#hopefully they will still vote

[targarrus]

you vote i deliver

[angeart]

vampire scar ch1 story wip-

The area around them is dangerous; the night is quickly drawing in and the darkness is beginning to wield claws and teeth, bloodlust seeping into the air in sharp howls and snarls. Yet even then, entering unknown structures could be as dooming as staying inside. Four walls could as easily trap as protect. It’s always a gamble.

With that in mind, Grian still leads Mumbo towards the mansion that looms eerie and quiet and foreboding in front of them. With a little bit of luck, it will be abandoned, covered in dust and silence and bones. 

He should’ve known better. They haven’t had luck in a long time.

The hinges creak when they ram into the huge, ornate front door to convince it to open. That’s promising. The grating sound is a song of disuse, and Grian considers it a good sign as they tumble inside and quickly shut the door behind them.

For a little bit, they just breathe and try to get their bearings. The entrance hall is huge, sprawling, running off in all kinds of directions. It’s hard to make out the detail of the interior; the only light is the swiftly dimming light coming in through the windows.

Grian fails to notice that the windows aren’t covered in grime. He fails to notice that the place is not in disarray, covered in spiderwebs. He fails to notice that the air isn’t stale and dusty. 

“I—I think this looks good?” Mumbo looks around cautiously, keeping close to Grian in this unfamiliar space.

Grian breathes out a huff of relief, even though the sound is still coated with tension; his body refuses to relax, too many unknown variables still spinning through his mind. Anything could lurk in the dark corners and dozens of rooms, and they’re aware only of one singular escape route—and even that is slow and uncertain, hanging on rusty, unwilling hinges. 

If he would be easily swayed with any shreds of things that faintly resemble comfort, they wouldn’t have survived this long.

So he doesn’t give in. He looks around, and he wishes it would be as simple as it seems. There’s a desperate yearning in him for something uncomplicated, for one night not filled with threats and dread and fear for their lives. How he wishes to be able to close his eyes and maybe, maybe sink into a soft bed and just sleep without being terrified of the possibility of not waking up in the morning—

This place is bound to have some soft beds.

Grian’s stomach twists at the thought. No, he tells himself. He can’t be stupid here. He can’t give in. They need to remain alert; they know nothing about this place.

“We should look around,” he suggests, voice taut. 

“Yes. Definitely,” Mumbo agrees immediately, his eyes roaming the area. “Do you want to split up?”

Grian swivels on his heels to face him, an indignant scoff on his lips. “Split—Split up?! Mumbo!” he chastises. “You know that—“

Mumbo lifts his hands up defensively. “Alright, alright! I’m just saying, it’s a big place. Lots of ground to cover.”

Grian’s gaze is drawn off to the side, to the doors that line only one side of the room. So many options. So many possible traps. So many places for danger to hide in. “Okay,” he says slowly, trying to swallow the trepidation that grows thick in his throat. “We could—Maybe we could check adjacent rooms, stay near but check multiple places at once?” he suggests, even though everything in him prickles, unease nauseatingly settling over him.

“Yeah, okay,” Mumbo doesn’t sound convinced, but it was his idea in the first place, so he relents. “That sounds reasonable.”

Grian glares at him. It doesn’t sound very reasonable to him. But they’re both tired and searching this place inch by inch is going to take ages as-is. They have to make compromises, Grian knows this, but it doesn’t make it any easier. “Fine,” he sighs. “Which side do you want to start with?” 

“It honestly makes no difference,” Mumbo remarks.

“Fine,” Grian repeats, a tad more irritably now. He’s tired, he’s tense, his danger-senses are tingling. He is high-strung, even though he tries to convince himself that they just found something safe, that they’re not out there without shelter, that this is good. “Here, then.” He walks to his left, towards the first set of rooms, and Mumbo immediately follows without a word.

They both fall into something familiar, something orchestrated and practiced. They move quietly, their steps soft, shoulders slightly hunched, one hand always hovering over a weapon in anticipation of a threat. 

As soon as they reach the two sets of doors, they give each other a look and a small nod. Grian can see Mumbo bracing himself. He knows he’s doing the same thing. 

And then he pushes the door open and steps over the threshold of a dark room.

At first, a feeling that he’s alone now sinks into him, even if Mumbo’s just a shout away. He thinks about how he’s going in blindly—they don’t even have torches or anything. Every shadow will make him jumpy, he fully expects this—

Except the room is not as dark as it should be.

