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renaroo · 6 years

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Sweet Home (3/4)

Disclaimer: Red vs Blue and related characters are the property of Rooster Teeth. Warnings: Language, Canon-typical violence, PTSD and past trauma, Mentions of wartime Rating: T Synopsis: [Modern AU] In the aftermath of war, Wash is left with little direction in his own life. On his own, he takes up an ad for a roommate and suddenly finds himself wrapped up in the perplexing life of Doctor Emily Grey.

A/N: Long time, little see, and I’m truly sorry about that <3 For those who don’t know, as of January this year I have taken on quite a few more jobs than what we had before. I am a graduate student but on top of that I began teaching classes for the university on my own and I have been working very hard on my research project which is picking up steam now that the mating season for wolf spiders has begun! So busy busy here though I do hope everyone has had a good few months themselves and that this story is still worth the wait for those who come back to it <3 I appreciate you all more than you know

A special shout out to @secretlystephaniebrown, @splendiferousblog, @freelancerfeels, @ziggyzagzag, Yin, om3g4, and Zed Said from AO3, ffn, and tumblr for the feedback and support! You guys really help to make this experience that much more rewarding!

Drawing Lines

It has been a very long week and, despite knowing that the town is less than a few miles wide at best, Washington hasn’t brought himself to do much more than accompany Emily Grey to the store and back in order to carry groceries.

As he lays in his bed that still doesn’t feel very much like his, it really and truly hits him how small the world seems after the war. He left for it with this idea that the universe is large and vast, that he is truly fighting for things to be better and for home to be stronger and more taken care of than it ever had been before.

But the world is small and knowing it intimately only proves to show Washington the worst of its cracks and pitfalls.

He fought for this town, he fought for a place like Sweet Home to live up to its name. But the streets are cracked, the roads have holes, and most of the properties have grass reaching for higher standards than the owners.

Sometimes, laying in his bed outside of his supposedly only two hours of consistent sleep, Washington finds himself staring at the proverbial and literal wall, holding his breath and counting to ten.

He’s waiting for an answer. He’s waiting to be told what it is that he sacrificed everything that once made him human for.

He’s waiting for things to make sense again. But without reveille or shouts or marching orders, it just doesn’t.

And the world just gets even smaller around him.

For every morning that Wash woke up to a full course meal and a half naked housemate, there is a morning where he wakes up to absolute silence and solitude.

Asking questions, even if normal and social, feels invasive and uncomfortable, even in concept, for Wash so he opts instead to rely on powers of observations and checking for patterns. The most easily noticed of these being the way the stacks of books all over the house change by the day, and especially how much they change — or how much they grow — on the days that Emily is absent in the mornings and not back until the late nights.

It is then that Wash puts together that his housemate, the already-doctor, is actually still a student. That is why so many younger college age people are coming in and out of Sweet Home.

It’s as questionable as the anomaly that is Emily Grey herself, but again, the anxiety of actually phrasing a proper question that isn’t intrusive, rude, bigoted, sexist, out of touch, judgmental, arrogant, condescending, or just plain vague is too much and Washington fumbles it even in theory.

So he sticks to counting book stacks and making himself cereal on lonely mornings.

Not lonely. Solitary.

Lonely implies that Washington doesn’t prefer it and, well, he doesn’t. But he doesn’t unprefer it either.

And that’s the rub of it.

For all the draining exhaustion that proximity to Emily’s rotation of guests brought him, Washington finds himself not doing much with his solitary time either. Just checking the news, getting the mail, and digging through his own thoughts with all the caution and malaise afforded to a gravedigger.

He’s in the middle of just that one particularly solitary morning, a cereal bowl still in his grasps, when the back door next to the stove opens up with a loud BANG. It’s as if a tornado was trying to rip the door from its hinges, and Washington can’t even process it before the solitary space he has masked himself in becomes occupied by a bounding creature with fur and teeth and an odor similar to tarmac.

