#I think the most unbearable thing would be the banality of it all

[canisalbus]

I think you've mentioned before that after Machete's passing, Vasco would eventually find another partner that he'd live out the rest of his days with. Do you think he'd tell them about Machete at some point? Or would he feel it's safer/easier to keep the stories and memories to himself? If he did tell his partner I'd also understand if he chose to leave out certain details, such as Machete's job, whether it be for general safety or a sense to protect Machete's privacy and reputation even though he's gone

I think the partner Vasco lives the rest of his days with is most likely his platonic wife Ludovica, the one he was already married to at the time he reunited with Machete in their early thirties. I can see him eventually starting to try to see other men again, and he might love them too, but the whole process of trying to open up to other people (after all those years and the way things ended) would be kind of lonely, frustrating and painful for the most part. Chances are none of his subsequent relationships would last very long. He'd probably grow closer to Ludovica and she would do her best to support him. I'm not sure how much of his 10+ years with Machete he'd be able to share with anyone to be honest.

#answered #anonymous #death #cw death #Vaschete lore #it's not like he's doomed to be alone and never know love again #but Machete's untimely passing left a massive hole in him and he might not be able to fill it in any meaningful way #even if he tried and lived to an advanced age #I think the most unbearable thing would be the banality of it all #they tried so hard to make things work and keep each other safe and their whole co-existence was shadowed by secrecy #and then everything just ends and world keeps going around him #he can't share his pain with anyone or grieve properly because so few people knew of them and it has to remain that way

[littlestpersimmon]

When ppl talk about the "banality of evil" its often about how boring the system that upholds imperialism is, but it's also how evil is commonplace, an ingredient to the cement that builds the foundation of the imperial core. You read about what the IOF is doing to Palestinians and yet fail to realize that American soldiers were doing the same things in the Philippines in 1902 during the american occupation, which is still not recognized as a genocide to this day. You think about Congo today but don't realize that a hundred years ago within the same land, the king of Belgium would cut off the hands of natives if they didn't collect and extract enough rubber, and its not much different when you replace"rubber" with "cobalt", "Belgian king" with "American oligarch".. and the world immediately, utterly feels godless. One war seamlessly transitioning into another. How can there be so much grief for something as ordinary as a component to something I am literally holding in my hands right now. How can you make sense of that.

In the Philippines, there is a legend that says that the sturdiest, strongest buildings are constructed using the blood of a thousand children. The most prominent structure to remember this legend by, was a bridge called "Tulay ng San Juanico", built by none other than Philippine Dictator Ferdinand Marcos, who is renowned to this day by his record of unfathomable human rights abuse. San Juanico Bridge stands, used for commute in the daily lives of filipino civilians under the shadow of the empire, in an all consuming, impenetrable and unbearable mundanity. You can find 20, 45, a hundred, a million people who are kind, but at the same time I think about how so many of these kind people walk this earth without thought or personal responsibility, completely and totally unwilling to lose an iota of comfort and convenience, without once stopping to think, what do they owe the next coming generation, the ones that are still here, and the ones nameless and buried in this world's wreckage, in the necessity of its evil.

[kammartinez]

I seem to find a reason to go to CVS several times a week. Sometimes these reasons are medical, but much of the time, I am tracking down some household item or another—especially when I need something faster than it can be delivered, or I don’t want to be party to the low-level violence of same-day delivery, and I don’t feel like subjecting myself to the psychic keelhauling of a Target run. There is a unique air of desperation to most CVS locations. This is probably because CVS, as a health-care company stapled to a convenience store chain, blends the special emotional terroirs of the hospital and the gas station snack aisle. It could also be because the stores are often seriously understaffed, presumably in part due to the corporation’s recent move to slash pharmacy hours at thousands of locations. The decor is what you might call austerity-core. It is both corporate-loud (garish displays of next season’s decorations) and minimalist-clinical (pilled gray carpeting, fluorescent lights). People in pain and in search of relief, people picking up the prescriptions they need to live, and people who really want a soda all stalk the aisles.

The one unalloyed delight of CVS, though, is the soundtrack. One of the first things you notice once you start paying attention to the in-store music is how much whoever is in charge of programming loves Rod Stewart. “If you want my body and you think I’m sexy, come on, sugar, tell me so,” Rod demands as you ponder the locked cases of flu medicine. “Young hearts, be free tonight,” Rod bellows while you compare the prices of soap. Sometimes he hides behind an additional layer of mediation, as in Sheryl Crow’s version of “The First Cut Is the Deepest,” a song also notably covered by Rod. These are not the sexiest Rod songs. In fact, they are the songs where he sings from a place of impotence or regret. His lover threatens to crush him; she is too impossible to talk to; love will tear them apart. Like the shoppers whose attention the in-store loudspeaker announcements periodically try to seize, she is to be guilted, cajoled.

Big feelings reign on the CVS soundtrack. Sometimes they are overheated. Other times they are gushy, like the Sixpence None the Richer cover of “There She Goes,” the heroin anthem by the La’s, jacked up a treacly minor third from the original. (There are lots of covers on the playlist.) The emoting has a tendency to ambush you. Earlier this week I was picking up trash bags when, all of a sudden, I heard the distinctive plunk-plink-plunk-plink-plunk-plink-plunk-plink of the sad-sack opening guitar riff to “Chasing Cars” by Snow Patrol. The song depicts a couple, secure, or maybe trapped, in a bubble of self-sufficiency: “We don’t need anything or anyone.” While Rod sometimes sounds like he is delivering his come-ons with a campy wink, “Chasing Cars” contains no prophylactic against its own sentimental excess. It is an almost unbearable song to hear in CVS, regardless of the circumstances that bring you into the store. “If I lay here, if I just lay here, would you lay with me and just forget the world?” the chorus goes. Here?

The basic experience of shopping at CVS is one of doing something desperate at worst and banally unpleasant at best while swimming in a warm bath of muted musical intensity. No other retail chain is so committed to the power ballad as a musical form. A Spotify playlist of “CVS BANGERS,” apparently sourced from hard-won knowledge, features a stacked lineup: Foreigner’s “I Want to Know What Love Is”; Cutting Crew’s “(I Just) Died in Your Arms Tonight”; the Cars’ “Drive”; Toto’s still-inescapable “Africa.” One song on that playlist that I absolutely have heard in my local store is Paula Cole’s “Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?”—the nineties adult-alternative equivalent of a power ballad, a spoken/sung tale of a marriage crumbling under the weight of too much gender. Some philosophers claim that the emotions artworks evoke are really “pseudo emotions”; we feel them at one degree of remove. I can think of no better support for this thesis than the experience of listening to Paula Cole in CVS. The hopes of young love, the disappointments of middle age, the curdling resentment that ensues: I feel some inkling of it all. But mostly I’m just tapping my foot as I wait to pick up my prescription.

If you spend enough time shopping at CVS and listening to CVS-inspired playlists, you may begin to wonder if some rogue programmer is introducing subversive material into the mix. One Kinks song in the rotation tells of local cultural institutions being turned into supermarkets, and then parking lots. Domestic frustrations figure prominently. On the subreddit dedicated to the store, where overworked employees compare notes, one of the most discussed and most reviled songs is Mary Chapin Carpenter’s very nineties cover of Lucinda Williams’s “Passionate Kisses.” It’s a song about wanting more than the basic necessities—in other words, more than convenience store stuff. The chorus is a question: “Shouldn’t I have all of this, and passionate kisses from you?” Desperation creeps in as the song lopes along. The last verse finds the singer shouting, “Give me what I deserve, ‘cause it’s my right.” The consensus among CVS veterans seems to be that all this is “vapid and irritating,” if unintentionally funny at times. One employee reports that a coworker with an unrequited crush on her manager stares wistfully at the object of her affection for the duration of the song whenever it comes on. Another shares a vignette: “I vividly remember being violently hungover on a cold winter morning in New England, passionate kisses playing loudly in the background as someone’s grandma slowly searched her purse for coupons, fluorescent lights inescapable as I prayed for a swift end to my existence. Hell is real and I’ve lived it.”

Hell is other people’s music. But whose music is the CVS soundtrack? The store’s music vendor is Mood Media, formerly Muzak. While that company made its name with what we’d today call original content—light instrumentals composed for background listening—it eventually pivoted into the playlist business, curating “channels” of already-existing vocal pop music for their clients. It’s easy to imagine each major chain laying claim to its own channel to create its distinct emotional climate, whether they use Mood or one of its few competitors. Trader Joe’s is peppy and lightly eclectic: Motown, tasteful eighties hits. H&M is corporate hipster: late-period Jens Lekman. Ditto Urban Outfitters, which used to put out a yearly mixtape: “Halloween Head” by Ryan Adams, “Slow Me Down” by Emmy Rossum. Breezy yacht rock diffuses through the faux-Egyptian catacombs of the Cheesecake Factory. Whole Foods is largely silent.

CVS’s musical identity is harder to pin down. It is not subcultural-aspirational like Hot Topic or Starbucks back when it sold CDs. Functionally, it comes closer to the genre-agnostic mishmash of feel-good tunes that play in most supermarkets. And yet the feel-good tunes resonate differently in CVS. The anonymous employee on the subreddit is surely right that the store’s music produces its effects by way of contrast: earnest voices singing about tenderness lost or gained over sparkly guitars, piped into an impersonal, overlit, understocked place where absolutely nobody wants to be. The whole situation is a perverse joke.

CVS is the negative image of the club or the theater. There is no coordinated pulse of the crowd, just individual people shuffling around. The music is inflicted on you against your will rather than offered up as a kind of gift or “experience.” But the existential emptiness of this setting allows the music to sound with a special liveliness. In the wasteland, you can better hear what the pop song wants from you. The pop song demands your investment—positive, negative, ambivalent, it doesn’t care. It refuses to be ignored, and it won’t settle for a minor role as a manipulator of moods. In the harsh fluorescent light, we can hear the pop song say, “Give me what I deserve, cause it’s my right.” Who are we to refuse?

#music

[lazyworksinprogress]

A very long post about No One Is Going to Save You (2023)

I have been proccupied after I watched it yesterday so I'm just going to braindump. The superficial conversation has been about the minimal dialogue in the movie but I have been thinking about the visual language.

The house and costuming expands on the main character, Brynn's abilities and motivations in very satisfying way.

***Spoilers for No One Is Going to Save You (2023) follow***

I saw this interview with the director where he speaks about the house as the co-lead of the movie.

"This is a girl that watches ‘Far From Heaven’ and is like ‘I wish I lived in that world,’” Duffield said. “And then was like ‘I’m gonna antique shop, I’m gonna build dresses, I’m gonna do all this stuff. I’m not gonna have relationships outside my world, so why can’t I live in a Douglas Sirk wannabe world?’ And then you see there’s a flat screen and a laptop and she drives out into the world and you see ‘Oh, this girl’s kooky.”

I watch a few doll house hobby channels and Brynn's character would fit in. The "final girl" qualities of resourcefulness, creativity, and persistence are all around her home making this kind of characterisation some neat foreshadowing for her attitude through the film. From the incredible bird houses to the macrame - quilts - embroidery - and then vintage dresses, Brynn clearly has time, energy and a wide range of skills. And anyone who knows, knows that making things requires a certain potential for violence.

The decor and costuming is a very smart piece of work because there are some vintage and antique pieces, but many of them are also retro recreations or updated vintage. This is consistent with the character of Brynn, who is building an idyllic, anachronistic life for herself. Her home is a reflection of the disparate time periods and influences informing her tastes. The extension of her fantastical nostalgic anxious inner world (the home) is invaded by an external futuristic existential threat (alien burglars). All the contradictions and then retrofuturistic juxtaposition adds to the unsettling experience of the movie

It fits into the It Follows (2015) ambient/nostalgic horror space. I think it has a connection to the post-modern idea of the decay of moral clarity and escapism.

It's also got things to say about money. The house and her shoes and her studio/palace are visibly expensive. When Brynn runs away from the aliens she is wearing the Tory Burch Hank court shoes that are an elevated basic take on "70s classic sneakers" or a take on the (celebrity favourite) Onitsuka Tiger Unisex Mexico 66s or the American version of the Adidas Samba ... In any case, they are luxurious vintage recreations which is true to the whole wealthy American look of the film.

Horror and scifi media can be used as didactic tools for understanding fear (don't believe me, believe Joanna Russ) and I think the movie is doing a fable on escapism in the face of disaster.

"Ours is indeed an age of extremity. For we live under continual threat of two equally fearful, but seemingly opposed, destinies: unremitting banality and inconceivable terror. It is fantasy, served out in large rations by the popular arts, which allows most people to cope with these twin specters. For one job that fantasy can do is to lift us out of the unbearably humdrum and to distract us from terrors, real or anticipated—by an escape into exotic dangerous situations which have last-minute happy endings. But another one of the things that fantasy can do is to normalize what is psychologically unbearable, thereby inuring us to it. In the one case, fantasy beautifies the world. In the other, it neutralizes it." - Susan Sontag

#nostalgia #nostalgia horror #ambient horror #aesthetic #horror movies #no one will save you #susan sontag #alien movie

[kamreadsandrecs]

I seem to find a reason to go to CVS several times a week. Sometimes these reasons are medical, but much of the time, I am tracking down some household item or another—especially when I need something faster than it can be delivered, or I don’t want to be party to the low-level violence of same-day delivery, and I don’t feel like subjecting myself to the psychic keelhauling of a Target run. There is a unique air of desperation to most CVS locations. This is probably because CVS, as a health-care company stapled to a convenience store chain, blends the special emotional terroirs of the hospital and the gas station snack aisle. It could also be because the stores are often seriously understaffed, presumably in part due to the corporation’s recent move to slash pharmacy hours at thousands of locations. The decor is what you might call austerity-core. It is both corporate-loud (garish displays of next season’s decorations) and minimalist-clinical (pilled gray carpeting, fluorescent lights). People in pain and in search of relief, people picking up the prescriptions they need to live, and people who really want a soda all stalk the aisles.

The one unalloyed delight of CVS, though, is the soundtrack. One of the first things you notice once you start paying attention to the in-store music is how much whoever is in charge of programming loves Rod Stewart. “If you want my body and you think I’m sexy, come on, sugar, tell me so,” Rod demands as you ponder the locked cases of flu medicine. “Young hearts, be free tonight,” Rod bellows while you compare the prices of soap. Sometimes he hides behind an additional layer of mediation, as in Sheryl Crow’s version of “The First Cut Is the Deepest,” a song also notably covered by Rod. These are not the sexiest Rod songs. In fact, they are the songs where he sings from a place of impotence or regret. His lover threatens to crush him; she is too impossible to talk to; love will tear them apart. Like the shoppers whose attention the in-store loudspeaker announcements periodically try to seize, she is to be guilted, cajoled.

Big feelings reign on the CVS soundtrack. Sometimes they are overheated. Other times they are gushy, like the Sixpence None the Richer cover of “There She Goes,” the heroin anthem by the La’s, jacked up a treacly minor third from the original. (There are lots of covers on the playlist.) The emoting has a tendency to ambush you. Earlier this week I was picking up trash bags when, all of a sudden, I heard the distinctive plunk-plink-plunk-plink-plunk-plink-plunk-plink of the sad-sack opening guitar riff to “Chasing Cars” by Snow Patrol. The song depicts a couple, secure, or maybe trapped, in a bubble of self-sufficiency: “We don’t need anything or anyone.” While Rod sometimes sounds like he is delivering his come-ons with a campy wink, “Chasing Cars” contains no prophylactic against its own sentimental excess. It is an almost unbearable song to hear in CVS, regardless of the circumstances that bring you into the store. “If I lay here, if I just lay here, would you lay with me and just forget the world?” the chorus goes. Here?

The basic experience of shopping at CVS is one of doing something desperate at worst and banally unpleasant at best while swimming in a warm bath of muted musical intensity. No other retail chain is so committed to the power ballad as a musical form. A Spotify playlist of “CVS BANGERS,” apparently sourced from hard-won knowledge, features a stacked lineup: Foreigner’s “I Want to Know What Love Is”; Cutting Crew’s “(I Just) Died in Your Arms Tonight”; the Cars’ “Drive”; Toto’s still-inescapable “Africa.” One song on that playlist that I absolutely have heard in my local store is Paula Cole’s “Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?”—the nineties adult-alternative equivalent of a power ballad, a spoken/sung tale of a marriage crumbling under the weight of too much gender. Some philosophers claim that the emotions artworks evoke are really “pseudo emotions”; we feel them at one degree of remove. I can think of no better support for this thesis than the experience of listening to Paula Cole in CVS. The hopes of young love, the disappointments of middle age, the curdling resentment that ensues: I feel some inkling of it all. But mostly I’m just tapping my foot as I wait to pick up my prescription.

If you spend enough time shopping at CVS and listening to CVS-inspired playlists, you may begin to wonder if some rogue programmer is introducing subversive material into the mix. One Kinks song in the rotation tells of local cultural institutions being turned into supermarkets, and then parking lots. Domestic frustrations figure prominently. On the subreddit dedicated to the store, where overworked employees compare notes, one of the most discussed and most reviled songs is Mary Chapin Carpenter’s very nineties cover of Lucinda Williams’s “Passionate Kisses.” It’s a song about wanting more than the basic necessities—in other words, more than convenience store stuff. The chorus is a question: “Shouldn’t I have all of this, and passionate kisses from you?” Desperation creeps in as the song lopes along. The last verse finds the singer shouting, “Give me what I deserve, ‘cause it’s my right.” The consensus among CVS veterans seems to be that all this is “vapid and irritating,” if unintentionally funny at times. One employee reports that a coworker with an unrequited crush on her manager stares wistfully at the object of her affection for the duration of the song whenever it comes on. Another shares a vignette: “I vividly remember being violently hungover on a cold winter morning in New England, passionate kisses playing loudly in the background as someone’s grandma slowly searched her purse for coupons, fluorescent lights inescapable as I prayed for a swift end to my existence. Hell is real and I’ve lived it.”

Hell is other people’s music. But whose music is the CVS soundtrack? The store’s music vendor is Mood Media, formerly Muzak. While that company made its name with what we’d today call original content—light instrumentals composed for background listening—it eventually pivoted into the playlist business, curating “channels” of already-existing vocal pop music for their clients. It’s easy to imagine each major chain laying claim to its own channel to create its distinct emotional climate, whether they use Mood or one of its few competitors. Trader Joe’s is peppy and lightly eclectic: Motown, tasteful eighties hits. H&M is corporate hipster: late-period Jens Lekman. Ditto Urban Outfitters, which used to put out a yearly mixtape: “Halloween Head” by Ryan Adams, “Slow Me Down” by Emmy Rossum. Breezy yacht rock diffuses through the faux-Egyptian catacombs of the Cheesecake Factory. Whole Foods is largely silent.

CVS’s musical identity is harder to pin down. It is not subcultural-aspirational like Hot Topic or Starbucks back when it sold CDs. Functionally, it comes closer to the genre-agnostic mishmash of feel-good tunes that play in most supermarkets. And yet the feel-good tunes resonate differently in CVS. The anonymous employee on the subreddit is surely right that the store’s music produces its effects by way of contrast: earnest voices singing about tenderness lost or gained over sparkly guitars, piped into an impersonal, overlit, understocked place where absolutely nobody wants to be. The whole situation is a perverse joke.

CVS is the negative image of the club or the theater. There is no coordinated pulse of the crowd, just individual people shuffling around. The music is inflicted on you against your will rather than offered up as a kind of gift or “experience.” But the existential emptiness of this setting allows the music to sound with a special liveliness. In the wasteland, you can better hear what the pop song wants from you. The pop song demands your investment—positive, negative, ambivalent, it doesn’t care. It refuses to be ignored, and it won’t settle for a minor role as a manipulator of moods. In the harsh fluorescent light, we can hear the pop song say, “Give me what I deserve, cause it’s my right.” Who are we to refuse?

#music

[rcksmith]

Distracted — Five Hargreeves

Requests: “shit, i forgot. I'm the one who asked for smut prompts #30, #31, #61 and #96. Could you write them for Five Hargreeves? Thank you! So sorry to spam you with the asks X-X”

Smut prompts :

30. “I’d hold on to something if I were you.”

31. “Pushing back against my fingers already? How pathetic.”

61. “what would people say if they knew you were such a slut for me?”

96. “I think you forgot to lock the door, that means anyone could walk right in and see you like this.”

Couple: Five Hargreeves /Fem! Reader.

Warnings: smut heavy, NSFW, dirty talk, swearing, degradation. (I was in a bad mood hkjskjs)

Word count: 4k

A/N: We not tolerate any pedophilia here !!

I write about Five with their 20s. I write the same about the characters of Harry Potter.

Let me know if you want to be added for a taglist for a specific fandom (Criminal Minds, The Umbrella Academy, Riverdale, Roman Godfrey, or all)

English is not my first language, so I so sorry if have a mistake.

Requests are open. Love you ❤️

— — — — —

Five Hargreeves had a bad temper. It was explicit, hanging from his chest on a giant sign that said: “ABANDONATE THE HOPES IF YOU ENTER HERE.” And he knew that.

Inside his body he housed a sarcastic, explosive and sulky soul, with no patience for half the world. Everything about him exuded a dangerous, authoritarian, arrogant energy, mixed with distilled look that have always been able to subdue anyone.

Five is the type of man who, while everyone dreams of easy solutions, he knows that if he wants something to be done he will have to do it himself. He likes a hunting, taking the lead in any situation, having no problem breaking rules to make things happen.

And he was perfectly comfortable with that. Taking control of his world. Until, of course, you show up. Taking the key to his Olympus as if it had always belonged to you.

You were the one thing that Five Hargreeves couldn't subdue. He was unable to impose to you his reputation as a man who should not be challenged. Because that was exactly how the world saw Five. Like a man you don't challenge. Even his siblings realized, after a certain point, that it was not advisable to play with him.

But, apparently against all common sense, none of this had an effect on you.

You were not afraid, or pondering your words. You rolled your eyes at the things he said, mocked his arrogance and always looked at him with a combination of a smile and a look that, holy mother of God, Five hated. It was the typical expression that said: “ I know a lot more than you do, but I will be quiet because you are not worth my time.”

Five Hargreeves had a bad temper. But you raised it to stratospheric proportions.

