#and the fact that i took a week off tumblr and like. i got several pretty?? shitty asks?? that really undermined my feelings on everything. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dykefaggotry · 11 days

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[image id: an ask from @harbingerofskulls that reads: "im gonna b real i only knew the jerking off i would love to hear you elaborate more if you want to go on the whole situation" /end id]

answering here so i can save as a draft without risking the ask disappearing bc tumblr's been doing that lately but

oh god </3 for everyone else- it's talking about this post. sooo i'm gonna go through each one bc i've been feeling insane for several weeks. i'll do my best to cite my sources lmao

i don't know (johnny johnny)

this is referring to this unreleased VERY early beatles track from 1960. the audio quality is absolute shit & as such unfortunately people love to put words to it that don't make much sense in either direction (i.e a lot of mclennon fans want to hear "you're in love with me" and a lot of people that hate mclennon will just make up the weirdest lyrics that make 0 sense so it's Not Gay). some of the lyrics that ARE clear make it obvious this song is about the two of them running away together- at one point i'm fairly certain paul says "how am i gonna tell my father that we're leaving town?" probably referring to them leaving to hamburg. which would be fine but some of the other lyrics areeeee..... very..... Hm. like multiple times paul refers to john as "my boy" and there's bits of them talking about not knowing what to tell their friends & wanting to just run off together alone. if i were the other members of the band having to record this i would have killed them with hammers <3 also the entire end is just paul going "oh johnny" like 1 million times. okay. sure. also since the lyrics ARE so garbled i mean i guess people could be right about it saying "how am i gonna tell my father you're in love with me" but i just don't hear it. still, a very gay song about running off together and getting away from everything and everyone, complete with moaning the other's name </3

2. paris

this one is a huge part of McLennon Fandom Lore lmao but for good reason. not citing sources on all this bc it's one of those that's just Fact & can be found in like any beatles biography or thebeatlesbible.com (my savior) but. for john's 21st birthday, he got 100 pounds from a rich relative. instead of taking his girlfriend or any of his other friends, he decided to use the money to take paul to spain. but they stopped in paris on the way and just decided to stay there. which i mean like. taking your best friend over your girlfriend to the city of love is a little weird but it's not THAT weird. it's everything else that makes people want to chew glass about it. including some of the other things on this list. like this audio of john just goofing around singing about paris and paul, with such hits as "my cheri, my pau pau my pau paul." which is :| okay best friend. and paul has this picture hung up in his house that he took of john sleeping in paris. okay. sure. why not. (although ig there's some doubt about if the photo is from paris? either way it's a picture paul took and has framed in his house which is incriminating enough my man). also NOT in the original post but may pang, a woman john had a brief affair with in the 70s, wrote a book called loving john. in it, there's this quote:

After a late lunch, Linda launched into a long paean to the joys of living in England. When she was finished, she turned to John and said, “Don’t you miss England?”

“Frankly,” John replied, “I miss Paris.”

okay! also in an interview once he said:

The thing was all the kissing and the holding that was going on in Paris. And it was so romantic, just to be there and see them, even though I was twenty-one and sort of not romantic. But I really loved it, the way the people would just stand under a tree kissing; and they weren’t mauling at each other, they were just kissing.

(interview with david scheff for playboy in september 1980)

3. if i fell

this one i already made an insane post on that started my spiral into posting about the beatles publicly </3 but, essentially, the song "if i fell" by john is..... well it's most likely about paul. he said it wasn't about his wife but that it was auto-biographical and he never really had any public affairs that weren't flings, certainly not a lover. but most damning is he wrote the complete lyrics for the first time on a valentine's day card addressed "to paul with love" with some hearts and arrows pointing to where the lyrics were written. absolutely insane. made me insane.

4. oh! darling

rawest paul song of all time if i do say so myself lmao. but it's just.... Highly Suspicious, that's what it is. a Lot of beatles fans/historians will admit this song is most likely about john but they won't admit that it's fucking romantic if it is. like.

like that is so blatantly romantic idk what to say other than that. also, in the official recording on abbey road, there's Several points where paul says "darling" that sound more like he's saying "johnny" which is what he called him. people brush it off by saying it's his accent, but there's a very clear difference between when he's saying "darling" and when he's saying "johnny". i mean the Lore behind this is that it was written right when things were splitting up between them (& the rest of the band) so it makes sense and it's why most people are willing to accept it's about john. it's just insane to me that they'll accept it's about john without considering the implications of that.

5. the real life demo

this one made me want to light myself on fire i won't lie to you. but here it is! john had a song called "real love" and this is a very early demo of it. but instead of the lyrics that came to actually be in the song (which are thought to be about yoko but let's not get into the fact that it was on a tape labeled "for paul" but whatever), it includes john fucking crying as he sings saying:

"was i just dreaming or was it only yesterday? i used to hold you in my arms. and now a baby and another on the way... la la la la farm..."

which can quite literally be about no one else but paul, as this demo was recorded when he'd just had two children with his wife linda and linda was pregnant with their third child. they'd moved to a farm in scotland. hearing this audio clip did genuinely make me want to lie down in the dirt for a week. also "i used to hold you in my arms" just... yeah. god. when people think it was unrequited idk what to say, really.

6. If Paul Were A Woman-

shoving these two together but. in april of 85, paul said in an interview about john and yoko's relationship:

"I mean, I couldn’t stand in the way of someone who’d fallen in love. You can’t say, 'Who’s this?' You can’t really do that. If I was a girl, maybe I could go out and…"

okay bestie <3 and what would make your relationship different if you were a woman? interesting! and yoko had something similar to say. in this audio, she says:

"I’m sure that if he had been a woman or something, he would have been a great threat – because there’s something definitely very strong between John and Paul."

just reminds me of being a kid and telling my best friends "if i were a boy i'd date you" lol. incredible. does anyone here know about bisexuality.

7. stuart!

not much to say here except that john had a best friend, stu sutcliffe, who died young & before that had been the bassist in the band. paul fucking hated him sooo much oh he SEETHED. a lot has been written on that relationship but it was.... very interesting to say the least. it could have just been about the band, or just jealousy over john's friendship, but take that with a lot of john biographers suspecting john had feelings/even a sexual relationship with stuart and it paints a very Interesting picture to say the least

8. john's bisexuality

here's a compilation of quotes about it, but john was more than likely bisexual. which has nothing to do w paul, really, but more to do against people that like to claim they were both Heterosexual Men. although an interesting quote in this compilation is him saying he's "had paul" lmfao

9. paul's post-beatles work

there's just.... there is so so so much here i don't even know where to begin. @ringompreg has a good compilation of paul songs here. a lot of them do take a bit of Lore but like..... it comes down to the fact that both him and john have/had admitted many times to using their lyrics during The Breakup Years to talk to/reference each other and sooooo many of these lyrics are insanely blatant. the two i mentioned were tug of war and let me roll it, both of which are acknowledged to be about john by most people WITH NO ONE BOTHERING TO ACKNOWLEDGE THE IMPLICATIONS OF THAT which..... tug of war has this:

we could stand on top of the mountain with our flag unfurled? dancing to a beat played on a different drum? this is what gaylors think gaylor conspiracy is but paul mccartney is really out here saying this shit.

and let me roll it is so fucking blatantly romantic but every reviewer is like haha! what a cool song that's "making fun" of john and clearly in his style! like are straight people stupid genuinely. anyway:

bonus to that but about JOHN'S solo work :)))))) he wrote a song called "watching the wheels" and when you consider he very much responded to MANY of paul's solo stuff it's :)

which as a response to let me roll it would just be... so devestating but it may be a stretch idk if i'm onto anything there it's just worth Mentioning

and there's a lot of others, a lot of them in that post up there. like far too many where paul mentions falling in love with a friend like Alright.

10. paul's first lsd trip with john/"i know" "i know"

this one is less blatantly romantic but it is just insane. here's an article. and a quote from george martin about it. the first time paul tripped on acid w john was bc john accidentally took some and he took him home & then took acid w him bc he didn't want john to be alone on the trip :( but, notably:

"And we looked into each other’s eyes, the eye contact thing we used to do, which is fairly mind-boggling. You dissolve into each other. But that’s what we did, round about that time, that’s what we did a lot," the singer recalled, "And it was amazing. You’re looking into each other’s eyes and you would want to look away, but you wouldn’t, and you could see yourself in the other person. It was a very freaky experience and I was totally blown away."

he also apparently saw john as the, and i quote, "emperor of eternity" during this trip??????? okay

SOMEWHERE i can't find it rn and i'm getting lazy but somewhere they (i think paul?) talk about the fact that they used to just stare into each other's eyes and then say "i know" "i know" which. considering john's song "i know (i know)" makes me crazy

11. in my life/i will

these are really just some devastating songs with lyrics that make you really raise your eyebrows. for in my life, written by john, it's just an incredibly romantic & sweet song that is again, not about his wife. given that the lennon estate is still out here posting pictures of paul to those lyrics i have to say it's a liiiiittle suspicious. and i will is...... it's one that paul insists is not about his girlfriend at the time, jane asher. and when you look at the lyrics vs how him and john met.... like. the song goes:

and the story of how they met was that paul saw john repeatedly before they ever met, when he didn't know who john was other than that he thought he looked cool & admired his sideburns (lmfao). and when they did finally meet, it was when john was singing at a garden fete (party) and paul was in the crowd just Mesmerized. so. well. you can see.... you can see how fitting that is. makes me crazy makes me want to chew glass actually

12. "we were each other's intimates" and other insane quotes

"we were each other's intimates" is a paul quote about john which is just insane but that's not even the tip of the iceberg. here's a ton of quote compilations.

13. "literally everything else"/honorable mentions

some honorable mentions go out to: john going on stage w elton john & playing i saw her standing there and introducing it as "a song by an estranged fiance of mine" okay! the "just like starting over" demos. okay! which isn't even to MENTION the fact that paul locked himself away in the studio listening to "just like starting over" on repeat for DAYS after john died like???? john saying repeatedly that he considered paul & yoko to be his two major partners in life including in an interview the literal day he died. a whole ass rpf movie where they kiss & talk like they're ex-lovers and dance in central park (two of us) made by the same dude that made the let it be movie like. he knew them personally? he worked with them closely? and the only thing paul had to say about it was just essentially that it was what he wished would've happened like???????? i can't find a super reliable source for this so take it w a grain of salt, but apparently paul referred to mclennon fanfiction as "beautiful stories" and doesn't mind them being written. paul also had a cat that had kittens & he named two of the kittens pyramus and thisbe after fictional lovers he and john played and he gave pyramus (the character paul played) to john :|

and literally so much else like all of this and it's not even all of it. it's not even close to all of it. i didn't even get to talk about the way in "get back" the documentary, paul started talking about john leaving the band for yoko and how john would choose her over them and then he got teary eyed, started choke laughing, and then started singing "build me up buttercup" before looking at the cameras and stopping. what the FUCK was that about! IT'S NOT EVEN GETTING INTO THE SONG "TWO OF US" THAT'S SO OBVIOUSLY ABOUT JOHN THAT IT HURTS. it's. it's not even scratching the surface. they were just genuinely insane about each other.

#mclennon #this is long but it had to be to expand on every reference i made in that post FJADJFASDF

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am-i-the-asshole-official · 6 months

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AITA for helping one of my coworkers, instead of cleaning?