There’s a moment, after the sharp paws are buried into Wash’s chest but before the back of his chair is going to find itself addressing the floor, that Washington thinks a bomb has gone off — one that bends reality and warps the quiet he strangles himself with optionally is transported back to scorching heat and screams and the worst that people can do to one another.

It’s a hysterical notion, one that would possibly rival the sort of genuine psychosis that seems to get his housemate all riled up about his sleeping habits, but it’s the only thing Washington can think before he’s dazed on the ground with a literal dog standing on his pajama covered chest, rotating around like it’s looking for the next challenger in a game of King of the Hill.

“Freckles!”

Washington takes in the moment once again. He’s not dying. He’s not shot. There’s not a war in the kitchen, only whatever intrusion Emily Grey has brought upon his life again. And he doesn’t even get in a count to three for his anger exercises before the fury erupts from him like a volcano.

“What the hell is going on!?” he gets out, only to have the dog’s attention whip right back to him.

The dog is a sharp looking, large chested doberman. Chocolate colored where Wash’s senses tell him it should be black, tan where it should be brown on its nose and wrapped around its feet like socks. The eyes are yellow, intimidating, and it has ears pinned high from cropping. Washington hadn’t even realized it was a practice with animals anymore, but he supposes on reflection that inhumanity isn’t restrained to what people do to each other.

What is just as shocking is the man who the voice belongs to.

He comes around the kitchen island with a curious, wide eyed look on his face, lips drawn together in a surprised oh as he examines the situation he brought upon Sweet Home.

The man is large and bulking. Wash’s instincts are to think it’s fitting of his extremely large dog but, somehow, the man is even too large and thick even for that to be a complete fit. He’s not chiseled so much as he’s built large, and his head is weighed down by a mess of spiky, unkempt hair that stands end on end in a way that tells Washington the man’s less familiar with a brush than even Wash is. His skin is tanned hide but not wrinkled or old, just worn and not as well taken care of as he could use.

He’s wearing a blue hoodie and khaki pants that have not a single wrinkle, and those are the strangest things in Wash’s mind because the man is also wearing with them standard issue military boots.

“Hello!” the man says loudly.

“Is this your dog!?” Washington demands just as loudly. There’s a low stage of panic beginning to set in as the dog looks less happy to have Washington talking and Washington’s chest is feeling less happy to have a dog standing on it.

For a moment, the man seems more surprised than Wash, and he glances toward the dog as if there is some other dog that Washington would be addressing. And a big, goofy smile crosses his face as he looks back down to Wash.

“Oh! Yes. This is Freckles. He is a very good boy. Aren’t you, Freckles? Aren’t you a very good boy?” the man coos toward the dog.

Taking his gaze off of Wash, the dog turns around and looks at the man, nub of a tail wagging so hard his entire butt is moving with it. The dog’s front paws pick up and ram down many times excitedly on Wash’s chest. Then it barks loud and keening.

“Get him off of me!” Wash demands in a hiss between gasps of breath.

Blinking again, the man glances down at Washington, then looks around the house in confusion. “Oh, no. I don’t know you. I thought this is the Sugar House. Oh no. This is very bad. I do not want trouble again. I only want the nice lady doctor in the Sugar House—“

The man sounds panicked, and the more he panics, the more the dog reacts. First with a whining bark, then with finally leaping from Wash’s chest toward the man. It prances around its human before pressing the flat of its head into the palm of the man’s hand.

And, suddenly, Wash begins making sense of things. The solitary doesn’t come back, but he’s not gone into chaos anymore.

Not any more than usual, by any means.

“Do you mean Sweet Home?” Wash asks as he raises up to a sitting position, holding onto his no doubt bruised ribs.

“Yes!” the man calls out excitedly. “Oh! Oh! Do you know where it is? I am very lost. Which is strange. Because Sheila told me where to go and I did not believe I was lost so now it is me being confused where I thought I was not. You see?”

