a way out, your body and mind screaming. Think! You demand desperately, come on—

The line of his neck is by your face, the bend of his shoulder. He’s stretched above you, reaching for your phone. His teeth are bared in effort as you clutch as tightly as you can, covering as much as you can so he can’t get all five of his fingers in it.

You don’t have any of your knives on you, no weapons or tools, but something inside you snaps, some survival instinct that lurches forward, yanking free of its bonds. It’s a violent, twisted thing, ugly and shameless and desperate.

You reach with your free hand to lay fingernails into flesh. You will become your own weapon.

You feel his hiss more than you hear it. You dig in deeper, scrape sharply and roughly, tearing up skin beneath your nails.

And then you sink your teeth into the vulnerable juncture between his neck and his shoulder.

A bark of a laugh ruptures out of him.

It’d be ridiculous if you weren’t so maddened, so full of fear and white hot adrenaline.

You feel half wild, forcing your teeth into the meat of him, harder, deeper—

The warm, copper tang of blood begins to blur into your mouth and you force yourself to stay, to bite harder—

He growls now, though, in pain, in frustration. You can feel his hands clawing at your fingers, trying to force them up so he can get to the phone.

You don’t let go of him, jaw locked, as more blood fills your mouth. You feel part animal, near frantic—

His fingers, strong, dexterous, shove at your wrist and you yelp as it twists dangerously.

“C’mon,” he rasps, “Let go and I won’t break your wrist.”

You kick uselessly, but stubbornly don’t let go.

He makes a sharp movement and you jolt beneath him as vicious, searing pain rips through your wrist, up your arm. Your hand goes limp with the burst of jarring pain.

But you bite down harder, screaming between your clenched teeth, between all the blood in your mouth, and into his shoulder. It’d be disgusting if you weren’t in so much pain, if your brain wasn’t quick-wired to survive, to fight.

The moment your phone is out of your grasp, he wrenches himself away from you. A noise of pain is forced from him as your teeth rip through his flesh, as he tears away from you.

Once your touch is gone, your phone slips to dust between his fingers.

Fuck.

You scramble up, too, spit his blood out from your mouth and at his feet. You’re sure you look insane, all horror and heat, lips dashed with crimson, teeth flashing dangerously when you level him with a glare. You’re sure your eyes are feverish and rosy, the color they bleed into when your Quirk is being used.

It’s strange, though, the way he’s regarding you, like there is something in you to be picked apart. His eyes are garnet, flashing as they fly over you, searching, searching, searching— like you have the answer to a question he’s been asking his whole life.

You take a sick pride in the gash at his slender neck, the open wound from your teeth, your strength, your terror.

You’re both a little breathless, as still as predators, as still as prey with your heaving chests. You have your broken wrist, which throbs painfully, cutting through your adrenaline addled mind to warn of your danger, curled into your body protectively.

You should run or shout for help. No phone to call Shouta, to call for anyone. Broken wrist. Facing off with one of the most dangerous and wanted villains. Your odds aren’t good.

But your odds were never good, life never threw you luck. You got by with bared teeth and wit and your sharp-toothed instincts.

You wipe your blood-slick mouth with the back of your good hand and decide you’re not done with him. You lunge for him. He sidesteps, nimble and lean, grabbing your arm to swiftly wrench it behind your back at an odd angle.

You cry out, the pain lancing up your arm, ringing through your broken wrist in a way that damn near makes you sob.

“Should I break your arm, too?” he asks and there is almost glee in his voice as he twists sharply, pulls you into his chest and wrestles you still. The pain makes your vision blurry and wobbly, tears pricking to life.

He is solid behind you, his chest pressed to your back, with your twisted arm between you two. You dig for training or rational thought, but all that’s coming up is your fear and pain. All that’s coming up is the instinct to thrash, to escape.

“Careful,” he hisses in your ear, his grasp on you tight, unforgiving, “Or you’ll break it yourself.”

You don’t heed his warning and the moment you squirm again, fighting and thrashing in his grip, there is a sickening snap that rattles through your arm.

Your cry is piercing, guttural, echoing down the alley. Bouncing off stone.

Shigaraki drops your broken arm, “I warned you,” he scolds, loping around to watch you fall to your knees, to try and bite back sobs and whimpers that are forcing their way out.

“You’ve a lot to learn, don’t you?” he asks, observing you, the tilting of his head reveals the sharp line of his jaw as he gazes down at you.

Still, you try to force yourself up, stand on shaking legs. Your arm is limp at your side, the pain seering, nearly overwhelming.

But you stand.

Shigaraki snorts, half amused, the scar on his lip hitching upwards.

You’re prepared to fight again, when a figure appears in the mouth of the alleway.

“What’s going on over there?” they shout, “We heard screaming.”

It’s police and before you can even open your mouth, Shigaraki is disappearing, melting into the shadows and easing away silently.

He gets away.

Shouta is livid with you. He chews you out the entire time that Recovery Girl heals your broken bones. By the time she’s done, you’re still a little sore and Shouta still isn’t done lecturing you.

He makes you dinner, though. And after falling asleep on his couch, you wake up in his bed by morning.

And there’s the remnants of a dream caught in the back of your mind, thin like cobwebs, translucent and shimmering like glass and gossamer. It slips from you the way water does, the way Shigaraki did– silent and deadly and leaving you with something broken, misplaced.

***

Shouta is harder on you in training lately. You can’t tell if he’s punishing you or trying to teach you a hard lesson. But he’s rougher when he spars with you, he doesn’t hesitate to make it hurt more, to show you that you have to think.

“Your instincts are sharp— you fight dirty when you need to, but don’t lose rational thought in the process.” He tells you after he’s knocked your feet cleanly from beneath you and you’re staring, dizzy and winded, up at the ceiling. “It could be the difference between life or death.”

And then his hand is being thrust into your vision, large and scarred and strong. You blow your hair from your face and reach up to take his offered hand. It’s warm. Rough. He pulls you up to your feet easily.

For a moment, your breath is caught in your throat and you’re looking up at him through your lashes. His hand is still wrapped over yours, dwarfs it completely. You think he even pauses, glances down at you like this, tousled, with your chest rising and falling.

He drops your hand, “Let’s go again,” he says, giving you space. You let loose a breath, watch him as he turns from you, as he puts distance between you two.

He kicks your ass. Again and again and again. You’re well acquainted with the floor at this point. Your body is littered in bruises. You’re aching and exhausted and can hardly think straight. Your legs shake with effort when you whine, “Can’t we be done?”

“No,” is his clipped response as he settles into another loose fighting stance.

“Shouta, I’m tired–”

“Is that what you’ll say to villains when you don’t want to fight anymore?” he asks, just before he moves, a flash of darkness, swift and sure. You barely dodge his fist, the second strike to your stomach makes you twist away, trying to keep on the balls of your feet. Nimble, quick.

You huff, “Yeah, I said that to Shigaraki and he let me go.”

You don’t catch the quirking of his lips in slight amusement, not as you leap to latch your legs around his waist, hooking your arms around his neck to pull and throw all your momentum into flipping him onto his back, onto the ground.

He grunts as you exclaim in victory, “Hah!”

It’s short lived, though, because the moment the two of you are on the floor, he’s grappling with you, twisting until he’s got you under him.

His knee digs into your stomach to keep you down. You wheeze, struggling, worming a hand to fist in his hair and pull in some petty attempt at getting out.

Shouta makes an irritated noise, before reaching around to seize your wrist, fingers digging into a pressure point to make you yelp and let go.

You thrash, just as he wrestles your arms down onto the ground, straddling your hips. Pinned.

You groan in frustration, giving up, kicking childishly as you say, “Let me go.”

“You’re a brat,” he responds, squeezing your wrists, “And no. Figure it out. I’ve taught you how to get out of this. Think, instead of pulling my hair like a child.”

You push against the hold he has on your wrists, trying to dislodge him. But his weight on you is too strong, too heavy.

“Shouta–” you whine.

“Figure it out and we’ll be done.” he responds, laying his weight into you more.

You suck in a breath, forcing yourself to look up at him, the lines of his shoulders. His arm. Sluggishly, your mind works something out.

You shove your hips up into a bridge, sending him forward, destabilizing him just as you slide your arms down against the floor to break his hold. You latch tight to his middle. Tight so there’s no room, tight so he has to focus on balancing himself with your weight. Your temple digs into his chest, just as you trap his arm.

You twist, he goes rolling onto his shoulder without the support of his arm. You shove him onto his back.

Then you’re seated atop him, chest heaving, hands at his throat, one twisting his face away threateningly.

He smiles finally, small, but enough to have you easing up.

“Good,” he says, voice low, and the praise turns warm inside of you, gooey. He taps your thigh in request to be let up.

You ease off him, rolling onto your back again. Tired. Your whole body feels like it’s throbbing, like it’s all one tender bruise. You sprawl out on the floor.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, easing up and once more offering his hands to help you up. Reluctantly, you take them, but you make him do most of the work in pulling you up to your feet. He huffs at your dramatics, especially as you go limp, forcing him to take your weight. You slump against his chest, letting your knees give out so he has to hold you up.

“Carry me,” you whine and he snorts.

“No,” he says but there’s something amused in his tone, maybe fond, “I’m going to let you go and you’re going to fall.”

“No you won’t.” you respond, perhaps a little too arrogantly, because he does let you go a moment, just to scare you. You yelp, but before you can drop, he has you again, strong arms hoisting you back up.

And he laughs, low and soft, as you claw at his shirt, as he forces you back up onto your feet.

You could almost feel the sound rumble inside his broad chest and it makes you want to cling to him. It makes you want to be close, to be held tight in his arms. Something about it makes you desperate for his touch, for his smile, for his praise.

You feel young, holding him like this, looking up at him with wide eyes. You feel small and vulnerable.

But he rights you and you finally force yourself to stand. He lets you go. You wish he wouldn’t.

“I’m showering first,” you declare, reaching for your water bottle, heading for the door of the training room.

“You have your own shower, you know.” he responds dryly, but you shoot him a frown over your shoulder and he rolls his eyes. It’s half-hearted. He doesn’t fight you on this more. No, you think he likes having you around.

For entertainment, in the least.

And that’s how most of your evenings go– there’s a routine in them that is comforting. It’s yours and his. You two also patrol together, sometimes eat late dinners and become night owls. Sometimes you catch lunch with him and you sit perched on the corner of his desk until his students trickle back into his classroom.

They’ve come to like you, mostly because you give their teacher a hard time. Your banter with him amuses them.

And maybe there’s something about him when you’re around, a little more open. Gentler. Perhaps more agreeable.

Sometimes you drop by to disrupt his class momentarily. His students try to take advantage of it, try to get you to hang around longer. Shouta always ushers you out, though.

You don’t see Shigaraki again, not for a few more weeks. But strangely, when you’re out on your own, you look for him. Sometimes you think he might round a corner, in that black hoodie. With red sneakers. Sometimes you think you’ll just turn and see his eyes, so ruby, catching yours.

You’re not scared of him. You’re not looking over your shoulder like you’re frightened he’ll be there, he’s not some monster in the dark. Just an itch you can’t scratch, an unanswered question. You have a curiosity for him that you can’t shake.

What’s someone so young doing with so much spite he wants to tear the world apart with it?

So you let yourself look for him when you’re all alone. When you’re on patrol with Shouta.

But time goes on and your life feels normal, almost simple. Stable in a way you have never known. It almost makes you apprehensive.

A change finally happens in the form of a student following Shouta into the training room one afternoon. His hair is a messy tuft of indigo, his eyes lidded, the same shade of purple. He’s lean, though relaxed. He almost looks as exhausted as Shouta. There’s something a little comical about it, the two of them, tired-looking and fixing you with similar stares.

“This is Shinsou Hitoshi,” Shouta introduces, “He’s a student from the General Department who I have agreed to train. He may eventually shadow us on patrols but will not be able to use his Quirk, since he doesn’t have his provisional license yet.”

And then Shouta gives your name as an introduction, “She’s my,” and there’s a fraction of a pause, a minute debate in his mind before saying, “Partner. You’ll be training with her most often.”

I’m your sidekick, you think, but you don’t dare say it. Something inside you twists, warms slightly.

You ask about Shinsou’s Quirk, who seems reluctant at first to say it and once he does, once he tells you that he can brainwash people, you understand why. That is a Quirk that you’re sure people judged him over. You’re certain that society has not been kind to a Quirk like that. You can practically hear their sneers, their whispers.

But when you don’t give any adverse reaction, he seems to loosen up a little. Even more when you inform him you have another Quirk that nullifies others.

Shouta doesn’t waste time and he throws the poor kid into training with the two of you. And just like that, it then becomes the three of you. Shinsou joins each of your training sessions after school. You end up sharing snacks with him during small breaks, trail mix and granola bars. You bond over how stern Shouta can be. He snorts at your teasing.

He’s a good kid.