Hello not reddit but tumblr where my good friends on the internet are! I've been stewing over this for a little while, and decided I wanted some outsider input.

I (23m) work at a grooming salon for a business that rhymes with VetHart. I have several coworkers that I have a good if occasionally strenuous relationship with, but this focuses on two other coworkers, M and H (40+f and 21f, respectively.)

Both M and H have back problems. M due to her age and also health complications, and H due to the fact that we don't have enough staff on hand to do "team lifts" when getting dogs on and off our tables, so she has to do it herself quite often. These are important, because M, H, and I, were closing the grooming salon together earlier this week, and M asked for me to help her velocity dry her last dog of the day, before I cleaned out any of the leftover empty kennels or break down (clean up) the bathing bunker, where we bathe dogs.

I, wanting to help M, because she was going to be alone for the last 30 of her shift, agreed to help. H was present for this conversation, and witnessed me walking back to dry M's last dog. For reference, it can take some time to dry a dog. I usually take about 20 minutes for poodle/toy poodle/fluffy dogs (which M's dog was), and this includes the break I had to take in order to bring one of the dogs I had bathed up to the front to go home, where I saw H sitting with her last dog, a (admittedly very cute) puppy, in her lap. Not calling, not doing any finishing touches or brushing, just. Sitting there. I figured she needed a break for her back, went back to the back, and finished drying M's dog.

I wanted a break from being in the back (it's got dim lighting that makes my sight wonky and fuzzy if I'm back there for too long), so I went up front to let M know I was finished with drying her dog, and H was still sitting with her puppy in her lap.

I thought it was weird, bc it had been at least 10 minutes since I came back up, but I shrugged it off, and took a few minutes to get my dight back into focus. H finally put their puppy away, and asked me what I had done so far in the back.

I was honest and told her that I had only pulled bowls and towels from the empty kennels, I hadn't done any spraying or wiping out of the kennels, nor had I broken down the bunker, and specified that I had helped M per her request with drying her dog. In response, H gives me a nasty side eye, so I ask her why she's looking at me like that, to which she replies "you just said you haven't broken down the bunker or done anything except take towels and bowls out of kennels," to which I reiterate, again, that I was drying M's dog. M defends me as well, but H continues to have an attitude until after we've finished breaking down the bunker.

H stopped acting like it was a big deal by that point, but I'm still a bit irritated and wondering if I was in the wrong? Either for defending myself or taking a break before i cleaned the bunker.

Thanks, not reddit!

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole

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cxncrie · 26 days

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Honestly. I'm stressed to hell and back. Cutting off that person took a few months of discussion with several people, and I honestly don't feel like anyone believes me. I feel sick on so many levels. Hurt, betrayed, knowing what I do now I just. It hurts. It hurts that someone I trusted just did all these things to me. Maybe I deserved it, I don't know.

I don't care what happens to me, I never do. Fuck me. But anyone else? I can't stand it. It's why I made those apologies that are long overdue. But I don't think any amount of apologizing is ever going to fix that I let a person like that in.

The things I learned today, the fact my boyfriend got doxxed, as well as a close friend of mine of many years, and god knows who else. I feel sick, I feel like throwing up.

I need to take a few days to myself to just .. process everything. To process how much I was lied to, how I was mocked for my mental illnesses, it hurts so much to know that someone felt that way about me. That the fact I have PTSD, Anxiety, Depression, and god knows what else, is worth mocking. When I tried to understand their side of mental illnesses too.

God and don't get me started on how bad I feel for the fact I basically invalidated victims of this person. They didn't deserve what they got, and I feel so disgusted at myself for basically enabling her.

The queue will run like normal, but I need some me time. Time to let it all sink in. It's so much to me, much much more than I can put into words.

My discord will be open, but I'm stepping back from tumblr for a few days to a week depending on how I manage. It probably helps I get to see my therapist tomorrow. But I still need some time.

Thank you for understanding. If you're gone by the time I return, it was nice knowing you. For those who stay, I appreciate you.

#★ ► ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴀʀꜱ ꜱᴘᴇᴀᴋ. ◄ ⌠ Out Of Character ⌡#drama tw #jic

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factorialsotherfandoms · 4 months

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Oh, and before I close the file I was finishing it off in... Here's the complete form of the fic where Mike got his brain shredded! xcom2 au. Chapters 1 and 2 have been on tumblr already, but there's now also a three and four where he and Pac have a less awful time.

TW: psychic violence, physical violence, head injuries, severe character injuries, memory loss (implied to be possible to make less bad but not actually resolved in fic), blood, dreamscapes, codependency, self-neglect, self-sacrifice, self-harm (casting magic using your own HP style), codependency, soul damage, hospitals

Uses mindlinked/soulbonded Tazercraft idea

AO3 link: here

Chapter 1: Imprisonment

Pac is faint in Mike's brain, and for once it is a blessing. He hangs onto that fact, onto the fact he can tell his soulmate is safe - safe and not nearby - and bares his teeth at his enemy. It's been weeks now, if not months, pinned to the wall, tortured and starved and unable to move. The muscles in his arms are past strained, hands long number and still up there.

His glasses are shattered on the floor and, for some reason, it makes him even angrier than the rest.

One Cucurucho sits in the corner, a desk dragged into the cell in a mockery of professionalism. It has a tablet and stylus at the ready to take notes, eyes fixed on it.

And then the aliens. Two Sectoids are held on leashes by a Federation Guard, ready to be unleashed at any moment.

And then the Hunter, the Federation's pet sniper, something once human, twisted and corrupted and changed. Faster, sharper, with eyes that see further and hands too steady and psionics the likes of which not even the Order have seen before.

The Hunter, the Assassin, the Warlock, the Federation's three perfect soldiers. Human DNA spliced with alien, then turned out from their laboratories to destroy the world.

He holds a pistol under Mike's chin, pressing up and into the soft flesh there. Still Mike hisses and snarls and refuses to give in. His body is littered with scars and injuries from the weeks torture, his nails broken or gone, his teeth bloody, his skin torn.

Still he does not give in.

"You will tell me," the Hunter demands. "Where are the eggs? We know your people stole them, boy..."

"I don't have a clue what you're talking about," Mike snarls back, trying to push forward and only catching himself on the gun.

He isn't even lying. There's some few surviving chickens who live on Kristin's farm - Philza's mentioned them before, and sometimes they get a delivery for the canteen - but he slipped last week and mentioned that. Whatever eggs the Federation want, it's not them. And he can't imagine a couple of hens would be worth this effort.

"Of course you do," the Hunter continues. "How could you not? Hasn't your little friend let something slip to you? We all know about him. We all know you two do the..." his tongue flicks across his lick, and for a horrifying moment Mike remembers the Cell of years ago "research."

How dare he, how fucking dare he bring Pac into this. Of course they know about him - about them - but how dare he.

"Haven't done research in years," Mike just about manages to gather some spit, aiming it at the Hunter's eye. He misses, but does hit the deathly-blue tongue. "Neither's he. Tubbo and Aypierre took over R&D years ago. You know this. You tortured him, too, if I remember."

Cucurucho's blank eyes are watching them now, the tablet placed down and hands folded atop the desk.

"Are you sure about that?" the Hunter's fingers move over the trigger.

"We're not so stupid as to let field agents know the details of R&D," Mike lies through his teeth. Like you could ever keep him and Pac from the labs. "Moron."

"Then I guess we have no use for you."

The Hunter's finger twitches. Mike fucking dares him to try.

He definitely went to pull the trigger, but freezes just before it fires.

"Wait."

The robotoic, familiar voice of Cucurucho says. The creature - fuck knows if its an alien, a robot, or some lab-grown abomination - slowly stands.

Slowly walks over.

Keeps its hands clasped before it.

Nothing else in the room even dares breathe.

"I will take over this investigation," Cucurucho says, completely bland.

The Hunter lowers the gun.

The Federation Guard and both sectoids drop dead.

Cucurucho's eyes glow purple, and it reaches one set of claws to Mike's cheek.

He throws every secret he can from his mind, throws it all back at Pac, along their stretched and distant bond. He hides the core of himself there, too, everything he should be or could be or wants to be, every core memory and everything he loves and everything he hates, hiding in the security of his soulmate as a creature of the Federation tries to break into his skull.

Even so distant, even so far apart, Pac manages to grab onto him, to throw a shield around them.

Keep himself safe.

Keep the information safe.

Keep everything that Mike is safe.

He can feel Pac's panicked questions, now he's forced himself into their bond, and their terror merges into one. He can't hear the words, merged but stretched too thin for that, but he can feel how worried Pac is. And, of course, Mike's still linked to himself - he can also still feel his brain bleed information as Cucurucho rips through it, reading not just his mind but his very soul. Steals everything there - or rather copies it - from schematics of old weapons to the identities of the prominent Order members to Mike's memories from before the war. What's left behind is shredded, parts of Mike less fundemental but still him torn into ribbons and left ruined on the floor. If it can even heal - if those parts of him can ever be salvaged - he does not know.

His soul is ripped apart, and Mike screams and screams and screams, his throat and his soul both rippling in agony.

Claws scrape along Pac's shield. The essence of Pac's being holds the essence of Mike's being closer, entwining them and the truly dangerous information together for as long as he can, keeps the shield up as long as he can. They'll be safe, they'll get through this, just so long as Pac can hold the shield.

It's agony, agony, agony, to feel something tear through Mike's very soul. But he's also closer to Pac than he has been in - in months, he reads from Pac, closer than he's been in months - and he drinks the comfort he can from his soulmate.

Even like this, even expending so much energy to twine over continents, Mike still cannot feel Pac's words, cannot even say where he is - it's one of the memories Cucurucho tore apart.

Mike tires the faster, torture and mind fuckery taking their toll, but even Pac is flagging long before Cucurucho pulls away.

Somehow, somehow, Pac finds the strength to keep them safe even then, shield shattering seconds after the claw pulls away from Mike's cheek. Mike's never been more proud - or more terrified - in his life.

All at once he is aware of everything that remains of himself. Instinctively he starts trying to repair the damage, the last dregs of his strength trying to heal him, while Pac continues to cling. Neither of them want to let go - they've been alone for so long, they never want to be alone again.

"Useless," Cucurucho deems him.

Relief he didn't let anything slip floods Mike, even as Pac grows in terror. The grip they have on each other is slipping, slipping, slipping...

Cucurucho returns to its desk.

The Hunter raises the pistol again.

Mike readies himself to die, but Pac refuses to let him go.

It's not a gunshot that comes; the pistol slams into the side of Mike's head.

The force is too much; Mike's head cracks to the side, and he feels something break.

Everything goes black.

When the world comes back, there are hands on him - he doesn't get it, doesn't understand, but Pac is once again distant - reaches to cling to him as soon as the black fades - so Mike doesn't care. He doesn't have the energy to reach along the bond for Pac, but he knows how to fight and fight and keeps on fighting.

His skin is torn and he tears skin in turn and he doesn't know what is happening, but the hands are not human hands and the claws are distinctly monstrous claws so he fights and he fights and he keeps on fighting.

He sees but does not understand, touches but does not feel, listens but cannot hear, so he keeps on fighting.

A rifle butt cracks across the back of his skull.

Chapter 2: Rescue

Pac is running on three cups of coffee, two hours of sleep, and a cereal bar. There's an energy drink shoved in his grenade pouch, and he's saving it for if things really go to shit. He probably deserves the judgemental looks his colleagues are giving him, but he hides in his hood and just pretends to be extremely focused on the lock he is picking.

