#I wanted to be in a world the refused to pretend to be sane

[thataroaceghost]

Junior year of high school I would listen to an Alice in Wonderland inspired playlist and sit on my roof while looking at the stars. I stopped because it got cold and then summer was a bit too busy, there were a couple other factors but the point is I haven't done it since that year and had largely forgotten about it. However, a couple days ago I was listening to the radio while getting coffee and one of the songs in that playlist came on. The song was a cover of Tears for Fears' "Mad World", this cover was by Gary Jules. Since I hadn't listened to this song since using it as an anchor while staring at the stars it has only been attached to one memory or collection of memories.

It would usually be semi cool when I would hop out my window to stargaze on my roof, cool enough that I would always wear pants and a hoodie. The hoodie was partly to hold my phone so I could listen to music but more often than not the warmth provided by it was very much appreciated. My roof is on the mossy side and also has a texture similar to sand paper but the bumps are more spread out and less painful. I remember this because even though it was chilly out I would never wear shoes so that it would be easier to climb on the roof. One part of my roof is slightly higher than the other part, but there was a spot where the two roofs were close enough together that I could lay down on one and rest my feet on the other. It was probably my favorite part of that year. I would sit on that roof until I couldn't feel my feet just staring at the stars and drowning out the world in music about a world that wasn't quite sane.

Part of why the stars were where I would go each night was that I had recently lost a very close friend. We would talk on the phone late at night telling each other our darkest secrets. Until the day we didn’t. Because as all things go people change. She grew up in a way I didn’t. She drowned herself in responsibility and cut off her friends. So I drowned my self in stars and music.

I wouldn't say that I was happy in those memories, but I also don't think I was sad. Maybe sometimes melancholy but I would drown that out in wonder at how deep the sky was. I remember dreaming about drowning in the stars.

When "Mad World" came on the radio I sang along and remembered how I love the stars. The song made me feel as if I was back on that roof looking up at the stars and pretending I was looking down, thinking about how if it wasn't for gravity and the atmosphere I could simply fall off this roof and float away into the stars and meet a cold demise.

[eff4freddie]

Touch | Part One

What you can offer Jackson is your healing hands.

2.6k words

Series Masterlist | Part Two Warnings: slow burn, eventual smut, we stan one (1) apocalypse grump, no use of y/n, I haven't written fanfic in a while but I'm hoping this will get me back into writing regularly, I have no idea how many parts this will be

Minors DNI

If you were to try and tally up all your losses you wouldn’t, initially, struggle. Your beloved dad, on outbreak day, and then months later your sister to a pack of raiders capable of slipping silently past a rotting barn wall. Those were clearly devastating, actual moments that bifurcate the before times and the after. Your liberty in the QZ, your hope for a sane and assured new government, your smuggling partner trapped under the barbed wire fence as a FEDRA soldier narrowed in on you both, her struggling hands going limp in the dirt, her eyes no longer following your movements as you scrabbed to free her, the look of resignation on her face, the way she mouthed for you to ‘go’. Those losses somehow both enormous and incalculable.

It was the smaller losses that caught you up. Newsprint smeared on your fingertips. Breaking in a new pair of stiff leather shoes. The uneven leg of your massage table, which caused it to wobble when someone clambered onto it, meaning that you had to warn your clients ahead of time while it wobbled, it was stable, and that you could relate. You knew it was a bad look, that the table alone didn’t inspire confidence in your clientele, and you missed it more than you had any fucking right to when the world, for all intents and purposes, imploded.

You made do in Jackson. Your travelling party of three had heard of a mythical commune of warm sheep and cold beer and you wanted, more than anything, to believe in it.  In the before times your mother had sung a song about Jackson with your father, peeling potatoes at the sink, and you had hummed it under your breath the three-and-a-half-month trek. ‘Honey, I’m going to Jackson.’ ‘See if I care.’

As you approached the gates the three of you had already come up with a plan to pitch for entry. Ray was going to pretend he was injured, and Marla was going to carry him, limping but stoic, over the threshold. The night he refused to take first watch you had promised to break his ankle for real to make it really convincing, and he had laughed because he knew you didn’t have it in you, and you had joined in, because it was true. Marla was toying with the idea of being pregnant, and you were going to just be mute. Either by birth or by trauma, you hadn’t decided. But the plan was to be as pitiful as possible, as non-threatening and as desperate, such that not only would you not be shot on sight but that you would be taken in, warmed to, eventually forgiven your trespass. On the side of a mountain, with everything you had ever owned strapped to your back and the losses tallying behind you, it had seemed like the best strategy.

It had failed almost immediately. Marla may have been able to pull off the pregnancy thing if it was early, but Ray kept forgetting which ankle he had supposedly hurt, and when you tripped on a rock coming through the gate you swore at the top of your lungs. It turned out it didn’t matter. Throughout quarantine you had been able to meet Maria, then Tommy, and you had been advised that you were to pitch your worthiness to stay at the next town council. You had two days to determine what you could offer Jackson. You had looked down at your two hands.

__

Marla was a good shot, and was put on patrol. Ray spoke French and was good with codes, and he pitched helping out with reconnaissance. He even pronounced it the proper French way at the council meeting, and you saw Tommy arch a jet-black brow in Maria’s direction, who rolled her eyes. Standing on shaky knees before a panel of non-infected non-raiders who nevertheless held your life in their hands, you showed them your palms.

‘Pain relief,’ you said, and you smiled in what you hoped was a warm way. ‘I can heal, with these.’

‘You trying to tell us you’re some kind of witch doctor?’ the man on the end asked, and you wondered what it would be like to lean over and pluck each hair out of his nostrils, until his eyes were streaming.

‘No,’ you said, and you felt your cheeks redden. ‘Massage, mostly remedial but also deep tissue. I can help with bad backs, with sore legs and arms, bad necks. All that patrolling, all that watching the horizon, must be murder on the body.’ You scanned their faces, Nostril Man not convinced but Maria smiling warmly at you. You swallowed, trying to wet your throat to prevent it from just outright closing over. ‘Surely you want your men and women, the people out there protecting Jackson, to be strong?’

__

The house you were allocated was four over from Marla, and Ray was placed three streets back towards the gate. You had idly wondered if you had been split up to try and avoid trouble, but actually you enjoyed the solitude for the first time since the apocalypse. Having had to travel in packs, having been crammed in four or six to a one-bedroom apartment in the QZ, having listened to Ray retell his story of crossing the Canadian border every might for at least a year and a half, you relished the way that you could once again hear the ringing in your ears. When you rolled your shoulders, you heard the spinal fluid pool and bubble at the base of your skull.

The benefit of having the place to yourself was that the second bedroom easily converted to your treatment room. Tommy and a couple of the other men from town had brought in a spare dining table, and you found that with enough blankets and towels piled on top of it you could make a decently comfortable surface to lie on. Ray had offered to cut a hole in the middle like a real massage table, but you had seen him try to chop wood one night with a blunt axe, a night when you thought without a fire you would freeze to death, but it would still be better than listening to him whine about having nearly chopped off his toes for the rest of time. Instead, you created a ring of towels just back from the edge, a position that meant people could still breathe as they lay face down, and you practiced how you would apologise to them for the inconvenience of it, what joke you could make to try and win back their confidence, marvelled at the fact that even at the end of the world you were still trying to cover for your inadequacies.  

Maria was your first client, and as soon as you were convinced you could accommodate her growing stomach comfortably as she lay on her side, you welcomed her in.

‘It’s just my hips, my lower back,’ she said, as you poured shampoo on your hands to stand in for massage oil.

‘This might be cold, I’m sorry,’ you said, not adding that it could also be sudsy, and wilted a little inside as Maria flinched when you touched her. ‘I’m sorry,’ you said again, as she exhaled.

‘Can you feel where it is?’ she asked, and you hummed.

‘The pain?’

‘You said you could heal.’ You smiled, pressing down on a knot hitched to Maria’s hip flexor. She sighed, and you watched as the tension disappeared from her shoulders, her body slumping forward slightly such that you had to grab her knee and roll her back.

‘You tell me,’ you said, and she huffed at you.

‘Those men, the council, you have no idea how little they would understand why we needed you,’ she said.

‘Wait ‘til I’ve finished putting my elbow in your butt cheek, then tell me that again,’ you said.

‘Wait, what?’ Maria startled, but you were already on her, promising that the pain would fade as the tension released, ignoring the stream of obscenities, having heard far worse in your time. The before times.

__

Maria spread the word and soon you were busy, with a regular list of clients that heavily favoured the women of Jackson until they were able to convince the men that they, too, had musculoskeletal systems. Maria was a regular right up until she got too big to haul herself onto the table, and then she would just sit in your kitchen and make you tea, explaining the history of the place until you started to feel properly at home there.

One afternoon she sat with her head resting in her hand, as you held her foot in your lap, gently massaging over her sock.

‘You don’t come out much,’ she said. ‘I see you in the mess hall for breakfast, then you’re gone.’

‘I have clients early these days, sometimes a full patrol before they go out.’

‘What about the off days? The days that we don’t patrol?’

‘Washing. I go through a lot of towels.’

‘You need help with those?’

‘No, I like doing it. Warm water is such a dream, I still can’t believe it when I fill up the bucket.’

‘After work I never see you at the bison.’

You pinched her toe a little hard and she hissed, and you felt the heat on your cheeks.

‘I am grateful for my place here,’ you said, and you looked up into her eyes then, your hands still but cradling her foot to your chest. ‘That you advocated for me, that you helped me set myself up. I know that Tommy wouldn’t have if you hadn’t asked him.’

She smiled, glancing down at the tea in her cup.

‘It’s hard to be back amongst so many people, and to not be…’ you trailed off. Marla came around some nights, but it had been at least a week since you’d seen Ray. You had thought they were your safe people, but in a big house behind a secure wall, you wondered how much that was true.

‘To not be waiting for them to shoot you, to stab you?’ Maria finished, and you sighed.

‘Or to not get stabbed or shot themselves.’

‘You lost people?’ Maria asked, and then blinked, slowly. ‘That was a stupid question. Of course you did.’

The pattern of the tiles on the kitchen floor was two left and two right, you noticed, except for where the bench had been installed. There the pattern was interrupted, as if someone had miscounted, and there was a row of three along the perimeter.

‘Who did you lose?’ Maria asked you, and you gently lowered her foot to the ground.

‘All of them, just like all of us,’ you said, and you held out your harms such that Maria could pull herself up, and she sighed but used them to get to her feet, and you were grateful even in this moment to have helped someone.

__

You happened to be on your porch when you heard the commotion, a bunch of people running down the street towards the front gate. You thought for a moment of an invasion, that raiders had breached the wall, and wondered what, if anything, you would need to carry with you, what you could fit in a bag, looked despairingly at the snow on the mountain tops wondering how you could possibly carry enough blankets to ward off inevitable death. You braced yourself for screams, for gun shots, was genuinely confused when you heard none. Curious now, and less planning your immediate escape, you stepped down to your front gate, leaning over to see what the fuss was. A group of people were moving as one down the main street, and you stepped out onto the pavement to get a better look. You could see Tommy, his black hair sliced back to his shoulders making him stand out even in a crowd of other men. He was walking beside another man, the crowd parting to let them through, and with Tommy’s arm wrapped around his shoulder it meant that the other man had to stoop forward slightly, such that you could only see the top of his head. He had streaks of grey through his hair, his legs straight and strong underneath him. Tommy was gripping the front of the man’s shirt and talking into his ear. Behind them a younger girl, couldn’t be more than 15, trailed with her eyes set on the ground in front of her.

You watched as Maria came out of the sheriff’s office and stood on the pavement in front of them. She smiled when Tommy turned to her, letting go of the other man to wrap her in a bracing hug. You watched as the other man straightened, caught a glimpse for the first time of the patchy beard across his cheeks, of the roman line of his nose, of the flinty look in his eyes. He turned to the young girl, clapped her once or twice on the back, nodding in Maria’s direction. You saw that they nodded to each other, that this wasn’t as simple of a homecoming, that the girl carried pain deeper than any two hands could reach.

You had to wait three days for Maria to visit again before you could ask her about them, and when you did you felt her energy shift. Big as she was it was difficult for her to fidget, but you sensed that she would shuffle in your kitchen chair if she could.

‘Joel is Tommy’s brother,’ she told you, and when you thought about the shape of his jaw you realised you could see a sort of resemblance. This man had seemed to stoic, so closed off, compared to the brightness of the smile Tommy had been throwing at him. It had meant that you initially hadn’t seen it.

‘And the girl?’ you asked, and watched as Maria started fiddling with the hem of her shirt, stretched as it was over the heft of her belly.