You think even Shouta is pleased, you think there’s something fond in him, when it’s just the three of you. You know he loves his students, despite seeming so aloof and guarded, but he seems more open in these moments. He laughs a little easier, though it’s still rare, but the sound is sweet to your ears. You love having someone to bond with, to roll your eyes to when Shouta is being a hard ass, to torment, too.

Plus, it’s not so bad to win more sparring sessions finally, even if it’s a little cheap since Shinsou is only fifteen. Still a student, still training. You’ve never officially beaten Shouta, just gotten the upper hand for a while. Still, you take what you can get with him.

You always take what you can get with Shouta.

But this part of your life, when you’re busy, when you spend your afternoons with Shouta and Shinsou and your evenings patrolling, are peaceful. Whole and warm and simple. They’re golden in your memory, almost sweet, like the halcyon rays of sun before the hungry, hurting storm clouds roll in.

You just wish you hadn’t needed to go and ruin it.

You wish you could even say that you take it all back, everything that happened after this time, wish you could say you regret it.

But you don’t and maybe that’s the worst part of it all.

***

The next time Tomura sees you, it is mid-morning. There is a chill in the air, a bite of the cold to come. The sun is out, though, bright and casting you in its brilliance. You’re not on patrol. You’re just walking, with your hands tucked into your coat pockets, all alone.

The city’s quiet bustle is enough for him to blend in, but not enough to bother him. He needs to go to the store to steal food again. He and the rest of the League are practically homeless. Foodless. Penniless. They’re all growing thin and wane and snappish.

They’re hungry– for opportunity, for more than this society will allow.

He has no business watching you from afar, not when he still needs food. Not when he could be spending his time and energy elsewhere. As it stands, he has no idea what he’s doing when he begins to trail after you.

You’re oblivious, brows furrowed lightly on your otherwise peaceful resting face. You dip your chin, burrow down into the warmth of your scarf against the wind that picks up. Tomura shivers. His hands are near icy despite the partial gloves he’s wearing to keep himself from decaying anything.

He shouldn’t but he follows as you walk into a nearby park. Every step towards you is another further from the store, further than what he should be doing.

He’s careful, keeps his steps even and sure, far enough away so that you don’t notice him. Is he stalking? Is that what this is?

His stomach growls. His teeth chatter as his body wracks with another shiver.

You look so warm, so sweetly oblivious.

He feels like an animal, watching as you settle onto a park bench. The tree that arcs above your head is filled with sun kissed leaves beginning to melt into shades of yellow and orange, little dashes of red. It casts playful shadows over you, scattering you in it’s light and dark. You’re like a painting, lively and entrancing, this slice of something beautiful and surreal. Too bright and vivid for the real world.

He feels himself scowl.

What does someone like him know about beauty, anyways?

He traces the curve of your cheek with his eyes, the gentle lines of your lips. The arc of your lashes. The way the light makes your eyes glimmer and he thinks of you in the dark with him, with your eyes blazing fuchsia, all sharp and defiant.

(He’d thought you were beautiful then, too, the same way catastrophes are. The chaos of you is sweet to him.)

He watches you pull out a phone– shiny and new– and smile at the screen for a moment. Just a small tilting of your lips, something he bares his teeth at.

Something he’s seen in his dreams.

He hates you, he tries to tell himself, he hates you and he wants to tear you apart. He wants to wipe that smile from your face. He thinks of your scream– thinks of you beneath him, livid and thrashing.

He thinks of your teeth in his skin.

Tomura watches you tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear delicately.

He thinks of you in his dreams, with your palm up and offered to him. Your fingers are gentle when they press against his, when you compare your hands to his. You are caught in his misty dreams, tucked away in a place of his mind he wishes he could rip out.

He stands, rooted in place, observing you.

His stomach cramps with hunger again, desperate and aching. Another painful shiver wracks through his body.

He wants to put his cold hands on you, leech the warmth from your body. He wants to sink his teeth into your skin.

Your phone gets tucked away and you pick your eyes up suddenly. He isn’t expecting it, but as if you can feel his gaze on you, heavy and blazing, your eyes cut to his.

He watches your face, the way your mouth falls open in slight shock, the rounding out of your eyes. But then all that gentleness sharpens– your brows furrow, your lips pull back to reveal teeth. You raise your hackles.

He doesn’t know why, but he smiles.

The sickle curve of his lips slices across his features and you jolt into standing.

He arches a brow, challenging.

You glance around the citizens milling about, the peacefulness of this park. You glance at the phone in your hand, then at him.

He could almost laugh because he watches you try to decide what to do– you’re too expressive, he wants to mock. It’s all written right there on your face. You’re too inexperienced, too, unsure how to handle situations without your handler to guide you. Are you going to cause a scene? Would you endanger a civilian by rushing for him now? Going to call for help?

What’s the heroic thing to do?

In your indecision, Tomura allows himself to turn away and it is supposed to be offensive to you. You’re not much of a threat to him, not when you can’t decide what to do. Not when all you know how to do is bite and kick like a child.

He heads back to the store. He doesn’t have to look behind him to know that you’re following him. That’s fine. He’s gotten away easily each time he’s encountered you and this time will be no different.

When he walks into the store, he’s blasted with warmth finally, the artificial, stale kind. But he’ll take what he can get. He notices that you follow him but surprisingly, you stay outside. He can see your form by the shop windows.

He steals what he needs to; quick, small foods that he can shove into pockets. He tries to get as much as possible. In the least, so he can share with Toga. He doesn’t care about her in any substantial or friendly way, but he cares less for the likes of Dabi or Spinner.

(Besides, there’s an unspoken agreement between all of them that Toga eats before them. Maybe it’s because she’s a kid, he doesn’t care.)

And when he exits, you’re right outside– on the phone, though, and it almost seems normal. You cooly follow after him, lest you frighten the poor citizens around you. He thinks he can hear you quietly arguing on the phone with someone.

He isn’t foolish enough to lead you to where he’s going, so he leads you elsewhere. Down a few alleyways, some twists and turns. When he gets tired of your stalking, he finally stops, looks over his shoulder at you.

“Made up your mind yet?” he asks and he can faintly hear the tinny, faraway voice on your phone shouting at you to do not engage, do you hear me?

Your name is said over the phone when you don’t respond.

That piece of information settles into him for a moment. He wished he’d never heard it, never learned your name.

You have the audacity to end the call you’re on. The voice scolding you now gone, forcing the silence of the alleyway to stretch between you two. He knows he needs to get away soon, before all your reinforcements arrive.

He isn’t surprised when you rush for him with a vengeance. He does a lot of sidestepping, quick dodging from your swift attacks.

He feels as if you’ve gotten faster, keener.

You land a succession of jabs– they’re not particularly hard or debilitating, but it takes him a moment to right himself. However, when you dance away from him, you hold something up–

It’s one of the granola bars he’d stolen, one from his pocket. You blink at it. Then at him.

At the same moment that you realize he’d only stolen food, he realizes that you’re an excellent pickpocket. He narrows his eyes at you.

An expression flickers over your face. A wince, almost. He doesn’t understand why.

You toss the granola bar back at him. He catches it quick, reflexively keeping his pinky lifted away, despite his gloves.

And you don’t rush at him again. You frown.

He bares his teeth to hiss something at you– is this your idea of kindness? Is this your idea of being a hero? Being oh so benevolent to the starving villain? Do you think that’s going to change him?

The sound of feet on pavement growing near makes him pause his suddenly violent need to teach you a lesson. He shouldn’t waste time with you. He’s already wasted too much.

You don’t follow him when he finally turns to leave, to slip away again. You stare after him, he can feel your eyes pressed between his shoulder blades. He disappears and no one follows him. It feels strange, he feels cagey and pent up. He tears at the skin of his neck with his fingers, opening cuts, lashing out on himself in frustration.

He hates you, he seethes, scratching furiously, he wishes he could destroy you.

However, what he won’t find out until he’s returned to the runned down place they’re pretending to call homebase for awhile, is that you also swiped his phone. Just a burner phone. There’s nothing on it that will aid you in your search for him. He’s too careful. But it’s annoying nonetheless since he needs to get his hands on another one.

More than that, it offers him another piece to the puzzle of you that he did not ask for.

You’re a thief, he realizes. Or perhaps were one, at some point.

And though you’ve only taken his phone, it feels as if you’ve stolen something else from him, too, just left him with this new facet of you.

This new piece of you that he didn’t ask for, that he wishes he could stop thinking about.

You had let Shigaraki get away.

And when Shouta had gotten to you, eyes flying over you wildly to make sure you were okay this time, you’d had a pained expression on your face.

He’d been about to scold you again, really lay into you for directly disobeying him and hanging up on him.

But you’d reached into your pocket and held up a cellphone, old, somewhat outdated. “I stole his phone,” you’d told him, but there had been a wobble to your voice. Something he caught immediately.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” he’d asked, coming around to face you, to place two, large hands on your shoulders.

You had swallowed hard.

“He just wanted food.”

“What?” Shouta had asked, ducking his head down in an attempt to force you to meet his eyes. You’d felt like a child again beneath his gaze, beneath those warm, heavy hands.

You had blinked, tried to force away the feelings rising in you like a swelling bruise. You’d felt tender, suddenly fragile and aching.

“He’d stolen food. Just food.” you had answered. And Shouta had understood then, drawing in a slow breath.

You hadn’t been expecting it, but he’d pulled you into a hug then, pulled you right into his broad chest. His arms had gone around you, slow but tight, broad palm moving against your back soothingly.

You’d ducked your head, let yourself fall into his comfort, his safety. You’d sniffled, tried not to suddenly burst into tears– because of Shigaraki or because Shouta had treated you so gently in that moment, you hadn’t known why.

Only that Shouta had said, “Let’s go home,” and you had.

And he’d been quiet with you the rest of the day, soothing and coaxing, his voice a soft rumble.

You’d fallen asleep against his shoulder that night, feeling as if there was something squirming in your heart. Something you were too scared to name.

But you���d dreamt of him again, of his hungry, scarlet eyes and wiry frame. Of the way he’d watched you, envious of your warmth.

And not for the first time, you’d wondered about him, wondered why it was you, now, tucked away in the world of heroes, while he slipped away into the underbelly, hiding from a world that wouldn’t accept him.

A world that wouldn’t feed him, the same one you’d been pulled from, just as desperate, with stolen food stuffed into your bloated pockets, and so much bitterness you could almost taste it between your teeth.

***

Tomura doesn’t know what he’s doing as he stares at the library computer with your name typed into the search bar. He tells himself he’s just curious. He just wants to see what he can find on you for his next encounter with you.

But there isn’t much known about you, just a small town news article about your debut as a hero, as Eraserhead’s sidekick. The article says remarkably little; your Quirk cancels out other Quirks with a touch. You show a lot of promise to become a hero that works behind the scene, like Eraserhead. It suggests that perhaps you’ll even follow in your mentor’s shoes and become a teacher at UA eventually.

There’s a photo of you; it’s while you’re moving, presumably fighting, because your smile is sharp edged and victorious. Your hair is a dramatic splash behind you, mussed with battle. There’s a scrape on your cheek. You look every bit like one of their newly sculpted heroes.

Tomura scratches at his neck, eyeing your face; the one that has come to haunt him. That has made him desperate enough to search your name, search for anything about you.

You smile back at him, like you’ve won something.

He growls in irritation, standing from the computer and stalking out.

He tells himself his little interest in you is harmless, something that he can drop whenever he wants. It’s not a problem.

But it’s the same way he tells himself that he’s not stalking you when he watches you through the window of a cafe or ends up discovering what store you favor and what path you like to take through the park when you aren’t patrolling.

It’s not stalking when he even figures out your usual patrol schedule or how you take to the roofs to watch the world from above like a bird.

It’s harmless, he tells himself, harmless in the same way hungry dogs are– whining and crying and begging until they decide to bite.

***

There is a distinct shift the next time you encounter Shigaraki.

It is often easy to forget that villains are human. Many heroes do it– it’s probably easier that way for them. It allows them to focus, to not feel remorse if they hit a little too hard. They can forget if they’re a little too rough.

Or why they are the way they are. Everyone likes to condemn the thief, but not wonder why they were stealing. It’s easier that way, when everything is clear and cut cleanly between good and bad.

You’d steal, too, if you were hungry, you’d told Shouta, morals are a privilege– you can have them when you’re fed.

So it’s easy for you, horribly easy, to see villains as people, to not see them as singularly evil but a culmination of their tragedies.

Monsters are made, not born, and everyone likes to forget who is making them.

Shouta used to tell you that it wasn’t a fault of yours, to see people as people, no matter how terrible. He thought it was a strength, that it was admirable. Every hero should do it, perhaps it would teach them something.

But you don’t think the strangely playful tone of your next encounter (or the next or the next or the next) with Shigaraki is what he was referring to. The trouble with seeing him as just a person, is that then he seems like just a man around your age, then. You forget who he’s supposed to be, what he’s supposed to have done, when you’re trading quips and catching hits.

