#IM GOING TO GODDAMN IM/EXPLODE SIMULTANEOUSLY

[1980ssunflower]

LOOK at my FUCKING husbands BOY!!!!!!!!!!!

[pixlostinatos]

SO WHAT IS BEASTLIFE'S "FRIDAY LEAGUE"?

howdy all! as one of the very small number of people qualified to summarize the first two seasons of friday league, im here to give the frileague counterpart of @mcybree's satleague summary! that said, my memory retention abilities leave much to be desired, so please bear with me.

Beastlife is a fan-hosted life series by unidingo. It is currently on its fourth season, but there are two leagues that run simultaneously; this summary covers Friday League only, which is on its third season.

SEASON 1

as you may have guessed, friday league did not begin at the same time as saturday league. when satleague season 2 was first proposed, the idea of running a second league for people who couldnt make it to the saturday sessions was floated -- and what ended up happening was that we decided to run it two hours later in the day, and a significantly smaller group of people signed up.

as such, friday league couldnt run the double life gimmick of the paired satleague season -- instead, the five (kiiwiibird, vizquiche, unidingo, ekerlense, and jackofowltrades) ran a standard third life ruleset in a snowy and mountainous world.

vizquiche (hereafter referred to as "buiche", short for "beast quiche") went yellow almost immediately because they went mining without creating any sort of weapon and a zombie attacked them. naturally, it is mocked relentlessly

despite the mockery, eker and jack also lost their first lives very quickly -- jack to a zombie in a hole, eker lost his bc she and kiki went to a fucking pillager outpost within the first 10 minutes of the session

dingo fucked off to the caves. i genuinely have no idea what was going on over there but dingo and jack were both just kinda doing their own thing while the other three were Loring It Up

eker and buiche decided to stick together as the first two yellows. they chased kiwi around as he panicked and ran because he tried to apologize to eker for the pillager thing and asked what eker would want in order to forgive him. eker said all it wanted was its life back. eventually buiche and eker lost kikis trail as he fled back to his home in the mountains

eker went red before the break bc he got trapped under ice and drowned. buiche laughed and said it knew better than to do that.

either dingo or kiwi has died once by now? i think it was dingo

immediately after the break ended buiche decided to explore a little pool in the cave it and eker had decided to hide in when they logged out. as you may expect, it promptly got trapped under ice and drowned.

jack gets shot by a skeleton. the official life count is now 1 green, 1 yellow, 3 reds.

eker convinces buiche to go caving with them! surely nothing bad will happen

a creeper explodes in buiches face. oops bye buiche

eker builds a little mausoleum over buiches bed near the house the two had been building. with deemgos/gods permission, eker is allowed to do a little seance so buiches ghost can tell them where it put their sheep

jack dies. to another skeleton.

session 1 ends with one person on each life color yay!

kiwi builds a sacrificial altar for eker to kill him on because theyre gay and also he doesnt wanna be the only green anymore

eker kills him

dingo dies twice??? i genuinely have no idea what happened over there dingo pls elaborate

kiwi and eker have this long fun talk. eker kills kiwi again

eker is chasing kiwi down to kill him a third time

a skeleton shoots kiwi off the cliff

eker jumps after kiwi

the skeleton shoots eker as he is also falling

they die hand in unlovable goddamn hand

alexa play no children by the mountain goats. eker is the winner and has not been present in frileague since.

this was not canonized until late season 3 of saturday league, however, "friday league kiwi" is also a member of the system that kiiwii and peregriine (and duckiie) are part of, known as fiinch. fiinch also appears in the current season of beastlife!

Season 2

technically friday league's season 2 used the same last life styled gimmick as saturday league season 3, sans the boogeyman mechanic out of respect for the significantly smaller crew. kiwi and eker are not present this season; instead sonic sonicmike4077 mike, phia phiala, and tom tomscryingcorner joined in the fun, leaving us with a group of 6, briefly.

friday league's secondary gimmick for the season was that everyone was dumped on a deserted, desert island with only a stack of steak, some bamboo, a cherry sapling, and a single grass block apiece. a shipwreck is available to loot for.....wood and not much else, honestly.

dingo once again sets off to do their own thing. they get set up pretty handily with sheep and a mob farm

sonic and tom go exploring for more resources! turns out, deemgo forgot to set the world border. oops

this is quickly rectified, and sonic and tom are not allowed to keep their illicit gains. the lives they lose when the world border is set up ARE returned, however, since its not their fault the border wasnt there in the first place.

phia goes red within the first hour

everyone except phia (red) and dingo (knows what theyre doing) all band together to create the warren, a little communal mine/storage/house area named for the many rabbit heads buiche plastered above the door. the building was also intentionally built to be as ugly as they could get it with their limited resources.

jack and buiche spend most of their time mining for the first few sessions

tom starts working on a big birdhouse-styled building to live in

echidna of satleague fame possesses jack once or twice because of irl scheduling conflicts

everyone all stops what theyre doing to fish when it rains

genuinely its all just a very chill time. kinda hard for alliances to have issues with each other when theres not enough people for multiple alliances tbh

sonic, who only was granted two lives by the last life gatcha, loses his first life

phia has to quit frileague due to scheduling conflicts, sadly -- but even though she was the first out, we dont count her as the first permadeath of the season. dw its fine shes back for skyfall

buiche loses their second life, bringing it down to red as well

it abandons the warren, assuming itself to no longer be welcome now that shes dangerous. he starts work on another new house and a very ineffective mob farm. they call it "blood isle". when sonic drops by, buiche tells her that hes always welcome at blood isle and that as reds, they ought to stick together. sonic gives buiche some fireworks and agrees to return later.

sonic dies to a creeper.

buiche builds a little grave for sonic, as eker did for it in s1, putting a sign up telling him to "Rest in Violence".

a funeral party is held at the spawn campfire+cactus ring. a second memorial for sonic is built, telling her to rest in piece

sonics ghost tells quiche that he wants it to win. a creeper almost immediately blows up right in front of it. it survives but sonic scolds it for almost dying the same way she did right after she had placed his faith in it.

dingo steals a diamond sword and a very good bow enchantment book that buiche fished up from their front room chest.

buiche goes looking for its stolen items, and perhaps to steal from dingo itself, but cant find anything.

tom is still working on his house, and jack has started building a defensible cobble tower. chill times at the warren.

dingo and buiche fish together for a bit

sonics ghost is getting bored with everything staying so calm on the server despite buiche being a red name, so he starts urging them to kill. it pushes back a little, but without much convincing it gears up

reluctant to go after its day one ally alin jack, and fearful of dingos overall preparedness, it decides to go after tom

it kills him, she immediately turns around and, a red name now herself, kills buiche despite its pleas to talk about this. its awful and hilarious and awesome all at the same time. @dykevotions pls attach the clip im begging you

jack (yellow) and tom (red) decide to go on a bit of a hog hunt, as dingo is still on dark green

between the two of them, they actually manage to get dingo down to yellow before dingo kills tom, and jack brings dingo doown to red with him before he, too, falls, leaving dingo the winner of the season.

jack unfortunately has to leave future seasons due to scheduling conflicts, but we wish him the best!

buiche, about a week or two after the end of the friday league season, goes and possesses space since space cant make it to the first half of the satleague session. its a nightmare but buiche mentions it in frileague s3 a fair few times so i feel its important to bring up

finally this brings us to season 3, which is the current season!

im not going to summarize it here, in part because it is still ongoing, and partially because there's more people so there is a lot more going on to keep track of. i know kiwi, tom, and fishie have been releasing videos of this season, and vizquiche has plans to as well, so you have a few possible povs to choose from! happy beasting!

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

72 Hours In Montreal [Part I]

A/N: Many moons ago, the incomparably lovely @im-an-adult-ish​ pitched a Montreal concert fic idea (jokingly, I think), and quite a few of my followers fell in love with it. They were even kind enough to vote on which Queen member should be the love interest, and there was a clear winner: John! 

I couldn’t get the idea out of my head, and at last, here is the first of three chapters of this new mini-fic. I’m going to tag some of my past readers, but I WILL NOT TAG YOU AGAIN unless you ask me to. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy. 💜

Series Summary: John Deacon is a rock star at a crossroads. Y/N is a world-weary employee at a Yankee Candle shop. They’ll only ever have three short days in Montreal together...or will they??

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (not graphic). 

Word Count: 6.8k.