And it certainly isn’t as empty as he’d hoped.

It’s the far end of the room that’s flickering with dim, warm light. There’s a candle burning up, its flame a weak, dying thing. Grian’s eyes snag at it at first, drawn by the light like a moth to a flame. There’s something reassuring in the gentle, hot glow of a fire, just for a split second, until he pushes that instinct down and reminds himself that a fire he himself didn’t set is bound to burn him— 

That’s when his gaze swerves to the side.

There’s a person there.

There’s a person.

Grian’s mind short-circuits for three precious seconds, before he reboots. Immediately, he hunches up more. His fingertips find his daggers, a tool as ready for stabbing as for throwing. The other person didn’t notice him yet—clearly, because they start humming some silly, jaunty, way-too-content melody as they look over what seems to be an old leather journal. The hum is interrupted only by huffs of laughter.

This gives Grian enough time to take the stranger in.

He doesn’t like what he finds.

Even in the candlelight, their skin is pale, and there’s an old, dried spot of blood near the corner of their mouth. They’re dressed up a bit too well for the reality they’re living in. 

The candlelight glimmers, catches on something shiny and sharp.

A canine tooth.

Grian takes in a sharp breath. He straightens up, grabs a proper hold of one of the daggers, and he thinks in alarm of Mumbo in the other room—and sure, Mumbo didn’t call out yet, but if there’s one of these guys, there might be more, and—

And Grian needs to warn him right now, even at the cost of blowing his own stealth.

“Mumbo!” he calls out, and he belatedly wonders if this will just call more trouble to them than they can handle. “There’s a monster here!”

There’s a frightened gasp then, a jump and a thud of a journal that was sent flying and hit the floor.

“What?! Where?” An alarmed yelp that sounds across the space isn’t Mumbo’s voice. It’s the stranger’s voice—startled, deep, but oddly soft. 

For a second, Grian thinks maybe he made a mistake. Maybe this person isn’t a monster, if this is their reaction?

The stranger spins around and his eyes land on Grian’s, their gaze locking. He holds a hand to his chest and he heaves a big breath, before he chuckles quietly, a tense and unsteady sound. “Gosh, you scared me.”

“I—what?” Grian stares uncomprehendingly at the reaction.

The man’s lips curl into a cherubic smile, then—innocent and bright and—

Definitely not harmless, given by the two sharp canines and the dried blood at the corner of his mouth.

This drives it in for Grian, erasing all doubts: this person is a vampire.

“Well hello there,” the man says, seamlessly slipping more confidence and charm into his voice, even if the edges of it still echo startled unease. “I didn’t realise I have guests!” His gaze jumps to somewhere past Grian’s shoulder. “How rude of me. Welcome!”

Something touches Grian’s back and he almost jumps out of his skin, shrieking at the touch.

“No! It’s just me!” Mumbo immediately tries to fix his mistake.

“God,” Grian breathes out deeply, everything in him ready to snap as he turns back towards the enigma of a vampire they’re now facing. At least he’s no longer alone in this. “He’s a vampire,” he murmurs to Mumbo, even though he’s fully aware his voice carries all the way across the room.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Mumbo notes, signs of distress colouring his voice.

“Now, now,” the man in front of them—the monster, the vampire—lifts his hands amicably. “There’s no need for alarm. I’m a vegetarian!” he offers cheerily. 

Even though he says that, his gaze lingers on Grian in a way that makes a chill run down his spine.

“A vegetarian,” Grian repeats flatly. He isn’t sure why he’s even entertaining the idea; it’s completely absurd.

“Yes!” the man nods fervently, his smile spreading, all toothy and sharp. “I don’t eat anything with a face!”

The blood stain at the corner of his mouth says otherwise.

“I didn’t know that’s possible,” Mumbo exclaims from behind Grian, a little bit too naively for Grian’s comfort.

“Mumbo, there’s no way he’s telling the truth,” he grumbles at him, annoyed.

“No! No, I am!” the man insists. “I usually tear the face off first.”

He says it so simply, chuckling a little, it completely flabbergasts Grian.

“A—You what?” the words fall past his lips before he can think better of it.

“I tear the face off,” the man repeats with an unbothered shrug of his shoulder. It seems to take him another moment to register the apprehension of the other two people in the room, because he only belatedly hastily adds: “There’s nothing to worry about, really! I haven’t had guests in ages, I’m so happy to have you over!”

