#conductor we have a problem conductor we have a fucking problem

[luvrgrlrose]

conductor we have a problem

[theresa-of-liechtenstein]

when i knocked on my conductor’s office door this afternoon she yelled ‘COME IN’ but it was locked so i imagine her reaction upon opening the door was probably something like ‘who left this upset and trembling chihuahua on my doorstep? oh, it’s just em.’

[ardl]

conductor williams needs to fuckin stop w/ that tag, its fine once. its not fine like 20 times in a row this sucks

[iwillneverforgiveyousunghanbin]

bully⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

tuesday, zhang hao— string ensemble

⋆˙⟡ zbully1 smut series masterlist! hanbin, jiwoong, hao, matthew, and taerae included. game day (group) chapter here. all 7 endings here. ⋆˙⟡ wc: 2.8k ⋆˙⟡ reader: femme afab (listed first, she/her are used a couple times) // gender neutral (alternate version listed second, no pronouns used at all to describe reader— scroll down) ⋆˙⟡ series summary: five bullies. six days. it's gonna be a hell of a week, babe. stay hydrated. ⋆˙⟡ tuesday summary: happy tuesday, you know what that means: two straight hours of wind ensemble. and it's made even more enjoyable by first chair, zhang hao, chewing you out for every mistake you make. he's been quiet today though. it's making your skin crawl. can you manage to get out unscathed?

⋆˙⟡ warnings: explicit smut. 18+. minors do not interact. please read specific smut warnings under the cut! swearing. angst. dub-con. bullying. stuck up, tattletale hao. this is a doozy. you'll be glad we took it easy monday. smut in gn and fem versions are substantially different due to logistics/circumstance. also i clearly know nothing about playing the violin so just 🤓☝️ pipe down over there, k? ily. actually would love to hear real violinists thoughts on this so hmu. ⋆˙⟡ bully scale: ★★★☆☆ (3.5)

EXPLICIT SMUT 18+ WARNINGS: foreign object and finger insertion (reader receiving), oral (reader receiving), fingering (reader receiving), dub-con: hao doesn't have consent before sexually touching reader but reader is turned on by it, cum play, bullying.

DO NOT PUT ROSIN UP YOUR HOO HA YA DINGUS!! purely for entertainment purposes, this fic exists in a world where there aren't consequences for that okay? DON'T. I REPEAT DON'T. DO THIS IRL. okay thank you, love you.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　

you take a deep breath, bouncing nervously on the balls of your feet at the south campus entrance. you’d barely gotten any sleep last night after your encounter with jiwoong, too busy tossing and turning as you pictured the dirty looks you’d be getting all over campus the next day. but as you walk across the main courtyard to the music building this afternoon, you’re surprised and elated to hear no frantic whispers in response to your presence.

had jiwoong really kept what happened yesterday a secret? you find it hard to believe he’d want to protect your reputation and mental well-being. still, the proof was in the pudding and, so far, the pudding seemed entirely unaware of who you are. just how you like it.

on tuesday afternoons, you had string ensemble in place of advanced drama. although it was a relief to have jiwoong out of sight and out of mind, there was another force at play to deal with.

as you enter the orchestra room, you spot that force immediately— already seated and delicately coating the hairs of his bow with the lifetime supply of premium rosin he’d won for first place violinist at the chinese international music competition three years ago. you know this fact because he never lets you forget it.

with your violin case in your hand, you make your way to your seat: second chair, of course. first chair is eternally occupied by your conductor’s most favorite student.

you sit down in your black music chair, smoothing your skirt so that it doesn’t ride up while you play. opening your violin case, you carefully pull out your instrument and begin quietly tuning it as the rest of the string ensemble files in. you place your bow to the strings, playing a note to assess the sound. the note comes out airy and weak and it makes you inherently wince. 

“fucking fix that right now,” a familiar voice to your left suddenly demands. “i won’t ask again.”

your left eyebrow peaks in confusion as you mumble, “you didn’t ask a first time.”

he doesn’t even look at you. and though you already intended to fix the problem without his prompting, you place your violin back in its case and start to fish around in the velvet compartments for some rosin. when you come up empty, you start to panic.

“good afternoon, everyone,” professor ahn greets, tapping her conductor’s baton on the frame of her metal music stand. “we have a lot to get to today, so let’s just jump right in.”

shit. you really need rosin.

but there’s no way you can raise your hand and disrupt professor ahn’s flow. she already thinks you’re a second-rate violinist that “hides her lack of talent behind incessant practice”. this was a direct quote you’d received on your evaluation sheet last semester. besides, all professor ahn would probably say was that you should’ve made sure your bow was up to par before you even got to campus.

you couldn’t argue with that. it was the truth. but your little incident with jiwoong had preoccupied you and suddenly every perfectionist task you routinely performed seemed... obsolete. how could you let him get to you like this?

and why did it still feel so good?

professor ahn taps her baton again, signaling for everyone to turn to the first page of your spring concert repertoire. you swallow nervously, opening your sheet music booklet to tippett’s fantasia concertante on a theme of corelli. it’s an extremely difficult piece that an outstanding violinist struggles to play on a good day. and you would be playing it with your bow in a noticeably poor condition. 

you stumble through the piece as quietly as possible, cringing when the sound your instrument produces is less than satisfactory. though your ensemble is still learning the song, others’ mistakes aren’t enough to hide the strange performance coming from the second-chair violinist.

“zhang hao-sshi,” professor ahn suddenly calls. the boy to your left looks up at her in attention, causing your heart to sink to your stomach. “who is responsible for that unsatisfactory sound?”

you were foolish to think you could escape what inevitably always happened during string ensemble: the second of your five jerk-off bullies ratting you out in front of the whole orchestra.

there was a reason professor ahn held such distaste for you and your craft and that reason was zhang hao. each and every rehearsal, your professor would ask the first chair to list any mistakes he’d heard from your section and he apparently only ever noticed yours. you’d sit there, cheeks heating up with embarrassment as hao described every error you made in great detail that day— professor ahn taking note and deducting points from your rehearsal grade as she saw fit.

hao had seemingly made it his mission to single handedly make you quit violin in a sea of unbearable shame.

so you’re shocked when all hao replies is, “i apologize, professor ahn. i was too engrossed in playing to notice where the error was coming from.”

what the fuck? why would he lie? it couldn’t be to help you. hao would throw you to the wolves without a second thought if it meant remaining superior to you.

but his gaze returns to his sheet music, pencil floating across the paper as he quietly adds annotations. you’re honestly freaked out. had he hit his head? had the difficulty of the piece actually thrown him that much?

rehearsal ends shortly thereafter and you stay in your chair, silently tending to your violin next to hao. you’re both usually the last to leave, but hao always makes it a point to stay just a few seconds longer than you. just to prove something.

after your instrument is safely back in its case, you stand up and make your way over to the instrument storage closet. you find your cubby, pulling out your key and unlocking your unit so you can leave your violin there for the remainder of your classes this afternoon. 

as you place your violin case gently inside and lock your cubby, the unexpected sound of footsteps behind you makes you freeze in place. slowly, you turn around to find hao standing in the doorway of the storage closet.

weird. hao would never undermine his unparalleled musicianship by keeping his violin in a public storage unit. he sets his case down next to him, crossing his arms and leaning on the left side of the door frame.

“i’m waiting,” is all he says, brow raised expectantly. 

you look to your left and right, trying to discern what it is hao could be waiting for. you can’t find anything of note. “um... for what?”

“what do you mean, for what?” hao spits, eyes narrowing angrily. “i didn’t tell professor ahn about any of the mistakes you made today. and i don’t know if you noticed, but you made a fuck ton.”

and the shoe drops, you think.

“did you not even notice my act of kindness?” he asks indignantly. “don’t you think i at least deserve a thank you?”

“oh,” you reply, tilting your head in surprise. you swallow the urge to tell him that kindness in demand of a thank you is not exactly kindness and instead, just nod. “yeah. thank you. i guess.”

it must be some weird power play over you. it’s probably best to make a swift exit and not give him the attention he wants, so you turn on your heel and start to walk toward the door to leave. but as you approach the exit, hao reaches across the door frame— your chest colliding directly with his forearm as he blocks you in.

“c-... can i get through? i have to be in calc iii in fifteen minutes,” you ask with a frown.

hao’s arm stays glued to the other side of the door as he continues to stare at you. “i want a better thank you.”

“you—... why?” you question, brow furrowing in confusion. “i already said thank you. and i didn’t even ask you to lie for me in the first place.”

hao blinks at you. “so you’re not grateful?”

“honestly, you’re kind of making me uncomfortable,” you reply, ducking under his arm and walking back out into the orchestra room. “so if my lack of gratitude means you’re going to go back to humiliating me in front of the entire string ensemble every day... i guess i’ll just have to continue living with it.”

you make it halfway out of the rehearsal room when you hear a faint: “wait.”

you turn around to find a slightly panicked hao still standing in the doorframe of the storage closet. 

“you need rosin, right? you ran out?” he asks, as if he couldn’t tell exactly what your problem had been from hearing you play today. “i’ll give you some of mine.”

clearly you’ve just hallucinated. you’re so stressed from yesterday’s events that you’ve started hearing things. or maybe you’re still asleep in your bed at home. or maybe you’re dead. because there’s no way hao would ever give you his beloved rosin.

“let me just get it out of my case,” he says, bending down to the ground and opening up his very expensive violin case. you walk over to him slowly, partly because you don’t believe him and partly because you’re starting to worry something is terribly wrong with him.

“hao, are... are you feeling okay?” you ask, stepping back into the storage closet and watching as he pulls out a fresh cake of premium rosin. it’s a box-shape with rounded edges and no plastic holder, the golden-brown hardened sap shining beautifully even in the dim light of the storage closet.

he stands back up, holding the rosin between his fingers delicately. “never better.”

“you’re—... you’re gonna give me your cimc prize rosin?” you ask, incredibly confused. “why would you do that?”

“because you need it. don’t you?” he answers with a shrug.

“but... but—.” you protest, head spinning a million miles a minute trying to make sense of hao’s bizarre and uncharacteristic display of benevolence. “what’s the catch?”

with no discernible inflection, hao repeats, “the catch.”

“i don’t see why you’d give this to me without a price,” you elaborate skeptically. “you don’t like me. you’re actively mean to me actually. it doesn’t make sense that you’d give me something you value without asking for anything in return. i mean, you couldn’t even randomly choose to cover for me during rehearsal without demanding a thank you after.”

hao considers this for a moment and then nods. “well, what if i ask for the same thing then? in exchange for this rosin, i want a thank you.”