Washington feels himself slipping into the chaotic one more time but he fights it, instead clearing his throat and repositioning himself into a more confident stance. “I don’t know who Sheila is, but yes. You are at Sweet Home. You aren’t confused. Well. You’re not anymore confused right now than I am. Uh. I live here now. With Doctor Grey. Emily. Doctor…lady. Am I making sense? I don’t think I am.”

However, the confused posturing seemed to be speaking to the man’s language because his grin only grows and grows the further the conversation goes down the rabbit hole.

“I am at the Sugar House?” he asks. “And you’re the new friend at Sugar House?”

“I’m… what?” Wash asks, the chaos threatening to swirl out of control.

Without clarifying, the man pulls out a large smartphone from his pocket and holds it flat close to his chin. It looks a little awkward from Washington’s angle, like the finer motor movements are lacking refinement.

“Sheila!” the man shouts across the surface of the phone, causing the screen to light up with a familiar app — the service assistant. “Thank you! I’m here!”

“I am happy for you, Private!” the smartphone cheerfully responds.

And, again, Wash pieces it all together.

After all, the service assistant had been offered to him, just like every other veteran from the War. The high tech phone app was a personal assistant for recovering servicemen and women. It was a bit of an insult to be offered one, even though almost no human soldier left the terrain without it being beneficial to have one.

The stigma had been enough to keep Washington away from accepting the service assistant at the time, and as a result he unwittingly had refuted future medical and mental health claims he could take from his service. It seems that pride was a good way to keep those who gave almost everything to their country from actually receiving anything in return.

While judgments flared up in Washington’s mind, driven into his instincts from basic, he also wondered if the man before him is actually a secret genius.

“What branch did you serve in?” Washington finds himself asking.

The main blinks at him, stroking the dog’s head as he fumbles his phone back into his pockets.

“I was marines,” Washington offers again.

“Yeah, I was with Church and Tucker,” the man says happily. “Did you know them?”

Wash feels his brows knit together in concern. “I… no?”

“Oh, okay. They were with me. I never remember being in a tree,” he states with a shrug of his large shoulders.

“Okay,” Wash says. “Well, my name is Washington.”

“That’s a funny name,” the man says with no tact. “I am Michael J. Caboose.”

“That’s a funny name,” Wash says sardonically before he can even catch himself.

Almost as if he understands, the dog pins his ears back against his head and lets out a low string of growls in Washington’s direction. He doesn’t seem to appreciate Wash’s sarcasm. But his master doesn’t seem to mind.

“It is funny. We both have funny names. I’ve never met a General Washington. I bet you’ve never met a Caboose. Or maybe you did. Have you met any of my sisters? I have many of them. It wouldn’t surprise me,” Caboose says breathlessly.

“Who knows in this town,” Wash says with a soft laugh of his own. “And believe me, I’m no general. Kind of glad I’m not… except for the retirement benefits.” He tries to laugh again but sees only blankness in return from Caboose. Wash coughs to clear the air and then tries to move things along in a way that may not hint to the other man that Washington has absolutely no idea how to handle social situations. At all. “I’m sorry I wasn’t expecting you. Emily didn’t mention anything about someone coming in today. Not… that she ever mentions it… But she’s never gone for too long if you want to sit in and wait.”

“Oh, no, thank you, no. I cannot stay. I cannot stay because I have to go. Sheila has told me many times already that I have to go. She has been reminding me everyday that today is the day that I have to go.” Caboose explains without any semblance of explanation. He then looks like an idea has just crossed his mind and he fumbles in his pockets again to repeat the move with his phone. “Sheila!”

“Yes, Caboose?” the service assistant says, lighting up.

“Tell Mister Washington how I have to go!” he says with the excitement of a kid at Christmas.