Other Chapters (And All My Writing) Available: HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​ @bramblesforbreakfast​ @culturefiendtrashqueen​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​ @escabell​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @queenlover05​ @someforeigntragedy​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhyee​ @deacyblues​ @tensecondvacation​ @brianssixpence​ @some-major-ishues​ @haileymorelikestupid​ @youngpastafanmug​ @simonedk​ @rhapsodyrecs​ ​​​ @joemazzmatazz​​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhyee​​ @namelesslosers​​ @inthegardensofourminds​​ @sleepretreat​​ @hardyshoe​​​ @sevenseasofcats​​ @jennyggggrrr​​ @madeinheavxn​​ @whatgoeson-itslate​​​ @herewegoagainniall​​ @anotheronewritesthedust1​​ @pomjompish​​ @allauraleigh​​  @bluutac​​ @johndeaconshands​​ 

The obnoxious British men are still laughing. The one with the mustache, suspenders, and illogically tight red leather pants is standing on the tiptoes of his equally red Adidas shoes to paw candles off the top shelf so he can sniff them. The blond one has no less than eight jars balanced precariously in his wiry arms. Journey’s Don’t Stop Believing is billowing through the shop speakers.

“Oh my god, he’s gonna break something,” you moan in a whisper, covering your eyes but peeking through your fingers. Your apron is suddenly too tight around your waist; your cheeks are roaring with blood as you envision the inevitable confrontation: Sir, unfortunately you ruined some of our giant tacky overpriced candles and so now you have to pay for them. So sorry. Paper or plastic? We take Mastercard.

“Who?” Kevin asks. He’s holding a broom in one pudgy, pinkish hand and a dustpan in the other. He has surrendered.

“That one. Suspenders and moustache guy. Red shoes guy. Dorothy without Toto.”

Kevin cracks a smile. “That is frighteningly accurate. He is rather whimsical, isn’t he? Maybe he’ll click his heels and disappear back to London or wherever.”

“We aren’t in Kansas anymore,” you mutter in commiseration. Actually, to be perfectly literal, you’ve never been to Kansas in your life.

“Wait, I think I might have met that guy before somewhere.” Kevin squints with great concentration. “He looks oddly familiar…”

“Hm.” You check your eyeliner wings in your reflection in the cash register screen. From what you can tell, they’re every bit as tragically asymmetrical as you remembered. Spectacular.

“Staring won’t make it better,” Kevin notes, very unhelpfully.

“I know,” you reply, miserable, toying with your bangs so you can hide behind them.

“How does that even happen? The right one is practically a 90-degree angle. The left one looks like you drew it on with a Sharpie.”

You groan. “I’ll try to scrub them off during my break.”

“If you’re not too busy helping me sweep glass off the floor, sure,” Kevin says. “I told you, I took an electrical engineering class as an elective once. I could totally take a look at your bathroom.”

“I thought you said you failed that class.”

“No, I said I got a D in that class. Ds aren’t failing.”

“Well now you’ve convinced me.” You scrutinize your reflection again, frowning. You rent a rather dilapidated one-bedroom apartment above a bakery just a few blocks from the Yankee Candle shop. The apartment always smells like powdered sugar and baking bread, which you like. What you don’t like is everything else about it: the peeling paint, the low water pressure, the windows that you can’t wrestle open, the occasional mice, the shoddy electrical wiring. On any given day, there’s an approximately 27% chance that the bathroom light won’t turn on when you flip the switch. This morning you had been on the losing side of those odds, and with the only mirror in the apartment being the one mounted over the sink—and the overcast November skies outside offering painfully little natural light—you had haphazardly guesstimated your way through your makeup routine before dashing off to work. Your guesstimation skills, apparently, are not all that great.

“If he’s The Wizard of Oz...” Kevin points his broom handle from the snickering moustached man to the gangly, poodle-haired one who has been trying to decide between two candles—Christmas Cookie and Cinnamon Stick—for twelve uninterrupted minutes. He’s wearing a parka spotted with patches: a NASA emblem, a soaring rocket, a smiling green extraterrestrial face, Saturn and its rings. “That guy’s gotta be Star Wars.”

“Or Alien,” you suggest, clutching your chest and pretending to die melodramatically.

Kevin laughs. “2001: A Space Odyssey.”

“Close Encounters of The Third Kind.”

“What about that one?” Kevin nods to the guy who has large blue eyes and bleach-blond, fried tufts of hair sticking out in every direction and a grin that is simultaneously childish and foxlike. Under Pressure comes on the shop speakers, and the British men all start cheering and high-fiving each other, leaving their candles momentarily tucked under their arms or quivering precariously on the edges of wooden display tables. You are entirely mystified. “God, he’s gorgeous.”

“Bye Bye Birdie,” you decide. “Beautiful. Charming. Beloved by all. Perhaps a little dangerous. I can picture teenage girls sobbing themselves to sleep as he gallantly marches off to war.”

“You think he’s gay?” Kevin asks hopefully.

“I don’t think he’s dressed well enough for that.” The blond man is wearing a shapeless, polka-dotted sweater that has ‘NIVEA’ spelled across the front, for reasons that are difficult to fathom.

Kevin sighs, crestfallen. He suffered a nasty breakup with his boyfriend Patrick two weeks ago, and is enthusiastically on the hunt for a rebound to distract him. “You’re probably right. Okay, last but not least.” Kevin aims his broom handle at the fourth and final British stranger. “What shall we call him?”

You consider the man who has wandered away from the others. He’s wearing Levi’s, a black bomber jacket, aviator sunglasses, a mop of unwrangled auburn hair, thoughtful lines that break around the corners of his hidden eyes. He is browsing unhurriedly, perhaps even distractedly, through the fruit-scented candles. He picks up a jar of Macintosh Apple, sniffs a few times, then sets it back down precisely where he found it. He even spins the jar so it’s label-side-facing-outwards again. You warm to him immediately.  

“One of the James Bond movies?” Kevin offers. “He seems…enigmatic somehow. Esoteric. Yet still clearly leading man material.”

“Casablanca,” you say, not tearing your gaze from the stranger. “I can imagine him waving off some old flame on a foggy, night-draped airport runway, breaking hearts with sparse words of wisdom. Can’t you?”

“Oh, that’s exactly right!” Kevin sighs again, dreamily, yearningly. And whether he’s yearning for his ex-boyfriend Patrick or Bye Bye Birdie a.k.a. NIVEA-sweater man or passion or sex or love or maybe just the ineffable high that accompanies the beginnings of things, you couldn’t say.

You peer at your reflection in the cash register screen once again, feeling more self-conscious than ever. “Maybe if I—”

“Freddie!” Star Wars cries, and you whirl just in time to see The Wizard of Oz, whizzing around and giggling and preoccupied with teasing NIVEA-sweater man, stumble into the six-foot-tall tower of Christmas Tree-scented candles and send countless jars crashing to the tile floor.

“I knew it!” you unleash in a rush of misery and exasperation, the biting threat of tears in your eyes and the back of your throat. And of course, it isn’t just about the mess on the floor, it isn’t just about having to tell your manager and hoping to God he doesn’t fire you. It’s about your derelict apartment, it’s about your fucked up eyeliner, it’s about everything that’s happened in the past eighteen months; it’s about the never-ending feelings of helplessness and inertia and predestined ruin, it’s about not being able to get fifteen meters down the street before life throws up another red light, another jagged sinkhole gaping like ravenous jaws. And none of that is these ridiculous British men’s fault; yet still, in that moment the fury you feel towards them is overwhelming.

“Jesus christ,” Kevin mumbles, stepping out from behind the counter to survey the damage, his hands still clutching the broom and dustbin.

“You couldn’t just mosey around and ask which candles are on sale and maybe sniff one or two like a normal person?!” you explode. “You had to come in here acting like goddamn animals and destroy like a third of our inventory?!”

“I’m so sorry,” The Wizard of Oz sputters, looking at you and Kevin with wide, profusely apologetic dark eyes. Star Wars and NIVEA-sweater man are helping him to his feet, albeit with very spirited chidings. Kevin is grudgingly asking if he’s alright. Casablanca is already trying to sort through which candles are broken and putting those that survived aside. And when he casts furtive glances from behind his aviator sunglasses, they’re directed not at Kevin or The Wizard of Oz but at you.

“Freddie, bloody hell,” NIVEA-sweater man laments.

“I’ll pay for them all,” The Wizard of Oz tells you. “I’m so, so, so terribly sorry, you’re absolutely right to be cross with me, and I’ll pay for everything. Here, let me get my wallet…” He digs around in the pockets of his preposterously tight red leather pants.

“Uh…sir…” Kevin begins uncertainly, not wanting to break the bad news.

“It’s going to be hundreds of dollars,” you inform The Wizard of Oz. “Maybe over a thousand. You’re really going to pay that? Or are you just going to wait until we start sweeping up and then sprint out the front door the first chance you get?”

“Hey,” Kevin warns you quietly. He wants you to keep this job probably even more than you do. You are, by his own admission, far and away his favorite coworker.