‘A kind of daughter, I guess. Adopted, as much as anyone can be right now.’ Maria avoided your eyes and you lowered them, hoping that it would encourage her to continue. ‘They were here, before, for a brief time. A few months. Joel was… he and Ellie were heading down to Salt Lake, we weren’t sure if they were going to make it back, and Tommy…’ she stopped herself, gathered her thoughts, and you heard your own pulse in your neck as you waited.

‘Tommy had started to think that he’d lost him, lost them both. He’d started to think it was his fault, maybe, that he should have gone with them.’

‘But you’re…’ and you stopped, gesturing to her very pregnant frame.

‘I know, and he knew that he couldn’t have, but it didn’t feel like it when he thought his brother was gone.’

You didn’t need your hands to feel the tension coming off her, and you stood then, and reached out to her shoulder, picking up the tendon and easing it down. You remembered back in school when your teacher had shown you the diagram of the fascia, taught and spidery over the pink and red of the muscle. She rolled her neck, her head slumping towards you, and you offered her your torso as a pillow.

‘It doesn’t feel like a warm return,’ you said, eventually, and Maria sighed, reaching up to still your hand.

‘He’s a dangerous man,’ she said, after a while. ‘He’s done things, Tommy did them too but that’s his big brother, you know?’

You thought back to the way Tommy had gripped Joel’s shirt, the way he had been talking animatedly into his brother’s ear, the curl of Joel in on himself in response to it, the instinct to close down in the face of his brother’s overwhelming love.

‘We’ve all done things,’ you said, after a while.

‘It’s different,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why, it just is.’

‘What about the girl?’ you asked, and she softened then, under your touch.

‘She’ll defend Joel to the ends of the Earth,’ she said.

‘You don’t trust her judgement?’ you asked.

‘I don’t trust that Joel isn’t keeping her in the dark,’ she muttered, and it was quiet enough that you had to lean over to hear, and when the words unfurled around you you pulled back from them, the concern and the weight and the finality of them, the heaviness of them in your ears.

[therealvinelle]

Can I hear your opinions on rita skeeter?

You know how some stories have that only sane man, the one person who isn't impressed by our dashing main characters or who's living in a different genre and rated story? The one, typically a fan favorite, character who has a fundamentally different perspective. They can also, shortly put, be the "this is stupid and you're stupid" character.

The NBC Hannibal show has Freddie Lounds ("I'm a bad, bad man", Will threatens her. He is then surprised when she runs a feature on the FBI hiring a creep to come to crime scenes and pretend he's a serial killer.) The Vampire Diaries had Elijah (he isn't a great example of this, but legacy fans will remember all the jokes about how the reason the writers never put him in episodes was because he'd have solved all the characters' stupid problems within twenty minutes and there would be no plot for the rest of the season. Elijah was perceived to be living in a different type of show than the rest of the teen drama cast), and there are some who think that this was Snape for Harry Potter.

They are wrong.

Rita, my dove

Let's take a look at a few things Rita prints over the course of canon, where we have an insight into what actually happened and know precidely what she printed. I have my copy of Goblet of Fire with me, it's in Norwegian so I'll be translating back to English but I trust that's alright.

The Quidditch world cup incident

What we know happened:

The British Ministry was responsible for the event. It was highly prestigious, with foreign leaders attending and people from all over the world camped out near the stadion. After the first match there's celebrations, which turns into a riot. Tents are set on fire, people are chased through the camp grounds, and there's total chaos where nobody knows where their loved ones are. The riot soon turns into a homage to Voldemort, with rioters in Death Eater uniforms tormenting the Muggles living nearby and someone putting up the Dark Mark.

Arthur Weasley, who works in the Department of Misuse of Muggle Artifacts (which is admittedly part of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement), is sent to make a statement on the Ministry's behalf to the terrified witches and wizards hiding.

What Skeeter reports:

Headlining "TERROR AT THE WORLD CUP" (me translating), with an image of the Dark Mark, Rita Skeeter writes (this is Arthur skimming): "Ministry blunders... culprits not apprehended... lax security... Dark wizards running unchecked... national disgrace..." (original English from the wiki)

A full section (and this is me translating again): "If the terrified witches and wizards who waited for information while they hid in the woods had hoped for any sort of reassurance from the Ministry of Magic, they were sorely disappointed. A department spokesman, who only showed up long after the Dark Mark had appeared, claimed no one had been injured but refused to give further information. It remains to be seen if this statement will quell the rumors that several bodies were seen being recovered from the woods an hour later."

Verdict

All of this is accurate, except the last sentence.

Nobody was killed in the incident. However, Skeeter was acting on the information available to her, and she makes it clear this last part is unconfirmed. Further, I'm going to come out in her defense and say that Skeeter, writing an article critical of the Ministry in a community with a very loose sense of free speech, can't take Arthur Weasley at his vague word and should refer to her own sense of judgement when deciding whether the rumors are credible enough to print or not.

As it is, a riot in a crowded area at night with people who dressed like Death Eaters, where the Dark Mark was fired into the sky, where mass panic erupted, in a world where children can produce deadly magic with their wands, could easily have led to casualties. I don't think it was a far leap for Skeeter that people might have died, and the Ministry didn't want to admit as much.

Notice her phrasing (and yes, I know you're reading my translation) when she talks about the Ministry: "It remains to be seen if this statement will quell the rumors that several bodies were seen being recovered from the woods an hour later." Not, "It remains to be seen whether the rumors that several bodies were seen being recovered from the woods an hour later were true.", or any type of phrasing indicating that the truth will out. Only rumors that may or may not be quelled.

Knowing that the Wizarding World doesn't appear to be a functional nor accountable democracy, that things like statistics likely don't exist (who will be your statistician if there is no basic math education? How will wizards interpret statistics if they don't understand basic maths, what use are error margins and percentages to them? This is important, because without statistics there is also no need to collect numbers - how many students take the core classes, how many are employed after X years, how many citizens die in a given year and of what causes... you see where I'm going with this), and that Arthur gets so defensive when reading legitimate criticism of his Ministry (not even his department or jurisdiction, mind, and Skeeter anonymized him), indicates a fraught understanding of governmental accountability and transparency.

In other words, who can say if anybody died that night. Arthur himself had gone to bed with his family as soon as the chaos was under control, and there was no tally after the riot, no controlled evacuation, nothing. Skeeter wasn't wrong for publishing what she herself clarified was speculation, either way I'm hard pressed to see her as a villain for putting the Ministry under pressure, in fact I have to wonder if this kind of pressure is necessary to get them to admit things they'd otherwise shove under the carpet.

Back to Arthur Weasley. In response to this article he says to his family (me translating again): "Molly, I must go to the office. Killing this is going to take some time."

Now, I know real governments have to cry over scandals that take time to move past as well: however, what are people upset over? What's the scandal?

Oh, yes, that the Ministry wasn't able to prevent a riot at a large sports event, flubbed completely once it had begun, and failed to give the people any kind of useful or timely information. All of that is true. The only part that isn't true, would be dispelled if they'd only put out a statement saying "no one was killed". The only reason why one such statement wouldn't work is if Ministry statements are not considered trustworthy - and this is where we return to the above.

So far, so good on Rita Skeeter, and so bad on Arthur who, going by this section, questions the Ministry less than Bellatrix Lestrange questions Voldemort.

Interlude: Percy and the vampires

While the article about the World Cup is read, Percy jumps in with an anecdote about Skeeter.

"That woman is always out to slander the Ministry," Percy said angrily. "Last week she claimed we waster our time fooling around with cauldron thickness when we should be extinguishing vampires! As though it is not expressedly stated in Guidelines for treatment of non-wizard halfhumans that-"

I'm not going to make any guesses as to what precisely Skeeter's criticism was, because Percy is angry and venting to his family, which doesn't make him likely to present her argument fairly. Who knows what, specifically, she criticized and why and what she asked for in her article. What we do know is that she questioned Ministry priorities and resource allotment, and Percy takes it personally, he gets angry about it. Hostility and defensiveness is the gut reaction.

More damningly, "that woman is always out to slander the Ministry" implies no one else is doing it.

Your star is rising, Rita.

Oh no, post got long

And this is the part where I'd go on to her interview with Harry and subsequent articles, and later on Dumbledore, but I'm realizing that would make this post a very long and decentralized mess.

Will cover it in follow up posts: today is for Rita vs. the Ministry and how the Weasleys think Muggles are so quaint with their democracricy and freedom of speech, teehee that's silly.

[theconstitutionisgayculture]

Any time someone condemns the actions of Israel killing children you accuse them of hating Jews. That only makes sense if you think killing children is inherently a part of Judaism.

Hoo boy, you are very dumb, for real.

Okay, I'm going to explain this to you even though you either, already know it and you're just pretending not to because that's the only way you can avoid having to admit how wrong you are, or you're too stupid to grasp basic English conversation. So I know it's pointless and I know you're still not going to get it. But here we go anyway.

Israel is a majority Jewish country. Anti-semitism, or hatred of Jews if that's too big a word for you, is often dressed up in "criticism" of Israel. Since October 7th, a lot of people who claimed to not be anti-semites because they were only "criticizing" Israel have been loudly celebrating an attack where Hamas terrorists raped, murdered, and kidnapped people who were mostly Israeli Jews. They have taken up chants of "Globalize the Intifada" (The Intifada is a Palestinian movement to eliminate Israel and all the Jews in it, so this is a call for the global elimination of all Jews) and "From the river to the sea" (which is a call for the destruction of Israel and all the Jews in it so "Palestinians", which are not a real cultural or ethnic group by the by, can occupy all the land between the Jordan River and the Mediterranean Sea). Since these people are cheering a brutal attack on Jews, and supporting the destruction of the only majority Jewish state in the world along with the murder of every Jew who lives there, and calling for the global extermination of the Jewish race, they are anti-semites. (Remember that means they hate Jews).

Following along so far?

Probably not, but let's continue anyway.

Hamas is a terrorist organization. In 2007 it was elected into power. Shortly after, it won a civil war to stay in power. That makes it the ruling power in what's called the self-governing territory of Gaza. That ruling power sent soldiers into Israel, a legitimate nation recognized as such by most of the world, and attacked its citizens as well as the citizens of other countries. Israel responded by declaring war. Now, if this had happened with any other nation in the world, there would be very little debate about Israel's justification in defending itself and the abhorrent nature of Gaza's attack. But since Israel is a mostly Jewish state, that's not what's going on. Western leftists are gleefully showing their hatred of Jews by demanding Israel not strike back and not defend itself and instead just sit there and let themselves be destroyed.

Now, by any sane standard, Israel would be justified in turning the entirety of Gaza into molten slag. Remember, the 10/7 attacks were carried out by the ruling power that was originally voted into that position of power. When the terrorists returned from their attack, where they raped and/or murdered some 1,200 people, many of them children, the citizens of Gaza celebrated. They cheered as Hamas terrorists led naked hostages who were bleeding from their vaginas from being brutally gang raped through the streets. They cheered as their children surrounded Jewish children who had been kidnapped and taunted them and threw rocks at them. Ever since Israel freed Gaza and allowed them to govern themselves, Gaza has supported terrorists who want to kill every Jew in Israel. But Israel has no interest in destroying Gaza completely. They just want to wipe out Hamas and let the Gazans go back to governing themselves. They even went so far as to let the enemy know where they were going to attack so civilians could evacuate.

And what did Hamas do in response?

They refused to allow anyone to leave.

Because Hamas has a long history of hiding behind Gazan civilians. They build their terrorist bases under schools, hospitals, and mosques specifically so Israel would have to choose between attacking those locations or allowing Hamas to attack them with impunity. They make sure civilians are in the path of every Israeli bomb because they believe that Gaza is a "nation of martyrs" and they know that every dead Gazan civilian is a prop they can show to the largely Jew hating western media as "proof" that Israel is some kind of evil, genocidal country. They want that perception to flourish worldwide so, when they do finally manage to kill every Jew in Israel, they can say it was justified. They were just fighting back against their oppressors. They were decolonizing. (Ignoring the fact that the Arabs were the ones who colonized the Jewish land and then began exterminating all the Jews that still lived there, or who fled to live in other lands, to the point where there are almost no Jews left anywhere in the Middle East except in Israel)

So when people ignore the mountains and mountains of proof that Hamas are the ones responsible for the civilian deaths in Gaza, because their strategy relies on dead children and dead civilians, because they do everything in their power to make sure children are between them and Israeli bombs and bullets, they are doing so knowing that they're giving support to a terrorist group that wants to murder all the Jews in Israel. They are showing their hatred of the Jewish people by promoting lies and joining the cries for "global Intifada". So yes, when people blame Israel for the dead children that Hamas killed by forcing them into the line of fire during a war, they are doing it because they hate Jews.

And if you think calling out that hatred means anyone thinks killing children is a part of Judaism, then you're either stupid, or you hate Jews too.