“Private Michael J. Caboose must be at the platform in forty-five minutes in order to depart on the 343 train to—“

“See, I told you,” Caboose interrupts, shoving his phone back without even bothering to tell the app to turn off. Wash can’t help but stare at the way it glows through the man’s khaki pants in the worst way imaginable. “I cannot stay for the doctor. I have to leave. I have a train.”

“Oh, okay,” Wash says. “I’ll…uh… tell Emily you came by then. I’m sure she’ll be sorry that she missed you.”

Caboose’s smile is brilliant, but sort of in a way that Wash isn’t sure what he’s smiling about. “Oh, she’ll know.” He then turns to face his dog and gets down on one knee to be level with him. The dog, almost knowingly, begins whining like a puppy. “Be a good boy! Be a good boy! I’ll be home soon, yes be a good boy!”

Processing the moment takes Washington a second longer than he should and, as suddenly as his morning was interrupted by Caboose, it is being uninterrupted by the man stepping out the door.

“Wait what,” Washington finally manages to utter just before Caboose grabs the handle of the back door.

The large man waves emphatically. “Thank you, General! I will see you and the good doctor lady soon! But I have to get to my train!”

“Private Michael J. Caboose’s train is departing in forty-two minutes—“

“Wait! I don’t know—“ Washington tries to shout but the door is slammed shut with tremendous force, enough to make one of Emily’s piles of books nearby tip over and go scattering across the floor.

Washington and Freckles both stare at the books for a few disquieting seconds.

Then Washington gives the dog a wary look. “I can’t escape the nonsense can I?”

The dog snarls in return before huffing. It then walks — with confidence and ownership of the house that Washington dreams of building up to at some point before his fifties — through the short hall from the kitchen and into the living room where it promptly takes the seat that Washington has been using for the last week.

“God damn it Emily,” Wash curses at the air, nose curling.

When Grey returns home it is with the flourish that Washington has com to expect.

It’s almost like nothing in the world and changed and everything is good and there’s nothing but perfect innocence exuding from Emily’s every pour. And that doesn’t change even slightly as she trounces on through the door and looks down to meet Wash’s gaze.

For his part, Washington’s sitting on the floor with his back against three stacks of books. The one in his hand has been occupying the space he had been staring at prior to Emily’s entrance.

A funny expression came over Emily’s perpetually peasant face as she locks eyes with Wash and she puts her hands on her hips, flouncy skirt bobbing in a wave. “Why, Washington! What are you doing on the floor, silly?”

There’s some sort of crack in Wash’s forced smile like his teeth are too sharp to be contained. “I’ll give you three guesses,” he offers.

Then, there’s a ferocious bark from the living room that draws Emily’s eyes away from him.

“The first two guesses don’t count,” Wash declares as the dog’s head pokes out from around the corner.

“Freckles!” Emily calls out in utter delight.

With a complete change in character, Freckles loosens up the ramrod straightness of his body and begins bounding through the hall, heftily landing two paws on Wash’s lap without warning. By the time the dog is at Emily, he’s nothing but an overgrown puppy with a wagging tail and playful keening barks.

She happily catches the dog’s front paws and meets his nose.

It would be an adorable image if Washington wasn’t already sick to death of everything surrounding it.

“That all we got to say?” he demands soothingly.

Emily looks up from the dog, a curious smile, but a smile all the same, looking back on him. “What now?” she acts coyly.

“This has to stop!” Wash snaps, finally getting to his feet, slamming the book in his hands onto the top of one of piles of books as he does so.

Of course, the world never wants things to work out simply for Washington and in mere moments after his tantrum, the line of books begins to topple as a result. And soon, like dominos, the books around the house begin to fall, one into another, all around them.

Freckles is unhappy at the development and bravely gets between Wash and Emily, growling with his haunches raised.

Emily Grey is looking around in complete shock.

Washington feels like an asshole. “Goddammit! I mean. I’m sorry. Here,” he mutters, beginning to get on one knee to pick up the stray books. But he stops himself, after only grabbing two, he gets back to his feet and shakes his head. “No. No! Okay. Goddammit. I have to… I have to say something before it makes me explode!”