It was completely exasperating, outstanding, you were a brat who didn't hear the voice of an adult, so used to being daddy's little girl. Because that was how he saw you. You were only 24 age while he was 30. It was expected that you heard him! But no. You did not give a damn.

“If you listened to me and chose the Colombian, that wouldn't be so bad!” Five scolded again.

This was the twentieth time he had said that to you.

There was a routine with the Hargreeves siblings: you brought coffee on Mondays, since you passed a great coffee shop on the way. Diego was responsible for bringing Japanese food on Wednesdays, Luther for Indian food on Fridays and Klaus for pizzas on Saturdays. It was a banal thing, but it brought a comforting feeling of, no matter how not anyone would admit, tradition.

But it was obvious that you had to piss Five off on that too.

“And I already said that they don't do the Colombian before ten in the morning.” You passed the page of a magazine you were reading, ignoring his tantrum.

“And you can't wait ?!”

This time you looked up at Five, giving a mocking expression.

“Oh, forgive me, your majesty. I will delay my journey just because your eexcellency wants Colombian coffee.” You laughed, turning your attention to the magazine.

Five felt the tips of his ears heat up, the fingers of his hands go white from the force that he clenched his fists. You were so fucking annoying!

"You are unbearable." He said, because he saw no other way to express the hateful little monster you were.

You looked up at him again. “Serious? Me? You are the one who is complaining about not getting your blend coffee.” You turned your attention to the magazine “Like a child who didn't get chicken nuggets in the shape of dinosaurs.”

What?! Fucking what?!

Five opened his mouth in bewilderment, now anger rising up his neck. How dare you, fuck?! You were younger than him!

"What did you say?!" He repeated, his voice low but deep, his eyes bloodshot with rage.

You didn't take your attention away from the magazine by replying: “Like a child who didn't get chicken nuggets in the shape of dinosaurs.”

Oh, no. Oh fucking no.

Five slammed the coffee travel cup on the kitchen counter, walked over to you and closed your magazine brutally. You looked at him indignantly.

"What a fuck ..."

But Five didn't give you time to finish. He stuck both hands in your arms, forcing you to get up from the chair so quickly that the object fell to the floor. He pushed you back, lifting you up and making you sit at the wooden table, his eyes still on fire with your words.

"Child, isn't it ?!” He snarled, spreading your knees with his hands, settling his body still standing between your legs.

You were wide-eyed. Looking at him in amazement. Your heart was pounding in your chest so hard that you thought Five would be able to hear it, while your breath had been lost somewhere between the path from your lung to your nose.

Holy shit.

It was no secret that Five Hargreeves was gorgeous. This was not an opinion, it was a fact. With midnight hair, emerald green eyes and alabaster skin, it was not surprising that he was able to steal his breath wherever he went. And you were not immune to his charm. To be honest, you never thought it would be.

But the difference between you and the girls who fell at his feet was that ... well, you practically lived with the guy every day. You had been friends with Klaus for two years, and as a result you ended up becoming friends with the brothers and captivating them. It was almost atypical that you weren't with them. So, as a result, you ended up having time with Five too.

And, truth be told, it destroyed your will to want to impress him. As was common whenever see someone beautiful. Five Hargreeves was, in every way, arrogant. Irritating. Unbearable. Maybe it was your lust mixed with irritability, but you decreed that you didn't like him. That you would never want to fall into his bed.

Well…until now.

Until he accommodates his fucking tall, lean, firm body in the middle of your legs. Until his hands are glued to your arms in a touch of fire. Until your heart was racing like never before.

"You called me a child, didn't you?"

You wouldn't be able to answer anything in that second, even if your life depended on it. So you just nodded, a slow, cautious nod, like prey looking at hunter.

"I will show you my age!"

Five kissed you. In a way that no one had kissed you before. It was something hungry, angry, full of lust and with a desire that made you sigh softly. His hands were still on your legs, coming down to the back of your knees and pulling you firmly forward, sticking your whole body against his in a possessive way. His tongue invaded your mouth without waiting for an invitation, renouncing everything you had to offer as his.

That was a really kiss.

You put your hands on the back of his neck, running your fingers over the silky, black strands, letting your body be pressed against his as if you had been waiting for it a lifetime. Five pulled your legs closer, guiding you to close them around his hips and, once you did, his hands, determined and hungry, roam the sides of your body possessively.

"Five ..." a groan cut off your speech when his hands clung to your waist, pressing the hard and firm member to your core covered in the thin legging pants you wore.

"You already moaning and I haven't even touched you yet." His voice was overwhelmingly arrogant, full of amusement and convincing.

You were going to answer, because you weren't the kind of girl who kept quiet with a tease, but Five's hands made your waist roll around handily against his member, and a louder groan interrupted any line of reasoning you had.

“Oh, how adorable.” He scoffed, lowering his mouth to your neck and closing a hickey where pulse was “I wonder how the moaning will be when I do ...”

His right hand moved up to the inside of your thigh, rubbing his thumb in circles until he got to where you needed it most. “This.” Then he forced the movements where your clitoris was covered.

Your groan was louder than you would like to admit. The air became caustic, rarefied, the atmosphere became something breathtaking, claustrophobic, poignant. And, before you know it, it was already a wet clay in his hands.

Five Hargreeves had won. He had you exactly where him wanted.

Your moans grew louder when he tuned his thumb movements together with his pelvis movements against you. Your hands tightened on the back of his neck, your teeth closed on your lower lip in order to contain the volume, and your breathing was shaky. Your hips pushed against him, the thin leggings being smeared by the arousal that oozed from you, and as soon as his hand was only an inch away, you followed it with your hips.

“Pushing back against my fingers already? How pathetic.” Five played with the voice at the bottom of your ear.

You pulled the air against your teeth, whimpering, wanting anything he could give you.

“I bet ...” his lips slid under your skin without kissing, just making you wish, up to your lips and hovering there, a sigh away “If I asked you to take your clothes off and let me fuck you in this table like a good whore, you would gladly do. It is not?”

His free hand went to your face, taking a stir of your hair out of your eyes and placing it behind your ear. You were unable to contain the moan, closing your eyes tightly for a second, trying to contain how much your body screamed.

"Y-yes." You whined.

“Good." Five sprinkled a kiss on your lips before walking away.

You opened your eyes, your chest rising and falling with your heaving breath, your legs shaking. Your body screamed in protest at the separation, and you sent him a confused and inquiring look.

“You will learn who is in charge here." Five gave you a sly smile. "I'm only going to fuck you when you understand this."

Then he turned his back on you, took the coffee and disappeared in the blue flash.

This son of fucking bitch!

- - -

You were angry and frustrated. To say the least. Your body was on fire and mind replayed that day over and over in your head. It had been four days since Five's little exploits in the kitchen, and, to be honest, not only had he started the teasing.

Five gave you malicious and discreet smiles, gestured a lot more with his hands when he spoke just to remind you of what they could do. He hovered his body close to your whenever possible, brushing his shoulder against your, his hand gently on your back when he needed to pass beside you. His fingers even slid under your thigh under the table when you were having dinner. It was always like that.

And you were already crazy.

In the beginning, you sent him and their little game go to hell. He was not going to get what he wanted. But as the days went by, and Five started to touch you more often, the fire inside you burst, and it felt a lot less... torture if you just... gave in. The thought of sleeping with someone else just to appease that didn't bring you the same euphoria, you didn't just want sex, you wanted Five.

You knew he was playing with you. Just wanted you to give a sign that you were surrendering, so that he could give you what you wanted.

And after seven days, you gave in.

It was Monday, your mood was already an angry monster, but this time, you arrived a little later.

“Y/n, you are lateeeeee.” Klaus sang from the kitchen, biting off a large chunk of whatever it was before he sat down.

Vayna, Luther and Five were also at the table. Vayna and Luther talking about nothing important and Five reading a book under metaphysics.

"Traffic."

You lied, placing the tray of coffees in the middle of the table. Five and Luther were the first to get, Vayna still getting used to coffee addiction.

“Allison and I are going to watch something today. Why don't you come with us? ” You sat next to Klaus, throwing one leg over his.

"Is it going to be in the cinemove?”

He denied “In the living room, you can sleep here after."

You shrugged. “Okay.”

"Did you go to a different coffee shop?" Luther raised his eyebrows, having just swallowed his coffee.

“No, why?”

“It tastes different.” He drank some more.

“It is Colombian.” You put the cards on the table, in a game that only you and Five knew.

You didn't look at him, but you could feel his eyes on you and a sly, malicious smile brushing the right side of his mouth. That was the only interaction that you felt Five driving you that day. The hours had passed and it was already one in the morning when the movie in the mansion's ended. It was not atypical you slept in the mansion, the guest room was almost called “your room” at that time. But there was… there was something different this time.

As you unbuttoned your pants, with the night breeze coming in through the window, you thought that maybe it was because you never slept there having feelings for one of the siblings. So impure feelings. There was something about sleeping under the same roof as Five that made you ... nervous. But as soon as you removed the piece and placed it on the bed, the blue flash flashed behind you.

Your whole body went tense, the hairs on the back of your neck stood up, and your heart was racing as if, suddenly, you had just returned from a marathon. You swallowed, the heat of his body hitting your back, while his hand went up your arm gently.

"You are such a good girl." Five's voice made your legs tremble, the butterflies in your stomach roll.

In this moment, feeling things that you never thought you would be able to feel, you wished always were a good girl for him.

"Did you do that for me?" His mouth joined the pice of your shoulder and neck.

You knew he knew he did, but the bastard wanted to hear it from you. Five wanted you to confirm that he had won.

“Yes” You whispered, the moonlight allowing you to see when his hand went down to your belly, playing with the cos of your dark blue panties.

"I knew you would be a good girl for me."

Then, taking you by surprise, Five pushed your chest onto the bed, bending you over, pulling your hips towards his with the other hand. You sighed when you felt his already hard member hit your pussy just covered by thin panties, now wet with your mess. Your hands closed on the sheet, your heart almost screaming in relief at the contact of his body behind you.

God, you wanted him so fucking much...

“What am I supposed to do with you?” Hargreeves reflected on a rhetorical question, his hands sliding over your surrendered body, squeezing your flesh with a force that would leave marks.

You whimpered, rolling your hips over his member. "Please"

“What would people say if they knew you were such a slut for me?” Five slapped your left cheek.

You moaned softly, tightening the sheet, your body refusing to remain an inch away from him. Your hips needed more from Five's, your whimpers increasing as he took off your panties and ran his fingers through your wet folds.

"Five!" You moaned louder, biting your lip as he played with your entrance.

"Should I just fuck you with my fingers?" He caused your entry with two digits "Or with my dick?"

You were an incoherent mess, days of denial and desire that burned arthrosis in your body.

"Answer me!" Five slapped you again, this time louder, more grotesque, making you cry out.

"Y-your dick!" You tried to say, “P-please. Fuck me with your dick, please. ”

You were desperate, that was the truth. Desperate for contact, desperate for touch. Desperate for anything that Five Hargreeves could want from you. Anything he wanted to give you.

"Hard?" His voice was now dark, slightly wicked.

“Y-yes! Please!”

Then Five stuck his hand to the back of your neck, curling his fingers in your hair and pulling your face up, making you face the ceiling as he leaned over and snarled at your neck:

"How hard?"

"Give me all!" You begged “Please, Sir. Give me all."

That title seemed to drive him out of his mind. Because the only thing you had in response was the sound of his belt falling to the floor and the rustle of his pants and boxers down, his right hand never leaving your hair. You groaned in anticipation, tears pricking your eyes from the desire that had accumulated so long when you felt the tip of his dick press against your entrance.

Five lowered his mouth to your ear, holding his hand more in your hair as he said: "I’ d hold on to something if I were you. "

Then he entered you. Hard, rough, wild. Opening all your walls and spreading your abundant liquid all over his dick. You opened your mouth in a silent scream, your nails etched hard on the sheet, tears streaming from your eyes without warning. Five gave you just a few seconds to settle for his size, starting to beat inside you at a relentless pace.

This time you screamed. Your heart pounding in chest, your pussy pulsing around Five with so much desperation that you heard him moan and curse behind you. The pace was rough, heavy, wild and full of lust. He fucked you like a rabid animal, devouring everything you had to offer, filling every last inch of you. The sound was of pornographic moans and bodies clashing with arrogance, filling the entire mansion with sounds that would not be forgotten.

"S-sir!" You moaned loudly, pushing your ass to Five at the same rate, making he hit the deepest spot inside you.

“Fucking such good slut!” He dumped one more slap on your ass, freeing his hand from your hair and joining both of them at your waist, pulling you towards him in an heavy rhythm.

Each thrust was an electric current poured into your body, excitement running down your thighs and melting both of you. Five groaned louder, leaning over and biting your shoulder, clenching his fingers aggressively against the innocent skin on your waist.

“I think you forgot to lock the door, that means anyone could walk right in and see you like this.” Five blew in your ear, receiving a loud groan in return, as yours tears flowed.

Your pussy tightened around his dick, pulsing in such a tight way for he.

"Oh, would you like that?" He teased you, feeling your walls tighten again. “I bet you would love to everbody see the slut you are to me. ”

"Sir!" You screamed, throwing your head forward, pressing your forehead to the sheet as you sobbed.

"Answer!" One more slap.

"Y-yes! I-I like could show that I'm your slut! ” You sobbed.

Five came out of you, making you whimper loudly in frustration. He turned you over on the bed, placing you in the center as he climbed on top of you, settling in between your legs and entering without warning again. You screamed, sinking your face into his neck as your legs closed around his waist, pulling his deep into you.

"Such a good bitch."

Five felt your limit riding fast, leaving you more breathless, tearful and desperate. You no longer measured the volume of your moans, your hands clenching your nails on his back, your waist rolling around to make him inside deeper.

"S-sir!" Then, without being able to control yourself anymore, you exploded. Came in long streams of broken moans and shaky breathing.

Your head fell on the pillow, your chest arching while you were on top of the climax. Five groaned at the scene, his limit being your expression of pure ecstasy. He sank in you as anatomically as possible, filling you with the hot liquid that overflowed from inside you.

You were both panting, sweaty and tired. Five let himself relax on top of you, partially loosening his weight, still stirring a few strokes to ensure that you had welcomed all his cum.

"Good girl." He praised you, giving you a small kiss on the neck, stepping out of you and rolling to your side on the bed.

"That was ... wow." You laughed softly, trying to catch your breath.

Hargreeves laughed too, taking the time to get out of bed, looking for the boxers and pants. You bit the inside of your cheek, suddenly not knowing what to do or what to say. Your heart sank at the thought of him leaving, and your mouth was faster than your common sense in saying:

"Wait!"

Five turned to you, his brows furrowed in question as he buttoned his black pants.

"Can you ... could you ... stay?" You took a chance, your cheeks quivering under Five's intense gaze that never left you.

But, instead of the denial you were expecting, his eyebrows furrowed even more in doubt.

“But I am not leaving.” He said it as if it was obvious.

Did you blink a few times “No?”

“I was just going to get a towel to clean you up. There are certain things that I don’t like do naked.”

You opened your mouth to answer, a little shocked, but Five disappeared in the blue flash only to appear a second later, with a towel in hand. You sank into your own shame, muttering softly to yourself in incoherent sounds, you let Five clean you up.

“Did you think I was leaving?” He scoffed when he finished, looking at you with that smug look.

You rolled your eyes, turning to the side on the bed, your back to him.

"No." You mumbled.

Five laughed, settling better on the bed. "Come here." He said, patting his chest.

And, well, as much as you would like to consider yourself a rebellious girl, you did. Turning to him again, you snuggled into his body, laying your head on his chest while Five pulled the blanket up to cover the two of you.

Five Hargreeves had a bad temper. But at that moment, with you, you did not fail to notice the lazy and caring circles he made on your shoulder with his thumb.

Tagged: @bubblegumflamingos

#five hargreeves #five hargreeves x reader #the umbrella academy #five hargreeves x you #five x you #five hargreeves imagine #five hargreeves smut #five x reader #five fanfiction #five x y/n #five hargreeves x y/n #number 5 imagine #number 5 x reader #number 5 x you #number five x you #number five fanfic #number five x reader #number five x y/n #the umbrella academy imagine #tua fanfic #tua five #number five #the umbrella academy smut #number 5 #number five smut #tua smut #fanfic smut #imagine smut

[lysmune]

Aquarium Date

      Levi spends a day in the human realm with you.

(Leviathan/MC) For Levi’s birthday

     Akihabara is the obvious answer behind the portal you’ve dragged him through, but he’s taken aback when that’s not where both of you end up in.

     Nope.

     Instead, he finds himself surrounded by a throng of normies, loud, clamoring groups of them that huddle in a line that moves as quickly as it’s replaced, an endless conveyor belt of people.

     “This isn’t Akihabara,” he weakly manages and you shake your head.

     “Nope, it’s the aquarium,” you answer and he’s not quite sure if he likes the sound of that, but he’s a little less jittery when you squeeze his hand. “You okay, Levi?”

     “Just,” he starts, eyes darting between you and the landscape of faces; “a lot of normies.”

     He flushes red when your fingers lace his. “Hey,” you call out, his gaze averting to meet yours. “We can always go to Akihabara if you’re more comfortable with that.”

     He warms at your gesture, the consideration in your invitation, and he’s more than tempted to take you up on your offer. Akihabara would be a dream for him, rows and rows of his favourite manga on display, so many figurines and anime, and Ruri-chan merch. That’d be perfect, yep!

     “No, let’s go in,” he asserts and your lips curl, soft in the morning sunlight as you tug him towards the line.

     Akihabara would be perfect, no doubt, but it’d be perfect just for him, and that’s not the birthday he wants. No, he wants a day that’s perfect for the both of you, a birthday where you’re enjoying yourself, too.

     You’d never say it, but he knows you’re not a massive otaku like he is, so he takes it upon himself today. It’s the least he can do after you’ve gone out of your way to surprise him.

     Besides, an aquarium would be fun (sans the normies).

     Amongst the aquamarine haze, the undulating blues bobbing across the floor, Levi finds himself at peace, more so than he’d ever thought he would be. Hand in hand, you walk with him through the various tanks, stopping every so often to admire the undersea creatures.

     “Look, Levi,” and he follows the line of your sight towards the cylindrical tank, to the gliding bioluminescence inside the waters.

     “Moon jellyfish,” he identifies, pressing his palm to the cold glass. They coalesce around him in response, glowing in the darkness, and he hears you let out a breath of wonder; he smiles.

     They follow the tip of his finger as he leads them in circles, straight lines and patterns, their tendrils a flickering, remnant trail. When he stops, they do too, resting, pulsing with light. He stays like that for a moment before he pulls away and they scatter into the confines of their home.

     “They seem to really like you,” you muse, and he shrugs, slightly embarrassed when he’s snapped out of the daze.

     He scratches the back of his neck, awkward and sheepish. “I was an admiral.”

     Not that he’s ever liked the title. Sure, it had given him power and respect, but all he can remember is the envy in their eyes, the contempt, the curling, forked ends of unspoken insults. He remembers the cold, ruthless isolation of being at the top and the way he clung to the only thing he knew how to do with desperation.

     He dislikes it all.

     “Levi?”

     Your voice brings him back, concern pulling the corners of your lips into a frown and clouding your eyes.

     “It’s nothing,” he replies, waving it off, though you’re not so convinced; you let it slide anyway.

     Still, if being able to communicate with marine life could make you smile like that, maybe that past of his isn’t so unbearable after all.

     The touch pools are an experience, Levi concludes. Like a swarm of overzealous otakus trying to get a limited edition merch of their favourite character, the critters come at him in troves and variable speeds. He thinks it’s cute, though the normies might say otherwise.

     “He’s just like Aquaman!” he hears a boy squeal, and he hears you laugh beside him, though you’re trying to stifle it down.

     “What’s it?” he asks.

     “Aquaman’s a superhero,” you respond as you drag your hand through the water lazily, petting the nearby manta ray that’s busy trying to make its way to his hand.

     Oh. He supposes it is ridiculous that he’d be viewed as a superhero, as a character of justice. He doesn’t really fit the image of it; aren’t they usually well-built and fit, and handsome, and charismatic? That’s more Lucifer than -

     “I think it suits you,” comes your easy answer and he blushes red to the tip of his ears, muffling an embarrassed noise, and you’re chuckling again.

     “W-what makes you s-say that?” he stutters out, lips pulling into a frown as he strokes the shell of hermit crab. You shrug.

     “You’re always kind, for one,” you start. He leans in closer to listen while you continue. “You’re passionate about what you like, you’re reliable when you need to be, and I think, most importantly, you’re someone I can easily put my trust in.”

     And he’s averting his eyes away, biting his bottom lip, his free hand coming up to cover his face as he mumble a muffled ‘thank you’. His heart’s going a mile a minute, but when he peeks at you between fingers and you look back, that smile of yours never once faltering, he can’t help but feel seen, appreciated, loved, even.

     He doesn’t protest when your fingers curl around his, when you pull his hand down to reveal the blush of him and bump shoulders. This - being with you, liking you, having you return his affections - is something he’s never imagined happening, not just because he’s, well, him, but also because it’s just a feeling he’s never garnered from the people around him.

     Yet here you are, admiring the very skills he’s been so hated for.

     “I like you,” he mutters and you look up to him, eyes wide. Without hesitation, he repeats himself. “I like you.”

     There’s a heartbeat of silence, then, a genuine, confident, “I like you, too.”

     “No trip is complete without getting souvenirs,” you chirp as the exit comes to sight, and Levi nods in agreement. Merch is everything and he’d like to leave the aquarium with more than just memories, even if that’s greedy of him.

     Ugh, I sound like Mammon now.

     He digresses.

     Passing by the shelves, all filled to the brim, he takes in the variety of options. From keychains, to notepads, to cute casings and fluffy plushies, and embroidered hats; the possibilities are truly endless.

     It’s the graphic tees that catch his eye, though.

     “Matching shirts?” comes your startling question.

     He nods, then shrugs, then stuffs his free hand into his jacket’s pocket. “It’s fine if you don’t want to.”

     “What makes you think I’m against the idea?” you retort with a grin and before he knows it, you’re tugging him along to the rack of clothes.