“We’re—“ Grian’s mind spins as he tries to process this. “Guests? Over? What? No!”

“Oh.” The man’s shoulders slump in immense sadness—it reeks of solitude, of disappointment, of such sheer unhappiness that it stabs at Grian’s heart.

He knows this is wrong. He knows vampires are charming and manipulative. He knows they have their ways of pulling in their prey, before they inevitably sink their teeth into flesh and bleed them dry. And yet—

And yet.

Something in his heart can’t bear the look of this stranger looking so small and abandoned. Maybe because he himself knows what it feels like, first-hand. Maybe because he knows that if it wasn’t for Mumbo, he’d be completely lost. He can’t begin to imagine staying in a big, empty, dark place all alone for—how long?

His feelings keep snagging on something hot, like that flickering flame of a candle. Something that burns through his veins, singes his heart. Something unsteady and dangerous.

He didn’t know vampires could look lonely.

He hates himself for that swell of empathy. He hates the momentary loss of control. He knows they’re being played now. 

“Look, pal,” he starts, and it’s cautious. He takes a step back, meets Mumbo’s chest and hopes the man realises this is their cue to retreat. “I appreciate the offer, but we’re not staying. Sorry to intrude, we’ll—uh, we’ll leave you to it.” Whatever the it was.

The man is still looking directly at him. There’s something yearning in his eyes. Something heartbroken. He seems to shrink further as he tears his gaze away. “Okay,” he says in a small voice.

Mumbo makes an unhappy noise in the back of his throat. He’s still blocking Grian’s retreat.

“Mumbo,” Grian hisses at him.

“Yeah, right, I just—“ Mumbo stammers, indecision wild in his veins. He takes a tentative half-step away, feeling Grian immediately crowd his space again, pressing against him to retreat further.

The man—no, not man, the vampire—looks towards the window contemplatively, before his gaze flicks back to them. “You want to leave?”

“Yes,” Grian confirms immediately. “We’re just gonna go—“

“Where?” the vampire asks, an odd, unreadable inflection in his voice as he takes a singular step forward.

Grian twitches. “Out,” he replies, his voice strained. He presses further against Mumbo, and thankfully Mumbo moves, takes three steps, enough to get them out of the room, but not too many to still be able to catch and steady Grian at the unexpected loss of security. 

The vampire’s eyebrows pull to a concerned scowl. “But it’s dangerous.”

He says it so simply. So staggeringly simply. 

The worst thing about it is, he’s not wrong.

Grian pauses and contemplates this for a moment, then. The outside poses a million potential unknown threats. Here, they’re facing a vampire, but they know how to handle vampires. They could handle one of them. They could— This could still be their best option. 

“Are you alone?” he ventures tentatively.

The vampire gives him a look that says it all. “Yes,” he admits, and it’s not charming, it’s not confident. It’s shaky and it’s open and it’s wounded. Maybe a little bit afraid. “I—Is it so bad I don’t want to be, for a little bit? I promise I’m not dangerous,” he slides straight to bargaining. “You can sleep here! I could, I probably have some food you could eat. I won’t do anything to you, I just—I—“

He looks so, so lost.

“Grian?” Mumbo says quietly, and it comes out a bit wobbly and emotional.

That’s the thing that breaks Grian’s own dangerous tilt of judgement. He looks over his shoulder sharply, frowning. “You can’t be serious.”

“W—well, I mean—“ Mumbo fumbles for words, trying to get some rationality out of his heart. “It’s better than the outside?”

Grian side-eyes the vampire. “We should just kill him.”

“Kill?” the vampire repeats in alarm; the word is laced with false laughter, as if he tried to spin it into a joke. It rings hollow, anxious, untrue. “Noooo, no, there’s no need for that! I like living thank-you-very-much!”

“Living,” Grian repeats flatly, challengingly. “You’re not alive.”

“I am!” the vampire protests vehemently. “I breathe and I bleed and I can die.” He pauses, ponders briefly if making that one point in particular was smart. “I—Well. I can starve and all that and, and, I have feelings!”

Grian stares at him blankly. Something in him is unconvinced, but his heart bashes itself against his ribcage in attempted empathy anyway. “This can't be happening,” he mutters dismally.

