#lazily summarize them :|

[rainymoodlet]

oh god i’m boutta tear my hair out.

i do not feel as though i’ve shown enough of our contestants to justify sending any of them home just yet 😭 looking back on my favorite longform bachelor challenges show me that there is far more content dedicated to each contestant and i have been woefully underperforming in that regard!! they’re all my babies i don’t want to just send them home with nothin’ 🥺

so in an effort to make up for that, episode five of kiss me in komorebi+ is going to be quite a long one. as of now, idk how many parts it’s going to have - but i can tell you, i’m not going to be shortcutting or slacking okay 😤 i’ve been neglecting y’alls babies and thats inexcusable

[inthepassengerside]

more luke <3

warnings: masturbation (m), just dirty talk i guess

let me know if you want a part 2 please, i know that all of these are male-focused but i’ve had these in my drafts for a while now so i’m just trying to finish them up!

He can’t believe he woke up without you beside him. He fucking hated that you couldn’t stay home with him every day— spending every sweet second in his sweet arms.

You had been meaning to look for a new job, hoping for a remote position, but job hunting didn’t go as easy as you wanted it to and there weren’t many options out there. You weren’t obsessed with your job but it was one that could get you by.

All Luke wants is to be able to be tangled in the sheets all morning every morning with his favorite person. The weekends were his favorite days, the fact that your scent wasn’t just left in his sheets made him so incredibly happy.

So when he woke up this sunny Monday morning to your kiss on his forehead and your perfume indicating that you had just gone out the door, he let out a frustrated sigh.

He replayed the events of last night in his head. All the things you guys had done, God he couldn’t even try to summarize it if he wanted to. The way you looked, the tiny baby blue lace you wore, the way your hair was sprawled on the silk black pillows. The entire moment was just so sexy. The way you responded to his touch, the noises you made, the arch of your back, it was too much for him for the early A.M.

That’s why it didn’t take many of those dirty thoughts before he was desperately whining, “Fuuck.”

He was teasing himself over his tight boxers, slowly pressing his palm against his erection, getting harder and harder by the minute. The soft material of his boxers offered a new kind of pleasure as he stroked.

The slight touch had him shuddering already. His head threw back, reaching to his right for your pillow which he put under his neck to prop himself up.

The sheets lay low below his lips, his breathing getting heavier and heavier as a near whimper leaves his pretty pink lips. The way his chest is heaving and his cheeks are tinted make him glisten with desire.

Deciding that it’s been enough effective teasing, Luke finally slips his right hand down below his briefs. His eyes fell closed when he wrapped his hand around the base, yet his lips are still parted.

“Goddamn,” He huffed, his muscles flexing and his abs clenching as he strokes himself again and again. He thumbs over his tip, collecting the pre-cum dribbling from his red, swollen tip.

He massages the head, feeling more of his early arousal drip into his hand. He whines at the intensity, the wetness making him feel better, his hard tugs to his cock becoming more pleasurable by the second.

The blonde feels so heavy in his own hands. He begins to buck his hips up to meet his quick strokes.

He drags his left hand down his body to meet the other, lazily twisting his nipples and then fondling his balls. His thrusts soon die down as he realizes fucking his hand isn’t going to bring him to release.

He gets an idea, one that makes him feel so dirty. He pauses his stroking, sitting up in your shared bed, eyeing your pillow that he had keeping him propped. His lips twitched up in amusement before quickly grabbing the silk, folding it in half, placing it in between his legs.

Experimentally, he grinds his hips down and nearly screams. His eyes furrow in pleasure, “A-ah.”

Luke can’t believe he’s never even done this before. Though it couldn’t ever compare to you, it felt so much better than his hand, the way he was hunched over, using this pillow like he’d used you the night before.

You had taken charge for the first few minutes, humping him dryly as you sat on top, dumb cries falling from your full lips, but just before you could topple into your long awaited orgasm— he flipped you over and spoke, “Little girl, what are you trying to do?”

This made you lose it, if you weren’t crying before, there were real tears involved now. So much teasing had happened earlier in the day, being the last thing Luke had done was come up behind you while making dinner, just so you could feel his hard bulge against your ass.

“Go on baby. Tell me,” Luke grinned.

“Wanna cum! Wanna cum so bad,” Embarrassment flooded your expression, burying your head into his neck.

He sighed, tutting his tongue against his mouth, “You know how to ask, be a good girl.”

“Please make me cum, sir. I’ve been so good.”

“Was that so hard?”

Luke snapped back into reality, but his thrusts only sped up. The way the fabric rubbed against him made him go feral, fumbling out dumb-founded phrases. His balls were so tight, the attention they were receiving were making him cry out. They felt so full, and he was ready to empty them any second now.

He forced his head into the pillows in front of him, thrusting harder and faster. His eyes fell shut again, the only thing he was focused on was your sweet noises.

“G’nna c-cum, fuck,” he muttered to himself.

He tugged at his blonde curls, scratching his scalp, pulling them hard enough so he was able to get out a reaction.

Luke grunted into his pillows one -long- last time before his vision blurred. Long white ropes of cum decorated the black silk as he made a mess out of your pillows. The intensity of his orgasm felt never ending as all he saw was white behind his blue eyes. The pleasure traveling down his spine mixed with the tightness released from his body made him feel so fucked-out.

He huffed, eyes still closed as he rolled over to his side of the bed on his back. His post orgasm bliss lasted a long few minutes, and it would’ve lasted longer, before he heard a throat clear and lips smack.

“Y-you, uh, are you done?” You stood in the doorway, your cheeks heated and your panties soaked. You watched that whole thing unfold and you can’t believe you didn’t do anything about it. But in your defense, you honestly forgot yourself that you were there.

He had you in a trance, the way he moved, the noises he made, you had to keep a hand over your mouth yourself so you wouldn’t moan.

Luke’s eyes opened in shock, “Um, what are you doing home pretty?”

“I didn’t even leave. Was too sore, couldn’t walk without feeling you.”

And with that, Luke swore he was already hardening again. The fact that his girl had a constant reminder of what he did to her the night before made him weak. “Well, I think you should rest up pretty. Might have to make it even worse if you keep talkin’ like that.”

You let out a low whine, “Mm, yes please…”

[lady-phasma]

Playthings - part 2

Part 1 here

Warning: 18+, NSFW, Feyd, trash, filth, what is wrong with me? Just all of them okay?

Summary: I don't know... Feyd has a foursome with his darlings? There is nothing to summarize. Appx 1,100 words

gif by me

Feyd turned to watch as the Harpy slid her fingers between the legs of the Harpy straddling him. Her fingers stroked and drew whining moans from the other woman. He licked his lips. One hand lazily toyed with the third Harpy’s breast, first stroking, then squeezing, now pinching her nipple. All three women made small, soft sounds but those sounds made Feyd’s mouth water.

He slid his other hand down the back of the Harpy next to him, cupped her ass in his hand briefly, and guided her lower, toward the other woman. He lifted his hips and sneered. Denying her what she wanted, combined with the friction of her heat against his pants, made him begin to grow hard. She writhed and pushed herself against him and against the Harpy’s fingers. She arched her back and scratched at his hard stomach. He laughed.

One Harpy riding him, one kneeling beside him, and one cradling his head, yet Feyd played with them with detachment. He ran his fingers down the curve of an ass and up between thighs and twisted a nipple with the other hand. He watched the two in front of him as the other started to stroke his cheek, his lips. She slid her fingertips into his mouth. She didn’t look at the others, nor at him. This Harpy had her eyes closed, her arm casually behind her head.

Feyd’s eyes slid closed as he tasted the Harpy’s fingers. She had covered them in her wetness before stroking his face and putting them in his mouth. He hummed around the two small fingers. When she slid them out he was hard. He dropped his hand from her breast and sat up, startling the other two Harpies.

He lifted one off him with such ease that she loooked as light as a doll. He flicked a hand at the other and she recoiled, not afraid she would be hit but in disappointment. Then he stood up from the bed. He didn’t turn to face the Harpies as he unfastened and slid his pants down. He stepped out of them. Only two of the women watched the muscles of his smooth ass flex and they watched with watering mouths.

When he turned back to them they moved forward. All but the Harpy still laying on her back, head resting on her arm. She didn’t open her eyes. One of the other women crawled closer to where Feyd stood and ran her fingers down the line of his hip. The Harpy on his left nearly hissed and crawled forward, mouth slightly open, black eyes never leaving his face.

Feyd looked down at them both. He gripped his cock and thumbed the precum over the head. He watched them lick their lips. Then he looked up at the top of the bed.

“No,” he growled. He slowly knelt on the bed and grabbed the third woman, fingers digging into her thighs. He yanked her toward him and she finally opened her eyes. Her smile was mischievous and black. She looked near the edge of laughter until Feyd’s hand closed around her throat. Then her expression changed to one of intense pleasure. With his other hand he pushed her knees open.

“You don’t want to play tonight, darling?” His narrowed eyes searched her face. His grin showed only a hint of teeth. He squeezed just a bit tighter on her neck as he stroked his cock. “I think you do.”

The Harpy squirmed and raised her hips at him. She scratched nails down his forearm and smiled up at him. Feyd felt one of the others run her hand down his back, over the curve of his ass. The third rubbed his side and stomach, trying to inch her way down to his cock. He shoved her away lightly with his hip. She whined but slid her hand to his chest and occupied her fingers with his nipple.

Without letting go of the Harpy’s neck he leaned forward and guided himself to her waiting cunt. He pushed in with one firm stroke and she groaned. She ground her hips against him. Feyd’s head dropped between them and he let out a guttural sound that vibrated from deep in his chest. He rested his hand beside her head as he began to pound into her. Short, low grunts coming from him with each thrust. When he finally let go of her neck she gasped in air. She moaned and writhed underneath him.

The two other Harpies cautiously moved closer and stroked and licked any available skin. One slithered up on Feyd’s right, the other on his left. They tried to catch mouths with theirs but were unsuccessful as Feyd pounded into the Harpy beneath him. He reached out blindly next to him, panting, and found legs. He slid his hand between them and groaned when he found the Harpy’s wet heat. She whimpered and spread her legs for him. He slipped his fingers inside her. He squeezed his eyes shut, head bowed, almost on the Harpy’s chest. He felt a mouth on his back, a tongue on his spine, moving lower.

Feyd felt his climax building inside him. The Harpy’s cunt squeezed and released his cock. He moaned as he curled his fingers inside the other woman. Then the tension that had built in him exploded as the Harpy below him sunk her teeth into his neck. His eyes flew open. He bit down on his tongue to hold back the near-howl that had almost escaped him. He felt the pain run down his core and mingle with the pleasure at the base of his cock. He came, spilling inky-black cum into the Harpy and growling.

She wrapped her legs around his waist and held him inside her as she released him from her teeth. His fingers twitched inside the other woman almost in time with his softening cock. He pulled his hand away. The Harpy mewled but backed off and laid down next to her sister-concubine. The third kissed her way up Feyd’s back and slowly stretched out on the bed next to the pair.

Feyd exhaled and lifted himself up on his hand and knees. As he pulled out of her, the Harpy whined and refused to unwrap her legs. He straightened up and pushed her legs off his waist. She pouted. He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. She nearly purred against him.

His neck throbbed where she had bitten him. He was lightheaded. He let her have her little kiss, she had earned it. With the last of his strength he let himself fall onto the bed between two of the women. He pulled them into his arms and they curled their legs around him. He looked at the third, just out of reach and almost smiled. He caught her eye and the Harpy clambered over another to rest her head on his chest. Her head rose and fell with his slowing breaths. She smiled and closed her eyes as his hand stroked her smooth head.

[superblysubpar]

leather and lace masterlist | leather and lace playlist

Chapter Summary: Your first day back in Hawkins is interesting to say the least, involving several unexpected reunions - good and bad.

8.1k words

Warnings: we'll be kicking up the angst from here on for a bit, but with plenty of fluff in between I promise (but I won't mention this necessarily after this as a heads up), mentions of reader celebrating Christmas, weed mentions/use, police/ "arrest" mentions | please see masterlist for overall warnings.

A/N: Thanks for your patience as I worked through mega writer's block in getting this out friends. I'm *extremely* excited to keep going with this series and I'd love to hear your thoughts. Endless thanks to my hive mind and @boomhauer for beta'ing.

Side A | Track 02: "Escape" by Metallica

“Yes, well, I don’t know Margaret, she said she got laid off and now she’s home.” 

Your body tenses at the sound of your mother’s hushed voice drifting lazily past the living room entryway. Sure that if you opened your eyes, you’d find her with the phone cord and receiver in her hands, pacing, just like a gossiping high schooler. 

Counting to five to make sure she’s passed completely, you roll over on the scratchy living room carpet, ending up face to face with your drooling and snoring little brother. 

Late last night as you blinked sleep heavy eyes, you had hoped to sneak into your childhood home unannounced and avoid any confrontation with the family until morning, but you should have known your brother wouldn’t let you slip in quietly. He was out the door and running barefoot through the snow before you could even take the keys out of the ignition. 