To be fair, he does need to be; usually a simple action, but it's only been three hours since he returned with Fit, and-

And the less he thinks of that the better.

Forever had been kind enough to radio the helicopter and let them know Fit was out of surgery and expected to make a full recovery. Pac really, really cannot ask for anything more. Not when his own inattention was at fault.

In part at fault - entirely his fault and Mike be damned they'd have delayed the mission another few hours - but in part at fault.

The lock comes free. Pac catches it, not risking a sound as it falls, and glances back at the two behind him.

It's a small squad for a precarious mission; Pac, using their soul-bond to track Mike through the building, and both Philza and Bad fully stocked with medkits and potions. Bad's Ghostie has the hack clients up ready for the electric locks, while Philza's Crow is in survey mode. He thinks Bad has the command, but he'll admit to not being entirely sure. Just... He knows Philza hates being in command, for all he's entrusted with it constantly.

Sure enough, it is Bad who gestures for Pac to go on.

He slips through the gate, out of the long burnt-out warehouse Niki dropped them off behind before taking back to the safety of the skies. She'll also be running on coffee and energy drinks soon enough - Cellbit's leading a squad half the world away in Lagos as they work, and while they were dropped off yesterday, she'll have to pick them up as soon as Mike is safe.

Or dead, but Pac doesn't like thinking of that option.

He tugs on their bond, just in case - Mike is still there, but unresponsive. Just as he's been for days. There was a spike of confusion a little while after his desperate grabbing, but otherwise... Otherwise nothing.

Pac is worried, he's so worried, but all that stands between his soulmate and safety is one building full of armed guards, and Pac's ability to stay on task.

It's a big facility, it's so big. Even with Crow scanning for him Philza would never be able to search the place without getting caught. They're relying on Pac and Mike's soul-bond to find him, and Pac can only hope Mike's strong enough for that to work.

Beyond the gate is a wall, and over the wall is a road, and the road leads to the facility and then onwards to Mike.

It's been months - two, nearly three months - since Pac last saw Mike, last heard him with his ears, yelling as he was kidnapped, screaming for Pac to run and Pac - Pac has taken so long to find him. It's taken so long, and the torture and-

Bad places a hand on his shoulder.

And he'll have Mike soon, he just needs to remember to breathe.

He ignores the concerned glances, and instead whispers, "he's not on this side. He's North."

"How far?"

"I... don't know," Pac admits. "He's... too weak for the difference to mean much until we get close."

Bad nods an okay, while Philza whispers a curse under his breath. Whatever caused it, he waves off the immediate worry.

"We go around the west," Philza says. "There's fewer turrets. And Pac?"

Pac nods.

"Remember... If they catch us, they will just fucking kill Mike."

... Pac already knew that, but takes the opportunity to down the energy drink just in case.

He doesn't need telling to keep to cover - none of them do. There's raised fences along the sides of the roads, used to guide self-driving vehicles. They're just tall enough to hide behind, so long as they don't get spotted running across.

The road wraps around the facility - Pac has seen the maps, he knows this. If they just use it to run up... Just use this cover to run up, then hopefully they can track down Mike.

A couple of minutes of ducking in and out of cover, and Mike's presence is stronger. Pac gives another tug.

Still no response, still not even the whisper of a thought.

He prays it's drugs. He prays and prays to the Blessed Virgin that it's drugs and not brain damage keeping him so deeply asleep.

They're about a third of the way down the complex. Pac goes to get up, only for Crow to skim over his head. Instinctively Pac drops back to the floor, waiting.

Seconds later, boots on the road.

He's close enough to hear the plates of the guard's armour clink on one another as they walk, close enough to hear their alien chatter, close enough to smell the heat on their guns.

There's a metre high concrete fence between him and them. He stays low, and bites his lips, and begs himself not to whimper - not for Mike, and not for Fit.

He stays on the floor. He stays low on the floor, arms over his head. Stay still, stay still, blend in to the street and they won't see you - you won't ever be hurt again.

He stays on the floor, stays hidden from sight, long after the pair have passed. He barely breathes, barely dares to, not with Mike on the line, not when he doesn't know when the next patrol will pass.

It takes Philza running over, tugging at his arm, to get him back on his feet.

"Felipe," he whispers, whine in his voice as his hands tremble and his eyes remain wide.

"They're gone," an equally quiet voice replies. "How far?"

Pac closes his eyes, and reaches for Mike.

"Maybe... same, twice the same? It's hard," he shakes his head.

"Don't worry about it, mate, we can always do this the old way."

They can't - they all know it - but it's nice to know someone would try.

Bad, having been covering them from the treeline, slips back into view. He gestures north, they nod, and carry on.

The three of them stick closer now, just a couple of metres between each of them. Pac can finally, finally, almost feel Mike without concentrating again. He lingers like a word on the tip of his tongue, a silent presence pressed nearby.

Pac nearly sobs.

He doesn't, but nearly.

"We're close," he whispers instead.

He receives two nods, and the focus changes - no longer do they head north, instead they start searching for a way in.

There's a few doors they can see, all closed. Opening them... It's a risk - there could be something on the other side, and they'd never know until the entire facility is on high alert.

But then, they don't have a choice.

"Fuck," Philza hisses, a little too loud.

Pac looks to him, then follows his gaze, and whispers a soft "fuck me" when he sees what Philza saw.

There's a window - electric laser bars, not one they can jump through. Inside is a row of cells and Pac's heart knows that, yes, this is where Mike is. There's even an open door at one end, left wide for the workers handling some sort of delivery.

There is also a code.

There's a code, escorted by two guards, walking right where they need to be.

"Let me guess," Bad whispers. "That's where Mike is?"

Pac gives an apologetic nod, and Philza even gets away with swearing once again.

The three of them could probably take out a code - in isolation. The problem isn't the code, necessarily, it's the facility full of guards, and other creatures, and the strict time limit they have between being spotted and Mike being killed.

The three of them glance between one another, each hoping another makes a plan.

"We hope for a long patrol route," Philza whispers. "Do you know which cell?"

"I'd need to be closer."

Pac is certain he will be able to tell which cell, now that Mike rests concerningly still in his mind. At a distance Pac could pretend it was merely sleep, but here, so close... Mike is either suppressed in his own mind, or a lot of it is gone.

He thinks of the claws, and the sharp separation, he think-

He thinks he shouldn't be thinking about this.

They wait in the shadows, watching the path of the code. Eventually it turns, it and its guards moving away. The workers are by the delivery truck not the door, arguing with the driver in a way seemingly unlikely to end soon.

Bad risks moving first, setting himself beside the doorway. He gestures the other two of them forwards, even as Ghostie makes its way to the control panel.

As Pac watches the robot connects, and runs its code. Seconds later he hears the doors unlock, and sees the smug grin of Bad as he fails to trip the alarm.

It's still going to happen - either when he opens the cell door or when they call Niki over with the flares.

Pac closes his eyes, and feels for Mike - not just feels, but reaches along their bond and feels where it goes.

He raises two fingers, and hope they understand.

One second, and that's all Pac can stand - Mike is right there, right there, just within touching distance! He leaves Bad and Philza to work out the details, and rushes over to the door.

He throws it open.

An alarm finally sounds.

And there is Mike, Mike, Mike! He lays awkwardly on the floor, as though he was bodily thrown in there and hasn't moved since. If there was any blood it's long dry and cracked away, but there's a thinness in his face that Pac hasn't seen since they were teenagers on the streets - too young to work, too old to be bought a meal, not yet as quick with their fingers as they would one day be.

He's breathing, though - it's slow and shallow, but he's breathing, and Pac hides a sob in the sound of the alarm.

Philza's Crow flies over Pac's shoulder, and swoops down towards Mike. It released one of the splash potions it is loaded with, the hazey mist of healing pressing against Mike's skin.

It won't cure what's wrong - Pac knows that intimately - but it will have stabalised whichever wounds Mike has.

Pac doesn't wait for the Crow to return; he slips his arms around Mike, pulling him against him. For a moment he merely clings to him, soaking himself in Mike and Mike in himself, before - before he remembers the code outside.

He adjusts his grip on Mike, and slips out of the cell.

Niki has already been called - is already here, even, she must have been hovering very close by. Bad and Philza nod to him, guns ready to cover as he gets Mike to safety and away.

Pac doesn't thank them, he can't think to; he just makes sure Mike is secure, and begins scrambling up the ladder.

Even inside he doesn't wait; without knowing his injuries Pac dares not put Mike in one of the seats, instead pulling out the stretcher and affixing it to the floor. By the time he's done that Bad and Philza are back inside, the door shutting and Niki pulling the helicopter back to the skies - getting the distance before the turrets can realign and shoot them from the sky.

Neither Bad nor Philza touch Mike - Pac thinks he might have stabbed them if they dared - but they do help with the straps. Keeping him still, keeping him safe. The two of them assess for obvious injuries - bad bruising on both the back and front of his head, torn out finger nails, electrical burns, cuts and bruises and broken bones of torture.

Pac feels... Pac feels sick.

He doesn't strap into a seat, not like he's supposed to. Instead he perches at Mike's side - keeps a grab rail in range just in case, and picks up an abused hand.

It's so cold.

He clings to Mike, with mind body and soul. Mike is with him, Mike is safe - he reaches out with the bond and finds where Mike is, and eases himself around him. He can't hug Mike, not with his injuries, not like he wants to - but in soul he can cradle him all the same.

Mike's mind is still worryingly quiet - Pac's scared, no Pac's terrified, because he doesn't know what that means for his soulmate to be so blank - but there is a response. Mike's soul shifts, presses back against Pac's. He's listless, confused, pained, and deeply wounded, but he presses back, leans into the metaphysical hug.

Pac clings tighter to him, allows his body to sob in relief.

He traces the scars Cucurucho left on Mike - some of them still open, gaping wounds. Closer, now, he can do more; the metaphysics he doesn't quite understand, but they know what works. He doesn't touch the shreds scattered around, leaves them for now, but where wounds in Mike's mind and soul keep bleeding...

Pac sings in his soul, imagines butterfly stitches, makes them of his own essence and presses them to the wounds. They are not healed, not really, but Pac's essence is shaped in the form of healing and blended into Mike's, and it's the only thing he has to help.

Just like when they were children with scraped knees and blistered hands, he thinks of kissing each wound.

It might not promote healing in the same way, but he hopes against hope it still helps.

By the end of it he's exhausted, but Mike doesn't seem in as much pain any more - his soul trembles less, rests more. He's still so deep Pac can only hold him - there are no dreams for Pac to wander into, and no way to pull him from the sleep - but hold him he can. Holds his hand in body while he sobs, wraps around him in mind and soul and lets their essences merge together.

Just at the edges - Mike isn't aware enough to truly merge - but the gentle blur is back, the space between them where it's neither Pac nor Mike, but something greater than their parts.

He drinks the comfort of Mike, Mike, Mike, and hopes that - to whatever amount he is able - Mike can find comfort in Pac, Pac, Pac.

Chapter 3: Dream

Mike awakens not to reality, but to a dream. There’s a garden he doesn’t remember, and a large house that looks very familiar, and Pac sat sewing something into a green napkin, under the shelter of a tree.