“No, no, darling, please, let her scold me, I deserve it.” The Wizard of Oz at last locates his wallet. He sashays to the counter, brushing nuggets of glittering glass off his clothes, and counts out two thousand Canadian dollars in hundreds. “Will that do? You can keep the change as compensation for the inconvenience. And we’ll help clean up as well, has anyone got an extra broom?”

As you stare down at the money, shocked into speechlessness, three hulking men dressed in black come barreling into the shop.

“Lord in heaven, Freddie, what happened?!” one asks. He has a thick beard and an Irish accent and closely resembles a grizzly bear.

“I made a complete ass out of myself and am now trying to win the affections of this marvelous creature,” The Wizard of Oz replies, flourishing a hand towards you. “Is it working, dear?”

“Kind of,” you admit, still stunned.

“Oh my god.” The broom tumbles out of Kevin’s grasp and clatters on the floor. He points at The Wizard of Oz. “I know where I’ve seen you before. You…you…you’re Freddie Mercury, right?”

In reply, The Wizard of Oz only flashes an enormous, toothy, dazzling grin.

“Oh my god,” Kevin says again, a starry, awed smile rippling across his round face.

“Please don’t make his ego any bigger,” Star Wars pleads.

“And you’re Brian May!” Kevin replies. “And you’re…” He turns to NIVEA-sweater man, snapping his fingers, trying to remember. “Robbie…no, Ronnie…uh…Ricky…?”

“Roger Taylor.” But it comes out like ‘Rogah Taylah.’ NIVEA-sweater man extends a hand for Kevin to shake, not the least bit offended. “It’s a pleasure. Sorry about the candles.”

“No problem, sir!” Kevin squeaks as he takes Roger’s hand, beaming. The men in black—the band’s security, you’ve gathered—have descended upon the crime scene, confiscated Kevin’s broom and dustbin, and are rapidly clearing glass and chunks of candlewax from the floor and discarding the mess in a trash bin that usually collects only chewed gum and unwanted receipts.

“So I guess I probably shouldn’t have yelled at you,” you tell Freddie Mercury guiltily, all the venom in your voice evaporated. You’re no Queen superfan, true, but everyone knows the words to Bohemian Rhapsody and We Will Rock You and We Are The Champions. And Another One Bites The Dust. And Killer Queen. And Crazy Little Thing Called Love. And Somebody To Love. Your thoughts are suddenly a racing, indecipherable blur. Your knees are boneless. You’ve never met a celebrity before. Well, not unless you count professional hockey players, which you definitely don’t.

“No, you absolutely should have,” Freddie retorts. “I was dreadfully discourteous. I’m positively mortified about it. I should be punished severely. Have you got anything behind the counter to whip me with? A riding crop, perhaps?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Not that I know of. I’m sorry I called you an animal.”

“I’m sorry about the candles. There, now we’re even. Wait, not quite yet.” He calls over to Kevin: “Darling, how would you and your friend like front row seats at our show tonight?”

The squeal that bursts out of Kevin is not human.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Freddie Mercury says, very pleased.

“This is really too generous of you,” you protest, although your heart isn’t in it; Kevin might legitimately strangle you if you screw this up, and you’re finding that you want to see Queen in concert too. It’s something to interrupt the powerless, unrelenting monotony; it’s like something that might happen in a movie or a dream.

“Nonsense!” Freddie announces cheerfully. Star Wars and NIVEA-sweater man—or, rather, Brian and Roger—are chatting with the security guys and nodding along as the bearlike Irishman reviews the day’s itinerary.

You peer over at Casablanca. Now that the floor is mostly clear, he’s migrating towards you and Freddie. You glance apprehensively down at your reflection. “Goddammit,” you mutter, manipulating your bangs again, wishing you could disappear. “I meet a rock star for the first time ever and I look like this.”

“It’s not that bad,” Kevin says, obviously lying.

“I like it,” Freddie tells you, propping his elbows on the counter and resting his chin on his knuckles. “It’s very goth raccoon chic.”

“My bathroom light wouldn’t turn on this morning and I was late for work and I guesstimated and that was clearly a poor decision.” Poor decisions are my expertise, you think instinctively, and feel a tug of something you don’t quite have the words for. Shame, grief, disappointment, a raw sting like a flame beneath your palm, a dread like a child who’s lost their mother’s hand.  

“I’ve offered to take a look at the wiring!” Kevin exclaims. “I told you, a D is passing!”

“Kev, babe,” you reply. “I really, truly appreciate your enthusiasm, but you’ll probably just make it worse. And then my landlord will hate me and keep my security deposit and write me awful references and I’ll have to live in an endless string of ancient, hideous apartments until I die.”

“It’s an electrical problem?” Casablanca asks, pushing his aviator sunglasses up into his unruly hair. His unveiled eyes are a blueish grey—they remind you of one of the candles, maybe Beach Walk or Bahama Breeze—and very direct. He stares at you and you stare back, and at some point you realize that everyone is waiting for you to answer.

“Oh, uh, yeah, I guess so. Sometimes nothing happens when I flip the switch. That’s the extent of my handyman knowledge, unfortunately.”

Casablanca nods. “I could take a look, if you like.”

Not Beach Walk. Not Bahama Breeze. Warm Luxe Cashmere, maybe. “Now that really is too generous. I couldn’t possibly put a rock star to work on my terrible apartment.”

“John’s got a degree in electrical engineering, that’s right in his wheelhouse,” Brian counters.

“Yes,” Roger says, grinning, teasing in a way that has absolutely no malice in it. “He’s more of an engineer than a rock star anyway, isn’t he?”

“Seriously?” Casablanca—John, you mentally correct yourself—doesn’t seem much like an electrical engineer. But Roger’s right: he doesn’t really seem like a rock star, either. What John seems like is steady and abiding and perceptive, attentive, unflinching. He studies you like some people study paintings, like you once studied paintings; not in a passing-by-in-a-crowded-hallway type way but in a patient way, a methodical way, with the quiet that comes from knowing that vision in the frame is older than you will ever be and will still be hanging on that wall when you’re bones in a box somewhere.

Freddie lights a cigarette and puffs on it decadently. Smoking definitely isn’t allowed inside the Yankee Candle shop, but you aren’t about to snap at Freddie Mercury for the second time today. “Oh, let him tinker around in your flat, darling. It’ll make his day.”

“Is it far?” John asks you.

“No, really, Casa…uh, I mean, John, I appreciate the offer more than I could possibly express but I—”

“It’s just a few blocks north,” Kevin says, and tosses you a wily smile.

“How convenient!” Freddie trills. “When does your shift end, dear?”

“Not until 5:30.”

“She can take a long lunch break.” Another smile from Kevin. “Honestly, there’s not much to do around here now that the Great Candle Massacre of 1981 has been remediated.”

“Splendid!” Freddie says, radiant.

You shake your head, very slowly. “This is the weirdest day of my life.”

“Then you clearly haven’t lived enough,” Freddie quips.

“Fred!” Roger presses. “Are we going to the bookstore down the street or not? That was the whole deal, we suffer through your candles, you suffer through our books.”

“You didn’t seem to be suffering,” Brian says.

“Of course I’m suffering. That cashier over there almost murdered me,” Roger slings back.  

Freddie sighs and rolls his large, dark, expressive eyes. “Yes, darling, of course, don’t give yourself an aneurism. We’ll go to the bookstore, John can rendezvous with us later.” Now he turns to you. “We’ll send a car to your flat at 7 to pick you and Kevin up for the show tonight. Don’t let John leave without knowing your address. Wear something deliciously opulent. Lots of sparkle. Maybe furs.”

“I make eight dollars an hour,” you tell him.  

“Or you could just wear nothing.”

“Sparkle and furs it is.”

Freddie chuckles and turns to the men in black. “Chubby, my dear?”

The towering bearlike Irishman replies: “Yeah, I’ll go with John. Don’t wreck anything else while I’m gone. Don’t get yourselves deported before the show. EMI will have your heads on spikes.”

Freddie pretends to be scandalized. “Causing destruction? We would never.” He saunters towards the shop door, jingling the bells as he swings it open, and waves like royalty. “See you tonight, darlings!”

“Bye!” Kevin shouts after him. And then, after Freddie, Roger, Brian, and the two non-bearlike men in black have departed: “Oh my god I just met Freddie Mercury and he’s amazing and he knows I exist and he spoke to me and tonight he’s sending a car to take me to a concert and I’m going to have front row seats and what if he invites me to have a drink afterwards oh my god.”

John, evidently unaffected, prompts you: “So your place is just a few blocks away?”

“Yeah. Just let me get my coat…”

The man in black—Chubby, as Freddie had introduced him—fetches your coat off the rack by the door and holds it up so you can slip inside it. No one has ever done that for you before.