“i can’t even begin to figure out what’s gotten into you today,” you respond with a reluctant sigh, “but fine. i guess i can agree to your terms.”

“we have a deal,” hao affirms with a stupid, perfect smirk. he closes the gap between you, holding out the rosin in his palm. when you try to take it from him, he retracts his hand. “i’ll take the thank you first actually.”

“sure,” you agree, rolling your eyes. “thank you.”

he tilts his head to the side, prompting, “what was that?”

“thank you, hao. i really appreciate you giving me your rosin,” you feed flatly, hoping you’ve finally appeased him.

“an improvement,” he says before shaking his head again. “but i’m still not loving the tone coming out of you... i think you could use some rosin.”

“what do you—” you start to ask, but it’s already too late. without any time to spare, the door is shut behind you and a sudden draft hits your heat as your panties are shoved to the side beneath your skirt. the air leaves your lungs as long, thin fingers dip through your folds and squeeze something cold and smooth inside of you.

“there you go,” hao smiles, incredibly satisfied with the stunt he’s just pulled. “i think that might help your tone.”

“y-you... did you...” you stammer as you gawk at the boy in front of you. your cheeks are beet red at the violation of your sex. you’re in such shock that all you can whisper is, “you can’t put that in... there.”

“an instrument should be well cared for,” he challenges, sinking to his knees and running his hands up and down your bare thighs. “gonna make you sound so pretty.”

there’s a flutter in your core that you desperately want to silence. you could not be turned on by this. one of the men you hate most in this world just shoved a foreign object up you without asking. so why is the hungry look in his eyes as he backs you against the wall of storage units exciting you?

hao hooks his fingers around the waistband of your panties, pulling them down your legs. you step out of them without a word. he lifts your right leg over his shoulder, bringing your cunt closer to his face as he holds your hips steady.

he licks a stripe starting just above your opening to your clit as if he wants to taste every inch of you. the sensation makes you gasp and then immediately cover your mouth in shame. were you really enjoying this?

“hm, still an airy sound,” hao observes, eyes locked on your center as his fingers grip into your hips. “definitely needs more rosin.”

he dives back in, lapping at your cunt— tongue flicking your bundle of nerves as your arousal builds. you must’ve fallen into an alternate dimension. fainted. been in a terrible bus accident on your way to campus. but why you’d dream of hao’s head between your thighs in a storage closet is beyond your comprehension.

the more he works you with his mouth, the more hums and sighs escape your lips but all of your worries aren’t eased just yet.

“it’s... it’s gonna melt,” you say softly, starting to feel a bit dizzy. “the r-ros—.”

“rosin starts to crumble from heat at 50 degrees celsius,” hao interjects in between sloppy traces of his tongue. “the average internal temperature of a vagina is 37.5 degrees.”

“but—”

“don’t act like you don’t know how numbers work. aren’t you in calc iii?” hao ridicules, biting gently at your clit. you throw your head back at the sensation as he increases the pressure of his tongue against you. “are you just a fraud in every subject you take?”

“hao,” you beg, his slander just adding to the pleasure you’re feeling as your right hand tangles up in his hair— tugging from the root. “feels so good. so, so good.”

“fuck, that’s beautiful baby,” hao pants, right hand detaching from your hip. he parts your entrance with his fingers, the cake of rosin slipping out into his palm with a crude, wet smack. you both stare at the golden brown block, still perfectly intact but now dripping in your arousal. he drags it down the inside of your thighs, mesmerized by the trail of glistening honey it leaves on your skin. “mm, coated perfectly now.”

he drops the rosin on the floor next to you, replacing the empty space in your pussy with his ring and middle fingers. you gasp at the stretch, clenching involuntarily around him.

“i think you’re ready to play,” hao decides, curling his fingers up inside of you against your front wall and pressing on your clit with his thumb. he watches you intently, mouth open slightly as he drinks in the sight of you writhing in pleasure. “c’mon, baby. let me hear you.”

you do as he says, moaning as the pads of his fingers press into your sweet spot again. with every rhythmic stroke, your sounds grow less inhibited and hao grows more entranced. he’s making the face he usually makes while playing his violin— focused, impassioned, and devastatingly sexy. 

was hao enjoying playing you as much as he enjoyed playing his other instrument?

“gon—... gonna make me cum,” you whine after another minute, the look in hao’s eyes turning feral. he immediately returns his mouth to your cunt, sucking at your sensitive bud with a renewed vigor.

as hao brings you closer to the brink of orgasm, your moans only grow louder and sweeter like a crescendo. the harmonic sounds coming out of you are intensified by an increase in the pace of his finger-fucking. it’s all too much for you to handle, your walls spasming around him uncontrollably.

“oh my god, hao—,” you cry, your climax crashing over you like the perfect wave. “c-cumming... i—...”

you can barely hold yourself up, clinging to the shelves on either side of you as hao works you through your high. your breathing returning to normal, he looks up at you as he pulls his fingers out of your pussy— lips pink and glistening with your juices. 

he removes your right leg from around his shoulder, eyes locked with yours as he stands up and brushes the dust off his knees. 

“th-thank... you,” is what comes out of you as you stare at him, dumbfounded. “thank you.”

“yeah, sure,” hao replies dismissively. after making such a big deal about a thank you, it figures he’d pretend he never cared in the first place. “clean off that rosin and use it next week or i’ll tell professor ahn you stole it from me.”

“oh. okay,” you quietly agree, unable to control the awkward energy that’s now tying your tongue. “um. thanks... again.”

he just shrugs, walking over to the door and picking up his violin case. unlocking the door and pushing it open, he takes a few steps out the door before suddenly stopping in his tracks. he turns over his shoulder to look at you. “i almost forgot to ask...”

you gulp at the sight of the upturned corner of his lip in a smug grin.

“... was it better than jiwoong hyung?”

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　

gender neutral version below

EXPLICIT SMUT 18+ WARNINGS: hand/oral (reader receiving), throat fucking with fingers (reader receiving), dubcon: hao does not have consent before inserting fingers into reader's mouth, reader is turned on by this, cum play, bullying.

IF YOU WANT TO COVER YOUR ROSIN IN CUM, YOU CAN I'M NOT THE BOSS OF YOU but from everything i've read in research for this fic, it will ruin it so maybe don't. up to you tho, babe. love you.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　

you take a deep breath, bouncing nervously on the balls of your feet at the south campus entrance. you’d barely gotten any sleep last night after your encounter with jiwoong, too busy tossing and turning as you pictured the dirty looks you’d be getting all over campus the next day. but as you walk across the main courtyard to the music building this afternoon, you’re surprised and elated to hear no frantic whispers in response to your presence.

had jiwoong really kept what happened yesterday a secret? you find it hard to believe he’d want to protect your reputation and mental well-being. still, the proof was in the pudding and, so far, the pudding seemed entirely unaware of who you are. just how you like it.

on tuesday afternoons, you had string ensemble in place of advanced drama. although it was a relief to have jiwoong out of sight and out of mind, there was another force at play to deal with.

as you enter the orchestra room, you spot that force immediately— already seated and delicately coating the hairs of his bow with the lifetime supply of premium rosin he’d won for first place violinist at the chinese international music competition three years ago. you know this fact because he never lets you forget it.

with your violin case in your hand, you make your way to your seat: second chair, of course. first chair is eternally occupied by your conductor’s most favorite student.

you sit down in your black chair, propping your sheet music booklet up onto your music stand. opening your violin case, you carefully pull out your instrument and begin quietly tuning it as the rest of the string ensemble files in. you place your bow to the strings, playing a note to assess the sound. the note comes out airy and weak and it makes you inherently wince. 

“fucking fix that right now,” a familiar voice to your left suddenly demands. “i won’t ask again.”

your left eyebrow peaks in confusion as you mumble, “you didn’t ask a first time.”

he doesn’t even look at you. and though you already intended to fix the problem without his prompting, you place your violin back in its case and start to fish around in the velvet compartments for some rosin. when you come up empty, you start to panic.

“good afternoon, everyone,” professor ahn greets, tapping her conductor’s baton on the frame of her metal music stand. “we have a lot to get to today, so let’s just jump right in.”

shit. you really need rosin.

but there’s no way you can raise your hand and disrupt professor ahn’s flow. she already thinks you’re a second-rate violinist that “hides your lack of talent behind incessant practice”. this was a direct quote you’d received on your evaluation sheet last semester. besides, all professor ahn would probably say was that you should’ve made sure your bow was up to par before you even got to campus.

you couldn’t argue with that. it was the truth. but your little incident with jiwoong had preoccupied you and suddenly every perfectionist task you routinely performed seemed... obsolete. how could you let him get to you like this?

and why did it still feel so good?

professor ahn taps her baton again, signaling for everyone to turn to the first page of your spring concert repertoire. you swallow nervously, opening your sheet music booklet to tippett’s fantasia concertante on a theme of corelli. it’s an extremely difficult piece that an outstanding violinist struggles to play on a good day. and you would be playing it with your bow in a noticeably poor condition.

you stumble through the piece as quietly as possible, cringing when the sound your instrument produces is less than satisfactory. though your ensemble is still learning the song, others’ mistakes aren’t enough to hide the strange performance coming from the second-chair violinist.

“zhang hao-sshi,” professor ahn suddenly calls. the boy to your left looks up at her in attention, causing your heart to sink to your stomach. “who is responsible for that unsatisfactory sound?”

you were foolish to think you could escape what inevitably always happens during string ensemble: the second of your five jerk-off bullies ratting you out in front of the whole orchestra.

there was a reason professor ahn held such distaste for you and your craft and that reason was zhang hao. each and every rehearsal, your professor would ask the first chair to list any mistakes he’d heard from your section and he apparently only ever noticed yours. you’d sit there, cheeks heating up with embarrassment as hao described every error you made in great detail that day— professor ahn taking note and deducting points from your rehearsal grade as she saw fit.

hao had seemingly made it his mission to single handedly make you quit violin in a sea of unbearable shame.

so you’re shocked when all hao replies is, “i apologize, professor ahn. i was too engrossed in playing to notice where the error was coming from.”

what the fuck? why would he lie? it couldn’t be to help you. hao would throw you to the wolves without a second thought if it meant remaining superior to you.

but his gaze returns to his sheet music, pencil floating across the paper as he quietly adds annotations. you’re honestly freaked out. had he hit his head? had the difficulty of the piece actually thrown him that much?

rehearsal ends shortly thereafter and you stay in your chair, silently tending to your violin next to hao. you’re both usually the last to leave, but hao always makes it a point to stay just a few seconds longer than you. just to prove something.

after your instrument is safely back in its case, you stand up and make your way over to the instrument storage closet. you find your cubby, pulling out your key and unlocking your unit so you can leave your violin there for the remainder of your classes this afternoon. 

as you place your violin case gently inside and lock your cubby, the unexpected sound of footsteps behind you makes you freeze in place. slowly, you turn around to find hao standing in the doorway of the storage closet.

weird. hao would never undermine his unparalleled musicianship by keeping his violin in a public storage unit. he sets his case down next to him, crossing his arms and leaning on the left side of the door frame.