“Like defacing hundreds of dollars of property belonging to a roommate?” Grey offers.

“Fucking— yes,” Washington grits his teeth angrily. “This is not going to work if I don’t say anything, and you know what? I actually want this to work. I want to live here. I want to be… I don’t know. I want to be here with you. In this house. Stupid. Confectionary. Sugared-ice-tea house.”

“Sweet Home,” Emily answers, like it’s vital to the conversation. “Why do you want to be here, Mister Washington?”

Wash stares at her, beginning to wonder if she’s listened to anything he’s ever said but, suddenly, looking into her eyes, he realizes for the first time that she is being frightfully serious.

She wants to know. Which, is to say, she doesn’t understand.

“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” Wash answers pathetically.

“Neither do I,” she agrees.

“Yes, but it’s still your house at the end of the day,” Wash says. “I can leave, even if there’s nowhere to go. Because this house isn’t mine. Because there are no parts of it — no lines in it — that are mine and only mine. I need. I need…”

“Boundaries?” she tries to guess again.

Wash scowls at her. “Respect,” he corrects her. “And I’m…. I’m just not going to receive it as long as you continue to be inconsiderate of our differences.”

It isn’t quite knocking down every book in a maze of a house, it isn’t quite a fiery explosion, but it’s every bit of Washington’s guts and brains spewed out all the same. Words he hasn’t even put together fully formed in his own mind yet are suddenly there, bared open for them both.

For the first time since they met, Emily Grey is speechless.

Until she isn’t.

“So you are a cat person?”

Washington takes off up the stairs, fuming all over again and not sure when he’s going to blow.

#writing #rvb fic #RvB: Sweet Home #Agent Washington #Emily Grey #Michael J Caboose #AI: Freckles

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lettersforyoulettersforme · 7 years

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August 2nd. Holy shit. Summer always does that thing where it’s basically gone the second it arrives. Like an orgasm. Or a long weekend trip with your boyfriend. Or the last train home.

I’m sitting in the Potter’s House with a fresh cup of coffee that smells divine. I feel like my sense of smell has developed more as of late? Like I can smell the flowers in my bedroom so strongly sometimes that I have to move them to a different spot because their pungency keeps me awake. Maybe it’s me… but it’s most likely cheap ass Trader Joe’s flowers. ANYWHO, the coffee is inticing after a late night after a long day. I worked from 8-4:30 and then came home to watch Grey’s and curl my hair. Basically unwind for a few hours because I deserve it. I have been super stressed as of late. Just with the whole Ai Elo situation and then finding the apartment and then moving and then finding new tenants to occupy the space. I just need a huge exhale and a massage. I honestly might book one for myself. I definitely need a pedicure at the very, very least. I feel like I have aged 10 years in the past 2 weeks. It has been so stressful and I hate that I’m letting it get to me. But honestly, who wouldn’t let all of this affect them?

I had a lovely acupuncture appointment on Monday with Wendi (since Jim is away). She’s an acupuncturist and a reki healer and I loved her energy. She was so open to my experiences and just wanted to help me heal from the trauma. I told her about my waking up in the middle of the night and she noted that I was being too vigilant. She didn’t say it in a condescending way, just as an observation. And I think she’s right. Just being vigilant and listening in my apartment in the night convinced that someone is there. She told me that I should invite warm spirits and warm, happy presences and energies into my bed before I sleep as a way to feel more comforted. I liked that idea and it worked last night. I did mention that whenever I’m sleeping with someone in the bed, I don’t feel scared or wake up mid- night. I just wish I could be that comforting presence for myself but not right now.