“…Thanks…?” You button your coat, feeling a little like royalty yourself at the moment.

John pulls open the door, the tiny metal bells jangling, and gestures out into the streets of downtown Montreal. He’s wearing his aviator sunglasses again; the November wind gusts through his hair. You catch threadbare ghosts of cigarette smoke and cologne that the breeze lifts from his skin like pages of a book. And he smiles, just barely. “After you.”

You walk north together along the path of the sidewalk with your hands in your pockets, your breath fog in the cold, weaving through the bustling crowds of tourists and holiday shoppers, Chubby trailing not far behind and displaying his talent for keeping watch while not letting on that he is. To even your own horror, you can’t seem to shut up.

“John, this is so kind of you, this is completely unnecessary, you really shouldn’t feel like you owe me anything because Freddie already paid for the candles twice over and I was totally unprofessional for yelling at customers, even annoying customers, and Kevin and I are already getting a free concert tonight and so—”

“Okay,” John says firmly. “You have to talk about something else now.”

“I can’t talk about anything else. All I can think about is how ridiculous this is.”

“Have you lived in Montreal long?” he asks, very casually, as if you’re strangers in line next to each other at Starbucks.

“My whole life.” Minus a little over three years, but you don’t need to get into that. “My parents live over in Verdun, right on the St. Lawrence River.

“Sounds scenic.”

“It certainly is.” You’re trying not to look at John, because every time you do it’s hard to stop. You look at the cars rolling by instead. “This is super embarrassing, and I don’t mean to offend you, but what exactly do you do in Queen?”

He’s not offended; he thinks it’s hilarious. “I’m the bassist.”

“Oh, that makes sense.”

“Does it?”

“Yeah, bassists are quiet and reliable or whatever. Bassists don’t terrorize Yankee Candle employees.”

“You’re not a Queen fan?”

“I’m a casual and appreciative listener, but I wouldn’t call myself a fan. I couldn’t pick any of you out of a lineup, clearly. Roger is the drummer, right?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Drummers are feral, almost universally. Which means Brian must be lead guitar.”

“And what do you think of lead guitarists?”

“Word on the street is that they are brilliant yet micromanaging egomaniacs, but I don’t want to bash your friend or anything.”

John chuckles, like there’s some joke you aren’t in on yet. “No, please, bash away. So you prefer bassists.”

And finally you do look at him, and you regret it immediately; because now you’re caught in the thoughtful crinkles around his eyes and the barely-there stubble of his cheeks and the playful curve of his lips and how the wind ruffles his auburn hair the same way it steals leaves off of slumbering trees. You almost walk right past the bakery. “Oh, wait, we’re here.”

You lead John and Chubby upstairs to your chronically irritating apartment. John removes his sunglasses, inspects your bathroom light switch, then asks if you have a specific kind of screwdriver. You bring him the toolkit that has lived beneath the kitchen sink since before you moved in and he roots around, finds what he’s searching for, and unfastens the light switch plate from the wall.

“Please don’t electrocute yourself,” you fret, as Chubby meanders around in the living room and tries not to intrude. “If you die your groupies will never forgive me.”

“Who says I’ve got groupies?” John replies, amused.

“I just assumed all rock stars do.” Your eyes flick down to his hands as he fidgets with the wiring; and you notice randomly—or, maybe, not all that randomly—that he’s not wearing a ring. You’re still ruminating over that when he returns the light switch plate to the wall, secures each of the four screws with a few deft twists of his wrist, and performs a test flip. The light turns on immediately.

“Mission accomplished,” John says mildly.

“What?! No, no way, no freaking way.” You flip the switch again. The light turns off and on obediently. You try it at least five more times. Perfection. “…How?!”

“Just a few loose wires. No great hardship.” He tucks the screwdriver back into the toolkit.  

You gape at him. “That took you…like…two minutes.”

“Aren’t you glad my band wandered into your candle shop and almost demolished the place today?” He rests his hands on his waist; his sturdy, skillful, ringless hands. “Anything else I can fix for you?”

“Definitely not.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

He stares at you. You stare back.

“Stop looking at my fucked up eyeliner.”

John laughs. It’s a delightfully clear, disarming sound. “That’s not what I was doing.”  

“I should fix my makeup and go back to work now. And you should probably go help your friends burn down the bookstore or blow up a Starbucks or do whatever else is on your agenda for today.”

“Soundcheck and dinner, actually,” John says. He slides the toolkit back beneath your kitchen sink, meets Chubby by the front door, and pauses there to give you one last lingering, laden gaze. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“In my best furs,” you purr in your most convincing Freddie Mercury impression.