Pac, Pac, Pac - something is wrong, and something hurts so badly, and he isn’t sure why Pac is sewing, but he’s there! He’s there, and Mike knows in that way that is integral to them both that it truly is Pac here. One of them has wandered into the other’s dream, the lines blurring until they are both the same person.

“Pac!” he calls. “Pac!”

He misses him. Why has he been missing him? Pac is always there, has always been there.

Pac looks up, waving with the hand holding the needle. He doesn’t say anything, his face exhausted as he returns to their work.

Mike bounds over, slotting himself in between his closest friend.

“What are you making?” he asks.

No matter what he does, his eyes seem unable to focus on what’s inside the embroidery hoop.

“Just fixing some things,” Pac replies, smile thin, leaning over to headbutt Mike’s cheek.

“Hey!” Mike calls. “Knock it off! Don’t you know I’m the injured one here?!”

Is he?

Mike doesn’t remember getting hurt.

Pac’s expression flashes dark for a moment.

Still he leans over, and presses a kiss to where he headbutted Mike’s cheek. It’s gentle, it’s silly, but any pain that was there fades away.

Pac returns to his sewing.

“You’re being weird, bro,” Mike says.

“I always am,” Pac laughs back.

And, yeah, Pac has a point there.

Across the garden he watches two children play tag. One trips, and falls, scraping the skin from his hands. The other sees, and panics. He drags the other to a tap, washes away the mud, and then presses a kiss to each grazed palm.

“Where are we?” Mike asks. “I… Do I know this place?”

Pac misses a stitch. He catches his finger instead, a small bead of blood appearing. Quickly he shoves it in his mouth, licking the blood and the wound away.

He looks… Tired.

Too tired.

“Pac?” Mike asks, more gently, more concerned. “Pac, are you okay?”

Why would Pac look so tired in his dreams? Why would Pac be asleep, and yet look like sleep is a foreign mystery to him?

Why is Pac sewing, and what is this place?

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” Pac asks.

When he answers, there’s no life in his voice, no joy, not even any fear - just dead, exhausted, confusion.

“Huh?”

Something is wrong, and Mike doesn’t know what it is.

“This isn’t the first time you’ve asked me that,” Pac stabs the needle harder into the fabric.

Mike flinches, and he doesn’t know why.

“It’s not?”

“It’s the orphanage,” Pac answers the earlier question, instead of any of the newer ones. “You, and me… This is where we met. This is months after we met.”

“A memory?” Mike asks. “One of yours? I don’t think I remember this…”

“You don’t remember a lot of things.”

Mike goes to retort before he realises Pac’s tone. It’s not teasing, it’s not light, it’s not even offended - it’s sad.

It’s more than sad, it’s resigned.

And Mike… isn’t sure he’s heard Pac sound so sad before.

“I don’t understand,” Mike tells him.

“Just go back to sleep, Mike. I’ll be here when you wake.”

“Pac?”

Pac doesn’t answer again. He returns to his sewing, turning his face down in concentration.

The smile on his lips is named heartbreak.

---

Mike awakens to a dream. Pac’s still sitting under that same tree. The light is still dappled, and there’s the sound of traffic from beyond the gates.

It’s a little clearer now, less blurred.

Right, the orphanage.

Why is he dreaming of /here/ again? He’d even prefer the prison, most days.

“Hey Pac,” he sits himself at Pac’s side. “Can we go somewhere more cheerful?”

“Soon,” Pac replies, not looking up as he pulls through another stitch. “Just let me finish this.”

He looks even more exhausted than before.

Once again, Mike tries to look at the sewing.

This time he seems a little more - it’s not embroidery, as the hoop had implied, but a torn piece of cloth. There’s a pattern he can’t perceive - damned dreams - and there are claw marks through it all.

And Pac… Pac is slowly sewing it back together.

“Did the Nuns decide to punish you?” Mike says. “You know the fights were my fault - that’s not nearly fair.”

“It’s just sewing,” Pac shrugs. “They could have done worse.”

They had done a lot worse, sometimes.

But, Mike supposes, if this is his dream, of course they are going light on Pac. Because no matter what, his soulmate should never have cruel things.

Pac must hear the thought, for he laughs.

“I miss you, Mike,” Pac says.

“I’m right here,” he replies.

“I know.” It’s a whisper. “But for how long?”

Pac leans over, and kisses his cheek again.

There’s blood that comes away on Pac’s lips.

Mike doesn’t have time to freak out before the dream fades, twisting and shifting and fading into black.

He thinks… He thinks that means Pac woke up.

Probably?

…

Maybe…?

…

Why can’t he remember…?

---

Mike awakens to a dream. Same orphanage, same tree, same Pac.

Pac’s still sewing, but it’s a different piece of fabric this time.

Still broken. Still torn.

Still green.

Mike comes and sits beside him, and sees the exhaustion only growing on his face. It’s so deep, now, that his very face seems sunken in.

“What’s so important?” Mike asks. “Why are you coming here? Why don’t you sleep?”

Pac sighs, and deflates, and leans heavily against Mike’s side.

Still he keeps going. Still he keeps sewing.

But why?

“I love you, bro,” Pac says. Eyes half lidded, fingers still moving.

MIke tries to grab the sewing, tries to rip it away - take the dumbass thing from his friend, and make his idiot go to sleep.

The moment he touches it the fabric tears and the thread snaps and Pac lets out an ungodly scream.

“Pac!”

Pac is curled over himself - curled over the fabric - screaming even harder than before. The orphanage starts twisting, the ground starts crumbling around them, the children playing tag stop and stare and-

“Hey, isn’t that us?”

The dream does not end, it shatters.

---

Mike awakens to a dream. Pac sits in the overhang of the prison gates, cross legged on the floor as he sews. It’s the same green fabric as last time; the original tear is repaired, but the new ones Mike put it in are being tended still.

In places its more stitch than fabric.

Mike wonders if it’s really worth saving.

“Of course it is,” Pac says in place of a greeting, carefully slipping his needle to minimally disrupt the threads of the fabric.

He sounds almost offended.

It’s the most emotion Mike’s earnt from him since the start of these dreams; something is wrong. Something is terribly, terribly wrong.

And he’s starting to build a picture of what.

“Pac?” he asks, tentative, wary. “Pac, what are you sewing?”

Pac turns, and looks at him, and-

And Mike can see the thread.

The thread, the thread he can now clearly see is woven from Pac’s hair, and bound using salt - using tears.

“Pac?” He gets a little more desperate. “Pac? What’s going on?”

Or maybe it’s neither, maybe that’s not fabric at all, maybe this is just a manifestation of Pac trying to repair something using the very essence of himself and oh, fuck, is that why the idiot looks so tired?!

How long has he been sewing?

How long has he been at this?

What has happened that Pac is spending so much of his very self?

“Pac!” he screams, because he /knows/ his friend heard that thought, that he’s just ignoring it. “Pac! What the fuck are you doing!? Stop that! You’re hurting yourself!”

Pac darts the fabric out of Mike’s reach this time, keeps it away from his grabbing hands.

“Mike!” he shrieks back. “Mike! Don’t touch it!”

“What is it?!” Mike yells back. “What the fuck could be so important you’re killing yourself over it?!”

Because Pac is, is, is. If he took this more slowly, his essence would refresh, but at the rate he’s going…

At the rate he’s going, Pac’s going to seriously injure his soul.

The prison collapses into a room. It’s an ugly room, with high unpainted walls and a steel, corrugated roof. Five people are gathered. Cellbit stabs a knife into a wall, and runs a hand through his hair as he screams in despair. Forever sits at the table, head in hands, the image of despair. Felps is at a… perhaps a whiteboard, explaining something on it. Pac and Mike are sat next to each other, looking worried, hands entwined.

The other Pac - the Pac trying to kill himself over whatever this stupid repair project is, is slouched in a corner.

Still sewing, still sewing, stitch by cursed stitch.

The room is broken - glitching and corrupted, like trying to load a game with missing assets. The people are fine, but their clothing is not, shuddering and straining under… Under the mental equivalent of a missing texture bug. Bits of the walls are gone, and the whiteboard marker Felps writes with goes over not a board but an abyss.

Pac closes his eyes and makes three more stitches - in this place, in this version of the nightmare, every motion seems to cause him pain.

Another three agonising stitches, tears streaming down Pac’s face.

The whiteboard glitches in, flickering a few times before settling.

Mike can see Felps drawing a battle plan and - right, wasn’t this…?

He knows this.

He should remember.

Why can’t he remember?

There’s blood pouring from the real Pac’s hands and fingers, even as he makes a few more, deliberate stitches.

Mike doesn’t remember which battle, but he remembers the plan now - in the end they’d never had to use it, because they’d actually managed to get reinforcements from the usual army. If they hadn’t… If they hadn’t, it would have been the five of them, and the people they worked with, and a heroic last stand on a bit of the northern coast.

One they all well knew would only be a delaying tactic, and they prayed they wouldn’t survive.

And Mike…

It’s on the tip of his tongue, what is happening.

It’s on the tip of his tongue but the real Pac is bleeding and he can’t touch the fabric so he grabs Pac’s hands and kisses the wounds himself.

A childish trick, to take the pain away.

But here in their mindscape, it works well enough; Mike feels himself weaken, and sees a few of the cuts start to close.

“Oh, Mike,” Pac laughs, and his hair isn’t washed and his face is gaunt but he’s smiling and sometimes that’s enough. “Oh, Mike - don’t hurt yourself, okay? I’ll be alright. Just take care of yourself. For me?”

Mike tries to be offended - it’s clearly Pac who isn’t looking after himself here - only to find dripping from his lips.

One cut open.

The tiny bit of healing should not have cost him so much?

What is-?

Suddenly Pac moves, pushes him, pushes him out of the dream.

Mike falls into the abyss before he can finish the thought.

---

Mike awakens to a dream. They’re in… the bar? The bar on the… On the big skyship, that they now call home. It’s busy, in the dream, the faces mostly blurry. Not all - some he recognises, like Fit, or Tubbo, or Cellbit and Roier - but most are glitched out.

Finding the real Pac takes a bit of effort. He’s slumped behind the bar, looking even worse, and still, still sewing.

“How do I make you stop?” Mike asks. “You idiot, how do I make you stop?!”

Pac’s exhausted, burnt low, looking at him with exhausted but smiling eyes.

“I’ll never stop,” he says. “Not until everything I can fix is repaired.”

“You’ll die first!” Mike is sure of that. “You’ll die, you need to stop!”

“I won’t stop,” Pac says again, holding a finger to Mike’s argument. “But if you want me to slow down…?”

Slowing down would be enough, Mike thinks - so long as Pac gave his soul time to replenish itself, the sorts of things he’s doing wouldn’t lead to any harm at all. The problem is… The problem is the obsession, the way he’s working day and night and Mike… Mike is pretty sure Pac’s never left the dreamscape.

Wait.

Has Mike…?

“Do it,” MIke says. “Take a fucking week off, then just do a bit of a time. Aren’t you always the one telling me to pace myself on long projects?!”

Pac reaches up, weaving a bloody hand into Mike’s hair.

“Wake up, and keep waking up, and I’ll even make it two.”

It’s not like Pac to give more of what Mike wants in a negotiation.

Whatever the fuck is going on…

… How long has he been asleep…?

The pieces start to come together - the pieces have been coming together. Pac, curled around a fraction of Mike, shielding them both. Cucurucho, and it’s claws, tearing into his memories and-

And the fabric is green.

“Pac.”

“Mike?”