     Both of you rummage through your options and you’re occasionally bringing one up to model over yourself, which makes it harder on him because he thinks you’d look good in all of them, and he makes it known. You roll your eyes, calling it banal flattery, but the glimmer in your gaze tells him otherwise.

     “What about this one?” Levi asks as he pulls a light blue shirt with a picture of a content whale, tucked into the shirt pocket and the words BRB, I’m gonna whale underneath.

     You can barely stop yourself from chuckling at the sight, wheezing out an, “Oh, that’s perfect,” when he brings it up over him.

     It comes in two other colours, white and peach, and you settle on the blue while he grabs the pink one in his respective size. He wanders around with you through the entirety of the space in search of more things to take home, ending up with a jellyfish keychain and a clownfish decal while you pick up a seal plushie.

     After a losing squabble, Levi lets you pay for the entirety. “Consider it a gift,” you smile, taking the paper bag with a tilt of your head before you make your way out of the shop.

     Sunset streaks the sky in orange and purple, and he’s transfixed by the beauty of you when the colours paint you rich and honeyed. Both of you start to retrace your steps to the portal, blending in with the dispersing crowd and he feels comfortingly normal.

     “Should I carry that?” he asks as you trudge back up a hill, tilting his head towards your bag.

     You shrug and hand it over. “Sure, it’s all yours anyways.”

     “Didn’t you buy a -“

     “Seal plush?” you finish. He nods while your eyes crinkle in giddy. “It’s yours.”

     “Hah?!”

     You shrug. “I wanted you to have something to remember me by,” you reply and he stops dead in his tracks, blood running cold.

     “Are you leaving?”

     “No! God, no, Levi,” you answer, closing the minimal distance between the two of you. He’s close enough to smell your body wash now. “I just want you to never feel alone, Levi, and maybe I’m being selfish when I say I want you to think of me while you look at it, but I hope it gives you company if I can’t, at any point in time.”

     And he’s pulling you to him before he knows it, lips pressing yours in a kiss that clings like salt to the ocean breeze. You sigh into it, pliant in his arms as his fingers flutter over your cheek, your hands resting around his waist.

     He pulls away ever just and he sees that you’re the one flushed over now, and a sense of pride wells up in him when he finds his reflection in your eyes.

     “Thank you,” he mumbles, cradling you as he rocks on the balls of his feet.

     “For what?” you question, giggling.

     “For today,” he answers, but that’s not quite it, that’s not quite enough. “For believing in me, for being you, for everything.”

     “Always, Levi,” and he knows, with every inch of him, that you mean it.

#obey me #swd obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me leviathan #obey me levi #munewrites #f: obey me #ch: leviathan #an: wow more cute stuff #an: overdue as always #an: I have Thoughts™️ about Leviathan using anime as a sort of salve because of his past #an: AKA he was a talented admiral but his social skills were terrible and God exploited his lack of social skills #an: and further isolated him #an: Levi also probably attaches his identity really strongly to anime/manga/games/otaku #an: aNYWAY YEAH THAT SHOULD BE ENOUGH RAMBLING #an: here's to the birthday boi levi

[afewmarvelousthoughts]

Falling Ch. 2

Master List: @afewmarvelousthoughtsadmin​

Pairing: Bucky X Reader [and a few more to come]

Summary: For a moment you had something good, something wonderful. But moments pass. Now, left with nothing but the ashes of a life and a love you fought so hard for, you find yourself in a free fall. Who will you be once you hit the bottom? [Sequel to Only For A Moment but can be read independently.]

Warnings: Loss, grief

A/N: Honestly, idk what to say. I 100% made myself cry with this one. So there’s that. Also, I love Steve Rogers. 

Hope y’all don’t hate me too much. 

TAGS ARE OPEN

It feels like falling. You wonder if the very ground beneath you is crumbling as he did. When your knees crash into the solid earth you realize that isn’t the case. 

Still, the feeling persists. 

Plummeting. Untethered. A free fall you can’t stop. 

Until Okoye’s cry cuts through your consciousness like a knife. 

Sucking in a breath you return to yourself. But… Everything feels wrong. 

The pain that had burned through your body and mind has faded to a low hum replaced with the distinct feeling of drowning as you become acutely aware of everything around you.  

It feels like your perception is being pulled in a billion directions. Your power had gotten out of hand before - causing you to be hyper aware of even the salt in your own sweat - but this… It was as though you could feel the composition of creation. 

Shuri told you, after studying your ability, that your brain erected subconscious buffers to regulate your ability, preventing you from going too far. It explained the headaches that plagued you when you used too much of your power and, you supposed, your newly hemorrhaging eyes. Just your body doing all it could to force you to self preserve. 

Clearly, those barriers had been blown to hell. 

You don’t speak - the way sound shakes the air, the particles undulating like ripples on water, was honestly unbearable - but on shaky legs you rise to find Okoye.  

Gently you lay a hand on her trembling shoulder, trying not to feel the rush of blood through her body or the tiny innumerable particles that made her. Just like you felt Bucky before- 

She rounds to look at you and that falling feeling returns, pulling you from those dangerous thoughts. The shocked, horrified woman before you isn’t the Okoye you know, something has broken inside her, a thought you cannot bear. 

“The king,” her voice, barely a whisper, still makes you flinch. Her eyes begin to search behind you, a bit frantic before returning to meet your gaze. “Buck-” You cut her off by shaking your head. 

She doesn’t move to embrace you, doesn’t try to offer comfort, and you couldn’t love her more for it. All you’re both able to do is stare, immobile, for several beats as the weight of what has happened settles over you. 

“Shuri,” she hisses.

Immediately you both bolt, sprinting full speed for the lab. 

You chose to ignore how far behind you Okoye is, or how your feet are hardly touching the ground. Just as you choose to ignore the sounds arising from the battlefield, or the tangible feel of ashes on the air - of ashes in your still clenched right hand. 

There’s only room for one thought. Shuri. 

The madness on the landing deck is the only thing that draws you up short. Running feet stir piles of ash, sending the fine substance up in plumes that make it look as though a low fog has settled in. Making it worse, shouts and cries roll through the air like thunder. You never knew sound could be so heavy. 

You feel Okoye run up behind you, somehow recognizing the space she occupies almost on instinct. It makes you think of the void that remained after-

“Bast,” she says in a voice dripping with horror. A glimmer of the Okoye you know shows as she squares her shoulders marching forward into the chaos. Determined to not leave her side you follow, focusing on planting your feet one before the other lest you be swept away, lost in the feeling of the world around you. 

Stepping into the seating area outside the lab brings back the falling sensation. 

Maybe if you’d tried harder, demanded that he say back, refused to let him fight. Maybe-

A cry so heart-rending and feral blots out any other thought. It’s the kind of sound that could only come from a mother.

“No,” Okoye breathes. 

A mournful King’s Guard stands by a pile of ash. Ramonda’s hands search through it as though she could pull her daughter from the grey substance. Her cries fill the space, thick and haunting. 

“Queen Mother,” Okoye whispers, falling to one knee behind Ramonda. 

“General, where is he?” Ramonda turns, her hands covered in ash, eyes wild and desperate. 

“I’m so sorry,” Okoye’s voice breaks. “I… I couldn’t…” 

You expect Ramonda to scream, rage, anything. Her children were gone, she could scream until the end of time and be justified. Instead, she sits back on her heels, eyes on the ceiling. Some pain is so great there is no way to express it. 

After a moment her gaze falls to you, still standing frozen in the entrance. 

“Sergeant Barnes?” She asks. They’d been close, sharing many afternoons together over coffee or tea talking about everything and nothing. 

You want to honor her with the dignity of an answer. Truly you do. But something churns in your chest, trapping the words. All you can do is shake your head. 

“Bast, save us.” She pulls Okoye to her, holding tight as the tears come. Ramonda extends a hand out to you but... you just can’t. 

In a daze, you turn, walking away from the lab unsure where your feet are taking you until you stand before the door to the ready-room you and Bucky had prepared for the battle in. 

Almost. You almost make it inside. Instead, you walk past a few doors before stepping into another ready-room. With a whoosh, the door slides open and then closes behind you leaving you in blessed silence. 

Why were you here? What good was being in here? What could you possibly… Your right-hand rises, still clenched in a tight fist, holding…

Anything not nailed down begins to tremble in the small room. The mirror above the sink makes almost imperceptible creaking sounds as it splinters. A book hurtles from somewhere unseen and slams into the wall with enough force to break the binding sending pages fluttering. Then it stops. 

A page flutters up and over to you, even though the thought of grabbing one was barely half-formed in your mind. You don’t care what the page says, you just hold it with your left hand while you ever so slowly convince your right to open. 

You can feel your power buzzing around your hand, plucking away every last speck of ash from your skin, not letting one small piece fall away. With the utmost care, you guide the small grey mass to the paper and set it down. 

It strikes you that it’s such a small amount, barely a handful, and yet to you it is the most precious substance in existence. It’s him. It’s all you have-

The room begins to shake once more and you cut off your thoughts. Carefully, you fold the paper around the ashes and tuck the makeshift packet into a pocket sewn into the lining of the vest you wore. 

Unsure of what else to do you make your way back to the chaos of the landing deck. Warriors from the field had begun to return, shellshocked or enraged. 

You see M’Baku towering above a small cluster. When his eyes fall on you he scowls before looking away. 

For a moment you simply allow the chaos to overwhelm you. Each sound rattling in your bones. The feeling of that hunger you’d felt after the stones beginning to ache. You almost hope it will all drive you mad. Madness was prefferable to mourning. 

Someone grabs your arm, pulling your focus to them. Ayo. 

“There were several crashes in the city, we could use your help,” she says, voice oddly calm. You just nod and follow her, grateful for any distraction. 

-

This feeling wasn’t a new one to Steve. He knew far too well what it was to fall so deep into himself that the world around him became an echo. It was the only way he’d made it through the first leg of his life - through the sounds of his parent’s fights, the constant street scrapes, the anger in him that always threatened to crest into something as ugly and violent as his father. 

And he felt it the last time he watched James Barnes die. 

Sam would say it wasn’t healthy, that he needed to process the situation. But Sam wasn’t here, and honestly, over the last 60 or so hours he’d been deeply grateful for the feeling. 

Just like it always did, it protected him, allowed him to get back up. Or in this case allowed him to let Natasha and Rhodey take the jet to go find Clint and Pepper, let him be of some use here in Wakanda while he waited for them to return. It let him do what he needed to - eat, drink, sleep, keep moving - in order to make them all think he was ok, that he had a plan, that he could still be what they needed. 

He’d been grateful. Until he saw you on a stretcher, blood staining the side of your face. 

Maybe if he’d been present, he would have noticed that you hadn’t stopped since the battle. Maybe he would have realized that you hadn’t slept or eaten or-

“I don’t think she’s said a word since he died…” Okoye says in a small voice. Her eyes glued to her clasped hands, leg bouncing in anxiety. 

He wouldn’t know. He wouldn’t know because the couple of times he saw you it seemed you were on a mission, moving with intent, doing what needed to be done just as he was. But he should have known. 

You were his friend. You were his family. Bucky’s gal… How many times could he fail Bucky Barnes?

His chest constricts. Absently he rubs at the ache, trying to think of something useful to say. He opens his mouth to offer some banal platitude but Mosi - the medic seeing to you - saves both him and Okoye from the embarrassment. 

“She’ll be alright I think,” he says with a tired voice. “Dehydrated, so we got her on a drip. She’s still unconscious but that may be for the best right now. Her scans are… different from the last ones Shuri-” He pauses, his throat bobbing as he swallows his emotions. “The last ones Shuri did. It could be due to the head wound but it’s hard to tell.”

“What do you mean different?” Okoye asks. The tone in her voice makes Steve shift uncomfortably. 

“I…” Mosi pauses. “Honestly, I’m trying to quantify it. None of us were actively involved in the assessment of the Barnes’ enhancements, we only assisted when requested.” He sighs, his exhaustion evident. “There doesn’t seem to be damage per se but the readings are erratic. There are parts of her brain that seem to be activating her power that never showed on past scans and…” 

“And what?” Steve asks, his anxiety mounting. 

“None of Shuri’s research shows Y/N’s power remaining active in a truly unconscious state. They tried it under sedation and it was completely dormant.” He sits heavily in one of the chairs. “Right now, there is a constant flow of energy, like someone just left the tap on.” 

“Dammit, Y/N,” Okoye grumbles. Steve looks at her confused. “She pushed herself too far. You saw her eyes during the battle right?! They were bleeding.”

“Ah,” Mosi sighs, “that explains the ruptured blood vessels. If she did over use her power it’s possible that she just needs rest - like any overworked muscle.” 

Steve nods, rubbing his temples as he leans back in the chair.  

“We’ll closely monitor-” A distinct tremble pulses through the building cutting him off. No sooner does it pass than another, stronger, shake comes. 

“Earthquake?” Steve asks, getting to his feet. 

Okoye shakes her head as she stands, “No, the building’s frame is vibranium it shouldn’t-” The next tremor almost knocks them all down and sends the monitors in your room screaming in alarm. 

Whatever Steve expected to see when he rushed into your room it was not what awaited him. 

The door slides open as the thick glass shatters outward with a deafening crash. Just outside, your body floats, head lolling to the side, pieces of glass continuing to shatter about you sparkling like glitter in the twilight. He calls out to you but is helpless as you float out into the growing darkness. 

Okoye stands just behind him, eyes wide with fear and worry. 

“Keep an eye on her as long as you can and update me on where she may be heading.” Okoye nods in acknowledgment as he sprints from the room. 

Steve’s chest burns like his lungs just can’t bring in enough oxygen. Suddenly he’s a kid again, gasping for air, praying that this won’t be the time his body chooses to quit on him. 

Doubling over, once he reaches the landing deck, he rests his hands on his knees, trying to count his breaths, trying to center himself. There wasn’t time for him to fall apart. Not now. 

“Steve?” Thor asks from his perch on one of the hovercrafts. The raccoon - Rocket - sits beside him. 

“What’s wrong?” Thor’s hand rests heavily on his shoulder. It’s too much like a gesture Bucky would often make. He pulls away. 

“Y/N,” he pants, still trying to force his lungs to work. “Something’s wrong, she-” Okoye’s voice in his ear interrupts him.

“Steve, I… I think she’s heading to where… it happened.” 

There was no need to explain what it was. 

“Copy,” he answers.

“I’m on my way down,” Okoye says. 

“No, I can-”

“I’m coming.” Her tone brooches no argument. 

“We’ll come too,” Thor says, getting on the craft. Rocket just shrugs. 

When the four of them arrive at the edge of the woods it’s eerily quiet. 

“There’s no breeze,” Thor comments quietly. He was right. A slight wind had been blowing on the landing deck but here, everything was unnaturally still. “Her power…” 

Steve doesn’t like the awe in Thor’s voice. You were gifted, of that there was no question. But you’d been clear enough that there were limits to what you could do and how long you could use your abilities. 

With a pang, he remembers Wanda teasing you about it over dinner more than once. 

“There,” Okoye whispers. 

He sees you and feels a pain shoot through his heart. 

You’re standing just as you had days ago, in the same place, but your hands - palms out - are pressed to nothing but empty air. Around your feet dust swirls in a slow circle, the only movement to be seen. From here, he can’t see your face, but your head is cocked to the side, almost as if you’re listening to something in the distance. 

Part of him wants to run. Just leave you to your sorrow because he can’t bear it. Because this, this brings to gut-wrenching clarity a thought he’d been avoiding for days. 

You had tried to use your power to save Bucky. 

He can’t begin to comprehend what that must have been like. What must you have felt as your husband died…

The snapping of a stick beneath Thor’s foot causes your head to twitch in their direction though you don’t move otherwise. 

“Y/N?” Okoye calls softy. “Sister, why don’t you come with us?” She extends her hand, “I’ll take you home.”

Steve wishes it was just his imagination making him feel the tremor move from your body into the ground. But the shaking of the leaves above them in response to Okoye’s last word tells him it was real. 

He looks to the others, seeing tense faces stare back at him. Rocket’s ears twitch wildly. 

“We need to back up. Now.” Immediately he begins to put more space between himself and you. Thor nods, following his lead. Okoye looks from them to you and back, unsure. 

No. He’d failed you, failed Bucky, and Sam, and Wanda, and everyone. He couldn’t turn away from you now. 

Slowly, he makes his way to your side, his body tingling with an entirely foreign sensation. 

“Y/N,” his voice almost a whisper. “Come on, let’s-” As soon as his hand touches your shoulder he’s flung back. Thor catches him, pulling him away from you and settling him on the ground. 

Gobsmacked Steve stares, hardly able to breathe or think, only capable of gaping slack-jawed as the dust at your feet begins to spin faster and faster. 

Slowly, the air around you begins to swirl with debris from the ground. A foot, two three, the radius grows until there’s a five-foot minimum of dirt, dust, stones, and other forest refuse filling the space, up and up past the tops of the trees.  

Even so, it remains strangely quiet save for the rustling of the foliage. It could almost be peaceful. Until your scream shatters the illusion. 

He’d heard this scream before. It was the scream that rang through bombed cities in the war, through New York when the Citauri attacked, and Sokovia as buildings crumbled burying families inside. It was the sound of loss so profound that it reduced someone to their basest animal nature. 

It seems to pull every ounce of pain he’d tried to run from to the surface. Desperately, he tries to tamp it down, gritting his teeth as tears slide unbidden from his eyes. 

Thor hits his knees beside Steve, coving his face. Rocket looks away. Okoye stares, tears silently carving paths down her cheeks. 

What could any of them do? What comfort could they give?

Your cries shake the ground, cause the trees to groan, small thunder-like rumbles rise and fall as though you were ripping the particles in the air apart like lightning. Maybe you were… 

All he knew was that at this moment your pain was the pain of a universe in mourning. You expressed what they all felt but did not have the capability to release. 

A strange creaking groan slowly gets louder as the earth shakes. 

Tear it all down, Y/N, he thinks. I’m too tired to save it anymore.

His sight is blurred with tears he can’t seem to let fall so he thinks he imagines the woman stepping past them, moving serenely toward your maelstrom, her white hair tumbling down her back. 

“Queen Mother, don’t!” Okoye cries, shaken from her stupor. She grabs the woman's arm. Ramonda turns to her, a sad smile on her face.

“Let go of me, General.” Okoye doesn’t move. “Oko,” Ramonda coos, cupping her face with a hand. “It will be alright. She’s just hurting.” 

Okoye takes a halting step away from the Queen before collapsing back to the ground. 

Steve holds his breath as he watches Ramonda enter the cyclone of debris surrounding you - so sure that a rogue branch or rock would strike her down. You’d never forgive yourself if-

He shoots to his feet, ready to rush after Ramonda, pull her to safety for all your sakes but he freezes. 

Incredibly she’s made it to you unscathed. Through the haze of dust, he sees her arms wrap around you, your body still shaking with screams, and pull your back against her chest. 

Relief only has the briefest moment to touch him before, with one final groan, the ground around you gives way. 

-

Falling. 

You’re falling and you don’t want it to stop. 

The further you fall the better, the further you fall the more likely this pain will end when you reach the bottom. And that’s all you want right now. Just for the pain to end and to take this insidious hunger along with it.  

“I know child, I know it hurts,” a voice, thick with tears whispers in your ear. “I know.”

The sound cuts your scream off at the root leaving you gasping and bringing the ground up to meet you. 

It was not far enough. 

Though both of you are sent to your knees the arms around your chest do not release you. They only hold tighter. 

“Let it out.” The voice whispers. Only then do you realize your scream had morphed into a guttural sob. 

It hurt.

The salt in your tears stings your eyes so badly it feels like someone is grinding sand in them and your throat is so raw you’d think you swallowed fire. Your body feels like it was hit by a bus, muscles throbbing, a bone-deep ache permeating your whole being, and that strange hunger grinding somewhere deep within you. But you can’t stop. The tears just keep flowing. 

Gone. He was gone. And you failed to save him.

This was worse than the loss of your chosen family. Then, you were trapped, held prisoner, unable to get to them fast enough. Now…

You had him in your hands. You had power beyond comprehension at your literal fingertips. And still, it wasn’t enough. Still, you felt him leave you bit by bit. 

“Bucky!” His name trips over your lips, a desperate plea, a prayer. Again and again, you call for him knowing he will not answer you. 

Eventually, you run out of tears and slump into the arms holding you, your head on their shoulder. Forcing your eyes open you look up at Ramonda’s tearstained but serene face. A mother’s face. 

Gently she brushes the hair from your damp cheeks before pressing her lips to your forehead. If you had the ability to shed one more tear you would have. Your own mother had feared you, maybe even hated you, so this kind of care was foreign but god, you never wanted her to let go. 

Your eyes slide shut as she starts humming a low song. It isn’t something you know but the cadence of the notes sound like a lullaby. 

The presence of others presses into your awareness. She doesn’t react so you feel no need to either. 

One of her arms releases you to draw another person near. A person you know. Okoye. 

Opening your eyes the best you can you reach for her, the warm feeling of her palm in yours feels good. 

A small hand rests on your thigh. The feeling is an odd one and you look down. Rocket, the one who tried to buy Bucky’s arm, gazes at you with wide shimmering eyes - pain clear on his features. With your free hand, you cover his and he leans into you.  

With eyes half-mast you barely see Thor draw close. Ramonda reaches her other hand to him and he takes it. A soft cry comes from him. 

“I know,” Ramonda pauses her song to whisper. “Captain?” 

Steve is before you all, standing, looking away. When Ramonda calls to him he closes the small distance and kneels before you. His eyes look red from tears but he seems so solid otherwise. 

With a knuckle, he brushes your cheek, it comes away pink. Your eyes must have bled again… You must have-

It’s then that you look just over Steve’s shoulder and realize… You are all huddled in a fucking crater. 

Falling. You had felt like you were falling. You had thought about the ground crumbling when Bucky had and… You pull away from the others, pushing past Steve to the other side of the crater. 

You press your hands to the wall, about six feet high, and they come away black with fresh earth. Slowly you turn, taking in the size of the thing.

When your gaze settles on the group, most still leaning on one another, they look concerned.  

“Y/N?” Steve’s tone is cautious. 

“I did this,” you breathe in realization, voice hoarse. 

“It’s ok, Y/N. No one was-”

“No!” You snap. “It isn’t ok. I can’t do this! I shouldn’t… I can’t-” Breathe. You cannot breathe. 

