#even when glee was at the absolute worst of its worst it still was a slow fade out for me

[growbackyoursharpestteeth]

time for a tumblr purge

[with-my-calamitous-love]

okay okay, can I pls get Shinsou with “we would’ve been timeless” 🥹🫶

make it as angsty as you want, i’m feeling it ❤️‍🩹

“we would’ve been timeless…”

(hitoshi shinso.)

note: apparently bnha takes place in the 2100s.. for this fic just ignore that lol. love u ana!

august 16, 2010

you were 6 when you were given your polaroid camera.

as a small child, you didn’t know the significance this device would have on your life, or the value of film. the idea that this small, box could capture anything onto a piece of plastic was fascinating. it captured moments in time, and gave you tangible pieces of memory that you could carry around.

theres so many things a 6 year old could want to photograph in the eyes of childlike innocence. but the first photo you ever took, was of your best friend.

“please!!” you whined to hitoshi, who reluctantly gave in after your begging. he couldn’t say no to you, after all.

“okay, fine.” he groans, making an awkward smile that makes you laugh. purple eyes wince at the flash, but immediately scrambled to be by your side once he heard the whirring of the photo being developed.

you stared in awe. it was the first of many memories.

april 3rd, 2018

suffice to say that in the last 8 years, you took many polaroids of many different things. the exception to this was hitoshi, who absolutely hated his photo being taken. but the day you two were both starting highschool at UA, he relented.

“this is pointless.” he says, while you set up your camera. he’s wearing his uniform for the photo, but he feels as though its not as important to him as it is to you.

“no its not, toshi.” you say, walking back up to him. he offer’s you his arm like he always does, just wanting to give you a sense of security. his shoulders seem to slump.

“i’m in general studies.” he reminds you. “you’re in the hero course. this isn’t so fucking monumental.”

you sigh, understanding your best friends frustrations. you’re reluctant to take a photo if you’re going to look back and know he was upset.

so you stand in front of him, taking his face in your hands and say this:

“i know… but i’m not taking this to remember that. i’m taking it to remember that you made it this far… you can’t give up now. even if you don’t believe in yourself…”

you smile. “i can believe in you for the two of us.”

he’s silent for a moment, before the camera finally flashes and captures the moment.

may 22, 2020

you waited ages to see him there.

the look on his face when he’s finally accepted into the hero course is priceless. he’s in shock, only managing a soft smile even when his new classmates surround him in congratulatory glee. this feels unreal.

you stand at the sidelines, capturing the moment in a polaroid. he didn’t know you did this, he was too caught up in his own world to realize you were still there.

a bittersweet feeling blooms in your heart.

june 15, 2022

your graduation after party.

losing hitoshi impacted you more than you would like to admit. there was no big fight, no dramatic announcement of resentment. you two simply drifted. and you were totally fine with it. you were the person who believed in him from the very start, and now he forgot you were there.

totally fine with it.

taking 7 shots of tequila while mina and denki cheered you on certainly wasn’t your finest moment. getting sloppy drunk and using your dress to wipe off your makeup definitely wasn’t either. but the worst was when you stumbled over to hitoshi, a drunken slobbery mess.

“woah, [y/n]!” he says, grabbing you by the shoulders to stabilize you. he takes in your appearance, noting the tear stains that ran down your cheeks.

“we would’ve been timeless, hitoshi.” you slur, wiping the tear off your face with your knuckles. “fucking timeless.”

he looks confused for a second. “..what are you talking about?”

“i would have run away with you, or pray for you every night… cause i love you, and i never stopped believing in you..! and i was so proud of you when you finally got your heroic dream… and… and then what…? we just… just…”

you’re not making sense and you know it. but hitoshi gets it, at least some semblance of it.

he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. he knows he’s treated you like shit for the past few years. like the coward in every man, he just hoped it would never come up.

your legs finally give up on you. and like the hero he is (to everyone but you) he catches you, carrying you in his arms. he resolves to at least get you to bed.

and your classmates, who had your camera, captured the moment. to them, it was a display of drunken love. not that you could blame them.

2024.

you didn’t speak to him after that night.

the first time you saw hitoshi after going your separate ways was when you were attending some fancy gala. there he was, in his hero costume, looking so god damn handsome. he’s grown taller, more confident, more beautiful.

clutching your camera, you think about it for a moment. ultimately, you decide not to do it. most of those memories were embedded into your heart, anyway.

you think that maybe in a different life, you’d be laughing next to him. maybe in a different life, you’d be timeless.