“What is that fabric.”

It’s not a question.

Mike already knows.

Pac knows he knows too.

He smiles and it’s bitter and it’s cursed, as he turns over the fabric, and lets Mike see.

The fabric that is green.

The fabric that has come in many shades and textures, but that has always been green.

The fabric that is not fabric, that is the tattered and torn shred of Mike’s memories and soul.

The fabric that is everything he could not pull to safety, that is every part of him left behind.

The fabric, that Pac has been so lovingly repairing even to the destruction of himself and-

And of course, Pac would destroy himself for Mike.

Wouldn’t Mike do the same for him?

“Wake up, Mike,” Pac says. “Wake up for me, and I’ll rest, and once I’ve rested we’ll work on it together.”

And Mike…

Mike isn’t sure if he remembers how to wake up.

But he remembers enough to try.

Chapter 4: Reunion

Mike wakes up.

There is no fanfare or anything, just a headache clawing its way into his skull, and being awake.

He shifts, and tries to move and-

And fuck, is it hard work.

But still he tries, because if he doesn’t his idiot soulmate is going to get himself killed, and Mike…

Mike is pretty sure he wouldn’t survive that either.

He finds his body, and there’s a weight across his stomach. His hands find their way to it and - and yes, he’d know Pac’s hair anywhere. His fingers are bandaged, so it’s a bit hard to run them through it. He does his best, anyway.

He feels the bond between them; Pac is asleep, and truly asleep. It’s light, and Mike already feels him stirring at the touch, but none of…

There’s a dream, out of reach, as dreams usually are. Already it’s fading and so Mike grabs the facts - Pac has been pushing himself too far, and pushing himself too far because Mike had been torn apart.

Mike does remember that. Of all the things, why did he have to remember that? The claws in him, in his mind, scraping along Pac’s shields, only barely missing their intertwined souls.

“Mike?”

The voice isn’t Pac’s.

It is familiar, though.

Mike takes longer than he’d like to recognise Cellbit’s voice, and respond with the sort of nonsense phoneme scramble he’s awoken with his entire life.

Waking up fully takes him a bit longer but… He can’t really move, not with Pac over his lap, and his hands are bandaged, and he can feel the mask on his face and the wires and tubes all over.

However long he’s been out, it’s been long enough for people to worry.

(But he already knew that, didn’t he?)

“Cellbit?” he somehow manages to talk around the cotton in his throat.

“Here,” is the reply from his right side. “Take it slow. Here.”

A straw is poked under the mask. Mike’s tempted to ask why /Cellbit/ is here, but that’s uncharitable; he does know he’s family, that the prison was a long time ago, he’s just…

Some things are fresher than they should be.

But he /knows/ they’re fresher than they should be, so he curls his hands a little more into Pac’s hair, and sucks on the straw.

It’s just water.

It helps his headache and his throat.

Only so much, but it helps.

“I feel like my brain went through a grater,” he bitches. Mike would rub at his head, if he wasn’t busy clinging to Pac.

“A shredder is probably more accurate,” Cellbit /hesitates/, and isn’t that a funny thing. Mike watches him tense, then slump and drag his hands down his face.“Fuck, Mike, you shouldn’t be alive.”

“It’s just some asshole bear,” Mike hides his fear; his fear from what happened, his fear of that abomination, his fear when he looks into his mind and finds holes where he /knows/ something should be…

It’s not just some asshole bear. It was Cucurucho and, as far as the Order knows, Mike’s speaking to the only other person who has been psychically violated by one of the creatures and survived.

Survived, without a Soulmate to shield him or patch him back together. Mike knows Cellbit can also shield his own mind but, damn, he’s a little more respect for it now.

A shiver runs up his spine, and it isn’t entirely voluntary.

“Not just,” Cellbit hesitates, reaching out to place a hand on Mike’s shoulder. “I saw Pac shield you, but from so far… Well, you’re fine.”

Not really, but Mike will take what he can get.

“Is Pac alright?” he asks instead. Because Mike knows the answer is no, feels dread from his dreams and from the way Pac sprawls across Mike even in his sleep. He has no doubts that, were he to raise his head, the bags under his eyes would be etched like scars.

“He’ll be fine now you’re awake.”

And that isn’t the question Mike asked, but it answers what he wanted about the same.

He tugs again on their soulbond, desperate to prove he’s up and that Pac should actually rest now. Pac tugs blearily back, and it’s /never/ been this hard to wake him before. Pac needs the rest, Mike knows he needs the rest, but Mike…

Mike needs him too.

Pac must understand something of that thought, because he starts to stir a little more. He doesn’t do anything stupid this time, and doesn’t really wake up either - he simply wakes enough to mentally latch onto Mike, and tuck himself into the side of his brain.

Mike holds him in body and mind and tells himself that Pac needs the rest.

Doesn’t stop him wanting him, though.

“Will he?” Mike asks.

Cellbit doesn’t answer him for a long moment, looking at him appraisingly. It’s not especially strong but his eyes glow very slightly red, and Mike feels a brush along both his and Pac’s minds.

It’s not invasive, just skimming.

It still makes Mike feel sick, memory of fear, of claws scratching, of something /inside his brain/.

But Cellbit only looks, nothing more - doesn’t even read.

“He’s in a far better state than you. He just needs to sleep.”

Again, not saying much, Mike can’t actually remember if there is any food he dislikes thanks to something raking through his brain.

But it does say something, because Mike is damned if he won’t be fine. He’ll work it out - they’ll work it out together - because it’s what they do.

Cellbit and Mike lapse into silence, and it feels a little awkward. Cellbit is perhaps both the best and the worst person to be here - the prison, the war, the fact he too can use psionics but on a more generalised level than Pac and Mike.

Mike knows he’s missing something - missing many things - but his eyes narrow on the man nonetheless. Something’s missing, something’s missing…

Ah. Mike isn’t being either interrogated or treated like a particularly fascinating puzzle.

“You have questions?” Mike asks, because his soul knows that even if he does get a bit intense, Cellbit matters to him. Cellbit matters, and won’t stop being weird until he’s satisfied all his questions and worked out what’s going on, and unlike in the early days of their acquaintance he will be genuinely /trying/ to help.

Being fucking weird about it, sure, but trying to help.

“They can wait until the doctor releases you at least,” Cellbit says and, ah, Mike really must have scared them if /Cellbit/ is willing to wait on questions, to delay interrogation and answers for the genuine sake of their comfort. “Are you…?”

“It’s… patchy,” Mike confesses,. “I don’t remember much before or after Pac… You coming back is about the last /clear/ memory I have. Some others are there, just…”

He’d gesture, if he could make full use of his hands.

“I know you’re acting weird, and I know you’re trying to help. Isn’t that enough?”

Cellbit seems… surprised. He doesn’t express whatever the nature of his surprise is, but it’s clear enough on his face; whatever Mike has forgotten, it’s not how to read his friends.

“Before that?” he asks, instead of whatever is on his mind.

Mike does his best to shrug - his body seems… In better condition than at least two months of torture would imply, so he dreads to think how long he’s been scaring people.

“Not sure. The order is… bad.”

Cellbit nods, “we’ll work it out. Just…” he sighs, and Cellbit’s entire form collapses in on itself as he reaches out, placing his hands atop Mike’s - a little pile on Pac’s hair. “I’m glad to have you back, man.”

There’s pain in Cellbit’s eyes, and a brutal, brutal honesty.

Mike’s not really sure he’s glad to be back, not when being back just invites more pain, but there’s no world in which he doesn’t do everything to be at Pac’s side.

Pac, who is now actually waking up, his body finally stirring.

Pac, who is now slightly more awake, and all Mike can feel from him is hollow, carved out pain.

Mike shifts his hands, letting Pac sit up and rub his eyes and take in the room. He keeps them close, though, resting fragile feeling fingers on Pac’s knee.

He’s willing to wait. He’ll wait for Pac - not always, sometimes it’s a race, but at least when it is as serious as this.

But Pac… Pac is having none of waiting. He throws himself at him even before he’s fully awake, hitting Mike’s shoulder a little hard as he clings for a hug. Mike’s arms are not the most responsive, but he can still pull them around his soulmate’s back, holding him in turn.

And now he’s awake, Mike once again touches their minds together.

Pac’s mental fatigue is immense, and his soul is tired enough to be a bit sludgey - Mike’s most likely is too - but Mike wraps around him, presses against him, comforts himself in his presence and refamiliarises himself with the shape of his soulmate’s soul.

Too long, too long, too long - both of them are crying as their souls scream for each other.

Cellbit says something about good morning, about getting the others, and excuses himself from the room.

Mike doesn’t really care, not when Pac is here, sobbing in his arms as they both shake with oscillating /fear, love, fear/.

Mike…

He doesn’t remember the mission, or the kidnapping, or much besides the agony of claws inside his /brain/, but what he does know is how Pac trembles against him, and he himself trembles back. Pain, and horror, and missing time; even if he somehow ever lets go of Pac again, he doubts Pac is ever letting go of him.

And, fuck, he isn’t sure he wants Pac to. Not when the world hurts, not when it’s unsteady and unstable, his memories still a jumble and a mess, and not ever again, not when letting go means being able to be torn apart.

They'll fix it, they'll fix it later, Pac will fix Mike's memories and Mike will fix the hole in Pac's soul, because that's what soulmates /do/ - that's what /they/ do - but for now…

If he holds Pac, then they’re together.

And he doesn’t regret telling Pac to run - Pac’s memory, not his, provided at his confusion - doesn’t regret telling Pac to complete the mission and to save himself, but Mike isn’t there now, he isn’t there he’s here instead and here might not be perfect but it’s better than a cell.

Here, in the safest place.

And the safest place is in Pac’s arms.

Just like it always has been.

#qsmp fanfic #qsmp pac #qsmp mike #qsmp tazercraft

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sunflowernoodles · 5 months

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First Snow

I think my mha hyper fixation finally died off a little bit and I recently watched Stranger Things for the first time so I’m pretty into that right now. Also a few weeks ago I reached a year on tumblr, big thanks to all of you for making me feel welcome 💛 But like always, I hope you enjoy! 🌻

Lee: Steve

Ler: Eddie

Ships: Steddie

It was early December and it had gotten cold quickly. School had gotten out for winter break which meant Eddie and the kids were out. Didn’t mean too much for Steve. He got to see his boyfriend more often.

Steve didn’t like winter much. Didn’t like the cold or snow. So you can imagine his annoyance waking up one morning after staying the night at Eddie’s to find the half a foot of snow outside.

“Oh, great.” Steve groaned, as his only thought was how he had to drive home in this later. He laid back down, taking several seconds to realize that Eddie wasn’t there. Reluctantly, Steve left the warmth of the bed to go find his boyfriend.

He left Eddies room and to his surprise, Eddie was by the front door, slipping on a jacket and looking ready to trudge out in the snow. Eddie heard the floor shifting and looked over, smiling brightly when he saw Steve, “Good morning sleeping beauty.”

Steve responded with a groan as he approached. “Grumpy.” Eddie said quietly, but just loud enough for Steve to catch and glare at him.

“What are you even doing? You wanna go out in that?” Steve questioned his boyfriend, the grogginess from just waking up still present in his voice. In fact, everything about Steve said he would rather be in bed right now. The lidded eyes, messy hair, rumpled clothes.