[noirvette]

WE NEVER EXISTED

[band smau]

[SIXTEEN]

masterlist.

prev. | next.

cws: depression, substance abuse

Note: This chapter and chapter 17 will be happening simultaneously whereas Chapter 18 will happen a day after the events of these two chapters.

Cold, you were physically cold. Mentally numb. The situation didn't feel right to you. It didn't feel real. Being holed up in your apartment with nothing but a bottle of alcohol was your sense of normalcy; a fucked up version of normalcy but it made you feel okay.

You weren't okay though. You don't think you'd ever feel okay again, if you'd ever feel loved again.

Twitter had sent a barrage of nice and comforting messages on your recent tweet, which had been a couple days ago, but you couldn't bring yourself to even scroll on your phone. Every time you did, Kenny was there, in some way, a remnant of who he was to you was there.

It may have been in a tweet he sent, he could even be mentioned in a tweet about you, and those stupid fucking twitter threads talking about how "Every time Kenny mistreated Y/n" pissed you off greatly.

Instagram was worse, you haven't been able to stomach the images of him on your feed, having him still up in a weird way.. made you feel sane.

The Kenny who cheated on you was a different Kenny in the photos you told yourself. The Kenny in your feed, the Kenny in your past tweets, the Kenny in paparazzi pictures was YOUR boyfriend Kenny.

Your Kenny wouldn't cheat.

He wouldn't EVER cheat.

He wouldn't cheat.

He wouldn't.

He did.

Your throat closes up at the memory of last night, of Kyle telling you. Of Kenny desperately telling you to not check Twitter, his I love you's, his sorry's, the hugs the band gave you.

You thought back to how Clyde clung on to you, how he was the last one to leave because he refused to let you be by yourself until you shut him out of your apartment.

How Stan fell to his knees beside you as you finally tried to get up to go home. How he sat with you on the cold unforgiving ground until the feeling in your legs were back.

How Nichole blocked Kenny's number for you, how she called Kenny on her phone and yelled at him for a solid half hour for what he did to you.

How Kyle was the first one to tell you, how he held you so tightly and whispered that it was okay.. you could've almost believed him.

How the band walked you home, how they didn't want to let you go, how they didn't want you to be by yourself.

You felt numbness, you felt despair, you just felt empty. Like your whole world suddenly got mirrored and nothing felt right anymore.

You felt angry, sudden bursts of anger that made you want to destroy everything that reminded you of Kenny and yet as soon as those bursts came they were gone. It was back to being numb and feeling like stone.

You felt sick, from the situation but you're sure in your hazy cloudy mind that the two bottles of empty wine and the third half drank isn't helping you at all either. You weren't even a fan of wine, you just saw the bottles and grabbed them, heading to your room.

You heard your phone go off besides you, probably numerous texts from the girls, probably some from the boys too, but you couldn't bring yourself to turn over.

How long had Kenny been pretending?

Did Kenny harbor feelings for Red prior to you leaving for the tri-state tours?

All those times you had been together since you've been back.. was he pretending you were Red?

When did he fall out of love with you? Why didn't he just tell you?

Why did?

Why would Kenny?

Your thoughts were spiraling and you take another sip of wine, you planned on getting drunk enough to where your thoughts were so jumbled that you couldn't make sense of your own self.

Maybe that way you couldn't feel anymore pain..

You just didn't want to feel anymore. It was all too much too handle, the numbness, the anger, the sadness, the self pity, you didn't want to handle this anymore. You wanted an escape.

You downed the glass and poured yourself another.

"I shouldn't.. drink anymore." You thought, a lone logical, smart thought ran through your mind.

You took a sip.

You moved to grab your phone and you unblocked Kenny. You're not sure why, maybe your drunk mind craved him so much despite what he did that you did the one thing you promised Nichole you wouldn't do.

You took another sip.

Kyle sighed, the stress of dealing with making sure money went back to people and solidifying changed dates sucked. He didn't even bother fully solidifying new dates, he wanted to make sure you were fully okay first.

Kyle wanted to do everything for you. Starting with making sure you were okay.

He knew exactly how badly you were hurting.

Well, maybe not exactly, but he knew you weren't doing okay and he felt guilty for not being there right now, especially because he told you the news.

He doesn't regret telling you, he just regrets the consequence of telling you.

Being told news that your boyfriend is cheating on you is world shattering. He knew there was no easy way to tell you, he just didn't want to see you in a world of pain. And so his guilt festers.

The band group chat was silent. Everyone was giving you space but Kyle couldn't help but wonder if that was the smart move. Were you self destructing? Were you lashing out? Were you taking this more in stride and a bit more smoothly?

Did he need to be there for you?

He knew yes he needed to be there for you, but did you want him there? Would you be angry if he showed up? If he made sure you were okay.

You hadn't responded to his texts, anybody's texts for that matter. Which made Kyle a bit nervous. He was scared for you, worried about you.

He was worried about himself.

Kyle pushes the hair out of his face and looks down at the ground. It was no secret to anyone that Kyle had fallen in love with you in high school. He wouldn't be surprised if you even knew that, but Kenny had begun dating you quicker than he could've blinked.

He didn't want to push himself onto you like he was hoping him being there for you meant he was hoping a relationship would start.

He wanted you to heal.

Second guessing himself was self destructive, he got that, he just didn't want his selfless actions to be perceived in a certain way. Especially with the media traction, he knew rumors would start and he didn't want to divide the friend group anymore than it already is.

Kyle sighed.. he'll check up on you tomorrow.

Kenny was at his wits end. He didn't know what to do. He royally fucked up, he knows that, hell the whole world knows that.

People on Twitter coming after him, people on Twitter congratulating him, he felt sick reading those who agreed with his actions. He didn't even agree with his own actions.

He was sorry. He was so deeply sorry and he doubted there was a way to actually get his sorryness across to you.

He didn't want your forgiveness. Kenny was grown enough to recognize this was a mistake that was undoable, that there was no way he could ever come back from this.

Nichole yelled at him at him last night and he soak in every word, everything she said was true. He was lowest of the low, he was a blood sucking leech.

That he didn't deserve you, that you didn't deserve what he did to you.

That he was scum.. that people who are trashy belong to each other and how Nichole 'hopes he and Red have a life they deserve.'

He sighed, he was blocked on your phone. It was the only thing he was blocked on. He still had access to your Twitter and Instagram, even Snapchat was still accessible.

Most of the friend group had blocked him too.

The only ones who hadn't were Stan, Butters, and Tolkien.

Tolkien was out of the country though right now and when Tolkien finds out what's happening he's sure he'd get blocked too.

Kenny groans and turns his phone on and debates sending you a message despite knowing it wouldn't go anywhere.

He does so anyways, pouring his thoughts into one final message even if you won't receive it.

His surprise came from when the message went through.

Ding!

Your phone goes off and you open your bleary eyes to read the message, eyes widening when you realize it was Kenny.

Anger filled your entire being again. How DARE he gets to talk big about how he doesn't deserve your forgiveness.

How dare he gets to act like he's a victim in this as well. He could he just text you talking about how he understands how badly he fucked up?

Of course you didn't deserve to be cheated on, who fucking does? Is he serious? You were pissed beyond belief that you couldn't even fathom the stupidity that Kenneth McCormick was.

You quickly typed a response and re-blocked him. Kenneth 'Kenny' McCormick was dead to you. You never wanted to deal with him ever again. You shut your phone off and laid back in bed, exhaustion taking over and you let it.

TAGLIST: @captivq @kimiesstuff @bwljules @the-cooler-kira @1one1person1 @kenny-the-ken @neenieweenie @n0tangeliccc @frogindisguise @revzxn @mirophobic @gonefiishiing @musiclovebot @bootsieboo @bonez4brainz @s0l4riss @1996kj @sweetadonisbutbetter @scinclaitnoir @okarigold

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

7+8 of hurt/comfort with glitchy red?

7) "Because nobody cares about me!"

8) "Because I care about you!"

..........

When Red finally managed to escape that game with your help, of course you weren't expecting him to become your best friend right away.

After all, he never really trusted anyone who managed to get ahold of the GBA with the hacked cartridge inside it--the latest person being you.

He thought you were just like the "others": players who'd mess around the code and force him to see things that caused his sentience to begin with..which set him on the path to a torturous existence he didn't ask for.

No matter how much he resisted, they'd always find a way to make the code work in their favor. And because of that, it took him a while to realize that you're only hacking the game to give him a way out. Yet he would still fight back and beg you to stop, insisting there was no point in saving him.

Yet by some miracle...you did.

As now he was in your room, looking down at the GBA and its cracked screen on the floor from which he emerged. It was a shock to see that tiny little machine was his prison since his creation..and to finally stomp on it and crush it to pieces felt liberating.

Except...

He still felt the same anguish as before, even as he stared down at the broken pieces.

You promised him that getting out of the game would bring him peace, and he decided to believe you and trust you, since you genuinely saw him as a person trapped inside that hellish thing.

That being said...why was his heart still full of hatred and misery?

Why didn't he feel better?

But as he began to realize he could actually interact with this world, he took one look at you...

And he felt rage overcome him as you stood there, not saying a word. You were simply surprised that your plan worked, and stunned that of course you managed to free him.

Though Red didn't see it as that at all. He thought you were afraid, or having second guesses.

He still didn't know what your ulterior motives were for helping him. But he firmly believed you were just going to abandon him now that you were "finished", seeing you back towards the door as he approached you.

He couldn't get to any of the players before, but now you two were on the same plane of existence.

This was his chance to exact revenge.

And that's what he did as he lunged at you without warning, easily overpowering you and leaving a deep scratch mark along your torso. It turns out, his glitchiness was still a part of him as he managed to unhinge his jaw and bare his teeth like a wild animal.

He thought being free would make him human...yet he felt the opposite.

"You said you'd fix me, but you LIED!!" He screamed, furious that his voice sounded the same as it always did: ran through a bitcrusher program. "Why do I sound like this still?! Why am I...still broken?!!"

"..R-Red..I..I only said I could help you get out." You tried to reason with the raging glitch that had you pinned against the wall. "I'm sorry if that wasn't enough but-"

"Oh, it was plenty enough." He huffed. "But I guess I should thank you...because now I can take my revenge on you sickos who tormented me for fun."

"I...wasn't tormenting you.."

"Yeah, but you reminded me of all that pain. Honestly..I think freeing me was the stupidest decision of your life-"

"It's true I've made tons of stupid decisions, but..th-that wasn't one of them. I wanted to help you."

Blinking in surprise, Red raised an eyebrow. Though he just scowled at you again, unwilling to let his guard down. "No...you don't mean that. You only freed me so I'd shut up about it...so I'd stop haunting your stupid little game. No sane person would do that out of "kindness"."

"That's not true." You huffed, annoyed that he was refusing to believe you after all you've done. "What makes you assume I don't care-?"

"Because nobody cares about me!!" He snapped. "Nobody has for years, and they never will. So just stop pretending...it'll make this easier for the both of us." His hands went to your throat.

Yet despite knowing he could easily snap your neck, you refused to fight back or even struggle a little bit. And he quickly noticed this, frowning. "What's wrong? Too scared to fight because you know you lost? Because you know you shouldn't have freed this monster?" He taunted.

"You're not a monster-"

"STOP LYING!!"

"...I'm not lying to you, Red." You firmly insisted. "I believed you were a real person from that start. I couldn't leave you in that game to suffer! I spent days trying to figure out the coding. I lost sleep over this, but you still think I don't give a shit, huh?"

Finally, you managed to catch him off-guard with that response. And for the first time...he began to wonder why he was doing this to you.

All you've ever wanted to do was help him.

And this is how he repays you?

Still, he doesn't understand the "why" of it all. Why you'd lose sleep over someone like him..or why you don't seem afraid anymore.

You must've wanted something for sure.

"Why go through all of this for me?"

"Because I care about you!" You blurted out, embarrassed but relieved to get the truth out to him. "I never stopped caring since the day you talked back to me. I-I know I can't make you forget what you've been through...or find the people who made you this way, but...I just wanted to give you a better life in this world. That's all."

"And you...want nothing in return?" Red blinked, feeling himself calming down from his rage.

"Not a thing." You smiled a bit, showing him you were sincere. "I know you're angry and hurt, and I'm an easy target. But I promise I won't leave you like they all did. You can stay with me as long as you want."

"...you won't throw me out?"

"Why would I do that?" Gently, you put your hands over his gloved ones, slowly bringing them away from your neck. But you didn't let go of them, holding them tightly. "But there you have it...that's the real reason I wanted to let you out. So we can be together and you can be happy."

For a while, he didn't say anything back, as he had averted his gaze to the ground. Though moments later you heard a sniffle, which worried you.

Especially when you saw small water droplets splattering onto his shoes.

"Red?"

Reaching over, you gently cupped his face, making him look up at you. Not only was he completely free of glitches...but he was also crying.