“i’m waiting,” is all he says, brow raised expectantly. 

you look to your left and right, trying to discern what it is hao could be waiting for. you can’t find anything of note. “um... for what?”

“what do you mean, for what?” hao spits, eyes narrowing angrily. “i didn’t tell professor ahn about any of the mistakes you made today. and i don’t know if you noticed, but you made a fuck ton.”

and the shoe drops, you think.

“did you not even notice my act of kindness?” he asks indignantly. “don’t you think i at least deserve a thank you?”

“oh,” you reply, tilting your head in surprise. you swallow the urge to tell him that kindness in demand of a thank you is not exactly kindness and instead, just nod. “yeah. thank you. i guess.”

it must be some weird, new power play over you. it’s probably best to make a swift exit and not give him the attention he wants, so you turn on your heel and start to walk toward the door to leave. but as you approach the exit, hao reaches across the door frame— your chest colliding directly with his forearm as he blocks you in.

“c-... can i get through? i have to be in calc iii in fifteen minutes,” you ask with a frown.

hao’s arm stays glued to the other side of the door as he continues to stare at you. “i want a better thank you.”

“you—... why?” you question, brow furrowing in confusion. “i already said thank you. and i didn’t even ask you to lie for me in the first place.”

hao blinks at you. “so you’re not grateful?”

“honestly, you’re kind of making me uncomfortable,” you reply, ducking under his arm and walking back out into the orchestra room. “so if my lack of gratitude means you’re going to go back to humiliating me in front of the entire string ensemble every day... i guess i’ll just have to continue living with it.”

you make it halfway out of the rehearsal room when you hear a faint: “wait.”

you turn around to find a slightly panicked hao still standing in the doorframe of the storage closet. 

“you need rosin, right? you ran out?” he asks, as if he couldn’t tell exactly what your problem had been from hearing you play today. “i’ll give you some of mine.”

clearly you’ve just hallucinated. you’re so stressed from yesterday’s events that you’ve started hearing things. or maybe you’re still asleep in your bed at home. or maybe you’re dead. because there’s no way hao would ever give you his beloved rosin.

“let me just get it out of my case,” he says, bending down to the ground and opening up his very expensive violin case. you walk over to him slowly, partly because you don’t believe him and partly because you’re starting to worry something is terribly wrong with him.

“hao, are... are you feeling okay?” you ask, stepping back into the storage closet and watching as he pulls out a fresh cake of premium rosin. it’s a box-shape with rounded edges and no plastic holder, the golden-brown hardened sap shining beautifully even in the dim light of the storage closet.

he stands back up, holding the rosin between his fingers delicately. “never better.”

“you’re—... you’re gonna give me your cimc prize rosin?” you ask, incredibly confused. “why would you do that?”

“because you need it. don’t you?” he answers with a shrug.

“but... but—.” you protest, head spinning a million miles a minute trying to make sense of hao’s bizarre and uncharacteristic display of benevolence. “what’s the catch?”

with no discernible inflection, hao repeats, “the catch.”

“i don’t see why you’d give this to me without a price,” you elaborate skeptically. “you don’t like me. you’re actively mean to me actually. it doesn’t make sense that you’d give me something you value without asking for anything in return. i mean, you couldn’t even randomly choose to cover for me during rehearsal without demanding a thank you after.”

hao considers this for a moment and then nods. “well, what if i ask for the same thing then? in exchange for this rosin, i want a thank you.”

“i can’t even begin to figure out what’s gotten into you today,” you respond with a reluctant sigh, “but fine. i guess i can agree to your terms.”

“we have a deal,” hao affirms with a stupid, perfect smirk. he closes the gap between you, holding out the rosin in his palm. when you try to take it from him, he retracts his hand. “i’ll take the thank you first actually.”

“sure,” you agree with a sigh, rolling your eyes. “thank you.”

he tilts his head to the side, prompting, “what was that?”

“thank you, hao. i really appreciate you giving me your rosin,” you feed flatly, hoping you’ve finally appeased him.

“an improvement,” he says before shaking his head again. “but i’m still not loving the tone coming out of you... maybe your bow needs some rosin.”

“you already know it does! what are you even talking—,” you start to ask, but it’s already too late. without any time to spare, the door is shut behind you and two long, thin fingers are pushed inside of your mouth. 

“there you go,” hao smiles, incredibly satisfied with the stunt he’s just pulled. “a thorough coat to get that perfect sound.”

he cups your jaw with his free hand as he shoves his fingers further into your mouth. you gag slightly as he approaches the back of your throat, your cheeks turning beet red at the violation of your body. 

“an instrument should be well cared for,” hao says as he removes his fingers from your lips, unbuttoning your jeans as he guides you to sit down in a black music chair. “gonna make you sound so pretty.”

there’s a flutter in your core that you desperately want to silence. you could not be turned on by this. one of the men you hate most in this world just shoved his fingers down your throat without asking. so why is the hungry look in his eyes as he sinks down between your legs exciting you?

hao hooks his fingers around the waistband of your jeans, tugging at them until you finally lift your hips up wordlessly. he discards your underwear next, chuckling sardonically at your continued state of silence.

his lubricated fingers ghost over you, leaving a trail of your own saliva up and down your sex. the sensation makes you gasp and then immediately cover your mouth in shame. were you really enjoying this?

“hm, still an airy sound,” hao observes, eyes locked on your center as his free hand grips your thigh— fingers digging into the soft flesh. “definitely needs more rosin.”

hao pulls your hips closer to him, taking you into his mouth— swirling and sucking at your heat with his tongue. you must’ve fallen into another dimension. fainted. been in a terrible bus accident on your way to campus. but why you’d dream of hao’s head between your thighs in a storage closet is beyond your comprehension.

the more he works you with his mouth, the more hums and sighs escape your lips.

“hao,” you beg, pleasure building as your right hand tangles up in his hair— tugging from the root. “feels so good. so, so good.”

“fuck, that’s beautiful baby,” hao pants, right hand detaching from your hip. “maybe you can even learn something from how i’m playing you. everyone would appreciate that, huh?”

the patronizing insult makes you throb, another whimper falling out of you. he watches you intently, mouth open slightly as he drinks in the sight of you writhing in pleasure. “c’mon, baby. let me hear you.”

with every rhythmic stroke, your sounds grow less inhibited and hao grows more entranced. he’s making the face he usually makes while playing his violin— focused, impassioned, and devastatingly sexy. 

was hao enjoying playing you as much as he enjoyed playing his other instrument?

“gon—... gonna make me cum,” you whine after another minute, the look in hao’s eyes turning feral. he immediately returns his mouth to you, sucking at your most sensitive part with a renewed vigor.

as hao brings you closer to the brink of orgasm, your moans only grow louder and sweeter like a crescendo. the harmonic sounds coming out of you are intensified by an increase in the pace of hand. it’s all too much for you to handle, your core beginning to spasm.

“oh my god, hao—,” you cry, your climax crashing over you like the perfect wave. “c-cumming... i—...”

hao pulls out the cake of rosin from his back pocket as he works you through your high, bringing it between your legs and covering it in your release. your breathing slowly returning to normal,he runs the sticky rosin down each of your inner thighs. 

“it’s... it’s gonna melt,” you say softly, both hypnotized and concerned. “the r-ros—.”

“rosin starts to crumble from heat at 50 degrees celsius,” hao interjects as he coats the rosin in more of your fluids. “your body temperature is 37 degrees.”

“but—.”

“don’t act like you don’t know how numbers work. aren’t you in calc iii?” hao baits, licking up the last remnants of your orgasm for himself. “are you just a fraud in every subject you take?”

his eyes lock with yours as he stands up and brushes the dust off his knees. 

“th-thank... you,” is what comes out of you as you stare up at him, dumbfounded. “thank you.”

“yeah, sure,” hao replies dismissively. after making such a big deal about a thank you, it figures he’d pretend he never cared in the first place. “clean off that rosin and use it next week or i’ll tell professor ahn you stole it from me.”

“oh. okay,” you quietly agree, unable to control the awkward energy that’s now tying your tongue. “um. thanks... again.”

he just shrugs, walking over to the door and picking up his violin case. unlocking the door and pushing it open, he takes a few steps out the door before suddenly stopping in his tracks. he turns over his shoulder to look at you. “i almost forgot to ask...”

you gulp at the sight of the upturned corner of his lip in a smug grin.

“... was it better than jiwoong hyung?”

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　

[thewertsearch]

Let's pull back from this ever narrowing dark pocket. All this uncertainty is wearing thinner than the only pair of pants in an immortal's wardrobe. I've never much enjoyed navigating the vortices of alternative possibility.

Son of a bitch. Scratch was fucking trolling us, wasn't he?

We must have split off from the Alpha Timeline a while ago - probably before Vriska had even left the Veil. The moment she reached Jack, the entire timeline was unsalvageable. I should have known it was doomed.

The path which alone has my absolute mastery is the alpha timeline, a continuum I define as that which boasts exclusive rights both to my birth and to my death, two circumstantially simultaneous events.

Wait, Scratch can only die in the Alpha Timeline? So he can never die in any other timeline, no matter what?

That's a little strange. Is the Green Sun indestructible in doomed timelines, then? Surely there should be at least some offshoots where someone offs him by dumb luck. He claims there are multiple ways to kill him, but that's completely irreconcilable with the statement that there's only one scenario where he dies. They can't both be true.

You hear that, you orb-headed motherfucker? You lied!

I fucking got you!

Also, I think I know how Scratch's birth and death are circumstantially linked. Snowman orchestrated his birth - and, mirroring this, his last act as a living man will be to orchestrate her death.