You think he allows you to spot him, since no other hero has had nearly the amount of encounters that you’ve had with him. Or maybe he’s following you. The thought crosses your mind and it should frighten you– you should mention it to Shouta. Especially since it almost seems like you’re crying wolf at this point.

For a while you don’t call for reinforcements as quickly as you should. Maybe you let him get away each time, you don’t fight as hard as you could. And you don’t think he’s fighting as viciously, either. He’s not trying to kill you. You’re not trying to capture him.

You don’t play nice, though. He’s not gentle with you. You’re not particularly careful with him, either. But it’s exciting, the rush of adrenaline, the sharp lilt of his smile to counter the mischievous glint of your eyes. It feels like an unspoken game of cat and mouse, following each other around until you both collide like reckless stars.

You separate sharply, too, all of it brutal– the coming together, the falling apart.

You both speak the same language, you think, something about the violence of it all, the fight of it all that’s familiar and knowing. Like there was never any choice in your lives, like it always meant to be spitting out blood and getting back up.

Eventually, you stop calling for reinforcements at all. At some point, you stop telling Shouta of your encounters.

You don’t linger on it, don’t dare contemplate it, lest guilt latches onto you, weighs you down, drags you into crawling. You feign some foolish form of ignorance, like you don’t know what’s happening during these encounters. You’re still fighting, aren’t you? It’s not like you’re helping him in any capacity.

You pretend not to notice the thread between you and Shigaraki that you’re pulling on, pretend not to notice the way it’s tethering you to him. You pretend it’s not going to eventually suffocate, that it’s not dangerous.

(But some days you have a hard time looking at Shouta, especially after everything he’s done for you, everything he does for you–)

Your teeth click together when your back is slammed against the drywall of an abandoned store. It cracks beneath your weight slightly, just as Shigaraki’s forearm bares down hard against your throat.

You gasp and wretch for breath, your toes barely on the ground as he keeps you pinned with his arm. You claw at him, fingernails digging into flesh.

He leers closer, “You don’t learn lessons, do you?”

He’s smiling, though, regarding you in amusement as you squirm and struggle.

You manage to knee him in the stomach, enough for him to drop you, so you can suck in large lungfuls of air.

If you were really fighting to hurt him, fighting to win, you’d kick him while he’s doubled over, move fast so he can’t get back up. But it’s more fun when it’s close– like little kids wrestling, you feel young and dumb with him. You feel reckless in the same way you did as a teenager, playing chicken near the train tracks with a bunch of other lost kids, when you used to dare each other to walk on the edge of high bridges and buildings. Everything was cut to close.

You had nothing then, so there was nothing to lose.

You try to tackle him instead, sending you both rolling onto the floor filled with debris– you hiss in pain as your palm catches on a spare shard of glass. Your palm opens with hot blood, runs rivulets down your wrist.

But you’re too busy wrestling with Shigaraki, too busy trying to get the upper hand to notice much.

There is a strange moment, though, when you end up atop him, straddling his stomach. A beat where you’re both breathing hard, staring at each other.

His hair is spread out around his head, like a halo of silver. It’s getting longer, you think, which is a dumb thing to notice about him.

He narrows his eyes at you, just as he catches your wrist before you can strike him. It’s the hand streaked with blood.

Reflexively, he holds a finger away from your wrist.

But then he stares at it, at his hand now slick with your blood, wrapped around your wrist. His fingers dig into your pulse, like he’s looking for your heartbeat.

Then, almost curiously, his last finger comes down to join the others against your skin.

Nothing happens. He knows nothing will happen and yet, each time he’s able, he seems to try again and again.

(You don’t think he actually wants his Quirk to work on you, only that he can’t fathom otherwise, so he has to try and prove himself wrong–)

He squeezes tighter, before those ruby eyes flick back to your face.

“Funny, I was always told I was a fast learner,” you finally answer him.

It takes him a moment, a beat where he watches you and you become aware of your position– of him, warm and lean beneath you. Of his hand, lithe and large, still wrapped around your wrist. Something inside of you shivers, makes your cheeks flush hot and prickly.

He snorts then, but he doesn’t seem very amused anymore, before shoving you off of him.

“You’re naive then,” he sneers, standing easily, apparently done with you.

Maybe you are, you think, standing now, too. You clutch at your bleeding hand, wrap your own fingers around your wrist now to cradle it to your body.

You try not to think of his touch.

He turns his back on you, evidently to leave, which makes you bristle. You don’t think, you just let that irritation bubble and fizz over and out of you, so that you rush for him again. You wrap your arms around his neck, use your momentum to flip him over again, onto his back. And this time, you use all of that training that Shouta has beat into you and you grapple with him seriously this time.

But he manages to catch your arm, force you onto your stomach, with it wretched behind your back. His other hand shoves your face into the ground. Even now, you can feel only four fingers on your head.

“I’ll teach you, if that’s what you want,” he snarls and you feel panic flood your veins, feel the white heat of it, the shaking that overcomes you. You thrash, hard, but he only shoves your cheek down harder, “You naive, stupid little girl–”.

You cry out– it’s a smaller noise than you’d like to admit.

And then he’s gone. All of that weight and pressure leaves so swiftly that it almost gives you whiplash– too sharp of a contrast. Even his leaving is brutal, somehow.

He has disappeared by the time you’ve picked yourself up from off the floor.

It’s raining, cold and hard, when you walk back to UA.

You lie to Shouta for the first time that night– a real, spoken lie, rather than just omitted truth.

You tell him you cut your hand cooking earlier, not wrestling with Shigaraki Tomura in hollowed out buildings, where the prying eyes of society can’t touch you.

You feel sick, when he rewraps the bandage around your palm. He’s careful with you, gentle in a way that Shigaraki isn’t.

You don’t sleep that night.

You just keep thinking about the look in his eyes, when he’d dropped that final finger against your pulse, and the concern in Shouta’s voice, when he’d asked what had happened to your palm.

Shouta had held your wrist, too, fingers against your heartbeat.

But it hadn’t beat the same and you can’t stomach looking in his eyes for the rest of the night.

***

Tomura dreams of you in soft light now, the red heat of morning, maybe the lullaby violet of evening.

He hears that little cry of yours– but now it’s sweeter, more desperate.

He hates you, he thinks, even in his dreams, all warbly and tender, as he presses two of his fingers between your plush lips. He presses them down against your tongue and you whine, turn wide eyes on him–

You’re so eager and soft in these dreams, which feels ridiculous for all your sharpness. He doesn’t know you as compliant or sweet like this, and his mind feels traitorous for imagining it. You wouldn’t take this lying down, wouldn’t take his fingers in your mouth, or let him fall into the crux of your body.

You’re so vivid, so warm and alive to all his cloying decay and death.

He wants to hurt you, he tries to convince himself, but he never does in these dreams. He can never make himself, not when you’re laid out beneath him, offered to him like sacrifice, slick and too-warm.

He wakes aching and livid. Doesn’t rest until he puts his hands on himself, touches and strokes and catches his groans behind his teeth– it’s a broken, frustrated sound, rattling around in the cage of his chest.

He thinks of you spread out beneath him, above him with your hair tickling his collar bones. He thinks of his hands on you, spread wide, all five of his fingers grabbing and squeezing and possessing you.

He thinks of that stupid little cry you’d given him, the one now that haunts him–

He doesn’t feel shameful when his hands end up sticky and he’s bitten his lip so hard it’s started to bleed to keep back a whine, doesn’t feel shame when he thinks of you, a little hero, welcoming the likes of him into your body.

It’s not shame, he thinks, with his chest rising and falling and the sweat cooling on his skin, it’s not shame just–

Irritation. Infatuation. Infection.

You’re a fucking disease, he decides, and he’s blistering with you, sick with you.

He wants to vomit you up, purge you of his body and mind.

But he can’t, so maybe the thought of you will just fester and rot inside of him.

Maybe he’ll just wander around this world, feverish and longing, like an open wound, like a walking corpse.

***

Shouta usually keeps a careful distance between the two of you. He isn’t afraid to touch you– he can’t be, as your mentor, as someone who has trained you and taken care of you. His hands know correcting; they have laid flat against your back to correct posture, or curved along your shoulder to guide you, they have molded you and shaped you. They have also stitched you up and soothed you, swept blood from your skin, pressed ice to inflammation.

But those touches have always remained somewhat professional, somewhat formal. Clinical, at times. Almost fatherly.

Even when he’d needed to cut away your hero suit to get at a wound you’d received while patrolling. Even when you’re sprawled on his bathroom floor, half bare for his eyes to assess– there has always been a careful distance between you two.

But lately, that distance dwindles, slips away like thread between your fingers.

The other night, he’d tucked a strand of your hair from your face.

Your legs now tangle with his when you both occupy opposite ends of the couch.

He lays his hand on the small of your back as you walk beside him. He ducks his head low for you, so that you can speak into his ear and he can murmur back to you.

But it’s a careful dance, one that you’re unsure of. He remains distant with you around others, especially his class. Especially Shinsou. You suppose you can’t blame him when students like Kaminari start rumors that you’re his teacher’s girlfriend.

Shouta always corrects him, grits out in a low voice that you are not his girlfriend and some part of you begs to ask, would it be so bad if I was?

Especially when you sleep in his bed. In his clothes. When you occupy some unnamed space in his life that seems to only be growing.

You suppose you don’t know a lot about relationships– you’ve never had one. There wasn’t much time to find love when you were just trying to find something to eat, when you were just trying to find somewhere safe and warm to sleep for the night. And now, with Shouta, you feel like you’re grasping at something you can’t quite reach.

You can’t decide if he knows what he’s doing or not, you can’t decide if the shift in your relationship is intentional on his part or not.

But you’re nothing if not curious, maybe a little too desperate for even the potential of his love. You’re so eager for it that it almost hurts, that you’d take nearly anything. And the idea of his rejection is a bitter weight that lies atop your chest.

(Looking back, you think this could’ve been the point of no return. This could’ve been your damned moment, the precipice of your fall. Maybe if the night had gone differently, if you hadn’t been such a child–)

There is an evening when Shouta stumbles home, with a gash ripped across his chest, near soaking wet with the icy rain that has just begun outside. He’d gone to work alone, working on an undercover mission that you know little about. Such is the nature of Shouta’s hero work, sometimes.

The Hero Commission expects you to follow in his footsteps. One day it will be you with secrets, slipping through shadows, moving through the underground world of the city. You know it well already, was born and reared down there, so it makes sense that you would return to it one day. But now in the form of a hero, some force to be reckoned with.

But looking at him now, bloody and exhausted and freezing, you wonder why everyone ever thought there’s glory in hero work.

You rush to him, Kyoko being dumped from your lap in the process, rushing off because of the commotion.

“I’m fine,” Shouta says quickly, the moment he sees the concern on your face. “It’s not that deep.”

Still, he looks wane. He looks tired. He looks cold.

You usher him in and he lets you. It’s your turn now to get the medical supplies, to grab a rag and have him rest against the bathroom counter.

“I can do it,” he tells you when you gently reach to begin cleaning up the wound, but you shake your head.

You don’t know why, but you want to prove you can care for him, too. You want to prove you’re like him, maybe, that you’re an adult with careful hands.

“Let me,” you reply, perhaps quieter, more tentative than you intended.

And he does.

You gently pry away his hero suit from the wound. Shouta only hisses quietly through his teeth at the pull, but otherwise remains still for you. He was right, it isn’t a deep wound, you can see that now. Just a long, drawn out graze that was just deep enough to bleed.

It’s over his heart and your hands flutter there, to and fro, gentle with him.

You can feel him watching you, dark eyes heavy and soft on your face. You look up through your lashes at him, just for a moment, and you feel suddenly nervous, suddenly small standing in the shadow of his large frame. In the shadow of his eyes.

You focus on cleaning the cut on his chest, listening to the way his breath stutters when it stings. You focus on bandaging him up, making your hands busy, watching as the red pricks through the white cloth.

“What happened?” you ask and your voice is hushed in the small bathroom. You don’t dare look up at him again.

“Nothing terrible,” is his short answer and you know he can’t tell you much about the mission, or what happens on these nights when he’s all alone. You can’t help but feel somewhat excluded, though, like you’re only a part of fragments of his life. Still, like there’s a distance he holds you at, so impossibly careful.

You don’t want to be careful anymore.

You want him like this, near and warm and beneath your hands.

You don’t know why you say it and the moment you blur it out, your cheeks flare into warmth, “I don’t like when you go out alone.”

The corner of his lips tick upward in amusement. He reaches up, nudges your chin with his knuckle gently, almost playfully, “Now you know how I feel.”

His voice is low, rough and warm, like the crackling of a smoldering hearth. Soft thunder to lull you to sleep.

You pick your eyes up finally, peer up into his face.

“How you feel?” you ask, voice just barely above a whisper.

He lets his knuckle brush lightly against your jaw, slow, smooth strokes as his features soften up, as his dark eyes flicker in the low light of the bathroom.

“Hm,” he hums softly, “How I feel.”