It’s interesting how easily you were able to fall back into old habits as he flung himself into your arms and you ruffled his too long hair. Hip checking and semi-wrestling with each other, whispering ‘you look like hell’ and ‘what took you so long’, when you really meant ‘I love you' to each other. And then you entered the living room to find a pizza and several VHS tapes already laid out on the coffee table. He turned to you looking far too old and yet younger than he ever had as he pointed and in a stern whisper accused, “You promised.”

And you had, so you stayed up too late, catching up, eating food that was bad for you both and watching terrible movies—ending with both of you passing out right there on the floor just like old times. 

Glancing around your family living room, it truly was like nothing had changed. Aside from a few updated decorations that you’re sure your mother was pressured into buying by other moms in the neighborhood, it was all the same. 

"Maybe she could get a job here. She's just so stubborn..."

Exactly the same. 

Suppressing your sigh, your eyes land on your brother’s now open ones and that terrible pitying look that you wanted to avoid at all costs is plastered across his face as he whispers, “She means well, you know that.”

He isn’t wrong, you do know that deep down. But just because someone is your family, and you love them, it doesn’t mean you have to like them all the time. Even if you were able to choose them, you use that magical word ‘family’ to describe them even once and you’re stuck with them. The word, and by definition who you’re describing when using it, is a funny thing. Family is a core value for many, a word to summarize people - and almost a feeling that can't be described. Sayings like 'Home is where the heart is' and 'We don't have much but at least we have each other' on pillows like the one behind your brother’s head or embroidered hangings on the wall come to mind. A group of people that get you in a way no one else ever will because they lived the same places with the same people, experienced the same or similar things. Their life is not yours nor yours theirs, but that connection will always be there. Not a choice for most, and if you're lucky, you may end up with a pretty great one. Which, even the most blessed people will forget every once in a while. Forgetting how lucky you are to have them, guilty when you remember how quickly it could all be different - how it could all change. Sometimes it's tough, and you really have to work to remind yourself that they're your family and you do love them. 

Which is perhaps why you choose to ignore your mother’s penchant for gossip and neither confirm nor deny his statement and instead poke his side and whisper, “Your breath is absolutely horrendous.”

He grunts in protest at that, whacking the back of your hand in sibling code for ‘get away from me or else’ as he hisses, “Your face is horrendous.”

You poke him again and roll away from his retaliating kick as you pout, “Wow, pretty rude to say to someone who will get you a donut for breakfast and a ride to school…”

He grins, knowing you’ll still do both of those things even if he kicks you and is about to say so when your mother’s voice is loud above your heads, “Oh good! You’re both up!”

Though upside down, you can see your mother dressed in her morning work out clothes from the electric blue leg warmers to the lime green sweatband simply used for poofing up her already styled curls, telephone pressed to her neck to avoid the speaker and a bright smile on her bubble gum pink lips. It only makes sense to the people of Hawkins to wear a full face of makeup to exercise.  God forbid you look like a normal human being while working up a sweat.

Despite her early morning gossiping centered around your predicament, you are happy to see her and you jump up to hug her, though she tries to push you away. “Oh no, honey, I’m all sweaty! Let me hug you hello when I’m- oof!” breath knocked out of her as you push past her protests, she laughs into the phone, “Margaret let me call you back!”

A little bit of the mother that didn’t revolve around the other moms, the town or its gossip and pecking order - the mom who lounged in her sweats and drank coffee all day makes a resurgence as she clicks the phone off before Margaret can even reply. She hugs you back tightly, whispering, “Welcome home, kiddo.”

It is easy to forget, if only for a few seconds, why you were home when you’re in your mother’s embrace. Easy to pretend it’s all okay while she runs her hands through your hair three times before she kisses the top of your head, just like she had always done. 

But as she takes in a deep inhale, signaling the onslaught of questions and pity that she is about to bombard you with, you remove yourself from her grasp, spinning towards the stairs. “Glad to be back. I’m gonna take the dweeb to school, so I’ll see you later?”

She frowns, arms still outstretched like you were still in front of her but she nods, recovering quickly and smiles as you disappear up the stairs two at a time. 

Escaping into your room, you fall against the door, closing it with a soft click, and let yourself exhale as you look around the space that feels a little like stepping into a time machine. 

Your posters of bands you loved in high school line the walls, bedspread still the bright yellow covered in daisies, polaroids pinned around movie tickets and a dried corsage from prom that you swore you threw in the trash. Even your cassettes are littered across your desk, like your family couldn’t bear to change a single thing about the space in your absence. 

Fingertips brushing over the stack of them, you smile as you find one of your favorites. Easily slipping back into old habits, you pop it into your stereo. Blasting it loud enough while you get ready for the day that your brother has to bang on your door to get your attention several minutes later, “Y/N! Jesus! Let’s go!”

Smiling as you swing your door open, he rolls his eyes at you and shakes his head. You race him down the stairs, ignoring his protests about cheating and head starts. You argue the whole way to get donuts about the best kinds of frostings and sprinkles or no sprinkles, filled or not filled, new music and movie opinions making cameos in between. You’re happy to pretend everything is okay, but you know it’s not and it all starts to sink in as you get closer and closer to Hawkins High. 

While your brother babbles on about Dungeons and Dragons, driving down the familiar streets to that school, it’s like your failure is blinking in a flashing sign above your car. Stomach twisting in knots as you recognize spots that once held happy memories, now just reminders of what you left behind willingly because you believed you were above it all - better than the town and the people in it. 

Pulling into the parking lot, you blow out the breath you didn’t realize you were holding, “What time is your game over? I can pick you up.”

“Um, it’s not just a game and -” he turns to hold a one second symbol out to the group of familiar friends. Their hats pulled down over hair too long just like your brother’s, hands shoved in puffy winter coats and scowls across their faces until you’re grinning widely at them and waving. Slight nods from all of them and half-hearted waves back. Some of the boys turn bright red, ducking their faces down as two girls shove elbows into them all, shaking their heads. Your brother groans and mumbles, “Idiots.”

Ruffling the top of his head as you laugh, "Relax dude. Whatever it is, I'll be here. So again...what time does it get over?"

He's digging in his bag, opening the door halfway, the chill from outside swirling around the car and making you shiver as he mumbles, "No, I don't need a ride, Steve usually gives the few of us without cars all one home. Speaking of which," he dumps five VHS tapes into your lap, "Can you return these for me today? Steve and Robs will pluck Mike's eyeballs out if they’re any later. He took the - Hold on!” he shrieks out the door at the grumbling from a few feet away before continuing, “Anyways, Wheeler said he forgot but really it was my fault and…”

So lost in so many different questions, you don’t hear the end of his sentence as you blurt out the first thing you can think of, "Steve? Who's this Steve that gives you rides?"

He blinks at you like it's obvious, his tone even and slowed down as if he's sounding it out for you as he replies, "Hair - ing - ton."

"Steve Harrington gives you rides home from your Dungeons and Dragons game?"

He rolls his eyes but nods, half out the door as he zips his bag back up, "Yes he does and -"

"The Hair? King Steve?"

He huffs, “He doesn’t really go by that-” the school bell's shrill ring sounds out and he groans, jumping out of the car fully.

You shout an apology behind his body and the closing door and then, “Wait! Harrington works at Family Video?!”

He waves you off as the door slams and he’s racing past the group that’s all shouting at him as they all scurry into the building, shoving each other as they go. Somehow, despite their broader shoulders, longer hair, and taller bodies, they were still that group of awkward misfit kids to you. 

Glancing down at the tapes in your lap, you can’t help but wonder how the hell your little brother got wrapped up with Steve Harrington. You push your car into drive, ready to find out. 

The trilling chime you’re expecting as you step inside Family Video halts after one ring and you glance up to see a tiny piece of string pulling the bell back - just enough to stop it from hitting the door hard enough to ring out repeatedly. 

Glancing around the familiar rental store, you see no customers and more importantly, no Steve Harrington. 

As ‘Temple of Doom’ blasts from the TV’s hoisted in the corners, you make your way towards the counter and set down the stack of tapes your brother dropped on you. A shiny bell sitting on the counter with a post-it attached that reads ‘ring me and you die’ crossed out with harried and blocky writing that says ‘she’s kidding’ and another note below it saying ‘no I’m not’ piques your interest and you tap your finger on it despite the warnings. 

Pausing for several seconds, but when nobody appears you tap it again, and for good measure a third time right in a row, causing a loud groan to echo from the ajar door leading to the back. Shuffling feet and a high pitched and irritated voice calling out, “Steve, I swear to god, if you ring that bell to get my attention one more time-”

A girl about your age, maybe a little younger, stops dead in her tracks as she rounds the corner. Bright red and scuffed chucks knocking into a cart as she flails, trying to catch herself. At about the same time you go to help her, the door lets out the pathetic singular ding and a deeper voice yells out, “Oh shit!” 

The girl has toppled over the cart and is blowing her bangs out of her eyes as she hisses up at the boy, “Yeah ‘oh shit’ Steve! Can you-” she gestures to you, picking up the jumbled tapes, voice dripping with fake polite sweetness, “just help the customer please.”

He nods and finally turns in your direction. He’s got a giant soft pretzel in his hand, a dab of mustard on the corner of his lips, and the famous brown locks atop his head. Steve blinks at you, clearing his throat before squinting and asking, “Y/N?”

Nodding as well, you take in his appearance further. He’s different and yet the same as you remember him. A small amount of stubble around his jaw and upper lip that he quickly wipes at the corner of with the sleeve of his deep green sweatshirt - but you can see the collar of one of his familiar polos peeking out underneath. He’s taller, taller than you now, and his hair - he’s learned how to steer into the mess of it, it seems. It flops in all the right ways. It's not stiff from product and he runs his free hand through it in a way that tells you he does it all the time and makes you a little envious of the hand. He still seems to very much be the King Steve you recall from high school - the one who was popular enough to have seniors over at his house. The one you and your friends included in hot or not lists and flirted with constantly, the one girls bought bikinis strictly for pool parties hosted by him for. The one who still drives a maroon BMW that makes your little rusting bucket currently sitting out next to it look like a piece of shit. 

How did that Steve turn into a guy who gives your brother rides?

He’s still holding the pretzel and his mouth opens to speak again when the girl stands from her stack of tapes on the floor, cheeks blushed pink and a scowl on her face, “Oh good. You know each other, I’m going back to finishing my essay and you,” she shoves the stack into his chest and he cradles it between his one free arm and chin. She snatches the pretzel and takes a bite before speaking around it, “can finish putting these away.”

She seems to have a lighter skip in her step as she takes another bite of the pretzel and he shakes his head at her retreating back before dumping the perfect stack onto the counter behind him, all of them toppling over and out of order again. He turns back to face you and extends his arms towards the now fully open door, “Don’t mind her, she’s dealing with finals and super cranky and-”

“I heard that, Dingus!” echoes from the room.

“You were supposed to!” he shouts back before turning to face you, rubbing the back of his neck, “Um, so, what…how…you’re…”

He starts too many questions for you to even attempt to answer when the door chimes again and you feel all the color drain from your face. Fingers and toes becoming numb as you see the hoard of bright fuschia, patterns, teased and poofed hair, and denim jacket clad women coming towards you. You were not prepared for all of these reunions on your first day back. 

“Y/N?!” one of them shrieks and then the whole crowd descends, shouting out squeals of ‘I can’t believe you’re here’, ‘what are you doing here’s’, ‘oh my god we miss you’, ‘did you do something different with your hair?’ 

Overwhelmed does not even touch the tip of how you’re feeling and you blink at Steve, who none of the girls have even spared a glance towards. He’s quietly opening the tapes you brought back, cheek pulled in as he bites at it. 

One girl steps forward from the pack and your stomach rolls. Brittany Hartman, your best friend growing up, laughs and waves her hands down at the others. “Oh my god, ladies, let her breathe!” She turns to you, a full wattage smile poised on her face, tossing her perfectly curled blonde hair before her arms extend and pull you into a suffocating hug, hairspray filling your nostrils and something overtly peachy as she squeezes you and squeals, “It’s been so long! How are you? Are you home for Christmas? How long are you staying? How’s your mom?”

A snort to your left and you see the girl from earlier is now next to Steve and she covers her mouth and turns quickly to face the back counter, ears turning red and Steve bites his lip trying to hide a smirk. 

Brittany rolls her eyes before turning back to you, her fingers running through your hair absentmindedly with a slight look of judgment as you stumble through all of the responses to her questions, “It has been a long time, yeah, um…” you pull your sleeves over your fists at your side, “Home for Christmas, she’s good, thanks for asking.”

Some of the girls have dissipated between the shelves, twittering amongst themselves about Tom Cruise and what movie to pick. Brittany leans against the counter, elbow knocking over some of the tapes. Steve’s jaw clenches as he catches it and turns to the computer, typing in something. She twirls her hair and nods, her smile stiff as she asks, “How’s the big city? Still living the dream? How long do we get you for?”