[love-ardour-anarchism]

to me relationship anarchy means all my love is universal and unique at once

when I call one of my dearest „my dearest and my most beloved“ that doesn’t devalue any other that I love because there is simply not comparison

when I write about how I feel seen by someone in ways i’ve never felt before or that someone makes me feel things I never knew its similarly incomparable

I love all my dearest equally and each of those bonds and dynamics is entirely unique and special and immesurably valuable to me 

nobody could see me like you, nobody could make me feel like you, nobody could love me like you do and when I think of all the beautiful iridescent shades of how that love presents I feel things that even poetry can never even come close to truly conveying

how could I love someone else the way I love you? how could I feel seen by anybody else the way to you see me, your eyes are unlike any other, and every sunset that we’ve seen together is similarly unique

the experiences we share, the things we went through before we even got to meet each other, the way that you relate to some of my past and how I relate to some of yours is simply incomparable

and what we’ve all been through together, every moment, every memory, every difficult conversation that we’ve had and how every single one of them has improved our relationship in the long run, has made us more secure, and how they’ve allowed us to get to know each other and ourselves better 

you ARE my dearest, my most beloved sunshine, and your shy smile makes any other pale

your laughter fills me with absolute glee

and the softness in your voice makes me feel like I'm melting

and SHE is my darling dearest, my love-who-feels-my-pain-like-it-were-mine

and SHE is my heavy-heart-and-soul-companion, beyond compare, who I have known for more than just one life

and THEY are my beloved magpie-moonshine, my carries-knives-protector, who's taught me growth is good and change is inevitably

you get the fucking picture? I cannot HELP but sound like I'm writing some bizarre cross between Sappho's works, religious psalms and Lord Byron's worst enemy... because every love I've felt has simply felt unique and beyond being put into words and I'm the bitch that STILL can't help but TRY.

[alexanderlightweight]

Hey lumine! I hope all is well and that you're getting over the post-plague funk- I know being sick is the absolute worst.

If you happen to be taking prompts today (and totally cool if not!) I would love to see if you're interested in tangling with a continuation of either the bitter trap of truth or the craft of adoration.

For the first one, I ADORE the way Cat and Ragnor in your last piece were observing Alec so casually giving priceless nephilim intelligence to them while so clearly displaying his trust in Magnus alskjfda;lsdfjasdfadsf. so good and happy and all my favorite things with Alec happily surrendering to Magnus and being his BAMF-y self while doing so and even the utter delight of outside POV!

For the second, if that AU floats your fancy higher, my brain is just utterly stuck on that line where Magnus asks Alec to come to him at dawn because he wants his people to see Alec coming to his call, coming to heel if you will. I would be drowning in glee (to continue the watery metaphors) to see how your wonderful imagination would envision that scene occurring and what Magnus (and Magnus' people!) would think of Alec acquiescing to Magnus' request.

Hope you feel better!

the prompts themselves are compliments and incredible sweet s thank you Laws!

I realize it was a different day that this was sent but I dont remember which day and tbh, today is a good day! Mostly over the cold and my leg is finally aching less enough to think.

no outsider pov in this one, but a bit more of cat and ragnor and the magnificent team immortal because i love them and they need to be more heavily involved in this fic for a variety of reasons.

need to take @saryn-prime to a health appointment and then i'll be back to settle in and write more.

i ened up really feeling the bitter trap of truth today and its been on my mind for days and my fingers have been aching to write it. hope you enjoy and are doing well!

<3 lumine

-

It’s past noon when Magnus’ wards flare and he leaves Alexander where he is, splayed out across the bed and face burrowed into a pillow. It’s been enough time that Catarina and Ragnor’s visit can only mean one thing.

Magnus will finally have his answer.

If he was wise to trust Alexander or if his boy has so easily betrayed him.

Alexander won’t face punishment from the warlocks.

Even if he’s played them, it’s one of his own people who have died and Magnus already knows that the Clave won’t punish him for it. If anything, they’ll reward him for ensuring that

But Magnus’ heart will still ache at being tricked.

Neither of his dear companions are in his apothecary, instead they are practically relaxed. Well, as relaxed as they can be when exhaustion haunts their visage. Catarina is splayed out on the sofa and Ragnor has nearly melted into his favorite armchair, pipe puffing peacefully away as Catarina summons three drinks.

“A toast!” She offers and her soft smile nearly breaks Magnus.

She wouldn’t be smiling or toasting if she brought ill news.

“It worked?” He asks, even thought he knows it has to have. But years of agonizing betrayal make him ask, he has to know.

“It’s as if she were never ill.” Catarina confirms and her eyes gleam with mocking humor. “I’ve never seen someone so mortified and furious to be saved.”

“It should also be noted that she’s of a much lower rank than your shadowhunter.” Ragnor gives a quiet sigh and blows out a ring of smoke. “I rather doubt she even knew what the poison would do beyond killing her and striking a blow to the downworld. She seemed utterly shocked that we managed to find an antidote.”

“Did you tell them how we managed?”