At last, he showed vulnerability.

"It's okay," you reassured him, happy that he was finally willing to trust you. "You're safe now. You won't be abandoned ever again."

Tears streamed down his cheeks, some of which you gently brushed away with your thumb. He sniffled again and nuzzled against your palm, slowly becoming addicted to this feeling of comfort.

It was so foreign...yet it felt so right.

"..s-sorry, now I feel like an asshole after all that stuff you said." Closing his eyes, he just tried focusing on your kind touches, trying to forget about all the pain he endured. "It just..hurts so much. I'm tired.."

His head fell against your shoulder, but you just rubbed the back of it, letting him rest for as long as he needed to.

[imaginesandbandfiction]

Story of Our Life

A Harry Styles Imagine

Pairing: Harry Styles x Reader

Word Count: 4.1k

Warnings: None

A/N: This is something a little different that was inspired by a dream I had where I was singing Story of My Life with 1D in a car... Also, I made some cover art on procreate plz don't judge my mediocre art skills lmao. Hope you like it!!!!!

Masterlist

Excerpts from

STORY OF OUR LIFE

by 

Y/N Styles

To Louis, the best chauffeur I’ve ever had.

To Liam, who keeps us all sane. Steady on, mate.

To Zayn, who always offers a shoulder to cry on (and a cigarette).

To Niall, the king of late-night chats (and snacks).

To Harry, for everything, forever.

Introduction by Harry Styles

Before she was my wife, Y/N Styles was Y/N Y/L/N. We met in 2011, six months before we would be setting out on the Up All Night tour. Even though I had been on TV, in recording studios, and performed live on the X Factor Live Tour 2011, I was still just a shy kid from Holmes Chapel who couldn’t quite believe his luck. I think I spent that whole year in a state of disbelief, afraid that at any moment, someone would tell me that it was all a joke and I wasn’t very good at singing, actually. Every time I took a shower, I half-expected Ashton Kutcher to jump out at me from behind the shower curtain. Y/N, on the other hand, walked into the conference room at Columbia Records, sat down at the head of the table, folded her arms across her chest, and asked us each, individually, if we had read Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows and, if so, how did we feel about it? Immediately, I knew that this girl was going to be someone special.

Her dad, Greg Y/L/N, was going to be our tour manager. When it was time for the label to put a team together, he was at the top of the list: a goofy dad with a daughter around our age who had toured with some of the biggest musicians of the 90s. He was the perfect choice for a bunch of kids who didn’t really know what they were doing: industry experience to make sure the day-to-day operations went smoothly, and the paternal instinct to protect us as best he could (we called him Papa Bear, which he pretended to hate, but we all knew he secretly loved it). 

We grew up together, spent months on end traveling the world, learning algebra on private planes and sneaking out of hotel rooms to wander foreign cities in the middle of the night. Fast forward to today. While Y/N was pregnant with Willa, our second child, she spent the whole third trimester on bed rest. Eventually, she got so bored that she scrolled all the way back on iCloud. Our older daughter, Hazel, was fascinated by the pictures of me and the band, and Y/N spent hours recounting our days on tour. I told her that she should write a book, but she refused at first. We have enough money, she said. People will think I’m making a cash grab. I told her that was bollocks, but if she really felt that way, she could donate all the profits to charity. It’s perfect, really, I said. The 20-year anniversary of One Direction is coming up, and it would be cool to give the fans a peek behind the scenes. Really, there’s no one better than you, darling, because you know the real us. She agreed, but only if all five of us were okay with it, and if all of the proceeds could go to The Trevor Project. So really, it’s actually me you should be thanking for convincing her to do this in the first place.

Anyways, here it is. The Story of Our Life: Growing Up With the World’s Biggest Boy Band, written by my amazing wife, Y/N Styles. 

Chapter 5

Out of all the One Direction boys, Louis was the first one to get his driver's license in America. He spent the few months leading up to the Where We Are tour with his girlfriend in California, and wanted to buy a fancy car to drive her around in. Hence, the license. So, when the tour made its way to North America, he somehow managed to convince my dad and the security team to let him drive us from the hotel to the venue a few times. Of course, the windows were tinted (and we were not allowed to open them), we were surrounded by a security detail, and there was always a bodyguard in the backseat, but it didn’t matter. 

On the night of the second show in Detroit, we all piled into a tricked-out Toyota Sienna, the best minivan on the market in 2011. Louis and Liam sat up front, I was squished between Harry and Niall in the middle, and Zayn and the bodyguard sat in the way back. We had the radio blasting and were singing along to some absolute bangers, like Party Rock Anthem and Super Bass, when the first few notes of Story of My Life started playing. Louis groaned and reached over to change the station, but I leaned forwards and slapped his hand out of the way before he could, turning the volume up a few notches. 

“Written in these walls are the stories that I can’t explain,” I sang along with Harry’s voice, turning to look at him with a mischievous smirk. He was mouthing along but bit his lip as soon as I caught him. Liam piped up with his part and I shook my head, laughing. 

“Do you guys seriously only ever sing your parts?” I asked. Next to me, I felt Niall shrug. 

“Feels wrong to sing someone else’s, even off stage,” he said, before chiming in on the background vocals as Zayn jumped in on his part. 

“Well, you should do it anyway, just for fun.” Liam turns around and lifts his eyebrows in a silent challenge. Harry and Niall jumped in, and soon we were all belting out the words to every part.

When the final chorus came up, I turned to rest my head on Harry’s shoulder, singing his part back to him. He was usually the shameless one, but his cheeks were tinted pink and he stopped singing for a few seconds. His green eyes were wide, but they never once left my own. I felt his chest rise and fall in a deep, steadying breath before he began singing again. 

From that moment on, Story of My Life was our song. Every time they performed it, he turned towards the side of the stage during the last chorus, where I sang along. On the rare occasions that I sat in the audience, his eyes always managed to find mine. We sang lines to each other all the time. Our favorite thing to do, much to everyone else’s dismay, was yell Zayn’s pre-chorus to each other from across a room. 

“And I’ll be gone, gone, tonight,” one of us would start. 

“The ground beneath my feet is open wide,” the other would respond. 

“The way that I’ve been holding on too tight,” the first person would say, before we both shouted, “With nothing in betweeeeeeeen!” That line was always the loudest, and we always dragged out the last syllable until we couldn’t breathe anymore. 

Chapter 9

When Harry’s solo album dropped, I was in class, taking my Algebra 101 final. My test-taking nerves were multiplied tenfold by the fact that I knew people were listening to it right now, and I wasn’t. We had kept in touch after One Direction broke up, mostly over text but occasionally, when he was in LA, he came to my house to have dinner with me and my Grandma (and Dad, if he was home).

I listened to it all the way through on the drive back home to Pasadena after I finished my exam, and as soon as I pulled into the driveway, I texted him. 

I signed up for a presale code, and refreshed my laptop continuously for five straight minutes in order to get tickets for his LA show. Harry was furious with me. When I texted him that I was officially coming to the show, he called me in the middle of a meeting with his tour team to yell at me. Something along the lines of, “I put you on the VIP list, you dumbass! And invites to the afterparty were just sent out yesterday!”

To be fair, I just wanted to support my friend, and to this day I still feel uncomfortable asking for free tickets from anyone when I have the means to pay for them. I think it’s all the guilt from five years of attending One Direction concerts for free. But anyways, that next fall, I found myself backstage at the Greek Theater with a VIP badge around my neck, feeling intense deja vu as security led me to Harry’s dressing room. 

“Y/N!” He yelled as soon as the door opened. I had no time to react; I was nearly knocked over by the force of his hug. His mom and sister were there, too, and I was passed around for more hugs before settling next to Harry on the couch. 

“So, how’s it going? How’s school?” he asked, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. That’s one of the things I love most about Harry; no matter how long it’s been since he’s seen someone, he always picks back up like no time has passed. He is scary good at keeping up with what everyone else is doing, even when his own life 

“Kicking my ass already and it’s only been three weeks,” I said with a chuckle. “But better than last year, that’s for sure!” Harry’s brows furrowed and he waited expectantly. “Did I not tell you that my original roommate was psycho?”

“No, I don’t think that’s come up before.” I pulled up a photo on my phone and handed it over to him without a word, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen his eyes wider than they were in that moment. 

“Holy shit,” she said.

“I wanna see!” Gemma whined, leaning across the coffee table to snatch the phone from him. “Oh my god, Mum, look!” She handed the phone to Anne, who frowned down at it. 

“This was your dorm?”

“For all of three days, yes,” you answered. “I’m not sure what creeped me out more, the life-sized cardboard cutout of Harry watching my every move, or the fact that she threatened to blackmail me if I didn’t introduce her to you.” Harry was doubled over with laughter with tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. 

“What are the chances of you, of all people, rooming with a crazy One Direction fan in college?” he asked, struggling to breathe enough to support his vocal chords. 

“The school investigated and they found an invoice for a private investigator on her computer in a folder with a bunch of my personal information and photos of me that looked like they were taken from behind bushes and trash cans. Apparently, she gave him that paparazzi photo from the week we were in London during On the Road Again and he was able to track me down.”

“He was able to figure out your identity from that photo?” I nodded, and Harry looked impressed, yet mildly disturbed. “She must’ve paid a fortune.” The photo in question features all five members of One Direction on their way into the O2 arena, and in the background, you can see the blurry back of my head as I slipped into the back door ahead of them.

When it was time for Harry to get ready, a security guard led Anne, Gemma, and I to the VIP section and we settled in for the show. He killed it on stage, and it was great to see him back in his element, joking with the fans between songs and waving to everyone he made eye contact with. He performed What Makes You Beautiful and the cheers were so loud, even in the small-theater setting, that I knew I would probably have trouble hearing tomorrow. 

“Alright, now normally I’d go straight into Kiwi, but there’s someone special in the audience today and this next song means a lot to the both of us, and she was the one who told me to sing all of the parts even though it feels weird, I hope you’ll forgive me for making you wait a few more minutes,” he said with a smirk, knowing that no one was going to complain about an extra song. My smile widened and Anne wrapped an arm around me, squeezing my shoulder, to acknowledge how special this moment was about to be. Just like old times, Harry looked straight at me as the intro music started to play. 

“Written in these walls are the stories that I can’t explain,” he began, and immediately tears started welling up behind my eyes. I joined in, leaning my head on Anne’s shoulder for support. When he got to the second pre-chorus, he yelled out “And I’ll be gone, gone, tonight!” and held out his mic for the audience to sing the next line, but I caught an almost-imperceptible wink as he smiled up at me and I knew that he could care less if anyone else chimed in.

“The fire beneath my feet is burning bright,” Anne, Gemma, and I screamed, hoping that we were loud enough for him to pick our voices out of the crowd. 

He sang the next line, and so did the audience, but I kept my mouth shut and joined in on the last line. He dragged out “between” so long that he had to jump back in on “I take her home.” I was the only one still singing along with him at that point, and the audience let out confused laughter, looking back and forth trying to figure out why he wasn’t moving on yet. 

Chapter 11

We’ve never talked about how we got together, and once the gossip magazines found out that I was the daughter of One Direction’s former tour manager, they just filled in the blanks themselves. I try not to read those things, but I do remember seeing a few headlines like “CHILDHOOD SWEETHEARTS RECONNECTED!” over that grainy paparazzi photo of us in Holmes Chapel before the Manchester Love on Tour stops. Others spun the fact that I was doing PR on the tour into a fake “HARRY STYLES KISSES EMPLOYEE” scandal, and it just spiraled out of control from there. But I’m getting ahead of myself. 

When the pandemic hit, I was at home in Pasadena with my dad and grandma. We had no other “bubble” because my grandma was immunocompromised. Needless to say, I got very bored very quickly. It got to the point that I would cycle through the contacts on my phone, Facetiming everyone in alphabetical order by last name until someone picked up. Harry was one of the only people who answered every single time. We ended up calling each other almost every day, sometimes to chat, or just to have someone there, in the background, while we went about our days. He was with his band, working on what would eventually become Harry’s House, and I spent many days listening to them work through different lyric and melody combinations while curled up in my childhood bedroom with my work laptop. He even interrupted a Zoom meeting I was in, once, excited to play part of “Music for a Sushi Restaurant” for me.

I was working remotely for a PR firm, after graduating college in 2020, my options were limited and, in the end, the place only gave me an offer because they worked with Columbia Records and knew my dad. I mostly wrote copy about movies to be put on Wikipedia or IMDB, which was super boring, so Harry seriously saved my life by letting me listen in on his studio sessions, or to the audio of whatever show he was watching and his commentary. 

By the time he was able to start prepping for Love on Tour, I was working at the firm’s office building on Sunset,  just about ready to quit my job and sell foot pics online. 