“Or nothing at all,” John suggests levelly. And then he’s gone.

~~~~~~~~~~

It turns out better than you thought it would. Your tan, knee-high suede boots are celebratory without being too uncomfortable. Kevin brings you a faux fur jacket that he stole from Patrick during the breakup. You find a glittery black dress in the back of your closet that you once loved, then couldn’t stand to look at, then forgot existed entirely; but tonight it’s like you’re seeing it with brand new eyes. It fits even better than you remember. In the mirror, you look like a stranger and a hauntingly familiar acquaintance and yourself all at once.

Chubby arrives in a black limousine at precisely 7pm, parks along the curb next to the bakery, and honks the horn twice. You and Kevin dash down the narrow steps and climb into the backseat, finding complimentary cigarettes and bottled water and chilled champagne. As the limo rolls though Montreal under changing traffic lights, Kevin prattles on about the band, their history, their albums, their tours…and John in particular. He tries to tempt you. You resist valiantly…for the first fifteen minutes, anyway.

Finally, you sigh in capitulation. “Okay. Fine. I get it. What do you know about him?”

“I know he’s divorced,” Kevin says, wiggling his eyebrows. “I saw it on the cover of a tabloid a while back. Very contentious, spicy stuff. He’s got like eight kids.”

“He does not have eight kids!”

“Okay, maybe not eight. But he has a lot,” Kevin insists.

You rearrange your hair with deliberate flippantness. “What do I care if he’s divorced?”

Kevin grins. “You know why you care.”

“Stop,” you plead.

“Look, all I’m saying is that he definitely likes you. And you like him. And I haven’t seen you like anybody, ever, in the…wait, let me count…the nine whole months that I’ve known you. When was the last time you even had a boyfriend? When was the last time you got laid? Oh my god, it hasn’t been nine months, has it?! That’s way too long to go without sex. No wonder you’re so serious all the time. It all makes sense now. You poor thing. You’re in dick withdrawal.”

“Assuming that’s my problem—which it isn’t, by the way—if I wanted to get laid there are far easier ways to accomplish that.”

“Sure,” Kevin says. “But you don’t want just any dick. You want British bassist dick. John Deacon dick. Casablanca dick.”

“This friendship is terminated.”

Kevin cackles, pouring himself a glass of champagne that bubbles over the top and spills onto the limo floor. “I’m really glad you’re here with me. I’m glad we can do this together.”

You fill a champagne flute with bottled water and clink your glass against his, smiling. The limo is turning into the parking lot of the Montreal Forum. “Me too.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The backstage room that Chubby escorts you and Kevin to after the show is full of chatter and heavy smoke and roadies and fans and musicians and journalists, trays of hors d'oeuvres, wine and Stella Artois and vodka and tequila and rum, the electric promise of things that will go unmentioned in the morning. There are stacks of stereo speakers in the corner rumbling out Another One Bites The Dust. You and Kevin camp out on a green velvet couch—making small talk with each other to avoid making it with anyone else—until the band arrives.

John is still wearing his concert outfit: blue pants, blue shirt, a black leather jacket that gives him an edge like a knife. He passes out a few polite nods; but Freddie and Roger are undeniably the suns in this room, and the guests their planets. Freddie is soon surrounded by a constellation of followers and whisks Kevin away with him. John, meanwhile, comes straight to where you’re sitting on the couch and stands in front of you with his messy hair and his veil of cologne and his mystery-candle-blue eyes.

“Can I get you anything?” he asks in that calm, measured way that you’ve learned he has. “Rum and Coke? Moscow Mule? Hurricane? I’ve been on a mojito kick recently.”

“I don’t drink.” And you wait for the inevitable awkwardness that usually follows that sentence, when he says why? or seriously? or maybe just oh in wilted disappointment.

Instead, what John says is this: “No problem. Rum minus the Coke?”

You smile up at him. You can’t help yourself. “That would be perfect.”

There are innumerable drinks already poured on a table, dark carbonated liquid trembling in red plastic cups as the bass from the stereo speakers quakes through the crowded, droning, smoke-hazed room. John moves from cup to cup, taking tentative sips before shaking his head and putting them back down on the table. After each attempt, he casts you a rueful smirk before continuing on to the next cup. At last, he finds two unadulterated Cokes and brings them to the couch: one for you, and one for him. He sits beside you with one of his legs crossed over the other, a lit cigarette in his right hand, a red plastic cup of Coke in his left, and his eyes on you in a way that isn’t hungry or arrogant or restless but merely, benignly contemplative. You find yourself thinking of paintings in museums again, you even start to feel a little like one; and you wonder what colors he sees in you, what types of brushstrokes, what signatures scribbled in the corners of the canvas, what shadows painstakingly penciled in to mimic the angles of the sun.

You tell John about growing up in Montreal, about autumn strolls along the St. Lawrence River, about snowfalls and Mont-Royal and Chinatown and the Notre-Dame Basilica, about the exhilarating turmoil of the Summer Olympics in 1976. You tell him about how Kevin is in his last year at Concordia University and works part-time at the Yankee Candle shop for money to invest in his hair gel and travel fund. You tell him so many things he doesn’t notice all the parts you leave out. In return, John tells you about himself; not about John Deacon the bassist of Queen, but about the understated man who likes cars and electronics and the Beatles and tea in the evenings beside a roaring fireplace. And when his arm comes to rest on the back of the green velvet couch, and then across your shoulders, and then around your waist, it doesn’t feel strange at all. You lean into him as you exchange stories and clandestine giggles until you’re nearly in his lap, and that doesn’t feel strange either. And you haven’t had a drop of alcohol—you haven’t in almost a full year, in fact—but you feel a little drunk tonight, because your cheeks are hot and the room is blurry and the world is brimming with a pure, rose-gold, uncomplicated happiness.

The other band members periodically stop by to say hello, clutching their drinks and making stilted pleasantries as you and John smile drowsily up at them, looking nothing like the soberest people in the room. Chubby and the rest of the men in black are simultaneously omnipresent and scarce, which you are beginning to think is a requirement inked into their job description. Kevin, having been fully absorbed into Freddie’s entourage, is beaming and flushed and extremely, blissfully tipsy. And they all watch you and John not with scandalized sideways glances but with warm approval swimming in their gleaming eyes.

“I don’t think I’ve properly thanked you yet,” you tell John when you are alone again. “For improving my dreadful apartment. So thank you. You really didn’t have to do that. I hate that I marred your time in Montreal with unpaid labor.”

He shrugs it off. “I like fixing things. It’s what I’m best at.”

“Besides being an internationally acclaimed rock star, you mean.”

“I’m honestly not so sure I’m cut out for the rock star life.”

“You are, though. I saw you. I watched you all night.”

John just stares at you, and then he leans in even closer, inhaling deeply. You can feel the heat of his breath on your collarbone, your shoulder, your neck; goosebumps spring up across your skin like stars at twilight. “What the hell is that? Perfume? Lotion? Shampoo?”

“It’s probably sugar and baking bread, because I live on top of a bakery.”

“Does Yankee Candle make anything that smells like you?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “They definitely do not.”

“They should,” John murmurs. And with the rough whirlpools of his fingertips he turns your face to his so he can kiss you.

It should be kind of humiliating, right? Making out with some guy you just met on a green couch in front of thirty strangers, your hands getting tangled in each other’s hair, your lips meeting again and again, taunting darts of the tongue and quick painless bites and stifled moans and grasping tugs at clothes that you’re starting to wish weren’t there at all. It should feel embarrassing, you should feel overexposed, here in this land of unfamiliar expectations and accents and faces. But no one seems to be watching too closely. This must be so tame in the world of rock stars, it occurs to you; almost wholesome. And you can’t remember a time you’ve ever felt more at peace.

“There’s a pool table in the next room,” someone says, startling you, and you break away from John to discover Roger perched on the arm of the couch, grinning coyly as he sips his emerald glass bottle of Stella Artois. “I mean…you know. If you’re into that. John’s got all sorts of moves, we played for days at a time at Ridge Farm. You could challenge him to a round or two. Place bets. But be warned…he’s a total pool shark.”

“Is he?” you ask mischievously, clasping the lapel of John’s leather jacket. Even if you freed him, he shows no indication of retreating. He’s raking his knuckles back and forth along the length of your thigh that your little black dress leaves exposed, never venturing above the hem.  

Roger winks. “Just thought you might want to know.” Then he hops off the couch and disappears into the crowd again.

John is trying to keep his eyes locked on yours, and no lower. He’s trying to not be even vanishingly forceful. He’s trying not to sway you. But you know exactly what he wants. “Do you…?”

“Show me how to play pool,” you whisper. And you lead him through the shuffling bodies and boisterous, increasingly intoxicated laughter and cumulus clouds of cigarette smoke to the door on the other side of the room.

Beyond the threshold you find a pool table and not much else. It’s terribly unceremonious; it’s absolutely perfect. You can hear Blondie’s Call Me playing back in the packed room where the rest of the band is still reveling, the bass crawling through the walls to radiate in your eardrums, your bones. You lock the door and reach out to flick off the harsh florescent lights, but John stops you. You don’t have to ask him why. He wants to be able to see you. He asks if this is okay—again, wordlessly, with the forthright blue of his eyes—and you nod. And then he kisses you as you drag him in, breathing in his cologne and nicotine, tasting the virgin Coke on his lips that he drank just for you.

John tears off his leather jacket. You toss the faux fur that Kevin lent you to the floor. You climb up onto the pool table, and John follows you. You yank off his shirt, link your suede boots around him as he positions himself between your naked, down-soft thighs. And then John stops.

“Look, I have to be honest,” he says. His hands tremble as they cradle the small of your back, just barely. “I’m newly divorced, and I’m really out of practice, I mean really out of practice, and this is not at all my usual way of doing things, and if I’m total rubbish or only last like thirty seconds or something I just want to apologize in advance and swear that I’ll do absolutely everything I can to make this worth it for you. Because I like you. I really, really like you.”

“I’m a little rusty too,” you confess with a small, sheepish smile. But he doesn’t need to know exactly how rusty you are, or in how many ways, all those layers of blood-hued ruin that spin webs from the skin down to the marrow.

John seems relieved. “Then maybe we’re even.”

You’re not even, you’re nowhere close; but it’s comforting that he thinks you could be.

John kisses you again. His hands find the zipper on the back of your dress, and then the tiny metal clasp of your bra, and then the black lace of your panties…and then everything else as well.

~~~~~~~~~~

Afterwards, you return together to the green velvet couch in the next room, not with bashful swiftness but with your hands entwined, your eyes satiated and calm, your clothes unapologetically rumpled. The partying is winding down. The song pouring through the stereo speakers is In The Air Tonight by Phil Collins. And now you and John don’t talk very much at all; you just sit there with fresh cups of Coke, your head resting against his chest, his left arm draped around you, watching the rest of the universe spin on like a carousel as your feet stay rooted to the earth.

“So you’re the smart one,” you say eventually. “You must be, with an electrical engineering degree.”

“You’d be surprised. We’re rather erudite, as far as rock stars go.” He smiles drowsily down at you. “Freddie’s got a degree in graphic art and design. Roger has one in biology. Brian has the better part of a PhD in astrophysics. He might even go back to finish it one day. He probably will, just to be able to lord it over us.”

“Wow,” you reply, distantly, suddenly feeling very small.

“What did you study?” he asks you.

In truth, you never finished college; but you aren’t going to tell John that. “Something useless.”

John is intrigued, and perhaps a little concerned as well. His brow furrows with grooves like lines of fortune in an open palm.

“I wanted to be a painter,” you explain, smirking at the absurdity. “But the world doesn’t need painters anymore. They have pictures and videos that are just as clear as real life. They don’t need my fantasies or interpretations. They have reality.”

“I think we still need painters,” John disagrees, his calloused fingertips tracing lazy circles around your bare shoulder.

“Really?”

“Yeah. For when reality requires improving.”

You let a few moments of silence tick by. And then you put on your faux fur jacket, finish the last of your Coke, stand and find your balance on the low heels of your boots with exhausted, shaky calves.

John jolts upright, somewhat alarmed. “Hey, you don’t have to—”

“This was great, John. This was the best night I’ve had in a long time. So thank you for that. But I have to go home now.”

“Okay.” He studies you, processing. “Okay, okay. I’ll have Chubby drive you.”

“That’s really not necessary, I can get a cab…”

But John has already waved Chubby over, and the massive man appears serendipitously with an impossible degree of stealth. Kevin finds you, staggering, babbling breathlessly about all of his adventures, showing you where Freddie and Roger and Brian signed his chest with a black Sharpie, repeating the same stories on an identical loop every few minutes. As you leave, you offer John a brief parting wave; and he returns it, like a reflection in a mirror, but he’s wearing a pensive frown and eyes dark with thought. Then again, maybe you are too.