I feel like I haven’t seen Stephen in a hot second. He’s been crazy busy with work and I guess the last time I saw him was Sunday evening. He was doing invoices and we had dinner and Jess from work dropped off boxes. That sweet angel. I need this vacation with Hayley ASAP and I know that Stephen’s mini vacations are coming up soon. He needs them too. We’re both stressed with moving and Ai Elo was traumatic for him as well. It’s just been a lot. I hate that this whole thing is defining my summer but what can I do? Wendi and I were also talking about the way in which grief and inspiration are the same energy, just channeled in different ways. Or that’s the way it is in Chinese medicine. But I agree with that. Makes a shit ton of sense to me. She had me sit in a chair and feel the weight and support of the chair on my legs and back and butt. It was so Marcia of her and I realized how much I missed having someone there to literally walk me through a savasna (essentially). The whole session was glorious and it makes me miss Jim and wish that I could still have Wendi too. I just want all the acupuncture and all the holistic medicine my body can handle! Maybe Snee and I can find a santucuary or something or the sort in Portland. That seems like the place to find a little bit of peace.

But you know, this whole experience has, in the most cliche of ways, inspired me in my own life. Because my life is drenched with beauty! I have amazing friends and a wonderful boyfriend and a great home. I am happy to have known Ai Elo because as much as I didn’t want a roommate, I loved having her as a friend. She was a little bit much at times but I do feel like she made an impact. She has this gorgeous lamp in her room. It’s made from a branch she found in the woods. She widdled it down and there are tiny little bulbs wound around the lamp that have succulents and spanish moss and crystals inside them. The whole thing is STUNNING and I remember that it was one of the first things I knew about her- that she made her own furniture. I always thought that was cool as shit and she even brought home an old cabinet/ table thing once that she found and sanded it down. It’s still in the living room. Not as beautiful as the lamp but I would never just take something off of the street. That’s what I loved about Ai Elo, she just had this determination that seemingly random things could be something. One time her friend’s mother or grandmother died and she took some dried lavender and put it in a mini satchel and gave it to her friend. I thought that was the kindest and most generous thing. What a sweet and simple gift for someone who is hurting. I also just fucking love lavender.

I’m over here (sorry for the jumping around of thoughts. I’m midway between this post and looking into classes for the fall and texting people and googling thrift stores in Portland) but I’m also over here looking up all the fun things to do in Takoma! It looks so cute and I can’t wait to check it out further. They have this place to get your hair cut and I may pop in their sometime soon. After I buy all of my textbooks… kill me over that. I’m definitely renting them because it’s so much cheaper, but it’s still expensive. Speaking of which, I just got a jolt of excitement about school starting back! I really can’t wait. I’ve been so focused on the negative aspects like the stresses of moving and having no free time. But I really am truly excited to be back in school! I realize it’s such a gift and a privilege. I can’t wait to do more learning and reading. Ha we’ll see what I’m like 4 weeks into the semester, but I can dream and make grand gestures NOW.

I feel like sometimes I’m not enjoying and relishing in my life enough. Last night felt like me enjoying life a lot. I was with friends eating the most divine food (fucking T Bone steak with pine nuts and thyme and garlic cloves cooked on top and a Chilean Sea bass with a celergy root glaze and the most amazing chive and sour cream mashed potatoes. Glasses of gorgeous and delicious rose and breads and cheeses and pork belly. I’m still not over it and if Hayley comes back here, we’re going there ASAP. This restaurant is like the opposite of vegan friendly and I couldn’t be happier about it.) Also, I did karaoke last night! For the first time ever. I know, I know. I wish Hayley could have been a part of it. But now my fear is gone and I’m just loving it and seeing it for the fun that it is. I sang “Man I feel like a woman” and it’s just a fucking classic. We were there as the place was closing and I watched Tesia freak out so much about what song to chose and what was in her range. She really wanted to sound amazing and as fucking obvious as it sounds, that’s not the point of karaoke. But I thought that was the point/ that was my fear until last night. And then I suddenly realized how fun and freeing it is. I should just listen to Hayley more. First the tattoos and now the karaoke. This bitch knows what’s up.