He tucks a strand of your hair away from your face delicately– you’ve never been treated so gently than when Shouta is touching you like this. Like you’re spun glass, something lovely in the palm of his rough, broad hand.

“Thank you for patching me up,” he murmurs then, his voice just a soft rasp.

And you think he’s going to pull away again, he’s going to ease away from you and you–

You feel your heart splinter, you feel the childish urge to latch on tight and not let go of him. You don’t want the distance, you don’t want to watch his features slide back into stoniness. You want to be his– oh God do you want to be his.

And you don’t want to be careful anymore, not when the risk is worth so much reward.

You press up onto the tips of your toes, let your stomach barely touch the hard lines of his, lean into his orbit carefully. Everything feels as if it could shatter at any moment.

He freezes beneath your hands.

You tilt your lips up in offering, parted soft, parted sweet.

And he let’s you–

He lets you lean in the rest of the way, press your warm lips to his. It’s a tentative kiss, almost unsure, like you’ve never done it before (you have but– but it’s never been like this). You’re lamb soft and unsure, moldable.

He kisses back.

You can feel his stubble scrape against your upper lip, can feel the exhale he gives against your cheek. The way you melt, silken and bending to what he wants of you.

His hand is large, chilled against your cheek.

You try to bite back a noise, a small thing that he ends up swallowing, as you eagerly push towards him. But that slight roughness, that desperation, makes him pull away suddenly.

His hands come down on your shoulders, holding you away, holding you at that distance and you–

“Shouta,” you breathe, almost whine.

But you watch as the walls rise, watch as all that softness slips from him, reveals only cold stone. “No,” he says, firm but gentle for you, “No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that–”

You feel heat rise up, the shameful, bitter, angry kind. You feel it swell inside of you, sickly and horrible and vicious.

Your lip wobbles suddenly.

“What do you mean?” you hiss quietly, frustrated with the sudden sting of tears that you refuse to let fall.

“I shouldn’t have done that.” he says again, stoic and calm in the face of all your furious shame and anger and it just–

It makes you livid.

“Why not?” you ask, sharp, trying to keep the hurt out of your voice, “Y-You wanted to!”

When he’s silent, your eyes turn almost pleading, chest heaving. Your voice is small and uncertain when you ask, “Didn’t you?”

Your throat feels tight and choked, a lump forming there that hurts. One you can’t swallow down, not when you feel like your heart is on the outside of your body, like you’ve got all the most vulnerable parts of you bare and exposed.

Shouta exhales hard, squeezes your shoulder and you can tell he’s warring with himself. You can tell he wants to comfort you, assure you otherwise but he can’t, shouldn’t.

“It’s not that,” Shouta says, soft now, “It’s not that. It’s just inappropriate–”

“I’m not a child!” you snap and the tears finally break over the line of your lashes as if to contradict you, falling hot and angry against your flushed cheeks.

“I’m your mentor.” Shouta responds, almost soothingly, almost like he’s trying to placate you. Especially when he reaches out, goes to brush a tear from your cheek as if he isn’t the one who caused it.

You jerk away from him, waving away his hand, “Don’t–” you say, voice breaking, “Don’t do that.”

Shouta swallows, “I’m sorry,” he says again and you can tell he means it, feels like he almost means he’s sorry for more than just this. Like he’s sorry for not giving in, sorry he won’t let himself have what you’ve offered.

You have to look away from him, have to look away from his concern and defeated shoulders. More tears slip down your cheeks, quick and furious, and you wipe at them with the heel of your hand.

You want to say something– you want to scream or shout or fight him. You want to cry. You want to throw a tantrum, you realize, with all of that prickly embarrassment and knife sharp rejection gutting you seamlessly. You want to throw it up at his feet to see what he’s done and how bad this hurts–

But all you do swallow it all down, it goes down like needles, like splintered glass to tear up your pink insides somewhere.

“I-I’m going to go,” you say instead and you turn away from him. Turn to leave the bathroom, to shove your shoes and coat on despite his gentle protests.

Shouta catches your wrist in your flurry of movement and you have to keep back your sob behind clenched teeth.

“It’s raining, you’re just going to your apartment, right?” he asks, still worrying about you, still trying to care for you and it makes you see red.

“Yeah,” you lie, lurching out of his grip, ripping your hand from him, and finally wrenching open the door only to slam it shut behind you.

You don’t go back to your own apartment.

You go out into the night, into the freezing rain, which comes down in sharp, stinging pelts. Feels good against your overheated cheeks, though, almost feels good with your pounding head, like it’s icing your bruised and tender spots for a moment.

It soaks you quickly and down to the bone and eventually all that soothing chill becomes icy cold, seeps beneath your jacket, burrows down into your body that aches with a sudden loneliness.

At first, you don’t know where you’re walking to, aimless as the rain slants against you. The streetlights are like lanterns in this weather, glowing fuzzy and all alone in the streets save for the occasional car.

When you get into a busier part of the city, anyone who is walking has an umbrella, huddles beneath it, trying to keep their hands warm. A couple walks past you, huddled together and giggling, their breaths puffing out in front of them in this cold.

You wipe at your eyes, turn away so that no one sees the way you try to keep your face from crumpling.

You keep walking and walking and walking until you realize you’ve carried yourself to a part of the city you used to frequent; before Shouta, before becoming a hero, when you were nothing but a thief, some scavenger that society would rather not have.

It’s filled with abandoned warehouses and rundown drug stores, a seedy motel and dilapidated apartment complexes. It’s removed from the eyes of the main city, so they don’t have to look at the orphans and beggars.

But it’s familiar to you.

You wish you could say it still feels like coming home but it isn’t home anymore– no, home is Shouta’s bed, and the couch you spend evenings on with him while he grades papers. It’s the window in the kitchen, right above the sink. It’s training rooms and the walk from your apartment to his. it’s him and his stupid cats and violet-haired kid.

You bite back a groan, maybe another sob. Your teeth are chattering violently now with the freezing rain, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself as if you’re trying to hold all of that heartache on the inside of your body.

Even in all your frustration, though, you force yourself to glance around, to peer through the rain at your surroundings. It’s second nature at this point, since Shouta started training you, because you’re his good little–

You jolt in surprise when you see him standing behind you in the rain. His silver hair is plastered to his face, to his neck. His hood is thrown up to try and block out the rain, but he’s also soaked, red eyes gleaming in the lowlight.

It’s almost comical, you think, the both of you standing out here, shivering and soaked in this downpour like drowned strays.

Shigaraki Tomura eyes you warily.

You don’t think either of you were expecting to see each other.

For all your earlier anger, you don’t have a lot of fight in you, don’t want to fight. Can’t fathom trying to use your brain enough to battle him off. And Shigaraki, for reasons beyond you, has yet to really harm you every time he’s come across you.

You feel strangely casual, strangely unguarded and wavering.

“What are you doing here?” he finally rasps, glaring at you.

A broken laugh ruptures out of your aching ribs, between your chattering teeth.

“What are you doing here?” you counter and he clearly doesn’t care for whatever strange humor you’ve found in this situation.

He lopes closer, though, almost tentatively, watching to see if you’re going to make any sort of move. You remain with your arms hugged tight to your body, shivering in this cold.

He doesn’t answer you. His hands are tucked away into his pockets. You can see him trying to hold back shivers, too, can see the way his shoulders tense, the way his jaw grinds together.

“I used to live around here,” you admit for some reason, out into the alleway space between the two of you. Maybe if only to say it aloud, to say that you were someone before Shouta, maybe just to spite Shouta, to tell Shigaraki Tomura a piece of you that is personal and kept inside your heart.

The rain swallows your words, though, and for a moment, you think he’ll ignore you entirely.

But he asks, “So you decided to visit in the freezing rain?”

He’s not being humorous, but you smile anyways and it feels wobbly, a little bit absurd– the kind of smile that comes after crying, when you feel half-mad, when everything is a mess and your emotions are an overflowing fountain, spilling out in any way it sees fit to drown everything in sight.

You shrug, open your arms out to the space, looking around for a moment, as if it will back you up when you ask, “Why not?”

Shigaraki’s next few steps towards you are almost cautious, like he can feel your fragility from here.

Maybe starting a fight would do you well. Maybe you want to taste blood. Maybe his eyes on you will keep you warm out here– will make you forget about Shouta, which strikes you with another sharp and buzzing pang.

And somehow, someway, when he steps close enough to touch, he manages to hit the one spot where you’re hurting the worst;

“Don’t you have a nice warm home to be in?”

You wince like he’s struck you, face falling for a moment, arms collapsing back down to your sides.

You think of Shouta, back in his apartment, with his cats and his blankets and the fond way he’d always look at you–

All that frustration keens at the thought, though, flares quick and hot inside of you. That urge to scream and sob and fight comes back with a vengeance. When Shigaraki gets too close to you, you lash out, shoving him backwards.

It’s artless, but he stumbles a half step back after your palms had pushed against his chest.

Unknowingly, you hit a nerve in him, too, when you ask, “Can’t you leave me alone? You’re always fucking stalking me!”

“I don’t waste my time stalking bratty, useless little heroes.” he snaps, biting out the words.

You don’t know why that stings, too. Maybe it’s the way he said ‘useless,’ or the mockery of ‘hero.’ Maybe it’s because that’s how you feel, like some bratty child, scorned and angry and bitter. Maybe that’s why Shouta doesn’t want you–

You shove at Shigaraki again, acting as the child you feel like. He almost snorts, except you do it again, and again, until you’re shoving against his chest with everything you have.

And strangely, he lets you for a moment, watching your face, watching the way your lip trembles and your eyes grow all glassy. He can’t tell with the rain but–

He grabs your forearm, tight and firm to stop your sudden shoving. He keeps a finger lifted away from you naturally. He doesn’t need to, you think dimly, but he does.

You beat at his chest with your free hand before he snags that one, too, grips you to haul you closer to him, to peer down into your face with blazing red eyes.

When you look up at him, it’s through angry, indignant tears.

“Let go,” you hiss, trying to jerk out of his hold.

He bares his teeth in some semblance of a smile, “What makes you think I’d listen to you?”

You thrash harder in his hold, but he just yanks you closer, until you lose balance and stumble into his lean form. You can feel his chest against yours, the line of your torsos, your hips.

You look at him through wet lashes, and there’s something strange in his expression now. It freezes you, stills you against him. You can feel his chest rising and falling rapidly, can feel the sudden shuddering of his body– you pretend it’s from the cold. But you suddenly can’t feel the cold anymore, can’t feel the breath in your lungs.

Hunger, you finally place the look in his eyes, just before he pulls you up to meet him halfway in a kiss that feels more like a car crash.

It’s jarring, shocking to you the way impact is, like free-falling and finally hitting the ground.

His lips are rough around the edges, you can feel the indent of his scar at the corner of his mouth, but the center is warm and almost soft. Wet, between the rain that turns everything slick and the way he parts his mouth against yours.

It should be gross, you think, it should be horrible– you should try to pull away, but he’s clutching you tighter, crushing any possible distance between you two, shattering it with a vengeance. And it’s–

It’s everything you wanted from Shouta, maybe, that closeness, the grabbing of his desperate hands. The vicious wanting, of being wanted so viscerally, so tremendously.

And maybe it’s to spite Shouta, too, a bad decision for the books. You haven’t made one of those in awhile, have you?

So you fist your hands in his cold, wet hoodie, and throw your other arm around his neck to drag him down into you, deeper into the kiss.

He makes a noise, something like a groan, a growl that splits off into a whine at the end. You swallow it, open your mouth to let him into you. Your teeth clink together, it’s messy and hard and fast, all heat and desperation.

The absurdity isn’t lost on you, the strange irony that comes with kissing in the rain— it isn’t romantic. It doesn’t cause your heart to flutter but full on stop. It’s freezing and rough and brutal.

You’re not kissing the man of your dreams (but you have dreamt of him, haven’t you?), you’re not kissing some dashing hero, there’s not going to be a love confession after this.

You’re kissing one of the most wanted villains in rain that hits you like ice, surrounded by a place you used to call home.

You could laugh, if you weren’t so busy trying to claw at him, to get more.

He kisses like he’s trying to tear you apart. You can feel the sting of his teeth, the hungry push of his lips into yours. He’s all scavenger, he’ll take everything you give him and more—

And you feel him, the hard line of his desire for you, digging roughly into your stomach and that’s– that’s finally what shocks you. It’s what forces you to lurch away from him.

He lets you go, surprisingly, but you both stare at each other, wide-eyed and shocked.

The irony of you stuttering out the words, “I-I shouldn’t have done that–” is so cruel and hysterical that you feel like you’re going to split apart at the seams.

But he doesn’t look upset. No, he looks like he’s won something, like he’s snapped a piece of the puzzle into place. Like he knows something you don’t.

You shove past him.

You run home, force your body to move, to breathe hard and heavy, to try and forget the way he’d felt against you– or the way Shouta had cradled your cheek or the way you’ve never known something like either acts. Never been treated so gently. Never been wanted so badly.