Unsure why you didn’t prepare some sort of response before going out in public in this town, you’re kicking yourself for not realizing you’d have to answer this question eventually. Shrugging as you reply, “It’s great, I love it there. I…um…well,” you can feel your throat tightening, the pit in your stomach only growing as you look anywhere but at her as you spit out a half truth, “I’m actually gonna be home for the rest of the school year…”

Her eyes go wide at that, her head tilting to the side, “You can take that much time off?”

The familiar prick of tears you’ve been avoiding is hitting behind your eyes, body suddenly feeling hot in all your layers and then you catch Steve’s eyes. He offers a small smile and you know he knows and you’ll kill your brother if you make it out of this situation alive. Your eyes land on the counter as you blink them repeatedly and mumble, “Actually, I don’t have a job right now?”

Cursing to yourself that it comes out like a question, you swallow harshly and tighten your fists as Brittany gasps, some of the other girls letting out quiet ‘oh no’s’ and ‘that’s terrible’. Brittany’s fingers tap on the counter as her voice drips with fake disdain, “Oh my god, that sucks! What happened? Was teaching really hard?”

Her tone, the situation, some of the girls hiding their smiles behind their hands has your blood boiling over as your head snaps up, trying to control the shake in your voice, “Excuse me?”

She laughs, cold and a little heartless as she waves her hand, “Oh I just, I remember your mom telling my mom that you were teaching? So if you’re not, it must have been hard? Or did something happen?” she gasps again, eyes wide, “Oh my god, did you get fired?”

Words fail you, you’re trying, you really are, to tell her that she’s wrong. That you’re good at your job. That it wasn’t your fault. But she’s technically right, and as her eyes lock with yours, you both know it. 

She frowns, mock pity that you’re familiar with from your years of friendship thick in her voice as her fake sincerity slips out of her lips, “I’m so sorry. Some people just aren’t cut out for city life, I guess.”

The girl behind the counter with Steve lets out a scoff and Brittany tilts her head again, bright blue fingernails tapping on the counter as she questions, “Something to say over there?”

The girl turns, honey with a hint of red small curls that fall from the bun atop her head swaying with the sharp movement as she mocks the tilt of Brittany’s head and shrugs, “Oh, just wondering how you would know that?”

Brittany sneers at the girl whose name tag says Robin before glancing at Steve and responding, “You’re so right. Silly me. It’s pathetic to stay in Hawkins and work here, huh Harrington?”

Unsure of how a dynamic this big could have shifted between a girl like Brittany and Steve in the years you’ve been away, you’re shocked when he stands, smiles and hands her a tape, “Pretty pathetic, Brit. I’ll see you next week, same time.”

The girls around the counter clear their throats and Brittany snatches the tape before turning to you. Her eyes soften, but you know the malice that lies behind them and she isn’t fooling anyone when she squeezes your wrist, “I really am sorry. Let’s catch up soon, okay? I wanna hear all about it and be there for you.”

Squeezing your fingers, but before you can even reply, she’s turning and the hoard of girls follows behind her, calling out their goodbyes. 

The sound of the movie's credits is the only thing that fills the store for several minutes as you stare blankly out the glass front doors. Ashamed you couldn’t stick up for yourself. Embarrassed that you were once best friends with her. Gutted that somehow, still, after all of these years, a shallow level inside of yourself seeks and wants their approval. 

Feeling the need to make your apologies - for freezing, for not defending Steve, for your past friend’s behavior, for your brother clearly not rewinding any of the tapes as you watch the girl named Robin plop one in the rewinder. She shakes her head, "Don't you even think about apologizing."

Blinking at her as she smiles and waggles a finger adorned with a ring attached with a small silver chain to a bracelet, "It's all over your face," she leans onto the counter, crossing her arms, "And you have absolutely nothing to be sorry about."

Steve nods once in agreement and flops down into the rolling chair, throwing his head back and staring at the ceiling, "Except maybe not teaching your brother how to return things in a timely manner."

Robin kicks his shin and he doesn't even flinch, and your eyes bop between the two of them - curious who this girl is, why Steve and Brittany don't get along anymore, and how Steve is not doing any of the things you once imagined he would be and is instead, working here.

He rubs his temples and Robin extends her hand to you, "Robin Buckley."

Shaking it, you introduce yourself and she smiles widely, "Oh, I know who you are."

She must sense your embarrassment of not knowing who she is or trying to recall if you've met before and just forgot because her smile softens and she shrugs, "I was class of ‘86 and we didn't exactly run in the same circles. Besides," she shifts and jumps up to sit on the counter, "A senior hanging out with freshmen? Who'd do something so crazy?"

Steve pulls his head up and rolls his eyes at her which reminds you why you're in the store in the first place. Tapping your knuckles on the counter, ready to interrogate him, Steve replies before you even ask, "It's a very long story, one I'm surprised your brother hasn't told you already, but," he waves his hands and then leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, "Would you...we can...coffee?"

Robin rolls her eyes at him and you can't help but smile at the jumbled question. The smooth talking younger boy is not as full of confident charm as he once was as wide and hopeful hazel eyes stare up at you.

Shrugging, you reply,  "Sure. Since I know the dweeb clearly told you, and you would've found out from that lovely encounter," you nod your head out towards the parking lot before letting your arms fall open at your sides, "I have plenty of free time on my hands."

Steve smiles and nods, "Cool, I'll call you."

"Cool."

Robin's eyebrows raise and she whispers, "Cool."

Biting the inside of your lip as you try to fight a smile, you start to head towards the door, and spin back to face them, "This is going to sound incredibly lame and you're going to think I'm a total loser who really doesn't have anything going for her anymore but um...do you...do either of you know..." you rub the back of your neck before finally spitting out, "Is Rick still..."

The pair share a glance and then Steve stands and nods, "Yeah, he's still at the same spot out by Lover’s Lake. He's more of a...supplier now though?"

Your eyebrows raise and Steve grins, "The town is booming, didn't you hear?"

Laughing as you back into the door, "Clearly I underestimated Hawkins potential should have never left," you push the door open and then turn to say sorry for what occurred with Brittany.

Robin holds up her finger, "Nu-uh! What'd I say!?"

Grinning at her, you nod and let a tiny, "Sorry," slip out before turning towards your car, as the door falls shut you hear her groan.  

The parking lot covered in icy sludge makes you shuffle slowly to your car, wincing as the door hinges squeak, before settling into the front seat.

Determined to turn the day around and quell some of the anxiety from the interaction with Brittany, you turn the key in the ignition and make the trip out to the one person who supplied anyone in town for their parties with the good stuff you haven’t been able to afford for the last year - hoping your “friend” can cut you a deal for old time’s sake. 

Making the familiar drive out to Rick’s house, you hate that your thoughts are still swirling around Brittany, the town, and how long it will take for her to tell everyone about what happened. What about if anyone sees you going into Rick’s and the assumptions they make?

Knuckles tightening their grip on the steering wheel until they’re drifting to your stereo, turning up the knob fully in hopes that the wailing guitar will drown out the anxiety that’s threatening to pull you under. 

Pulling into his drive, you throw the car in park, pressing your forehead to the top of the steering wheel and take several deep breaths. Did it really matter what they thought of you anymore? Why do you care? Sick to your stomach that it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours back in this town and already you were falling back into their clutches of controlling stereotypes. 

Thoughts continue to eat away at your nerves, you bite at your thumb as you pull the keys from the ignition and slam the door. Stepping up the front steps, your head ducks down to shield yourself from the biting wind now that you’re closer to the lake. 

Pounding on the door a few times, you hear a muffled ‘one sec’ from somewhere deeper in the house and you mentally prepare yourself for the conversation with Rick - one that would be longer than necessary due to being interrupted by his large bong rips most likely. Hoping he was in a good enough mood to offer you some sort of deal and maybe, somehow, you could still escape with a little of your dignity. 

When you don’t hear any further footsteps to signal he’s coming, your fist connects with the wood harshly again, worried he was too high and had already forgotten that someone was at the door. 

A louder voice cries out, “I said I was come-” the door flies open and his sentence falters off much quieter, “-ing.”

As if the day could not get any worse, Eddie Munson stands before you, a bag of chips between his teeth that drops to the floor when his mouth falls open as he blinks at you. 

Crossing your arms, your eyes narrow into a glare as you stick your chin up, “What are you doing here?”

He rolls his eyes, bending down to pick up the chips as he sighs, “Funny, I was just about to ask you the same thing.” He turns back into the house, leaving the door open but not telling you to follow him. 

Debating if you really needed the weed that badly, your resolve is paper thin at this point and you step inside and close the door behind you. Eddie turns to look over his shoulder, eyebrows raising as he sees you standing in front of the now closed door. 

He tosses the bag on the kitchen counter as he opens cabinets, “So, really, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in Chicago?”

Curious how Eddie Munson knows you lived in Chicago - the town is small, but the people who knew where you lived definitely wouldn’t have been going around telling “the freak” about it. Scuffing your shoe against the floor, you go with a half truth again, “I’m home visiting for Christmas. Is Rick here?”

Eddie laughs as he closes the cabinet, “Really? Cause I heard you got canned and had to move back home,” he winces with fake apology, “Tough break, shortstack.”

How the hell did he know that? And how dare he use that nickname now, after all of these years. 

Seething at the thought of the one person you couldn’t stand almost as much as the town knowing your failure, your voice is cold and sharp, “Well if you knew that, then why the fuck did you ask?”

He pulls out a pack of cigarettes from the front pocket of his black denim jeans, tapping it on the counter as he squints at you, “Someone is bitter…” he drags out the last word as he pulls a cigarette from the pack and lets it dangle between his lips. 

Eddie is similar to Steve in regards to not having changed much - appearance wise. Still long and unruly dark curls cascading over an old band t-shirt, a band you hated to admit you liked too. His jeans have the same holes in the knees, he’s got a little stubble on his jaw, just like Steve had, a reminder that you’re all a little older. The difference between Eddie and Steve is that Eddie seems to not have changed his personality at all. 

“Glad to see you haven’t changed - still an asshole. Again, is Rick here?”

Eddie pulls the unlit cigarette from his lips and places it behind his ear as he shakes his head, crossing his arms and leaning up against the counter, “So what happened, shortstack? All those book smarts didn’t give you enough street smarts for the big ol’ city?” He pouts his lips and blinks his eyes in false pity. 

Picking at the skin on your thumbs with your forefingers, you try to keep your voice level as you retort, “At least I got out of this town and did something, Munson. What’s your excuse for doing absolutely nothing with your life?”

Eddie tucks his tongue into his cheek, big brown eyes hardening into a deeper shade, almost black, as he practically growls through a clenched jaw, “Says the girl who failed and had to move back in with mommy and daddy.”

“What the fuck is your problem Eddie?” you shriek at him.

He stands taller, fingers pointing into his chest, taking a step closer and towering over you like he always has, voice ringing out through the house, “What’s my problem?! I’m not the one who’s had a stick up their ass since we were twelve, sweetheart!”

Shoving a finger into his chest as you take a step closer, “You’re the one who humiliated me in front of the entire tow-”

“You are un - fucking - believable! Are you kidding me?” he interrupts, whacking your finger from his chest with wide hands. 

“Woah, woah, woah, dudes - your volume is not appreciated right now.”

At the sound of Rick’s voice and cough, you physically jump back from Eddie like he shocked you. Feeling the muscles that had tightened and coiled in your body at the growing tension with him start to untangle themselves. Rick looks between the two of you, holding a finger up, and a small, “Ah, yeah, I forget, what happened here?”

Eddie and you glare at each other, both of you mumbling and turning from the other. Eddie a quiet, “I don’t know,” and you an even quieter, “Nothing.”

Rick shrugs like he couldn’t be bothered to know or not and he falls into the plush couch, kicking his dirty barefeet up on the coffee table littered with rolling papers, and baggies full of bud and nods towards you, “What do I owe the pleasure of this house call, former princess of Hawkins?”

Recoiling at the nickname and everything that goes along with it - you hate that that’s how people can still think of you. You were never the queen, or as popular as someone like Steve, but you did run with that crowd. A princess and a pawn in their kingdom you begrudgingly have to admit. You risk a glance at Eddie who immediately looks at the floor, pretending you didn’t just catch him staring. 

“Well, I’m in need of a couple of those bad boys,” you gesture to some of the rolled joints resting in a tin and flash him a smile that always used to work wonders, “Had to come see my favorite guy for them.”

Rick laughs, flicking a lighter in his hand, “Well, I don’t really do that anymore,” he nods his head backwards to where Eddie is filling his old metal lunchbox with baggies on the counter, “My guy took over a few years ago so I could wash my hands of all the messy sales stuff. Gave away too many free joints to the pretty ones,” Rick winks at you.

Disgusted with yourself, you pull out the old charm for the man four years your senior and flirt like your life depends on it, “Oh really? I thought that was something you only did for me, Ricky?” you pout your lips, clasping your hands in front of you.

Eddie makes a choking sound and you ignore him, gesturing to the door, “But that’s okay, I understand. I’ll just tell my friends we can’t get the good stuff tonight and -”

Rick holds out his hand stopping your retreating, “Wait!”