Eddie just grinned. “Why not?” He shrugged, opening the door and making Steve shudder from the cold. “You wanna go with me?” Eddie asked, almost convincing Steve that this was something fun and not the frozen hell it was out there.

Eddie’s smile was met with sleepy eyes. “Suit yourself.” Eddie shrugged, not minding if Steve wanted to stay inside the warm trailer and go back to sleep. He went out, shutting the door behind him and leaving Steve standing there.

Steve quickly realized he felt incredibly uncomfortable standing in Eddie’s home without, well, Eddie. He groaned tiredly and went to put on his coat and shoes.

Upon getting outside, there was Eddie in front of the trailer, building a snowman. It was a little endearing. Once again, Eddie smiled when he saw his boyfriend.

“Stevie! You made it!” Eddie cheered, as if they weren’t only just in the same building mere minutes ago. Steve gave a tired smile as he sat on the front steps. He would leave the whole, playing in the snow to Eddie. And so Eddie continued with his slightly lopsided snowman.

Steve had managed to doze off a little, leaning against the railing of the steps while Eddie’s hands had turned to ice due to his lack of gloves. He was about to yell over to Steve about his minor predicament, but abruptly changed his mind when he saw him practically sleeping on the snowy front porch. Who was he to disrupt such a peaceful display of beauty?

Well… a little disturbance wouldn’t hurt. Eddie approached slowly, cringing when his footsteps would crunch especially loud from the snow. But eventually, he made his way over and sat beside Steve carefully.

Eddie looked him over a second, dark eyes landing on a small patch of skin, unprotected by Steve’s sweater and coat. He grinned to himself as he reached down, poking at the spot and watching Steve immediately jolt out of his small snooze with an undignified yelp.

Steve crossed his arms, looking at Eddie in confusion, “what?” He asked in confusion, a small flush on his face. Or perhaps he was just cold.

“My hands are cold.” Eddie said plainly with a deceptively innocent smile. Steve was confused to say the least. Or until Eddie raised his hands, wiggling his fingers menacingly.

“Oh, Stevie~” Eddie said in a singsongy voice. That was all it took to send Steve scrambling off the porch and back into the trailer. Eddie, of course, quickly followed.

Steve, however, stupidly cornered himself in Eddie’s room. It was just because he was tired, nothing else at all. Not because the threat of tickling made his brain short circuit, or that maybe he wanted Eddie to catch him just a little. Nope, not at all. Just a little sleepy. His stomach did flips when he saw Eddie turn the corner into the room.

“What’re you running from, pretty boy?” Eddie asked with a knowing grin. Steve shrugged, stumbling back onto the bed as he crossed his arms.

Steve watched Eddie nervously, but expectantly for a moment. He quickly averted his gaze when Eddie did approach though.

“Like I said, my hands are cold. I don’t know why you’re running away~” Eddie teased, slipping his hands under Steve’s sweater and pinching his sides with his icy fingers. Steve tensed and the plain expression he was fighting to keep on his face wavered slightly, the corners of his mouth pulling up a smidge.

Eddie grinned as he slowly pinched upwards, watching Steve squirm and slowly but surely fold in on himself. “Eheheddie.” Steve giggled, not sounding all that desperate to get Eddie off of him.

“Yes?” Eddie replied, reaching Steve’s ribs and rubbing the spaces in between. The snort that it ripped from Steve surprised Eddie, but he would be lying if he said it wasn’t one of the cutest sounds he had ever heard.

Steve wasn’t moving much, except for the occasional jerk of his legs. “yohoure hahahands are cohold!” He continued giggling, flinching when Eddie quickly pinched his shoulder blades.

Eddie snickered at Steve’s giggles. “Thats all? Just cold? Thats all it is?~” he teased, leaning down next to Steve and kissing his ear. Steve just slowly fell to the side, Eddie following him down.

Usually, Steve was one to fight back, and usually, it was easy as he was a little bit stronger than Eddie. But not right now. Right now, Steve was tired and it was cold. He just wanted to melt into his boyfriend and enjoy the warmth of the affection.

Eddie noticed because, by now Steve had usually turned the tables on him. But this was fine. It was more than fine. He pulled Steve closer, blunt fingernails skimming over Steve’s sides and belly. Light giggles and occasional flirty comments from Eddie filled the room.

The two eventually fell asleep again for another hour or so. Maybe it wasn’t so bad when it was cold out, if this is what it entailed now. When Steve woke up later though, fully energized, Eddie was given a healthy dose of revenge.

#sfw tickles #steddie tickle fic #ler!eddie #lee!steve #them <3

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theresa-of-liechtenstein · 5 months

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astute followers of the Wild and Wacky Adventures of Em the Jumped-Up Busker will note that i did not have anything unhinged to share yesterday. however this was not due to a lack of Moments. au contraire, there were simply so many Moments that i collapsed directly into bed and knocked out as soon as i returned to my apartment

ACT 1: the practice room

curtain opens. i am taking a break in a practice room about an hour before rehearsal (read: scrolling through tumblr) with the third movement of the bach concerto in a minor on the piano

am just about to give up on practicing and go eat my snack (makeshift charcuterie board comprised of prosciutto and cheese) somewhere on the ground floor when someone raps on the door.

i whip around, hastily burying the evidence (closed tumblr), to find my favorite honors professor/newest section member squinting in at me through the tiny window in the door

i open the door for her and tell her i was just about to leave to have a snack. she then goes ‘you can eat in here. i wanted to see what you were working on’, takes out her violin, and starts playing my solo rep better than i’ll ever play it

‘last time i played this was thirty years ago,’ she says to me, matter of fact

also mentions to me: ‘i saw the assistant principal viola in my class. got startled! they never talk to me…’

me: ‘i’m not really sure you realize that you’re kind of intimidating to people.’

ate honorsprofessor: ‘me? really?’

me: ‘yes! (somehow received some boldness in the moment) you even intimidate me, sometimes’

ate honorsprofessor, shooting me an affectionately exasperated look: ‘em, you would be intimidated by a mouse.’

I MEAN????????? WHAJAHWJWHAKAHAKWIWOAIOW?????????????? READ FOR FILTH???????

tl;dr 1: apparently got harana-d by ate honorsprofessor

ACT 2: rehearsal

tita conductor begins rehearsal by advertising the choirs’ concert the following week (she also directs them on top of the 1937017292820281 other things she’s been doing in the department for god knows how long)

pointedly finishes off with ‘and if any of you are ever interested in singing, let me know; i find that my instrumentalists who also sing bring a lot of knowledge with them, and it can do nothing but good for you here. i treasure my instrumentalist singers with my heart’

[harp noises to signal a flashback to the past][echoing voiceover from f1 journalist asking a question at the 2014 abu dhabi grand prix: ‘gentlemen, a short view back to the past…’]

in the google form for audition sign-ups we were asked to name any previous ensemble experience. not knowing that tita conductor also was in charge of the choirs, i put down my single year of high school choir as an alto 2

my (zoom) audition was. interesting. tita conductor thought i took my slow movement of the handel sonata in d major too slow. i tried to justify my tempo. until i realized i was contradicting an Authority Figure, immediately felt a wave of Asian Shame, shut my mouth, and instantly thought i had fucked my chances of getting a spot

at that point i just remember something clicking inside me, a feeling of serenity like nothing i had ever experienced before, and a voice telling me, ‘you’re not going to get it. just play.’

i was so dead set thinking that i’d screwed up that i was genuinely surprised that she offered me a spot—even more so when she immediately followed it up by beaming at me and saying ‘great! now would you like to sing for me?’

i spluttered at her for what felt like several hours before saying what i thought was ‘sorry, come again?’ but came out as ‘uh huh whuh?’

tita conductor: i have here that you’ve done choir :)

me: umm. i’m not really prepared for that… and i can only fit one ensemble into my schedule

tita conductor: oh. well, okay :(

[harp noises to signal a return to the present]

i very assiduously avoid eye contact.

other tita conductor rehearsal moments:

‘i am a very good human metronome’

[misjudges how much podium she has left and accidentally totters off of it while trying to cue] ‘oops, gone overboard!’

[screws up a few things in rapid succession] ‘ooh, i could have been much better at conducting that, sorry! (adds, sotto voce) it is very important for your conductor to admit when they’re wrong.’

‘Seconds!’ [we play a thing] ‘YES, seconds!’

ACT 3: rehearsal, the aftermath

as everyone clears up, principal viola approaches me to discuss a bowing for the brahms. assistant principal viola (one of my friends in orchestra) is also hanging around to watch

principal viola has discussed bowing with me once before, for the mendelssohn; their ideas are usually sensible and they seem more experienced than me (master’s student)

they propose that at rehearsal tempo (excessively slow) we take two bows in a phrase that usually takes one (i have been doing it on one bow even at the rehearsal tempo. because i slow down my bow.)

they also tell me that i have been cuing in with the first violins on a spot where we, in fact, do not come in with the first violins (i.e. a beat early). the latter of which i immediately write in, embarrassed.

ate honorsprofessor wanders up behind me as i discuss with principal viola, and as we continue to talk, tita conductor comes over, looks at what we’re doing, hurries off to grab her score, and puts herself between me and my stand, effectively putting me in a middle-aged woman sandwich

tita conductor: ‘i see my predecessor—and this is probably thirty years ago—has put bow markings in parentheticals breaking that into two, so i’m not sure…’

me: ‘oh, no that was me. i just wrote that in now.’

tita conductor: ‘oh. well… why?’

she hears out principal viola and says ‘could you not just… bow slower?’ LANWJWKWHWJS HELP???? but also yeah. i would just bow slower. it’s harder to unlearn bowings later on

ate honorsprofessor pipes up: ‘i like putting that whole phrase on an up bow instead of a down, so the next phrase comes lighter’ and demonstrates

i make a note of it (i still have not yet decided anything about that btw.)

principal viola: and also i was just saying that they come in with the firsts when they don’t

tita conductor: [silently points to the note i made in the margins that says ‘NOT with V.1’

me, panicking: ‘oh i wrote that in. just now.’

tita conductor: [turns back to look at me, smiling gently] ‘no, i’m saying it’s very good. it’s good to make a note of that.’

we wrap up our discussion and i begin heading back to my stuff

ate honorsprofessor is still fucking around with the third movement of the bach in a minor and teases as i approach ‘look what you did, em 🙄🙄🙄’

i get the distinct feeling i should play along and protest ‘excuse me!! what did i do!!’

ate honorsprofessor, playing right back: ‘oh you Know what you did!’

me: ‘i absolutely do not! i don’t know anything i’ve done since… october 2!’ (when i got offered the position)

ate honorsprofessor: ‘well, what about what you did january 11, huh?’

me, now genuinely confused: ‘wait, what happened january 11?’

ate honorsprofessor: ‘are you serious? honors 150. first day of class. when i met you.’

atehonorsprofessor then tells assistant principal viola about us playing the bach double together earlier this year

now you may be wondering, where is tita conductor throughout all this?

well, she was very interestedly examining the wall near the door to the early keyboards room, which opens off the rehearsal hall.

so, eavesdropping. as usual.

tl;dr 2: too many things had happened in the space of three hours and i was in no state to go to my last class of the day so i instead fed the assistant principal viola some of my beef stew and skipped class

if you managed to get to the bottom of this you deserve a prize idk.

i served yesterday btw.

#em jumped up busker #LIKE OHHH MY GODDD. WHAT THE FUCK WAS YESTERDAY 😭😭😭

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leam1983 · 1 year

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So, you wanna play the Wizard Game...