When you get to your apartment, you slam the door shut behind you. Throw the lock into place and let your chest shake and heave and breathe, forcing in huge lungfuls of air. You’re so soaked that you drip all over the floor.

You shuck off your cold clothes in the living room because you can, because you feel like you’re going crazy, feel like you’re unraveling.

You take a shower so hot that it hurts, trying to scrub him off of you, or trying to remember the heat that he’d forced into you.

You sleep naked for once, something you don’t do often, but need to feel the sheets against bare skin, need to know that you’re alone and with yourself.

But you lie awake, twisting and turning and restless all night.

You refuse to let your hands wander, refuse to give in to whatever spark that had fanned into a flame in the low parts of your stomach. Refuse to picture red eyes. Refuse to imagine raven hair between your fist, too.

You refuse it all, try to force it down into the depths of you to never see the light of day again.

You end up getting sick from the rain– feverish and woozy and exhausted– but you also think you’re sick with something else, something that’s wormed its way into all the secretive, vulnerable parts of you.

Something that makes you furious and flushed in the lonesome hours of the blue-dark night.

***

PART II

[misssimreno]

Fine Line Legacy Challenge

Sims 4 x Harry Styles 💓 Welcome to a legacy challenge inspired by various Harry Styles songs! This challenge was created by myself and my friend Amy because who doesn’t want to see this kind of crossover? This is a 10 generation legacy challenge with a threaded storyline inspired by songs off of Harry’s self-titled album “Harry Styles (2017)” and “Fine Line (2019)”.

Basic Rules:

You can select who will be the heir for the next generation. There are no restrictions on how many children each heir can have!

Unless exclusively outlined in a generation’s rules, you can marry or divorce whomever and do so as often as you’d like.

No money cheats can be used except for when you move in your very first heir in Generation One (freerealestate on).

You MUST complete all aspects for each generation before moving to the next one.

It is up to you whether or not you want aging on or what lifespan you wish to play on (playing on the normal lifespan could be an added challenge!).

There is an optional aspiration to complete for each generation.

If you choose to play this legacy challenge, post using the hashtag #finelinelegacy for us to see! 💓

Gen 1. "Carolina"

You left your small hometown for the big city of San Myshuno. Having grown up under your grandmother's roof with few simoleons to go around, you are pining for excitement, adventure, and a chance to make it big and become a star. As a Young Adult, you packed your bags and rented a "needs TLC" apartment in the Arts District.

Traits: Ambitious, Bookworm, Creative Aspiration: World Famous Celebrity Career: Musical Genius

Rules:

Reach Level 10 of the Entertainer Career (Musician Branch)

Complete the World Famous Celebrity

Reach Level 10 of the Guitar and Piano skills

Reach Level 5 of the Singing skill

Must start in a needs TLC apartment in San MyShuno

OPTIONAL: Complete the City Native Aspiration

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Gen 2. "Kiwi"

You grew up around fame and fortune, but it has left you feeling a bit empty and unfulfilled. Determined to make a name for yourself and step out from your parent's shadow, you've decided to pursue a different craft - acting. You really love cacti and the color black.

Traits: Non-Committal, Hot-Headed, Self-Absorbed Aspiration: Master Actress/Actor Career: Actor

Rules:

Reach Level 10 of the Actor Career

Complete the Master Actress/Actor Aspiration

Reach Level 10 of the Charisma and Acting skills

Reach Level 5 of the Baking skill

Have at least ONE (1) child out of wedlock

OPTIONAL: Complete the Party Animal Aspiration

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Gen 3. "Sweet Creature"

After having been in the public eye your whole life, surrounded by scandal, you seek simplicity, tranquility, and a way to plant new roots for your family. Speaking of family, you feel quite distant from your parents and hope to foster a strong bond with your own children. You always put family first, though your marriage may suffer some strain.

Traits: Family-Oriented, Loner, Cheerful Aspiration: Big Happy Family Career: Education (Professor Branch)

Rules:

Reach Level 10 of the Education Career (Professor Branch)

Complete the Big Happy Family Aspiration

Reach Level 10 of the Research & Debate and Charisma skills

Reach Level 5 of the Logic and Gardening skills

Sustain a garden of at least five (5) unique plants of Great quality

OPTIONAL: Complete the Soulmate Aspiration

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Gen 4. "Golden"

You always knew you were destined for greatness. Your intellect has opened many doors for you, but led you to a very strange place...Strangerville. Material things mean very little to you and you love the idea of being a bit more "off the grid," and self-sufficient.

Traits: Genius, Clumsy, Maker Aspiration: Outdoor Enthusiast Career: Detective

Rules

Reach Level 10 of the Detective Career

Complete the Outdoor Enthusiast Aspiration

Complete the Strangerville Mystery story-line

Reach Level 10 of the Fitness and Fishing skills

Reach Level 5 of the Herbalism skill

OPTIONAL: Complete the Angling Ace Aspiration

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Gen 5. "Sign of the Times"

After your parents' encounter in Strangerville, you became fascinated by aliens, space, and everything science-y. You know there is more to find out there. but first you need to learn everything you can about the unknown. A bit of an oxymoron, isn't it? When you're not fixated on the stars, you love to dance, tinker, and spend time with your many friends.

Traits: Geek, Dance Machine, Perfectionist Aspiration: Friend of the World Career: Engineer (Mechanical Engineer Branch)

Rules

Reach Level 10 of the Engineer Career (Mechanical Engineer Branch)

Complete the Friend of the World Aspiration.

Reach Level 10 of the Rocket Science, Programming, and Robotics skills

Reach Level 8 of the Handiness skill

Travel to Sixam at least one (1) time using a rocket you constructed

OPTIONAL: Complete the Renaissance Sim Aspiration

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Gen 6. "Two Ghosts"

Ever since you were a child, you knew you were different. You had numerous paranormal experiences, which has led you to dedicate your life to the paranormal altogether. You purchased a haunted house to try and get closer to the "other side," however this has left you feeling a bit emotionally burdened and isolated from those around you. You're reasonably covered in tattoos and are known to always wear a simple, white shirt. You hope to one day form a "Seance" club.

Traits: Adventurous, Gloomy, Good Aspiration: Bestselling Author Career: Freelancer (Paranormal Investigator Branch)

Rules

Complete 10 "Expert Paranormal Investigation" events in the Freelancer Career (Paranormal Investigator Branch)

Complete the Bestselling Author Aspiration

Reach Level 10 of the Writing and Medium skills.

Befriend both Guidry and Temperance

OPTIONAL: Complete the Leader of the Pack Aspiration

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Gen 7. "Watermelon Sugar"

You are a very health-conscious sim. Due to your love of animals, you have embraced a vegetarian lifestyle. Protecting the earth and nature is your number one goal in life, aside from ensuring justice is upheld in the courtroom and you are a top tier parent. You favorite fruit is watermelon and you farm your very own watermelons!

Traits: Vegetarian, Green Fiend, Dog Lover Aspiration: Friend of the Animals Career: Law (Judge Branch)

Rules

Reach Level 10 of the Law Career (Judge Branch)

Complete the Friend of the Animals Aspiration

Reach Level 10 of the Pet Training and Juice Fizzing skills

Reach Level 5 of the Parenting skill

Make your neighborhood's Eco Footprint Green for an entire sim year (4 seasons)

OPTIONAL: Complete the Super Parent Aspiration

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Gen 8. "Sunflower, Vol. 6"

Zen. That is what you embody. Where do you feel most zen? At the beach. This is why you live off the grid in Sulani. You practice yoga daily and find a great deal of joy in cooking homemade meals. In your spare time, you dabble in photography and painting. You love sunflowers and have them growing all around your home.

Traits: Foodie, Child of the Ocean, Art Lover Aspiration: Eco Innovator Career: Civil Designer (Green Technician Branch)

Rules

Reach Level 10 of the Civil Designer Career (Green Technician Branch)

Complete the Eco Innovator Aspiration

Reach Level 10 of the Gourmet Cooking and Wellness Skills

Reach Level 5 of the Photography and Fabrication skills

Marry a mermaid!

OPTIONAL: Complete the Painter Extraordinaire Aspiration

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Gen 9. "Canyon Moon"

Having grown up in Sulani, you're not sure how you ended up in quintessential suburbia outside a large city with a corporate job. Life is comfortable, but it lacks the excitement it once had. You want to travel, see the world, and learn about difficult cultures! You love to document your travels and share them online. Sometimes, you can be a bit neglectful of your responsibilities.

Traits: Kleptomaniac, Childish, Self-Assured Aspiration: Archaeology Scholar Career: Business (Investor Branch)

Rules

Reach Level 10 of the Business Career (Investor Branch)

Complete the Archaeology Scholar Aspiration

Reach Level 10 of the Selvadoradian Culture and Mixology skills

Reach Level 5 of the Media Production skill

Vacation at least once in each world!

OPTIONAL: Complete the Jungle Explorer Aspiration OR Mt. Komorebi Sightseer Aspiration

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Gen 10. "Fine Line"

You were definitely the class clown whilst in school. It was a way to cope with your insecurities, which you haven't been able to shake into adulthood. Nevertheless, your charm and strategic-timing have served you well in your "work," whatever that may be. You know there is always a fine line between life and death, you really live life on the edge.

Traits: Jealous, Goofball, Paranoid Aspiration: Public Enemy Career: Criminal Career (Boss Branch)

Rules

Reach Level 10 of the Criminal Career (Boss Branch)

Complete the Public Enemy Aspiration

Reach Level 10 of the Programming and Comedy skills

Reach Level 5 of the Rock Climbing skill

Graft a Death Flower to cheat death!

OPTIONAL: Complete the Fabulously Wealthy Aspiration

[mumblingsage]

Tasted them. You’ve gained a statue’s flavor, like licking the pyramids, or kissing sandstone shoulders. I mean boulders.

-Amy Gerstler, “What I Did with Your Ashes,” in Scattered at Sea

Francesco Furini: Artemisia Prepares to Drink the Ashes of her Husband, Mausolu

We spread Aaron's ashes in his favorite river in Minnesota, and when the bag was empty -- because when you're cremated, you fit into a plastic bag -- there were still ashes stuck to my fingers. And I could have just put my hands in the water and rinsed them, but instead, I licked my hands clean, because I was so afraid of losing more than I had already lost, and I was so desperate to make sure that he would always be a part of me. But of course he would be.

-Nora McInerny, “We don't 'move on' from grief. We move forward with it”

A couple of weeks after the cremation, the ashes were ready to be collected. They were in a murky-red plastic container with screw-top lid, my husband's name and death date printed on a white label. The container was surprisingly heavy. When I got home I unscrewed the lid and looked inside. The ashes were in a clear plastic bag. I lifted out the bag and opened it. No sign of bits of bone, just a heap of rather industrial grey powder that could have been ground concrete. That evening I put a sprinkling of my husband's remains into a bowl of yoghurt and honey and ate it, startled by the act and by the grittiness in my mouth.

-Julia Blackburn, Time Song: Journeys in Search of a Submerged Land

Gerard van Honthorst, Artemisia

Gallery Description: Queen Artemisia (4th century B.C.) of ­Halicarnassus in Asia Minor was said by ancient authors to have mourned her husband, Mausolus, by building the Mausoleum, one of the Seven Wonders of the World. She then drank his ashes mixed with wine in order to become his living tomb and an example of virtue (exemplum virtutis). Here, the queen’s retainers of different ages and status marvel at her prodigious act, in accordance with the rules set forth for humanist history painting by theorist Leon Battista Alberti in his treatise De pictura (1435), where this noble genre was defined.

....to perpetuate his memory she built at Halicarnassus the celebrated Mausoleum at Halicarnassus, listed by Antipater of Sidon as one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World and whose name subsequently became the generic term for any splendid sepulchral monument...  Artemisia drinking her husband's ashes was a subject in painting from the Renaissance onwards, especially enjoying a vogue in Dutch Golden Age painting around the middle of the 17th century, being painted by Rembrandt (Prado) among others.

-Wikipedia, Artemisia II of Caria

[afatlotofchance]

Fatness in mythology: Dionysus

Maybe you have heard of him, Dionysus, the Greek god of wine, alcohol, parties, theater... and mad trances that lead you to tear your king limb from limb or cut your son into little pieces with an axe. 

Thanks to Renaissance paintings and popular culture (I’m looking at you Disney), the typical appearance of Dionysos became one of a fat-bellied or obese, often balding drunkard. HOWEVER, this is not his true appearance, of course. The idea of an obese, aging, quite ugly Dionysus only started with the Roman art and their depictions of their own version of Dionysus, called Bacchus, a tradition that was heavily developed by the Renaissance painters and sculptors and then led to becoming a popular culture archetype.

When it comes to the Ancient Greeks, Dionysus had one of two shapes in literature and art. The first one corresponds to the older version of Dionysus, in the early times of Greek history - he was there a mature, adult man, bearded, with a king-like status. The second corresponds to the later times of Greek history, and thus is considered the most popular and used of the two: Dionysus appears as a beardless youth, extremely beautiful, and very effeminate (wearing female clothes, hairdos and makeup for example). But overall, in all shapes, he is not fat. As an adult, he is muscular like all Greek gods, as a youth he is all slim and slender. 