Any divergence from this path to my knowing will taper into blackness like rotting roots. But if I was a Seer, such offshoots would be fully within my domain. And if I was a Seer of Mind in particular, synaptic causality would be my specialty.

Right, so all Seers can perceive doomed timelines to some extent, but Mind-aligned Seers are apparently designed to do so.

Terezi - the Alpha Terezi - has seen this offshoot. She knows exactly what will happen if Vriska gets away, and she can't pretend this situation is salvageable anymore.

A Seer would support her allies in battle not with her weapons, but her vision. She would sift through dross of her comrades' poor tactical inclinations and examine the grim consequences. A Seer would not charge into the fray headlong but direct it as a conductor with a baton. She would have the sight to eschew the obvious gambits, and find the path to victory disguised cleverly as setback, or even imminent defeat.

The Seer is a tactician's class, specializing in strategy and problem-solving. It's a class for those who are adept at analyzing and consolidating information, as well as understanding the consequences of a given approach.

Presumably, each Seer's style of problem-solving is influenced by their Aspect. I'm not sure how to characterize Rose's approach, but Terezi's is obvious - she specializes in the consequences of decisions.

And she would know victory doesn't matter in a reality where all else is doomed to fail.

...including her own.

[thefirstknife]

So, is there a "prevailing" idea/theory/lore fact on why Osiris and Saint have different memories of things? That he really isn't "our" Saint, or that he and Osiris just remember things differently because even IRL people who were there for the same thing can remember it happening in different ways since memory isn't infallible? Something else? (I don't personally think it changes that Saint is Saint--unless he was pulled from a timeline where he had radically different experiences that would shape him into a wildly different person, he's still himself at his core across all those timelines that would lead to him being the same person.)

From what I've seen, most people just assume that the Conductor is correct and Osiris fucked up or something and we saved the wrong Saint.

Personally, I think it's more complicated than that, especially with today's reveal about the Saint that died. Originally, it was never cleared up if us saving Saint completely overwrote his death. Like, we didn't know if his grave would simply be gone after we saved him. It appears not (or at least that's what Ikora believes; Ikora is convinced we'll find his body there)! Which is really interesting because there's several really complex things involved, most notably the time paradox.

This is really difficult to get across but basically, we can pretend that the original Saint that died is Saint 1 and the one we saved is Saint 2. Saint 1 must've met us because we found the remains of the Perfect Paradox on his body. We took that and crafted the gun and then delivered it to Saint 2 in another timeline who is then saved. But that creates a problem of how does Saint 1 have it; we have to give it to him too. And if we gave it to him, that means the Sundial was created and we're there. This is further complicated by the nature of the Infinite Forest as a simulation engine. The Perfect Paradox is a really big point, as is the whole actual time paradox. I think it significantly complicates the situation to go beyond the simple "oh it's just a Saint from some other timeline and we rescued a wrong one." Obviously, it depends on how detailed they want to go with this story right now.

Even if these are two different Saints, they both must've met us which sets the course for Saint's life and shouldn't really change much about it. The divergence possibly happens in regards to whether or not Osiris creates the Sundial in that timeline (but if he doesn't, then the Saint that dies can't have the Perfect Paradox on him). If Osiris' "real" Saint died and we saved another one, there should not actually be any significant difference with their memories. Their memories should NOT differ. And they didn't, until the yoke.

That means that the yoke is what caused this and if it's caused by the yoke, then we can't really fully believe anything that the Conductor put in Saint's head. So far we've seen them having diverging memories on one thing, but just before that, we saw them in complete agreement on their memories. And Saint never experienced this before with anyone else either. My conclusion is that the Conductor scoured the timelines for other Saints and fed him other memories that may exist, which naturally caused an existential crisis.

This week Saint also seems to be doing better. He exhibited other memories that we know are correct, like where and when he met us and how that all went. He also specifically doubts the Conductor's manipulation by saying that he remembers the smells and sounds of the City normally, so how can he possibly be a fake?

I wonder how they'll go about this. How in-depth they'll dig and if there's an easier explanation that I'm not seeing. I do think that a significant part of the solution will just be convincing Saint that no matter what, he is Saint who lives with Osiris right now and that's it. It doesn't matter which version he is. Saint already had some thoughts like this today in the radio!

If anyone else wants to take a crack at the time shenanigans, feel free to add!

[its-time-to-write]

Hello! I absolutely love your work. You’re a fantastic writer. Is it possible for you to do something based a bit off of the song London Boy by Taylor Swift? If not I understand. I just feel there’s some cool way to tie it with Jamie Tartt. Sorry if it’s a bit of a generic request

ALRIGHTY gotta preface this, I actually hate this song 😂 Lyrics aren’t bad, but the like accent thing she does makes me die a little bit. BUT. I saw what you were going for (I think)! So here it is, I suffered through listening to this song bc you asked for a fic and I am nothing if not eager to please.

This is also a response to two other requests. So if that was you, ✌️😗 y’all were on the same page, congratulations. This is also my first song-based fic, although all of my works are (very, very loosely) based on songs. That’s why they have such insane titles😅 ANYWAY that’s enough talking from me. Enjoy!

i fancy you

i love my hometown as much as Motown, i love So-Cal

Richmond in London is very different from your hometown in Southern California. It’s colder, for one. And older. Things in California don’t have the same extended history as they do in England. You’re here visiting family for a couple months, although your cousins are trying to convince you to stay longer. 

“What do you really have waiting for you in California?” Holland asks.

“Uh, the beach. Sun. Great Mexican food.” you respond.

Holland isn’t buying it. “When else are you going to be able to live here? We can help you get a job and all that, not a huge problem.”

Holland is very convincing. You decide to stay for a year, single year, and see what happens.

Holland is four years older than you, and has always been the cousin you’re closest to. You’ve had a long-standing bond since being the two eldest sisters in your family. Holland takes you to clubs and introduces you to her friends, including a Miss Keeley Jones who thinks you are “abso-fuckin-lutely adorable.” 

“You have to bring her to a Richmond match, babes,” Keeley says. “Lots of fit footballers.” She winks.

You ask Keeley of she’s dating a footballer.

“Oh god no,” she shudders. “A coach.”

You don’t really see the difference.

saw the dimples first and then i heard the accent

It was a good match, even you can tell. The Richmond team played seamlessly, passing the ball back and forth without letting the other team even touch it. Their conductor of sorts, the one mediating the passes, was crazy. He never seemed to get tired, anticipating his teammates’ moves and those of the opposing team. It seemed like he was always five steps ahead of everyone. Holland notices you watching him and pokes Keeley.

“You like Jamie?” Keeley laughs. “Makes sense. Anyone with eyes likes him. He’s right fit, too. Good in bed, shit with feelings. Well, used to be. Still fucking cocky.”

That’s interesting. “You’ve been with him?” you ask.

Keeley gives you a 50/50 hand motion. “Sort of. Don’t really count it, do I? Was with him at his fucking worst. That’s why Roy fucking hates him.”

“He’s much better now,” Holland chimes in. “Something happened last season and he stopped being such a dick.”

“Holland!” you reproach, laughing. “That’s not nice!”

She and Keeley shrug. “It’s true though, innit?”

You don’t know if it is, because when you first see Jamie up close in the club later that night, he seems perfectly fine. You see a flash of a smile, a dimple, then he says something (you don’t know what) but his accent is… something else. It’s not like Holland’s, or any of your family, but you know enough to pinpoint it to Manchester. 

“The accent got you, didn’t it?” says a voice near your ear and you yelp as Holland slides her arm around your shoulder.

“Gets the best of us,” says Keeley, grabbing your hand. “C’mon, I’ll introduce you.”

She drags you over despite your protests.

he likes my American smile, like a child when our eyes meet, ‘darling i fancy you’

Regular dinner dates are scary, but dinner dates with a Premier League footballer are downright terrifying. 

You made Holland help you figure out what to wear, and when she showed up at your aunt’s house she had Keeley in tow.

“Heard you’re in need of a bit of a makeover,” she grins. “Lucky for you, that’s my specialty.”

Keeley and Holland have brought some of Holland’s dresses and you’re in a dark green one that “does fucking wonders for your hair, babe.”

Keeley did your makeup while Holland curled your hair and just like that, you’re ready to go.

You groan, “God, I fucking hate first dates,” while shaking out your arms. 

“It’ll be fine,” Holland promises, and she’s right.

It’s more than fine. It’s fucking fantastic.

“I like your smile,” Jamie says. “Fuckin’ American, it is.”

You laugh. “What does that even mean?”

Jamie shrugs. “It’s bigger. Brits are more reserved. Like Roy. You met Roy yet? Biggest fucking twat I ever saw,” but he says it with such affection that you’re sure he means something else.

His eyes are electric, blue and dazzling. They betray his every thought and feeling and right now you feel like if you hold his gaze any longer you’re going to say something completely stupid. 

Turns out your not the one to say something stupid; he is.

You’re walking back to his car, holding hands and swinging them in between you when he stops and says, “Darling, I fancy you.”

You grin and he returns it. He asks, “Was that British enough for you? Feel like you got the whole experience?”

“Definitely,” you say. “Was I American enough for you?”

“Dunno,” he replies, “Got to test one more thing.”

His lips are very soft on yours.

met all of his best mates, so i guess all the rumors are true

“This is Isaac, Colin, Dani, and Sam.”

Jamie is introducing you to some of his team. You’ve been dating for a month now, and your first picture together just popped up in the papers the night before.

The boys of AFC Richmond were pretty sure Jamie was seeing someone, but they didn’t know who it was. Jamie had set up this dinner thing a while ago, it just so happened that the tabloids got to you first. 

It’s not even that great a picture honestly, but you’d been around Nelson Road enough that the boys were able to recognize you. 

It’s a little unnerving to meet them, what with Isaac’s intense stare and Dani’s wide, wide smile. You’re grateful Colin and Sam are acting normal.

“We have an American coach,” Colin says in an attempt to break the ice. It does, because you’re all laughing at the absurdity of his attempt. 

“We have heard very much about you,” Dani says and you wonder if he ever stops smiling. It feels so weird and so normal to be at Jamie’s house with a pile of food and FIFA queued up on the TV, ready to go. You figure that if you’re meeting his friends, Jamie must be at least a little serious. He finds your hand and squeezes it under the table as Isaac cracks his first smile of the night. It’s weird dating a footballer, but you think you can get used to it.

babes, don’t threaten me with a good time

Jamie’s house is the largest you’ve ever been in, and it used to be strange that it was only just the two of you, clattering around that big home. 