“Look, I can, I can show you around! You can decide then! It’s just me here, all alone, there’s plenty of space for you even if you want me to stay away! I can go to a different wing or—or something. I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement?” he proposes, his voice hasty and desperate. “I just. You don’t have to leave.”

Something about the way he says it chips away at Grian’s resolve, strips his caution, leaves him feeling incredibly human in arguably the worst way possible when confronted with a charming monster. Still, he hears himself say, “Okay.”

The vampire perks up immediately. “Okay!” he echoes.

“Okay?” Mumbo repeats with more alarm and unsteadiness.

Grian shoots him a look. “I thought you wanted to do this?”

“W—Well, yes, I just. I didn’t expect you to agree?” he admits sheepishly.

“Mumbo.” Grian is looking at him with a deep frown. “Do you want to stay or do you want to leave?”

“I—I don’t know!” Mumbo cries, indecisiveness rushing wildly through his veins. More than anything, he doesn’t want to be culpable for this decision and its repercussions. 

Grian sighs and lets his gaze slide away. If Mumbo can’t bear the weight of this decision, it now falls back on Grian. It’s a familiar weight. It’s something he needs to shoulder, their fate, their pitfalls. The inevitable guilt of it all. The feeling that whatever he decides might just guide Mumbo to his demise.

He meets the gaze of the vampire, as steadily as he can manage. “Give us the tour.”

Without hesitation, the vampire moves forward, towards the door, towards the room’s exit, towards the rest of the mansion—

Grian flinches at the sudden approach and stumbles a couple of steps back, pulling Mumbo with him, keeping the taller man protectively behind him. 

It makes the vampire pause. “Okay,” he says slowly. “I think we need to lay some ground rules. First of all, introductions. That always helps! I’m Scar!”

Grian blinks, his throat dry with the abruptness of his panic reaction. With the preposterousness of this situation.

“And you are?” the vampire—Scar—prompts.

“I—I’m Mumbo, and this is Grian,” Mumbo stammers for both of them. 

Scar’s eyes spark up and he gives a big smile. “Wonderful! I’m happy to meet you!” The words are silky, charming in a way that lets them easily burrow underneath skin without notice. They’re honest, too, and maybe that’s where they draw their power from—because Scar truly is lonely, in such a deep, raw way, and there’s nothing if not pure relief that his new guests decided to not immediately leave.

He’s tired of feeling like a monster. He’s tired of being alone, unloved, unwanted.

He’s tired of feeling like these old, cracked, dusty walls—empty and abandoned.

His heart beats in his chest in a wild waltz as he approaches the strangers-no-more again, this time careful about where he steps and how close he gets. He maintains a safe distance, giving a tight smile as he passes them, before taking big steps into the open space.

He spins there, buzzing with theatrics and more than a smidge of showmanship, spreading his arms wide. “This is my mansion.”

It’s very easy, Grian finds, to give in. To let Scar reel him in and pull him along. His body follows unquestioningly, taking in room after room after room, dizzyingly trying to slot the information and not get lost amidst it all—his survival instincts scream at him, but the rest of him is just plain tired and, honestly, a little bit lulled after he watches Scar for a while.

Because Scar isn’t lithe and agile, strong and immovable. He isn’t as charming as one would expect of a vampire, either, even if he’s rambly and his tongue is undeniably tinged with silver. He’s cheerful and he’s giggly and he’s, for the lack of a better word, endearing. But more than that, he’s clumsy and forgetful and edging just on the side of nervous.

It puts Grian ill-at-ease, because this isn't what a vampire should be, and that means Grian can't predict him, doesn't know what to expect. 

And yet he keeps following him, watching him, listening to him. 

He should try to pay more attention to the mansion tour and less to the man, maybe. The layout is important. He needs to know exit routes, and the possible sources of danger.

But isn’t Scar a source of danger? Living—or so he claims—and moving and very much capable of harm?

So what if Grian’s gaze lingers on him a little bit too much? What if he focuses on his body language and his tone more than the walls that surround them? 

He tells himself it’s only because he’s being wary.

“You can sleep here,” Scar finally says in a room that has two huge beds, at the very end of the mansion. The hallway that leads to the room ends with a backdoor exit, an easy way out if they feel trapped or—Scar very much wants to not think about it, even if it’s an option he offers freely—if they decide to sneak out.

Scar walks towards the fireplace and he fiddles for a while, struggling to get it lit.

“Here, I can help,” Mumbo offers, moving forward. He produces flint and steel, reaching for the fireplace.