“And risk them finding even more obscure poisons?” Cat laughs and shakes her head. “No, let them think I somehow found an antidote. If they knew the treasure trove of willing information your boy is, well…”

She trails off with an apologetic shrug and Magnus just nods. Cat’s not wrong. If anything, she’s being generous with how delicate she’s being. It also means that Magnus is going to have to be very careful with who he shares information about Alec with.

The Council would no doubt want to interrogate him for all the answers he would be able to give, but Magnus would rather play the long game. Alexander is unique, in more ways than one and while he doubts that his hunter would dare lie before the Elders, he also doesn’t want more attention drawn to him.

Not before Magnus is completely sure.

Magnus’ heart has been wounded too many times for this one action to convince him, but it has done what he hoped.

Catarina and Ragnor are both now willing to give Alexander a chance, a real chance and that is worth more to Magnus than anything else.

— Alec is beginning to think that he’s never going to wake up with Magnus wrapped around him, or wrapped around Magnus. Every time he thinks he’s going to be able to enjoy sunlight and warm, bare skin and golden eyes, something comes up.

Alec is almost ready to just haul Magnus back to bed, but he doesn’t think they’re quite there yet.

It’s with careful consideration that he bites his lip hard enough to bleed. Instantly, the nearly scalding feeling of Magnus’ blood working through his veins lights up. He enjoy it for a few seconds as it heals the damage and then its gone… and no Magnus appears after it.

Alec follows the tug of his bond with Magnus, teeth playing with his lip — which burns in admonishment — and finds himself holding back a soft chuckle. Magnus’ friend Ragnor — someone who Alec knows is a highly revered potion master — is asleep in an armchair. He’s blowing smoke rings as he snores and Magnus and Catarina — who Alec knows is an incredibly talented and powerful healer — are splayed out together on the couch.

Magnus appears to be trying to give her a foot massage, but she’s asleep and his eyes are slipping shut, head nodding forward.

Alec huffs another silent breath of laughter and — with all the skill that he was once taught in order to be a better killer — collects several of Magnus’ extravagant throws.

Because Alec is nothing if not petty, he very carefully lays the cabbage green monstrosity of a tartan throw on Ragnor. Careful not to get close enough that the warlock wakes and thinks it an attack and then settles the large umber blanket over Catarina and Magnus both.

While he’s careful not to touch either of Magnus’ friends, he can’t help but settle a pillow under Magnus head and smooths the hair falling into his eyes away.

It’s a gentle, whisper of a kiss that he presses to Magnus’ hair and then he grabs the book he’d left on the table the night before.

As he settles on the floor next to Magnus, resting his head on Magnus’ leg and being careful to stay out of range of Catarina — he doesn’t know her after all — a glimpse of movement catches his attention.

Ragnor’s eyes meet his and Alec just nods, simple and acknowledging and then he opens the book he grabbed and settles in. If Magnus didn’t want him around his friends when they’re vulnerable then the magic of the loft wouldn’t have let him in.

The blankets probably aren’t necessary, but Alec is Magnus’ husband now. And while Alec is still figuring out his new position in life he does know how to take care of people. Mostly his soldiers and his siblings but still, if he softens his touch a bit, he’s sure he’ll manage just find at taking care of Magnus and his friends.

If this — being allowed in the same room as three vulnerable warlocks — is another sign that Magnus is trusting him, well then Alec is going to take full advantage of it.

While also not giving Magnus any reason to doubt him.

[gaysindistress]

When Night Comes- four

Summary: Who would win in a staring contest? New York’s resident mob boss and master of the side eye Bucky Barnes or the daycare teacher who really wants to go home and smoke?

pairing: Mob!Bucky Barnes x reader

warnings: cursing, mentions of blood drinking, creepy cab driver

word count: 3.2k

three | masterlist

Tag list: @vickie5446 @cakesandtom @buckybarnessimpp @hidden-treasures21​ @unaxv​ @mal-adaptive-dreams @elizacusi-blog

disclaimer: credits to original creator/poster of image/gif. found on Google/Pinterest

Ping. 

Ping. 

A groan rips through her body as she blindly searches for her phone while it vibrates on the coffee table. Reaching across to the table, her upper half falls off the couch with a thud and another groan (this time one of pain) rings out. The phone ceases its dance on the table when her alarm stops and she just slides off the couch entirely in her sleepy state, laying on the floor in a heap of blankets as she opens her phone. As she guessed there are missed calls and unopened texts from Bucky but the text that isn’t from him stands out. 

Bravery should’ve been her last name for attempting to steal her away for a date the same night that Bucky had one planned. Well key word is had and since it is no longer on the books, accepting an invite from Yelena doesn’t seem like the worst idea she has ever had. A certain recent ex would be the worst idea she’s ever had but that’s a story for another time. At the moment, responding with “sounds good” as she struggles to stand amidst the blankets to get ready for the day are her only tasks in mind. 