It’s a cool night after a warm day so you both decided to lay in his backyard under the stars. 

It feels so much like something you’d do as a teenager, and you tell Jamie as much.

“Used to sneak on me mum’s roof,” he tells you. “Didn’t even do dumb shit, I’d just go to look.”

You lay there in silence for a few moments until you feel something tickle your side.

“Jamie!” you shriek.

“I didn’t do nothing!” he protests. “Must’ve been a bug.”

You don’t believe him, but you don’t push it until you feel another tickle.

“Babe!”

“Babe, it weren’t me, I swear,” he says and you really don’t believe him, especially when he tickles you again less than a minute later.

You laugh. “Fuck you, Jamie Tartt.”

He smirks. “Babe, don’t threaten me with a good time.”

“Hm, maybe I want a good time.”

Jamie’s grin widens and he sits up. “You know where the bedroom is, love.”

you know i love a London boy

“I don’t fucking get it,” Jamie says. You shrug. 

“I literally don’t either,” you say. Your dad leans over to Jamie. “So basically…” he begins.

He’s halfway through his explanation when Jamie pokes you. “Babe,” he says, “can we switch seats so I can hear your dad better?” You chuckle then wiggle your way into Jamie’s seat while he gets into yours.

“Why the fuck is it called ‘football’ if it’s with their hands?” Jamie asks.

Your dad shrugs. “Not a clue, son, not a clue.”

The game progresses and one of the teams scores a touchdown.

“Hold the fuck up,” Jamie says. “Why did their score change that much?”

“I know this one!” you exclaim. “Different types of goals get different points. And there’s something called a lateral which has to do with moving backward I think?”

You dad just shakes his head with a grin and doesn’t attempt to clarify. 

Your dad spends the second half explaining everything to a very focused Jamie, and he asks questions the entire car ride home. It’s funny have Jamie here in America, staying at your parents house and seeing where you grew up. 

When you’re finally back home and in bed, you pull him as close as you can and whisper, “I love you very, very much. You know that, right?”

You can feel Jamie smile against your hair. “I love you too, very fucking much.”

[astranix]

slytherin sirius black × gryffindor james potter

the most non-angsty sirius and regulus running away fic ever coz we don't have enough of those

"This was, without a doubt," Regulus pants, glancing over his shoulder, "the stupidest thing you've ever done! And that's really saying something."

"This was also, without a doubt," Sirius says, glaring, "the best decision of my whole miserable life."

"We're gonna starve, you fucking idiot—!" Regulus says, smacking him on the back of his head. "We have nowhere to go."

Sirius freezes in his steps.

"Uncle Alphard?" he asks. Regulus smacks him again, and Sirius smacks him back.

"We can't go there, Sirius," Regulus says, wincing and rubbing his head. "Mother would know. She must already know, because it's the only place we could possibly go!"

There's silence for a second.

"Right. Lestrange isn't an option, neither is Dolohov," Sirius says, grimly. "Mulciber is a bitch, Avery's too thick to understand. Snape's probably homeless himself. What about you?"

"Barty's parents never leave him alone," Regulus clenches his jaw. "And Rosier would probably not be home. He's been sending me postcards from France."

"Fuck," Sirius scans where they're standing. "Andromeda hasn't talked to you since she ran, has she?"

"You think she'll talk to me before you?" Regulus scoffs. "She hasn't. And we can't live on the fucking streets, you know that."

"We have money," Sirius says.

"Yeah, but we would have to get it exchanged into muggle money, which, one, we don't know shit about. And two, we would have to walk straight into Gringotts. Anybody could see us."

Regulus tugs at his hair, always the one who worries more, always the one who gives up earlier.

"Well," Sirius, hedges, "if we could find an owl, we wouldn't need to go to Diagon Alley."

"Oh yes, of course," Regulus says, snidely. "All our problems are now completely solved! We just need a goddamn owl!"

The muggles walking past them give them strange looks, and Regulus lowers his tone.

"Look, Sirius," he says, fixing him with a determined expression. Sirius already hates where this is going. "You're sixteen, you're going to be out of Grimmauld in a year or two, anyway. And if you move out, I'll move with you. But we—we can't do anything except go back. It's cold. It's going to rain soon. We haven't eaten in a day."

Sirius stares at him, incredulous.

"If this is about your ego," Regulus starts, angrily, "then—"

"No!" Sirius interrupts, hotly. "Are you insane?! This is about our continued existence. She would kill us, if we went back! She's a fucking psycho! She was just about to curse the shit out of you, for no reason, which is literally why we ran—"

"I can take it," Regulus dismisses. "Besides, you ran out, and dragged me along."

Sirius gapes at him, unable to speak more.

"No," Sirius says, firmly, and looks straight at Regulus, because what he says now is what they do, this is final. "We're not going back."

Regulus's shoulders drop, defeated.

"Right," he mutters, and the sudden resignation that settles on his face, bitter and tired, makes Sirius think that sometimes, he's no better than his mother.

They stand silently, for a tense, uncomfortable moment.

Then, "I have an idea," Sirius says, because he does.

And it's a bad, bad one.

Of course, it's also the only one they have.

That, right then, that's when it starts raining.

Regulus scrambles for shade under the shed of the muggle shop closest to them.

Sirius braces himself, and raises his wand.

It's only a moment before the Knight Bus pops, loud and purple and sharply at contrast with the grey evening.

"Godric's Hollow," he says to the conductor, and hands him a handful of sickles. "And two hot chocolates."

They take a seat, and Regulus looks at him with a dubious expression.

"Godric's Hollow?" he pronounces, slowly. Sirius ignores him, grabbing the two mugs that the conductor gives them.

"Why are we going to Godric's Hollow?" Regulus insists, his teeth chattering in the cold. "Sirius? What the hell? We don't know anyone there."

He's right.

Sort of.

Sirius just hands Regulus the hot chocolate, refusing to answer.

"We're going to die," Regulus mumbles, gloomily. "We're really going to die."

"Shut it," Sirius says, and gives the conductor two sickles more for blankets. "You're not."

(-)

Sirius knows which house they have to go to, the moment he sees it.

It's big, bright, there's green grass surrounding it. It looks like one of those pictures in childrens' books, flowers and fences and whatnot.

It's barely drizzling by the time they reach.

Regulus had settled to just watching Sirius do whatever he wants to, but as soon as he starts walking towards the house, Regulus freezes in his tracks.

"I really need some information, right now," he says, quietly, wary eyes on the house. There's something beautiful about the whole scene, brick-red and cosy, and that's even more suspicious, isn't it.

They don't know anybody so warm.

"It's Potter's house," Sirius admits, finally. Regulus startles, whipping around to stare at him, absolutely shocked.

Anybody would be.

"Potter?" he hisses, like he's never heard the name before. "Potter?! What—! Sirius, he hates you! You hate him back! You hate each other!"

"I know," Sirius says, and rings the doorbell.

"Oh my god," Regulus breathes out, disbelieving. "You're mad. You're actually mad. We spent so much of our money to come here, Sirius. And when Potter, for obvious fucking reasons, turns us away, we won't even—"

The front door opens.

Regulus tugs at Sirius's sleeve.

"We can still run, come on, it won't be as embarrassing then," he says, frantic, "Even Alphard would be better than this. We could hide in his dungeon."

"Alphard has a dungeon?" Sirius asks, curiously, just as James Potter steps out.

He looks at them for a second, blankly, blinking behind thin-wired round frames. His hair is a mess, as usual, he's wearing actual pyjamas. And then, a moment later, his brain seems to catch up with him.

"What," James Potter says, bewildered. "What are you doing here—?"

"We need a place to stay," Sirius says, demands. Do the Potters rent out rooms to guests? That would make so much more sense. "For some days."

"Huh?" Potter's expression says that they do not, in fact, own a guest service. "Wha—?"

Sirius sighs, and pulls Regulus with him, again, not away from the house, like they should be going, but towards, and then he—then he just—

He walks inside Potter's house.

Just. Pushes past him, and walks in.

Like he owns it.

Regulus and Potter stare at each other, Regulus is horrified, Potter is confused.

"Thanks," Sirius's voice comes from inside.

"You're welcome," Potter mutters, automatically, before blinking dumbly, again, and going inside.

Regulus, reluctantly, ridiculously, follows him.

(-)

So.

Sirius has now, in a span of 24 hours, cussed out his mother, thrown cutlery at their father's head, forced his way into someone’s home, and clearly, he has no plans to leave.

James Potter is apparently, and bizarrely, completely okay with this.

"My parents won't be home until late evening," he says, uncertainly, in his own home, while Sirius sits on the couch, comfortable as all hell, reading the last edition of Witch Weekly. "We should eat something."

Yes! Regulus's stomach says.

"We can't cook," he says, aloud, apologetically. "We had elves."

"Well, we don't. And I can cook," Potter says, shrugging. "What would you like?"

What the fuck is even going on, Regulus thinks.

"I'll help," he says, instead. Potter just shrugs again.

(-)

"Why?" Regulus asks, as soon as they reach the kitchen, shutting the door behind him. It's not like the kitchen at Grimmauld. It has a muggle stove, and what Regulus is guessing, other muggle... devices.

"Why what?" Potter says, and the slight grin on his face tells Regulus that he knows exactly what he's talking about.

"Why—" Regulus huffs, "why're you doing all this?"

"I'm hungry," Potter says, with an infuriating smirk, as he opens the shelves, takes out a pan and some plates. "And my mum taught me well."

"You know that's not what I'm asking," Regulus says. "Why did you let us in? Why're you letting us—" stay.

If he is, that is.

"Actually you'll find that I did not, in fact, let you in," he replies, setting the pan on the flame and dropping a unnecessary amount of butter. It sizzles and melts, and Regulus can't bring himself to meet Potter's eyes. "That would imply you asked."

"Okay," Regulus huffs. "Why didn't you kick Sirius and me out then?"

Potter's expression flickers a little, and he looks away, absent-mindedly cutting the tomato he's got on the counter.

Regulus waits.

Chop chop chop.

"Well," James says, finally, quietly, eyes on the thin slices of tomato, "you can't quite say no to Sirius Black, can you?"

"You... could have," Regulus narrows his eyes.

Potter just shakes his head. "He's...he's—"

"Oh, god no," Regulus exhales, because no way. "Not you too."