Grian watches Scar flinch away.

His lips purse, taking in the scene. The beds are a comfort they weren’t able to indulge in for a long time. So is the fire, deep at night. A source of light and warmth. There’s a clear exit. Nobody else is in the building. Nothing about this screams it’s a trap. 

And they know how to kill vampires, if push comes to shove.

But they can’t do it if they’re asleep.

He stares at Scar, his gaze prickling the vampire until he turns around and their gazes meet.

Scar offers a tentative, shy smile.

“If there’s anything else you guys need, just let me know,” Scar says then, the words easy on his tongue, unhesitatingly willing to provide for them.

Grian frowns. “What do you need?” he questions instead. “What do you want from us?”

“Nothing!” Scar says immediately.

Grian dismally thinks that’s the first lie he’s heard from him. It’s so easy to identify, it makes everything else startlingly slot in as truth. The awareness of it makes him feel destabilised at his core. He sways a little in his spot, reaches out for the bed frame for support. “That’s—No,” he says weakly, too aware of the green eyes boring into him. “You definitely want something.”

There it is. That heartbreak.

He didn’t know vampires could project heartbreak so well.

Project? Or feel?

Grian finds with increasing panic that he can no longer tell the difference. None of this makes sense. None of this should be happening.

The fire crackles, strong and alive, lapping at the air and throwing a warm, flickering glow over the room as Mumbo takes a step away from it. 

“Oh, you did it!” Scar perks up, his eyes squinting in a smile he throws Mumbo’s way. “That’s wonderful, thank you for your help!”

“Well, I mean, it’s for us, right?” Mumbo sheepishly rubs the back of his neck. “And it was easy enough.”

“It always gives me trouble,” Scar admits freely, “dealing with fire. A bit scary, if you ask me.”

“You’re a vampire,” Grian notes flatly. It comes out blank and rough, his suspicions warring with his emotions. “Fire harms you.”

“Yes, well,” Scar meets his gaze. “I like how it glows. I like the warmth.”

Grian continues to stare at him, because he isn’t sure how to actually process all of that. Instead, he takes a breath and presses: “You didn’t answer the question.”

Scar blinks. “What question?”

Grian frowns, but doesn’t relent. “What do you want from us?” 

Scar’s gaze shifts to the fireplace. “The fire harms you, too,” he says, and it’s soft and contemplative, but makes everything in Grian prickle with a warning. “You also get hungry,” Scar continues. “And you need rest, and you need—“ he falls quiet.

“We need?” Mumbo prompts, and he sounds so gentle, so careful.

It makes Scar lift his gaze to him, meet his eyes. There’s hesitation in him, some unknown emotions swirling up, raw and threatening. He swallows hard, before prying his gaze away. “You need safety,” Scar continues, even though his voice is clearly strained, “and I can give you that.”

“What for,” Grian insists. “What do you want for it.”

Green eyes shift to him, and somehow Grian’s heart picks up speed, feeling irrationally guilty at having asked.

“I don’t want anything,” Scar repeats, his voice wavering and quiet.

“Surely you must want something out of this,” Grian insists, even though there’s a lump in his throat and he feels terrible.

Scar looks away, then. He severs their connection, making Grian reel at the sudden lack of it.

“I just,” Scar says, and it’s a half-sigh, it’s a half-whisper, it’s a quiet, tentative, cracked confession. “I thought it might be nice to have some company for a little bit.”

It’s so soft, so vulnerable that it makes Grian feel like the ground was pulled from underneath him. Emotions sway him at the sight of the man—the vampire, he reminds himself futilely—so hunched over and sad. 

He knows how feeling alone in a world that no longer wants you feels like.

He just didn’t count on monsters having actual feelings.

He didn’t count on monsters looking so human.

His heart clogs his throat and he finds himself speechless.

“Were you—“ Mumbo tries to say something, but his voice falters as soon as Scar’s gaze lands on him. There’s a moment of silence, before Mumbo regathers his courage and finishes: “Were you alone for long?”

Scar’s shoulders sag at that. He seems to be crushed underneath some invisible weight. “Yeah,” he says, and the word barely manages to make it past his lips, daunted and small. 

Grian feels his heart slam sharply against his ribs at the confession.

“W—well,” Mumbo looks over at Grian, catching his gaze. He’s hesitant and unsure, but clearly willing and wanting to offer something.