Stephen and I sign the lease for our new apartment tomorrow. OUR apartment. I feel much less nervous that I felt like I would. It’s gonna be a test and I’m gonna give him his space and I know he’ll give me mine. I’m just excited to have something that it is purely ours.

Let’s see what else I can say… Just trying to find a place for Mom, Dad, Char and I to have dinner when they’re in town. It’s proving difficult (as always) to find a casual place that isn’t too expensive and it’s loud as shit so that my Dad can hear). Honestly, I may just do a Founding Farmers Restaurant. Not mine personally but one of our restaurants… get that discount, you know!

Alright, I’ve rambled on enough. As always, thankful for the outlet!

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yessoupy · 7 years

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con’t from here

@thebiggestfanoffans continues with

Some of the Larries’ hypocricy is beyond belief, just recently, in the light of Louis’ arrest, I wrote a long ass rant to someone in the fandom (not mentioning names):

the next three paragraphs are about james arthur, about whom I know nothing and don’t care (don’t send me anons explaining this, literally don’t care). I’ll go ahead and post the paragraphs here so if any of the rest of you care, you can have the full post. I’d excise them altogether, but the following paragraph links this rant to “the anti side” so. I guess it’s relevant.

“The hypocrisy in this fandom is fucking unbelievable. I see posts saying "be a decent human being and respect others” while the same people, in any other time literally shittalk on people just because they don’t like them. Remember James Arthur? Where was your respect then? I understand that he said nasty things, I disagree with him just like everyone else. But they took it another level and literally dragged his name through the dirt. Simon? Dan? Eleanor? Brianna &co? etc? Same. […]

“I like James’ music, I think he’s a talented artist, not a great spokesperson, but his music has nothing to do with that. Then people posted “don’t support James/if you listen to James you’re just as bad as him”, etc. The X Factor? I LOVE it. […] I find it amusing and enjoyable, same with BGT. posts? “YES FINALLY SIMON’S DISGUSTIN SHOW IS ENDING”. Don’t watch TXF, it’s the creature of the Devil himself. Literally anyone who ever said a bad word about the boys is a dusgusting piece of shit for this fandom, and they promote/manipulate you not to like their stuff. […]

"I don’t like a lot of people, but I’m mature and “decent human being” enough that I treat them with respect, even at their lowest. […] Because I’m not in highschool anymore, because I HAVE respect to people and I AM a decent human being, who understands that people are sometimes nasty, but they’re still people, and you treat EVERYONE EQUALLY RESPECTFUL.”

It goes the same for the anti side. Now, there is some equally nasty shit, and I have very mixed feelings about this.

Here is where we get into the nitty gritty details, mr. bojangles. first, an aristotelian categorization of blogtypes in 1D fandom. come sit close, little ducklings, and listen carefully.

Looking blogtype-wise, for one, there are the anti blogs, who post 1d content, but don’t ship larry*, others who post about 1d and are vocal about larries** and those whose blog - like yours in a way - that only/the main focus is on posts about larries.

*they don’t vocalize it, just say they don’t ship it when it comes up **are actively speak up against larries

(if we talk about larry blog types, its gonna be relevant later: neutrals, who think the ship is cute but don’t get involved; those who don’t share the conspiracies but ship; those who share the conspiracies but don’t blog about it (“drama free”), and those who are vocal about everything (here are most of “big” larries, but countless smaller blogs as well))

From these three kind of “anti blogs” the only one I have no comment on are the first ones, obviously (even though many times even they get down on a level that I find utterly disrespectful, but its rare).