Blackbear streams from under the bathroom door along side steam letting her know that Jessica is also getting ready and will probably make them both late if Sunny doesn’t demand she get out right now. 

“Jess!” she calls but gets no response. 

“Jess!” she tries a little louder before pounding in the door, “Jessica Lee Reyes get out of the shower! Other people need hot water too!”

Her laugher overpowers the sound of the water and music as it all comes to an abrupt stop and she swings the door open. 

“Calm your tits. I was literally about to get out,” she says as she slides past Sunny, a fog of steam following after her, “Did Bucky ever stop texting you last night?”

“Uh yeah,” Sunny’s voice is barely audible thanks to the fan but Jessica still hears. 

“Thank god. I almost blocked him for you. I really hate that guys can’t take a hint sometimes.”

“Yelena texted me though. She either is really lucky or knew that I canceled on him because she wants to go out tonight.”

Before she disappears entirely into her room,  Jessica freezes with glee at the mention of the blonde’s name, “Oh she did? And what did you say?” “Yes.”

“Thank Jesus! I’m so glad you’re finally starting to put my hard work to good use.” “Yeah, yeah whatever,” sarcasm is not uncommon with her but it’s extra thick when Jessica is around and even more so when it comes to debating Sunny’s love life. 

“I’m dressing you and you have absolutely no say.”

Sunny chuckles to herself while she strips off to get into the shower. Only god will be able to save her from whatever outfit Jess has in mind for her. 

The moment they had ended their second shift at 6pm, Jessica all but dragged her back to her apartment to get ready for her date with Yelena. She may not have been freaking out about it outwardly, every fiber of her being is on fire with anticipation of what the night has to bring. All Yelena told her was that she’d be there at 7 and that they’d be going out, other than that, she is in the dark and at the mercy of Jessica’s interpretation of ‘going out’. Her definition included putting Sunny in baggy black cargo pants and a black corset because “what’s hotter than the big pants and little top combo?” as she put it. 

“As hot as I might look, do you really think this is appropriate? Going out could mean so many things and wha…”

Jessica presses a finger to her lips, “I know Yelena and when she says going out, she means clubbing so this is… actually maybe you’re right. I think you need a skirt instead, ya know small bottoms, small top is better anyways.”

She leaves Sunny at her vanity staring at her reflection as she searches for that one skirt she swears will be the perfect addition. The woman at the vanity on the other hand, is mentally tearing herself to bits as she inspects every inch of herself that can be seen in the mirror. No matter how hard she tries, Bucky comes flooding back to the forefront of her mind as she looks over the makeup Jessica put on her. It’s simple, bordering the clean girl look and something she isn’t used to seeing staring back at her. It makes her wonder if she had tried harder, would she be getting ready for HIM instead? 

“Oh for the love of god,” she mumbles under her breath. She never even kissed him and this is the hold that he had over her? One close encounter and she’s consumed by him? Shaking her head to shake him from the inside of it, she picks up the lip gloss Jessica used earlier and reapplies it. The shiny gloss catches the vanity light and glitters, cheering her on and boosting her ego. 

“Found it!” Jessica calls from the closet and comes back to her with a pale pink mini skirt, “What do you think?” “I like the pants better.”

“Ugh, you’re boring but have it your way,” she flings the skirt behind her with a chuckle, “You are going to wear heels though.”

“We’re going to a club not to the Met Gala, I’m sure my air jordans will be perfectly fine.”

“Why won’t you let me live through you? I’ve always wanted to go out with Yelena and it’s only fair that I get to style you since I set you two up.”

Sunny whips around to face her, “You dragged me to a party after I said no and then left me alone with a grade A douchebag only to be saved by Yelena. I would, in no way, call that setting us up.”

“I got you there and you met her only because you went so yes, yes I did set you up thank you very much.”

Before Sunny can get a retort back, the front door opens and Yelena’s voice rings out, letting them know she’s here. 

“Do you ever lock you door, Jess? It’s really not safe,” she says, appearing in the doorway and leaning against the frame. 

“I knew you were coming so I left it unlocked.”

“I know you better than that, you forgot but good try,” she chuckles at her failed attempt to cover up the truth before settling her eyes on Sunny, “You look good, голубка. Are you ready?”

She can feel her friend vibrating with excitement from behind her at the nickname and turns to her date, nodding and standing up. It’s the prime opportunity to smack her ass so Jessica takes it as she says, “Good luck. Don’t have too much fun without me!”

She sends her friend a nasty death glare while her date and her laugh manically like little school girls at her expense. Yelena is quick to stifle her laughter with a smirk when Sunny brushes past her on her way out of the room. This is an even better opportunity to look at her ass as she walks away which doesn’t go unnoticed by Jessica. 

“God you’re no better than a man,” she chides while cleaning up the remnants of their get ready session. 

“Says the one who slapped it.”