“Come on tour with me,” he said, (seemingly) impulsively, during one of our Facetime sessions in which he patiently listened to me complain about how Mark from accounting wouldn’t stop coming over to my desk to “chat” every hour on the hour. 

“What?” I answered, laughing a little. 

“Seriously, Y/N, it’ll be just like old times! We can race on the dolleys they use to bring the speakers in, and I’ll even let you win this time.” I rolled my eyes.

“It’s not really winning, then, is it?”

“Okay, fine, I won’t let you win. But I am serious, Y/N. You should join me on tour.”

“What am I supposed to do, just follow you around the world like some sad, desperate groupie?”

“I mean, you are a bit sad and desperate.” I flipped him off, to which he responded by cackling with laughter. 

“I’m sad because my job sucks, and desperate to get away from Mark, not to get into your pants.”

“Well, you wouldn’t be my mistress, you’d be doing PR for the tour, obviously.” Harry’s cheeks flushed with the slightest hint of pink, 

“Well, maybe you should have led with that!” I started laughing, too, and it took a while for either of us to be able to speak again. 

“Okay, sorry, I’ll start over.” He took a deep breath to calm his giggles, but still couldn’t manage to keep a straight face. “Y/N Y/L/N, I would like to formally request that you join me as my PR Manager for Love on Tour. My publicist is about to give birth, like, any day now so she obviously can’t go gallivanting around the world. Really, you’d be doing me a favor, and who better than someone who already has my dressing room requests memorized since half of them are actually yours.” 

“You still have the same dressing room requests?” I gave him a skeptical look. 

“Old habits die hard.” He shrugged. “And even though I don’t drink Diet Coke, having it in the fridge makes it feel like you’re there with me.” The pink was now red and I bit my lip to keep myself from smiling too wide. 

“Alright, Mr. Styles, you have a deal.”

Like he said, old habits die hard, so even though we were now adults and my dad wasn’t on tour with us, we still fell into our old routines. Back in the day, I was never allowed to be alone in a room with one of the boys, but we had our ways around it. Usually by walking through the hallways of the floor of the hotel everyone was staying on, checking in with the guards stationed at either side on every loop. So while we could have hung out in our rooms, more often than not, we walked through the hotel hallways in circles just like we used to. 

The night before the Pittsburgh show, Harry showed up at my door at 10pm with a bag of sour gummy worms. 

“It’s not Haribo, but it’s close enough,” he said with a shrug, flashing me his trademark “Harry Styles” grin. And just like that, we were off to wear a hole in the carpet, or so I thought. We hadn’t even made it through one full loop before he pulled me through a random door marked “Employees Only” and dragged me up three flights of stairs. 

“Are you taking me somewhere private so you can murder me?” I asked as we trudged through the dirty stairwell. 

“Something like that,” he answered. But when we reached the top, he opened another door and we were on the roof. 

The view was gorgeous, the moon was bright and cast a cool glow on the Pittsburgh skyline. I turned to Harry with wide eyes.

“Scoped it out earlier,” he said with a sheepish smile on his lips. “Just thought we could use a change of scenery.”

“It’s perfect,” I said, reaching out to squeeze his hand in thanks. “As much as I love hotel hallways, this is better.”

We sat on the edge of the roof, dangling our legs over the top of the building next door, and passed the bag of gummy worms back and forth as we talked. We were out there for so long that my eyelids started to get heavy and our conversation slowed down. I leaned my head on his shoulder and he wrapped his arm around me, huddling closer for warmth (or so I thought). 

“Wanna listen to some music?” He asked. I nodded and he pulled his Airpods out, sticking one in my ear and the other in his own. 

Story of My Life started playing and my heart rate sped up, pulsing adrenaline through my body. Suddenly, I was wide awake and hyper aware of every place our bodies were touching (thighs, hips, my shoulder to his chest, his shoulder to my head, his arm on my bicep). 

I lifted my head up and turned to look at him.

“Do you ever get sick of this song?” I asked. My voice was quiet because I wasn’t sure I actually wanted to know the answer. 

“No,” he replied. His voice was low and raspy and it made my stomach flutter. I felt myself leaning in, unconsciously, as he continued. “It reminds me of you, and I could never get sick of you.” 

He brought his free hand up to my face and rubbed his thumb in soft circles on my cheekbone, and his eyes flickered down to my lips. The distance between us closed as if we were replaying something that had already happened in slow motion. Eventually, I could just barely feel the soft brush of his lips against mine. My mouth fell open just a bit in anticipation of what was to come, but Harry paused. 

“It’s you, Y/N,” he whispered.”It’s always been you.”

Feel free to cross my name out and write in your own, I won’t be mad. I get it; what really happened was better than any self-insert fanfiction.

Chapter 17

I’m going to keep most of the details of our wedding private, but I will tell you about our first dance, because it ties into a lot of the other stories that I’ve written about. If you haven’t noticed by now, Story of My Life is sort of the underlying theme of this book, and that’s because it’s been the underlying theme of my life, the soundtrack to my relationship with Harry. 

After dinner, and some absolutely mental toasts, Harry and I were eager to get the party started. Even though he’s not the best dancer, I have never met anyone who dances with as much joy as Harry does, and I love getting pulled into his wild, spontaneous routines. But our first dance was different. The fairy lights surrounding the garden were twinkling in the moonlight, and Niall, Liam, Louis, and Zayn stood on the sidelines to sing, you guessed it, Story of My Life. We swayed in circles, gently, without trying to put on a show or impress anyone else. It was a beautiful, full circle moment, and the boys even dragged out “between” just a little bit to tease us. 

Life is funny. One minute, you’re sixteen and screaming “The fire beneath my feet is burning bright,” at your best friend and you think that this is it, you will be touring the world with your friends forever, and the next you’re twenty-seven and in a wedding dress, leaving mascara stains on the shoulder of his suit. But I wouldn’t change a thing, because I think it was written in the walls all along. 

[nomsfaultau]

I've got an idea of putting the Fault crew into situations again.

Fault crew is just chilling (or as close as you can get to it with the amount of stress they are under constantly) when they suddenly get teleported to the backrooms. You can choose the version of backrooms if you wanna. If you're going classic then it's the empty office building with yellow carpet and fluorescent lights, like in the og picture, no creatures. If you're going with the new backrooms then good luck because there's a shit ton of levels and creatures and all that. How do they fare?

Extra questions:

1. Who's the most likely to accidentally get into the backrooms? For context you're more likely to glitch into the backrooms in places that look weird, unnatural, empty. Also places that have not been there before like extra corridors and doors.

2. Who will be able to keep their sanity for longer?

3. Will they keep together as a group? Separate? Get lost?

If you're making this into a story then you can let them leave or not whenever you see fit : )

A large part of the horror of the backrooms is of course the isolation. With the monsters, it’s an added feeling of being helpless and having nothing to defend yourself, which, the daily crew are anomalies. They aren’t defenseless in the slightest. In general I prefer the backrooms with out monsters bc I feel like it cheapens the original focus, but if the monsters are only moderate threats to the anomalies, I believe the focus on isolation still stands. So I’ll have vague references to backrooms monsters since I think they add an interesting element, almost an omen.

Because over time, scp sbi start to become the backrooms.

The Blade The Blade is least likely to get in the backrooms because it’s very hard for him to get in most human buildings already. Once there though he has a very high in mental fortitude (unless you consider the fact he might not be particularly sane to begin with). Adhd would hate the boredom but it’s better than the Foundation in that regard. Ironically the things trying to kill him would help him deal with it better since it’s something to do. As for wandering around completely isolated…honestly no different from before he went to college? Of the mortals The Blade has spent the most time completely alone since unlike Wilbur he can’t pretend to be human even a little. It’s very familiar in a way that’s bad for him, but he’s survived it once. This time he starts openly talking to the voices for company. It’s less that he loses sanity, and more that he looses civility, reverting into the feral being he once was.

The Blade hates it. It feels like back when he was a kid, pointlessly wandering, nothing more than a mindless killing machine. He’s aches for his friends and the feeling of control. He’s backsliding, he knows he is, but there’s not much he can do besides be ashamed. The Blade attacks on sight now. Too many close calls in the past, of things pretending to be people, and The Blood God thinks it’s too dangerous. He takes control of his vessel more and more. The Blade starts to wonder if there really was danger every time his body is seized, but doesn’t want to risk being wrong. Black outs are very frequent, but with little way to track time or location he scarcely notices. So, definitely depressed, but this isn’t like. A new low for him. Only difference is he isn’t struggling for more and more bodily autonomy, but just accepting it. Other survivors just consider him yet another monster to avoid, and they aren’t wrong. The best tip to deal with The Blood God is to never encounter him, and after that try to find a place too small for him to get you. After that...pray.

The Blade is the only one who could escape, if Tommy is still in the real world. When he's summoned back Philza has to stop him from just shredding everyone. The Blood God is restless, refusing to release control, bristling and lunging and still stuck in survival mode, trying to protect his vessel. It takes a long, long time for his hackles to lower.

The Blade is different. Muttering to himself constantly, always one second from lunging, prone to slipping into The Blood God for no reason at all. But he does escape, and knows he can be rehabilitated with a bit of work since he’s managed it in the past.

The others….not so much.

Tommy Tommy…already does badly when alone. Isolated forever, no end in sight? He falls apart the quickest of anyone. But for the first few days or weeks he holds together alright enough. At least, until he nearly dies and the summoning circle just. Doesn’t work. The Blade can’t save him, since you can only get into the backrooms through clipping. He’s alone and his friends are gone and it just wrecks Tommy.

If he doesn’t immediately fall into a black depression, Tommy finds safety in the cisterns. The Red spreads through the entire water area, and none of the monsters can attack him. They absolutely devour one another though, and so the place becomes almost a safe heaven from attackers unless of course you get even a drop of Red on you. Then the sanity plummets into bloodlust. Still people make rafts and boats and it’s okay ish. Like Venice but evil. If you’re in a hazmat suit it’s a very safe place. Also it’s safe if you’re alone, since it’ll wear off after awhile and there’s no one to hurt. Except, some people when Red’d fall out of their rafts and go sloshing through the Red looking for targets. Tommy usually finds them, brings them to a safe area to decontaminate. Is likely very uncomfortably physically affectionate, since isolated, mind-controlled, blood crazed survivors that ignore him are his only source of physical contact, and he's starving. So while it might only take an hour for them to decontaminate on their own...that might not account for the hours, maybe days, where Tommy is just hugging a feral survivor who doesn't really acknowledge his existence.

Once they’re decontaminated he gets them a raft and pulls them to the main island. Tommy is absolutely desperate for people. His sanity plummets the fastest of anyone when alone, so he’s chatty and pleasant and very happy to have company. And he's built up this collection of survivors, isn't it so great, you should stay.

Really, it's not a choice. Once they're on the main island he pushes the raft off to sea, so to speak. No one except for him can leave. They’re trapped in an island surrounded by blood Red waters that will steal their sanity and agency if they touch it. Tommy strands them away from their rafts, and builds up a community of such people. If anyone tries to leave at most they get nowhere, and at worst will attack others on the island. It’s completely safe from monsters, and there’s an actual community there, so it’s probably one of the best place in the backrooms. Still it’s a village of kidnapped people so like. Not the greatest coping mechanism, Toms.

Likely, Red contamination occasionally breaks out, leading to the entire island massacring each other every decade or so. Tommy is completely devastated, and then begins to gather more survivors for the next round of community.

Tubbo Tubbo is the most likely to get into the backrooms by theory of large numbers. Buncha bees everywhere poking around, likely to get sucked in. Means the overall hive is less likely to get got tho since they’d know to avoid that glitchy place. Once there, Tubbo spreads through the entire backrooms with bees constantly exploring. Trying to find a way out, supplies, safety, others. It’s a massive hit to their sanity to do so, to see everything fully. But when someone falls in Tubbo is the first to find them. The bees save anyone who is stuck, helping them avoid monsters, getting them supplies, leading them to the hive. And then once united…Tubbo subsumes them into the Hive. They have to, they need the injection of people with more sanity into the Hivemind, or they wouldn't be able to monitor so much of the backrooms and rescue more people. This would obviously be very deep into their isolation but they need to survive. And they’re saving others, since anyone they haven’t Collected is eventually killed. And all the Hive members live as long as they can keep reproducing. It's functionally immortality.