Eddie groans, “No. You seriously did not fall for that pathetic excuse of-”

Rick picks up the tin and shoots Eddie a glare before turning back to you, dopey smile on his lips, “Alright, one free joint for the once upon a time princess who’s always been too sweet to me,” he hands you a joint and you smile at him, batting your eyelashes. 

He pulls another one out, “A second free one for the inconvenience of driving all the way out here and not knowing your old buddy took my gig and his mean yelling earlier-”

Eddie cries out, “Oh my god! Come on, man!”

Rick holds up a third one, “A third and final free joint to save for a special occasion - for old times sake,” he winks at you as you steal it, backing away before Eddie can convince him to change his mind. 

“Thank you Rick! It’ll be our little secret that they were free, and I’ll spread the word that you still have the best stuff in town!” blowing him a kiss that he pretends to grab and slap his cheek with as you laugh.

Eddie stands behind him shaking his head, hissing as you turn your back on the pair of boys, “Rick, this is exactly why you hired me to sell. What the fuck was-”

Rick’s voice follows you out and you wish you were quicker to close the door before hearing, “My man, you of all people should know the power that girl’s smile has on a guy.”

“I thought you didn’t remember-”

“Dude. Everyone remembers.”

Upon returning home, you quickly shuffle up to your room, and click the lock before heading over to your closet. Digging around on the top shelf for the old shoebox covered in collaged pictures and magazine cut outs to hide your newly acquired contraband like you used to in high school. Opening the lid, your stomach churns at the contents of the box you forgot you had kept and hidden away. You dump all of it out and onto the floor and slip the three joints inside, placing one of your old t-shirts atop them. Deciding you’ll smoke the last bit of flower you had been saving first and ignore the pile of tainted memories. 

Placing an old cassette tape into your stereo, and turning the volume up, you blow the smoke out your window and let the high take over, everything that’s gone wrong that day melting away as your muscles relax fully. 

Body and mind lulled into a blissfully unaware and relaxed state, you slowly unpack the things you brought back home. As you take down posters and hang new ones up, replacing framed photos of you and the girls from Hawkins with your polaroids and frames of Chicago, you don’t notice the sun shifting squares across your floor throughout the day or the number of tapes you replace as the songs click to their end. Pausing in between your slow unpacking and decorating to light up the last little bit in your bowl, hollowing your cheeks and sucking in the definitely burnt and past its prime drug.

After the last suitcase is emptied and shoved under your bed, you turn to the pile full of tokens from memory lane hell you had dumped on the floor. Photobooth pictures of you and Brittany where he enters the last frame kissing your cheek. Lace from the bottom of your prom dress that was tailored. Ticket stubs from date nights. A small box that you knew if you opened would be a necklace with his initial dangling on the gold chain. Slowly dropping items into your wastebasket, you pause at a few of them. A pop bottle cap necklace you allow to return to the box. A polaroid of your brother and Dustin Henderson shoving ice cream cones in your face, a handmade card full of drawings your brother made, and a ticket stub to The Breakfast Club all make the cut too. Folded pieces of notebook paper are all that’s left. Several have tiny hearts and your name on them that you quickly shove into the trash, but most of them have striking doodles of dragons and knights, a crown, frogs and various favorite animals from over the years on them made in black sharpie that disappear into the creases of the strategically folded paper. Those you return to the box as well with a lump in your throat and pull out one of the new joints. 

The items sobering any sort of high you had been feeling, you notice the sky darkening, the once gray and bright day fading into a hazy blue twilight as the front door thudding closed and echoes of boys filter up the stairs. 

Excited to greet all of your brother’s best friends with more than a wave from the car, you stick the joint in your pocket and race down the stairs, jumping down the last two and practically falling over at what waits for you in the entryway. 

Your brother grins, “Hey! We brought home pizza!” 

Lucas Sinclair holds up the box and grins at you as well and you gulp as you wave at the young boys, greeting them as your eyes remain on Steve’s and then Eddie’s, “Hey guys, long time no see.”

Dustin Henderson, the closest of your brother’s friends races forward to give you a hug, practically your little brother too and you laugh as you hug him back, “Holy cow, you all got so tall!” You ruffle the top of his head as he pulls away and frown, looking around, “What’s with all this long hair though?”

Eddie narrows his eyes at you and leans a shoulder against the wall and you fold your arms, glaring back at him. 

Steve looks between the two of you and then at your little brother who looks like he’s in pain when Mike Wheeler hitches his thumb at Eddie, “He thinks it’s because of him.”

“Yeah, he’s always been pretty full of himself,” you reply without looking away from Eddie. 

Eddie opens his mouth to respond and maybe it’s some lingering effects of the weed, but you beat him to it, not caring about the audience you have, “Why are you here?” 

Lucas speaks around a bite of a slice he slipped out of the box that Dustin snatches from him and closes, “Eddie runs Hellfire.”

Will Byers pipes up at your blinking when Lucas’ mouth remains full, “Our DND Club? He’s the best Dungeon Master Hawkins has ever seen.”

Turning your gaze to your brother, he rubs the back of his neck and whispers, “Did I not mention that Eddie still ran DND?”

Shaking your head at him, it’s all the final cherry on top to your massively awful first day back in Hawkins, “Nope, must have slipped your mind when you were too busy telling everyone about my mistakes and failures instead.”

Steve clears his throat and nods at the younger boys and the kitchen, slowly shoving them out of the entryway as your brother starts to apologize, “I didn’t mean to tell them all, I was just happy to have you back home and-”

“Whatever, it’s too late now, but,” you point at Eddie who hasn’t moved from his spot leaning, “You’re not hanging out with him anymore.”

Eddie’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t fight you on your order, surprisingly, it’s your brother who does, “Excuse me?”

Shoving past Eddie, you start to pull on your shoes and coat, “You heard me.”

He scoffs, “Hate to break it to ya sis, but you’re not my mother. Why can’t I hang out with Eddie? Just because you don’t like him? He didn’t live up to the Hawkins princess’ standards, right? Cause it sure as shit can’t be because of the pot like you used to claim since we can all smell how you’ve been spending your day without a job.”

The words land across your skin in a harsh slap, cold and biting, just how they were intended and you see his shoulders fall and the immediate regret on his face, but it’s too late, and he can’t take them back. 

The kitchen turns silent, Steve closes his eyes and rubs the back of his neck and Eddie stands up straighter, all three of them opening their mouths.

Shaking your head as you open the door you mutter, “Save it,” and slam it behind you. 

Fingers fumbling with your keys, you hold in the tears until you’re in your car and down the block, letting them fall silently. Aimlessly driving around, desperate to escape the town you had worked so hard to get out of already, until you end up at a diner along the highway just outside of Hawkins. 

Opening the center console, you rifle through your tapes until you find your favorite Metallica one. You turn the knob so the opening soft chords of ‘Fight Fire With Fire’ fill your car. The cold pads of your fingertips swipe at your tear stained cheeks and you let the metal music fill your brain, trying to let it take over the thoughts sending you into a spiral of self loathing and pity. 

The joint sitting in your pocket seems to be burning a hole there as the lyric, ‘the gods are laughing’ cuts through your wallowing. Pulling it out, you place the joint between chapped lips as you search for your lucky bright yellow lighter. You can’t help but think about how different this scenario is from your previous smoke sessions in Hawkins. Boys always lighting them for you before Chicago, only daring to have a few passes from fear of being labeled a stoner like classmates around you. Now, your hands work with a mind of their own, the steps to smoking alone are second nature, twirling it to get an even burn and as the paper catches the flame, you hollow your cheeks and let yourself become numb. 

The smoke leaves your parted lips as ‘For Whom The Bell Tolls’ starts and you adjust the volume a little louder, letting your body relax into the smoke and sounds filling the car. The events of day replay in your mind like some private showing of a sick and twisted horror movie starring yourself as the paper slowly burns down and the album continues on. As you hear, ‘no one but me can save myself, but it’s too late’ you can’t help but feel like you’ve made a colossal mistake in coming back and a fresh wave of tears starts to gather on your lashes.

Reminding yourself it wasn’t exactly by choice, but you’re sure if you would have picked up a third job, found roommates, something, you could have made Chicago work. But you gave up, your expectations and the bar you set for yourself lower than they ever had been. The fact of the matter is, your entire confidence was shattered as the dream you’d always reached for, the perfect life in the perfect city, came tumbling down around you after one setback. You’d had it extremely easy for most of your life and though you worked hard in school to get a scholarship, worked a job throughout high school to save up for the same brands other’s simply purchased with family credit cards, you were doused in privilege and naivety. Somewhere along the way you let yourself feel unstoppable until the universe reminded you that you’re nothing special and the world is not always going to be fair. 

Maybe everyone was right. You were a princess of Hawkins, a part of a crowd that had life handed to them and you were no better than anyone else. A hypocrite. A failure. And certainly no role model for your brother. 

The tears finally fall and you quickly wipe at them and snuff out the butt of your joint. You’re not sure how this day can get worse, and you’re wondering if this is your rock bottom. Surely you can turn it all around, climb your way back up. Nudging the volume up again, you’re determined to not continue to wallow once your favorite song comes on and you sing out “Out for my own, out to be free…” closing your eyes and headbanging along to the fast guitar as you remember the girl you were when the album came out. First year in the city and full of drive and ambition - full of hope. 

Three quick, loud raps on your passenger door window snap your eyes open. A man with a large mustache and decked out in a uniform doting big blocky letters spelling out the word ‘Police’ is glaring at you and you now notice the swirling red and blue lights in your windshield through the lingering hazy smoke. 

As the diner full of families glare out through frosted windows as you’re escorted into the back of the cop car, you let your head fall forward, fighting off the laugh that was threatening to escape your chest at the universe’s cruel sense of humor.

Correction. 

Maybe this was your rock bottom. 

🖤 Thanks again for being here - any interaction is so appreciated & I’d love to know what you thought about it! If you’re able, please consider reblogging to help get my work seen. 

tag list: @boomhauer @loveshotzz @myobmaya @sweetsweetjellybean @pastel-pillows @littlesubbyflower @christalcake @marymunsonloves @big-ope-vibes @hellkaisersangel @aysheashea @aftermidnightwriting @idkidknemore

[nicosraf]

Do you have, on hand, a description of what the main characters look like from ABM? I wanna make fanart or possibly a small animation but I dont have the book anymore to reference their designs :(

I can just summarize their appearances!

Lucifer – brown-skinned, blonde wispy hair (long but no specified exact length, I think), golden eyes, pouty lips, violet wings, lots of jewelry

Michael – brown-skinned, very dark brown loose curls (unspecified length but implied to be longish), some beauty marks, really large and strong and muscular, bump on his nose bridge, brown-green, hooded eyes, brown wings

Rosier – brown-skinned, long black hair with bangs, round face, short, body type not specified but I imagine him to be chubby, golden eyes, yellow wings

Asmodeus – skin color not specified but said to be paler than others, long black hair he usually has ribbons in, thick eyebrows, dark, almond eyes, dresses really lazily, weirdly tall, body type not specified but I imagine he's weirdly lanky

Baal - skin color "about the same as Lucifer's", tall and large but with thin hips, so he's more an inverted triangle shape, black wings, tight curls of light-brown hair, large nose, "cocoa" eyes

Uriel - very dark skin, hair usually in a crown of braids but he had cornrows in one instance, orange -red eyes, red wings, tall

Raphael – skin color not specified, hair is brown and long (later, he has it in a thick braid), blue-green eyes, body type not specified but I think he's Not strong at all

Gabriel – pale skin and lots of freckles. wavy light-brown hair with flowers in it, button nose, gray eyes, about Lucifer's height

Azazel - dark skin, long box braids, usually wears intricate makeup, beaded jewelry, not specified in this book but he has blue eyes

Phanuel – olive skin, emerald eyes that are almond-shaped (like Asmodeus), feathery black hair that goes up to his waist, strong cheekbones, a lot of rings

I think that's everyone! if it helps, @saintxrys made this lovely piece that shows a lot of the angels. I've labelled them for your convenience

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

How to Write Pretty Prose in Your Novel

Introduction

When you read a book, do you ever find yourself getting lost in the language? Do you admire the way the author paints a picture with words, evoking emotions and imagery that transport you to another world? If so, you're not alone. Many readers appreciate beautiful prose, and as a writer, it's something you should strive to achieve. But how do you write pretty prose? In this post, I'll help you explore some tips and techniques for crafting language that is both lovely and effective.

Before we dive in, it's important to note that pretty prose isn't just about flowery language or using big words. It's about finding the right words to express your ideas in a way that is both pleasing to the ear and easy to understand. It's about creating a mood, conveying meaning, and engaging your readers. With that said, let's get started.

Section 1: Choose Your Words Carefully

The first step in writing pretty prose is to choose your words carefully. This means paying close attention to not only the denotation (dictionary definition) of a word, but also its connotation (the emotions and associations it carries). For example, consider the following two sentences:

1. The sun was shining.

2. The sun was beaming.

Both sentences convey the same basic idea, but the second one is more evocative. "Beaming" suggests warmth, happiness, and a certain radiance that "shining" does not. By choosing specific words that carry emotional weight, you can create a more immersive reading experience.