“Go have fun and don’t bring her back until tomorrow morning,” Jessica sends her a wink as she slides off the frame and goes in search of Sunny who is muttering to herself as she searches for her purse. 

“Looking for this?” 

Quickly looking up, she spots Yelena holding her missing purse with a cat like grin and eyes glittering as they take in every ouch of skin her outfit leaves out. Nodding she takes it from her and slips into her leather jacket, still feeling the heat of her date’s gaze on her. It’ll either make for a torturously long night or a far too quick one if she keeps up the way her green eyes leave chemtrails across her skin. 

Clearing her throat, she says, “I’m ready if you are.”

The smirk doesn’t leave her face when her eyes make their way to Sunny’s, “Of course голубка.”

She offers out her own leather clad arm to her before leaving Jessica’s apartment and lecturing her about never locking her door. 

“The boogieman is going to get you one of these days!” is the last thing Jessica hears while the door is shut and the two woman leave the apartment complex. 

Their walk downstairs and out onto the street is filled with the normal small talk; how was your day, any funny stories, what’s your favorite color, you know the usual things. Sunny wants to ask if she knew about her date with Bucky but bringing up a rival suitor is definitely not the best idea when on a date. If Yelena does know anything about it, she doesn’t give it away and avoids saying his name when talking about her job. Come to think of it, she’s rather vague about her job description in general and only mentions how it’s boring and how she works with her sister, Natasha. It’s a given that she does work in the criminal world to some degree if she knows Bucky well enough to crash one of his homes but Sunny isn’t about to pry that information out of her on the first date. 

The standard creepy cab driver does nothing to assuage the idea that she’s a criminal. His lewd stares and borderline harassing remarks causes her to keep a protective hand on Sunny’s knee. She can see her free hand itch to reach for something hidden under her jacket the entire ride but it never leaves her lap. Several times Yelena had to interrupt him mid-sentence and even threatened to get out without paying if he didn’t keep his mouth shut. She would have or pulled the gun tucked against her side if Sunny hadn’t squeezed her hand to ground her. 

“Don’t. It’s not worth it.”

The murderous glare softened the moment it left the cab driver, “The moment you’re uncomfortable, we’ll get out, okay?”

The nod of confirmation wasn’t enough though for her, “I need you to say it, голубка.”

The air left like it had been sucked out of her lungs with the simple demand but she managed to mutter back “I promise I’ll tell you if I am.”

Satisfaction from both her reaction and her words, she keeps a tight grip on Sunny’s knee and rubs small circles into the inside of it. The simple action is burning through her pant leg, trailing upwards as she has struggles to maintain a calm and collective exterior. 

Once at the club, Yelena tosses the cash at the driver and gives him a side eye deadly enough he keeps his eyes trained in the road in front of him. She makes a mental note of the license plate number to follow up on hum after their date is done. As her sister always said, the scum of this world cannot go unpunished and his time will come. However now is not that time and the woman tugging gently at her hand reminds her of the task at hand; dance the night away with the vision of a woman next to her. 

“What is this place?”

“Oh,” Yelena starts as she leads her towards the entrance of the old brick building, “It’s called Strigoi, a friend of mine owns it.”

“That’s an interesting name,” Sunny muses as she flashes her id and award winning smile to the bouncer before following her inside. 

Anything she might have wanted to say gets stuck when the club’s red lighting bathes over them as well as the interior of it. Unlike most other clubs, the floor has booths scattered throughout with platforms occasionally raising above to provide brave club goers a stage to demonstrate the courage bought by alcohol. The bar is backed by a wall of mirrors while the signature red lights cast a devilish glow on the matching mirror shelves filled with expensive liquor. Beyond everything is the DJ stand where dark synth music streams dramatically from. 

“Who exactly owns this club? A vampire?” Sunny whispers to Yelena, half joking while also hoping her earlier suspicions of Peter aren’t true. 

She doesn’t answer with words but instead with a deep laughter that vibrates into Sunny’s chest as well as they weave through the crowd towards the bar. A familiar voice catches her attentions when Yelena stops at the edge, leaning over to order drinks for him. Only a few seats down is the Peter Parker she’d hoped to never see again with the same girl from the kickback turned party. The red ambience makes it difficult to see much of him but yet there is another flash of something when he smirks down at the party girl. In his hand is a short glass of thick dark liquid and if Sunny didn’t know any better, she’d assume it’s blood. Obviously that’s insane and no one is drinking blood so she tears her stare away and looks to Yelena who’s already looking at her in puzzlement.  His arrogant chuckle draws her attention to him and it clicks; Sunny had spotted him in his natural habit and of course, is confused by it all. 

“I can have him kicked out if you want,” she says while handing Sunny her drink.

“Nah leave him. He’s not worth the hassle.”

“For you, any hassle is worth it.”