Grasping your chest you heave, feeling like your heart may burst. Panic overwhelms you. 

“You just need to rest,” Okoye’s voice this time. “You haven’t stopped since-”

“No,” you rasp, shaking your head frantically. You begin to pace. “No. You don’t understand.” You lean against the wall and sink down, hiding your face in your knees as you begin to shake all over. 

Your mind buzzes trying to sort all the things it’s sensing, like trying to pick out each individual voice in a crowd of thousands. Beneath the chaos is the low rumble you remembered from before, that hunger. Your fingers run through your hair, grasping your skull. 

“Something is wrong. Wrong with me. I can’t… I can’t…”

“What can’t you do, Y/N?” Steve asks. 

“Control it!” You shout looking up at them. The soft earth beneath you shifts and you gasp covering your mouth, scared you’ll just start screaming again. The tension hangs heavy in the air. 

“It’s alright,” Ramonda says moving closer. “We are all struggling to control this grief. It must make it harder to harness these gifts.” Her soft smile makes you wish she was right, makes you want to let her mother you and tell you it will all be fine and believe her. 

But she’s wrong. You shake your head. 

“That isn’t it. I-” Your voice cracks. “Something is wrong.” You’re too tired to think but you have to say it because you know it must be the cause. 

“I touched them,” you manage. 

“Touched what?” Okoye asks. 

“The stones,” Thor whispers. “You touched the stones with your power.” You meet his mismatched eyes and nod. 

“Christ,” Steve hisses, pacing away. 

“You’re lucky you’re even alive,” Rocket says. “That’s cosmic, concentrated energy you tapped into, you should be-”

You can’t help the bitter laugh that pours from you. 

“Lucky,” you growl. “Lucky. That’s me, so fucking lucky!” You push yourself quickly to your feet. 

The world tips sideways and everything goes dark. 

When your eyes flutter open again you’re on a hovercraft, Steve’s arms cradling you tight to his chest. 

Shame thrums through you. 

“I’m ok, Steve,” you say. “You can put me down.”

“It’s fine,” his tone is hard edged, cold. 

“Really, I-” His arms flex, holding you tighter. When you get to the landing deck you pry yourself from his grasp with your power, landing softly on your feet. He tosses a look that isn’t quite a glare at you but says nothing. 

Instead of going back to the lab, you all follow Ramonda as if on instinct, to the royal residences. A line of wayward children. 

Being in Ramonda’s welcoming home threatens to send a tremor through you - and everything around you. Too many afternoons you’d come here after training to see Bucky sitting on the balcony, lit golden in the sunset, drinking tea… The thought of his smile makes some deep place in you ache. 

Thor collapses into one of the couches, looking like a husk of a man. You had seen him earlier that day but perhaps he too was reaching his breaking point. It looks like Rocket will join him for a beat but he heads to the balcony, his eyes fixed on the sky as though looking for something. 

You stand, unsure what to do. 

“Sit,” Ramonda insists. You do as she says, avoiding the large chair you usually shared with Bucky, opting for a pile of floor pillows instead. 

When Steve, Okoye, and Ramonda return with food and tea you realize, guiltily, that you hadn’t noticed their absence or even really registered time passing. No one moves for the food, lost in their own misery. 

“Eat, all of you,” Ramonda says in a maternal voice. 

She needs to care for someone, you think. 

Not wanting to disappoint her you force yourself to take some tea and nibble on a piece of flatbread. It all tastes like dust. 

At some point you lost the thread of the conversation. Mainly Okoye filling the silence with plans, Ramonda saying something about the elder council meeting. 

You kept playing the events of earlier through your head - hating that you had broken like that, hating how you likely terrified them all - when Okoye coughed. It wasn’t subtle. Neither was the pointed glance she and Steve exchanged. 

You bristle. 

“Come on,” Steve stands, extending a hand to you. Choosing to not take it you rise fluidly to your feet, your power, rather than your tired muscles propelling you. 

Ramonda cups your face in her hands before kissing both your cheeks. She doesn’t say a word, just presses her forehead to yours before releasing you. 

With no explanation from him, he leads you to the apartment he uses when he visits. You manage to hold your tongue until the door closes behind you both. 

“Were you assigned to babysit?” At any other time, the venom in his glare would have stung. “I can-”

“Don’t,” his voice is low. He turns and rummages through a drawer, pulling out a plain black tee and boxers. “Here. Go shower.” 

There’s something barely contained in his actions, a tension begging to be released. You feel guilty for your quip but don’t think an apology will be welcome. Plus, you can feel every grain of sand, every bit of dirt, the salt from your sweat all clinging to your skin, it’s unbearable.

The shower doesn’t help. All you can think of as the hot water hits your skin is that you should have showered with Bucky this morning… Two mornings ago? Three? Honestly, you didn’t know how much time had passed. 

You finish quickly. Looking in the mirror you notice the swath of scalp showing where they shaved your head around a wound. 

Vaguely you remember helping to clear the alien debris that had been left behind. Someone slipped and got pinned, you’d easily freed them but lost focus and your grip on the metal. 

You press a finger to the skin, soft and beginning to bruise but sealed with Wakandan perfection. Staring listlessly at your reflection you press harder, the pain making you feel present, reminding you this was real. 

This woman in the mirror… you don’t know her. Your fingers rub around the wound and slip into your hair pulling it tight. If you pulled hard enough… On the open shelves by the sink, you spot the clippers. That would be faster. 

The buzzing noise is almost unbearable as is the sensation of all the little whirring parts. But you push past it. 

Bit by bit your hair - grown long and thick over these past few years of love, of hope, of rebirth and rebuilding yourself from what Hydra made of you - falls to the floor. 

When you finish you look back in the mirror. You know this ghost. 

It isn’t a comfort. 

Your chest seizes. Gripping the edge of the counter you fold forward. One question screams in your head over and over. 

Shaking your head you try to clear it, feeling strands of hair slip from your shoulders. Frantically you reach for the t-shirt and pull it on before flinging the door open. 

Steve sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head hanging. 

“Steve?” You ask in a tremulous voice. He looks up, his face a map of pain. “What do we do? What… What do we do…” Without Bucky. That was what you really meant. Without Bucky what were you supposed to do?

“I-” His voice cracks. “I don’t know.” He shakes his head, “God help me but… I don’t… I don’t know.” When the sob breaks free he almost looks startled by it, his hand flying to his mouth, eyes wide with fear. 

He keeps shaking his head, “Y/N, I don’t know… I’m sorry I-” That’s it. That’s all he has left. 

Here, away from the world, Steve Rogers breaks. 

For a beat you’re unsure what to do. You’d never seen him cry, never seen him fully lose his grip on that invisible shield he never put down. 

There is so little you can give him. Still, you go to him, pulling him to you, holding tight. It isn’t much but this is all you have.

His face presses against your abdomen, his tears soaking through the shirt fabric. Even though you thought you’d cried all you could, you feel the tears come, rolling quietly down your cheeks and landing in his golden hair as you run your fingers through it.

When your tired legs will no longer hold you up you crawl into the bed. Neither of you speak but you hold on for dear life until oblivion offers relief from this consuming grief.

TAGS

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#bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #steve rogers and reader #steve rogers #post endgame #angst fic

[magioftheseas]

The Farce of Hope

Written for @komahinaisle

Day 5: Fantasy AU, Healing, Hope

Summary: A certain hero of hope has been causing problems for those who reap despair. Hinata is assigned with breaking that hero's will through the targeting of the insipid, vapidly cheerful healer that is always by his side.

Rating: T

Warnings: Attempted murder and later kidnapping.

Notes: This is not a day late. I just can’t read. Anyway I’ve been wanting to write this idea for a long time...however I wanted to write it much spicier. I’m pretty sad that I didn’t. But hopefully it’s still serviceable if nothing else. Also demon!Hinata is v good. V, v, v good.

***Alternate Ao3 Link***

Commission? Donate?

Lately, that hero had been causing more and more problems. Junko was getting increasingly annoying about it, which wasn’t helping.

“You gotta dooooo something, Hajime!!” she whined, clinging to him with big, watery eyes. “They’re ruining all my plans! All my despair! It’s sooooo frustrating! Not despairing, but frustrating! At this rate, the disgusting populace won’t fear me as much as they used to! And what will I do, then?!”

He grumbled. He griped. And she shoved him out the door.

“If you fail me, I’ll feel such despair that I won’t be able to resist killing you on the spot!” she chirped, cheerful now. “So! Take care of that wretched, stupid hero of hope, Hajime! In fact! I’ll make it easy for you! Target that dumbass healer always tagging along and fawning over them!” With a grin, she waved him off. “He looks like easy prey but is pretty annoyingly immune to my charm! You’re definitely more up his alley! Don’t let me down! Or else!”

And that was that.

“Urgh.”

Chief demon-in-command, Hinata Hajime, was given simultaneously a most important mission—and a most irritating chore.

--

It’s not all that important to mention, but Hinata Hajime hadn’t always been a demon. He was one of many former humans swayed to the side of despair due to discontentment with the current state of affairs and Junko’s promises of glory. She had presented them a paradise of free will and euphoria, and he had been desperate enough to hang on every word.

As time wore on, it was obvious she didn’t care about them at all. But, it wasn’t like Hinata Hajime cared for the other world, either. Hope, happiness, righteousness were all nothing more than farces. This hero, too, with their wide-eyed innocence and determination, was just another joke.

But the one Hinata undoubtedly detested the most was the healer. The healer who worshipped every step of the hero, and sang praise upon praise of their spread of hope, their sweeping influence as a symbol of hope. As if such a thing hadn’t already proven to be a broken promise. He was either willfully dense or just that stupid.

And yet, the hero kept him around. Likely for those asinine assurances.

Foolishness all around. But, if there was an ideal target, it was the healer.

“What sort of materials do we need for this next mission, Naegi-kun?!”

“You don’t need to worry about it so soon, Komaeda-san...”

“But! I! Insist!” With his overwhelming enthusiasm and fiery intensity, the healer having his way was inevitable, even when placed against a so-called hero. Even the most innocuous of observers could tell, and as someone spying on them, Hinata already found himself bored as the healer huffed. “A hero of hope can never be too prepared!”

As predicted, the hero sighs.

“Alright, alright. But, we’re going to relax here for a while, okay? I’m still pretty exhausted, and I’m sure you are, too.”

“If this feeble body of mine is destined to crumble, it’s no concern as long as it can still bear the weight of supporting you, Naegi-kun!”

Unsurprisingly, the hero’s face pinches up. He shook his head quickly.

“Please. Take care of yourself.”

“Oh.” The healer blinks back. “Did I upset you, Naegi-kun?”

“I’m not upset.” The hero shook his head again. “I just worry.”

“You don’t need to worry,” was insisted.

“But I do anyway. Komaeda-kun—we are running low on herbs for potions. Um. Maybe I could use a new cloak? What do you think?” A pitiful smile was given as the healer lit up, eyes bright. “I trust you on this more than anything.”

“We definitely do need more herbs,” he rattled off. “And we need to buy polish for the armor and yes, a new cloak. Preferably one resistant to poisons! We’re coming up on quite a dangerous area! So antidotes are also a must! Don’t worry, Naegi-kun! I’ll grab everything we need and then some!”

“Alright, Komaeda-kun. Thank you.”

It was painfully simple, Hinata Hajime thought as the healer went on his way. He wove through the crowd, following that bouncing healer, who was so easy to spot with his white hair and light robes. A blight, one with an infuriatingly cheerful hum as he walked.

It would have been painfully easy to burn that annoying little light into a crisp.

Just kill him—that’s all Junko asked for. She didn’t even care about extracting any level of satisfaction. I could just twist a knife into his gut and leave.

The healer tripped, and enough people parted so that he fell to the ground. The hero was too far away to witness this. Hinata Hajime drew near.

“Ahaha,” the healer murmured, pushing himself up shakily, still smiling. “How clumsy of me.”

“Do you need help?” Hinata asked, feigning concern as he played with the small dagger hidden in his cloak. He offers his hand. “Here. Let me.”

“Oh!” The healer perked up, eyes wide before he once again beams. He reaches for Hinata’s hand just as Hinata’s grip closes around the handle of his dagger. “Thank you so—”

“Out of the way! I’ve lost control!”

High-pitched whinnying. The crowd was screaming and scattering to make way for the horse charging through. Hinata was forced to yank the healer close if he wanted to avoid them both getting trampled on the spot. The healer’s mouth opens to let out a sharp yelp, which is then muffled by Hinata’s cloak. The horse races by. Its distraught owner chases after it.

The healer is still pressed close, and Hinata could feel his heart hammering. Rather belatedly, he realizes that the healer is gripping his other hand. The one that still holds the knife.

Hinata says nothing, but the healer lets out a shaky exhale.

“Oh.” He lets go of Hinata’s other hand, pulling back almost sheepishly. “That was rather exhilarating, wasn’t it?” He laughs, and his face is flushed. “I would’ve died if not for you! What truly good luck!”

Good luck?

At Hinata’s quizzical stare, the healer just gave his usual insipid smile.

“Thank you for saving me. Um.” He digs through his pouch and pulling out several gold coins. “How much—do you want?”

Does he think I’m just a thief?

“I’m sorry,” the healer went on. “I’m afraid I don’t have much gold to spare. But, I can compensate you in other ways, if you like. Is there anything you need?”

No one is paying them any mind. The menial bustling has returned now that the apparent danger is gone. It would not be that hard to finish the job anyway, the distraction be damned. The healer is smiling up at him so pitifully, and Hinata Hajime wonders if he’s still afraid.

“I don’t mind,” the healer said. “Really. Even if you were trying to hurt me, you ultimately helped me. So, you must not be that bad of a person.”

I could have let the horse trample him.

Hinata wanted to curse his impulses. No wonder this fool was trying to pay him.

“I don’t want any payment,” he snapped. “It was instinct. Your hand was already in mine. I didn’t have much of a choice.”

“Are you sure?” There’s finally a frown on that face. “I really, really don’t mind.”

How infuriating!

“At least let me buy you a meal,” the other insisted, to Hinata’s disdain. “Instinct or not, you saved me. Please, let me show proper gratitude! I... I’m Komaeda Nagito, by the way. I’m quite the worthless healer, but I’m not completely hopeless, haha.”

What you are is hapless.

Hinata bit his tongue, but he didn’t really have an excuse to flee. Even if he wanted to disengage as quickly as he could.

“Hinata... Hajime. Nice to meet you.” His name wasn’t given very often. The sound and shape of it were as bland and banal on his tongue as ever. “If you really want to—I guess I can’t stop you.”

“Hinata-kun!” Komaeda grins with the radiance that he preferred to see crushed. “It’s nice to meet you! I hear the food at the inn is delicious, so let’s go there!”

Hinata can only nod, fingers twitching as he does. “Let’s.”

--

“Order whatever you want, Hinata-kun! I don’t mind paying for it!”

“What was that about not having much gold to spare?”

“I get a discount, ehe.” Komaeda’s grin grows, looking unbearably smug. “It’s because of Naegi-kun. Surely you’ve heard of him. He’s an incredible hero of hope, you see.”

“I’ve heard,” Hinata said, if only because he didn’t want to hear more about it. “How fortunate for you to associate with someone like that.”

“Mmhm.” Komaeda nods along dreamily, eyes half-lidded. After a while, he blinked a few times and his head tilted. “You knew about him but you still wanted to...?”

He’s sharper than he looks.

“It’s because you don’t look strong yourself.” That was true, at least. Everything about Komaeda Nagito, the healer, screamed fragile. And healers weren’t known for being all that durable in the first place. It’s astounding to think that Naegi Makoto could manage with a healer this especially frail in appearance, but either Komaeda Nagito was more than he seemed—or he was quite lucky.

I’m leaning towards luck.

Komaeda laughing more or else emboldened the thought.

“You’re right! You’re absolutely right! I’m definitely a weak link! If Naegi-kun hadn’t known me for so long, he would have rightfully discarded me long ago.” Brushing away stray tears, Komaeda added. “Naegi-kun’s such a kind person. I’ve known that from the start, even before I was aware of his potential. I do want to support him with all that I have.”

“Would you even give your life for him?” Hinata asked.

Komaeda didn’t even hesitate.

“Yes! Of course!”

He’s even stupider than I thought. Does he even know that his death will be a cause of despair? Stupid. So stupid.

It was infuriating. Beyond infuriating. Even if he does kill Komaeda Nagito, the healer will part with sweet words of encouragement and a smile. He’s sure of it.

He’s just like how I was back then.

--

“Are you not going to order anything?”

“Mm... Toast, maybe?”

“That’s not a meal.”

“Ahaha! I don’t need to eat that badly!”

So stupid.

But, he holds his tongue. He orders a modest meal, all things considered. Junko spoils them quite a bit with high-class meals when she doesn’t randomly decide to poison them. To eat something normal without that concern would be a nice change of pace. He’s not much for a lavish lifestyle anyway, it turns out.

The food was fine. The service was fine. The innkeeper was polite, well-practiced. This kind of mundane scenario had become a rarity ever since he joined Junko. There are times where he wondered if he had understood what, exactly, he sacrificed back then. But, it didn’t matter.

None of it really mattered.

“If you insist on staring so intently,” he found himself snapping at the other. “Then perhaps order an actual meal for yourself?”

“O-Oh!” Komaeda hurriedly waved his hands. “Sorry, sorry! I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, Hinata-kun! I was just...” Wetting his lips, he seems contemplative. “You’re so methodical with how you eat. It’s rather fascinating to watch. Especially when you’re a lowly thief.”

He doesn’t even lower his voice on the off-chance that he’s overheard. Hinata wouldn’t be surprised if it had been intentional. Even with the show of charity, there was a suspicious glimmer in Komaeda Nagito’s eye. As if he wasn’t sure if what he was appraising was dirt or gold.

Hinata merely snorted, unwilling to humor him. Komaeda’s smile quirked, but he didn’t add anything else.

“What were you before you joined Naegi Makoto?” Hinata asked next, head tilting with the inquiry. “Did you have any path laid out before you prior to clinging to the hero’s coattails?”

“Not really,” Komaeda said easily. “I was always clumsy, so I never had any promise. It would have been impertinent to have ambitions. But supporting Naegi-kun is everything I ever could have wanted.”

“I see.” Hinata nodded. “How fortunate for you to find happiness in someone else’s shadow.”

“It’s more than I deserve,” Komaeda speaks brightly. Easily. “So yes, I’m very happy.”

Happy—huh?

“Is that so? You’ve no resentment at all? No regrets? You really only appreciate what you have?” Hinata stood, leaving the meal only partially finished. “How noble of you. You’re just the perfect martyr, aren’t you?”

Someone like this isn’t even worth a glance. It’s just because he’s close to Naegi Makoto that Junko wants him dealt with. He’s fortunate and unfortunate in that sense.

“It may be hard to understand, but it’s how I feel,” Komaeda said, fearless even as Hinata approaches him. He doesn’t even tense as Hinata looms over him. “Are you angry, Hinata-kun? That’s quite a scary face. I guess you must be quite unsatisfied with your current lot in life.”

“I am, but I don’t envy you.” Hinata stares, gaze sharp. “I’m not sure if I hate you or if I feel sorry for you. She certainly wouldn’t care either way as long as you’re taken care of.”

Komaeda’s expression changed immediately, smile dropping.

“She?”

“She,” Hinata confirmed, reaching into his cloak for his dagger. Komaeda blinks, but Hinata merely carves words into the table. “This is for your hero. I assume he’ll understand what comes next.”

Komaeda looks over the message, and his eyes go wide when he realizes.

“You—”

Hinata covers his mouth. He takes Komaeda’s outburst of magic without blinking, and then he yanks the squirming, struggling healer close.

“I’m doing you a favor,” Hinata hissed, and he brought his hand down swiftly.

Someone screamed, but the two of them are gone before long.

--

In the end, he decided against killing Komaeda Nagito. Why? Sentimentality, perhaps?

I don’t know. I just got so angry and now here we are.

Hinata sighed, resting against the wall. They’re in a hideout, now. A location that he detailed on the table and Komaeda is secured, still unconscious and curled up on a pile of leaves. His wrists are bound, his magic restricted. Like this, he truly does look utterly helpless.

Hinata almost feels bad but stomps down the rising bile and guilt.

It’s because he’s a liar. Saying he’s happy with his lot in life—what a joke. I’ll prove him wrong.

“You’re not any better than me,” he murmurs, fierce as he approaches, scowling down at Komaeda’s innocent face. “You’re just as wretched, just as wanting, just as corrupt. You’re just in denial that hope is a farce, and once you realize, that Naegi Makoto will see it, too.”

He reaches out, and as Komaeda murmurs, Hinata finds himself softening and brushing the other’s hair back.

“Mm... Where...? Hinata-kun...?”

“Komaeda Nagito,” Hinata says, suddenly tired but resolute. “It’s time for me to teach you about the Ultimate Despair.”

#KomaHinaWeek2020 #nagito komaeda #hajime hinata #KomaHina #HinaKoma #makoto naegi #junko enoshima #Magi fics #I don't even know who I am anymorre #show up in the tags challenge

[bigsnzstanacct]

Hayfever Story (sneezing + nose blowing)

I... don’t know what you all will think of this one. This is part one of two, though I’m not entirely certain how part two should go. This one is mostly setup but there’s plenty of sneezing at the top. Honestly it is almost all sneeze talk or description. The sneezer is described as male, but the narrator’s gender is left ambiguous: imagine whatever excites you the most.

This is unedited, obviously, but I may go through and take another pass at it at some point.

—-

I could hear him down the block.

“AAAHHHHCCHHH-HHOOOOOOO!!” The bellow was dimmed somewhat by distance and the walls between us, but I still heard it, clear as day. He’d be winding up for another one now, frozen in place, captive to his big, protruding proboscis. The handkerchief clutched in two hands, spread wide as his head tipped back and back and back until his shoulder got into it, his wide nostrils flaring absurdly as he gasped... and gasped... and gasped... until...