Grian’s eyebrows pull into a frown. His emotions scream one thing at him, but every remaining shred of rationality screams something else. It’s an overwhelming cacophony and he knows he’s the one who’s expected to make the decisions—and then bear the weight of them going wrong—yet he finds himself feeling lost and adrift at this.

Mumbo holds his gaze for a moment longer, before he lets it swivel back to Scar. “We’ve actually never really talked to a vampire before.”

“No,” Scar shakes his head in immediate sympathy. “I wouldn’t imagine you would. They’re not a friendly bunch.”

Something about that statement stabs at Grian’s heart, his eyes still locked on Scar. “Then… Why are you talking to us?”

Scar’s gaze meets his and, again, it makes Grian's heart trip over itself. 

“Because I want friends?” he says, and it’s so open and vulnerable and his voice is thick with emotions, cracking and failing him at the end of his miserable sentence.

Grian takes a sharp breath, fumblingly attempting to remind himself that vampires are dangerous and they’re charmers and they’re manipulators and—

“You can’t mean that,” he says in the end, the words a little bit hoarse.

Scar blinks, confused. “What?”

Grian shakes his head vehemently. “You’re a vampire. We’re just food for you.”

Scar’s eyebrows twitch into a frown, before they smooth out and his face stretches into a smirk. “You do have faces, don’t you? I told you I don’t eat anything with a face.”

“But you could, you know,” Mumbo steps in, “rip the face off or something, as you said.”

Scar’s gaze anchors into his, a displeased curl to his mouth. “I don’t eat my friends.”

“But we’re not friends,” Grian chimes in.

“We could be,” Scar suggests easily, unaware of how threatening that sounds.

(... tbc?)

------- as the title states, this is a wip of a potential story that was put on the backburner because my hands are full. if you want to know more about what kind of things are meant to happen in this au (atm it's just a collection of ideas, rather than any specific outline), or are curious about anything else, feel free to ask! and let me know what you think about it so far <3

if you're curious where this au came from, i recommend you to watch random encounter's "resident enis" videos (there are two). i'm sure you'll see my vision. (the line about not eating anything with a face is there kjxnbkj.)

this was written on a whim and for the longest time, i kept calling it "silly vampire scar au" (in the spirits of resident enis), even though i know the au devolves—as per usual—into heavier topics and angst. it's set in a world riddled with monsters, it's a survival story, pretty much.

fun fact: the working title of this au is called "Silly Vampire Mr GoodTimes"

i need a better name for it though, "vampire scar au" is so generic, and sure it does have a vampire scar in it, but it's not exclusively about him... but i have no idea what else to call it/how to title it (rip) (pls help-)

[statementlou]

I was just wondering, about Harry's "people like me" line, I know the whole message is about being queer and etc. but the thing that confuses me is that some people is pushing that he was once in the "working class" but isn't H quite "posh" before One-D? Right? I actually don't get the narratives people are pushing tbh, what can you say about it (genuinely asking)

Well in fact I don't think he does mean queer by that, and I don't think it would make any sense if he did, if he was saying queers never get to be famous pop stars! I think that would be extremely wrong if anyone said it, but the idea of Harry saying it is especially ludicrous given his interest in and knowledge of the incredible lineage of queer musicians he is a part of, such as the 70s rockers he takes so much of his aesthetic from like David Bowie, Elton John, Mick Jagger, Freddie Mercury, and all the other artists he pays tribute to in various ways through his outfits and show playlists and so on.

I do believe he means because he's just a regular working class guy from a small town in England who got lucky on a television show. And no, he wasn't posh before TXF. I feel like that's a narrative that comes partially from images pushed by the early 1D machinery and partially from some aspects of the way his accent sounds to non British people, but while his family was not in poverty or hungry, he absolutely did not belong to a class of people who could reasonably expect to have opportunities to find themselves on the grammys stage in California without a one in ten million arrangement of lucky chances. As someone who knows him and has seen him talk many times, it was heartwrenchingly apparent how overwhelmed he was in that moment, he was shaky and had no idea what to say or if he could manage to get it out before he started crying and so he reached for a familiar thing he says every night on stage, choked it out and got off the mic. But the people watching in this case weren't his adoring concert crowd and didn't know and love him or care about that and weren't thinking about him being from a boyband or a reality show and how much people might look down on him in the industry for that, and without context (and in the context of Beyonce being denied yet another AOTY award) it wasn't the best thing he could have said. I'm glad for him that he's free of the 1D managers trying to shut him up from behind every camera, but possibly he could benefit from consulting with experts a little bit here and there. In specific, given that his analysis around his privilege as a white person is, well, not very advanced, if he wants to avoid situations where he pisses people off just like this he should hire a person of color to consult him on such things, which is in fact a thing that some white people in positions where they say things publicly do to avoid saying things that come off very badly/ are offensive on account of just being a bit oblivious.