Let's start with a point of comparison.

When I was a kid, in the halcyon age of the Nineties, Earthworm Jim 1 and 2 were my jam on the SNES. I loved the associated cartoon, and basically owed my exposure to absurdist humor to concepts like the Great Cosmic Worm or the launching of cows into the stratosphere using a crude fulcrum. To me, EWJ was zany, lively, more than content to wag its Vaudevillan villains around for non-crucial bits of mundane evilness that went as far as being rude to the postman - and mostly innocent.

Then, time passed, I grew up, and came to learn of Doug TenNapel, the creator of the IP - and of his views.

Doug TenNapel is a Conservative who mealy-mouths his way around bigotry and antisemitism, more or less the type to Tommy Tallarico his way out of a situation by waving the "Lookit, I'm zany!" card as if we were still effectively in 1995. He tried for a comeback with a Webcomic entitled Ratfist, back in 2010, but his views more or less blew up in his face. Ratfist was unceremoniously concluded and TenNapel effectively faded from public consciousness.

I spent a few weeks wondering how I felt about this. I still had some fondness for EWJ and for ancillary projects that bore a bit of that TenNapel touch (like Shiny Entertainment's MDK), and it took me a while to remember that no, some literary analysis devices that I've been taught to use in the field are not, in fact, a form of tacit approval of the author's views.

Fast-forward to today, and I'm seeing a world where you cannot extricate a work from its author, where someone having a stroke of genius one particular decade ago and then turning into a raging shithole several years later apparently disqualifies everything they've put up in the past from any sort of consideration.

Now, my girlfriend had a sideline in Art History. Whenever she's confronted with Purity Culture as a concept, she remembers Caravaggio's works. The guy is a giant in the field of later Renaissance art, both for his talent and for his personality.

You see, Caravaggio fucked. He was a serial philanderer, he got into fights over women, cultivated a long list of lovers both male and female - and of open convictions. He also recruited a prostitute off the street and hired her to pose for him - as the Virgin Mary. Imagine picking a lady-of-the-road right across from the church that's just commissioned you, and recognizing that with the right light and medium, her face had those exactingly precise characteristics the elite looked for in their depictions of religious figures. For his time, he was as controversial as you could imagine. By today's standards, he'd probably have a massive following on Tumblr, if he were both alive and had a blog of his own. I don't think it'd be much of a stretch to imagine him as an ally, actually.

Despite that, no Art History student will ever look at his works in the context of who Caravaggio was. They'll look at his works in the context of when and where they were made. There's a massive difference there. In my own studies, I've done the same for everyone between Zola to Steinbeck, and I've definitely given Joanne Katherine Rowling's flagship series more of a critical eye.

Just - not in the way I'd assume most people would appreciate, these days. The Potterverse, if you will, is one that's effectively designed to be formative for younger readers, and one that quite visibly predates the author's drift towards reactionary politics. You can spot weak shades of it in some places, like Dumbledore's tokenistic referral as a gay man, but the series actually strives for inclusiveness. As to why trans characters never came into play, I'd chalk it up to ignorance and lack of comfort. I'm only a cis and bi man, and it took me years of study and careful attention to work past my own fears and workshop a trans character that wouldn't be - hopefully - much of an offense to anyone. Rowling herself simply never had that chance, or never took it once it was offered.

Obviously, she won't take it now even if it's offered. Her later works are disturbingly facile, in the sense that most skilled authors tend to use their external voice to provide mere observations and not to unsubtly pass judgement - an aspect in which she now repeatedly fails. Her posture can still be extricated from what she's written under the name of Robert Galbraith, but it has the relative finesse of a Ben Shapiro wish-fulfillment fantasy. Considering, I find it quite easy to draw a line between the Potter Era and the Post-Potter Era. There's a bitterness at play in her later works that just isn't present in what actually serves as her juvenilia, effectively.

There's a young and hopeful JKR drawing sketches in a café, and then there's the frustrated and bitter woman pulling increasingly desperate pleas for relevance. The lines couldn't possibly be any clearer.

So - let's assume you've effectively killed Rowling in the sense used by Narratology theorists and removed her from any consideration in her works. Can you play Hogwarts Legacy knowing that a small, if not insignificant portion of its royalties are going to go to Rowling's pockets?

Yes. How, you might ask?

Pirate it. If the Wizarding World still matters to you, pirate the fuck out of this one. Rip her books and upload raw PDFs to your Kindle. Considering the game's dev history, I'm sure plenty of employees in Avalanche itself would give you their blessing.

The Death of the Author absolutely does apply - especially in a situation where means exist to obtain the media involved at no cost whatsoever beyond your own bandwidth.

#hogwarts legacy #on buying the game #on not buying the game #on support vs piracy #pirate this thing kiddos

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hlficlibrary · 2 years

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HL FIC LIBRARY 📚 AUTHOR REC

AO3: lululawrence

Tumblr: @lululawrence

STATS:

📚 Number of fics: 164

📚 Posting Since: 2014

TOP 5 FICS:

1️⃣ Drawn to You (NR, 8k)

It had started with Louis getting in trouble for coloring on himself when he hadn’t touched a felt tip pen the entire day. Through the years, the random drawings had evolved and changed. There was a period in sixth form when his soulmate must have gotten shy or something, because the drawings only happened after school hours and in places that others wouldn’t be as likely to see. The inside of his bicep, his thigh. A couple times he even had drawings appear on his ribcage. While he didn’t mind those few years, he did seem somewhat soothed when they began to appear on his left arm again. He’d missed them.

Or that completely self indulgent soulmates au that plays out in not always romantic ways.

2️⃣ I Just Wanna Give You Love (NR, 18k)

Graham Norton appeared on the screen introducing his guests and out of nowhere, everything in Louis’ world was turned upside down.

Louis gasped as he intently took in the man on the screen, smiling and waving from his seat beside Sir Ian McKellen.

“Oh my God,” Louis said before it all sank in as to what it meant. “Holy fucking shit!”

“Louis William, you watch your mouth,” Jay said. “What has got into you?”

Feeling like a madman, his palms to his cheeks, Louis couldn’t help the tears of surprise, relief, and fear as he turned to his mum. “What colour are his eyes? What do you call that colour?”

“Louis, are you telling me that the man on the screen, Harry Styles, is your soulmate?”

Or the one where the world is in black and white until you meet your soulmate, but Harry is world famous and Louis is...well...not.

3️⃣ This Ain't Just a Thing That You Give Up (M, 35k)

Harry turned to Liam to whisper something about not being in Kansas anymore but his best friend was frozen to his spot with a look of complete disbelief on his face. Harry looked to his right, the direction Liam seemed to be focused on, and saw a small group of people who had paused their discussion to look towards him in confusion.

A small group including Zayn Malik and Louis Tomlinson.

Harry is fairly sure his jaw actually dropped.

"Li, is that...?"

Liam nods his head emphatically. "I'm about 110% sure that yes. It is."

or...The one where Harry is a baker in addition to being a college student who just happens to meet the crazy famous Louis Tomlinson while on spring break. Featuring personal assistant!niall, roommate and best friend!liam, and costar/model!zayn.

4️⃣ No Chance At All (NR, 4k)

As an omega, Louis naturally had the ability to sense alphas, so it wasn’t like this was an unusual situation for him. The difference here was that this man smelled so strong and so ridiculously good. Louis had never been so attracted to someone’s scent before. Add the fact that this worker whose name tag read “Harry” looked like some kind of greek god with his long curly hair and dimples as he chatted up the older woman ordering currently, and Louis was already a goner.

Or the one where Louis just wants to drink good coffee and work on his homework in peace, but the alpha barista is charming to everyone but him, and that just pisses him off.

5️⃣ Same White Shirt (NR, 10k)

“Oh my God. What are you holding?”

Harry was startled to hear an English voice coming from behind him that he didn’t know. He’d thought he knew all the English employees around here. When he turned around there was a man with the most stunning eyes and incredible cheekbones known to man in the doorway looking with absolute distaste at the suit Harry had just been thinking of so fondly.

“It’s my suit for the show,” Harry said firmly. This guy was obviously an assistant if the badge and plate of fruit he was holding were anything to go by, but as he began walking to where the table was in the room, Harry noticed he was walking with a slight limp. Oh shit.

Or the one where Harry's on the Late Late Show for a week and several misunderstandings with a certain mouthy assistant James recently hired make things that much more interesting.

HIDDEN GEM:

💎 Caught In Your Gravity (NR, 62k)

It felt like the blood froze in Harry’s veins even as he got a bit lightheaded. He hadn’t even made it two practices, only one of which he was remotely in charge of, without giving it all away and now he and Liam were both absolutely fucked.

“Shit,” Harry breathed out. “Who all have you told? Does everyone know? I thought I covered it better than that…”

“No, no,” Louis said quickly. "They’ll figure it out soon enough, though, because they’ll get used to you changing things up, but you’re only going to trip over your so called Americanisms for so long before they realize it’s because you don’t actually know fuck all about football.”

Harry sighed. “Yeah. I figured. I just need to bullshit for long enough to allow Liam to get the situation figured out from his end.”

“Right, which brings me to my entire point. I think we can find a mutually beneficial arrangement with all of this.” Louis leaned forward. “You need to learn the ins and outs of the sport incredibly fast. I can help you with that.”

“What do you want in exchange?”

Or, an AU inspired by a 30 second trailer of Ted Lasso that doesn't actually have much in common with the show at all.

#hlcreators #hljournal #1dficvillage #hlsource #trackinghome #tracksintheam #yourlarrysource #1dsource #ficrec #lululawrence #caught in your gravity #same white shirt #no chance at all #this ain't a thing that you give up #i just wanna give you love #drawn to you

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tellthemeerkatsitsfine · 2 months

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I was slightly disappointed to get to the August 2017 episodes of the Elis and John radio show, and find that they took a couple of weeks off at that point, so we only got two episodes with John broadcasting from Edinburgh. Which is entirely understandable and he was very busy doing an award-winning hour full of jokes and the cynical inclusion of emotional heft, but still, I wanted to know what it was like. I enjoyed the little audio diary he gave us every week during the 2015 Edinburgh Festival, and enjoyed the two weeks we got from 2017 even though we didn't hear from the end. I enjoy it when a radio show becomes an audio diary from the Edinburgh Festival. Howard and Richardson in 2007. Lee and Herring in 1994. Bit of history.

My interest in that particular type of history is why I very much need to thank @oxymoronish for alerting me to the fact that the internet still has archives of something that could not be more perfectly tailored to my interests. Edinburgh history. Specifically, Chocolate Milk Gang-era Edinburgh history. Festival diaries. John Robins being young and pointlessly intense and a bit annoying but also full of youthful earnest wonder that's borderline sweet. Apparently during the 2007 Edinburgh Festival, John Robins wrote a blog for Chortle. I have been told that this blog once included video clips, including video of the knife he kept next to his bed, and I am of course furious that I have been denied video footage of 25-year-old John Robins showing us the knife he kept next to his bed to ward off Scottish intruders, but it's all right because there are so many textual diary entries to be getting on with. I have of course saved the PDFs.