Additionally, consider the rhythm and sound of your words. Reading your work aloud can help you identify spots where the language may feel clunky or awkward. Varying sentence length and structure can help keep the prose interesting, and using alliteration or other sound devices can add a pleasing musicality.

To summarize:

Choose words that:

Have emotional weight

Sound pleasing when read aloud

Are specific and evocative

Section 2: Use Metaphors and Similes

Metaphors and similes are powerful tools in a writer's arsenal. They allow you to create comparisons that can help readers understand complex ideas or emotions. For example:

1. Her heart was a stone.

2. The clouds were a herd of sheep, grazing lazily across the sky.

Both of these sentences use metaphors to help the reader visualize and understand something abstract (a feeling, a sky full of clouds). When using metaphors and similes, it's important to choose comparisons that are both accurate and original. Avoid cliches ("he was as tall as a tree") and instead try to come up with comparisons that are unexpected and fresh.

To summarize:

Use metaphors and similes to:

Help readers understand abstract concepts

Create original comparisons

Avoid cliches

Section 3: Show, Don't Tell

One of the most fundamental rules of writing is "show, don't tell." Essentially, this means that instead of telling readers how a character feels or what they're thinking, you should show it through actions, body language, and dialogue. For example:

Telling: John was angry.

Showing: John slammed his fist on the table and clenched his jaw.

By showing the reader what John is doing, rather than simply telling them he's angry, you create a more immersive experience. You allow the reader to draw their own conclusions and engage with the story on a deeper level.

Showing instead of telling can also help with pacing. Instead of bogging down the narrative with exposition, you can move the plot forward through action and dialogue. This keeps the reader engaged and invested in the story.

To summarize:

Show, don't tell to:

Create a more immersive experience

Allow readers to draw their own conclusions

Improve pacing

Conclusion

Writing pretty prose isn't about being flowery or pretentious. It's about crafting language that is both effective and pleasing to the reader. By choosing your words carefully, using metaphors and similes, and showing instead of telling, you can create a reading experience that is both engaging and memorable. So the next time you sit down to write, remember to focus on the beauty of your language, and your readers will thank you for it.

Copyright © 2023 by Ren T.

TheWriteAdviceForWriters 2023

[edwad]

spent the last 10 minutes of "reading" by trying to decipher the note-taking process of the last owner of this book, because the margins were just random lazily-written cursive words which didn't seem to make much sense (was i misreading them? idk!) only to realize that all of the notes in the margins are actually just filler words to connect underlined portions of text in order to convert them into condensed sentences to summarize the main point of the passage. will never get that time back

[kyoyaphilia]

- I don't fight girls

Characters : Mikey, afab!reader, Izana, Kisaki, Draken. Toman, Tenjiku.

Scenario - Toman Vs Tenjiku fight. Reader is the top member of Tenjiku.

Alt. Universe where Pah-chin isn't in jail and Kazutora and Baji are still in Toman. Hanma is a part of Tenjiku.

CW// BLOOD, FIGHTING, GANGS, INJURIES, VERY MILD CUSSING.

Choas.

A simple word to summarize the scene in front of you.

This chaos was the long awaited battle between Tenjiku and the Tokyo Manji Gang. You, Izana, and Kisaki sat atop a flimsy metal container, observing the fight from a safe distance with the perfect view of the abandoned parking lot- enjoying the fight like it was a five star movie.

So far, it seemed Toman took the upper hand with their captains taking down numbers of Tenjiku members.

"There's a few key men in Toman, if we can defeat them then victory is good as ours." Kisaki began. "Draken, Mitsuya, Baji, Chifuyu, Smiley, Pah-chin, and Hakkai are the people we should be most worried about."

"And Mikey." Izana added, his eyes fixed on a particular blond male in the battlefield.

"And Mikey." Kisaki reaffirmed. "But we need him unharmed, or our plan goes to waste."

"He is wiping out most of our members though- maybe we should just knock him out." Izana suggested, the worry in his tone hidden by his confident front.

Amidst their brainstorming, you eyed the battlefield in confusion as to whom these people were, since many of them proved to be a threat with the piles of defeated Tenjiku members they gathered around them.

"Mind using simple words to tell me who you're talking about? Maybe a main feature or something- I don't know any of these people." You bluntly said, legs swinging on the edge of the container as you turned to glare jokingly at Kisaki.

He returned the expression with more seriousness, clearly vexed by your clueless behaviour. "It doesn't matter anyway, you're not fighting." He sighed, doing his best to avoid explaining it to you.

You pouted- features creased to resemble that of a baby angry bird. "Meanie."

"Why aren't we fighting, anyway?" Your gaze turned to Izana, who stood tall watching the quarrel with interest.

"Well, I didn't stop you. I just plan on taking down the last men standing- if there are any." Izana claimed.

"In that case-" You began, swinging your legs up to stand on the container with the two men. "- I'm gonna fight. Watchijf this is getting boring. Who should I get rid of?"

Izana smirked at your careless posture that clearly showed how you underestimated the great warriors of Toman.

"Mikey, if you can." A smug, challenging look etched on his face.

You raised your eyebrows at the white haired male's words. "Do you doubt me? Of course I can." Your tone filled with an almost narcissistic confidence.

"But- which one is Mikey?" You asked, eyes searching the parking lot for someone who looked like a Mikey.

"The short one with the long blond hair." Kisaki informed, lazily pointing his finger at said man in the mass of fighters.

Your eyes finally located your target, who looked undoubtedly strong- evident from the piles of unconscious and bloodied figures of Tenjiku members scattered around him.

Yet, you weren't the least bit intimidated, you had that much trust in your own capability.

"Aren't you guys siblings, Izana?" You asked the boy beside you, who's gaze rested at the same place as yours.

"Not really, but something of the sort." He explained, not bothered to look at you.

"Ah- I figured, since genes don't divide that unfairly." You joked, scanning Izana's appearance with a judgemental- almost disgusted expression.

Izana failed to immediately understand the underlying insult in your comment. When the pieces finally clicked in his head, he widened his eyes, scoffing at you with his features clearly displaying how offended he was.

"Excuse me? Y/N- I'm not ugly!" He defended, his posture faltering the tiniest bit.

"I didn't say you were ugly." You shrugged, sticking your tounge out at the boy. "Your words, not mine."

Before he could say anything further you bid a quick "bye, bye" to the pair before hopping off the container and landing swiftly on your feet.

Slowly, you made your way through the crowd of bustling men, eyes locked on your target as you approached him.

As you passed through, the Tenjiku members acknowledged your status, either bowing or saluting to you, which you balatantly ignored- mind occupied with one goal; defeat Sano Manjiro.

You pulled the hems of your shorts snugly around your waist, tightening the belt of your Tenjiku uniform, and finally after a short walk, you reached the blond male, establishing your presence once he was a mere stride away from your fist.

"You're Mikey, right?"

The president of Toman turned to acknowledge your presence, tossing away the body of a man to whom he'd given a good beating and a concerningly high hospital bill.

"Who are you?" He asked, his voice deep and staggering with his heavy breaths, yet softer than his merciless actions towards his opponents.

It was now that you got a clear look at the man, and you were right about how great his genetics were- his features as refined as that of a Greek statue. Despite the beads of sweat forming on his forehead, he looked insanely attractive with his blond locks messy from his nonstop movement in the battlefield, his uniform jacket lost somewhere in the action leaving his toned arms exposed and abs peeking out from under the badges wrapped around his waist.

You almost found yourself swooning before you reminded yourself of your goal and regained your composure.

"Y/N L/N, top member of Tenjiku- here to beat your ass." You introduced your arrival, a smug grin tugging at your lips.

Mikey eyed your form carefully, almost as if he was looking at a small child.

"I don't fight girls."

Your eyebrow quirked at his claim, almost disappointed by his unwillingness to fight you.

"I may be a girl but I'm not that weak-" You defended.

"Weak or not, I still have morals." He cut you off.

You pouted lightly at his unbending attitude, finally deciding to make your move anyway.

"Well that's too bad, because- I have no problem fighting boys."

Mikey almost stumbled, startled by your quick movements as you raised your leg to kick his head- which he dodged immediately.

Unfortunately for him- you were well aware that he would dodge that, but it was a mere distraction so you could simultaneously punch his stomach, which landed perfectly, making the astounded male wince before he stepped back to gather his composure.

"You're really gonna fight me?" He asked you, his pleading eyes and warm tone almost begging you not to.

You hummed in response. "You're still an enemy to me. If you won't fight back it'll just make my job easier."

With that, you launched forward again, throwing swift kicks and punches at the blond who kept dodging your attacks, not bothered to return them.

You rolled your eyes at his persistence before throwing a punch at him that unexpectedly landed right in his face, leaving him clutching his now bloodied nose. You took the opportunity to trip him, making him land on his back with a harsh thump.

He stared at you wide eyed before you climbed onto his torso and began mercilessly bruising his face with the repetitive swing of your fists.

After a short while, you grew discouraged at his lack of will to fight back, simply taking the hits despite the easy weak points you left for him to attack you- so you halted your movement and gazed down at the man's wounded features in disappointment.

"You're seriously still not going to fight me?"

He returned your gaze with gentle eyes, showing his refusal to hurt you.

"Nope-" He popped weakly. "Nice thighs, by the way." A sly smirk pulled at his bruised lips.

Every hue of red on the colour wheel flashed on your cheeks at once- flustered by the flirtatious comment you failed to defend yourself from his swift response to your lowered guard- grabbing your shoulders with firm hands and flipping you over so he was now hovering over you.

"As I said, I don't fight girls." He repeated, His warm breath fanned your blushing face.

Cursing the butterflies swarming your stomach- that felt a little more like bees that stung you with a sharp, embarrassing pain- you gathered your sanity and pulled your knee up to hit Mikey right where it hurts- making him immediately groan at the impact, dread painting his expression as he rolled off you to lay on the concrete beside you.

"You're really killing my will to fight." You complained, slowly sitting up. Turning to look at Mikey, you noticed his gorgeous face was tainted with bruises and blood due to your violent attacks.

"Wow, You look terrible." You stifled a laugh.

"You think?" He sarcastically added.

Then realisation hit you like a truck speeding on the highway-

"Oh shit- I was only supposed to knock you out, not harm you. Kisaki's gonna kill me-" You rambled, head turning quickly to your previous spot on the container, the speed of your heartbeat slowing down at the relief that the two men were distracted in conversation with each other.

"Come on, before they see this." You rushed, bolting up to your feet and grabbing the injured president whom you now pulled along through the parking lot to the spot behind the containers where all the bikes were parked- the boy limping behind you due to the ache between his legs.

As you reached the spot, you leaned him against your maroon bike while rummaging through Hanma's stuff for the first aid kit.

Mikey squinted at you in confusion- only a moment ago you were beating him blue and purple and now you were treating his wounds?

He opened his mouth to speak but you immediately shushed him, dabbing the alcohol wipes to clean the scarlet off his skin- earning a pained hiss from the boy.

The two of you were silent while you patched up his wounds and he sat patiently like an obedient puppy, listening to every time you commanded him turn his head or be quiet.

"All done." You sighed, tucking the first aid kit back into the compartment of the bike.

"Sorry for beating you up so bad." You apologized, your cheeks tinted pink in embarrassment as you glanced at Mikey's now bandaged face.

Mikey chuckled at your sudden change in demeanor- from bold and confident, to shy and calm, in a matter of minutes.

"It's okay." He reassured.

"Though I'm disappointed that you wouldn't fight me, it's nice to see guys who still give woman basic respect." You leaned against Hanma's black bike, turning to the direction of the parking lot beyond the containers that shielded your gang's belongings. "I wonder if the fight ended yet."

Mikey's gaze followed yours. "Should we check?" He suggested. You hummed in agreement before standing up and walking to the parking lot, with the president following close behind you.

As you turned the corner of a container, you were met with the worried faces of Izana, Kisaki, and a tall man sporting the Toman uniform with blond hair pulled into a ponytail, revealing a black dragon tattooed on his skull.

"Mikey!" The man gasped at the sight of his president, immediately rushing to Mikey's side.

"Draken." Mikey smiled warmly at his companion.

Izana and Kisaki snapped their heads in your direction after processing the miserable appearance of your target, glaring daggers into you.

"You were just supposed knock him out- what the heck Y/N?" Kisaki grumbled at your sheepish grin.

"Well, I forgot. But he's okay now- see?" You assured the pair, gesturing to the bandages wrapped around the male's head and face.

Izana sighed at your foolishness, placing a hand to his forehead in exhaustion.

"Remind me why I made you the top member, Y/N." He sarcastically asked.

"Because clearly-" Your stuck your hands our further emphasizing Mikey's injuries. "- I'm good at fighting." You cheekily grinned.

"Though he wouldn't even fight me- why didn't you tell me he doesn't fight girls?" It was your turn to glare at Kisaki, who was undoubtedly aware of these details before.

"I thought you'd be an exception, since you're from Tenjiku." He claimed.

You scoffed at the man, grumbling curses and complains about a 'boring opponent'.