"'Too?'" Potter repeats.

"You like Sirius, don't you?" Regulus asks, scoffing when Potter gives him a wide-eyed expression.

He's so painfully obvious.

Regulus doesn't want to interpret any of this. He goes on, anyway.

"You know he's using you, right?" he asks, quietly.

Chop chop chop chop.

"He doesn't know anything about that, Black," Potter says, eyes firmly on the pan, as he slides the onion and tomato slices off the board.

"Sirius," Regulus says, slowly, "always knows when someone likes him. He always, always knows what anybody feels about him. My brother's a lot of things, but oblivious or delusional he's not."

"Maybe I just don't mind the company, alright?" Potter replies, curt, and Regulus is just about to reply, when a sudden noise comes from outside, the thud of the door.

"James, honey?" says a woman's voice, sounding mildly confused.

[finrays]

Thinking this morning about the time I got to witness the universe spank a pedantic asshole that I was about to slap myself.

I was at a folk concert given by the local symphony orchestra with my family, and the guy sitting a row behind us was being just… insufferable. Aside from the fact that he was bloviating excessively about every song on the program, the tone of his voice was just MADDENINGLY smarmy and superior. I was ready to turn around and shove the program in his mouth the whole first half of the concert.

Then we get to Ashokan Farewell, which is a song I really, really like. This fucking moron starts going “Ah yes, it’s an old Civil War folk tune, written by an artist from the South, I believe-“

And if you know anything about the song you’ll know that’s entirely wrong. It’s a rumor that got started because Ken Burns used it as the intro for his Civil War documentary series. The damn thing was written in 1982 by Jay Ungar and his wife Molly Mason, and it originated as a goodbye/goodnight piece at a mountain valley in Upstate New York where they used to hold fiddle and dance camps. One of his companions cautiously ventured this and was summarily dismissed with something like “Oh, well that’s not what *I* heard.”

It took a HERCULEAN effort not to turn around and Well Actually this guy. I strongly feel that if you’re gonna be smart about something, you should be cheery and excitable about it, as if you’re sharing a bag of snacks. The point is to share the knowledge you love, not to try and puff yourself up like a blowfish.

But I was beginning to observe how much smoother my life went if I hid my strangeness at that point, and a lot of that was shutting the hell up. So I just held my tongue, ground my teeth and sat there.

And I was rewarded for it; the conductor must have heard my psychic scream, because he introduced the song by pointing out the Civil War Folk Song rumor and then dismissing it and providing the real info.

Folks.

Mr. Grand High Cultured Muckity Muck. Went DEAD SILENT. I heard not another word from his mouth for the rest of the night. It was magnificent and I immediately had the NEW problem of not giggling and kicking my feet.

Sometimes, if you stay quiet and keep out of the way, an asshole will own THEMSELVES, and it’s glorious to witness.

[lyranix1201]

I have so many plot ideas for a nevermore fanfic, but there is a small problem.......

I need to write it😭.

(it feels like torture not being able to write something, that you have been planning to write for so long).

It's a pity because I have so many ideas, like:

2 pirate AU (one of them, is were lenore is the captain of the well know myth called the flying Dutch man. and the other one, is lenore being a pirate and meeting a fortune-teller/princes Annabelle lee)

Mafia/cleaning service AU [ let me explain myself 💀. basically lenore and some of her friends (Berenice, Duke and pluto) work for this organization called Nevermore cleaning service, whose main objective is to Clean up crime scene's for the mafia.] (I have been writing the first chapter since April, and I'm still not finished😭 I hate being a perfectionist sometimes.)

3 what if scenarios. [ what if lenore didn't run after Annabelle after their argument (in this fanfic, I am pretty much just torturing Annabelle and lenore, I'm not even kidding 🙂🙈. I am going to put lenore and Annabelle lee through hell and back ). what if the misfits and the clusterfuck (we need better names for them) team up and escape nevermore, and I mean they team up immediately after they meet. What if Annabelle and lenore actually made a good plan together and didn't die.]

Jazz club AU ( everyone is dead and works in a jazz club except Annabelle lee)

Train conductor AU (technically you could call it that. Everyone is basically trapped on a moving train.)

"Mr. And Mrs Smith" AU ( inspired by the serie that came out in 2024 on Prime, not the movie. I have currently only seen 2 episodes, in summer break I will finish watching it.)

One were everyone works in a hotel and everyone is also death.

One were I got inspired by the series called "Umbrella Academy" that is on Netflix ( I remember watching this series like 2 years ago, and let me tell you something. well watching this series it felt like I was having a fever dream😵‍💫, and it didn't help that I was having an all nighter.)

Cult AU

Time traveler/Imortal AU

Superhero AU

Vampire AU ( you can't go wrong with Vampires)

A fanfic inspired by a books that I found in my portuguesa school library. The book is caled the "magician nephew"( yes it is in English, somehow I found a few English books there. I haven't finished reading the book, exam season is killing me.)

One were we follow theo in nevermore

one-shots( were lenore and Annabelle lee are just spending time together)

One were the cast are going on a camping trip.

And last but not least, 2 crakefics. one is inspired by a childhood series that I used to watch when I was a kid, that is on Disney channel called lab rats. And the other one, that I somehow promise myself to make, that is a lenore as snow White fanfic.

There are many reasons why I haven't finished one Goddamn chapter of any of the fanfic.

Knowing multiple languages (dutch, english, Portuguese and French) is a blessing and a curse, My dyslexic ass can't write for shit. I have so many difficulties in writing in all languages and i can't even write a simple frase in English, without going through the seven stages of grief.

(funfact: I fucked up, I couldn't even write the word dyslexic correctly, I wrote it like: deslesic at first 😭☠️) how the fuck can i be dyslexic in 4 goddamn languages. SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME.... FREE ME FROM THIS TORMENT.

[limayde]

16. The Legend of Zelda: Spirit Tracks

What a POLARIZING experience this was. Really high highs, very low lows. Overall I think I enjoyed my time with the game more than I disliked it, but this is absolutely a one and done experience. I don't think I ever want to play it again fghgfghj

The first thing that jumped out to me was the story—it's better than any of the more recent Zelda titles that have released in the last ten years (I'm looking at you TotK). The characters are so fun and expressive, and it even gave us the best version of Link and Zelda's situationship. They are SO cute in this game, that even as a raging lesbian I can appreciate them. It also gave us Byrne—he kicks ass.

I hear a lot of people complain about them but I never had much issue with the touch controls. They were responsive and the enemies are just slow enough to get around the bit of discrepancy you'd have as opposed to having button controls. I think we need more games with silly controls, that's kind of a lost art, and it brings charm to a game.

The pan flute was fun at first, it was just a silly little instrument that you blow into the microphone to use, but then I got to the fire sanctuary. That. That right there. That's the reason I will never play this game again. The fire and sand sanctuary songs are SO finicky, it took me HOURS to complete both. Everywhere else it's fine! The first three sanctuaries? Not a problem. Using it in the overworld? Not a problem. Just. Those last two sanctuaries make my blood BOIL.

Train's fine. I didn't really see much issue with it aside from the stupid one-hit kill demon trains. (Especially that last area, jesus christ why are they FASTER than you?) But oh my god it is impossible to upgrade your train in this game? I got three parts. THREE. I DIDN'T EVEN COMPLETE A WHOLE SET. You don't even unlock the ability to customize your train until you unlock the water realm so I just didn't think you could do it! Also you don't unlock fast travel until way too late. Like it's appreciated but they're so out of the way and come in so late that I basically never got to use it.

That's another thing, this game is so backloaded with sidequests, that I did like three before making it to endgame. Once I realized that you were basically forced to marathon all the sidequests in one go if you wanted to 100% it, I lost interest. It's all bunnies and ferrying people around anyway so who cares, I'd probably just get another pearl necklace for my troubles.

I do like that you can wear the conductor's outfit tho.

Anyway this game is definitely fun and worthwhile if you're a Zelda fan—especially since it comes packaged in with Zelda's most important role in the whole series. Seriously Nintendo, why can't we play as her yet? Why is she always being sidelined as a damsel in distress? Her name is in the fucking title for god's sake.

[donnerpartyofone]

tagged by @moviesludge so this totally gratuitous info dump is his fault! Har har.

Do you make your bed? Sometimes! We usually just smooth out the covers, just so it's easy to get in at night and not all tangled up. I have a lot of just, executive and mechanical problems with maintenance and cleaning. I actually like having things neat and I like the monotony of cleaning, I have a fantasy life in which I'm just straight up a housewife, but I'm really bad at it. It causes me a lot of grief.

Fave number? 2! From when I was really little I had this sense that two was coming up all the time; obviously this must have been some sort of projection, but it stuck with me. I perceived some sort of subtext about being number two in life somehow, like being good but not meaningfully great at anything, which is fairly neurotic but typical of me as a kid. Anyway I was very disappointed when I learned by accident that Adam Levine has "222" tattooed on his arm, so I guess I won't be doing anything like that!

What’s your job? I guess I have to say I'm a writer, which feels embarrassing. If you say something like that, it sounds like you are succeeding at it, or that you at least make a living that way! Which is not, and may never be true. But it's the only thing anyone will pay me for right now. I have to admit that I feel pretty bad about this, I think I made a huge mistake by trying to see what I could do with my life, and not devoting absolutely all of my energy to finding and keeping a job in a cubicle or behind a cash register. Everyone automatically tells you it's best to "follow your dreams" or whatever but it's not very romantic to have no idea what's going to happen to you, and to be in danger because you're a fucking infant who doesn't know how life works.

Go back to school? Probably not. I was a good student up until I got into college, then I completely fell apart. Part of it was what I now understand are neurological issues, part of it was that I was so depressed I couldn't even get up and go to exams at times, and part of it was that I just had absolutely no idea what to do with my life or even HOW people do things with their lives (I still don't). Like I almost should have just done another four years in high school, or until I had some mental grasp of what college is even for, as a tool for transitioning into real life. The irony is that now I do college-level (possibly even grad level, sometimes) research and writing all the time, under my own power, just because I'm interested and I have a few outlets for it. My professors who struggled to get me to do anything would kill me if they could see what I'm doing now, haha. But if I were to go back to school, I would have to have an absolutely definite plan of why and what to do with it, that would make the debt and the time sink worth it. I admire people who do this, though, I do know adults who totally turned their lives around that way. I just don't have the brains for that.