Opens with a story about losing So You Think You're Funny in 2005, getting drunk with the other competitors and getting glared at by Dara O'Brien for quoting Father Ted too loudly, tells this story as though it's one of when he was an obnoxious kid and he's glad he's now more mature and not like that, even though this is only two years later and he then goes on to describe himself being similarly annoying throughout the 2007 festival as well. Goes into a story about how he'd planned to not drink all month but that lasted 13 hours. Then how he came up two days early to save nine pounds but the extra two days ended up costing him a lot more than that, and then a story about buying a human skeleton on eBay as a gift for his girlfriend. Classic Robins.

Two references to fantasy novels (a mention of listening to the Lord of the Rings audiobooks, and comparing hanging out with older comedians in Edinburgh to getting sorted into Gryffindor). Several instances of that thing John Robins like doing on the radio, slipping quickly into character when he complains about something and then right back out of it, which it turns out works less well in text where we can't hear the voice change. A running thread of obsession with the TV show 24. Complaining that Brook's Bar, which he misspelled, is overrated and the only redeeming part of it is you can stare at Simon Amstell. Quite a lot of spelling mistakes, on this blog that he published on Chortle, coming from a guy who, on his radio show, occasionally makes fun of Steve Bennett's inability to spell. Which I enjoy, because I am also amazed that Steve Bennett gets away with running a professional website while not knowing how to write, but it does make it more hypocritical when it turns out that John Robins has contributed spelling errors to Chortle (I am not a hypocrite because no one pays me for my Tumblr blog so it's fine to spell things wrong on that).

One account of how he got to chat to Tom Binns and was very excited about that, so I'm just going to pretend that's not there, like I do every time on the radio show that John and Elis plug Russell Brand's radio work (that one's objectively worse, as no one knew about Tom Bins in 2007 but I think people knew about Russell Brand in 2017, though obviously John and Elis were just told by Radio X that they had to cross-promote). Anyway, the Binns story does lead to John saying: "I never saw stand up as an option until I was 21, but new I had to be involved in comedy, and that was because of Bottom, Lee and Herring and Armando Iannucci et al." Which I found interesting - I mean I knew he was a huge Partridge fan, but it's interesting to hear him specifically mention Stewart Lee as a person he liked, back in 2007.

Selected my walk on music etc today, which is all very minor yet exciting. I'm increasingly aware that my preparation for Edinburgh this year has been more financial than artistic. Unfortunately due to the nature of gigs in July it was easier to make nice money than play nice gigs. June/July is a hard time if you're A. unsigned and B. not doing a solo show, as there are no uni gigs, a lot of places just do previews for hour shows and you've no lovely agent to sort you out weekends at nice clubs. But such is life. At least i can eat like a king if i perform like a cockend.

I don't know why I'm so fascinated by the logistics of Edinburgh performing, but I am and I like how many little bits like this are in there to let us know how that works. Older and wiser John Robins does sometimes tell stories about his early comedy years, and said stories make it sound like it involved a lot of picking music and being bitter about not having an agent, so this tracks.

There's one part where he gets somehow locked into his bedroom while drunk, can't get out when hungover the next morning, pees in a bin due to not having bathroom access, goes on a brief and entirely unnecessary tangent about whether the Scottish accent is sexually appealing, and then it escalates very quickly to sleeping with a knife beside his bed in case whatever intruder locked him in his bedroom comes back to murder him. Classic Robins.

There are multiple parts where he mentions that he's going to slow down on the drinking because the festival is too long to be doing too much drinking, always immediately followed by more stories about drinking a lot. Classic Robins.

A whole lot of complaining about places being too loud and too crowded and too busy. Used the word "schmoozing" to describe a thing he does not like to do. Classic Robins.

Oh, at one point, during the first week of the festival, he suddenly tells an absolutely insane story of a fellow comic (whom he goes out of his way to not name) got much too drunk, made an idiot of himself at the bar, went outside, yelled some anti-Scottish abuse at some locals, and then story escalates very quickly to where the locals start beating him up and John and some friends intervene and pull him out of there covered in blood. What the fuck? How have I not heard John tell that story before?

It’s the kind of thing you only imagine doing when you’re brain won’t sit still at night; “God, imagine if I shouted ‘Fuck you all’ at a funeral, or went to a Millwall game and called them all fags”. It’s not just social suicide, but increasingly physical suicide that I am watching. As the punches and kicks are thrown we wade in to stop the trouble, in the slightly awkward position of being totally sympathetic with the people who are kicking the shit out of him. One minute they were buying chips, the next being called “foreign cunts” and being told to “speak English” in their own country. He didn’t mean these things, but says them to achieve the desired effect: self destruction. As Burgess said, and never truer than now, “destruction’s our ode to joy”. As we break it up, and shelter our colleague away from the gathering crowd, tears fall from his battered face, and now I properly see myself in his little boy lost eyes. I know that burning need to feel something, anything, other than what you’re feeling inside. In a former life I’d have put my fist through a door, or smashed a bottle or jumped through a shop window, something more controlled than letting half a dozen drunk Scots administer the punishment. “We need to get on top of this”, I say to him, and beating in my head is that statement, like a fucking beacon; “the law of love says ‘you are enough’” to be honest this guy is more than enough. But somehow I need to show him that like Phil suggests, he himself, is all he needs to do whatever he wants. That release, the blessed release that comes from being half killed by an angry mob can be found inside you, the law of love says so.

I was about to post the "What are you two fucking talking about?" reaction image here, but that would be disingenuous, as I fully understand what he's talking about here, I understand it extremely well (though I'd like to be clear, I have never yelled "foreign cunts" at people just for eating chips). The difference is that I wouldn't admit that (not on a blog with my real name attached, anyway), while dramatically quoting poetic language used by Anthony Burgess and Phil Kay. What the fuck, John?

Phil Kay was on his mind due to a story from earlier in the post of how he'd been to see Phil Kay's show that night, which is absolutely classic Robins:

It does begin, however, with some of the most beautiful prose I’ve heard in a comedy show. So much so that I have to take out my notebook to write down the statement “the law of love says ‘you are enough’”. Unfortunately Phil sees me do this and takes me for a reviewer. “He might be a journalist” I look up “bang, you’ve missed a bit of the show” he says. I’m wearing headphones round my neck and he riffs on that for a while then moves on. But by now my face is burning and I become his point of focus after delivering set pieces. I feel terrible for the pressure he now seems to think he’s under when there is no need, “I’m not a reviewer Phil! I’m a fan! I’m a worshipper!” but I stay quiet, sit back, and enjoy his remarkable talent.

Older and wiser John Robins is still awkwardly pretentious at times, but I don't think he could ever reach the heights of the earnest absolute mess of pretension that was younger John Robins. Pulled out his notebook to copy down a particularly deep quote during a comedy show, then repeated it back in dramatic fashion while rescuing a guy who was getting beaten up for abhorrent behaviour. Good God.

There's a lot of gushing about how great Pappy's is, mentioning Matthew Crosby in particular, and quite a bit about how great Jon Richardson is. Including relaying a comment from Daniel Kitson about Jon making good comedy, which is odd because I realized as I read that that I'd assumed Daniel Kitson did not like Jon Richardson's comedy, though I have absolutely no idea where that assumption came from and it is probably incorrect so I'll get rid of it. He might have made some comment or other on some old radio show and the sentiment stuck in my mind even if the quote didn't, but it is probably not representative.

There's one part where he gets upset because he lost an "Alan Partridge rap-off" to Matt Forde. He does not explain what a rap-off is, but from context, I think it's a trivia contest of some sort. Or possibly a battle of impressions. Though I don't see why he'd expect to beat Matt Forde at the latter.

And so to the Dome for a drink with Jon Richardson, Sinha, Alex Horne and Rob Deering. If you can name four nicer people to spend your time with then I want to know.

Aww.

The blog posts follow a basic, expected trajectory of starting out exited, getting tired and worn down as it goes along, ending up slightly sick and bitter, then at the very end, rallying back to positivity and getting a bit sappy and sentimental about how great it was and how he's sad he'll never get to perform with those same Comedy Zone partners (Joe Wilkinson, Carl Donnelly, Barry Dodds) again. Ends on:

Here are my top five fringe things: 1. Being told that Matt Crosby had described the ‘Lost Vagueness’ launch party as “a total cunt museum” 2. Doing ‘On Heat’ with Russell, Mark and Jon. Just like old times. 3. Dan Atkinson ending his show by saying “ladies and gentlemen, outside there is someone collecting for an AIDS charity, so PLEASE… don’t give him any money” 4. Pappy’s 5. Richardson getting nominated. 6. Oh yes, and telling a drunk woman heckler who tried to chat me up that "I'd rather fuck a window"

At one point he gets absolutely furious at some people who did an improv performance art piece.

How can you be so vomitously earnest in the face of overwhelming evidence that 'contact improvisation' is, in fact, merely a misspelling of 'look at us, our personalities are made of toilets'? Twelve hours!? TWELVE FUCKING HOURS. You should get the if.commedies panel prize for having the gall not to take your own lives.

The above quote is about 20% of the full rant.

In terms of Classic Robins pointless intensity, nothing is going to beat quoting a poetic Phil Kay line to a man who's just behaved abhorrently and then been beaten up. But I'd like to enter in the "pointless intensity" collection the way he described the time he had a good gig, got too excited about it while drunk after the gig, and then felt bad the next morning for getting too excited:

I didn’t go round telling everyone I was awesome, I was just far too confident in banter to people I don’t know well enough. What a tool. What’s annoying is I like to think I have quite a wise comedy head, in terms of the theory and dealing with the ups and downs, but alcohol, adrenaline and relief are a dangerous combination. It’s just hard to expect people to see that any cockiness only exists in my words, not in my eyes.

What a line. I'm going to start going around telling people that cockiness only exists in my words, not in my eyes.

There are lots of little stories about hanging out with other comedians and watching other people's shows and performing with other people, and I did notice, at some point, that not a single female comedian is referenced in any of the blogs. I'm not saying that as a mark against John Robins or anything, I don't think he was intentionally avoiding them. Just an interesting sign of how much the comedy industry has changed, because I don't think you could write a story about comedy at the Edinburgh Festival today without mentioning any female comedians (not unless you were intentionally avoiding them, anyway). There weren't nearly as many of them back then. Though there were definitely some. You'd think at least once John might have watched Josie Long or something. I think the only women he mentions are his stage manager and some agents at one point.

To be fair, I guess we don't know the makeup of whatever group was doing the performance art piece that made John Robins say "I know deep down there is a nagging feeling you can't quite put your finger on, it's been bugging you for years but you can't get to the bottom of it. Well it took me exactly four seconds to recognise that feeling as being one of total and utter self loathing for carrying on with the charade that you are not a total and utter quim-rag-mouthed charlatan." (I have now quoted more of the rant, but that's still not all of it.) It's possible that there could have been women in that performance art group, so it's not fair to assume he didn't mention any female performers.

John does also mention getting angry and doing rude hand gestures at some comedians for doing rape jokes, so that's nice.

There are a bunch of interesting stories about the comedy itself, performing on/compering a mixed-bill gig instead of doing his own show (Comedy Zone), the ups and downs and figuring out the right rhythms on different nights. The wild fluctuations in crowd numbers and how that affects things. How to know if an environment is better for crowd work or material. One interesting bit, I thought, where he tries some more structured stuff that he thought he could turn into a full hour for the next year, and then realized that you can't do that at a club-style gig where no one wants it.

The whole thing is just so very very relevant to my interests, thank you again for sending it to me, @oxymoronish. Thank God for the internet archive.

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