“Wow already laying it on thick I see. Think you’re going to get lucky?” she chuckles as she takes a sip of whatever Yelena ordered for her. 

The blonde woman shrugs as she scans her face, “Now that you mention it.”

She rolls her eyes at the suggestion and tugs on her arm to lead them away from the bar. Spotting an empty booth among the crowd of people is no easy feat however it’s not up to Yelena’s standards because she shakes her head and points to an area that’s roped off with even more bouncers guarding it. 

“Did you really think I’d bring you to a club and not sit in the VIP section?” and when she doesn’t answer, she continues with her playful teasing, “Cat got your tongue? It’s okay, голубка, what I have planned doesn’t require any talking.”

Behind the ropes and bouncers, lounges Bucky with Steve and Peggy, short glasses filled with the same thick dark liquid as Peter’s. That intoxicating smell drifts in amongst the waves of other club goers’ smells and has him narrowing his eyes at nothing and everything at the same time, searching for the owner. Peggy whispers something to her husband, red lips mere inches from the shell of his ear. Steve glances to his blue eyed friend and chuckles in agreement with what she said. 

“Find your companion for the night?” he taunts while taking a sip from his glass, the dark liquid leaving a slight film on his tongue. 

“No,” Bucky states plainly as he sets his glass down on the table before them, “She’s here.”

Peggy snorts, “You already have her smell memorized? I see her almost everyday and I barely know it.”

“For the safety of your child, I hope you’re joking,” he says while standing and walking towards the bouncers. 

In his absence, she turns to Steve, “Do you?”

“Have her smell memorized? Only enough to know the difference between the staff though. I wouldn’t give any thought to him right now, he’s all fired up over her, that Lycan woman from last night, and Alix.”

She huffs in response which earns her words of reassurance from him. Meanwhile Bucky is instructing his men to keep a close eye on Yelena and especially Sunny. When he returns to the booth, he doesn’t sit right away and takes his glass from the table. Yelena’s voice echoes past the music and noise of the club, letting him know that he is about to face confrontation no doubt. She spots him before Sunny can and she does what she can to guide her away from that booth much to his dismay and pleasure. Her efforts to distract her fail and Sunny sees Steve, giving him a small smile which falls when Bucky comes into her view. The trio pick up on parts of what she’s whispering angrily to Yelena, “What… he… here? You….me….was going to be….”

Yelena, although, hears every word loud and clear, “What is he doing here? You didn’t tell me he was going to be here.”

“I didn’t know he was there. I’m sorry if it makes this,” she gestures between the two of them, “awkward. We can go somewhere else.”

“No this is ridiculous. He can’t fucking ruin everything,” she runs a hand over her hair and takes a deep breath, “I’m sorry if I made things awkward. It’s just… a little complicated I guess.”

Yelena’s ring filled hand cups the side of her face, tilting her hand to look at her, “Nothing’s changed. Trust me I know how complicated things are when it comes to him but I won’t hold it against you if you don’t against me.”

“Ya know,” she takes a step closer, closing the distance between them, “We could just ignore him. This date is between you and I, he is not involved in any way.”

“I like the sounds of that,” Yelena whispers back as her hand shifts down to cradle her jaw, her thumb ghosting over her glossy bottom lip, “You’re going to get me in trouble if I’m not careful.”

Sunny smirks against her thumb, “Why do you say that?”

“I think you know why,” she leans impossibly closer, “Can I kiss you?” Her eyes flicker down to Yelena’s mauve lips, nodding ever so slightly before they meet in one small kiss only to be drawn back in and devour each other in the middle of a crowded club. 

Having watched the whole exchange, his body tenses as her smell shifts when the kiss deepens. Jealously bubbles in his veins and the only thing stopping him from ripping Yelena to shreds is Steve’s hand on his wrist and Peggy’s reminder that “she is not yours. Stand down.” Rather than give into his animalistic urges to destroy, he settles for his usual scowl, hooded eyes trained on the couple in hopes that he can will them apart and her into his arms. His self control doesn’t last long and he’s marching over to the women in no time. 

“Yelena,” he gives her a curt nod, “Sunny, I need to talk to you.”

Neither is able to protest before he is dragging her towards a closed door hidden from view by more guards until now. Yelena shots Steve a lock of contempt as she approaches their booth, “You two are absolutely no help. Why didn’t either you of stop him?” “Do you really expect me to get in between him and what he wants?” Steve says expectedly as they all know no one is stupid enough to do so. 

“A heads-up would’ve been nice.”

“I’ll keep that in mind next time you’re on a date with the woman he’s interested in.”

[slapjacq]

I am ill. Not okay. I’ve cried and thrown a tissue box at the wall. Then proceeded to scream at said wall for twenty minutes. Yes I am melodramatic, no I don’t care. I am still in therapy for a reason. Nevertheless, this episode was bonkers, off the wall batshit insane. Like genuinely so good that it almost adds to the tragedy of it all.