Can you parallel park? I don't have a driver's license! I learned to drive, and I seem to recall being good at this during lessons. But I failed my one test, I genuinely think the conductor was being really confusing and getting angry with me--like, I was waiting at a light and when it turned green I started to go, and she goes, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING!!!" and I said "I stopped at the red light and when it turned green I drove in the direction you told me to" and she goes "...WELL DID YOU *NOTICE* THAT IT TURNED GREEN???" which was a totally mindblowing question. And then I just felt so demoralized that I never tested again. But I also really think that if I got my license I would be dead by now, or someone else would be. I'm just so extremely nervous and absent-minded, and I also have pretty bad spacial understanding.

Job you had that would surprise people? My first job was working in a perfume factory! Or really it was like a plant that packaged these extremely toxic dollar store perfumes. It was run by a Russian family who were totally fucking insane and the machines were all janky, it was just a handful of us girls from high school working there and it's amazing none of us ever got maimed. The glue for the labels was really shitty, so they would set pallets of bottles out in the sun until they were blazing hot and then we were supposed to roll them between our palms to stick the labels back on. It was extremely painful and I remember thinking, they probably shouldn't be allowed to make us do this lol. The building was tucked back off the road across this wasteland, and there was a giant pile of broken toilets out front. I'll never forget that, I wish I had a photo.

Aliens real? You know what, I'm going to completely plagiarize moviesludge's answer because I find it so satisfying: "I feel like the scope of the universe makes this a certainty and it amazes me how many people think it’s a ridiculous idea. Talk about main character syndrome!" And I will just add that I read Whitley Strieber's Communion for the first time last year and it totally stunned me. I thought I knew what it was going to be like, because to some degree it established all of our cliches about alien abduction, but there's way more to it than that. He has this existential concept about what aliens even are, and what rules they obey, that is not at all restricted to the idea of animals that drive machines around. It's totally worth reading.

Can you drive stick? That's how I learned actually! And I have this concept that if I did have to drive I would be decent at it because I was fairly comfortable during lessons, and for years I have been riding my bike in really tricky situations all over the city. I know and obey the rules and I have a pretty good awareness of myself on the road. And also I always seem to be paired with a best friend or partner who LOVES to drive and I have spent huge amounts of time in cars, paying close attention and helping navigate. But as I said above, my brain is also garbage and I think if I drove a LOT and gave myself regular opportunities to get in trouble, I would inevitably have a nervous breakdown and/or fuck up way worse than a normal person.

Guilty pleasure? I'm with @thechurchofsplatterdaysaintssplatterdaysaints in that I sort of object to this concept. But I also spend a lot of time watching absolute shit movies and television, and some of the time I have an excuse--it's fun, it's anthropologically interesting, whatever--but a lot of the time I'm literally just deadening my senses because I'm so overloaded with depression and anxiety, and I'm not even paying attention, the TV is just ON. I don't think that's great. I don't know if I would call this "pleasure" but it is some form of indulgence.

Tattoos? A bunch! It's hard to explain but I kind of used them as a form of exposure therapy. I have struggled with some kind of phobia of doing anything that you can never change or take back, and getting tattoos helped. And I like them, I like most of mine. There's only two I'm really not crazy about, but they don't upset me that much, they have their good points too.

Fave color? Mainly red. Also orange and yellow and black. I kind of hate blue, my enjoyment of blue is highly conditional.

Fave type of music? In this phase of my life I generically prefer experimental or ambient music with no lyrics or vocals. This can span a lot of eras and genres.

Do you like puzzles? Maybe I would if I did them and I might find it therapeutic. Generally speaking I feel too stupid for them; like one thing I like about the original Resident Evil 4 is that the puzzle aspect of it is so primitive, it's almost in there just to check a box in between button-mashing violence. That's more my speed of game entertainment.

Phobias? Hm I'm afraid of lots of things, but as far as a proper phobia that's irrational: I have these fantasies of things exploding, like just shattering for no reason and being incredibly destructive. Like common household objects or whatever. And I have a lot of intrusive thoughts about people around me suddenly turning into psychotic monsters (monster can be literal or figurative) and I just can't find a rational defense reaction. But these are not true phobias in the sense of being a real, controlling force in my decision-making, I don't think they're really going to affect me. I really enjoy that thing about how trypohobia is not a real phobia because no one has to be treated for it in order to effectively navigate their life. It's just a dislike, and a pretty normal and understandable one. People on the internet have a lot of trouble telling the difference between things like phobias, moral objections, and just stuff that they don't like!

Favorite childhood sport? I was and am a total loser who can't do sports, but I guess the answer is karate. I took a year or two of that at a really great place sometime when I was 10-12, I really enjoyed the repetitive discipline of it and I was good at that kind of slow and steady, strength-based thing. I could say that I stopped because my mom was dying and that sapped my motivation, but I actually think the truth is that I was getting to the point where sparring was more a part of it, and I'm not fast or spontaneous and I don't like when people touch me, so I knew I was never going to test out of my last belt and I might not enjoy it as much as I advanced. I still think about doing another martial art, though. I think it might help me pay attention to my physical health, and get out of my head and into my body, and maybe it would also help me learn not to be so afraid of human contact. I need to pick something that's decent for people who are short and squat, though. Everyone always tells you there's no rule that says certain forms are suited to certain body types, it's all about integrity and commitment and building ability, but I really don't think that's true! (Let me know if you have opinions on this)

Talk to yourself? Yeah. Living in the city for a long time bred the habit of talking to myself like an absolute crazy person right out on the street when I'm not doing well; it's like, everyone else is acting crazy, who fucking cares! But I'll also talk to myself when I'm alone in the house just because I like words and making sounds and telling jokes. I have no problem with the stigma of talking to oneself.

Movies you adore? So many. Movies are my whole life. How do I pick, I don't know! Some recent ones I had to write about are UZUMAKI, DELICATESSEN, SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES, and DELLAMORTE DELLAMORE which might literally be my favorite movie of all time, although I have a problem with that concept.

Coffee or Tea? Mostly coffee, there's less action/decision-making involved. But I like tea also. Some of my favorites are licorice, anything with cinnamon, and also savory toasted grain teas.

1st thing you wanted to be when grew up? I wanted to be a screenwriter. I liked movies and my dad is a writer, and it just seemed obvious. But I never learned anything about the discipline of it or the professional trajectory. And I was really poisoned by the whole "you can be anything you want!" idea, I feel terrible for saying that when so many people get zero support or faith from adults in childhood, but it's true. I heard and believed that blanket statement, but I didn't have the clarity or mental toughness to specialize and understand the meaning and implications of having a goal. It was just like, oh I could be a writer, or I could be an artist, or I could be in the movies, or blah blah blah I guess one of these things will just land on my head some day. I had no fucking clue, I still don't. It's hopeless! But you wanna know what's really weird, when I was little I also had this strange fixation on being in the army--but I had zero fantasies about combat or anything exciting, it was entirely this idea about being really good at boot camp, being able to endure any form of punishment. And I had a similar concept about JAIL, I remember reading this children's photo book that explained all about prison, and I think it was just this whole fantasy about having intensely disciplined obedience and being able to endure anything! I still think I'm going to jail some day but it's just because I feel so guilty about everything. Obviously the main conclusion to be drawn from this is that I am a natural born pervert.

tagging @hechiceria @sleepsafe @columbosunday @clarabeau @barnsburntdownnow @punisheddonjuan

[zanniscaramouche]

No one can claim that I'm fast, but hey! I finally had a moment to sit down and find some fics for a lovely anon who wandered into my inbox looking for classical musician!larry. A few of these are a little bit of a stretch, but hopefully there's something here you enjoy! You'll see little blue hearts along with a lil comment from me on those I have read (admittedly not that many, oops) This is definitely an AU I'd love to see more fic for! It's possible there's more out there, alas it doesn't seem to be commonly tagged. Make sure to tag your fics folks! It makes filtering for things like this so much easier! 💙

🎼 the school of extraordinary lovers // stylinsoncity @stylinsoncity - 191k "We keep telling the other, I love you and I love you, and we do, though we both know where the knives are." - Laura Van Prooyen

harry is a third-year witch and violinist at Laitswold, the only magical academy in the UK, with dreams of taking on the world, and hopefully breaking the centuries-old curse on his family while he's at it. he does not dream of facing off against his childhood rival and duet partner, but louis is back in town after six years abroad, so that's exactly what happens.

🎼 Love Is A Rebellious Bird // 100percentsassy, gloria_andrews - 134k AU in which the boys still make music. Louis is the concertmaster of the London Symphony Orchestra, Harry is the New! and Exciting! interim conductor/ex-cello prodigy who "has made Mozart cool again" according to Esquire Magazine (Louis hates him immediately, which is definitely why he internet stalked him in his dark bedroom late at night that one time), and Niall is the best. Zayn and Liam are around too.

Don't hum Bolero.

💙 zannithinks: one of those 'classics' that many love! I really enjoyed this fic, and as someone who hears Bolero every year at a local festival I think of this fic often

🎼 Saving Symphony Hall // HelloAmHere @helloamhere - 124k “I think I have an idea,” Louis said. Slowly, and reluctantly, but with a growing sense of the inevitable. “God damnit, I think I have a really good idea.”

“Oh christ, that's the problem-solving face,” Babs said. “Last time we saw that face, he sold a company.”

“Wait, what?” Zayn asked.

“Right place, right time,” Louis said. “Also, fuck my life,”

“What?” Zayn repeated. Niall patted his hand.

“I usually just roll with whatever Louis is about to do,” he said. “It’s better for us all.”

“That’s the attitude,” said Louis, “I’ll tell you tomorrow. Tonight, I need to do some research. Zayn, give me your number. I’m gonna save our symphony.”

💙 zannithinks: I looooove this one! A well developed world and lovable OC's, this is definitely the first fic I think of when I think Larry and Classical Music

🎼 Where Words Fail, Music Speaks // Larry_you_know @larryyouknow - 45k Louis is a world class violinist. He’s one year over forty, living his best life in New York. One day, he comes to a small town in Connecticut where he inherited a house from his late father. The town looks nice and its people welcome him warmly. The problem is that Louis never knew his father and he doesn’t intend to change anything about it - his father can stuff his last will up his treacherous ass. In a strange coincidence, Louis meets town troubadour Harry, who seems wonderful to him just right until he reveals that Louis’ father was like a dad to him.

Even though Louis tries to convince himself that it shouldn’t - it hurts.