So... what’s the point of me bringing this to the table?

Well. Greeks were known to mock themselves and their own religion quite often. Most of their comedies were parodies of their own myths. The most famous of these comedy/parody authors was Aristophanes, and he wrote a play titled “The Frogs” that is considered the most revealing example of the “buffoon Dionysus”, aka how Dionysus was depicted in Greek comedies. 

And in these comedies, he was fat. Several times through The Frogs Dionysus’ fatness is mentionned: he is said to be pot-bellied and fat-bellied, to have a wide girth and a gut, he is paired with the muscular and athletic Herakles and by opposition is depicted as soft, weak and unused to exercise... This is not just a re-using of the archetypal “fit vs fat” duo. You see, in this play Aristophanes decided to mock the androgynous and effeminate depictions of Dionysus. As a result, instead of depicting him svelt like regular artists, he made him fat and paunchy. Why? Because the idea of a gut, a paunch, a big belly, is described in terms evoking the “child-bearing belly” aka the pregnant belly, and similarly Dionysus wide hips are described as very feminine and child-bearing. The fatness and curves of Dionysus shapes, his wide hips and round belly, make him physically even more effeminate than any of his female clothes and makeup. (At least linguistically - since it is a theater play a lot relies on wordplays, vocabulary and linguistic choices). 

Of course this is a very basic humor of the type “haha, he has boobs”, but Aristophanes humor was known to be a very basic and crude, even crass one (for example the Frog has a song being played by farting...). It should also not be forgotten that the humor came from the discrepancy between how the Greeks believed the gods to be (perfect in body and mind, forever beautiful and svelt) and how they were depicted here on stage (fat, lazy and out of breath after a few exercises - reinforced by the fact that the actors of Aristophanes plays usually had fake bellies and padded behinds to make them appear more grotesque or buffoonish). 

BUT, and here is the fascinating part, while it is mockery and parody, IT IS not blasphemy. Greek theater was a sacred work, the plays often performed during religious rituals and festivals. As a result, while the Greeks saw this depiction of Dionysus as funny, they certainly did not perceive it as insulting and this is a nuance that should be brought up. It is part of the god’s identity that he is at the limit between male and female, with a shifting identity blurring the lines. He is a male god and proud of it, but he is also the first to dress like a girl just for the fun of it. He has among his servants both the crudest representation of masculine vulgarity and sexuality (the satyrs) and some of the most iconic female priestess and nymphs of Greek mythology (menades). It is because Dionysus is one of the “liminal deities” of Greek mythology, living at the edge of everything. His wine makes people both stupid and wise. He brings joy through his parties, and despair by his followers’ massacres. He brought elements that built the Greek society and civilization (such as theater) and is a regular god of the pantheon, yet is depicted as the leader of a dangerous chaotic and wild group that breaks all the rules and taboos and disrupt the regular civic and religious order. 

Anyway, all in all, what I am trying to say is: the idea that Dionysus is fat is not impossible or unusual. It is part of his myth and attributes as soon as the Ancient Greeks and is not just a Roman invention. Sure, such a representation would have made Ancient Greeks laugh, because for them gods have perfect beauty and the ancient Greek beauty means “no fat”. BUT it stays a valid interpretation and representation of Dionysus, that could be done seriously in our day and age with no particular problem. 

[loverholland]

sunrise. pp x reader

summary: y/n finally arrived back in new york after a year in cali. not only does she find that her little corner of the world is disappearing, but that he little crush just so happened to not have disappeared. word count: ~1,900 warnings: none that I can think of. a/n: i hope you like this. this has been in my drafts since 2019 i think.

✨☁️💭🪴🪐🧋🛼🎐

Y/N’s hand touched the railing of Peter’s balcony. It was a simple apartment, one that she would expect for him to have. It was a small, one bedroom and one bath apartment that sometimes had hot water and sometimes had mice, but nonetheless, Y/N loved it. It was the first time she had ever seen his apartment other than in FaceTime, which were far and few between. He had such a perfect view of Queen’s where the tree’s sang beautiful songs and the bird’s would join in with harmonies. It reminded her of those times when she would go to Aunt May’s apartment and sit on the fire escape. She missed the yellow chipped paint and the abundance of plants. It was small and minimal but it was home. Pictures would line the walls and almost every surface that she could fill - many of them were Peter and her or Peter and his parents, but when he began bringing home Ned and Y/N, the pictures became more inclusive of their friendship.

Y/N always brought a Kodak camera everywhere. Those pictures felt the most authentic. The most real, so those were the ones she gave Aunt May. Every Christmas, every birthday, were just months worth of pictures that she could put anywhere she imagined.

Everything felt so normal, but they weren’t. Of course, they weren’t. Washington Heights experienced a blackout, one that hadn’t hit for ages. Everything was going away from her in so little time. Nail Venom was moving, shops are closing down, people are leaving. Her humble abode is leaving and it was getting close to her parent’s closing up their ?? and leaving Washington Heights for good. Leaving what she knew for good.

“Y/N?” Peter yawned. She turned her head to look at him in all of his glory. He jue woke up but he looked so stunning in the rising rays and he looked like a Renaissance painting. His curls were much messier than they were last night and his beautiful chocolate brown eyes looked like the perfect coffee that she would get back at UCLA. He was shirtless and only wore a pair of gray sweatpants and my Gods he was made right out by the Gods themselves.

“I’m here.” She whispered before turning her head back to the world in front of her. Not wanting to give it up for just a moment longer. They had practiced some Spanish, drunkenly, she must add. He was good at it, not that she would ever tell him that. Never would she imagine giving him such a big head like that.

“Are you ready to try again?” Y/N asked, implying to the previous Spanish lesson. It was so early, but she felt so at peace. The corners of her lips rising a bit more when Peter answered:

“I think I’m ready.”

“Okay,” Y/N paused, turning to leverage herself on the railing, pushing back for a moment, a wide smile spreading across her face as she looked at Peter. “Let’s go.” There was a moment as she thought of what to say. Something that he knew? Give him something hard. A curse word? She would laugh if given the chance but then the idea of her home. En Washington Heights. Her esquina was slowly leaving this earth for good, only few being able to tell the story of Washington Heights.

“Esquina?”

“Corner.” Peter answered correctly, a short lived smile creeping towards the corners of his lips. He knew he was right.

“Tienda?”

“Store.”

“Bombilla?”

“Lightbulb!”

“Too easy” she thought to herself. She turned her head to look over the horizon. The world was wonderful with how the sky was painted orange and pinks. The moon was still out, it was beautiful. And not only that but this world had Peter, the most wonderful man she had ever been lucky to know. Well, shit. Maybe not wonderful.

Last night was a lot. The lights were brighter then than any light now. The screams of joy and laughing from everyone around her, we're nothing like her experience. A drunken Peter was angry that Y/N’s father didn’t accept their relationship. He was so angry and the way he threatened his internship at Stark Industries (not that papi would get anywhere). The world felt like it was ending and it kind of did. All of Washington Heights suddenly became dark, a forgotten and hidden place in the world. The once joyful noise turned into horror and fear, everything quickly declining. And then she was alone.

In the middle of chaos, she was alone.

But now, here she is on Peter’s fire escape. The beautiful and peaceful world going on around her. Sure, it was hot. But the world was so much better. The people were quiet and asleep while the sunshine danced along the buildings. Animal’s running the streets freely before everyone woke up. Everything was right.

“You’re sure?” Y/N questioned after a moment of reminiscing. She gave him a smile after biting her bottom lip for a moment. He was right and she knew it but she just wanted to see if he was confident in himself and his answers. He hadn’t taken Spanish since high school and he claimed that he forgot a majority of it, but she always questioned it but never pushed him to speak in her native language with her.

Peter paused and pushed himself off the brick wall, taking a step towards her. His eyes searched for a reason to stop, but he couldn’t find one. Hell, he wouldn’t be able to ever find one. “I’m sure.”

“Three out of three, you did alright.” Y/N pushed herself off the railing and took a step towards Peter, her head tilting back to look up at him. She couldn’t help but be infatuated with Peter. She had only been back for a few days and all of the past feelings came flowing back. She spent so long believing that she would never be good enough for Peter that she just hid the idea of ever being with him or him sharing the same feelings. Oh, how she was wrong.

“Well teach me a little more…” he trailed, his hand going to touch Y/N’s cheek. He didn’t immediately touch her however, he wanted some form of consent and when Y/N leaned her face to touch his hand, he took that as an ‘okay’ before brushing her cheek with his thumb.

“Calor?”

“Heat.”

“Anoche?” Y/N raised her eyebrows.

“Last night.”

“Dolor.

“Pain?”

“That’s right.” She confirmed, eyebrows knitting together. She lifted her right hand and laid it on Peter’s chest, staring at it as the words left her lips like endless lullabies. Not taking any longer to think of what to say, she knew what needed to be said for both of them. “Llámame?”

“Call me.”

“Ámame”

“Love me.”

A breath escaped Y/N’s lips. They felt so close yet so far away from one another. Her eyes lifted away from being set on her hand on Peter’s chest to look at his beautiful, comforting eyes. “Perhaps I do-”

“Well, how do you say “kiss me”?”

“Besame.”

“And how do you say “hold me”?”

“Abrázame.” Y/N inevitably whispered, the words all making the flutter in her chest more intense. Her eyes were filled with so much joy yet so much anxiety at the same time. “Al amanezer. At sunrise.” [need to look up]

“Anything can help at sunrise.”

Y/N looked up at Peter’s eyes, she just wanted to kiss him right then and there. They held eye contact for a moment before her eyes dropped to his lips, leaning in a bit closer. She could feel how clammy her own hands were. She hated the feeling of it, but she knew this could dictate so much more especially considering her future. This action could change so much between them and she wasn’t sure if she was ready for it. But maybe she should just dive in head first. Her heart thumped against her chest, eyes closing for a moment as her lips parted, allowing air to escape and to his Peter’s lips.

“What will he say?” Peter pulled back, removing his hand from her cheek and dropping it down to his side, fiddling with the pocket that was hanging out of the sweats.

What a dramatic ass.

“Que dirá?”

“When he sees me around you?” He asked, eyebrows knitting together with concern. Y/N understood exactly how he felt. The fear of losing one another to her father. Losing this connection again. Y/N always believed that the time wasn’t right and that if it were destined to be, it would be.

“How do you say “Promise me?”” Peter asked, quieter than before. His forehead was pressed against hers, eyes closed as they took in the moment, hands briefly touching as a spark traced up their arms.

“Prometeme.”

“Promise me you’ll stay beyond the sunrise and that we won’t care what anyone has to say -”

“Beyond the sunrise.” Y/N cut off Peter. Their eyes met, searching for an invitation to kiss one another. The world seemed to stop at this moment. The trees' sweet songs slowed down as Peter leaned into the small space between he and Y/N. The birds stopped their harmonies and the cars stopped the melodies, it felt like the perfect interlude to any great story.

And then it just happened. Peters hand cupped her cheek like an angel cupping a baby for the first time. He softly guided her lips to his; it felt so soft and secure. His lips touched hers and in the moment she swore she was infinite. She was so alive and free in this moment. His lips melded with her like a beautiful piano melody being played. Everything that she could ever love and more was right here. Her heart pounded to the thought of him. To the action that was being played out.

Never in her wildest dream did she think she'd be kissing Peter Parker. During the sunrise. In Queens. She always thought that maybe one day, when they're older and they finally come to the conclusion, or maybe her accepting it more than she did before. She wasn't too sure how it would happen, but this was never the plan.

As quickly as it started, it ended. Peter pulled away, breathless

“Promise me you’ll stay.” Peter whispered against her lips as he pulled back. There was a moment of hesitation. Stay… how? With him? In New York? She wasn’t too sure what he meant, but those were the words she’s always wanted to speak to him. Just the act was something she thought about many times in high school. She had told herself that if she didn’t go to UCLA she would finally man up and tell Peter about her little crush and go to a school in NYC. But then she left.

“I’ll stay.” Y/N promised, her fingers interlinking with Peter’s. The pad of his thumb rubbing across the top of her hands. A promise that she would swear to fulfill. If not for her, then for him. She couldn’t imagine the world that he has around him but that world would be her’s. He would become her world in such a short amount of time.

Beyond the sunrise.

[sentinelmania]

This weeks chat is about favourite villain

This is my favourite: Uda Kier

He had an amazing movie carreer with over 200 movies.