[aerialworms-art]

Happy 45th birthday to our favourite hunter!

(Yes that is the same bee blanket)

(ID under cut)

[Image ID: a cartoon-style drawing of Dean Winchester, wrapped in a yellow bee patterned blanket and a bi flag blanket and surrounded by genderless grey people hugging him. One of them is smooching him through the blanket. A few more people are approaching, all enthusiastic, one holding up a blue and green striped blanket. Dean looks puzzled and is blushing. There are lovehearts in the air around him.

The image is watermarked "@aerialworms" /end ID]

[plumdonutsv]

i’m still annoyed from yesterday like since when are you not allowed to criticize politicians?? i’m not saying to vote for trump if i say i don’t want kh to aid in a genocide????? what the heck

she didn’t have to be so condescending to protesters at her rally my gosh

[i-have-a-lot-of-ocs]

With how we've not been in L corp branches for the two recent Cantos (V did have us visit but we didn't find the Golden Bough until we had The Whale Shenanigans™ so I'm not counting that), do we think Canto VII will have our journey be in one?

[lucalicatteart]

cannot resist using the polls to make up a little collaborative story lol.. Not sure how much I can keep it up with my low energy/health problems lol, but I'll try to draw a new picture (+ write a small text blurb and new action options to vote on) each day based on the past day's results, at least for a while. Kind of like a 'sketch a day' type challenge, except story based with votes choosing what happens next. :0

[eurovision-del]

Del’s Favourite Songs Poll: 2010s

And I'm finishing it off with the 2010s! I thought this was gonna be a tough one to pick my top 5 from considering just how many songs there were, but actually it fell into place really easily - these five are just on a whole other level for me!

Songs under the cut:

[accirax]

August 14, 2023 - June 12, 2024

[icantalk710]

Fun 🦵🏽 day with my cool trainer, and boy are my legs tired 😩😤

Definitely feeling it tmrw but good to be making some progress with my balance and whatnot lol 😤

[the-barn-void]

I should probably put this here now because i am pretty pleased with it. My submission for the art contest on the Daniel Mullins server!

[harukapologist]

its december 19th here, so 4 months from now itll be fuutas birthday. i wonder what the TL conversation will be like, considering hes potentially being converted. im actually a little surprised i didnt see anyone bring this up yet, maybe im just thinking too much about fuuta eeee

i would hate if fuuta got fully indoctrinated even more than haruka dying if im being honest, even though haru is my favorite character, because if haruka dies, it'll stunt his and muus and the overall storys development yes, but he'll just be gone, wont he? but if fuuta gets brainwashed who knows who or what will change his stubborn ass </3 it is also worth mentioning that fuuta himself was in a cultlike environment before coming to milgram; some cancel culture & doxxing & harassment circles can imho be classified as cults from what ive seen. i would hate for him to escape one cult just to fall into another...

i doubt he would, since again hes too stubborn and the cult teachings go against his morals, many reasons, i think hes just yknow. yknow when youre really scared and hurt and you try to find something to lean on even if you dont believe it fully, the phenomenon of cherry picking stuff that aligns with what you want to hear. i think fuutas just doing that... hopefully...

anyway, the next birthday is mahirus not fuutas, so i hope shes doing better. i wonder who she will talk to...?

im just thinking out loud dont mind me~

[blitz0hno]

Mikoto almost definitely has other alters besides John, I wonder if he'll ever mention anything along the lines of hearing their voices sometimes etc....

Unrelated thoughts under the cut Double spoilers and allusions to the VD that I can't bother sourcing lol

Not a super big fan of how they lowkey implied John split to deal with the stress and then murdered people, but I'm also convinced he split *after* the first murder. The implication that they're giving versus the information that we have so far is contradictory and thus I feel like there's a twist here.