🎼 Until You Remember // Throwthemflowers - 21k Talented London pianist Louis Tomlinson moves to a small coastal town to escape the elites of his job and the mundanity of his life. Through the music of Debussy he finds a charming, wonderful friend in Harry Styles, the fiancé of the town's mayor. Louis thinks his pining is in vain until he discovers that all may not be as it seems….

🎼 And I'll Be Here When Only the Silence Remains // louisniall @louisniaii - 19k The one where Louis is a top notch mute violinist and Harry might just be the person he trusts most

🎼 Back to the Sign, and Play Through the End // tomlinsunshine - 17k Louis is a globally renowned pianist; Harry is the worst page turner this world has ever known.

🎼 Take more of my space, why don't you? // otfuckingp - 10k Of course, the universe is not on Louis’ side, nor on the side of his mental health. Just as he starts to think they might get away with this empty seat -- yes, they. He and Instrument Man are in this together, a united front against the forces of any more people-- one more person steps onto the plane. He bypasses the first fifteen rows without so much as a falter, but the fact that he slows around 17 gives Louis pause. There aren’t many empty seats in this section... Surely not. Surely the universe wouldn’t be so cruel as to do this to him.

And then there’s another body landing in the seat next to Instrument Man. Well, “landing” might be too polite. Crashing, is more like it. Within the first ten seconds, he’s elbowed instrument Man in the side, dropped something on the floor, and nearly tripped a stewardess with the exuberant flailing of his legs. All in all, completely shattering the tentative silence in row 21 DEF. Fuck.//

Harry and Louis meet on a plane. Louis is not impressed, until he is.

🎼 What is simple in the moonlight, never really is. // judgementdays @judgementdays - 5k And then they're talking, like they always do on late nights. They talk about the future, about the cute girl who was checking Harry out at Tesco's, about the cute boy who asked for Louis' number the other day. They mostly end up talking about their auditions for the school of their dreams, though.

or

Louis plays piano and Harry plays guitar and they're both trying to get into Juilliard but feelings sort of happen.

🎼 Play Me Something Sweet // nonsensedarling @absolutenonse - 4k “Hey, I’ve got an idea,” Louis says. Harry just looks at him and lifts an eyebrow in silent question. “How about if you pretend I’m your cello as you try it out, like we used to?” Or Harry's good at a lot of instruments, but his favorite one to play is Louis.

💙 zannithinks: this one is spicey!!!!

🎼 And I've got something missing tonight. // whisperedbrave @louistomlindaughter - 2k That night, much like many others, he finishes his dinner and falls asleep to the sound of his neighbor and his piano.

-

or the one where Harry's upstairs neighbor plays the piano every night. one night he stops and Harry can't sleep.

[crypticarchivist]

If you are a US citizen you exist within a sequence of trolly problems near constantly, and for the majority of every presidential term, people actively ignore this and that is their privilege.

You have the lever right in front of you, it’s too heavy for you to pull it on your own and at various annual points throughout those 4 years you get to turn at dozens of different junctions to try and avoid the areas of the railroad with people on the tracks. Every time you can’t get enough people to help you flip the lever it becomes harder and harder to move.

The reason we keep finding ourselves at tracks with people on them is because y’all actively ignore every chance to turn away from every warning sign until we get to the classical trolly problem where there are people on the tracks. Because y’all are apathetic as FUCK.

And here’s where it gets fun.

Now that there are actual stakes right in front of them, the majority of people who have been ignoring this shit up to this point start accusing you of wanting to run people over with a trolly, while pretending there is a perfect third railroad track that has nobody on it, and trying to turn the trolly in the direction of this track that doesn’t exist, often keeping you from turning the lever away from the track that maximizes casualties in the process.

There is also a cult of people who worship the trolly, who are actively trying to turn it towards more people to give it blood sacrifices. Some of them sneak into the apathetic crowd and spread misinformation, some of them are in a tug of war with the people trying to steer out of the populated tracks, and some of them are actively trying to throw you out the back of the trolly if you oppose or even just stay neutral in regards to them and their beliefs.

Then people get ran over, the lever becomes heavier and harder to move, and even less people are willing to help you move it because now some blood’s got on it. And more cultists want to hold it in place so that more blood will get on it.

The more that lever gets used by people to minimize damage the easier it gets to move it and the less often you run into people on any tracks at all. The less often you run into people trying to tug it towards the warning signs that lead to people for insane reasons as well.

The less that lever gets used by people to minimize damage the harder it gets to move and the more blood gets on it, until eventually it’s too rusted in place for any number of people to move and now everyone on the trolly is sitting there while it constantly runs over people every second and now there’s suddenly an evil conductor who won’t let anyone unstick the lever and is actively throwing anyone not a member of the trolly cult under the wheels from inside the trolly. By that point you can no longer safely ignore the trolly, because it has now begun to personally affect you.

It is your American privilege to ignore that lever until ignoring it kills you.

Have at it.

[yumeko2sevilla]

Composers of World

[Context; Yukiharu and his friends get supports from two strange Storytellers.]

Tsukuyomi: *Kicks some from the Tojinomi Clan.* Ugh, is this Clan multiplying people or what!?

Epel: Geh- These motherfuckers are coming more and more, I swear to Great Sevens!

Ritsuka: Fufufu~ No matter what you do they will just respawn over and over again..

Erin: *Get out from the rift behind and hit Ritsuka with her parasol.*

Yuzu: *Blocks Erin's parasol.* Now now, don't be impatient~

Minako: Where is Anna when you need her!?

Samael: Oh, the Arachind Demoness. I just, put her to an eternal sleep.

Minako: Oh you motherfucker-

Samael: *Snaps his fingers as a Holy Sword charges to Minako.* It's Samael, you devil.

Minako: Shit- *A barriel is set between her and the sword.* Huh?

Eve: *Crooked the bow at Yukiharu.*

Yukiharu: *Protected by a barrier that burns the arrows.* Eh?

Riddle: *Feels as if he's more energetic as he collars some of the Tojinomi Clan.* Wha-

???: Ugh.. Mai, tell Conductor that we need a raise from this.

???: Alright, alright Kue. But let's join the show, are we?

Epel: Who the fuck are you?!

'Mai': Eh~ How rude, after I have put a protection for you all?

Jack: So,, you're helping us?

'Mai': Of course! We have to help our dear characters, after all!

KAFU: Characters?

'Mai': Oh wait, silly me. I haven't introduced myself and this guy yet! *Warps her hand on Kue.* The name is Makio, but yall can call me Mai! And this grumpy dog here is Kue!

'Kue': I'm not a dog, Mai..

Adam: Tch- You're finally here after many years on that station of yours, eh?

'Kue': Well simply, Mai drags me here cause she want to join. If you have any problems, please call Conductor.

@anxious-twisted-vampire @writing-heiress @achy-boo @yukii0nna

[spiderh0rse]

freeman's mind noted part 5, e21-25

e21

images just come to him like a prophet for an angry god

a lil scared of big blue lobster out in Power Up

could solve all his problems by exploding things with his mind

wants marshmallows....

FUNNY NOISES. "HERE'S JOHNNY". MANNNN

thinks headcrabs would make cool lawn ornaments

"rubble rumble rubble rumble rubble rumble" he just likes saying words real quick together

he thinks he's a good liar

doesn't want green slime on his suit :(

not amazed at the orange HEV suit but admits it's good otherwise

THE SUIT DENTS WHEN YOU SHOOT IT SO STOP SHOOTING IT

(not sure why the formatting is doing this.)

e22

"pyew!"

has seen The Terminator

"what's the point of being an honest citizen if I'm just gonna get shot at anyways" FUCK THE TROOPS

has seen Rambo

concerned about accessibility!! :D

"lasers!" Said in the samw done in laser/caution

urgh the electron measurement nonsense. I hate that. Particle and wave. Depends on what you know about it

new sport? Houndeye killing?

Gordon I don't think the soldiers care about fixing the generator

had an old apartment where the basement got flooded because he did a cannonball so sick his bathtub sunk into the floor

"bbbrrrrrrp!"

"NYYYAAA"

hey if you survive the electricity you'd have a sick scar

high five Death!

e23

yes the military is incompetent we all know this

doesn't know how to play guitar

is very polite asking people to not kill him

thinks the radio chatter is dissing him

stresses to the soldiers that he graduated from MIT

seems less bothered by having killed a bunch of people now. Interesting difference from earlier

beepbeepbeepbeepbeep

"I don't like to beep too much" YOU HAVE BEEN BEEPING. ALL SERIES

thinks radios are how The Man finds you

grey map? Haunting.

smushing more words together without proper words to put them apart,, man after my own heart

smuggling an elephant almost wouldn't surprise him

would love rubber on the HEV.

cheery about leaving behind the dying guard

he is not happy right now

e24

may believe cavemen had to deal with gargantuars and HECU. May be ironic

wants to go up

he's a CAT. (meows multiple times) (hisses)

says out loud that he's scared

straining noises,,,

karma strikes him often

thats why the dinosaurs went extinct! Him!

expert in atomic level electricity

has frequently had to sit through family members shitty photo albums

one of the perks of killing everyone: no one can yell at you

he's in great shape! and has been exercising all day! please give this man some food!

likely not forklift certified

would like henchmen throwing switches for him

would sacrifice minions for good parking

threatens someone and then says he won't actually do it because it's be gross

wants to hit the clubs after a good shower

slur count four.

e25

could climb over the concrete but wants a nice ride

thinks a train derailment (shakes violently bnsf derailment-) would look cool

talks about some story about one teacher of his asking if crashing a motorcycle into a haybale or concrete divider is more dangerous at 60mph. My bet is on the haybale. Lots of little things that'll run you through. Nasty stuff. Straw impales telephone poles sometimes. Wear a helmet.

if he were a conductor killing his passengers would be his idea retirement

since no one can see him confused he's still a genius

barnacles now dubbed "string things"

he's covered in BLOOD again

cant emulate turtles and hide in his bright orange shell

expects to find a cult in On A Rail. string theory crowd......

ongoing commentary about if the aliens are demons or not

percussive maintenance does do wonders

pro slavery. not racist somehow. Gambling instead?? I have no idea where he gets these ideas from.

there are just. Unholy screams btw. in the background.

doesn't have a bandolier :'(

hey a switch!

poor guy is Not getting paid for this. Community service.

continues to be grossed out by the barnacles. Reminds him of the summer he worked fast food

"QUIT BEING METAL"

If he were a wizard he says