“EEEEEEAAAYYYYYATTCCHHOOOOOOOOOOO!!!” Even louder this time! He would have delivered it right into the handkerchief, so that he could transition, seamlessly, fluidly, almost... professionally into the window rattling roar of his great lawnmower honk of a nose blow, sonorous as a trombone, surely so because of the unusual architecture of his cavernous nostrils, which provided plenty of room for the great crashing blow to echo and resound and build in noise. The first great two-nostril honk taken care of, he’d press one nostril shut and blow his trumpet blast out the other, then switch sides, in a sort of aftershock to the first great blow. I could barely even hear them through the walls. But I knew after that would come the last big blow. First, an enormous lung-swelling long smooth inward gasp of air, his shoulders rising, rib cage expanding to let in more and more and more air. Then, a silent moment of preparation, practically like a prayer, his eyes scrunching shut, face flying into the waiting hankie and then...

The real foghorn, a nasal blast that dwarfed his sneeze in volume. His “big blows” as we called them existed less to expel moisture or whatever else might be lurking in his nasal passages, and more to cleanse the terrible itch with the sheer sound of it, as though by making his whole sinuses vibrate with the sonorous force of the blow, he could chase that twinging tickle into every nook and cranny of his nose, and in doing so scratch the itch into submission.

He’d be walking again now. Would there be another sneeze before he arrived at the door, would he in fact reach the door even as the ragweed and grass pollen and all the terrible floral irritations of spring reignited that desperate desire in him, left the poor exhausted man with no choice but to unleash another:

“HEEEEEAAAAAAHHHHHHSSHHH-OOOOOOOOO!!!” This was an angry sneeze. The sneeze of a man exhausted by his nose and a nose exhausted by the itch. It was the sort of sneeze he released only when he at last forgot about the noise and disruption his nose could cause—did cause, all throughout hayfever season—and could think only of finally relieving the terrible itch. I swung the door open, and was greeted by the sight, no longer in my imagination but in the flesh, of his reddened, dripping nose, his tired, sagging eyes—oh it was so obvious he was in the grips of an absolutely miserable allergy attack, and I could only reach out to him, press him into a tight embrace, even as, over my shoulder, he spread it out—oh, not a handkerchief at all, but one of those big red bandanas he used when his poor nose wore him out, when even his hankies seemed too small and too fragile to stand up to the ferocity of his allergic response. I barely noticed before he crushed his nose into his hand and, uncontrollably, right next to my ear blasted out a honk that I swear nearly made my go deaf.

Of course, if that were going to happen, it would have long since happened by now.

“Oh hodey...” he said, sniffing, as he straightened up. “Hodey I’b so sorry bud by dose...”

“Shhh, shhh,” I cooed at him, guiding him into the living room and down onto the sofa. “It’s fine, darling, I understand. Your hayfever...”

“Id’s terrible!” He announced, as though every centimeter of his face was not making the announcement for him, from the downturn of his lips to his constantly working, practically buzzing nose. “Wud sec godda blow...”

He said this with banal literalness—he was going to blow his nose. And yet I couldn’t help but think that “gonna blow” seemed accurate for any and everything pertaining to his nose, which resembled nothing so much as his personal Vesuvius, a volcano always on the edge of an eruption.

He held forth with a blow that put the others to shame, or perhaps that was just me being able to appreciate it properly now, neither muffled by walls nor so all-consumingly close that its relative volume was masked. De-stuffed a bit by the blow, he continued: “I had to sneeze so badly all day, darling, you wouldn’t believe it. I hate hayfever!” He said it with conviction, so much so that I couldn’t help but hate it too, even if his hayfever, this particular specimen, also thrilled me. “I don’t know how I got any work done, always having to duck into the bathroom to... t-tuhhh... huuuhhh.... HUUUUUHHHH... HUUUUUAAAAASSSHHHOOOOOOOOO!!!”

“To do that?”

“Mm.” He replied, congested again. Our flow of conversation ebbed for the moment, making way for his great trumpeting blows, always the same pattern: a great two nostril honk, a series of cleansing blows of each nostril individually, alternately, and then a final great tickle-chasing honk. Although this time even that pattern didn’t seem to be enough. “Cad you ged me adother h-hadker... hadker... hehhHH... AAAASSSSHHHOOOOOOOOOO!!”

He didn’t have to tell me twice, though as I heard the thumping on our ceiling from our neighbor above, already fed up with his nasal exuberance, I couldn’t help but hope, for the sake of peace in our little block of apartments if nothing else, that the next cleansing blow managed to clear out some of that infernal pollen and ease his allergies some.

Although, as he heard him snuffling and sniffing, surely hunting for any dry spot left on the great bandana, I didn’t hold out much hope.

—

He’d really had a terrible hayfever day, though it did calm at least somewhat after he’d been home for a while, with our humidifier and air filters all around. He explained that he’d had to sneeze all day at work, constantly ducking into the toilets to let one loose, fighting not to blast one of his rather disruptive and distinctive sneezes in the open office. He’d sworn he wouldn’t be known primarily by his nose, not at this workplace, unlike many of his others. Even then, he hadn’t felt like he could blow his nose, not fully, not properly, even in the toilets. On the bus home, he’d fought not to explode but his hayfever was just unbearable and before he knew it he was belting out sneeze after sneeze, so loud in the enclosed space he was afraid he’d startle the driver or something. The other passengers glaring daggers at him didn’t help. So he’d walked a good deal of the way home, which only succeeded in allowing his big nose to suck up even more allergens, to drive him even crazier with the urge to blow them all out.

By that evening, his nose had largely calmed down, its outbursts coming once or twice an hour rather than every few minutes. I gave him the tea that always helped, wiped his face with a warm cloth, did my best to soothe the allergic beast inside him, the little demon of nasal irritation that took up residence in his nose—a spacious abode—that tormented him and took over him body til his whole body used all its force to exorcize the demon in a blasting sneeze or trumpeting blow. There was something nice about it, the feeling that it was we two in a battle against his hayfever. Sure, it was him on the front lines, cajoling and managing and denying and satiating his itchy nose and its allergic demands. But I was there too, supporting and assisting and fetching bandanas and grabbing things out of his hands when a sudden blinding urge to sneeze robbed him of every other thought. I liked helping him in that way. It was plain to see those great galumphing sneezes took it out of the poor man. And though he always seemed pleased, satisfied after a good strong session of blowing, that too must have required energy. He’d tried to teach me on more than one occasion, when I caught bad colds, how to blow my nose as thoroughly and authoritatively as he did. I’d gotten quite a bit better—no longer the sniffer and snuffler I was when we met—but still, I could never quite manage the sheer ferocity of his nose blowing, let alone the power, let alone the volume. He was in another category for that.

Of course, that presented its problems. And there was another area in which I could help, in which it was I instead of him on the front lines of battle: the neighbors.

Now we’d been lucky enough to escape complaints in many if not most of the places we lived, though surely his nasal exertions were audible through the walls. And to his credit, most of the year, with the exception of lazy afternoons where gave his nose free reign and let his great bellowing sneezes rip as they pleased, he kept his nose to.... well not quite a polite acceptable volume, but at least a dull roar during quieter hours. But this was our second hayfever season in this apartment. And when hayfever season strikes that nose of his, all bets are off. I thought we’d come to blows with at least two of our neighbors by the end of the season, but although we narrowly avoided that, we did have to speak to the apartment management about noise complaints. They couldn’t, of course, kick us out of our apartment over hayfever. But to keep the peace, we agreed to try our very best to keep the noise down late at night, even during hayfever season. His nose had free reign until ten pm. It would be cruel to expect anything else. But his hayfever was too severe to let him sleep sometimes. I’d been awakened, more times than I could count, with a great bellowing sneeze, a desperate, whispered apology and then a trumpeting nose blow. Half-asleep, it never occurred to him to tamp down the violence... all he could think of was chasing away the terrible itch.

So, in those moments where he awoke at night, itchy and sneezy and desperate, it fell to me. Then I took the front lines in the battle against his allergies, or at least the battle to avoid coming to blows with Mr and Mrs Cadwallader upstairs.

I suspected, from the moment I heard him coming down the way to our apartment, that tonight would end up being just such a night. So I’d taken the bandana he normally hid under his pillow and hid it under mine. If he were about to sneeze, even in half-asleep stupor, he’d reach for that, and so it was that I was awakened at 2am, not by his nose, but by his mouth:

“—Quickly!! I n-need to snehhh... sneeze!”

#snz fic #sneeze story #male allergies

[callme--starchild]

Meet-Cute

As an artificial intelligence, Uno could be considered the most advanced existing in the 20st century. Modesty aside, he could be considered the greatest project of Master Everett, and that’s why he could not feel more proud.

He was the soul of the Ducklair Tower, in the blink of an eye he could secure enough to keep his master’s secrets protected, be the eye in Duckburg’s sky and also polymath.

Very literally. Analyzing each camera, always active, the AI could be alert to any unforeseen situation on the streets of the city, and the network was not as protected against invaders as high companies thought — or, at least, not against invaders like him.

Anyway, he knew a vigilante who could handle adversity easily. And he was sure he wouldn’t mind protecting his home and family.

It is not as if I had done it for two years.

*

“I’m back!”

Despite not needing to breathe, Uno could feel how he relaxed when he heard the sole of the boots on the secret floor, Donald crawling with exhaustion and ignorant of the screech they cause.

“Welcome, honey, how was work?” But for some reason, Uno did not want his partner to discover that he was worried about him, so that, simulating the appearance and voice of a housewife mockingly, he made a chair and a coffee table appear.

Paperinik collapsed in the chair, dropping his cap to the floor, the intelligence being able to perceive at a glance the dark tone under the plumage of the superhero’s cheek and how he held his side making a grin.

“Bad,” he growled, trying to ignore the pain in his body to take off his boots, sighing with relief as he began to massage his webbed feet without bothering to remove the voice modulator. “I underestimate tonight’s thieves too much; they are currently in prison, but I think I’m not as dynamic as I thought after after two years of heroism.”

Uno sighed heavily before his metal hands began to massage the duck’s shoulders in circles. One of the disadvantages of not being biological is the inability of touch; but judging from the hoarse exhaled sigh, it was necessary.

“You must be more careful, PK. And listen to me when I tell you if those criminals are petty or not. Apparently they broke your left rib and twisted your wrist, but besides that and your bruised cheek you don’t have deep wounds, but I need to check them to make sure they aren’t  too  serious.”

Donald growled under his breath and, despite not being able to read his thoughts, he did not hesitate to access, finally withdrawing the modulator and the mask.

"You must be hungry after a busy night, Old Cape. Do you want to eat something specific?” Leaving the hero’s shoulders hesitantly, he arranged a small plate with chocolate cookies and a glass of milk on the coffee table.

It wasn’t a buffet, but it would keep his partner distracted while he took care of the medicine cabinet.

“I’m fine thanks. The important thing is to secure the wounds, and perhaps keep them discreet in Scrooge, Della and Duckworth’s eyes” still, he took one of the cookies with his healthy hand.

Opening the first aid kit, Uno could not help but roll his eyes. Despite the considerably good record, Donald was too relaxed for his taste, at least as far as his double identity was concerned, and he was honestly surprised that he agreed to be checked without thinking twice.

Perhaps the wounds were unbearable, he wanted to think taking the bottle of alcohol.

"Well, Avenger, I will need you to take off your suit,” he said abruptly, and smiled slyly when the man was about to choke on the milk. “I want to take care of the chest first, being the most injured area, but I need your cooperation. Besides, you have changed in front of me multiple times, you have nothing to be ashamed of.”

And trying to ignore the rising heat at the soothing tone of his partner, he began to undress, drowning in vain the moans of acute pain.

Before the duck finished unfastening his belt — with Uno’s help given his crooked wrist providing more clumsiness, they both knew it would be a long night.

However, as an android, Uno felt that he had much to learn. In spite of the technological advance that was the tower, he could not say the same of the machinery and robotics even after eleven years since he was deactivated. Primitive, he felt that his master’s old suit did not cover enough screws and intersection points.

He would have to change that as soon as he left the tower. He was sure that he could not bother because a little money was reduced in his account, the economic benefit being the last thing interesting for his inventor.

Pressing the lobby button awkwardly, he appreciated for a moment his blurry reflection in the elevator doors. He recognized that having transferred his computer system to the body had been impressive, but having no total control of the tower as he wanted, he knew that going down one hundred and fifty-one stories would be a late experience.

Meanwhile, the android continued to contemplate his reflection. Certainly, it could be said that he had almost completely replicated the appearance of Everett Ducklair, being stature the only difference.

And speaking of that, he would soon have to decide which alias he could use, if he did not choose to be called Uno.

But while he was fixing the scruffy synthetic hair, a smile slipped on his face.

He couldn’t wait to see Donald’s face when he saw him.

*

Fitting the shirt and reciting what he would say once again, Uno’s eyes widened when he began to ascend Killmotor Hill.

He had seen it more times than he remembered through surveillance cameras, but he had to admit that it was completely different. He didn’t remember that he had big changes eleven years ago anyway.

He fiddled with the hem of his shirt when the taxi started up the hill. He knew that he also had his master’s vehicle available and the Duckmobile could be altered and his fellow hero’s car could not be distinguished, but installing driving programs and modifying the car would take time, perhaps more than it cost to build his body, and honestly he wanted to see Donald.

Probably his impatience was contagious.

That is probably why he quickly got out of the little yellow car, paying a fee and tip clumsily. He still had to master his new legs, but fortunately he was a quick learner.

"Save the change!” Uno could already feel the smile on his face once more. He stumbled, certain to be seen only by the taxi driver before he began to drive away.

It’s not like he’s going to tell Donald after all.

And speaking of, the android could see him through the slits of the gate. Turning his back, he leaned against the copilot door of old 313, apparently talking on the phone.

He must admit that he looked good when he was wearing a tuxedo.

“Okay, Della, don’t worry, I’ll buy it right now… No, no, I just got back from work, how are the kids?” As he used to do when he was restless, he began to pace in front of the entrance, this time playing with his jacket flap.

Uno’s smile became warm.

“What about Uncle Scrooge?” He stopped once more, putting his free hand on his hip. It was perhaps too gratifying to no longer see a bandaged wrist trying to be foolishly hidden, as well as a deflated cheek.

He could still remember to visualize how much it had cost Donald to excuse himself twelve years ago, even though it was such a banal thing like an Beagle Boys’ assault.

Until the duck finally caught a glimpse of him, and he grimaced without taking the cellphone away from his ear. Whatever kept the man busy, he knew that was not the reason for his scrutiny.

“I have to hang up, my boss is calling me. Be careful, I love you.” A smile peeked over his face, and he was sure that his gaze shone for a moment on the prominent dark bags under his eyes.

Anyway, those moments were ephemeral. As soon as the call ended, he did not answer his boss’, who was probably already waiting for him.

As if it were a wasted candle, his partner’s gaze went out again, and his frown returned.

He knew he couldn’t blame him.

“Hey, what’s the big idea?!” This time addressing him, the robot noticed Donald’s tense shoulders, “if you come to see Scrooge McDuck do it another time, he isn’t here at this moment.”

It made him look like the thirties he was now, and he disliked it. Still, he couldn’t help smiling with sneer. Apparently the family had gone on an adventure, and wanted to take advantage of that time.

“Is that how you get an old friend who just wants to surprise you, Hero?” Looking down and putting his hands in the pockets of his jacket, he giggled when he heard the aforementioned snort in fear, “I knew you loved me but not so much.”

Despite the sarcasm, he saw himself giving a small smile to his partner. His face was the poem he knew it would be, and before he knew it he was guarding the moment in his database.

On the other hand, Donald felt his vision cloudy, his throat dry and his sweaty hands, feeling like the cellphone slipped until it fell from his hands, the sound of the screen cracking invading the environment. He would recognize that look, that modulated voice wherever he went.

But that was practically impossible, right? Otherwise he would have to run to the houseboat on the humble patch of Car-Cans at his disposal, despite his trembling legs.

He had promised to leave that life behind, let the acclaimed superhero die as soon as he heard the triplets cry for the first time; and to date he had not reconsidered returning to it.

Head H could wait a few more minutes.

“U-Uno?” But, in addition to Gyro, he recognized that only one person, or intelligence, knew of the existence of that double life.

But he had literally seen him die, and he couldn’t cry it because the Spear incident occurred. No, it can’t—

“I’m really sorry for the delay, the Tower was reactivated a few weeks ago, and since then I’ve been rebuilding this body.“ Uno interrupted his thoughts, lightly rolled up his coat to show the intersection points under the synthetic feathers of his arm, the smile without disappearing from his face when he saw the astonished expression of his friend; “I missed you too, Old Cape.”

As if it were a trigger, that nickname was enough for tears to begin to fall freely down the duck’s cheeks.

It can be, he thought agaze and not bothering to wipe away his tears.

“U-Uno?” Finally he could speak after what were tortuous seconds, feeling his breath fade into a breath he didn’t know he had contained, repeating once more the name that he would not think to mention again.

As if on cue, the manor’s gate opened, and Uno adjusted the sleeve again. Despite the speed of his circuits, he could not react when the duck pounced on him, the untrained robotic legs causing them both to fall.

The Agency could definitely wait a few minutes.

“This is a dream, right? It can’t really be you.” Muttering in tears, he hid his face in the nook of the tallest duck’s neck. The android smiled sadly fiddling with the hair feathers.

"Did you really think you will get rid of me so easily?” If he had known that the feathers were very soft, he would have made a body with a sensory system sooner. With one hand he caressed Donald’s head affectionately and with the other he attached him against him. “I thought you had more faith in me.”

He was there, he really was there. And judging by the reaction of his partner, he knew he would not regret it. But now he would have to concentrate on finding a new benchmark for his database; He didn’t think he could tolerate being away from him anymore.

That, and mentalize how to answer the family’s questions as soon as they returned, because he had arrived to stay.

#el's fanfiction #paperinik #duck avenger #ducktales 2017 #pkdt17 #kinda #donald duck #pk uno #android uno #duno if you squint #let them be together #this was supposed to be a valentine's day special lol #it's fine tho

[alchemist-shizun]

So close feels so afar

Inspired by this post by @draw-your-perfect-world

Word Count: 2,777

Taglist: @ragingdumpsterfiremess

Characters: Roman, Deceit, Remus, Patton (briefly), Logan (briefly), Thomas (briefly) and Virgil

Pairing(s): Let’s say if you squint in one way it could be Roceit, if you squint in another way it could be Prinxiety, but it can all be interpreted as platonic

Warning(s): (Characters are all sympathetic), negative thinking, self-deprecation, self-doubt, swearing (once)

Summary: Thomas is having trouble with his content, it’s gone on for so long that the sides themselves are starting to overwork so much they get overly stressed. Roman has a thought. A bad myriad of thoughts. 

A/N: Before you read, let me warn you that this is written in second person from Roman’s point of view. Soooo, two angsty Roman fics in a row huh? I feel the need to write one in which he only gets all the cuddles and gets appreciated aah pardon me for breaking your hearts, but the opportunity was too good to be passed up. Hope you enjoy!

✾

❝ My heart is twisted, heavy, wrong.It's like it knows I don't belong.

The world is big, lovely to be.And yet, there is no place for me. ❞

It wasn't the first time for you, was it?

« I don't know, guys ... I think we should just discard this whole video. »

The heavy feeling on your chest as you realized that, in the long run, your contribution didn't matter anyway, that your motivation was starting to fade away, letting the hopelessness take its place instead.

That everything you did or tried to do didn't matter or was useless, in any case.

You tried to speak, and god all those eyes on you, the attention you once sought now felt like the unbearable weight of a thousand people's judgment. You felt uneasy in front of the four people you knew and that knew you best.

When Thomas sighed and looked away, no longer paying attention to your words, you began to stagger as you tried to rescue the pieces of your confidence that had started to inevitably break and fall into the pit of your chest, pushing and pulling you towards the heavy void.

Your voice died down and your argument lost its meaning along with its importance.

« Great. This was a complete and utter failure. » Logan sank down faster than any other day. You wondered what had happened to his problem-solving nature and his constant willingness to help in critic situations.

You believed he was ... better at this than you. In fact, you had no idea why you even bothered to give your own input on the topic.

Well, there was always this urge to prove yourself in the eyes of Thomas you'd been having for quite a while, maybe even too long, so much that you grew accustomed to it.

Maybe the problem with that was that, unlike Logan, you felt. You thought that was what was wrong with you all along.

Sure, Patton felt too, but he had dealt with that for such a long time that he knew how to handle it and how to still be reasonable through his thinking process.

Virgil, despite having to manage some of the worst feelings, was also cautious thanks to them, analyzing every possible outcome.

And you? You had your passion. Sure, that was a big part for Thomas's interests, but beyond that?

You felt.

You felt ... like something wasn't right.

Because when Logan disappeared, leaving a somewhat irritated expression as the last image of him, you blamed yourself.

When Virgil shrank in his hoodie and shook his head before sinking down, you blamed yourself.

And when Patton excused himself with a pained look on his face, you blamed yourself yet again.

You grimaced and ignored the knot forming in your throat.

« I'm sorry. » an apology that felt as useful as your ability to solve the situation that same day.

The blaming didn't stop when you sank down before you could hear Thomas's response.

Did you even want to hear it?

You traced the little drawings you had carved on your door years earlier, refusing to get into a room that seemed so foreign; did "Creativity" even fit you anymore? You couldn't remember the last time someone didn't shoot down one of your unreachable ideas.

Like a thunder in the middle of a quiet evening, a memory appeared on your mind and flashed before your eyes: it had happened little after Virgil had fully joined your part of the mindscape. You had agreed that, in any circumstance and for any issue, you would've been there for each other. Always.

You went to Logan first: as we already mentioned before, problem-solving, right? Wrong. Or, at least, in that particular moment.

You were met with a terribly stressed logical side, that you were pretty sure was trying very hard to keep the "logical" part as he paced around his room almost literally shaking with nervousness.

« Not a good time, Roman. » was all you heard when you opened his door with caution. Before you could justify your visit, he excused himself and went back to look like the same messy state his room was in.

Patton was your second choice, but how much of an appropriate idea could it possibly be, when you saw him lying on his bed feeling even worse than you? Your selfless nature rushed over your body and you ended up comforting him instead of trying to open up on your own feelings.

Why did it always have to end up like this? Why couldn't you just talk for once? Patton would have returned all the favors you gave him, you were sure, then why was it so difficult to admit you felt sick of yourself?