They start putting hives in various places that are safer so if others are destroyed they can recover, slowly build more and more population since you can’t starve in the backrooms so they don’t need the nutrients to support it. Even if huge chunks of them are killed they can fall back and regrow in safer levels. Over decades this becomes multiple Tubbo bodies, each replaced as it is destroyed. With so many Hive members it’s easy to have separate ones controlling various bodies. Over centuries this is them conquering certain levels and developing control of them. This leads to massive sprawling structures completely covered in honey comb. There are giant bee cells capped in wax that are filled with things. Might be larvae, or helpful items, or a growing Tubbo body, or a monster drowned in honey being slowly eaten, or tunnels to another level. Tubbo essentially becomes another layer of the backrooms.

also rip I will have to finish this later bc many thoughts

[frumfrumfroo]

(Sorry if I am belabouring the point, so feel free to ignore this ask) no yeah I'm definitely the same way and you're never wrong for having personal reasons not getting into something immediately - I think some of the fandom anxiety comes from the fact that things get cancelled so quickly without sufficient viewership (or even with sufficient viewership, which is a whole other nut). It puts a weird amount of onus of a show's success on the fandom, which is even stranger in the time of broken trust and active resentment of audiences/audience engagement with a text/trying to 'outsmart' us. But ultimately there is something severely rotting at the root that I don't think we have any control over.

And yeah the popular perception of TD season 1 is that it's grimdark because its protagonist is deeply wounded and many a fanboy is butthurt about its celebration of redemption. It's an incredibly, incredibly dark show, and so that tragic beginning is hard for a lot of people to get past, I think, when it's not the final conclusive thematic remark*. I would say that Dark is similar to this if you want an idea of the tone. Somehow we have ended up where the children's modern day fairytale is grimdark and nihilistic and shows inured in tragedy are idealistic and redemptive.

Anyway, very thankful for your blog in keeping me sane in the time of psychedelic narrative rules, and being Principled, because sometimes I feel like a stick in the mud lol.

And the asterisk is there up above because I have heard this exact description of a popular book series (A Song of Ice and Fire) and I disagree with this conclusion, partly because the series is unfinished, partly because I think the fanbase on Tumblr is overly optimistic, and also because TD has an absolute conclusion which is idealistic. So I just want to note this so it doesn't seem like I'm misrepresenting or overstating the show lololol.

It's also extremely unsavoury the way big name fans and the former twitter cabal, wherever that hangs out now, will take advantage of this anxiety and use it as a bludgeon to make a captive audience feel like they have some 'duty' to support the financial success of giant evil corporations. Giving Disney more money and bullying people for not giving Disney more money is not a moral victory, I think we should all be able to agree. Abusing calls to support artists by co-opting them into the service of mindless consumption of branded refuse is fairly repugnant. Saying 'vote with your dollars' between a choice of Disney Extruded Movie Product A, B, or C is both hilarious and sad.

eg: that tie-in comic, I think it was the TLJ one? The one with the terrible art. It's a commissioned product, the artist was paid once and as little as possible to create it for solely marketing purposes. Applying fandom etiquette to it or saying it should not be criticised because of high turnover times is frankly fucking ridiculous. It's a professional commissioned product they were selling for profit. They had all the time and all the money in the world, there's no excuse for it to be awful and absolutely no one should have felt obligated to buy it or keep quiet about how bad it was. Maybe the artist could have done better under better working conditions, but that doesn't make the actual product we're being asked to purchase acceptable. Giving Disney your money is not going to improve those conditions and it's not going to help that artist.

The same with the tros defenders saying they tried therefore you can't criticise them. A) they did not try B) this was not a sincere piece of art and pretending otherwise is just insulting and C) it's a corporate product made by a near-monopoly who employed alleged professionals. Nothing could possibly be more fair game for harsh criticism.

Ultimately putting this onus on fandom of you must throw your money away on this thing or be a free shill for this brand or maybe they'll stop throwing us any crumbs... like it's debasement. Given all the many recent examples of how public support doesn't matter unless it's that first weekend a show drops on a streaming platform or the opening box office, how being the 'wrong' audience makes you irrelevant no matter how many of you there are, how even very successful shows are dropped after two seasons because producers don't want to pay actors, etc. etc. it's even more silly. We should be demanding better, not propping up this nonsense. Creative people are being profoundly fucked over by this system and are often still fucked even if they make something successful.

If people want to support artists, buy independent and small label media. Go see original, mid-budget movies at the cinema (if you live in a city where you have any chance of one playing, that is).

And see, I have no problem with darkness, angst, and tragedy if I know it's going somewhere positive. Having to really go through it can make the journey and the ultimate conclusion feel even more rewarding. As long as it's not angst for angst's sake, but is doing something meaningful and necessary, it only enriches the hope at the foundation of redemption or recovery stories.

Idealism is brave, challenging, and requires sincerity. When the modern fairy tales are being produced in cynicism and by committee to meet a quota for the shareholders...

Thank-you ❤️

[incarnateirony]

Yall. Seriously. Get lives and souls.

Sending a person at me that struggles with MHI for you to influence and convince that I was "faking" about being shot at, despite the pictures, only for you to keep trying to manipulate her for information digging NOBODY was falling for your shit on. Somehow your story went from accusing me of faking to totes being here for TPTB research to actually for a headline to actually actually for a college study group application because you got nailed to the wall on how transparently bullshit your whole approach was.

The sheer fact that you absolute inhuman sacks of air-wasting are stunting like this, denying someone's photographically displayed trauma that is impacting their entire life, just to wank around and try to root out information about who I'm connected to by trying to make me ragesplode? You people are beyond help. You are beyond humanity. You have completely surrendered anything representing this to a fake space with fake identities and fake garbage trying to look big in a digital social circle that matters negative nothing to the real world.

Get fucking lives, you pieces of shit, and stop harassing people.

Goddamn literal sacks of shit trying to live vicariously by pretending everyone's as vacuous of a fake husk as you compulsive fucking lying nobodies holy fuck me running, and you guys are so fucking bad at this you don't even read what you start trying to root for information about and read it literally opposite of what's being said to your face while you're being called out.

Leave us alone you fucking asshats. The reason you refuse to let yourself understand what all this shit adds up to is because you already see it, you already know, you've already nullified your placement in this fandom with these guys, while all your friends are whining on twitter asking why it seems like Misha hates them suddenly.

I need you people to understand how psychologically unwell you collectively are lost into 15 plus years of absolute fandom fake nonsense that you somehow felt entitled to accuse someone posting personally with images of the narrowly surviving a violent attack on their lives that they were somehow faking. I need you to understand how psychologically out of pocket you all are that you even felt that was a possible angle to take or something you had the right to comment on for all of your fandom crying. I have been doing nothing but reblog videos that happened to have the same lyrics as CW tweets that would soon follow. That is literally all I have been doing for like a month. And you still cannot bring yourselves to not try to involve yourselves with opinions on my personal life pretending you can argue about it like you can argue about fiction. Seek help. All of you.

I am a real person. With a real life. Just like the actors are real people with real lives. You cannot just make up whatever you want about real people. If you want to have stupid opinions about fictional interpretation that's fine. But I literally need you to psychologically check yourselves that you thought this was a normal pattern of behavior. You are so insanely out of line and lost to your delusions that you think this is all the same relativity fandom fiction bubble and it is not. Get professional help

And now that you are staring down this fandom psychosis of yours with no escape I need you to understand how much misaligned information you have chosen to misread about literally everything else you have ever come at me about. Because if you can stare at pictures of the bullet holes in my wall and me being at someone else's house taking cover and tell me that I am faking, why do you think you have any more sane or deep of an understanding of the powers that be that none of you have half the connection to that you pretend

The thing is you guys never thought I was faking. You just wanted to convince yourselves I have been. And you are so lost in trying to find some sort of untruth that you have completely lost the plot on reality itself. Your reality is now defined by trying to convince yourself that I am lying about anything. Even when the pictures are in your face. And yet you expect me to take you seriously about men you have never met outside of paid transactions that would never speak with anyone that behave like you do much less assign you professionally like you tried before you got nailed to a wall. You guys just want to find some hope that I am faking something somewhere because otherwise your friends complaining about conventions might overlap with Misha's recent behavior and might even overlap with things like recent layoffs and marketing changes. A lot of things might be very connected. But you don't want to look at those things. You just want to look at anything you think you can argue against and that isn't how reality works.

My life and my near death experience is not your personal fucking fictional TV sandbox for you to have opinions about, you inconsolable sacks of fake shit.

But you know, that's it, isn't it? Again, all I've been doing is reblogging music videos that happen to sync to CW tweets that would be shortly after posted. You don't know what to grab onto. You don't know how to argue that. If you argue it, you reveal that you actually see it, by putting it together. So all you can do now is grab at someone's real life and attack it, because your own is lacking, and you're all fake, so everyone must be fake, even with the goddamn bulletholes on display. It's literally the only thing you've been able to grab at and yell "Fake" about as stupid and legit insane as it is, but you guys are so lost to crazypants land you didn't tap the brakes to realize how verifiably insane you're acting. But I'm sure your media opinions are magically more grounded.

He's a Cult Leader. Catch the fucking clue being broadcast on TV, assholes, and leave us alone. You have no one to be angry at and blame but yourselves. The owls control digital gotham. A flock of owls, or rooks such as crows, is called a parliament. They're in deep. There's no going back. It's a clown cabal pulling strings. fucking cope. It was about making our own destiny. Can't stop, won't stop, zaddy dent says don't stop; let go of the past, live in the present, create the future; some people claim to be spiritual healers, only a few actually are. But if you don't listen to the messaging when it's on my blog, why would I expect you to listen to it coming through the socials coincidentally?

Coming at you live, real real wild, here to light it up set the world on fire. Spit heat I melt your face off, in the cut just like a razor, disappear, I'm your eraser. Well, kids... what you gonna do now? It's your own reflections looking back to drag you down. Got all your eyes on me, got all the lines on ring, knock 'em dead, all the eyes on me. Figure it out.

March 7, 2023. We had a spell to burn.

I told you all. No amount of stalking poor fan accounts or random fanfic bangs you think my server members are involved with will push us out, if you follow any official accounts at all. Do with that as you will, but start touching base that you lost before you realized there was a war.

Man I wonder how the socials like Misha much less the CW just got 4x as active despite mass layoffs. Maybe the tweets are magically writing themselves!!! It couldn't possibly be CW scripted shows getting new coverage and socials management I WONDER WHOMST HUH GEE BRAIN ITS A GODDAMN MYSTERY if you're a fandom knucklehead refusing to read obvious truths because holy fuck that would mean you truly madly deeply collectively fucked yourselves

[azumetapraline]

11, 32 and 44 for the OTP ask game 🥺

For Metalor

Thank you for the ask bestie!!! 🥹

Actually, someone on Discord had already asked me a few numbers, including 11. So I will post here what I answered for their numbers, then answer yours! 😊

4. Which of the two listens to old music and which one is more into the newer stuff?

Meta Knight is absolutely into older stuff. Like jazz, classic, and maybe even opera. He does enjoy some rock, but loud things like electronic don’t interest him.

Magolor loves most music, but he vibes much more on dubstep, techno, drum & bass, etc. If it’s intense, it’ll stimulate his inattentive brain and make him happy!

6. Who holds a grudge the longest?

Oh boy I have to choose? 🤣

Well, it’s not that Meta Knight holds grudges for extremely long. But if you lose his trust, it’ll be hard to gain it back, but yeah, he does have a lot of trouble forgiving people when they hurt him or someone he cares about (glances at some particular characters perhaps related to mirrors or robots…!).

Magolor? Depends on who and what. He’s mostly chill, but if you really hurt him (or his ego), you’ll have to be prepared for some petty revenge.

11. Who’s the most eager to have kids?

Meta Knight. It’s not his lifetime goal, but also he did bring the subject a few times, and overall Magolor doesn’t feel like he’d want to be a parent. He isn’t the most patient guy in the world and he already knows a yelling baby would ruffle his fur.

So yeah, babies aren’t part of their plan (for now).

23. Which of the two would you rather team up with for a game of laser tag?

Meta Knight. Although both are smart, strategic and VERY competitive, I would much rather have a calm, rational teammate than a tryhard. XD

48. Who’d refuse to pay the others bail just to mess with them?

In reality, none would pay the bail; they’d bust in the prison, kick the guards’ asses and rescue their beloved and waving everyone goodbye.

But if we pretend they were sane and civilized citizens, I think Magolor would like, fake to refuse to pay for the bail and would go like “fine fine” when Meta would glare at him from the other side of the glass.

Now to Kesia’s numbers.

32. Who’s the first to apologize?

That’s a good question! Both are very, very stubborn, but if something important is at stakes they’re willing to do their part.

If we imagine two scenarios in which one said or did something to the other that hurt their feelings really bad, I think Meta Knight would do it first. Not because Magolor is less ready to admit his mistake, but because the way Meta Knight reacts when he’s upset is different. He’s colder and tends to isolate himself and overall feels unreachable. He can also respond with a lot of anger, while Magolor, even though he’ll also keep some distance, will be more prone to be sad, and he’d accept the apology a bit better than Meta would.