From IMDB

Beginning his life with the same flare for the dramatic that would come to define his career, Udo Kier was born in Köln, Germany near the end of the 2nd world war. The hospital was bombed and buried Kier and his mother in the rubble. Both survived, and Kier would later move to London as a young adult to study English. Kier was discovered in London by Michael Sarne, who cast him in his first role as a gigolo in "Road To Saint Tropez". Kier then starred in Michael Armstrong's extremely controversial "Mark Of The Devil". He would go on to work with Paul Morrissey in Andy Warhol's "Flesh For Frankenstein" and "Blood For Dracula", Dario Argento in "Suspiria", and Rainer Werner Fassbinder in "The Third Generation", "Lili Marllen", and "Lola". Kier entered the American independent cinema scene many years later after meeting Gus Van Sant at the Berlin Film Festival. Van Sant offered Kier the role of Hans, the lamp-singing john in "My Own Private Idaho" with Keanu Reeves and River Phoenix. He would later have roles in Gus Van Sant's "Even Cowgirls Get The Blues" and "Don't Worry He Won't Get Far On Foot" as well as such 90s Hollywood hits as "Ace Ventura: Pet Detective", "Johnny Mnemonic", "Barb Wire", "End Of Violence", "For Love Or Money", "Armagedden", "Blade", and "End Of Days". Kier is probably best known for his collaboration with Lars von Trier, appearing in most of his films including "Medea", "Europa", "Breaking The Waves", "Dancer In TheE Dark", "Dogville", "Manderlay", "Melancholia", "Nymphomaniac (Vol. II)" and "The Kingdom" (Danish TV). Kier's recent renaissance has seen him play memorable roles in the Activision game "Call Of Duty", numerous television roles in North America and Europe, and in the films "Iron Sky", "Brawl In Cell Block 99", "Downsizing", "American Animals", "Bacurau", "The Painted Bird", "The Blazing World" and "Swan Song", among many others.

But that’s not everything   :-)

Young modell Udo was part of the gay Jetset in Europe and darling of the gay movie directors, like Visconti or Werner Fassbinder. He became a big tabloid celebrity.

In his early youth he became Arndt von Bohlen und Halbach boyfriend. Arndt was the Krupp heir and one of the earliest men, who wore make-up and feminine clothes in public and was so wealthy, that he gave a shit, what anybody thought about it.

Despite his crazy life, he remained kind, polite and humble. He is actually a nice guy and had been part of a daring gay movement of actors, directors and Jetsetters nobody really remembers today.

[peachesandmilktea]

Ho boy! Set me up with a fictional bae, you matchmaker you! Myself? I am impulsive, inappropriate, and sarcastic. My talents include talking about myself, procrastinating, and general chicanery. My favorite song is The Hounds by the Protomen! My idea of a date is an aquarium/zoo/cat cafe! My kinks include biting, restraints, breath play, and general rough play~ I do not have a gender preference!

Match-up Event Masterlist

I know of our mutual love for Shigaraki Tomura and my heart screamed to match you up with him but then I thought it might be more interesting if I went with an unexpected choice instead, so here it is!

I match you with...

𝐌𝐫. 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬!

If life is a performance and you like taking up the stage, sarcastic comments spilling through your lips like the most amusing tirade, he'll gladly be your audience and will make sure to cover you with flowers once you bow at the end, just to tell you how much he enjoyed the art that is you. And if you allow him to stand beside you as you do so, he'll take your hand to pull you into a waltz that only the two of you know the steps of. He can't help it; he's a romantic. He thinks poetry when inappropriate words cross your pretty lips, dreams of symphonies when you pull him with you trough unexpected, impulsive adventures. Opposites attract, he'd always known that, the most beautiful stories being those of star-crossed lovers and yet, he didn't quite believe it until he met you, until you proved how the art he loved so much paled next to you.

Dates with him are, for the lack of another word, fascinating. He knows legends and myths, and knows how to tell a story as well. He'll tell you about sirens and krakens when walking through an aquarium, spill tales of ancient creatures and the animals they became while strolling through the zoo, and did you know cats used to be snakes? he'd ask you while petting on a kitten in that little café you wanted to go to. Cats used to be snakes, and everyone was scared of them, so they developed a tail, ears, fur, and then people changed their minds. As much as he likes his own stories, though, he'd rather listen to you talk for hours, and he forgets every single tale he knows when you decide to tell him of yours. He never monopolizes the conversation, only wants to impress you for a bit, and it usually works, because he's good at what he does, after all.

If he's a good performer in everyday life, he's even better in bed, always extremely attentive to your pleasure. That doesn't mean that he'll let you take control though; no, he's the artist, and your body is the stage, the canvas, the instrument. He'll have you tied up with the softest, prettiest ropes he can find, so aesthetic it feels like you're part of a renaissance painting, but that doesn't mean that he'll be kind or gentle, far from it. He'll play with you, show you pleasure and pain, art in its purest form, until you cannot find anything else more beautiful than his touch or the look he gives you when his fingers close around your throat as he whispers sweet nothings into your ear. He bites his mark into your skin, pretty scars that'll linger right until he does it again as if signing his name into your body for everyone to know who you belong to.

-------

Please tell me if you liked it ♡

[inky-duchess]

21 History Ancedotes for my 21st Birthday

So today I celebrate my 21st birthday and I have decided to gift you all with 21 of my favourite historical Ancedotes. Some are funny, some are sad and some are plain bizarre but I hope the make your day 💜

Mary Maloney, an Irish-born suffragette in England followed Winston Churchill around while he was campaigning for a seat in Parliament, drowning out everything he said with a very large bell and calls for him to apologise for his comments on women's rights and suffrage movements.

Clodius Pulcher was a well born Roman noble during the last day's of the Republic. He gave up his Patrician status to become Tribune of the Plebs (an office in which one had to be a Pleb) by being adopted by a much younger Plebian man who became his "father". Clodius was a bit of a riot, sneaking into religious festivals dressed like a woman to sleep with Caesar's wife, building a shrine to Liberty in the ruins of the Conservative Cicero, vetoed the last speech of one of the Consuls (who basically did nothing all year and was apparently going to roast Caesar) and burned down the Senate House with his funeral pyre (the Plebs who loved him literally tearing up the furniture to build his pyre). He was honestly the best fun.

When laying on her deathbed, Queen Caroline of Ansbach turned to her husband George II of England and told him he should marry again. George refused to ever wed again... But added he would have mistresses. Caroline said , likely with a roll of her eyes, "oh my god that doesn't matter."

Florence was a pretty cool city in the Renaissance until Savanorola came to town. He disliked the loose living artists that crowded the city, with their naked pagan gods and rampant homosexuality. He expelled them all with help of the French hoping to make Florence Holy Again. When the Borgia Pope excommunicated him and sentenced him to death, one man in the crowd was reported to have said. "thank God, niw we can return to sodomy." One Floretine man in the 1490s said Gay Rights.

So this list couldn't be complete without an entry of the only American politician I love, Alexander Hamilton who was just a walking entity of sass. I could go on about his sharp sarcasm or his disaster bi vibes with John Lauren's but my all time favourite Alexander Hamilton ancedote has to be this exchange with Thomas Jefferson "There are approximately 1010300 words in the English language, but I could never string enough words together to properly explain how much I want to hit you with a chair."

Caterina Sforza was an Italian noble woman during the Renaissance. She was apart of the powerful Sforza family, which drew many enemies to her. One fateful day at Forli, Caterina's children were snatched as hostages. The besiegers threatened to kill her children if she did not cede the castle. Caterina refused, lifting her skirts and shouted to the besiegers that she had the means to make more children.

Hannibal Lecter's creator Thomas Harris was happy to end his great character's story with the original trilogy. However his publishers forced him to write an unneeded prequel explaining why Hannibal became Hannibal. Thomas Harris agreed lest he lose the rights to his character so he wrote Hannibal Rising, where Hannibal as a young man hunts down the Nazis who ate his sister with a katana.

Nell Gwyn is my favourite mistress of Charles II, mainly because of her sass. Once while trapped in the middle of a riot where Londoners swamped her carriage thinking she was Charles's Catholic mistress. She popped her head out the carriage and told the people "Pray good people be civil. I am the Protestant whore." She also dosed her rival Moll Davis with laxatives in order to free up some of Charles's time and she once flashed her underwear at the French ambassador after asking him why the Franch King did not pay her to spy on Charles because she was with him every night. A true Queen.

Emperor Ai of the Han Dynasty of China once rose from his bed to go do some ruling when he realised his lover, Dong Xian was sleeping on his sleeve. Rather than disturb his lover, the Emperor cut his sleeve off at the wrist to leave Dong Xian nap. Nothing has ever been more romantic than that. Y'all could never.

Princess Margaret the sister of current Queen Elizabeth II was a socialable Princess and often tasked to visit the up and coming music stars of the day on behalf of the Crown. When meeting the Beatles one evening, she noticed George Harrison was acting a little odd. When she asked what was the matter, he replied "We arent allowed eat until you go." Princess Margaret laughed and promptly left so the Beatles could get some dinner.

During the Siege of Jadotsville, Irish soldiers under the flag of the UN were attacked and besieged by local insurgents allied with the Katanga Regime. The insurgents numbered thousands while the Irish only had 158 soldiers, all who were lightly armed. They radioed to their allies assuring them that "we will hold out until our last bullet is spent. Could use some whiskey though".

Napoleon was famous for writing raunchy letters to his wife, the Empress Josephine while he was away. She used to reply with really mundane letters or not at all. She really just could not be bothered with him.

Josip Broz Tito was so fed up with Joseph Stalin sending assassins to kill him, he wrote to Stalin personally to say "If you don't stop sending assassins to kill me. I will send one to Moscow and I won't have to send another." It didn't work but Big Dick Energy.

Successful Roman soldiers returning from war often got to march along in parades known as Triumphs. During this, it was customary for them to sing bawdy songs about their commander. One surviving one about Caesar goes like this "Romans, lock up your wives. Here comes the bald adulterous whore. We pissed away your gold in Gaul and come to borrow more."

Matilda, Lady of the English was a woman so badass that history cannot handle her. She was the daughter of Henry I who left his throne to her after the death of her brother. She was away in France when her father died and her throne was snatched by her cousin Stephen. They battled back and forth for years with neither side ceding any ground. Matilda was once besieged in a castle during a snow storm, with Stephen's men all around her. Instead of fighting her way out. She simply donned a white cloak and walked out of the castle. Just walked out without any of Stephen's men seeing her.

Pedro of Portugal once fell in love with a beautiful lady in waiting called Inez de Castro. For years, they lived as man and mistress, popping out a few kinds. Pedro's dad really did not like Inez and wanted Pedro to find a legitimate wife so he had her killed. Pedro returned home to find the mother of his children dead. Pedro went a little crazy. He had all his father's assassins killed, ripping out their hearts as they had done to him. When Pedro ascended the throne, he demanded the Pope legitimize his children by Inez. The Pope not wanting to upset the King, said he couldn't because Inez was never crowned Queen. Pedro dug Inez up and crowned her as Queen, having all the nobility swear loyalty to her corpse. The Pope had no choice but to agree to his request.

A famously clever general once saved an entire city with an ingenious stragety to sit outside the city waiting for the attacking army to come. The attack had come to fast for the city to ready themselves for a Siege so, the general had to move quickly. He evacuated the city and took his place waiting for the army to come. The enemy forces stopped and took one look at him and bolted, thinking he meant to lure them in one of his famous traps.

Michaelangelo was really badly treated by the Vatican when he was painting the Sistine Chapel. He constantly fought with the Popes over the design and his work, which he was paid peanuts for. Michaelangelo got his revenge in his work, painting the gates of Hell behind the Papal Throne and an angel flipping the ol' fig (the Renaissance version of the bird) toward the Pope's chair.

Peter the Great was not a perfect guy. He kept serfdom as a practise in his kingdom, he had his son tortured to death and he could be an unpleasant guy. But Peter was a dreamer. He wanted nothing more to build a fleet for Russia and bring Russia beyond its borders. Peter took a gap year from ruling Russia to wander around Europe. When he stopped in England, he was granted Leicester House to chill in while he did his shipwright studies. It was here that Peter found a new passion. The wheelbarrow. Cue Peter and his new found English buddies drinking in Leicester House, punching the artwork and rolling each other around in barrels across the house's Great gardens.

Diogenes is hands down a walking shit post. He was a great thinker in Greece during the reign of Alexander but a rather dry, sarcastic wit. He lived in a pithos/a jar because he shunned all vanities and values of society. He trolled other philosophers, attending their debates to heckle them and eat loud foods through them. When Alexander the Great came to fan boy over him, saying that if he were not Alexander he would like to be Diogenes to which Diogenes just said "yeah me too, now get out of my sunlight."

Cosimo de Medici was the son of a Floretine banker with a great knowledge and love of art. Cosimo wished for Florence to release its potentially and join the Renaissance. He hired Filippo Brunelleschi to finsh the Great Dome of Santa Maria del Fiore which had láin unfinished for over a century, a symbol of a failure of ambition. The builders had lost the knowledge of creating a dome so large so it remained unfinished. Despite much opposition from the other nobility and denouncers of the Renaissance, Cosimo's dream of the completion of the dome was completed, making it the largest brick dome in creation at that time. There is nothing like achieving your dreams and certainly nothing like leaving a lasting reminder that screams 'I was right and you were wrong' to stand for centuries.