You closed the door of his room behind yourself, your heartbeat increasing. You were almost there. But you just couldn't find it in yourself to worsen Patton's already precarious condition with useless musings that would have only broken his heart.

No, you were completely wrong. There was nothing to be concerned about, the only problem was Thomas's enormous lack of content and you had to shove away whatever problem you had.

Now didn't that feel absolutely horrible to think that, Roman? There was no escaping it.

While trying to understand why you were doing this to yourself, you came across Virgil's door.

Your hand hovered over the handle. One twist and it would've been it.

You backed away and decided against it. If Logan and Patton were already feeling horrendous, who knows what you might have encountered.

You looked to your left and your eyes met the dark sides' rooms.

And you wondered, just for a split second, you reflected on that thing. Something you were so afraid to name but that came into your mind so often you almost believed it.

It had started in the imagination, when Remus playfully once insulted you and you hadn't found the will to deny anything.

Then, while by yourself, you started being more critical of your own ideas and works, you sat for hours with a blank stare coming up with nothing but blatant banalities.

Eventually, you slipped up. That one game night, when you agreed when someone called you an idiot. You knew they didn't mean it, but you still felt like you needed to point out that yes, you thought that too, deeply and every single painful moment of your existence.

It was the way Virgil called that. 

Self-deprecating.

He said it was his job and Patton insisted both of you should have stopped saying terrible things about yourselves.

Neither of you did.

That term stuck with you and you weren't able not to wonder if perhaps there was a possibility you could identify with it.

And when the other came, right then, with you staring at the dark sides aisle, that feeling of wrongness increased to the point you couldn't bear staying in the "light" sides corridor anymore.

In a matter of seconds you rushed over to the door of their common room.

When he opened up, expression neutral but just that slight bit surprised, Deceit raised his eyebrows. « Well? » 

« Self-doubt. » there it was. 

« What? » 

« There's been a mistake. » you tried again, you couldn't follow your breathing pace anymore. « We need to switch places. »

« Switch- I'm not following you. »

« I am self-doubt.»

« Huh? »

« You're self preservance. »

« I'm flattered and all by this enchanting game of words, but I really think you should get some rest. Did Remus hit your head again? I told him to refrain from that. »

You shook your head visibly and a heavy sensation rose in your chest. Your shaky hands gently pushed him back and you let yourself into the room. « You don't understand. »

Your eyes searched for one thing only. One person only.

Remus had propped himself up on his elbows, previously lying on the couch in the, you believed, most normal position you had ever seen him.

You approached him, all the eyes were on you just like moments before, and you were sure you were also metaphorically reconnecting with his dark nature. Or was it really dark? Didn't you make that up?

While Remus's face showed veiled concern, you sat on the floor in front of the armrest. He sat up and looked down on your bleak self, an eyebrow slightly raised.

With your chin buried in your crossed arms on the armrest, you felt the urge to break down to anyone that would just finally, finally and simply listen.

And you didn't even know where to start.

« You were right. » Deceit cautiously came close as you spoke. You noticed him, with the corner of your eye, take a seat on a chair next to you, leaning toward the scene. « I'm just like you. Not worlds apart, nowhere on opposite spectrums. »

Remus shook his head. « What are you talking about? » he whispered, more like a reprimand than a question.

You couldn't help but insist, your eyes started to burn and you realized you were blinking back tears. « You know what I mean. »

Oh, but when did anyone, actually? So gone and lost, so miserable you refrained from ever believing in the others' understanding.

« It just took me longer to come to terms with it. Too long. And now I've messed it up because it's too late to fix this, to fix me. »

« Ro- »

« No! » you buried your face in your arms, nose pressing on soft material. Deep inside, you knew you did that only to suppress the fact that you were on the verge of crying, of showing yourself weak and incapable to get back up on your own. « I am not Creativity! » but you knew hiding it didn't have a meaning anymore.

Your head shot back up and you stared at your brother with a tear-stained face. « You are. More than me. »

« You're saying I should replace you? » Remus's voice sounded offended. No, almost ... hurt.

You nodded, holding your breath to refrain the flood of seemingly nonsensical words from flowing out of your mouth. Or, at least, you tried to do that.

« It's that- » you shuddered. « I haven't been productive in forever, and you're always here having different ideas every single day. »

« My ideas are- »

« It's obvious you're better at this than I am. » you looked down and allowed one terrible thought in your mind. You believed, clouded by your own insecurities, that maybe he should have taken your place. « I should just stay here with you. »

« Don't say that. » Remus got up, his voice a mixture of mortification and annoyance. As he made his way to his room, you couldn't have known how the thought actually completed his sentence. Don't get my hopes up.

You slumped back from the armrest and lowered your head so that you couldn't notice Deceit finally standing in front of you and offering you a hand to get back on your feet.

You looked up.

« I know everyone tells you to be wary of me, but can you trust me this once at least? »

You took his hand.

In a matter of seconds, both of you were sitting on the couch, trying to sort out the thoughts that were piling up in your head.

« I don't think I belong with them. » Deceit had asked you to give voice to your troubles. « I've been the least useful and now Thomas is barely creating content or having ideas. I should be the confident one, I should be comforting him while all I do is ditch everything that comes to my mind. »

« And how does that make you feel? »

« Worthless. » you immediately blurted out. « Futile. Stupid. A waste of space. » the words kept coming in an overflowing self-deprecating chaos. « And the others see it, too. »

Deceit gave you a questioning look and you immediately felt like you said something wrong. « You haven't confronted them about this? »

« It's unimportant. It's simply a fact. They're all too stressed over the issue Thomas is having. »

« They're? You're not including yourself, why? »

« How can I be stressed over something when I'm doing nothing for it? »

The look came again, but this time you felt like he was trying to scan your soul by solely staring in your eyes. You didn't know how much time had passed before he spoke again, but you could have sworn that, for a moment, nothing else around you existed.

« Roman, have you ever thought that you feeling this way might be the cause of Thomas not being productive? »

This time, the confused expression landed on your face. How could that be? No, definitely not. That was not the case. He probably meant that they should get rid of him since he was causing so much trouble, he-

« You've already seen how our behaviour can affect him drastically. If you feel like that, you might be preventing yourself from using your powers fully, thinking it's useless to even try, and thus you're limiting yourself. »

« ... And in doing so I'm limiting Thomas. »

Deceit nodded with the same energy of a person that finally got their point across, the relief and satisfaction of someone that was able to make their interlocutor understand an important topic after hundreds of tries at explaining.

« You are a terrible liar, and I can't believe they haven't realized this yet, but I can't also change the fact that you're an astounding actor. » he sighed, but that line left a sad smile on your lips.

« I'm a man of multiple talents. »

« Also, you don't have to belong anywhere, Roman. Having you here, on a rough time for Thomas, though, I don't believe it would be ideal. » his gaze had fallen to the floor before his voice turned lower. « We're all trying to look out for him, you know. »

That was when your look turned softer and you understood. You started wondering things that weren't meant to be brought up just yet, but that might have been troubling him for a while.

As you were looking for the right thing to say, Deceit gestured for you to follow him to the door he then opened as soon as he was close enough. Out of it, the corridor to the others' and your own rooms.

« Go and tell them. You might spare us some more agonizing days before they figure it out on their own. »

One step out of the room, and you didn't even get the chance to thank him. The door closed behind yourself so quickly you almost believed you had dreamt the entire conversation.

With no time to process it all at once, another figure poke out of a door and pulled you into yet another dialogue.

« Ro? » Virgil rubbed at his eyes sleepily. « What are you doing over there? » there was no accusing undertone, just genuine curiosity. Then again, it might have been the sleepiness, you told yourself.

You approached him. « Just venting. »

« To Deceit? » still no complaining.

« He seemed to be the only one available. »

Virgil nodded, then you could have sworn you had seen a faint nostalgic smile curve his lips. « Good choice. »

« Huh- »

« Why didn't you come to me, again? »

« You were sleeping. »

His mouth, this time, twisted into something more somber. « Roman,» he called, lifting up his gaze. « When I said you could come to me when you needed it, I meant I could make an exception on executing you if you were to wake me up. »

And you didn't know if it was for Deceit's comfort earlier, for Virgil's softer voice or for the general hopefulness you finally regained after seeing a flicker of light coming from the end of the tunnel of your insecurities, but you found yourself with your arms wrapped around his chest.

« Oof- alright. » he patted your shoulders a couple of times. « Come on, big guy, let's get the others. I woke up from a three-hour nap and apparently all my problems haven't been solved by some kind of deity yet, so I think we deserve a fucking break. »

You allowed yourself to smile and, this time, you meant it.

« We truly do. »

#roman sanders #virgil sanders #logan sanders #patton sanders #deceit sanders #remus sanders #sympathetic deceit #sympathetic remus #ts roman #ts virgil #ts logan #ts patton #ts deceit #ts remus #ts fic #fanfiction #sanders sides #tw swearing #tw negative thoughts #tw self deprecation #tw self doubt #purp's writings

[maedarakat]

Markless - Chapter 3

28th Oct: Soulmates AU // “I don’t need this now.”

Summary: A Mark showing up is like a rite of passage for young Vikings of the entire Archipelago. When Tuff gets his, he tells nobody - afraid it means what his Elders have always suspected about him. Likewise, Dagur’s own Mark remains secretive, due to his fear of making him seem weak.

Too bad the Gods never sent down instruction manuals, since they were so keen to pair humans up this way.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

—————-

Three blue lines.

That was the Mark on Hiccup; Dagur had seen it himself on their last encounter.

Granted, not in the nicest way possible - more like tackling him outright onto the forest floor on one of their many encounters. Dagur had paused to stare at Hiccup’s shoulder for far too long -  enough for Toothless to swat him off his rider and nearly bite his face off in the process.

There had been three blue lines, just like Dagur had tattooed across his eye and arm. Not exactly the same angle or shade of blue, but who cared - it was close enough that it couldn’t just be a coincidence; Hiccup was meant to be his.

The initial plan had been to find the Skrill, tame it, and then ride it in battle against Hiccup and his Night Fury.

He figured the Greek chorus that rode around with him would be distracted defending all of Berk from his Armada, while he flew in and collected his soulmate.

Hiccup would probably thank him later; he was too good, far too clever for living some sad banal existence on Berk. Even his rider friends couldn’t possibly appreciate him as much as he deserved; Dagur had often felt deep pangs of sadness and loneliness whenever he looked at the Mark on his wrist.

Even knowing that, nothing could have prepared him for whatever he'd felt Hiccup experience just three nights ago.

Dagur had woken in a cold aching sweat, heart hammering in fear. His back and hips had been in unbearable pain, for no reason that he or the hastily summoned physician could determine.  

It only confirmed the Berserker’s worst suspicions: his soulmate was being severely mistreated.

For that? Berk was going to pay dearly - just as soon as he captured and trained that Skrill.

Or so had been the plan. There was now just one teeny, tiny annoying little snag.

The Outcasts had found the Skrill first.

Despite the fact Dagur and his clan had ancestral claim to the dragon, Alvin was not interested in handing the Skrill over. The only thing keeping Dagur from annihilating the entire island with his Armada was Alvin’s threat of outright killing the dragon if he tried attacking them.

Well. A dead Skrill was zero use to him.

Put out and without any alternative choice, Dagur grudgingly agreed to work with Alvin - putting his Armada on the table in the quest to attack Berk.

At least they had a common goal, but Dagur was still going to watch for any opportunity to change things around in his favor.

Currently, all Dagur's ships were docked at Outcast Island - which gave the local wild dragons pause in attacking the village. Alvin had moved his people to subterranean caves, which accounted for the pallor and obesity of most of his men; starved for sunlight and vegetables.

They were eating wild dragon meat, cave mushrooms, and the occasional potato - which was why Dagur agreed to Vorg’s suggestion to slaughter a few boar and sheep and share out better provisions. Better food definitely made these talks go smoother, and had raised the morale of the Outcasts greatly.

Huh. By comparison, they didn’t seem too happy with Alvin. That could prove useful later . . .

He nodded to Captain Vorg, who extracted himself from the group of mingling Berserkers and Outcasts, who were playing a game of dice and cups. The man joined him in stride, as together they walked toward the arena where the Skrill was kept.

Alvin didn’t care if he went near the cage, so long as it was under guard. Dagur wanted to take a good look at the Skrill to make sure the Chief hadn’t injured her, or caused her to be unable to fly, though he’d been warned not to get too close. The dragon was angry, and had already electrocuted the wits out of some old man who had made that error.

“Sir,” Vorg inquired, jarring Dagur out of his thoughts.

“What is it?” Dagur snapped, not looking at him.

“When we gain ownership of the Skrill from Alvin, how do you plan to keep it from flying away? Have you figured out yet how Hiccup subjugated his Night Fury?”

Dagur scowled. He hadn’t figured that part out, but how hard could it be? Dragons liked to fly, didn’t they? If the Skrill wanted to fly again, then she’d just have to realize he was the boss and therefore she would fly wherever he wanted her to. Otherwise? She would just have to sit in her cage and think about it.

“If the dragon won’t obey me, there’s always chains to keep her grounded. I have no idea how scrawny little Hiccup managed to chain down his Night Fury - probably had his little friends all helping him,” Dagur snorted.

He wouldn’t need anyone helping him, though. All that dragon hunting, sparring and training had paid off; Dagur was now much stronger and faster than he’d ever been.

It was too bad Oswald had abandoned him - the weak fool might have had a son to feel proud of, had he stuck around.

Oh well, all the more reason to let people believe he’d ended his father’s life. It was rather amusing, really - and it garnered him both respect and fear.

Vorg was talking now, going on pointlessly about some kind of repair work on one of the ships, and Dagur tuned him out, approaching the Outcast who was on guard duty.

Instead of the usual slouching idiot, this one was already standing to full attention and straightened further upon Dagur’s approach.

“Sir! Your man has already begun his preliminary inspection of the Skrill cage ahead of you. I hope you find his results satisfactory.”  

“My what has done what now?” Dagur asked after a confused pause. He didn’t bother to wait for an answer, stepping past the guard and storming into the arena.

There was a thin blond boy sitting on the ground before the Skrill cage.

He was cooing at the dragon within, who looked decidedly less grumpy. She trilled back at him, blinking her eyes like an overgrown house cat.

Dagur scowled and stomped towards them both, dead set on hauling this intruder out of here and tossing him into the nearest Whispering Death hole. The Skrill hissed at him, retreating further into her cage, but the boy jumped to his feet and grinned at Dagur, running to meet him.

“Chief Dagur!” the blond shouted joyfully, and then hugged him - of all things.

As the young man’s arms encircled him, Dagur made as if to grab his elbows and shove him away. Upon skin contact, he froze - a plethora of emotions nearly crumpling him.

Relief, joy, anxiety - all crashed against his brain, leaving his thoughts a confused and tangled mess. Dagur stood still and stared at the intruder mutely, unable to help but listen to his strange babbling.

“The Skrill is doing just fine - she’s a bit under the weather, but if you feed her roasted hagfish with some onions and garlic, it’ll probably do wonders for her. Also, there’s a few patches of broken scales that need attention - I have some salve that should help.  It’s got comfrey in it, which Mom says is great for healing wounds and skin irritations. It will help you bond with her if you put it on her yourself.”

Dagur shook his head, trying to clear it. “Who are you?” he demanded, trying to sound both scornful and imposing. It was not very effective, given that the boy was still holding onto him, and Dagur had yet to enforce some distance between them.

Captain Vorg stepped in, yanking the boy away and shoving him a couple of feet back. “Answer him! What is your name and why are you here?”

“Tuffnut,” the young man answered, not appearing bothered in the least. “I’m here to help Dagur train his dragon.”

“. . . Who sent you?”

“Uh, myself? Duh. I sent me.” Tuffnut shook his head, as though Vorg had asked a stupid question. To be fair, Vorg did that sometimes. “Chief Dagur, when’s the last time she got fed or pet?”

“Pet? He’s mad! She’ll have your arm off as a chew toy if you try to pet her!” Vorg scoffed to Dagur, shaking his head. He reached for his sword to chase Tuff off, but Dagur stopped him with a gesture.

“If you want to help me train my dragon, prove to me that you can.”

“Okay,” Tuff agreed, grinning. He walked over to the bars, and the Skrill perked up, sniffing at him as he put his hand in.

She licked her nose and stood up, stretching as best as she was able. It was a tiny cell, not nearly big enough for her to unfurl her wings.

“Aw, poor baby girl,” Tuffnut murmured soothingly as she got her head under his touch, moving around so his scratching fingers got all the best spots. “We’ll get you feeling better soon and out of this tiny little kennel, I promise.”

She purred loudly under his ministrations and eventually flopped onto her side so Tuff could get under her chin.

Dagur tilted his head, more than impressed. “Okay. So she won’t attack you - that’s a good start. How long until you can get her to let me ride her?”

“That depends on you,” Tuff grinned. “You have to bond with her even better than I do. Come here, give me your hand.” He reached out to Dagur, unflinchingly.

Dagur was unaccustomed to be reached out for; by now even his most trusted men had learned to keep a careful and respectful distance. Even Captain Vorg was wincing in anticipation that the boy was going to lose his hand after all - which honestly rankled Dagur. 

Vorg didn’t know him.

Drawing himself up, Dagur put his slightly larger hand in Tuffnut’s and allowed the scrawny Viking to direct it - palm outward - to the Skrill. The dragon regarded him with an odd purring growl, but she didn’t snap at him.

Tuff sweet talked her into drawing nearer to the bars, where she sniffed suspiciously at Dagur’s fingers. Eventually, she nuzzled the Berserker’s palm and Vorg let out a breathy exhale of relief. Dagur glared at him.

“What? Didn’t think I could do it?” he snapped, tone dangerous.

“No, of course not, Chief! It’s just, you know, dragons are dangerous and unpredictable -“ the man stammered.

“Eh. They can be, it’s true,” Tuff put in amiably. “Just like people.  That’s what makes them so awesome, though. Dragons aren’t meant to be broken in - you have to earn their loyalty and trust.”

Dagur made a noncommittal noise, watching the Skrill with open admiration. “So . . . how do I do that exactly?”

“Well, you could start by trying to see things from her point of view. Some big smelly men caught her in a gross fishing net and tossed her into this awful cell - with no food or water or enough room to lie down properly. I mean, what would you do?”

“Well . . .” The Berserker Chief paused, thinking about it. “I’d start zapping people too, honestly. Huh. Good point, uh . . . What was your name again? Buffnut?”

“Tuffnut. You can call me Tuff.”

Normally Dagur would snap that he could call Tuff whatever he felt like, but he didn't quite feel like himself.

“Nice. Tuff. I’ll remember that. What do I feed her?”

The boy smiled at him rewardingly, making something in Dagur’s chest feel warm and cozy. “How about it girl? Do you want fish? Mutton? Boar meat?” The Skrill perked up at the last food mention, charring and licking her chops. “Boar meat it is then.”

Dagur grinned, surprised the Skrill was so intelligent. He liked her, and he liked this weird boy too - even if he had come out of nowhere to help him. Maybe this would be easier than he thought. “There’s a banquet this way, and I know for a fact there’s some boar roast, because it came from my ship.”

He slung an arm across Tuff’s shoulders to lead him there, not noticing when the boy hitched in pain. 

Tuff kept pace with him nonetheless, offering a shaky grin. “A banquet? What’s the occasion?”

“Oh we’re just celebrating a new alliance. Us Berserkers and the Outcasts against that sorry pile of volcanic puke that calls itself Berk.”

The boy let out a scornful laugh. “Yeah, Berk. I’ve heard of Berk. West til you smell it, North til you step in it, am I right?”

Dagur laughed, surprised, and tightened the hold on Tuff’s shoulders. His pained whimper was too faint to be noticed.

“You should eat something too. You’re way too skinny and scrawny for someone who trains dragons. Try some mutton and barley cakes. They’re my Mom’s recipe.”

“. . . Okay,” the boy said eagerly, and if Dagur thought he looked hungry now, it proved to be an understatement once they reached the banquet itself.

Tuff tore into his plate of food like a starved pup, eating like it would be wrested away from him at any moment. Dagur watched him carefully as he ate his own meal, more than once having to admonish Tuff to slow down. If the men looked at him oddly for the unusual care he was showing a complete stranger, Dagur didn’t notice - mostly because none of them dared to question him out loud.

After his second full plate, Tuff finally slowed down, looking beyond exhausted. Some of the Outcasts had unfortunately decided to sing as entertainment, despite the fact they could neither carry a tune nor remember how the song went.

Dagur left Tuff’s side briefly to load a platter with chunks of boar roast and bone for the Skrill, preferring the relative quiet of the arena to this cacophony. When he turned around, it was to a raucous cheer, mad gibberish, and the sound of blows falling.

Fantastic. Some idiots had started a brawl.

He wouldn’t have cared if not for the long blond hair of his companion visible on the floor. Dagur gaped in shock for only a second, then roared and charged forward, shoving Outcasts twice his girth out of the way.

The scrawny old man that the Skrill had electrocuted was straddling Tuff, trying to choke him. Furious beyond measure, Dagur grabbed Mildew’s arms and bodily lifted him off Tuffnut, throwing his attacker at the table with enough force to send dishes and mugs flying in all directions. His sword’s edge pressed across Mildew’s throat, irises shrunk to pinpricks of rage.

“How DARE you lay so much as a finger on MY companion?! Give me one good reason I shouldn’t RIP YOUR LEGS OFF and throw them down a Whispering Death hole!” Dagur roared.

Mildew only whimpered and babbled nonsense, pointing to Tuff, who was groaning on the floor. The attack had caught the boy by surprise it seemed, and now Dagur noticed vivid bruises on his arms as he shakily tried to lift himself up. He gestured to Vorg, who stepped in to help Tuff right himself.

Alvin wasn’t present and it must have been the leader of the Outcasts that Mildew’s frantically rolling eyes were searching for, because when they came back to rest on Dagur’s infuriated face, the old man whimpered and fainted dead away.

Dagur snorted in disdain and let him fall limply across the table. “When your village idiot here wakes up, tell him how lucky he is to still have his legs,” he snapped at the gathered men. They laughed and cheered in amusement; clearly there wasn’t too much concern held for the old goat.

He stormed over to the table and picked up the boar meat, gesturing for Vorg and Tuffnut to walk back to the Skrill’s cage with him.