If it’s an argument and both are to blame, I’m not really sure what would happen. I think Magolor would apologize first more often, because he dislikes when they are in a fight like that, and while both miss the other, Magolor’s just a bit more adamant for them to make up. However, the opposite happens as well; Meta Knight is also mature, and he is also aware that they need to talk and admit their mistakes. He’s just struggling a bit more to break the ice.

44. Who would confess their love first?

In my interps, Magolor is the one confessing first. At one point, since they’re both a bit socially awkward, there’s this tension, the long stares, the nervousness, but they’re both too shy to confess their feelings.

I think Magolor would get flirty sometimes as “jokes”, but it would fluster Meta a LOT. But overall, he would be receptive (and still somewhat oblivious).

I’m not sure if that’s exactly what would happen in my interps, but now that I’m thinking, it would be funny if Meta ended up asking him about those “jokes”, unintentionally making Magolor embarrassed and he’d end up admitting those were not really jokes. Meta would then say he feels the same, and he’d like, idk, kiss him and they agree on trying a relationship! 😁

Thank you again for asking!!! And thank you to anyone who has read my ramble to this point, y’all are amazing! 🥹

Anyone is free to throw at me more numbers! Original post here!

[baconcolacan]

KC interacting w/ everyone else gave me a stroke. Sorry for the swap asks, im just, im just too invested it'll be my demise. Anyways, ready?

1 how would Red and Blue (KC) react to THEMSELVES from regimen?

2 i was curious, does A.K. know about what happened to Tords arm and Toms eyes? Does he know the story behind his parent's quite important injuries? But most importantly, who caused them and how

3 look, i know i know, and i apologize in advance but hear me out, im just, just feeding your imagination- your creativity, yeah! Its, its for your sake..

..so, what if Church's Grimm met Stay and Regimen- I KNOW CG might not even be finished and its the least of your priorities!- but its so different- i cant help but wonder how the others would react to a younger version of them, that isnt in war, ruling, in the military, but are..different in their own way. Also we dont know much about them- And in this one, Tom is quite literally *dead* so im quite curious of how they'd face his spirit, or ghost (who probably has a supernatural power that could be dangerous..or useful..)

I hope you're doing well and taking breaks, you can skip last ask if it spoils too much or for whatever reason! Please remember to appreciate yourself, also know that Castling was fire and insanely fun to read! leader x leader au *chefs kiss* could go on about it for hours, istg you're really out to get us with that talent of urs

PHEW OK CONFERENCE TABLE ASKS LETS GO!

If Red met R.L. I think he'd be very understanding of why he's like that. They virtually have the same goals, although Red isn't as power hungry, he knows that he's more than willing to mutilate the entire world for his own selfish goals, which both he and R.L. will happily admit to. He might be a bit uncomfortable with how off the rails R.L. is mentally, but it's not like he has any room to really judge, he's not as sane and sound as he likes to pretend to be anyway....

If Blue met Tom. Well first of all, Tom wouldn't react too well to the fact that Blue is essentially a mirror of his own Tord, they're both military leaders with a proclivity to violence, and Tom is still at the stage where he's trying to justify everything he's ever done. Blue on the other hand, will happily admit that he's doing what he's doing for his own sake, and since when have we ever cared about other people? They mean nothing to us, might as well have some fun.

Blue thinks this version of himself is pretty funny for being so uptight about his "morals". Then again...he might still have something to lose, so he supposes that's just natural.

2. All AK was ever told when he asked about his parents' injuries was that it was an accident, and that it happened when they were out in an active war theatre. Tord wanted to admit that it was his fault, but Tom stopped him because, to be frank, it wasn't really his fault, he started the war sure, but he wasn't the one that sent the bomb towards them.

3. HSASFJ OK I'll just give a general answer to this for all the aus cause I cant write them all one by one at the moment.

I think, on the side of the Tords, they'd all be surprised that a clearly younger version of themselves (CG Tord is in his early 20s) is such a wallflower, cringing away whenever there are eyes on him or hiding as much as he can in his hoodie. KC and Stay Tord would be pretty sympathetic, Regimen Tord would be appalled at how "weak" he presents himself.

CG Tord just hates looking at them, they're all marked by death, the veil is touching all of their souls, and they're damned. What does that say about his own fate?

The Toms on the other hand, I doubt they'll be able to see their CG version, so I'll just stick with their reaction to CG Tord. KC and Stay Tom will think CG Tord is absolutely precious, more so with Stay Tom because he reminds him of when his husband was a shy little nerd bird teenager, always refusing to go outside to hangout with them unless it involved something he really likes.

Regimen Tom thinks he's creepy, especially because CG Tord would stare at him a lot.

God, what the fuck, now there's a stereotypical creepy ghost-seeing version of Tord who seems to be interested in him?? Fucking kill him now.

HAHAHA AND TY FOR LIKING CASTLING! I'm actually surprised that there isn't a lot of Red x Blue fics out there?? Like damn, I love a dynamic where they're on equal ground, why isn't there a lot more fics like that?? HKDSJFHHG FINE I'LL DO IT MYSELF.

Awkward. They'd be awkward about it.

Let's say, hypothetically, they both get spat out into the Stayverse. Freakouts and initial explanations aside, Tord and Tom take advantage of their temporary presence to leave their son with them while they do RA stuff (after they vet them ofc, they dont just trust their son with anyone, even if it's another version of themselves.)

Red and Blue aren't sure how to react around AK, seeing as he's their son in another life. Red would definitely be the one whispering shit to Blue like; "Does he want..a hug? Kids like hugs right?? How do I- do I just open my arms or...?"

"No you fu-"

"Don't swear in front of the child, Blue."

"Piss off!"

They stop being awkward eventually because AK will force them to watch cartoons and build legos with him.

Regimen: :]

Stay: Well, of course they still have fights sometimes, and they're both bullheaded and too prideful to back down, but this time since they're older, they don't escalate their fights like they used to anymore, and would much rather prefer to separate and cool off.

Although, Tom has more of a penchant to hold on to his anger than Tord, who would often feel much better after letting out his frustrations in explosively violent ways. This would of course, lead to Tord wanting to talk but Tom is still seething, therefore would not want to talk to him yet.

His silent treatment often leads to Tord being a bit gloomy but definitely more snappy, which would lead to days in the RA where he would be a bit more unforgiving with his army and how they run their operations.

It'll be tense for a while, until Matt steps in to gently remind Tom that he needs to actually talk with his husband if he wants to sort things out.

I'm not sure if you wanna know what happens with KC Tord, as Blue's silence often means he's getting paraded around again like a showgirl, so he'd be more irritated and aggressive than usual, which would bring Blue back to the warfront.

Stay: Tom would recognize immediately that Tyler is biologically his son (Due to his hellhound genetics lmao). He'd probably act a little bit stiff towards him, only because he's trying to be polite, as every bit of his instincts are on the fritz, telling him he has to protect his progeny.

Tord would probably clock in on his husband wanting to adopt the kid, and would come to the same conclusion that Tyler might be related to him in some way. I think he'd be more neutral but warm towards Ty, since he doesn't have a personal tie with him.

Regimen: I really don't think you want Tyler to be in this universe lmao. Both Tom and Tord would be pretty cold with him, especially Tord if he figures out Tyler is related to Tom. at worse he might even kill him. And like I said before, this Tom isn't good with kids, so he'd try his best to avoid Tyler at every chance he can get.

Sorry Ty :[

[residentdormouse]

Hey Bingo Buddy! I've been devouring your posts about Faith today and I am genuinely SO into what you're doing! Can you share more about her story, pretty please? 👀

💖💖Thank you for the Ask!!💖💖

(Thank you so much! 🥰 - I am also loving your OC banner setup, and the description of Vinnie was fantastic. Radio static, plant names, and elevator music killed me 😂🤣; I was hoping to catch up on Fallout before jumping in (4 has been in my ‘to play’ stack for way too long), but sadly, I don’t think there’s enough Dramamine in the house to get me through… might jump to wikis for world background.)

More on Faith and her Story:

When I began to answer this, I started writing about Faith’s backstory. Coming from a low income household in a decaying town. Striving to escape at all costs to the point of developing deep-seeded neurosis. Anxiety. Burnout. But it didn't feel accurate to the tone of her story. Struggles with coming of age, pressures of getting into college? That's a dime a dozen. Dull. What the fuck are we lingering on that for, she sure as shit isn't. No, how she got to Marsden, Pennsylvania was irrelevant, only that she got there.

In Marsden, she found a place where she felt free. Free from the pressure. Free to express herself. Relax. Find her voice. Only in this new space could she understand that her happiness came from being true to herself and not from a mark on a paper. Success in her studies quickly took a back burner to self discovery.

Suffice to say, her new path did not lead to much financial stability, but it was of no concern to her. Grade school Faith may have followed in line, but post grad Faith couldn’t give two shits. She knew what that life held, and it certainly wasn’t doing fuck all for her wellbeing.

And that life certainly didn't have him.

Along with Paul came a new appreciation for the beauty around her. Nature. Humanity. He found amusement in all aspects of his life, despite the fact that humanity sometimes wanted little to do with his cheeky bullshit. It was infectious. Time with him truly was blissful.

He was a light in her life that was extinguished much too soon.

Many memories have faded into a blur since the night of that phone call, drowned in the burning liquid that provided the only comfort in his absence. And comfort was needed. Between the police pushing his ever growing cold case to the side, the local clubs fostering more problematic suspects than she could count, and the college completely closing off his office to her, anger and loneliness did nothing but build with little outlet.

So she drank the pain away. Smoked a cloud to hide behind. Self preservation went to shit as she sat back and wished for the time to come when she would see him again. Or not see anything at all. Fuck if she knew what came after this, and nothing would certainly be better than existing with the dull ache in her chest that refused to subside.

But she soon found the alcohol didn’t just provide comfort, it provided sight.

She could see him.

Talk to him.

Inebriation distorted the world, but it meant that he was in it once more. Or what was left behind. Even now, she doesn’t pretend to know what comes after all this. She doesn’t pretend, and she doesn’t question. Wouldn’t question. Never. Not if it would risk whatever additional time she was being given right now.

Ghosts were real. He was real. And he was about to get her involved in a plot that any sane person wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole.

Good thing her sense of self preservation had already went to shit.

[rrechevarria]

Hunger - Halloween 2023 short story

Just woke up from like 15 hours of sleep with this short story in mind so I put it down.

I guess it qualifies as horror? It's kinda nasty

Hunger

Her flesh was sweet and tender, and it went down his broken throat so easily that the pleasure rattled against the sheer horror of what his body was doing. Blood dripped down his chin as he kept chewing on her forearm. Tears seasoned the girl’s corpse, escaping out of desperation. He supposed that was why they called the undead “criers.”

The poor girl under him had been a barista at the local coffee shop. A sweet girl with golden skin and raven hair that had been the muse for a song that became popular in their small town. The names of the musician, of the girl, and even the town eluded his mind, just like his own name. Once, he was a man. Now he was hunger incarnate, a ball of pain and desperation with no control over his own body.

He idly remembered wanting to ask her out as he bit her neck and felt the blood gush into him. Delicious, sweet. He bit off a chunk of meat and swallowed it. The hunger receded for a second before his body asked for more.

Lights pierced the night. Fog swirled around him, and a memory of a child running across the mists pretending to be chased by monsters summoned more tears. Blood replaced the liquids his body wasted as he drank. The girl looked so pale now, and he wanted to apologize. It was not him; it was whatever horrible curse that took control of his body. Not that it made him as much of a victim as her. Apologies died in his mind, all suppressed by the craving in his body.

Voices echoed following the flashlights. More food ambled towards him. His body growled before gorging faster. His hand clawed at her face, ripping off her eyeball. The sane part of him wanted his body to gag, to puke it out, but the hunger won, and it swallowed it.

It always won.

Footsteps approached. He begged his body to move, to step away from the meal for just a moment, but it refused. Bones snapped between his teeth, and a sharp bit stabbed his tongue. Pain shot up to join the melody racking his body.

And once again, the hunger won out, and his mouth met flesh.

Someone screamed, and footsteps grew louder. A flash painted the world white. Extra pains flooded him. His body rolled away from the girl, snarling, spittle and blood rushing out of his mouth.

The newcomers wore thick clothes wrapped with tape; their every inch of meat concealed. His body raged at the idea. Meat should be easy to consume. His mind blessed them for their precaution.

A shotgun blasted, and his body quivered on the ground. The projectiles ripped parts of his arm and his chest away, but it didn’t matter.

Eat well, his grandmother always insisted, because he had to take care of his body. He wanted to laugh at it. Laugh at the entire world. Another shot echoed in the night, and he watched as his left arm flopped to the ground. His body stood and limped towards the man.

Screams echoed from his mind, but they never reached the body. Silent, blood dripping from his mouth, the body ambled on, low growls leaving his throat.

Please, he begged the man, trying his hardest to send a telepathic message. Please blow my head off.