[glitterytidalwavedragon]

Expanding into my other Fandoms (I’m gonna have to take a stance) Read the whole thing please.

One of my oldest and most beloved anime is Inuyasha. As of late I have been binged watching the hell out of it as I am getting my BFF into different anime shows. We are really close to entering the Yashahime part of the series, and she asked if I planned to write fanfiction involving the one character which made me even watch the show as a 10-year-old.

Sesshomaru

The first episode I ever watched involved this aloof, entitled dog fighting his brother over the sword in their father’s grave. Specifically, it was part 3 of that whole episode series were Kagome pulled out the sword. I at the time had 3 dogs of German Sheppard/wolf hybrid, they were MASSIVE dogs, fell in love with the big white fluff that was Sesshomaru’s demon form. I use to sneak staying up and watch the show faithfully to see the goodest boy as it was only on at 11pm EST on adult swim. Which meant it was bad and I was breaking the rules, I felt like a rebel.

Now I hesitated answering that question. She has no idea of what is in Yashahime, she is being careful not to spoil it so I told her I didn’t know. Recently, to find out what the feel is for Sesshomaru content, I looked into the tag on tumblr…

OH MY GOD.

Sesshomaru’s tag is FLOODED with hate. Like every four post, there is hate, distain, and attacking happening. As someone who watches Yashahime, I quickly knew why.

Sessrin.

Even now I sigh. And I sigh HARD. I am not for, nor am I against the Sessrin train. Same for the Sesskagu train. I think both sides need to look at things on a logical prospective. I plan to do just that. I know I will get hate from the either side and maybe some support as well. But if I am going to do anything in this fandom (as I like doing ships and reader inserts) it will come up.

So, like my Kaiba post, and my Sebastian Heel post, I will use my research skills as well as my COLLEGE DEGREE WHICH HAS BOTH ART AND MEDIEVAL HISTORY labelled on it to explain why this progression in the story is normal to anti-Sessrin fans and why this isn’t a crime by story standards nor should we look at it as a crime.

AS WELL

Explain to Sessrin fans why it is so weird for non-shippers to see it play out and why so much hate formed.

As I let out another sigh, we shall begin. Let’s start at an historical prospective. (Links at the bottom).

PLEASE READ THE WHOLE THING! I’LL BE ABLE TO TELL!

~~

I will start with the information I can access right away.

While finding charts on the life-span of common folk in 1590’s Feudal Japan is rather difficult, Ancient.edu states that the average lifespan was about 50. To put this in perspective, the average lifespan of Europeans at the time was somewhere between 40-45 with the latter being rare. Since most of us reading are not from Japanese descent, I will through Europe in this first.

If we look at the same time frame of 1590, we are looking at most of Western Europe had now entered the age of Renaissance. According to sources from Learning Resources in association with the National Gallery of Art, marriage was not what TV drama’s from HBO or Hulu depicted. By today standards they would be a crime, as the average age for marriage of an adult female was age 14…

The reasoning behind the young marriage age had multiple factors. First being, females were considered an adult once they were menstruating. Birthing also proved to be fatal, and since the lifespan was at best 40 and 45 if they were lucky, there was really no room to wait. Also Europe at the time had became hugely focused on making sure blood lines were legitimate, meaning to ensure the girl was a virgin, the moment she was able to reproduced she was married off. Those they married were not young teenagers either. Most marriages, a man would be in their thirties, and had probably multiple wives as women died more than men when not counting the battle field.

To make matters worse for the Renaissance Lady, these marriages would leave many young males unable to marry and if their husband died in battle, well, unfortunately they were not seen as desirable. This was due to the idea of a ‘free woman’. Should the girl not have a father, brother or uncle to return to as they too died, a widow had her freedom. But that freedom came at a cost. She would be assumed to have slept around, and in many writings, such as the Canterbury Tales, where Geoffrey Chaucer writes about a Window on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land survived her five husbands and the men in her family. In short, she was made to be a slut and to be looked down upon as no man controlled her.

The point of talking about Europe is because that is something most of us Non-Asian or Japanese people consume and like to paint in large romantic brush strokes of knights and magic. Honestly, reading G.R.R.Martin Song of Ice and Fire, he uses this model as we see the Queen of Dragons, Danny start off at age thirteen shortly after she had her first menstruation.  

Now let’s look at Feudal Japan.

As stated before, the lifespan was around 50 years. In some populations, this was even shorter. Nagaoka, Hirata, Yokota and Matsu���ura’s on demographic data at the Yuigahama-minami area in Kamakura, Japan and found both male and female remains that suggested life expectancy to have ended around age 24-25. This was largely due to living conditions and public health. In areas like these, it would make the most sense to marry and repopulate quickly as the expectancy of life was half the national average at the time.

To my frustration, I could not find a clear marriage age for Japanese women at the time of the edo period. HOWEVER, where there is a will there is a way. I took a look at famous Lords or Daimyo’s of the time. The average age of marriage of their wives was between 12-14. Much younger than I expected, but it made sense considering this is a time where war ran the show and marriage was strictly about political gain. One of these Daimyo’s was Masamune Date, who was also 13, but then as he got older took concubines who became considerably younger than him as he became older. The goal was to have as many children as possible for hires and for political marriages to gain power.

Now lets look at Inuyasha the MANGA

Lets get the manga timeline proper here. The whole adventure took place in 11 months, a month shy of Kagome’s 16th birthday. Doing a few estimations, Rin would have travelled with Sesshomaru about 8-9 of those months. But before we get into the relationship, lets look at something the ANIME made a huge mistake with in the beginning and tried to fix as the story went on.

For some reason I could only fine gifs for the Early appearances of Sesshomaru so bear with me.

Early appearances in the manga

 ^ He was so fickle and a trickster then...

Now early apperances in the anime.

Later appearance in the manga

Laster appearance in the anime

Notice the issue here? 

Sesshomaru was CONSIDERABLY younger looking in the start of the manga. In the anime, he started off looking like an fully adult male. But as the anime went on, they tried to make Sesshomaru look younger with subtle changes to his jaw line, eye size, and his height. Yeah, his height had changed. They made him shorter.

While in the manga, we see this young-teen looking demon, slowly mature over 11 months to look like he is in his later teens and by series end, closer to being in his late teens or twenty. Yes, art changes over time, but the anime went a reverse route. I can only guess they spoke to the author of Inuyasha about her ships, as they did Drama CDs, and realized the mistake that was made in making him more mature than he was.

You can’t tell me he doesn’t look closer to his manga self in the final act, because he does.

Since we are on the topic of the anime, lets be clear. The anime timeline and manga timeline are very different. The story in the anime (in the English) suggests that OVER a year has past since Kagome started her journey. They try to fix this in the final act, but it was still so muddled as previous seasons are to be taken as cannon. This could have been due to an translation error in the early production when the anime no longer had anymore manga material to reference. But whatever the case, for English viewers the time the group spent together felt much longer.

So now we come to the heart of the issue.

Because of the mistakes of the anime, a lot of anti-sessrin see the relationship as father daughter. I’ll be honest, watching the anime and solely the anime as a teenager and as an adult (as the manga was on hold for a very long time due to author’s health. I was in college when it finished.), I too thought it was just a father-daughter relationship and Jaken the nanny who got punched all the time. In fact, the English took hard liberties with Kagura, as the English dubs often do with characters, and made it very clear her feelings for the demon lord and Sesshomaru very much recognized them (though he never responded). Even in her death scene, it felt as if he was saying good bye to a friend more than love interest. But who really knows, as there are things that point otherwise.  When another demon mock’s Kagura’s death, Sesshomaru gets super pissy.

The manga did also play with this fact when it came out in English, idk if the wording or message is different in the Japanese. Translation errors happen a lot even in todays releases, look at Kuroshitsuji.  So of course most anti-sessrin’s did not see this coming in Yashahime when Rin was named mother. In fact it felt like a betrayal as we were sure Sesshomaru had no romantic feelings.

Then there was the Kohaku/Rin mashup that was hinted left and right. The English anime, with its overly dramatic and blunt emotions made it appear one way. That in the end the two kids would probably be married. Then the anime as a whole made Sesshomaru older than intended. I can see why and understand how this became a problem.

On the other side of that coin.

If you followed the dub, seen ‘Swords of an Honorable Ruler’ and read the manga… Sesshomaru was not fatherly to Rin at all. In fact, Jaken picked up all of that leg work. Rin worried for Kohaku, but clearly loved Lord Sesshomaru. Sesshomaru cared about Kagura but he almost CRIED when he lost Rin.

We have to remember that Sesshomaru and Rin’s relationship must have been very hard for the demon. While we never see his mental process expect for a few rare times, we have to remember he hated humans. In the movie, he blamed a human for the early death of his father, Sesshomaru killed without mercy. It made sense that he wouldn’t be fatherly to Rin as her just being there should have caused countless inner conflicts. Hell, he even says his father’s weakness was humans, and look who picked up that trait.

Sesshomaru was designed to, someday, walk in his father’s footsteps. So sess/rin, not a surprise. Also when you see it in a historical perspective, Rin having kids around age 15-16, makes sense. In fact you could argue he waited too long for the time period.

We also need to look more at the manga when concerned with Yashahime. 8-9 months is all Rin travelled with him and he was like hold up, and left her at the village because he KNEW she needed to come to her own conclusion. That no matter what she picked he would live with and protect her. Unconditional love on his end. She cannon wise spent YEARS living with humans and MONTHS with Sesshomaru. Again, by manga standards of cannon.

Now I can already hear the screaming about age and what not. Some sources say Sesshomaru is over 900, by the rule of thumb, if we look at anime and movie releases, we have Sesshomaru being over 500 with no define age and Inuyasha around 270 years old being more pinpointed due to the movie. Just by going by ANIME CANNON. Kagome and Inuyasha, you have a 15 year old with a 270 year old man. If you say being pinned to the tree doesn’t count, then you have 220.

Also, here is something very interesting. In the episode where Inuyasha meets the unmother, he tells her, thinking it was his mom, she died when he was very small and we have flash backs later in the series of him being small running from demons. Demons clearly age much slower than humans, even half-demons. Inuyasha can be 270 but mentally and physically be 15, the same logic works for Sesshomaru, who in the manga is not much older than Inuyasha.

In the manga, there wasn’t any grooming, in the anime, there was a ton of mess-ups but no grooming.

Would this fly in todays world? HELL NO! NO, its gross, she’s a kid. Stop.

I know any fanfic I write will lean heavily on the side of father/daughter because that is what I grew up seeing on the screen. I can’t think of Rin as an adult because years of seeing her as a cheerful little girl. It’s like seeing G.O.T Arya about to have sex for the first time in season 8… I remember when she was a kid on the show. It was way to weird and I had to look away until it ended. But that’s my 2021 mentality.

But Inuyasha is not taking place in 2021. Feudal Japan is a whole other era with its own beliefs, morals and way of life. Those who understand this have nothing wrong with them. They just understand history.

Also, just to bang some nails in…

Anyone remember Bleach? Remember the MOST accepted couple was Ichigo and Rukia…. Rukia who was hundreds of years old and Ichigo who was 15… or Ichigo’s mom who was a teenager and his dad also hundreds of years old.

Most of this also boils down to Sesshomaru being a dude. As in reverse roles in animes its accepted and they don’t have the same historical context. Inuyasha is based off of historical context of Feudal Japan.

We need to stop spreading hate. We can’t accept some forms of literature because its European fantasy but bash other fantasy based literature for doing the same thing.

Sure, its weird for those who were use to seeing the father/daughter dynamic. Yes, there are extreme sessrin fans who post really questionable illegal content when they decide to leave Rin as an 8-year-old…

But this wasn’t ever meant to be perverted. The story was meant to make sense on a logical and historical base.

I hope everyone takes the time to read this. I love Inuyasha, I love Sesshomaru. I am just sick of seeing so many people fighting over what should be the revival of a beloved series. While yes, there is still room for sess/rin not being a thing, until it is stated otherwise, why hate each other? This fandom will only lose people by doing this. Calling people names or accusing them of illegal endorsement can hurt someone these days over social media.

Tumblr allows you to block tags. You don’t have to read anything or watch anything you don’t like. We gain nothing from attacking each other but can lose so much by doing so. Fanart, really good fan fiction, friends, ideas, sharing fond memories. Both sides have the right to feel as they feel, but no right in hurting each other.

A fandom is meant to bring people together. Not start a war…

Thank you.

https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/abs/10.1002/ajpa.20402

http://www.italianrenaissanceresources.com/units/unit-2/essays/husbands-and-wives/#:~:text=Marriage%20not%20only%20reflected%20order,to%20ensure%20the%20bride's%20virginity.

https://www.ancient.eu/Canterbury_Tales/

https://www.ancient.eu/article/1424/daily-life-in-medieval-japan/#:~:text=Just%20as%20Japanese%20people%20today,in%20Western%20Europe%2C%20for%20example.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Date_Masamune

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Megohime