Tuff, he noticed, was shaking.

“Are you alright?” he asked immediately, not liking the way his own voice trembled or the confused look Vorg was giving him.

“I’m fine,” Tuff promised, giving Dagur a strained grin. They walked toward the arena in silence, Dagur’s brain sorting through possible reasons why anyone would have attacked the boy. He had gotten the message through that it wasn’t to happen again - but he still wanted to know why.

It wasn’t until after the Skrill greeted them with chirps and excited wriggles and tucked into her platter of boar meat that Dagur asked about the incident.

“What was that back there? Does the village idiot know you?”

“. . . Mildew? Yeah, we know each other. He, uh, really doesn’t like dragons,” Tuff supplied nervously.

“Oh.” Well, that explained it. “You like them, though. So I guess he just doesn’t like you.”

When Tuff nodded hesitantly, Dagur relaxed. “Well, he won’t bother you again. You’re with me now, and he knows that. In fact, nobody will ever hurt you again.”

Tuffnut looked at him with a sharp inhale and Dagur felt his face grow warm, not sure why he’d said that. Vorg wasn’t in earshot - talking to the Outcast guards that Tuff had past earlier.

“. . . you guys are planning to attack Berk, right?” Tuff asked, and Dagur was surprised to see his face was also a bit red. “Can I ask what you’re after? I mean, I’ve been there before, and I’m good at stealing - if there’s something you’re after, maybe I can help?”

The Berserker snorted dismissively. “I know Alvin wants vengeance. Some long ago exile or something, it doesn’t interest me really. What I want is . . .”

Dagur trailed off, confused. It had been so clear in his mind what he’d wanted - less than an hour ago.

Hiccup. He’d wanted to kill that Night Fury and whoever was hurting Hiccup, and take him to where he’d be safe. But now it didn’t seem as urgent as before. “You’ve been to Berk before, you say? Do you know anyone there?”

“Yeah, I know some people,” Tuff answered guardedly.

“There’s a boy. Reddish brown hair, pretty green eyes. Missing a leg. He’s the Chief’s son. He knows how to tame dragons too.”

“I can do it better. I promise, I really can,” Tuff interjected immediately.

Dagur looked at Tuff and saw hurt written all over his face. Oh no. He was messing everything up, wasn’t he?

“Oh - don’t worry. I know you can, and I want you to. Hiccup would never help me train a Skrill, or any dragon. He hates me too much.”

Tuffnut seemed to relax almost instantly. Dagur glanced at Vorg, who was watching the guards instead of them. He leaned closer to Tuff to whisper in his ear. “Does he . . . do you know if . . . if Hiccup’s been injured recently?”

Tuff’s expression changed from heart sickness to confusion. “If he’s been injured . . .?”

“Has anyone been hurting him? That you know about? His father?”

The boy looked bewildered for a moment but swiftly shook his head. “No, his father is kind. To him at least. The Chief would die to keep Hiccup from harm.”

That brought some peace to Dagur’s mind and he sighed in relief, turning back to watch the Skrill lick the now empty platter. She picked up a nearby rib bone and sat down to gnaw on it happily.

“You care about people a lot more than you let on, don’t you?”

The question caught him off guard, as did Tuff’s sudden adoring look.

Dagur huffed and shrugged, feeling his face heat up. “No. I mean, I guess. Nobody’s son deserves to be mistreated, is all. Because ... more fathers should care about their kids. There’s no point in having a son and just knocking them around all the time. Or abandoning them when things get hard,” he sneered, crossing his arms. “Would have been better to just not have had a kid if they didn’t even want one.”

Tuff stood a little nearer to him. “Yeah. That’s true. They didn’t want to treat us better, so they got exactly what they had coming to them,” he said quietly. The boy’s words were odd, but Dagur didn’t put any thought into why.

“Right.” It was a comfort that Tuff seemed to know what he was talking about. Anyone else would have probably given him some Odin-loving drivel about how one should always be a dutiful son.

Dagur offered him a grin and decided to change the subject. “Well, Tuff - the Skrill is fed and she looks happy. What do I do now?”

“She needs salve on her wounds. Here.” Tuff walked over to a bundle of cloth that turned out to conceal a bag made of burlap. He rummaged through it to produce a tin of greenish-looking slime. “I’m gonna have you do it. But first, let’s tell her what we’re doing.”

Dagur blinked and turned back to the dragon. “Uh. Hey. So we have this stuff - smells like medicine. Does it sting?” he asked Tuffnut. The other boy shook his head. “Okay, it doesn’t sting, and it’ll heal you, so just . . . “

He didn’t need to explain any further; the Skrill purred and got to her feet, turning in the small cell and lifting a wing until her flank was pressed against the bars. Dagur beckoned for Tuff to bring one of the torches closer so he could see better, internally marveling at how smart this dragon was.

She had framed the wounded area of her scales between the bars, allowing him easy access to spread the salve over the reddened sore areas. She even raised her scale plates a bit so he could coat in between them.

“Pretty girl, clever girl,” Dagur crooned, without really thinking about it. He didn’t care how silly he sounded; in the moment, nothing seemed to matter but tending to the comfort of this dragon.

The Skrill turned and circled until he got all her trouble spots, then tried to make herself comfortable with what room she had. Dagur pulled out the platter but left the bones to give her something to play with.

“We’ll be back in the morning with something tasty, I promise. You sleep well, okay?”

A purring trill was his answer and the Skrill licked his hand before curling up, tucking her nose into the curve of her tail.

It was ridiculously adorable and Dagur found himself unable to look away until Vorg coughed. He glanced over his shoulder to see the man tilt his head meaningfully to the Outcast guards, who were watching them closely.

Tuff touched his arm, bringing Dagur out of whatever spell the Skrill had him under. “It’s okay, we’ll come back to her in the morning, like you said. I can distract the guards again.”

Dagur regarded him for a long moment. “You know, wherever you’re from - I’m really glad you’ve showed up. I don’t know why. Usually I don’t care much for strangers. Do you have a place to sleep tonight?”

Vorg gave him a look, but Dagur glowered at him until the man sighed and let it go.

“N-No. I was hoping to find someplace to lie low until morning.”

“Well that sounds dangerous, considering you were already attacked once today. You can bunk with me.”  Putting an arm around Tuff’s shoulders pointedly, he started steering them toward the docks where the Armada was waiting. Tuffnut winced as though his touch hurt, but gave him another bright smile.

“Okay. You want me to take the floor?”

“The floor? Are you being bashful?” Dagur teased. He gave Tuff a friendly side-hug, leaving his heavy arm across his companion’s shoulders. Tuffnut swallowed, looking pained again, but he didn’t duck out from beneath Dagur’s arm. His paleness sent a spark of concern through Dagur.

“Did you eat enough? I can have more food sent to the cabin. You never got to  try the mutton stew or any of the bacon-fried bread - it’ll put some weight back on your bones. You still look way too skinny.”

Tuff glowed at the attention, pressing against him. It made Dagur’s heart flutter almost annoyingly. “I’m okay. Though I wouldn’t say no to mutton stew and bread - that sounds amazing.”

Why was this guy growing on him so fast? Dagur didn’t even consider himself a friendly person, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that Tuffnut was somehow meant to be here - now, and with him. And not just because he was useful and smart and interesting . . . there was just something special about him.

Despite the stress of having to work with Alvin, Dagur had to admit - he’d never felt so calm in his life. The moment Tuff had embraced him, everything had changed. It wasn’t as though the feelings of painful anger and despair were gone; no, they were still there, but there was a difference to them. They felt bearable now.

On top of it all, a Skrill liked him - a dragon actually liked him. He wondered if Hiccup might be proud of him for that, if maybe even Oswald would.

Tuff was going to have to show him all kinds of things - like how to fly on her at breakneck speeds and train her to do barrel rolls. Eventually he’d have to get himself a dragon too - probably a Nadder or maybe a Razorwhip. Or maybe he had one already.

“Do you have a dragon?” Dagur asked once they got to the door of his ship’s cabin. Tuff had gone a bit glassy eyed, but he looked up sharply at the question, like a deer caught in the hunting lanterns.

“Uh. What?”

“You know, a dragon. Surely someone who knows how to train a Skrill has his own dragon. I understand - it probably would have caused some alarm if you just flew in here on one, so you must have told the dragon to hide in a cave somewhere. Right?”

Tuff blinked and then shook his head.  “No, I rode a Gronckle here, but I told him he could take off. I figured I’d just meet another wild dragon and coax them to take me somewhere else - you know, if you’d told me to get lost.”

Dagur stared. “Well, I’m glad I didn’t tell you to get lost. But seriously - you can just go up to wild dragons and ask them for rides and they don’t bite your head off?” He looked Tuff over critically. “Are you a sorcerer?”

The boy snorted with laughter, apparently finding that hilarious.

“Okay, not a sorcerer, that’s fine. Still pretty cool. In you go. ” He opened the door to his cabin and put a hand on the middle of Tuff’s back, gently pushing the boy in ahead of him.

That wrung a sudden yelp out of Tuff and he jerked away. Dagur felt a surge of panicked loss, automatically reaching out to grab the other boy’s arms so he couldn’t retreat any further. “Sorry! Are you okay?”

Tuff blinked but instead of pulling away, he drew closer to him.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” he grinned, apologetically. “Old wounds acting up. You know, Viking wounds - it’s an occupational hazard, right?”

Wounds? Frowning, Dagur lit a lantern and pulled Tuff further into the light, looking him over carefully. If that Mildew jerk had injured Tuffnut after all, he swore he was going to use the old fool’s severed head as a tether ball.  

The dragon-rider swallowed nervously, but said nothing until Dagur touched his shoulders, tugging at the material of his tunic. “I can’t have you wounded and going untreated for it. Let me see?”

Tuff looked anxious for far too long a moment - making Dagur’s chest ache.

“It’s okay. You can say no. Nobody will hurt you, remember? That includes me. But if you’re hurt, I’d like to help.”

Gray eyes widened, then filled with tears. Dagur stared but didn’t mention them, even when they spilled over to fall freely down Tuffnut’s face, leaving him shivering and leaning in close.

Where had Tuff come from? Had his family abandoned him too? Dagur made his best attempt at soothing noises and tugged again at his tunic, until Tuff nodded reluctantly and assisted in removing it.

Dagur drew in a sharp hiss of air at the marks on his body; dark purple lines of bruised flesh and inflamed blood-crusted weals. He recognized infection when he saw it.

Tuff’s wounds had been washed and treated a few times, but clearly by himself more often than with any help. As a result, he’d missed several areas and now Dagur knew why he’d been carrying that tin of salve in the first place.

Where was the salve now? He had to help Tuff treat these first -  then he could maim whoever was responsible. He’d chop their hands off, he decided. So they could never hold a whip or anything like it again. Yeah, that was what he would do - but later.

“Sit on the bed,” he muttered and Tuff nodded, obeying him.

Dagur opened the cabin door, bellowing for Vorg. His captain showed up within moments, with his ever-present scowl. He opened his mouth to give an order and then shut it when he saw that Vorg was not alone.

The captain had in one hand, Tuff’s satchel. In the other hand was the scruff of the scraggly old man who had earlier attacked his companion. The old man was stubbornly clinging to something leathery.

“Thought your guest might want his things,” Vorg explained. “So I went back for them and found this guy going through his pack like a filthy Bog Burglar. He’s apparently found something he wants you to see.”

Mildew’s beady eyes were full of terror and malice as he thrust the object out in front of him as though it could ward Dagur off. The Berserker sneered at the man but glanced at the object.

“Okay. A saddle. Was it a worthy find, you goat? Now not only have you attacked my dragon trainer, you’ve gone through his personal belongings. If he’s not offended by that, I am.” Dagur made as if to draw his sword, but Vorg stopped him.

“Sir, you should know something first. Mildew here is from Berk. He’s a traitor who has told Alvin many secrets - from Hiccup’s dragon-taming techniques to details of Berk’s new defenses and where their guards will be during an attack. It’s likely he knows your companion better than you might.”

Dagur scowled. “Wherever my companion is from, I think it’s safe to say he doesn’t miss home all that much. I need that salve.”

Vorg handed the bag over, still frowning. “Whether or not you trust him, sir, if Alvin finds out Tuffnut is from Berk, he may demand you hand him over.”

“Too bad for him because I won’t. Alvin can huff and puff all he wants. Technically, I caught Tuff, so that makes him my prisoner,” Dagur said distractedly, feeling through the bag for the salve. He found the tin and set the bag down on the floor of the cabin. Then he yanked the saddle away from Mildew and whacked the old man over the head with it.

“Listen up, old coot! I'm going to give you some free advice. Right now, my companion is injured - injuries that you no doubt aggravated with your pointlessly stupid attack. When I find out the person responsible for him needing this in the first place -“ Dagur waved the tin under Mildew’s quivering nostrils - “I’m going to hunt them down and make them wish they had never been born.”

He gave Mildew one of his sharpest most devilish smiles. “So I advise you to think about that, before you say or do anything that might cause my friend further discomfort or pain. Think about the lengths that Dagur the Deranged might go, to protect what’s his. Nod if you understood all that, and I’ll permit you to leave my sight with every limb still attached.”

Mildew, eyes wide as saucers, nodded frantically. Vorg let him go and he scrabbled frantically off the ship and down to the docks, clearly terrified Dagur would change his mind.

Dagur took a breath, pulling himself together. He noticed Vorg staring at him oddly.

“What?!”

“Sorry sir, it’s just . . . Are you certain you don't have a Mark?”

Dagur blinked, too taken aback to fume. He had assumed everyone figured it was Hiccup, that Hiccup was who the Gods had given him.

But then - why would they? Dagur had never given anyone an explanation as to why he wanted to hunt Hiccup down. For all they knew it was a vendetta thing. The son of Chief Stoick had humiliated the entire clan by his treatment of Dagur, after all.

And yet here they were - all still following him.

Dagur swallowed a sudden lump in his throat, temporarily unable to meet Vorg’s gaze.

Maybe his people were hoping his Mark would come soon to calm him, like his mother had calmed his raging father? Oswald had been a madman in his day; Dagur had grown up knowing all the legends, but he’d never actually seen his father rage.

As annoying as it had seemed to have such a kind and understanding father . . . he sort of missed it. He even missed the stupid smacking noises when Oswald chewed.

Dagur frowned, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. “I . . . will go check,” he muttered distractedly. He went back into the cabin and shut the door behind him, leaving behind his very perplexed and concerned captain.

—

Tuff was on the far edge of the bed, his tunic wadded up in his hands and currently hiding his face. His body was curled over and trembling, and Dagur approached slowly, so as not to alarm him.

He wondered how much of all that Tuff had heard.

“Hey there,” he muttered awkwardly, sitting next to him. “Um. You alright?”

After a long moment, Tuff lowered the tunic to peer at him, looking only slightly calmer.

Dagur didn’t know what to say, but he knew he could at least do something. He opened the tin and coated his fingers in salve. “We found your medicine. Lay down so I can treat you. However comfortable you can make yourself.”

He tried to keep his tone calm, like his mother’s had always been. Tuff responded to his efforts like a kitten to cream. He crawled toward him immediately, draping himself across Dagur’s lap and burying his face in his arms. Oh … okay ….

Dagur felt his pulse kick up at the eagerness Tuff showed to be so close and vulnerable to him but kept his movements slow and purposeful, gently moving Tuff’s long hair so it hung away from his back. As gently as he could manage, he started to coat the welts curling over the tops of those thin shoulders. “Who did this to you?” he asked after a while. “And … when?”

“My Elders,” came the mumbled answer after a long silence. “About three days ago.”

A formal beating. And … three days ago? Dagur's heart did a funny skip in his chest and he paused, processing that for a moment. Shaking his head, he moved on to the next cruel laceration on Tuff’s back.

“Why did your Elders have you whipped?”

Under Dagur’s fingers, Tuff started trembling again.

“Oh. You don’t have to be ashamed,” Dagur assured him. “It’s me, the ‘evil’, deranged Berserker Prince, remember? Go on, try to impress me.”

Tuff either hiccoughed or snickered, Dagur couldn’t tell. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and looked up over his shoulder. “I - I released a dragon. I wasn’t supposed to. The Skrill.”

Dagur stared at him. He’d expected something like a carelessly broken wagon or shattered prized dishes, or maybe even a theft of sheep. But releasing a dragon . . .?

“Are you Berkian? Did Hiccup catch the Skrill first? Was he trying to train her himself?” Dagur blurted. Tuff made a thin noise of distress, starting to look panicked.

“Of course you’re from Berk. It explains how you know so much about dragons and why Mildew attacked you and also why I’ve never met you until now. Look, it’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you for not telling me. Because of you, I have my Skrill, so why would I want to?” Dagur reassured him, beginning to treat the lash marks further down his back. “Looks to me like you’ve been punished enough.”

Tuffnut swallowed and looked up plaintively, trying to gather his nerve.

“It’s more than that, actually. I . . . I was a dragon-rider - one of Hiccup’s.”

Dagur stared at him, trying to jog his memory. He'd never really looked close enough at Hiccup’s Greek chorus but he’d figured there were about four others. “I don’t remember you fighting me.”

“I … generally I was just air support,” Tuff said, flushing. “We never … we never fought up close. My sister and I rode the Zippleback.”

“Oh yeah, the green one. So what made you not want to be a dragon rider anymore? Leaving Berk I understand, but … your sister? Your dragon?”

Tuff looked sad, but nodded. “My sister will take care of Belch. I couldn’t stay on Berk anymore. Some people in my family … didn’t think I’d been punished enough.”

“What?” Dagur asked, fury swelling inside of him. “What does that mean?!”

“I’m okay,” Tuff said quickly, sounding scared. Dagur took a breath and tried to calm down.

“Sorry. You’re just … I think you were overly punished for letting some dragon out of a cage.”

“She wasn’t in a cage. ” He hesitated, but went on. “She was completely frozen in a block of ice. Hiccup knew Berserkers revered the Skrill and he was scared of you getting a hold of her. But I couldn’t leave her like that. I decided I wanted her to be free to find her own way, even if she was dangerous and even if it did mean you’d find her. Hiccup went off to talk to his father and I was left with my sister and Snotlout to guard her frozen body.”

“So you just - what? Chipped her out? Melted her out?” Dagur asked, entranced.

“Blasted her out,” Tuff admitted sheepishly. Dagur gave a delighted cackle. “And within minutes, she thawed out and was able to fly away, no problem.”

“Bet old Stoick and Hiccup had piglets! Oh boy, if I could have seen the looks on their faces! I bet they didn’t like that one bit!” Dagur laughed. Tuff shifted with a pained expression on his lap and that smacked the jubilance right out of him. “Oh, sorry. Right. Yeah, that probably wouldn’t have been so great for you.”

“It’s fine. It was worth it. Hiccup wasn’t going to train or even revive her, he was just going to keep her in the same big chunk of iceberg we found her in. He cared more about you never getting to fly than what became of her. Dragons aren’t problems to solve - they’re living, breathing, harboring era of destruction and chaos! Hiccup needs to realize and respect that! I thought … I really thought we were the good guys, but I guess I was wrong.”

Dagur blinked, made solemn by Tuff’s sorrow.

“Well, it sounds like you had a good reason to free her and then leave. Now you’re here and you get to help me. I can help you find a new dragon. Probably not another Zippleback though. Oh, ooh, awkward memory - that wouldn’t have been your dragon I almost killed for dragon blood ink, was it?”

Tuff regarded him with surprise and nodded, in a way that made Dagur flush self-consciously. Of course -  it had to have been his dragon that Dagur had nearly beheaded, all for the sake of exposing a theory that Berk was secretly raising a dragon army.

Well, he’d been right about that part, sort of.

“Really sorry about that. Wish I’d had a better introduction to the fact you Berkians all loved your dragons. I mean, the Skrill is just - she’s amazing. If I’d just known what they could be like  - I mean, I don’t think I ever would have lifted a finger to -“

He was cut off by arms wrapping around his waist in a tight hug. Dagur nearly dropped the salve. He stared down at Tuff, who had curled closer to bury his face in Dagur’s chest.

“I knew you wouldn’t,” Tuff hitched after a long moment, pulling back so he could talk. “I knew that and I tried to tell them that everything was because we lied to you. We made you think dragons were still the enemy because Hiccup wanted to protect them - he wants to keep it all a big secret! I told them that if they just had explained, and given you a chance, maybe you wouldn’t have been our enemy. Everyone told me that was treasonous to say - even the Chief -“

He was getting wound up again. Dagur hushed him and coaxed Tuff to lay back down across his knees. “It’s okay, you don’t have to explain. I get it. I’ve always been the troublesome kid, so it makes sense that nobody would trust me. I’m not mad at you about it though, so just try to relax, okay?” Looking shocked, the other boy obeyed, again resting his head on Dagur’s thigh.

Dagur’s mind was a maelstrom as he worked, reanalyzing the Mark on his wrist, and how it applied to Hiccup. How and why would the Gods give him someone who didn’t trust or even like him, when this boy - this complete stranger - saw enough worth in him to help him train a Skrill? Trusted him enough to let him clean and treat his wounds?

He couldn’t help but notice each time Tuff’s breath caught painfully whenever he touched a point that two lashes had intersected. He was so thin - almost as scrawny as Hiccup - how had this not killed him? Dagur ran a careful hand across Tuff’s sides, not liking how each rib felt defined through the skin. The way Tuffnut had bolted his food earlier made too much sense for his comfort.

Normally, Dagur loathed traitors, but there was no way on Midgard that Tuff had done any of this through malice. Rather, he had spoken up against injustice and had been punished like a criminal. Dagur couldn’t honestly claim he wouldn’t have switched sides had his own family treated him like this.

If anything … if anything, Berk had betrayed Tuff.

When all Tuff’s welts and lacerations had been cleaned and coated, Dagur’s fingers smoothed down across his ribs once more, then hesitated at the boy’s waist.

“Is there any more?” he asked awkwardly. He could see the beginnings of a red welt curving down across a hip to disappear beneath Tuff’s belt. “I mean, this is the only beating you got for all this, right?”

Nobody could have punished him more, surely. Nobody could be that cruel.

Wishful thinking … hadn’t Tuff said some of his family members didn’t think he’d been punished enough?