For the record, you’ve got my blog wrong. As stated before, you’ve clearly not read my blog for very long, nor read my header. I understand that your interest is 1D-centric, but I’ve posted about the Olympics, my own life, politics, BASEBALL, star wars, etc. It’s a multi-fandom blog that is currently showing a lot of anti content -- that might have SOMETHING to do with the fact that larries put 400 notes on one of my posts and harassed me about it. That might explain why on Sunday night I was answering nasty anons with “fuck larries.” I was fucking heated. You would be too if ignorant fucks compared you to Hitler the day after you’d run across a larrie who quite genuinely supports fascists and spoken to an influential larrie who couldn’t see why following this person was unacceptable. “Me? I’M the fascist anti-Semite???” I definitely ramped up my anti content after Jay passed away and larries used that to bolster their theories. (More about that later.)

“Drama free” larrie blogs are fucking dangerous as well, because they hide the disrespect that is inherent in the conspiracy theorism. Anyone saying, “it’s my beliefs, leave me alone” is just as much a problem as the ones who I’ve blocked on twitter because they’re in Louis’s mentions with “larry this” and “larry that.” (More about this later, too.)

Now, I have been in a few fandoms, I thinks thats why its a good common ground we’re talking on, because you can’t speak down on me, and I don’t mean it offensive, just an observation - so lets note, that I have, through my fair share of fandom experience, never, once witnessed fandom vs. fandom this intensely. Just for the record. Alright.

I’ll ignore your stated assumption that I would be condescending to you, and add here that I have never witnessed this either, having been in multiple fandoms, RPF and otherwise, for 19 years.

So, the blogs that post about 1d AND are antis, whenever I have been on one of those blogs, most of the time are agressive and unneceseraly hateful towards anons who ask a larry related question. Again, I find it utterly disrespectful to talk to any person in such manner despite who they are.

There’s a big difference between a larry-related question and a larrie-related question. I would have 0 problem answering questions about larry. As a ship, not as a conspiracy theory. But in my personal experience with the various larries I’ve interacted with here on tumblr in messages and on twitter in DM’s, a larrie is never asking a genuine question. NEVER. My actions are due to my experience. In the beginning, I truly thought it would be possible to convince conspiracy theorists that they are wrong. Maybe if I became friends with them that would help! We could have genuine conversations. And with one, I truly thought I was making progress. We’d DM about other things too, not just larry, but then Daisy touched her face in an instagram live and no matter how many times I explained, with screencaps and outlining all the logical fallacies involved with that “proof,” no matter how many times i explained it, the larrie with whom I’d built trust refused to accept it. So what’s the fucking point? I had been ignoring every. single. thing. I’d read about the psychology of conspiracy theorism -- they all say, don’t bother arguing the facts with them. Don’t bother debunking their claims because their CT is inherently unfalsifiable. When the guy took the gun into the pizza parlor to free the child sex trafficking victims from the clutches of Hillary Clinton, I tweeted that the CT’s are just going to say he’s a plant, even though he proved their theory wrong. And that’s what happened. Every single thing that proves that larry isn’t real is folded into the conspiracy theory somehow as a proof that it IS real. I was arrogant to assume I could do better. So no matter what I say, no matter what @lrambling or @thelarrative say, none of us are going to EVER sufficiently prove to larries that what they believe isn’t true. It’s by definition impossible.

So why the fuck does anyone bother with debunks? To prevent the creation of new larries. If 1D had broken up and everyone said “fuck this, we’re retiring and never playing another song again,” who cares, right? Interest will die out. But every single one of them are going solo. They all are appealing to different fanbases. There will be a huge influx of new fans who will end up on tumblr trying to figure out what the fandom is like. And they will be met by larries. After my notes were infested by larries and I ventured to their blogs to blog them, I noticed that many have a link in their bio labeled “New to fandom? Click here!” or some such. And the links lead to masterpost “proofs.” If our debunks are out there, there’s a better shot that they don’t fall into the conspiracy theorism as well.

tbc here

#praeteritio #this is my 1000th post #thebiggestfanoffans #prevent the creation of more larries #anti stuff #ao3 boycott list #ao3 larrie boycott

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