Chubby leads you and Kevin outside to the waiting limousine. You slip into the backseat, ply Kevin with bottled water, open the sunroof so moonlight and cold, reviving November air can flood in like a river.

Kevin is coming down now from the high of the champagne and the concert and the carousing with Freddie Mercury. He blinks, soaking you in, really seeing you for the first time in hours. “Wow, you had a good night with Casablanca. You had a really good night.”

“Yeah,” you reply softly, resting your head against the window and watching the stars and streetlights pass by above like seasons. “And it will never happen again.”

[atomic-taco-muffin]

ALL thought left her mind as her vision blacked out, and the coil EXPLODED within her making her scream his name like a prayer. Her walls clenching around his dick became too much for him, a few final brutal thrusts and he came deep inside her painting her walls with his seed.

She knew then was that her fate, while different than what she thought it would be at the beginning of the night, was most certainly sealed. Honestly, she couldn’t bring herself to care, and that thought in and of itself was FREEING.

Six Weeks Later

“You ready for this babe?” Xigbar said in her ear as he came up behind her as she watched the ferry approaching carrying two VERY important ‘guests’. He wrapped his arms securely around her waist, and gently kissed her neck. “Once we start there’s no going back.”

“Yes.” She said turning around in his arms to reach up and kiss him soundly. “I’m ready to be free.”

“That’s my girl~” he purred.

The two guests turned out to be her parents. Lured there with the sudden ‘engagement’ announcement letting them know that their daughter would be marrying a VERY wealthy man with his own island. Of course with that kind of news how could they possibly pass up a chance for what they thought was an all expenses paid trip to a private island getaway, to watch the daughter they had despised, and resented since she was born, be married to their new cash cow. Or so they thought…

The day was spent with the couple ‘greeting’ the parents and introducing them to Xigbar, and a ‘tour’ of the island. “Couldn’t get a rich man your own age?” Her mother quipped to her not as quietly as she maybe thought she was.

“At least he’s loaded. Though not much to look at is he. Oh well, you’ll be out of our hair soon enough.” Her father interjected.

‘Oh you have no idea.’Xigbar and Y/N thought simultaneously as they caught each other’s gaze, and smiled wickedly.

Then, just as Xigbar had with Y/N two weeks prior, at sundown the games begun. This time, Xigbar and Y/N watched front row center as her father fell into the trap in the garden that his daughter had evaded, and got his arm literally torn completely off from it’s socket. Xigbar grabbed her mother who had tried to lunge for her daughter, and took a knife to her throat as Y/N laughed in maniacal glee.

“You were right Xig! This is WAY more fun than just watching ‘em burn!” She cackled as she stomped on the bleeding stump where her father’s arm used to be relishing in hearing HIS screams for once.

“Toldya Babydoll! This way? WAY more satisfying!” He said as he pushed her mother HARD to the ground at her daughter’s feet. He took Y/N by the hand, and led her to a small garden table that was covered in a cloth. He removed the cloth to reveal a shiny new RAZOR SHARP axe. He picked it up with both hands, and gently placed it into her hands. “This is it baby. Just remember. It’s just you. Just me. No one else exists.” He said as he kissed her soundly.

“Just me. Just you.” She repeated with a beaming smile.

“Oh! One more thing!” He replied as he turned to her parents. “ALRIGHT ASSHOLES PAY ATTENTION!!! CAUSE GODDAMN IT YOUR GUNNA SEE YOUR DAUGHTER HAPPY BEFORE YOU BOTH DIE AN EXCRUCIATING DEATH!” He shouted at them before turning back to her, and reaching in his pocket to pull out a tiny black box. Opening it revealed a gorgeous wedding ring causing her to loudly gasp.

“Xigbar.” She whispered in astonishment.

“I ain’t into the idea of marriage and weddings cause y’know they could lead to THAT” he said throwing a dirty scowl at her parents. “But I wanted these fuckers to see the evidence that you are HAPPY with me… Y’know despite all the murder. So babe. You mine for good or what?”

“YES! YES I’M YOURS FOR GOOD!” She squealed as she threw her arm around his neck, and kissed him to within an inch of his life.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” The mother screeched. “Of course a complete FUCK UP like you would end up with a serial killer!”

“That’s right~” he purred “She IS with a serial killer! But the way WE see it? You’ve been living on borrowed time.” He said as he stalked his way over to the husband, who is so VERY clearly in shock, and stomps down on his gut getting a pained yelp from the bleeding man, and then looking the mother down with an insane glint in his eye. “That night you shoulda BURNED, but tonight,” he cackles. “Tonight your gunna BLEED!”

As Xigbar talked, Y/N slowly approached her mother, kicked her in the neck, and held her down with a foot to her throat. “Times up Mama.” She simply said as she raised the axe far above her head, and brought it down for the first strike on her abdomen. Blood immediately flying upon impact after impact, the mother’s horrified and pained screams filling the night air combining with her daughter’s laughter. Strike after strike was blown, more and more blood flew, and eventually the mother went into shock.

“That’s it Babydoll! A few more strikes like that and we’ll have ourselves a little vivisection!” Xigbar crowd as he made the father watch.

And he was right. Three more good swings and he mother’s lower half separated from her upper half, and her last breathe rattled through her lifeless corpse. Y/N slumped her shoulders in exhaustion, and relief. A mother was supposed to protect her child with everything they have, uplift them when they need it, but not her mother. She not only stood by whenever her father drunkenly beat Y/N to within an inch of her life, sometimes so much worse than a beating, and she’d join in. Never a kind or loving word was ever given to her by her mother, and maybe that’s way she had to be the first to go. For her heinous grievances her mother now paid for it with her miserable life. This sudden realization caused Y/N to shake with insane laughter.

“Alright babe you don’t get all the fun.” Xigbar said as he dug his heel into the bleeding stump where her father’s arm should be. “So, axe ‘im? Electrocute ‘im? Or crocodile pit?”

“Crocodile pit?!” She said as her head shot up and eyes wide.

“Oh baby I have SO much to teach you!”

It's all of the horror animes that I've watched combined into one. I LOVE IT!

is danganronpa considered a horror anime?

[sparring-spirals]

ep 98 belated lb, for the sake of not flooding dashes betw this and hopefully catching up on posts after i finish. Don’t be fooled, I will probably still make individual posts for the parts of the ep I still want to yell about. this goes up until the battle, for the sake of length.

- making note of the cad/nott convo about justice and vengeance. fascinating. fascinating.

- THE HAT. all the hat convos. absolutely hilarious. “Someone just up and snatched it in the middle of the party.”

- Marion: “I can get you a new one”. Fjord, with the most pained expression known to man: “s...ure “

- Jester: “Let what you want be known to the world.” Fjord, confused and emotionally turbulent after the back and forth: “Fuckin pick one. which one is it.”

- everyone other than jester is fucking awful at messages, apparently. And lbr jester is her own brand of chaotic with messages. We give them shit for never giving heads up but tbh sometimes its a miracle the M9 communicates info at all. :D

- Case and point, Jester: “he was just going, caleb kissed me caleb kissed me”. The M9, completely unphased by jester-interpretation of messages and/or shadowgast shippers: “...yeah that checks out.”

- fjord caleb interaction re: the argument at the start. damn. what a fascinating callback.

- these dumbasses. encounter a magical storage artifact and their first question is “can WE go in it???” i love them.

- yasha having a self care day!!! :’) good. she deserves it. <3

- “i have no idea whats in it but i’ll sell it to you for 200 gold” is this??? a gacha machine?

- oh man yeza is trying so hard to support her and veth is trying so hard to look at everything pragmatically while doing her duty to her husband. This is simultaneously already resolved and also painfully not. aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.

-”You are like the greatest husband ever, can I just say.” :’) <3 <3 <3 

- also pshhh what do you mean luc should learn things other than how to use a crossbow. nonsense.

- “Please don’t get in too much danger.”

“I can’t promise that but I can promise my friends will do their best to protect me.” AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH.

“I want my wife. I don’t want a poem.” CHRIST MATT NO PULLING PUNCHES HUH.

- ... beau giving off mild camp counselor vibes. this is the best sign of growth: she no longer effortlessly exudes the delinquent vibes she used to. 

- ngl im surprised that immediately after exploding a bird with wind beau didn’t just gloat at professor thaddeus, wherever he is.

- idk if the gift is related to the whole “got beau high by accident” thing but its a very sweet gift nonetheless.

- Fashion Show Beau :D please tell me there’s art of this. i love the m9 for shit like this. they all got on board (haha) so fast. Shouting suggestions, compliments. Caleb casts dancing lights. these 

- a 26 on a natural 1. what. what.

- Arts and craft on a boat. :D

- I am reminded that i missed so much of the last pirate arc. is “fighting a random storm guy” when the stormlord sent down angels to kick yashas ass?