Here are my immediate and unfiltered thoughts from my post episode freak out that I have to put somewhere because if I don’t, I will, in fact, explode.

Warning: spoilers up the wazoo, a lot of profanity

First and foremost: Daniel, old Maniel, I can count on you to always keep it a buck, and for that I thank you.

Armand you piece of fucking shit I swear on everything that is holy, you are no longer babygirl, you bitch ass hoe, go stick that fucking doe eyed face up someone else ass you stupid fucking piece of shit. “i cOULD nOt pReVEnt iT” FUCK YOU MEAN YOU COULDNT PREVENT IT YOURE 500 YEARS OLD, YOU SOLD THEM OUT TO BEGIN WITH. YOU STOP TIME, CAN CONTROL BODIES, PLANT IDEAS INTO PEOPLE HEADS, READ PEOPLES MINDS AND THE BITTY BABY VAMPIRE ARMAND COULDNT DO ANYTHIGN ABOUT IT? SUCK MY DICK AND KISS ME MERRY GO TRH THAG SHIT ELSEWHERE (shout out Assad for really giving his all with the whole puppy dog eyes this entire episode 10/10 would fall for them if not the circumstances). I can’t believe I actually was defending this dude a few episodes ago, I literally can’t defend anything else from here moving forward.

Claudia and Madeline deserve to watch these assholes burn and the fact they died such painful deaths should warrant the gods to set the sky alight with constellations of their love. They were allowed NOTHING but a small taste of happiness before it was shredded away from them. No one is EVER gonna villainize them, not to me, not ever. Roxanne absolutely was incredible, and Delainey, in the coming future, better up there as an A-list actor because she has been that astoundingly good. (That goes for everyone here honestly, but Delainey and Roxanne really deserve their flowers here).

Santiago has a special place in hell. I simply cannot wait to watch him die. Decapitation is too kind for him, put him through pain and fury before sending him to hell. Ben Daniels you son of a bitch you played the villain so well. I damn near jumped through the screen when he began to read Claudia’s diaries with a shitty NOLA accent, I have never been so livid in my life.

The rest of Theatre: “All of you motherfuckers, fuck you, die slow.” -Tupac Shakur

Louis GET UP LEAVE YOUR WIFE DUDE YOU KNOW ITS BULLSHIT and honestly I’m not even going to rag on him this episode because the poor man has gone through too much. Jacob was absolutely brilliant in all of this, and honestly I literally will never stop talking about the performances in this show. Regardless, the upcoming rage is justified and I when get to watch him massacre these assholes, I will cackle with the same glee a schoolboy has after he disintegrates ants with a magnifying glass.

And finally Lestat. He rose on the third day and served cunt and made me ball like the mommy issues toting bitch I am. Sam, my man, you knocked it out of the fucking ballpark. Magnificent. Lestat, fucking bastard. You messy bitch. When you get out of whatever the Theatre is doing to you big man, I better see you read Armand to filth. I better see the same from the other. They both deserve to be dragged to hell and back.

Also Daniel Hart is a genius, just really fills your soul with dread this entire episode, I mean the score was filthy, vivid, and hauntingly gorgeous. The violins at the beginning were nasty work and had me fully hypnotized for the entire 50 minutes.

SFX is killing it, everytime, making it all believable and absolutely the worst someone could imagine it to be. I full body contorted at the sight of the sliced ankles.

Shoutout costume department also did its thing. Santiago’s costume was top tier camp. And Lestat’s suit was absolutely everything. Gender envy 11/10.

I could sit here all day and go on about how all the cast and crew did a fucking fantastic job. Like you can really tell they put their heart and soul into this episode.

I mean dear god I’m going to be in shambles for the next two years this episode was insane.

[sendmyresignation]

if you wanna indulge me, id love to hear your opinions on sing (all of mine are detractory which i know isnt the complete view of the song)

omg id love too!! sorry this took me a sec to formulate post-work haha. i know we don't agree about sing but honestly that's the beauty of music opinions- I feel like it becomes easier to define what I like about things when faced with legit measured criticism anyway

for me, i want to start with the structure and instrumental since it's usually not mentioned (most of the criticisms of sing are exclusively lyrical or intention-focused). it's so cool. and evocative. and full of tension!! my favorite use of synth on danger days, plus the keys and the drums (man i love the dd studio musician drums lmao), really emphasizes sing as a suspended moment both in the album (necessary bridge, tonally, between bulletproof and planetary imo) and in the track itself- its alllll building up to that bridge and final chorus. but there's all these little pieces- the backing vocals, there's so many hidden guitar parts that riff just under all the noise, that opening like, tambourine. sorry for not having a quote on hand but Ray's said he really loved writing sing and it's so totally obvious to me. especially live- part of the reason I was soooooo excited for sing swarm tour edition is that even during dd ray was like absolutely shredding for sing after the bridge. and everytime time it's so good. part of the reason the lyrics don't bother me is sing could stand alone instrumentally and I'd still want to listen to it. (sing also reminds me of Ray's solo music- the sentiment is more significant that the lyrics and the music is itself a vehicle for storytelling)