“Shit, I’ve seen that guy,” one man said. “Worked at the grocery. Shit, shit. Is that Betty?”

“Doesn’t matter,” the shotgun wielder said. “If you knew this man, mourn him.”

“Wait,” a woman said, pushing the shotgun down. “Thing’s got a broken leg and. We can take this one.”

“We have five already,” the shotgun man said. “How many do you think the freaks at HQ need?”

“As many as we can give them. I know it’s a bother to carry it so far, but they pay good money.” A badge flashed on her chest.

Money. He wanted to laugh once more. They still thought about money. The world would go on, relentless, and he would be nothing but a plaything to whoever those people were.

“Fine, then. Bring the chains.” The man lowered the shotgun, and his flashlight revealed eyes full of mirth under the sunglasses protecting his eyes.

Tears streamed down his face as he realized the hunger would never end.

[we-pay-for-everything]

I agree with all of your Stefan/Elena similarities and differences! I think the difference that always leaps out at me is their morality and view of the world? As you noted, Elena is more flexible/adaptable, and so by extension her morality is a less rigid and more personal one while Stefan adheres more strongly to fundamental notions of right and wrong. So for example (and nothing in the TVDverse is wholly consistent, so I'm sure there are exceptions, but bear with me!), Stefan is nearly always against 'compelling' someone for obvious reasons, while Elena agrees that compelling is generally wrong but will decide that in certain situations and circumstances, compelling is actually the best option. And in that way Elena is actually more like Damon, following her heart and doing whatever she thinks she needs to for the people she cares about while Stefan, though obviously caring about his loved ones, also cares just as much for objective notions of 'good' and 'right.' Let's pretend this makes sense :)

It does make sense! I was going to mention the compulsion too! In season 1, when Vickie dies and Damon offers to compel Jeremy to forget her, Stefan's a bit hesitant but Elena insists it's the right thing to do. She refuses to be compelled though, because she needs to remember. Fastforward to season 6 and she's now in Jeremy's shoes. This time, she wants to be compelled, but Stefan still would never.

Stefan's pretty flexible and usually agrees to do whatever Elena or Damon want if that's what the situation calls for. Yet, I'd argue that it's a different type of pragmatism from Elena's. He's more receptive to other people's suggestions than Elena too. She's more stubborn by far.

The point about Elena's morality being personal to her is such a good one and it tracks. Obviously, Elena's relationship with Damon requires her to bend her morals to some extent, but her acceptance of Stefan, Caroline, Jeremy, Bonnie, Tyler, etc. requires that too. It's hard to put into words the differences between Elena and Stefan... Stefan's seen and done a lot of shit. His morals are definitely pretty loose, but he always shows empathy for people. I don't think Elena and Stefan are too different, but Elena always had the edge on Stefan.

For example, she believed in family, and because of it saved Damon's life many times in season 1. Eventually, her motivations shifted and she began protecting him because she cared for him too. If you think about it though, that was a big deal. Unlike Stefan, Elena was not morally compromised - no sane human character was as willing to forgive and trust Damon as her. I think that, to Elena, loyalty and family are more important than right and wrong. Thus, Damon being Stefan's brother and loyal to her trumped all his sins.

Elena had this kind of moral relativism from the beginning, while it took the other characters a few life changing experiences to get to that point (they didn't have a choice either). That's something that's pretty outstanding about Elena. Remember how human Stefan told his father about Katherine because he couldn't lie and wanted to save Katherine and believe in his father? Damon told him not to do it but he did it anyway. I doubt Elena would've made the same mistake. Stefan was way more naive at 17 than Elena was. He had to learn to become flexible with his morals, and, really, he had no choice in the matter. He was initially an idealist, and he never stopped straddling that line between idealism and pragmatism. (Wasn't that one of the reasons why he died for Damon? Because it was the right thing to do?) But Elena was always more adaptable and that is reflected on her morals as well. Vampire Elena is especially different from Stefan though. Human Elena had more empathy for Rebekah and Katherine than vampire Elena did. Vampire Elena, unlike Stefan, couldn't show them too much compassion. (But Stefan had a romantic past with them, so it made sense he'd be more forgiving and patient...)

I don't know, like you said, the show wasn't super consistent. But I get what you mean about Stefan valuing right and wrong more. Elena was guided by a sense of empathy and also by a desire to protect her loved ones. Stefan was guided by those same principles, yet that empathy was more unconditional, more rooted in the ideal. In a way, he was more forgiving and compassionate than Elena. I'm trying to think of a good example, but Klaus, Katherine and Rebekah - people Stefan showed bigger compassion for than Elena - were also people he had good memories of and a complicated past with (unlike Elena who'd only been hurt by them). Do you have better examples, haha?

Wow, it's really hard to articulate their differences. On a surface level, they're so similar, yet their motivations are slightly different. The difference is so small, though, that it's hard to even put into words. Another example: Elena and Stefan are incredibly loyal and value the idea of family - yet, to Elena, family are those she loves and who are loyal to her, while Stefan sees family as blood relations and wants to protect the family ideal. What I mean is that he had a hard time giving up on Damon and his mother, or accepting his father was an asshole; he protected the Salvatores even though they didn't care that much for him. That was partly due to him being a good and loyal person and partly because it's obviously hard to give up on those you love; mostly, though, he wanted to protect his family because it was his family. Elena didn't have any family left either, but she was never as interested in the idea of having a family as much as was in protecting the family who protected her back. Even after she learns that John and Isobel are her birth parents, her guard remains up; she mourns their deaths for sure, but Stefan, at her age, would've had a much harder time with them. Stefan learned to let go of people yet decades later still struggled; Elena was so much better at it from such a young age. Is Elena less of an idealist than Stefan and thus more flexible? Or are her morals "looser" or more flexible because she's naturally more adaptable despite being an idealist too? Pretend that made sense!

Anyway, this was a mess, but thanks for the ask! I thought your reply was so interesting! Thanks for your support! Sorry again!!

[unohanadaydreams]

Polyandrous, sexy, hot relationship between fem reader and Shinji, Rose and Kensei😈😈😈🔥🔥🔥 (sorry, I had a typo in the previous ask😓🤭🙃😄)

Oh my god. Like, imagine being the filling between three captains….real hot girl shit.

Features: Smut, a lil angst, and me bending my back to make these three bang reader and each other.

this is fantasy not a how-to guide on poly relationships thanks.

largely unedited bc its thirst post tower content, and pretty much all consent is implied instead of strictly stated. i checked with all 4 of them though and they told ME it’s consensual. Except Kensei. He told me to fuck off ):

Triple Threat Team-up

(Shinji Hirako x Rose Otoribashi x Kensei Muguruma x F!Reader):

How it seeded:

The relationship started with Rose. He wooed you with his flowery words and romantic fashion, paired well with his cool demeanor. Although some of his ideas on love are dated, he’s not one you could call traditional.

As a group, the vizards have endured much and gained little unless they gave to each other. When Shinji walks in on you and Rose naked, using his shunpo to grab a CD before leaving, you find it odd. Rose does not.

He admits that most of the vizards have been some form of...thing at some time in the past. “You can’t be too shocked,” he says. “It’s hard to stay warm in a warehouse.” The phrasing is odd, letting you know there’s something more he means than winter temperatures.

How it took root:

Shinji is odd too. Casual, yet guarded in a way that becomes awkward should he be forced to relax. There is always a joke or gross face or biting word that keeps him at a distance.

The trick is alcohol, like it is for most people. Rose displays you, a bloom with glistening petals and fragrant scent at every private party he arranges. And eventually, Shinji stops finding reasons to flee, his fingers skimming your petal-soft skin as he kisses Rose.

The two of you lure Shinji in, kissing him softly, feeding him well, and paying him attention when he knocks on the window. Who doesn’t love a stray coaxed into domestication?

Rose speaks like he’s telling a story, his eyes most often on yours, his calloused fingers feeling their way down your body until you have to break the eye contact. You never feel like he’s playing you--using you like one does an instrument--, not at all. If anything, you feel as though he’s teaching you a dance, his steady instruction bringing you to revelation each lesson.

Shinji’s eyes are always, always moving to drink in your body as he moves with you, his mouth just as restless. He can never settle on the perfect position, always toying with having more of his body on yours versus more of your body on display. Each time is a revolving puzzle of moments that end well and make him want to test again.

Together, they are easily overwhelming, even when their focus is on each other. Rose’s proclivity for words gets Shinji’s skin flushed as much as yours. Shinji’s restless approach to sex keeps your eyes excited, the play of their bodies combining with the rise and fall of their voices to make for a thrilling, climactic show.

How it sprouted:

If anyone has taken the repositioning to the Seireitei like a bullet, it’s Kensei. He’s not one for shows of sentimentality, leaving the vizards in the human world be, half to keep from missing them and half to stay sane away from them. And the separation feels cruel, a sloppy sever somewhere inside of him that he refuses to see.

The news of Rose and Shinji sharing you wrinkles his nose at first. Really? Is it some kind of middle finger to the “Man”? Seems ostentatious, how open they are about it, like shoving their tongues down your throat in his personal quarters is acceptable. Sure, he’s cooking with his full, undivided attention on the kitchen, but Kensei still has ears. No way would he purposefully hone in on the wet sounds and mewling of you being pressed in between their bodies in the other room as his sauce breaks.

After a sound lecture, Rose and Shinji seem to get the message. Sort of. The couple nights a week that they insist are Kensei’s turn to cook, a nostalgic bit that squeezes his heart enough to agree to, still happen. But it’s just you and Kensei.

And eventually, Kensei can’t help but ask the questions he wants to know, albeit fueled by visible frustration. It’s aggressive and a bit mocking, how he asks, but you answer freely. Which doesn’t help. Just like waking up wet in the pants and sweaty night after night at the thought of picking you up and fucking you in front of Shinji and Rose to teach them a lesson on home etiquette doesn’t help.

The need and want and well of shitty fucking loneliness comes to a head when Rose and Shinji invite themselves back to dinner one night, Shinji’s hand toying with your thigh as Rose whispers something that glazes your eyes.

One of the pots over boils when Shinji palms between your legs with one hand, his other coaxing a saucer of sake past your lips. Rose is between you and Shinji, his fingers kneading your waists.

That’s it, really. The food getting fucked over by his own inattention. The way your thighs are shaking as your kimono is un-tucked. The far too comfortable looks on Shinij and Rose’s degenerate fucking faces.

He makes what he’s been dreaming about for months into a reality, your squeaking morphing into low moans as he pounds into you, picking you up and away from the other two vizards each time they reach for you. They even beg a little and Kensei ignores their panting, their playing with one another, and pretends he’s teaching them a lesson.

How it blossomed:

Alcohol, food, and sex can’t soothe every tear, but they patch up enough to keep the wheels of your relationship greased. The sober statement that you are all in a relationship with each other does hit one of you with a splitting force at times. It’s not uncommon for someone to pull away, unsure how much their needed, wanted, or meant for such a thing.

But there are always enough hands to come around them, reassuring them back.

Kensei doesn’t lose his prickly sensibilities, almost never letting more than one of you touch him at once. He favors positions where he’s able to stand or kneel above one or two people, close enough be inside someone, but far enough to get away should be too much for him. Kensei is most uncomfortable fucking Rose; the dirty words constantly dripping from Rose’s lips and his eyes so focused on Kensei’s over stimulating. Kensei usually presses a hand over his face, muffling his look and words in one swift move.

He likes everyone having their place, approaching sex with three other people like a scene he’s seen before. Kensei loves attention, too. Rarely, he’ll let that show. Dropping his need to be in charge, he’ll let all three of you treat him to the full weight of your bodies and all that comes with it, usually three hands tugging cum to spill over his stomach as all of your mouths leave dark marks over the span of his body. Usually, he wants someone to drive into or a head to force deeper on his cock.

Rose loves those times the most, where everyone is stripped bare of their baggage, just bodies reaching for one another. Like those concerts where everyone is squished together, all feeling the music separately but together. His enjoyment of having some control is less about the power and more about the flow--it’s easier to make the ending come at just the right time when there isn’t a meaty hand squishing his face into the mattress. Anything that leaves his mouth free pleases him, especially if he’s able to drape himself over or in between bodies, guiding them closer to orgasm with verbal and physical encouragement.

Shinji doesn’t care about the positions or pace or anything outside of him being involved. He’s there and that’s vulnerability in itself. Saying that, the playing that thrills him most is the kind that makes him feel like he’s spilling over from contact alone. His body pressed under yours, his cock sliding at your back as you’re fucked above him. Or someone being hugged to him as he lays on his side, both he and them being fucked closer. His mouth is always happy to be at work, the flat of his tongue flicking his piercing over hot, puffy flesh.

Over all, your sex life probably has a color coated calendar--courtesy of Kensei--and you’re often doing overtime if you’re counting orgasms as work.