"Anyway-" Mikey cut you off. "Is the fight over?" He asked his fellow Toman member.

"Well, not really. Everyone got confused about where you went so the fight stopped for a while but I think they're back at it." Draken informed, earning a nod from Mikey.

"Let's continue the battle, shall we?" Izana smirked, turning his gaze to the President of Toman- and his supposed brother. "This time, Mikey, you're against me."

Mikey quirked his brow at the challenge, but nonetheless cracked his knuckles as a show of acceptance.

"It's on." He glared, his attitude now completely different from when you faced him.

The two men went off to duel, and you returned to your spot at the top of the container with Kisaki beside you, watching their battle with interest.

And so the fight went on.

.

.

.

[kmhnsecretexchange]

Title: Mystery of Love

Author: m0shim0chi (Twitter)

For: @blubired

Pairings/Characters: komahina 😎

Rating/Warnings: General Audiences, N/A

Author’s notes: thank you for this compelling prompt!! I hope you like it ❤️💖💕

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45822832

When Komaeda Nagito awoke from the Neo World Program, there were a few surprises that confounded him beyond rational understanding. 

The first was the entire “being alive” thing, but he was brought up to speed on that quickly by Hinata’s careful explanations.

His amputated limb, while rather grotesque to look at, was the result of an event that he could still remember in unfortunate detail - so no surprises there. It was the robotic hand that was currently in progress thanks to Hinata and Souda’s combined genius that rattled him. 

And then, perhaps most perplexing of all, was Hinata’s peculiar insistence on acting as his nursemaid during his achingly slow rehabilitation process. There was some rationality to the situation at first - judging by what he could glean from Hinata’s summarization of what his classmates had been doing while waiting for Komaeda to wake up ( inconveniencing others, always ), Tsumiki struggled to embrace her former title of Ultimate Nurse. A scalpel in her hand held a different connotation now.

Even putting aside their past lives as Ultimate Despair, Komaeda knew he hadn’t made a particularly good impression on the others during their “second chance” in the Neo World Program, so - no hard feelings there. Even aside from that, his luck made him a liability to any living thing around him. If others kept their distance from him, it was truly better that way. 

Everybody but one person seemed to have this common sense.

Just as the sun lazily situated itself in the morning sky, right on cue, Hinata pushed open the unlocked door to Komaeda’s cabin with his hip, carrying a tray balanced with assorted fruits, buttered toast, and a pair of mugs that steamed invitingly. It caught him off guard every time Hinata stopped by with breakfast for the two of them, but Komaeda refused to be seen so disheveled and unkempt like the first time Hinata walked in, so he’s also fallen into a rhythm of expecting his arrival and creating a morning routine. Now, he was already dressed and pulled himself into a half-decent state by the time Hinata came around. Today, Hinata brought for himself a slice of grapefruit and black coffee, a breakfast he seemed particularly fond of nowadays. The bittersweetness of it all brought a little smile to Komaeda’s face as he shuffled next to him on the couch. It was always a surprise when Hinata didn’t instinctively move away when Komaeda sat next to him, but instead greeted him with an expectant look.

“I know this is what you like,” Hinata said halfway through a bite, gesturing to the plate of toast with his spoon, “So you have no excuse not to eat it.” He was helpless to follow his command and nibble on it, just for Hinata’s satisfaction. “You remembered my favorite.” The fact simmered in his chest like the warm mug of tea that sat in front of him, comforting and warm. Hinata seemed suddenly interested in his breakfast, running his utensil around the rind and avoiding Komaeda’s gaze . “Yeah, well. We’re low on rice anyways, so might as well - just. Just eat it.” Komaeda lifted the toast up to his mouth and took a small bite. It was puzzling that Hinata would remember his preferences, let alone bring him a meal whatsoever - but this type of puzzle intrigued him in a way that was different compared to decoding mysteries in the program. While he used to feel like cracking a case in the pursuit of becoming a stepping stone towards a greater hope, investigations and quicksilver words and the speared end of a pendulum, ready to drop at any moment - the burn of this mystery was quieter. Hinata was the only other player in this game, the thrill of the chase was more intimate, the only thing that gave him reason to wake up in the apocalypse and leave the dreams of his programmed sleep behind. 

He took another bite of toast, watching Hinata nod in minute approval. 

Suddenly pragmatic and attentive, something settled over Hinata as his eyes scanned over Komaeda’s body, his personal project. The thought made Komaeda shiver, not entirely displeased with the thought. “You should probably get out more,” Hinata assessed. “You look-”, 

“Like an atrophied worm wriggling in the filth of its sins?”

“…I was actually going to say ‘pale’,” Hinata said, grouching. “I think more sunlight and fresh air will do you some good.” Without elaborating, he brought his emptied plate to the sink and turned on the tap. “Hinata-kun?” “Just do me a favor and, like, take a walk or something? Nidai wants me to start this physical therapy regimen with you, but I think it’s a bit… Intense .” A feeling of giddiness rose up his chest as Hinata spoke. Hinata, truly looking out for him! “But as your- I guess your doctor , or something, I do think you need to move around more.” He scrubbed at the dishes harshly, his arms flexing with each movement. He was more muscular now than how he was in the program, filled out in his frame. Komaeda shouldn’t think it, but - Hinata-kun was even nicer to look at now. “It’s really nothing you should concern yourself with, Hinata-kun, I’m sure you have more pressing responsibilities than managing my wellbeing-” The rusted faucet whined as Hinata stopped the water to turn to look at him, his brow furrowed. This, Komaeda was well-versed in handling. He could handle annoyance or disdain. This was what was supposed to be normal, how Hinata should really feel towards him-

“Can I be honest with you?” Hinata said, leveling with him. Komaeda nodded, eagerly anticipating the ridicule he deserved. “I am trying my best to keep all of us together, or at least alive. If you could at least even try to do what I say and take care of yourself, that would be one less thing for me to worry about. Can you do that? For me?”

Words failed to escape Komaeda’s lips, caught dangling on his sharp inhale of breath from surprise. Hinata was prickly and demanding, but undeniably attentive and caring . Over and over, Hinata refused to walk out, or realize Komaeda was a lost cause who wasn’t worth a precious moment of his time, and Komaeda almost told Hinata as much. But the intensity and pleading as Hinata asked for him to take care of himself, for him, settled weighty on his chest. He knew, inexplicably, that Hinata won’t go anywhere even if he told him to. So Komaeda didn’t know how to react other than to nod, and the newness of being looked after was ill-fitting on his skin, but it earned an approving smile from Hinata which was a present better than anything he could hope for.

“Thank you,” Hinata spoke softly, “I’ll see you again later, okay? Maybe a rematch in chess after dinner again.” Hinata took a step forward but paused. Tension hung suspended in the air like the thick island humidity, and a sun-kissed shade of pink bloomed on Hinata’s face before he quickly turned and yanked the door open, yet shut it gently behind him.

Greedily, he wished Hinata stepped even closer.

And for a brief moment, one that he would immediately repress into the corner of his heart, he wished he was born without his luck so could have stepped closer, too.

The walk around the island did little to sort out the cacophony of questions and worries that nipped at his heels, but having a task to complete felt good. Komaeda even found himself walking towards the hotel - the kitchen has water, and Hinata would be pleased if he stayed hydrated, wouldn’t he? As he stumbles his way up to the second floor, stifling wheezing breaths and sweat clinging his shirt to his skin (maybe Hinata had a point of maintaining his stamina), he found Mioda and Hanamura preparing dinner for the evening with scattered vegetables across the table in front of them. Gundam and Sonia had diligently worked to rebuild the dilapidated Jabberwock ranch - they didn’t have the same livestock that existed in the program, but the garden they nurtured with their combined hopes was truly a marvel. 

“Nagito-chan!” Ibuki waved to him excitedly with a fresh carrot in hand, leaves whipping back and forth. “Have you tried some of Hajime-chan’s yummy bread? 

Just when Komaeda thought he caught his breath, it slipped away again. “Ah-” He coughed, trying to feign a casual demeanor. He has been told it’s rarely convincing. “Did Hinata-kun make it?” Hanamura grunted, eyes downcast on his work. It was a toss-up whether it was because he was focused on his meal prep or because he still couldn’t stand to look at Komaeda. “Hinata wouldn’t get out of my kitchen until it was done.” He peeled the potato with violence. “I see.” Komaeda felt wrong-footed, unsure of how to respond. “Would either of you like any help with-”

“No, thank you,” Hanamura quickly interjected. The sharp edge of the peel glinted under the midday sun shining through the hotel windows. Mioda hummed in agreement, amicably cheering “Ibuki’s got it covered!” Komaeda noted that she appeared to be carving a hyper-realistic human face into a sprout. Best to leave this to the professionals, then. He refilled his canteen and retreated back to his cabin until dinnertime, the image of Hinata making bread from scratch in the dawn-lit kitchen filling his mind.

The evening passed with typical chatter and occasional bickering as the class enjoyed the vegetable soup, and for once the suspicious glances were targeted toward Saionji rather than himself (her ability to spike unsuspecting broths was not easily forgotten or forgiven). The spoon felt a bit clumsy in his hand, uncoordinated and embarrassing, but Hinata tactfully informed him that the prosthetic he and Souda were working on would be ready to go in a matter of days. And then he placed his hand on Komaeda’s knee, a private, reassuring gesture that seemingly shocked the both of them, given how suddenly the touch disappeared as it was received.

They didn’t talk much after that, not until they settled into their usual spots in the downstairs lobby for their game of evening chess. Picking up and moving the pieces would be good to build coordination in his other hand, Hinata said. The justification was questionable, but the routine was nice. Really, overwhelmingly nice. Now, it was how they ended their days since Komaeda woke up from the program- being together. “Did you go for a walk today?” Hinata asked innocuously, pretending to focus on their piece’s positions around the board. 

“Yes, I even drank some water.” He’s halfway to teasing, and Hinata must’ve been able to tell, because he knocked one of Komaeda’s pieces from the board in retaliation with more gusto than necessary. But he could tell that Hinata isn’t actually annoyed, not really - there’s an expression Hinata makes when he’s trying to seem put-out but the tiniest of an escapee grin tugged at his lips and dappled his cheeks, which nobody else on the island seemed to notice, this little quirk of Hinata’s. And upon further reflection, Komaeda can’t recall if Hinata has ever made that smile for anyone else to begin with.

A precious thing, for him. Komaeda knew he shouldn’t push the fragile dynamic they have brewing between them. It was confusing but comforting, and Hinata’s easy companionship and compassion were more than he could ever ask for, but he couldn’t help the words that started to spill from his mouth. The desire to shatter the tenuous air like how the World Destroyer shattered the world of his dreams made his fingers twitch.

“ I was wondering about something,” he started speaking, unsure of the destination that his words were even headed for, but paused when contemplative red and green eyes flicked to meet his own. Hinata’s gaze softened into something kind and curious, and just like that, his convictions began to falter.

“Shoot.” Hinata said, prompting.

Komaeda twisted a lock of hair between his fingers, creating nervous tangles in his wake. “I don’t want to say it. quite offensive to your character. And I don’t want to offend you, but sometimes I think I’m saying something completely reasonable and people get angry or upset with me,” he rambled, an uncomfortable giggle trying to wiggle from his throat. “I don’t want you to be angry or upset. The very thought makes me ill. Actually, maybe we should just retire for the night?” Komaeda said, starting to stand from the lobby couch.

Hinata gripped his wrist before he could flee, not-unkindly pulling him back down. “Alright, alright, slow down. You aren’t going to offend me no matter what you say.” Hinata said, rubbing a thumb into Komaeda’s arm where the muscles remained tense around his grip. “Seriously, it’s fine.”

“Do I even need to say anything?” Komaeda breathed out, feeling like a trapped animal. “Sometimes when you look at me, I feel like you’re dissecting every thought I’m having. You already know what I’m thinking, what move I’ll make.” He couldn’t meet Hinata’s eyes, his gaze retreating into the comforting black-and-white pattern of the chessboard. No shades of gray to be found there, no headache-inducing and heart-fluttering ambiguity. “You probably could have had a checkmate and ended this game numerous times already, but you’re letting me move pieces around the board, watching me.”

There was a beat of silence before Hinata sighed in apparent defeat. “You noticed that, huh.” He ran his hand through the short spikes of his hair, smiling sheepishly in a boyishly charming kind of way that made it difficult to stay frustrated with him. “Okay, yeah. You got me.”

“So why?” Komaeda demanded, leaning back in his chair. “Why are we still playing?”

“I like spending time with you,” Hinata admitted, like it was easy. And while Komaeda had never been particularly great at reading people’s emotions, Hinata’s face suddenly looked like he was running through an artillery of a few different feelings before settling on something shy, almost fond. And then looked at Komaeda like the answer was the simplest thing in the world. “I just like you.”

“That can’t possibly be true,” Komaeda balked, and Hinata mirrored his disbelief.

“You think I’m lying to you?” And Komaeda knew the answer was no , as chasing the evidence underlying Hinata’s vigilant caretaking and understanding the rationale behind the passage of so many wonderful leisurely moments together was what Komaeda was after in the first place- but courting this truth suddenly overwhelmed him. 