Alters are extremely privy to losing access to information that they experienced firsthand, it's kind of the point of the disorder; since Mikoto is the host it makes sense that he needs to forget he did such a thing if he's going to continue living as normal in society. In MeMe he talks about what he would do if he could go back and change it, and since like I've said before Mikoto seems to be the one who is the main focus/POV of the songs as per the rules of Milgram.

It gets a little fuzzy because technically alters share a subconscious, so obviously it's not going to be all Default Mikoto in the music video; but he himself perpetrated the crime and carries guilt he doesn't even remember.

Alters can't just pass trauma and stress around forever, and when the amnesia walls start to crack I feel like Mikoto's gonna be laughing a little too much. After all he as an alter is repressing the most of all and no amount of emotion holding from John is going to help all the residual stress that is no doubt building up for him.

I like how they're going for the angle that violent alters are violent for a reason but aren't necessarily someone to be feared any more than the average person. Like come on EVERYONE is a murderer here, milgram is all traumatized ppl singlet or not.

The average person might even be scarier than John because they hold so much back. Ever read American Psycho? Default Mikoto might be kinda like that (hope not but hey it's a show about murderers SOMEONE is gonna be legit scary).

[derelictheretic]

sorry I keep forgetting about tag games and dm's etcetera I am in the not real mental state time

[ibswarriors2nd]

Obviously there’s still a lot of blue self inflicted negativity and anything can happen in the next few months but I do seem to see a rise of “you need to vote” messages online the last week or so.

[junietuesday]

Hiiii June idk who this is but y’all are working hard so if you’re so inclined I’d love a bit about Jeremy and the SQUIP being friends (going back to my bmc roots with this one….) feel free to get as non canon as you want bc you would need it with this one alskskdjj

vote glenn close and receive a drabble!

“It feels dumb being alone in here,” says Jeremy as he climbs up the steps to the stage. “What if someone sees me?”

“Don’t worry,” says the SQUIP, and its easygoing, chill tone settles Jeremy’s nerves a little. “I’ve hijacked the remote locking system for the auditorium doors. Just focus on those moves.”

Mr. Reyes had inserted a big dance number into A Midsummer’s Nightmare About Zombies. Christine had been distraught: “I love musical reinterpretations as much as the next gal, but this is just spitting on Shakespeare’s vision!” she’d protested, jumping up from her seat. “And this is the fall play. We don’t even have a choreographer or music director or—”

“Those cheap choreographers and music directors the school hires every year don’t comprehend my vision!” Mr. Reyes had declared. “Which is why I will be in charge of this dance number. Now, everyone, out of your seats—first we’ll be starting with your basic jazz square…”

And now here Jeremy is, forced to practice in the theater after hours, because he auditioned for a play and did not think he’d need the coordination to dance. Luckily, he’ll be standing in the back for most of it, but still…

“I’ll play the music in your brain,” says the SQUIP. “Three, two, one—”

“Wait!”

“What?”

“How do I do this without a partner?” Jeremy mumbles.

The SQUIP stays silent for a moment. “Put your hands up like a partner is there,” it tells him at last. “I’ll stimulate your nerve endings to feel pressure where there’s none.”

“…Weird…”

“Quantum nanotechnology,” the SQUIP says. “Now enough delays. Just start dancing. You want to impress Christine during the next rehearsal, don’t you?”

“I do…” But staring out from the empty stage, Jeremy feels his heartbeat pick up. His palms are sweating. He takes a tentative step forward, the beginning of one of those jazz squares Mr. Reyes is obsessed with, and the sound of his sneaker hitting wood echoes through the entire auditorium. “I don’t think I can do this,” he says in a rush. “I can’t dance. I’m gonna look like an idiot.”

“I can flood your brain with serotonin and cut off your adrenaline,” the SQUIP offers cheerfully.

“No! No messing with my feelings!”

If the SQUIP were to materialize itself in Jeremy’s vision right now, he knows it would be rolling its eyes. “Fine, if you want to do it the slow way…” But then its voice softens. “No one’s here, so you don’t need to worry about looking like an idiot. I told you I took care of that already. Would you rather look like a fool at rehearsal tomorrow because you didn’t practice? Or do you want to show up and dazzle Christine with your style? You know what you’re doing. You just need to let your body’s muscle memory catch up with your brain. So start dancing. You can do it.”

“…Okay,” says Jeremy quietly. He takes a deep breath, holds it, and lets it go. “Okay. Start the music.”