Tuff closed his eyes, hesitant to answer. “There’s . . . a little more. It’s okay, I’ve been treating it. I can get it myself.”

“It’s not okay,” Dagur snapped and cursed himself inwardly when Tuff flinched. “Sorry. I’m not mad at you,” he reminded, voice gentle this time. “All I want is to just take care of you. My mom was a healer - she taught me a lot. This salve has comfrey in it, which is a good move. Did you make it yourself?”

“Mom made it and sent it with Ruff. My sister. She helped me get off Berk the night it all happened, and treated my wounds.”

So his sister and mom were the good guys here - that was useful to know. “What about your dad? Did he help get you free?”

Tuff swallowed and went silent, not answering. He’d started shaking at the mention of his father though, which spoke volumes.

Gut dropping, Dagur carefully started to undo the boy’s belt, sliding it off him. When Tuffnut didn’t stop him, he eased down the waistband of his leggings to be greeted with yet more welts and bruises - and something far worse.

There was a horrible burn on his hip, and worst of all, it looked intentional, as though made with a branding iron.

Dagur’s blood ran cold. “Is . . . that a . . .?”

“I'm sorry.” Tuff muttered, hiding his face behind his hands, “I’m sorry, he thought it was a tattoo - and I couldn’t get away - I couldn’t stop him -“

What? Dagur looked closer and saw a shape beneath the branded circle. He realized instantly the horror of what had been done.

“Who did this - who dared brand your Mark? Was it your father? Did he leave all these welts too?” Dagur demanded, fury thick in his voice. He was going to kill the man slowly and enjoy it. There was no excuse whatsoever for anyone to treat their own son like this.

Tuff had started shaking hard, starting to cry. Dagur cursed again as he realized his anger was probably affecting Tuffnut.

“Hey, Hey, I’m sorry - “ The Berserker murmured, leaning over Tuff. He pressed a palm to Tuff’s cheek, stroking away the tears. “I’m mad at him and your Elders, not you, though me yelling about it is probably the last thing you need to deal with right now.”

Sobbing, Tuff nuzzled Dagur’s palm, clutching his wrist tightly. “It’s fine, it’s okay,” he managed. “H-He didn’t know it w-was a Mark and then he - I had to -“

“Shh, you’re safe now, just let me see.” He stroked Tuff’s hair trying to calm him, and looked again at the Mark, making himself focus on the shape of it rather than the scarred flesh beneath it.

A Skrill. Not just a Skrill, but fashioned after his own tribe’s symbol. His heart started to pound. There were a million questions he wanted to ask Tuff, but now wasn’t the time, not with Tuff’s current state.

Dagur banished all thoughts of vengeance from his mind and leaned down to kiss Tuff’s temple gently, stroking his hair again - the only area that didn’t look too painful to touch. Tuffnut hitched and started crying harder, but he sat up on his uninjured hip and wrapped his arms around Dagur’s neck, holding on to him tightly.

For the first time in a while, Dagur felt tears on his own face. He cupped the back of Tuff’s head and held him close until the storm passed. Eventually the rider relaxed in his arms, breathing steadily and only sniffling.

Gently, Dagur coaxed him out of the rest of his clothing, then got him to lay on his stomach. Tuff nestled across his lap again, hiding his face in the crook of Dagur’s arm, leaving the other free to tend to the rest of his injuries. Tuff’s arms moved to  Dagur’s waist, clinging to him as though he was a lifeline.

He trusted him, utterly, and maybe it was the Mark, and maybe Tuff was just a brave soul - brave and courageous in ways Dagur couldn’t understand.

It boggled his mind, honestly, why the Gods thought he, Dagur the Deranged, was worthy of this boy. He wasn’t even worthy enough for Hiccup.

And a chicken? Really? The idea Tuff could appear as a mere chicken on anybody was laughable. Well, one thing was certain, he should probably end his long-fought crusade against all poultry kind and leave the poor birds alone.

He put the thoughts away for now, closing the tin and putting it aside. He drew one of the fur blankets up over Tuff’s body to give him cover and laid his back against the wall, blowing out the lantern so Tuff could sleep.

In the dark, Tuff hitched his name, sounding terrified, uncertain.

“It’s going to be okay, Tuff,” Dagur murmured. “You’re safe now, with me. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you like this again.”

Tuff gave a few shuddering breaths, saying his name again. He shifted until he could rest his head on Dagur’s shoulder, nuzzling under his chin. “N-No-ones going to hurt you either. Not Hiccup, not Stoick - nobody.”

His bold promise was utterly charming, not that Dagur didn’t believe him. It was just … nobody had ever vowed to defend him.

Come to think of it, nobody had ever wanted to cuddle with him before either.

Dagur felt a surge of protectiveness and carded his fingers through Tuff’s hair, stroking his cheek with his thumb. He was not at all prepared for Tuff’s hand caressing his face, or pressing soft lips against his. The Berserker’s heart fluttered and started to pound.

“Are you mine?” he murmured in a daze, as soon as the spine-tingling kiss was broken.

Dagur could make out standing tears in the silvery gray eyes before him, and thought to himself ‘how pretty’ before Tuff’s mouth hungrily met his again in answer.

****

Tbc 

#tuffnut #dagur #rtte #httyd #tuffgur

[otakusgirl]

All in a mounth

Chapter 1

"And should I smile because we're friends?"

 Zhan Zheng Xi couldn't get those words out of his mind.

To tell it even among the effects of alcohol and sleep, it was Jian Yi, the one who had always thought he was his best friend, despite all the difficulties and misunderstandings that their relationship might have experienced.

Perhaps in part it was also his fault, for the distance he had put between them again when he had reappeared in his life, so suddenly as he had disappeared.

He just couldn't understand? Was he vaguely aware of the things that had been going through his mind when, from one day to the next, he had been unable to see it, hear it or even reproach him for his childish behavior?

If at first, the sense of worry and anxiety had devoured him, with time a resigned disappointment had occurred, followed by a sense of abandonment never felt before.

Jian Yi had been a true selfish person and he had not yet forgiven him.

And now he even allowed himself to spit in his face those words that hurt more than a punch in the stomach.

But above all it was the expression of his face, hardened by an internal conflict of feelings, that remained particularly impressed.

Yi's eyes were shiny, probably not only because of the large amount of alcohol he had in his body, but fulled with unusual frustration and severity.

The cheeks slightly reddened, the jaw nervously contracted. It had seemed different, wounded by who knows what.

Just thinking about it Zhan ZHeng Xi clenched his fists in anger.

  "Hey, sleep! You're drunk"

 He’d warned him that way, after he had taken him home.

Jian Yi had dropped on the sofa. Already it was barely manageable from sober but from drunk was even worse.

And to make matters worse, he started to mumble meaningless things.

 "Why don't you want to sleep with me, brother Xixi? Aren't you my friend?" he’d said, raising his back for a moment.

 In response he merely stared at it puzzled raising an eyebrow.

 "Come on answer me!" he then insisted the other in a plaintive way, taking the pillow and starting to rub his face over it.

 "Of course I'm your friend!" Xixi had responded almost exasperatedly.

 Yi had detached himself from the pillow and looked him straight in the eye.

His face had become extremely serious and hard.

"And should I smile because we're friends?"

 Zhan Zheng Xi's heart had stopped at that moment.

He hadn't been able to reply.

 His thoughts were interrupted by the vibration of his cell phone: it was a message from Jian Yi.

 "Hey, are we going to eat something together?"

 It seemed that the effect of the hangover from the night before had passed.

Xi, still holding the phone, looked up at the gray January sky.

Initially undecided whether to answer or not, he ended up sending a simple 'Okey, see you in front of the station at seven o'clock'

 The phone vibrated again and the boy gave him a quick glance before returning to look out the window.

He felt confused, angry, sad and full of other feelings that he could not name.

Why did it always have to be so complicated? Their two so close, they had ended up inevitably moving away from each other and Xi had the impression that this distance was now impossible to fill.

As much as things seemingly looked like before, they really weren't. They had both changed, especially Yi and this scared him even more than he should.

He needed to talk to him, even though he didn't like to come up with arguments that would put him in difficulty and embarrassed himself first.

 "And should I smile because we're friends?"

 The idea that the most important person  was not happy because of him was the most painful thing that could exist.

                                                          ---                             

  Mo Guan Shan would never have ever imagined being able to find himself in a situation like that.

Tears, uncontrolled, fell from his eyes, streaking his flushed cheeks. The bright color he had in his face that time was not dictated by embarrassment or anger but more simply by the continuous rubbing of the face on the shirt of the black suit that he had held in his hands all night and still held in them.

He'd tried to restrain himself to be reasonable, but there had been nothing to do: he could not stop the crying.

The reason was also rather banal and senseless, it was a shame for letting pride fall in.

Guan Shan no longer recognized himself and the blame for this was always and only the same person: He Tian.

 He'd entered his life forcefully and without asking permission. He'd made fun of him,  beaten him, given the damned torment everyday, but also protected, helped and safeguarded in all possible ways.

All that pissed him off.

He had been away from the country for months and then, just on Christmas night, he was seen coming to the store where he worked. He'd ripped off his cigarette from lips and told him that it hurt his health only to smoke it himself before his eyes. He'd found it annoying as always, irritating his way of putting a packet of condoms in his hands and presenting it to him as his gift.

But who had asked him something? But why didn't he come back where he came from?

 He'd been forced to take it with him on a motorbike, he searched his pockets in search of some kind of thing only to find that fucking ring, surely making some strange ideas.

And He Tian's strange ideas for Mo were either embarrassing or create problems.

He'd done nothing but talk nonsense all evening, because he'd forced him to accompany to his apartment and then force him to come up and cook him something since he was hungry.

The redhead would have gladly broken the ladle on his head but  succumbed to his request.

 Things had partly changed since middle school. Not that their relationship was very different from before, there was only a kind of extra confidence, a thin invisible line that Mo had crossed almost without realizing it and that had led him to somehow accept the presence of the other next to self.

 A disturbing but constant presence.

 Then things had taken an unexpected turn and Mo's life had found itself rolling away, down an endless descent, falling more and more towards an unknown abyss.

 A light knock on the door of his room brought him back to reality abruptly.

 "Guan Shan!" he heard himself called "Exit, please"

 The mother's voice was plaintive, with a note of apprehension that she didn't hide.

He'd been trying to move him all afternoon but Mo had no desire to leave the comfortable warmth of his room.

And, although he still didn't want to admit it out loud, even the idea of ​​separating himself from that shirt was unbearable.

He rubbed his hand over his eyes in anger, as if to tear off the heavy burden that was nothing but his tears.

 "I'm not hungry!" was the only answer he could give.

 He heard himself called again and then, as if she understood his state of mind, his mother gave up intent and on moving away from the door.

 The young man returned to submerge his face in the black cloth, closing his eyes, while his nostrils were soaked with the smell of tobacco mixed with something that looked like cinnamon.

  "Little Mo, don't you even say goodbye?"

 Guan Shan had remained rigid at those words, perhaps the only reaction had been the imperceptible contraction of his jaw.

It was all the bastard had told him after he'd eaten the Christmas dinner. Dinner of soy noodles because Mo had no desire to try too hard to prepare anything more.

 "What the fuck are you saying?" he replied in turn, believing that the other was making fun of him, as he liked to do.

 But He Tian was silent. He'd leaned his head against the pillows of the sofa on which he sat without giving any explanation.

 Mo understood at that moment that it was not a mockery at all.

 "Go away again?" he found himself asking, taking off the apron he'd been wearing so as not to get dirty while he was cooking, and moving a few steps towards the other.

Tian nodded.

 "Yeah" was the only answer he got.

 Those were the last words they had exchanged that night.

Then it all happened too fast.

He Tian had looked at him with an indecipherable smile on his lips, grabbed by a wrist and approached him.

 Cheeky as always he had kissed him, just like the first time, going to look for his tongue to give it torment.

Mo had rebelled, refused, had rejected him with all of himself and then ended up with his face crushed on the carpet to surrender to every action that Tian was doing. He had surrendered to kisses, to groans, to sighs, to the uninterrupted movement of the hips, losing every shred of dignity and the light of reason. He would never admit it, even under the worst tortures, but that evening he wanted nothing more than to let himself go.

 It all ended with those words: "Little Mo, don't you even say goodbye?"

 Because that was nothing but a farewell.

 He'd not asked him where he was going, nor the motivations, but Tian's gaze had been the most eloquent there could be.

They would never see each other again.

  Mo Guan Shan raised his eyes to the leaden sky of early January.

He was pissed, really pissed off, as he had never been.

#19 days #19 days old xian #old xian #fan fiction #fanfic #writers #he tian #mo guan shan #he tian x mo guan shan #zhan zheng xi #jian yi #zhan zheng xi x jian yi #manhua

[abigailht]

How addictions mess with my brain

(tw: ED, child abuse, c-ptsd)

I’ve learned early on to hide and suppress my feelings, thoughts, and needs. As a child in a dysfunctional family with a violent father, I needed to do that to be able to function and ‘survive’. Otherwise the consequences would’ve been unbearable me, a child who’s completely dependent on adults who didn’t know how to deal better with their problems.

Trauma changes the brain function, so do addictions. In order to be able to survive and function, I developed compensation mechanisms that worked when I was a kid, they don’t work anymore — now that I’m an adult myself and should be able to deal with stuff as one. They drag me down under the surface on a daily basis because I haven’t learned how to deal better with them other than drowning them into my addictions.

It sounds harsh in my ears to call banal things such as ‘food, amazon, social media, Netflix, and whatsapp’ addictions, but it’s still what I use them for. I want to eat when I feel lonely, when I feel sad or angry, when I would rather talk to someone about my feelings, but I’m unable to do that. It’s tough for me to talk about feelings, it’s so much easier to talk about fictional characters or anything else, main goal is to distract from my own life and my disability to cope like a healthy person. So I just eat. Or I don’t. Sometimes I don’t eat to try to make myself better and it works — for a short period of time. It never worked permanently, so I went back to eating. It took me ten years to finally accept to myself that I’m having an eating disorder, one which I got treatment for the past two months, for the first time in my life.

I remember using food as a replacement for affection, parents, friends, happiness back when I was eight years old. Just a child. When I look at old pictures I can see when i started to gain weight, it must’ve been around the age of 7-8, when school was the most horrible thing in my entire life, when I didn’t have friends and at home I didn’t have a loving family. Lots of bad shit I don’t wanna get into right now was going on. And what I remember is: I would eat secretly. I’d be ashamed too. Still, it helped me for the moment, for years, for a lifetime it seems — until it didn’t anymore. I started to skip meals, to eat less, to obsess about calories, to think about food and eating all day every day. I was suffering and no one was able to see that because my weight was neither too high nor too low. Because I have atypical Bulimia nervosa. People don’t see, I still suffered the past ten years.

I don’t even know why I’m typing this down at the moment. It’s just that I’m dealing with bad food cravings and I’m trying my hardest to stick to the new food plan I learned in the hospital so that it gets better in the future, so that I can start healing. I want to deal with my issues instead of choking them down my throat and trying to suppress. The only thing I know is that I need new ways of dealing with things. Writing seemed to help when I was in hospital, so here I am.

I have read that childhood trauma causes the brain to go through permanent changes, also addictions. I’ve read and was told by my therapist that this won’t change ever again, that the damage was done and now I have to learn to deal with it. She also told me that I’ll always be in risk of doing things in extremes, doing things addictively. Watching Netflix, eating, not eating, anything. For the addict, anything can serve as the ‘drug’ she told me, and it scared me shitless. It’s scary as fuck.

Even drawing and posting artworks turned out to be toxic to my health at some point so I had to stop — or should I say my body decided that I should have an art block... I understand now why... and it’s painful to accept.

But at least I was right with one thing: writing about it helps. And it does. The cravings have gotten better. Maybe I can concentrate on reading something now, or enjoying a movie instead of watching it to drown my feelings. I hope so.

Apologies for my rambles, it’s scary to write personal things and to post them... but this blog has accompanied me for the past seven or eight years or so, and if not here, where else?

#personal #feelings #cptsd #addiction #mia #OA

[iluvtv]

Seen in Scenes

Often art is wonderful because it feels as though it is speaking so directly to your individual experience. The intimacy in these moments can practically break your heart -- there is true power in feeling seen.

This desire to be acknowledged might explain my intrinsic obsession with satire. I never feel so fully understood as when a loved one mocks my misgivings. 

Perhaps my warmest memory of my little brother is when he would mimic my vanity by contorting his face into a somewhat pained overbite smile and craning his neck forward, pronouncing "I'm Sylvie looking in the mirror" -- inducing a shared bellyaching laugh between himself and my high school boyfriend. Similarly, I knew I liked my college boyfriend's group of buddies when they welcomed me to the posse by nicknaming "Bossy McHaterstein".

These people got me, they really got me!

And sometimes TV is just good because it feels likes the jokes were written just for you. 

In these moments I am filled with a warm fuzziness and a fantasy of a few writers combing through my diary for all my wittiest moments, observations and ideas and in a genius moment of inspiration realizing they could get rich just mocking the banality of my wonderfully overinflated ego. 

And why not? At the end of the day, all our most embarrassing rants and habits generally kept so close to the sleeve are actually really, really fucking relatable to enough people to garner award-winning audiences. I mean isn't it obvious? Behind all our makeup, botox, fashion, and rehearsed dialogues it is within the fleshy nasty bits where our true humanity hides. Those are the parts that make us simultaneously unique and also pretty fucking similarly hilarious. 

Almost everything I prioritize on my watch-list is fueled by this narcissistic need for comic relief and so in the spirit of not overlooking my ever-accumulating television viewing notes of shows which I already gave full-service blogs to last season, I'll just brief you on a few stand out quotes from my winter's streaming season. If nothing else maybe you'll be inspired to pick up a new show. Or better yet start writing your own about how very endearing all my anomalies are... I have lots of journals and am happy to collaborate. I mean why aren't we getting rich?!

First and foremost, Brockmire. In its second season Hank Azaria once again knocks it out of the ballpark (see what I did there?! A baseball pun for a baseball show! I told you, I'm available to hire as a working writer!) Consistently, all my favorite quotes in this series speak to Jim Brockmire's unabashed use of alcohol and narcotics. 

When Brockmire is told that being drunk makes him more likable to his radio audience he responds: "Those are the words that in his heart every alcoholic longs to be true." 

Hilarious! 

Viscerally we do all pray for this reality. 

hang on just one moment so I can have a drink and then you'll like my writing even more.

Alcohol is wonderful because even if others don't like me more when I drink I think I’m funnier

This makes me think of a wonderful line in the much-beloved series Letterkenny "People should only get hammered together so they never have to see how obnoxious their friends actually are."

Drunken conversations (come to think of it many sober ones too) are often random babble that floats from topic to topic without a coherent throughline. Many stories are not quite seen through from beginning to end. Nowadays we've branded this comedy and it even is a titled genre. Thank goodness! Non-sequiturs drive so much of the humor seen on television today and as I said, a little inebriation doesn't really hurt this “style”. Booze-fueled rants are perfect for non-sequiturs and sure, perhaps a true genius can conjure this wit sober but I'll live in the fantasy land where the gin is really helping.

Another untested theory that might help this special brand of comedy is one's gender. In an episode of my new podcast obsession (I have a lot of these) Good One, Julie Klausner attributes most of TV's best non-sequitur television not to alcoholics but to females.

This makes sense since actually talking is a necessity to this genre.

Clearly, we all owe Tina Fey quite a bit for popularizing this trend in 30 Rock. While the character she portrays in Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt seems convinced she can only function if she compartmentalizes her life to the point of nightly blackouts, something tells me in real life Fey isn't coming up with these speedy off the cuff jokes in quite the same state. 

It's called ACTING, people!

In the final episodes of Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt, Fey and the rest of the Kimmy Machine do not let us down. Appealing to my love of all random, mostly embarrassing and yet somehow unbearably relatable moments, the dialogue in these episodes is funny because you can simultaneously laugh and pretend you would absolutely never say/do/think any of these things while 100% knowing that the only thing between your behavior and theirs is just a couple more glasses of champagne. Like when Titus uses the pickles from his hamburgers as the soothing cucumbers a woman who actually takes care of her skin might rest on her eyelids while having a facial. Or when Lilian explains farties is a common nickname for children because "they smell bad, they almost always were an accident and you have to be extra worried if they're silent."

It just feels right to laugh at what we might imagine being the very worst version of ourselves.

Indeed, moments of doom can be terribly hilarious. How about the still wonderfully important Superstore a network sitcom which four seasons in still addresses important issues addressing our present socio-economic-political climate with one of the freshest voices I have yet to see on TV?! 

The crucial voice of this series is in large part thanks to another amazing female, America Ferrara (who coincidentally, was recently interviewed by NYT on the very apropos topic of being seen on TV).

This show creates truly refreshing (almost light) humor from some of the darkest plights that are facing Americans today. Health care, maternity leave, citizenship, and student loan debt... no topic is too taboo! It really should be required television as it offers quick wit, non-sequiturs, gag humor, romance and actual representation to huge parts of our population whose stories are normally left either in the margins or in tragic headlines. The diverse representation here is truly remarkable. And while I may be able to identify easily with basic bitch alcohol memes I am also fueled be a deep-seated passion for social justice and cultural-education and am equally adept at laughing at the asinine nature of my friend's plights as hard as I laugh at my own.

Like when Dina is encouraged to hold Glenn's baby for which she was the surrogate and instead voices utter disinterest; "it's kind of like shopping at Goodwill and you see a shirt you donated. For a second it feels meaningful and then you realize it's not." Or when the staff gets snowed into the store overnight and is stuck debating whether to watch Game of Thrones Season One or Friends Season Nine on DVD the general consensus is neither, "I agree, I watch TV to escape, not to watch more white people." 

How reassuring then that there are spaces on television now where everyone can be seen from the alcoholic sportscaster to the overweight black gay struggling actor, to the strong-willed assistant manager of a big box superstore. Here, in these fleshy bits, we can all laugh-- even the San Francisco personal trainer can relate. Deep down we all are imbeciles and we also all secretly would hate to change.

#America Ferrera #Julie Klausner #tina fey #superstore #hank azaria #brockmire #unbreakable kimmy schmidt #30 rock #podcasts #Letterkenny #good one