When Hinata got up and left after this, Komaeda felt at rights with the world.

When Hinata returned with a cup of tea for him, it sent his heart into disarray again.  “You cracked the case yet?” Hinata said, quietly pushing the porcelain saucer so that the cup’s handle faced him. 

Mechanically, he picked up the cup and took a sip, the perfect flavors hitting his tongue both shocking and expected. Hinata always paid careful attention to brewing his tea just the way he liked. “I don’t know,” he said, lips burning on the drink. “I think you do. You look… Worried.” “What a brilliant observation.”

“Hey.” Hinata moved his hand like he was considering placing it on Komaeda’s knee again, before rerouting and placing it on the table between them. “I don’t want to push you. It’s hard to… To be brave. And face the truth.”

What an understatement. Komaeda nodded in solemn agreement. Hinata upturned his palm towards him, capable and merciful and strong. “But we can do it together, yeah?”

And if Komaeda placed his hand in Hinata’s own, despite his better judgment and fears- well, he would always be a sucker for seeing Hinata smile.

[amadryades]

I was watching recently the greek tv series The red river about the greek Pontiacs massacres from the Turks during early 19th century and honestly it's a difficult watch because it shows how brutal things were and how common people like Greeks, Armenias, Assyrians suffered because of it :(

Now the turkish goverment does the same and honestly I don't why that much hate

I'm sorry but I have many objections against Red River. I really wanted to like this show mainly because of the cast and impressive scenery but couldn't watch more than 2 episodes, I overall found it unnecessarily melodramatic and hostile. AIso I refuse to consume any media sponsored by Ivan Savvides as there's a conflict of interests involved that renders the series far from neutral. I think my biggest concern with red river and overall pontian/minor asian literature and media of a similar direction is the way they handle memory and trauma; reproducing it in an atavistic manner that serves a prosaic (or not...) national narrative of the greek state that is uncomfortably right winged to me. Maybe I'm not entitled to speak at all because my family is "old greeks" and narratives about 1922 and the genocide might carry an entirely different meaning for people with refugee roots but honestly most of them are...poorly written? and lazily summarize the conflicts down to turk=evil.

That being said I don't defend modern Turkey an any manner and as far as I know the topics of genocides and population expulsions aren't discussed or addressed, there's definitely a long way to go and many apologies are owed to the minorities. I really sympathise with your fears, we've all grown up being told there's still a chance of war breaking out and armed conflict in the aegean seems more and more likely to happen in the near future but it's somewhat essentialist to draw a direct line that leads from 1922 straight to Erd*gan (who deserves hell μην τα ξαναλέμε)

[elieclown]

Soooo, there's this scene in Act 2 that's not triggering, and it just deflated my desire to continue Rattie's campaign until it's fixed. I also I ended up starting a fic, because I can't just summarize my Tav's journey normally, it's gotta be in fic form.

There's also two other campaigns I want to start/restart: Tav Troubadour the Forest Gnome Bard who's only a little bit of a drama queen and Dennis the Dark Urge Wild Sorceress with more worm than brain matter in her noggin'

So my ADHD brain needs your assistance.

The fanifc is basically a way or summarizing Rattie's journey in Act 1 as them telling their tale to you, another young ranger, 400 years after the events of the game.

Below is a sneak peak of it:

You are in the woods, caught in thick bramble. The more you tug, the tighter the vines wound around you. You try to slice through the thicket, but no matter how you pierce or slash through the vines, they will not break.

You’re regretting the decision to travel alone. You didn’t think it was necessary. With no other options, you cry for help.

“It’s dangerous to yell in the middle of nowhere friend.”

You hear a stranger’s soft voice, but you cannot see them. All you see are the towering trees looking down on you in judgment. How long was this stranger present, watching you pathetically flail against the bramble?

“You’re lucky I’m no hungry beast. Twice lucky I’m not looking to spill blood today.”

You realize between the stranger’s whispers you can hear a melody of squeaks. Within the thick bramble trapping you are rats, all looking at you with curious beady eyes. You hold back the scream seeking to plunge its way through your throat.

“Oh dear, scared of rats my friend?” The stranger clicks their tongue, and the rats scurry out of the bramble and out of your sight. “Apologies, we don’t often have guests that can come this far in. Nosy things.”

You can finally see the silhouette of the stranger approaching. An elderly drow, with messy white hair and a single black eye, the other made of crystal and glass. On their shoulders are more rats, nuzzling at their skin and hair. On their back is a longbow, in their hands a quarterstaff.

You found them.

“But right now I’d say you’re the nosiest little thing here. This isn’t a part of the woods you can just wander into. So tell me-” They lean their head over the staff, eyeing you lazily. “What brings you here?”

[matterportvirtualtourprovider]

Many Ways By Which 360° Photos And Videos Can Help A Business In India - starts360

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The major 360° photography companies in Delhi are known to cater to numerous types of businesses, right from educational institutions and hospitals to hotels and resorts. Using 360° photography as a marketing tool to display diverse offerings on their website allows companies to ensure that their target audience gets to soak in the true nature of their brand. A single 360° photograph would be able to capture more details than 20 regular photos and enable the viewers to immerse themselves in the setting and feel its ambiance.  This would enable brands to form an emotional connection with the target audience. 360° tends to conjure more emotion and engagement than any typical 2D image or video and has the capacity to leave a lasting impact in the minds of the target audience.

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Brands seeking out the services of 360° photography companies in Delhi today would surely benefit in the long run. As this medium is relatively quite young, not many national or local brands in India have yet employed this technology. Hence, this presents an excellent opportunity for modern businesses to remain at the cutting-edge of market evolution and stand out from their competitors.

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[anordinarymuse]

Hi! I love your fics so much! Can you do a Fred smut where he wakes up to the reader moaning his name in her sleep and then he wakes her up by railing her.

tysmmm and when i tell you i would’ve never thought of something so fucking creative.

noctambulism.

Fred Weasley x Fem!Reader

Summary : the request summarizes it perfectly.

Warnings : dom/sub roles *not explicit* (dom!fred + sub!reader); fingering; swearing; unedited.

Word Count : 400

A/N : the title word is so pretty. also lorde and lana del rey have been my go to's recently asdfhja

the masterlist.

request here.

As my eyelids flutter open, the blinding light shines in through the flat window. I breathe in a slow heavy breath before flipping over to my side. I'm awaited by the view of Y/N peacefully in her sleep.

I stay there, motionless, gazing at Y/N.

"F-fuck, F-fred I-," a quiet whimper escapes her lips.

I blink, perplexed and shocked. I move up, propping up on my elbows, watching Y/N carefully.

"F-fred, oh- f-f-fu-fuck," she stammers in her sleep, gently her head rolls around in her pillow.

While I delicately pull back the covers, watching as her thighs rub together vigorously, a sudden thought comes to mind. When I place my hand on her vibrating skin, she doesn't wake up, only flinches and continues to rub. Her thighs are warm and they glow in the sunlight.

Under the covers, rimmed around right below her hip bones are a pair of cream colored panties. Slowly, I drag the soaking fabric down to her ankles. When she still doesn't awaken, I throw them out of the way, they desert somewhere on the ground.

Her soaked heat drips around her entrance. Her drips slip down her skin, creating a stain on the bedsheets, that puts a smirk on my face.

Careful not to wake Y/N up from her, seemingly, wet dream, about me, I push two digits far up heat. I feel as her body shivers around me, but still she doesn't wake up.

I begin pumping in and out, watching as Y/N grows more and more aroused. The stages she goes through until she's gripping the sheets in her palms, and her back arches above the mattress.

Her moans and whimpers push me into a delirious ecstasy. I can feel myself growing hard as each second passes. Y/N jitters and her thighs rub together again, her body begging for more. I'm tempted to push further, but I'm halted at that though when Y/N's walls tense up around my fingers.

Y/N lets out a delicious moan as she comes onto my fingers. Her body relaxes, falling limp in the mixture of bedsheets and covers.

I slip my fingers in her open mouth, and I feel her tongue instantly swirling around and cushioning my skin. Lazily, Y/N's eyelids flutter open, but her look of exhaustion disappears when she sees me towering over her.

"Good morning, love."

**********

taglist : @marimorena06 @missryerye @agirlwholovescoffee @nicole198205 @blackpinkdolan @gabitanaka47 @psychowanarchist @siriuspvdfoot @hufflepuffflowers @thatguppienamedbae @peachykeen3502 @missryerye @kaslupin @ayla-1605 @chazzyb73 @youngblood199456 @oranee @silly-little-bl0g @bobbyjohnsonbeat @jasgreen101 @will-to-live-who @erinblack003 @bellatrixscurls @krishavania @wh0re4blaise @thegirlwhocriedlupin @mrsaliciamalfoy @wwweasleystan @modernvellichor @westantheweasleys @lolaperezb @savagelysarcasticslytherin @zaraskyla @v4l3nt1n44 @sirisuorionblack @rinbyo @xdancinggurlx @lupinsravenclaw @hogwarts-boys @famdomhideout

[startanewdream]

I just wanted to say that I love all youe stories about jily being alive and harry being a teenager! The talk is one of muy favourites, I'd love to read more of jily learning to deal with Harry and ginny

Hi! I'm so glad you enjoy those stories! ❤

I wrote a moment of one of the milestones for Harry and Ginny, as innocent as Lily will swear it was. Hope you enjoy it :)

_____________

James is rubbing his eyes lazily, not yet quite awakened when he drops himself in the chair in the kitchen.

‘Morning,’ he says tiredly, looking down at the table; then he blinks and looks again. There are four places set at the table.

‘Morning,’ Lily says distractedly, kissing the top of his head before sitting down next to him, her eyes on the Daily Prophet.

‘Sirius is here today?’ he asks, surprised.

‘Hm, no. He said he was going to be in Ireland all week, remember?’

‘Yeah, but then… why four sets?’

Lily presses her lips for a second, glancing in his direction briefly before turning back to the Prophet, turning a page idly.

‘Ginny spent the night here.’

It shouldn’t be something new. Harry’s friends have slept there before; they have plenty of guest rooms for situations like that. But the way Lily says it leaves no room for what she’s suggesting and through the myriad of feelings going through James’ mind at the moment, he settles for a summarized ‘Oh.’

‘It’s no big deal,’ Lily tells him, and her voice tells him adamantly how she is going to handle this new situation. ‘They went out last night, you know.’

‘That date that wasn’t a date,’ James confirms, feeling more awake now.

His son’s love life is always a topic that he’ll gladly discuss, as sluggish as it is at the moment, with Harry and Ginny telling everyone they are taking things slow this second time.

‘Yeah, and Harry mentioned that they might crash here afterwards, because as you always say—’

‘Don’t drink and apparate, yeah.’ He frowns. ‘Why didn’t he tell me anything?’

She looks at him over the paper and James has a sudden vision of Professor McGonagall doing the same over her glasses, watching him with something that borders on disbelief.

‘What would you have done if Harry told you his not-a-date would come home with him?’

‘The conga, probably’, he admits. ‘I can’t help if I cheer for them!’

‘You would make a fuss, and we are not making a fuss about it. It’s just a normal Sunday.’

‘It’s Thursday.’

‘Oh, you know what I meant,’ she replies, though she is smiling now. ‘They need time, they are still working things out.’

‘They’ve seemed to have worked a lot of things if they are sleeping together.’

‘Sleeping—what? No, I set the guest room for her.’

James can’t help his smirk now.

‘Same as my parents set you the guest room the first time you came to visit me?’

Lily shakes her head, crossed, though James won’t be fooled: her cheeks are red, and he knows exactly what memories she is recording right now.

‘They aren’t even together—oh, stop it. You know your son, too noble to do anything improper, unlike his father.’

‘Really? We are playing the innocent card now? It took two to do what we—’

‘Hey!’ Lily cries suddenly, rising to her feet and beaming at Harry and Ginny, who are just now entering the kitchen. ‘Good morning!’

‘Morning, Mum, no need to scream,’ Harry complains, and James won’t be fooled by his son’s apparent nonchalant expression either. His neck is red.

Ginny takes a look at him, then at Lily, and she fights back a laugh. ‘Morning, Mr. and Mrs. Potter,’ she says, taking a seat next to Lily.

Harry looks at the place next to Ginny, where there is nothing set, and after a moment’s hesitation, he sits next to his father.

‘So how was last night?’ Lily asks brightly. ‘You kids had fun?’

‘Kids?’ Harry replies, lifting his eyebrows. ‘You sound as if we are seven.’

‘Well, I’m underage still,’ Ginny remembers, winking at Harry, and something on her face makes him visibly relax, sitting more at ease in the chair. ‘We had a great time, Mrs. Potter.’

‘It’s Lily, dear. So the concert was good?’

‘Yeah, I can’t believe Harry had never seen The Weird Sisters.’

‘I used to have a good musical taste before you,’ he replies, smirking. Ginny rolls her eyes, grinning as much as him.