- Ongoing course, “Getting Ass Kicked By Lightning Beasts”, 3 credit hours, participation required. 

- BEAUYASHSTER CRAFT NIGHT. and Jester opening up about her feelings! aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah. *makes more notes* 

- (tbh this conversation makes me feel a lot better about the Traveller. :D)

- I’m so glad that they’re all having this conversation, oh my god. Its very good and very open and it makes me very happy. ot3. sorry who said that. 

- i looked away for thirty seconds and it turns from craft night into clay-tasting, wh-

- yasha someone just chucked you into the water until you learned huh.

- also: major green team (i have to rename them maybe) vibes with: “no i won’t do what you ask. but. i will help.”

- oh fuck im gonna have to rewatch this fjord caleb conversation. its so good.

- “I don’t know if I’m more comfortable or if I just care less.” AAAAAAAAAAAAH FJORD. 

- “This is more life than I ever thought I would see.” brjeaus out here bein like “damn weird how life is going okay” aaaaaaaah.

- I CANNOT FUCKING BELIEVE THAT THEY WOULD LET THIS CONVERSATION HAPPEN AND THEN *redacted redacted redacted* >:((((

- caleb having all these emotions giving me all these emotions talking about how he killed a family and now has this one.

- CALEB AND FJORD SHARING FAMILY FEELINGS? IM? WOW YALL WHAT. “You’re a good person.” “no U” (this whole convo in a nutshell)

- fuck tbh this deserves its own post. 

“If your eyes are on them, our eyes are on you.” GODDAMN. 

- “STORMS A BREWIN-” “why does your voice change-” I adore these two ribbing each other and beau as an overenthusiastic pirate. captain and his first mate <3

--- I took a day long break to handle some shit. Alright. Fine. Lets do this. Lets do the battle. ---

- oh just kidding its not the battle its yasha Goin Thru Some Dream Shit. 

-there is Something Incredibly Poignant about yasha, falling through the air, reaching a hand out at her god, asking for help-ohfuckshegothitbylightning.

- i dont like stormlord taking after ukatoa with the ominous 1 word statements. that is NOT a good role model, stormlord. you dont want to stab yasha in the chest do you. .... DO YOU.

- SCREAMS TRIUMPHANTLY FOREVER ABOUT YASHA OPENING HER WINGS AND FLYING OUT OF THE CHASM GOD HOW MUCH SHIT HAPPENED THIS EPISODE AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

- wow no one is getting rest 2nite.

- i am confused if this is happening happening or a dream and also wow he got stabbed real early in

- okay but also i love the cast for how they always collectively scream whenever a battle map comes out. also WOW WHAT A BADASS SHIP/MAP.

- CAN YOU IMAGINE JUST WAKING UP TO BEING FUCKING STABBED AND THEN CHOMPED. GOD. POOR FJORD. MY BOY.

- the psychic damage just sprinkled in there because he is having a Bad Time.

- do you think that initially the crew was like “huh guess our captain accidentally sleep-teleported off the ship, damn- OH FUCK ENEMIES”

- okay yeah i’m gonna make a separate post for the battle just because this is getting unreasonably long

- c h r i s t this battle.

[blame-canada]

II. Dinosaurs and Race Cars - Kyvid

The concept of David Rodriguez was one that Kyle had a very hard time understanding. It was, after all, hard to think when the very essence of a person was enough to drown out rational thought and basic comprehension. Also he had very, very nice arms.

Hi guys! Here we are with part two to this saga that will be full of the sweet, sweet kyvid content that the world so desperately needs. I, on a deeply personal level, feel I must provide for my rarepair, and so here I am, throwing cliches into the wind and hoping they stick (at least to somebody). Regardless, I hope you enjoy it! Tagging @mcnuggyy and @valzilla as my endless fountains of support and headcanons- y’all the real ones.

Part I

II.

“I’m gonna do it.”

“Kyle, dude,” Stan said, exasperated in every sense of the word, “you’ve been repeating that all fucking day. Are you gonna do it or not?”

“Yes, I’m gonna do it!” Kyle whisper-yelled, and he shrunk into his locker door as Stan’s gaze sized him up. “Just, like. In a minute. Next period.”

“Next period was two weeks ago,” he deadpanned. Then he gripped Kyle by the shoulders and whirled him around, and Kyle sputtered his anger out in incoherent noises of distress until Stan’s hand shot out from behind his shoulder to point straight ahead, to a locker that he knew embarrassingly by heart. “It’s so far past next period it’s stupid. Fucking go, Kyle, Jesus.”

Kyle’s hands met against his chest, his nerves exploding so violently he feared a seizure. He was right there, swinging his locker door open with his backpack slung over only one shoulder, halfway through pulling it off his back. His hair looked freshly cut from here, which did not bode well for Kyle. “God, what am I doing?” he moaned, and Stan gave him a decent push right in the middle of his back to force him out from behind his locker door and properly into the hallway.

“Making a fool of yourself. Go,” he hissed, and Kyle gulped down the nervous lump in his throat, nodding slightly. Next period really may as well have been two weeks ago. With a big breath, as though diving into the ocean, he surged forward in the most confident wide-stepped stride he could muster to try to pump himself up. It didn’t really matter, however, because David managed to catch him so off guard he deflated and nearly stumbled when he swiveled on one heel to face the hall.

Kyle’s heart leapt to his throat, and when David caught his eyes and smiled at him, his stomach grew flowers, the roots of them tickling and infiltrating his organs so violently he felt like he might be sick. At the same time, the glow of his familiar face left him awash with unusual calm, like a sedative with a laundry list of nasty lovestruck side effects that were somehow still worth it. In that moment, as David took one step forward to get close enough to talk over the crashing of locker doors slamming shut, all Kyle could think was,

‘Oh, god, I do love him.’

“My raptor friend,” David began, the smile audible in his tone, and Kyle wanted simultaneously to die and jump for joy at such an embarrassing nickname, “come to finish the hunt?”

Kyle giggled, honest to god giggled, before he cleared his throat and returned to his game face. “I, uh, wanted to make up for that.”

“Why? It was funny,” he said, and he chuckled himself, the sound so melodic and warm it could’ve brought him to his knees. “Plus the faces you make when I call you that are cute.”

Oh, Kyle could die. Die right there, in the middle of South Park High, at the ripe old age of seventeen, in front of a boy who could rule the world with one flash of his charming grin. He called him cute.

David leaned one hip against his locker and crossed his arms, and Kyle was stunned, transfixed by how his body moved with such finesse. “I actually had a question for you, if you had a minute..?” David said, and Kyle stood up straight, knowing full well that he would do fucking anything for him.

“Yeah, anything,” Kyle confirmed, perhaps too eagerly, because David’s smile turned the slightest bit devilish, and Kyle felt so caught in the act he considered ‘raptoring’ out all over again. In defiance of instinct, he glued his feet in place, determined.

David ran a hand through his perfectly newly-clipped hair, and Kyle could've sworn he looked nervous. “I was wondering if you would, ah,” he faltered, averting his gaze to the left and rubbing at the back of his neck, and Kyle had to try very hard not to stare at his arms as his muscles performed the elementary task. It looked anything but elementary, though; god, why was he wearing a short sleeved shirt in this weather? Shouldn’t he have his arms covered like a normal person? Any decent human being would know just how threatening it was to the student body to have his arms just exposed, like some sort of horrible tease that Kyle didn’t know how to talk to.

A deft hand snapped its fingers just beside Kyle’s left eye and it startled him back to Earth, to a grin that had definitely become devilish by now. “Back to the land of the living?” he teased, his sculpted brows quirked, and Kyle felt like dying all over again.

“Yeah, I, uh,” he fumbled, laughing nervously and clearing his throat like a schoolgirl in a goddamn rom-com, “yeah. Sorry, dude.”

David shrugged. “S’fine. Sound good, though?” he asked, but his face was uncharacteristically shy. Uncharacteristic, because David did and got what he wanted, and it was hot as hell.

“Yeah, yeah. Good!” Kyle said, a complete knee-jerk response, because his face heated up at the slow realization that he actually had absolutely no idea what David had said. Curse his beautiful arms, and that ridiculous, tantalizing v-neck—

“Alright, great! See you after school,” he said, and Kyle felt extremely grateful that David chose that moment to smile warmly at him and turn the other direction to go to class, because he was certain his face could light a match. What was after school? Oh god, what was after school?

Before David turned the corner, Craig Tucker, of all people, appeared to give him an unenthused high-five. Kyle knew they were kind of friends, but not high-five-level friends. Then, as though he could sense his thoughts, Craig looked over his shoulder and made direct eye contact with him. His face was just as flat and unyielding as always, and his eyes were so painfully scrutinizing he felt banished to Hell where he stood. What had he done? What had he signed up for?

A hand landed on his back and he jumped, twisting to find Stan looking at him expectantly.

“Stan, what’s after school?” Kyle asked before Stan could speak, a sinking feeling in his gut, and as Stan’s face morphed into one of confusion, he let out an embarrassing whine. “Stan, I don’t know what’s after school.”

“The fuck are you talking about?” Stan asked, brow furrowed, and Kyle dropped his face to his hands, mumbling into his palms and pressing his fingertips into his eye sockets, like he could end his own misery by squashing his brain right through them. All he managed was to make stars burst behind his eyelids. “Kyle, I can’t understand you when you talk in your crisis pose.”

“I agreed to something and I don’t know what!” he wailed, throwing his hands to the ceiling in frustration and screeching behind his teeth. “Stan, he said, ‘See you after school,’ and I have no idea what he was talking about. I just agreed!”

“Why didn’t you just ask him to repeat himself?”

“It was a knee-jerk reaction, Stan! By the time I realized what I did, he was already halfway down the hall!” He gripped at his hair and considered tearing it out. “What am I gonna do?”

“Well, you could ask him next period. You usually see him twice.” Stan shrugged, but was also clearly trying not to laugh, and Kyle resented him so much for that. “That sucks though, dude.” He snorted quietly, and Kyle dared him to go further. “Oh man, what are you gonna say? ‘Hey David, so funny story, I don’t actually know what I agreed to, because I was too distracted by how hot you look always.’ Oh shit, Kyle, you’re so fucked dude.” Then he did laugh, the motherfucker, the traitor, and he gripped his belly and wheezed while Kyle clenched and unclenched his fists, seriously considering resorting to violence.

There was suddenly a rough yanking sensation on his shoulder and Kyle yelped, turning to find Kenny hanging on his arm. “Heyyyy, my man! My big grown up manly man. How’d it go?” His teeth were ready to pop out of his beaming smile- at least the ones he still had. He then took a moment to assess the situation, and Kyle guessed he looked pretty dismal, because Kenny started to chill and let go of his arm, sobering up. “Aw man, that bad huh?”

“Kyle got distracted by David’s immaculate body, and regretfully does not know how it went.”

“Holy shit, Stan, stop,” Kyle warned, but Kenny had already resorted to booming laughter and started to hang off Stan’s arm instead, the two of them shrieking like hyenas. “It’s not like that! I just, I had a lapse in memory. It happens!”

“Yeah, when you’re obsessed with somebody, maybe,” Kenny snickered, and they switched to hushed giggling while they tried to calm down. Kyle felt his face go redder, if it was even possible. “Okay, so you need a new game plan. You gotta know where you’re meeting up anyways, right? Just meet up with ‘im here again when you usually do and you’re all set,” Kenny deduced, confidently. Kyle groaned.

“I guess I’m just nervous, again,” he admitted, feeling the embarrassment deep in his soul, crushing it and cracking it and making him generally miserable. His shoulders hung and he sagged into himself. Kenny and Stan shared a look, then Stan reached a hand out to grip his shoulder encouragingly.

“Hey, dude, this stuff is always tough. You can do it, though. We believe in you.”

“Yeah, well,” he grumbled, “two out of three ain’t bad.”

“That’s the spirit!” Kenny clapped his back hard and he straightened out his posture. “You got this, bud. You’ve got your own charm aboutcha. I got faith.” Stan nodded in agreement, and Kyle let out a big breath.

“Yeah, alright.”

He was not alright.

Will we ever find out what David said to Kyle in his moment of weakness? Does the author use italics way too much in Kyle’s POV? Is David the embodiment of perfection himself? The answer to all three is a resounding, ‘Probably!’

[lordmongoose]

A Thing about The Disappearance of Yuki Nagato

or, The Disappearance of Nagato Yuki-chan if you’re a lost cause

im gonna spoil everything so

Short Suuuuuuuuuuuus:

‘Member Haruhi?

Ya ever think to yerself...

“What if Nagato was girl instead of Hooruhu?”

wel nao u can fiend out

So, first things first,

Watch the first 6 seconds of this OP:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zwhfOI575Sc

Fuckin do it.

Middle-clicking opens a new tab, or you can right-click and select open in new tab.

...

You done?

Did you see it?

That’s right.

Scientists have engineered the single most perfect anime girl of all time.

Upon viewing those first 6 seconds, you have a brain hemorrhage and your heart explodes within your body.

Human life cannot handle kawaii of this sheer scale.

Especially with the context you get for Yuki’s character from regular Haruhi show, seeing... That is simultaneously shocking and heart-wrenching.

But enough about an animated school girl cocking her head slightly with a small smiHNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGG-

The Disapppeaprnannrncne of Yuku Nugutu stars basically the entire cast from Haruhi, but it’s like a Marvel alternate timeline where Yuki isn’t a robit and runs the literature club with her best tomodachi, Ryoko Asakura.

A while back, Kyon (still the main boy character) encountered Nagato trying to get a book from the library. Yuki is a very shy girt and didn’t know what the feck she was doign, so Kyon went over and be’s all like “ay girl lemme help u get a library card.” This touched Yuki on a personal level, and she fell in suki with Kyon a while later when she ran into him at school and he went and joined up that good literature club.

The literature club was short on members, and was on the verge of cancellation because of it, so Nagato went around trying to recruit peeps, which is hard when you is shy girt and cannot talk well to the peoples. Asakura, being her best friend, joined at her request, and Kyon ran into her and joined then.

The entire show consists of your standard high school anime shenanigans wherein Asakura tries her best to egg Yuki on to telling Kyon that she aishiteirus him, but Yuki is a shy and doesn’t do very well at it and it’s just so goddamn adorable you physically cannot handle it.

And then Haruhi pops into existence again. She actually goes to a different high school, so she just sorta comes to the club after school to do regular Haruhi things. Also, she don’t cut her hair short. Also, she isn’t literally god. Sorta.

After a bit, she finds Asahina and brings her into the club, and also brings along Koizumi from her school (who is in suki with Haruhi btw but that never goes anywhere so)

So, the entire main Haruhi cast is reunited in this alternate universe where Nagato is just a regular shy girt. Also Asakura is there. She wasn’t there in the normal one.

There’s some drama and stuff, and there are a few cute moments where Yuki tries to confess to Kyon but it just doesn’t really work out in the end, UNTIL

nagato done goes and almost gets hit by an AE86.

it’s not really, but it sure does look like one, don’t it? 

This sends Nagato into a PTSD where she literally locks her personality away and becomes, more or less, her robotic self from regular Haruhi.

Asakura quickly realizes she’s fucked up and asks her, finding out that the new Yuki is sorta a different person, though she has all of her old memories. She just doesn’t feel like they’re her own memories.

Kyon is also told and also the others, and they want Yuki to return to her old kawaii af self, but they don’t want to deny the new Yuki, since she’s her own person and wanting the old one back at the expense of the new one would be like wanting her to die or something iunno.

They do some stuff with the new Yuki, like Kyon goes to the library with her multiple times, and new Yuki slowly falls in daisuki with Kyon jus liek th old one. New Yuki begins to feel like this is because the old Yuki is re-emerging as her brain organizes everything correctly, and vows to confess her feelings to Kyon before she fades into obscurity and the old Yuki comes back.

So, she calls Kyon one night and says she’s probably gonna be gone when she wakes up next before telling him that she loves him. still pretty cute despite robit

Kyon rushes over to her on his bike but doesn’t make it in time, as he finds her asleep on a bench. He wakes her up, only for the old Nagato to be in control, in quite a bit of shock since her last memories were from days (or weeks iunno) ago.

Kyon gets a phone call from Haruhi after summer started and shit saying that they gotta do a bunch of summer shit, sorta like regular Haruhi show.

Kyon spends many a day during the summer vacation not sure how to deal with Yuki now, since he somehow doesn’t know that old Yuki also daisukis him. They go around doing fun shit with Haruhi and others until they go to one of them there Yukata-wearin-type festivals, where Kyon does a weird and sorta says that he likes her but not the old her just sorta like the new her maybe I don’t know but like he’ll treat old Yuki the same and nothing really gets confirmed between the two but whatever y’know man fuck it.

And then in the prologue, Kyon gets a phone call from Haruhi saying that they gotta do a bunch of summer shit, sorta like regular Haruhi sho-WAIT FUCK NO NOT AGAI-

I ship it so goddamn hard I’m permanently banned from all UPS locations.

Nagato in this shit is literally the best.

fucking

FUCKING

FUCKIN GODFODJFJJ

9.9/10 nagato is my new waifu

i’d sit through endless eight again if it was in this show’s timeline.