‘You mean you heard anything Sirius hears. Maybe it’s time to develop your own tastes, Harry.’

‘Oh, I have,’ he answers immediately, and then they’re looking at each other and something is definitely going on between them, something that as much happy James is for them, he doesn’t want to see.

‘Hem, hem,’ he coughs loudly, pretending to choke with his tea, but he doubts anyone was fooled. In any case, it’s enough to break that eye… kissing. ‘You came back late,’ he says, then he winces. It sounds accusing, very fatherly.

‘We lost a little track of time,’ Ginny admits, unconcerned. ‘The show lasted longer than we thought, they kept coming back for another song—’

‘And I said I didn’t know when I was going to be back,’ Harry stresses, frowning. ‘So I can’t be late.’

‘I just meant the hour. I was up all night finishing an article, that’s why I know.’

‘We tried not to make any sound, to not disturb you,’ Ginny says. ‘We thought you would be sleeping.’

‘We came home. Went to bed. The usual,’ Harry says, and very much like Lily, James knows that’s the tone he is hoping to settle for the conversation.

James bits back his comment about going to bed.

Instead, he keeps silent, finishing his breakfast and watching the glances that Harry and Ginny exchange when they don’t think anyone is looking. Whatever they say, they were on a date last night, most definitely, and things were good.

Ginny thanks them for the breakfast after a few minutes and she rises, telling them she needs to go home now. Harry makes a scene of offering to walk with her to the fireplace—James bits the inside of his cheek very hard to not chuckle at this—and when they are gone, Lily turns to him with a smile.

‘Very good. Not a single double-meaning comment about them.’

‘I can behave. When I want.’

‘And I’m proud of you.’ Lily winks at him. ‘If you must know, they did sleep in separate rooms. I heard them coming home last night.’

‘Snooping around, Lily?’

‘Well, I was curious. I may not be as loud as you, but I do support them, you know.’

James laughs. ‘Fair enough. And here I was thinking you had cast Chastity Spells around the house.’

‘Chastity Spells? Is that real?’

‘My mother assured me so, but if they exist, then they are not very effective.’

‘How do you—oh.’ The fire is back at her cheeks, a colour that James enjoys very much. ‘I can’t believe they thought we would need one!’

‘Well, they weren’t wrong,’ he says, smirking, placing his hand over the top of hers and caressing it lightly. ‘Anyway, if they didn’t want me visiting you in the middle of the night, they shouldn’t have made a rule out of it, should they? I was a rule-breaker.’

[st-just]

apropos of nothing in particular, just that i agree with ur opinions on most things and admire how articulate you are (i am not) - how would you define/describe "copbrain"?

Aww, thank you <3

But hmm. Okay, it's honestly not really a term I'd tend to use myself, but reading it brings to mind Planet of Cops, which I think tracks with how it's used?

Conservatives have always been cops, obviously. I mean the literal cops, the professionals, they tend to have a reactionary bent, right. But the people flooding the FCC with complaints about Janet Jackson’s nipple, they’re cops. William Burroughs summarized the whole social conservative movement perfectly as “decent church-going women with their mean, pinched, bitter, evil faces.” People who narc on their neighbors are cops, and people who want to scour test scores to get teachers fired are cops, and people who want to keep an eye on trans people when they go to the bathroom are cops, obviously. Drug test people on food stamps, strip search Muslims at the airport, “let me see your papers please.” Conservatives were born cops, they always have been, they always will.

Milo Yiannopoulos, that pathetic hypocrite who a couple months ago was talking about free speech on campus? He’s a cop, too. The alt-right play up their laughable renegade credentials but when they aren’t calling the literal cops for a SWATting they’re crying to the mods, bitching about unequal enforcement of rules to Twitter, or “turning the tables” by crying for the whatever authority to come rescue them. Just more cops.

Demos firing Matt Bruenig because someone dropped a dime on him to powerful people. The little army of snitches who have written to my employers and tried to divest me of my job. The self-appointed Twitter police — they’re in every subculture of that forum — who constantly start shit, DMing people to berate them for who they follow or whose work they boost, the ones who keep an oppo file on everybody, who try and regulate other people’s friendships. The ones who keep a big file folder of screen grabs, just waiting to play judge and jury. They’re cops.

The woke world is a world of snitches, informants, rats. Go to any space concerned with social justice and what will you find? Endless surveillance. Everybody is to be judged. Everyone is under suspicion. Everything you say is to be scoured, picked over, analyzed for any possible offense. Everyone’s a detective in the Division of Problematics, and they walk the beat 24/7. You search and search for someone Bad doing Bad Things, finding ways to indict writers and artists and ordinary people for something, anything. That movie that got popular? Give me a few hours and 800 words. I’ll get you your indictments. That’s what liberalism is, now — the search for baddies doing bad things, like little offense archaeologists, digging deeper and deeper to find out who’s Good and who’s Bad. I wonder why people run away from establishment progressivism in droves.

A cop culture is one where a mob forces a company to patch its game because the treatment of video game parrots is somehow deficient. Do you buy that narrative at all? Do you think any single human being is so fucking daft as to believe that lots of children are going to be inspired by Minecraft to feed their real parrots real chocolate chip cookies? Or do people like being cops? Do they like being in a position to make demands? Do they like lazily threatening people, “nice company you have here… wouldn’t want it to get embroiled in some controversy”? People are alienated and worn down and hopeless, and so they see their opportunity to finally be the one pulling over somebody else’s car, lazily tapping the glass with their flashlights. “I’m the one in charge now,” he thinks, as he sends an email to somebody’s boss over a Facebook status he doesn’t like.

The idea of the panopticon is one of the most tired and clichéd bits of theory talk you’ll find, one that reliably makes its way into every undergraduate paper and TV recap. It’s also wrong. See, the panopticon says we all get watched all the time, but there’s still a division between the guards and the prisoners. There’s still people who do the watching separate from the watched. And that’s not real life. No, in real life we’re all guards and prisoners at the same time. We are all informants on each other. Contemporary political culture is an autoimmune disorder. Do you enjoy living like this? Are you not exhausted? Don’t you want to break out? Or are you happy here, content to judge and judge and judge and never stop judging? Then congrats. Welcome to the nation of finks, planet of cops. Enjoy. Enjoy. Enjoy.

But okay, if I had to narrow it down, I'd some cop-brained is combination of

-Believing that all misdeeds and offenses should be reported to a higher authority for judgement and punishment - whether that's the literal police, a regulatory body, the offenders employer, or just the public eye. A general feeling that private individuals resolving things among themselves are basically illegitimate, judgement should be handed down by something with an org chart and press office.

-A bone deep feeling, regardless of ostensible political commitments, that real justice is retributive, that someone whose done something really wrong can never be forgiven until they're dressed in sackcloth and ash, wailing in misery and abjectly begging for mercy. (When many people say they don't believe this, what they actually mean is they don't really think a lot of people who have been punished by society did anything worth punishing)

-just a general gossipiness? Like, the feeling that private drama and conflict is in fact the rightful fuel for public spectacle (and that, once public, it deserves to be judged and those in the wrong appropriately punished). A visceral aversion to the idea that something might not be any of their business.

But honestly I can see a couple different alternate definitions as well, depending on the exact light cone of discourse you're operating in.

[ilovemybettafish]

16 Questions to Consider When Protesting Against Israel:

As demonstrations against Israel take place around the world, I am asking those in my Facebook world who might be attending one to please consider the following questions in advance:

1) When demonstrators chant “Free Palestine from the River to the Sea”, meaning from the Mediterranean to the Jordan, do you realize they are calling for the ethnic cleansing of 6.5 million Jews from their indigenous ancestral homeland? Is so, where do you suggest these Jews go, who will take them and how do you plan to guarantee their safety? My elderly in-laws were born and raised in Israel. What should they do? What will keep them from the fate of the Kurds?

2) If Jews are not indigenous to Israel, where are they indigenous to? From where did they come? And why does Israel host so many Jewish religious artifacts and archaeological sites featuring Hebrew inscriptions? Were those planted underground as some sort of grand ruse? Would you consider an Irish person choosing to reside in Ireland as a form of colonialism?

3) If Israel’s citizens are guilty of genocide, as the demonstrators regularly declare, why are they so bad at it? After all, the population growth in Gaza and the West Bank far outstrips that of Israel proper. And why is Israel giving advance warning to Gaza’s inhabitants so they can flee before Israel fires upon Hamas installations, such as the media tower today? 10) Is Israel that inept at genocide? And if not, how do you think it feels for a people who actually suffered genocide to have the accusation so lazily slapped upon them?

4) Have the protesters around you shown equal concern for the genocide of Uighurs in China or the Rohingya in Myanmar? Have they recently protested at either country’s embassy? 11) If not, why is the situation in Israel so unique for them? What makes the Jewish State so particularly villainous in their eyes?

5) When people such as Bernie Sanders say “Palestinian Lives Matter”, do you honestly believe that Israelis feel otherwise? I don’t know any Jews or Israelis who are not distraught over the death of civilians in Gaza, and wish desperately that a peaceful resolution could be found that would allow all of Israel’s inhabitants to live safely and securely in the land. Do you really conceive of Israel as an entire country of genocidal maniacs?

6) What will you say (not if but) when the protesters’ chants mutate from Anti-Zionism to Anti-Semitism with calls to harm Jews wherever they may be found? Late last week, one such demonstrator bloodied a Jewish man with a metal chair. Does this sit well with you? Does your protest include Anti-Semitic images of Jews as vermin or blood thirsty animals? Accusations of Jews controlling the world’s media and finance? Libels of Jews as demonic or parasitic? Do you realize this is why all synagogue preschools need to hire full time security guards?

7) If Israel is truly an apartheid state, how is there such diverse representation of various communities within private industry and government office? In America, can you openly advocate for the country’s destruction and yet serve in congress? You can in Israel! How did Israeli Arabs come to make up 9% of Israel’s Knesset members? And how did Arab Israeli George Karra get a seat on Israel’s Supreme Court? Why do the majority of Israeli Arabs regularly poll that they would rather remain citizens of Israel than one of her neighbouring states or even a newly formed Palestinian state?

8) Did you know that the majority of Israeli Jews are from the Middle East or North Africa? Or did you assume they all present as white? And if Palestine is truly “freed” from the Jews, will you tell the hundreds of thousands of Jews who fled to Israel when they were expelled from Arab countries to “go back to Europe”?

9) If you are upset about the wide discrepancy of civilian casualties between Israelis and Palestinians, would you feel better if more Israelis were killed? Should Israel be blamed for building bomb shelters and Iron Dome missile defense systems while Hamas shoots rockets from schools and hospitals? Would more dead Jews satisfy your rage?

10)If Hamas has so little money for infrastructure and services for its citizens, how do they afford 2,000+ rockets, tunnels, drones, etc? Where did those come from? Did they suddenly win the lottery?

11) Do you think that if Israel returned to its 1967 borders and offered a Palestinian capital in East Jerusalem, that all would be forgiven? If so, why was an offer of nearly this magnitude turned down without even a counteroffer? Why does Hamas’ charter distinctly call for the destruction of Israel and attacks upon Jews? And why did the Arab states seek to wipe Israel off the map both in 1948 and 1967 when not a single settlement existed?

12) Did you know that Gaza shares a border with Egypt, which could be opened at any time? Have you protested against Egypt for not doing so? Jordan occupied the West Bank between 1948 and 1967. Why was a Palestinian State not declared during this time? Why is Israel uniquely to blame for the Palestinians’ awful predicament?

13) Did you know that Israel allows for a free press while all pictures and stories out of Gaza must be approved by Hamas? Did you ever wonder why there aren’t more pictures of Hamas terrorists in action? And if an Israeli soldier shoots a Palestinian teenager who lunges at her with a knife, is she guilty of killing a child?

14) If Israel is a warmonger for attacking Hamas missile positions, what would be the more appropriate response as its citizens are fired upon? Sit tight and wait until the attacks end? Offer thoughts and prayers? What would the US do if Mexico launched 2,000 rockets from Tijuana into San Diego?

15) If your protest is co-organized by Jewish Voice for Peace, do you actually know any Jews who affiliate with this group? Do you realize that they serve as a cover for Anti-Zionist rhetoric and openly advocate for the destruction of the State of Israel? Do you also think that the Westboro Baptist Church speaks for all Christians? Because I would bet that the ratio is pretty similar.

16) And perhaps most importantly - where are you and your fellow protesters receiving your information? Do you think Twitter, TikTok and Instagram offer the depth of analysis that such a complex situation requires? Can the conflict really be summarized in a tidy meme? Have you spoken with anyone who has spent considerable time in Israel, the West Bank or Gaza? Does your favorite celebrity or influencer research Middle Eastern history in their free time? Would you take a Middle Eastern Studies class taught by Dua Lipa?

I fully understand your sense of empathy for the plight of civilians under fire and the awful images of maimed children and dead civilians. And I understand your desire to point towards a culprit and define a terrible situation in terms of good and evil. And I similarly understand the propensity to equate powerlessness with nobility and power with corruption. But I ask you to consider these questions and decide for yourself if these protests truly share your values.