also though, i think there's a lot of intention with sing (it's up to the listener to determine if that paid off obv) but within the context of dd the record as a pirate radio station, sing has always read as a trojan horse song. making it a single too, like once a song takes on a life of its own outside the record there's new meaning and circumstance. so both within and outside the killjoy universe sing is a vehicle for not just the bridge but the overall sentiment of dd (how fucking excited was gerard when glenn beck took the glee bait) like, yes, i do agree they could've benefited from another pass over the lyrics (i will always defend keeping "sing it till your nuts" bc its sounds like sing it to your nuts though) but I don't personally get the criticism that sing isn't "specific enough" about what exactly it's against or is too optimistic about "sing it for the world"-- i think there are songs on the album (notably planetary right after it!) which do that job just fine. dd is gerard in arguably top lyrical form so theres a lot of meat in the rest of the record like. sing it for the world is a purposely simplistic art is the weapon. like those are the same sentiments rendered very differently!

also like. i do think there was a very directed target at the younger part of their fan base here (girl/boy) which is sweet. to me. like i did hear sing first when i was a young teen (one of the few dd songs i was familiar with) and it did feel huge and empowering at that moment. my chem are their best when they are navigating the dualities of their specific fame, which includes simultaneously making very serious, adult rock music which is concerned with violence death grief and sex, as well as being a role model for younger people and taking them seriously and neither of these are in rhetorical conflict with each other. so like whatever sing is a little juvenile. but it's still filled with passion! taken as a legitimate project with a creative instrumental and a narratively-driven music video. I like that aspect, it works for me. I'll never call it my favorite my chem song but its certainly not the worst when you add in the bridge (i wanted to prove my point without the bridge but like. damn!! it's a good bridge!!!). that's my spiel.

[eisforeidolon]

Hey there, I hope you don't mind me dropping in here on a topic from a few days ago and harping on about it (I'm not very well-versed on ask boxes so I'm a bit unsure of the etiquette. If I commit a major faux-pas, forgive me). Apologies if this ends up a little long and a lot sarcastic - I have opinions about this. It's given me a fair bit of grief over the years.

Y'know, I see these 'abusive Dean' takes float across my dash a fair bit (apparently not being into Destiel or Wincest means I must be a Bitter Sam-girl instead and hate Dean, according to Tumblr). The oh-so-delightful 'abusive husband Dean and beaten wife Sam' takes. People calling Sam 'beaten wife coded' in general. One based on a grand total of two instances where he flinched cause Dean made a loud violent noise near him (who the hell wouldn't, you don't need to be 'beaten wife coded' to flinch when someone chucks a chair at a wall, it's almost like Sam has some kind of trauma about various other things and might be generally jumpy...). Or taking the end of S10 out of context and choosing to forget that Dean was nearly fully taken over by a mark of fratricide (which he still managed to overcome, they conveniently fail to mention that). And I just... ugh.

What I never understood about these takes is like... why? There's trying to paint your fave in a good light and a character you hate in a bad one, but then there's making the heart and soul of the show itself into something so ugly it ruins it for other people, like your Anon, and honestly this happened to me too a while ago before I forced myself to stop listening to the greater fandom and find a few I trusted (like you). Even still, it gets all up in my head sometimes. Why are these people finding such glee in making the central relationship so awful? What are you getting out of this show if you think that about it?

Like, imagine looking at the finale through this lens. Congratulations, you turned something sad but ultimately bittersweet into something horrible, the 'beaten wife' dedicating the rest of their life to their 'abuser' then being forced to be with them for eternity, and this is portrayed as a good thing. Why would you ever want to view it that way? Plus, it's rather forced if you take it as a whole - the few times Sam stood there looking contrite while Dean did something stupid pale in comparison to the number of times he calls him out on it, even in the later seasons (14x12 Prophet and Loss, anyone? 15x17 Unity?).

I guess people can take from media what they want, it's obviously not my place to police people's enjoyment, but I just never got the appeal. It seems so counter to what the show was clearly actually trying to do, yet they tout it as fact (now where have I seen that before). Like it's somehow a bad thing to enjoy the show on its own terms. Coming across these takes still kinda bums me out. This goes for people insisting it's the other way around too - I can't stand any brother vs. brother stuff either, it's never anything but bad faith, and honestly kinda misses the point. Some of these people boggle my mind with their lack of empathy.

If there's one thing this fandom is good for, it's honing your ability to roll your eyes and move along. It's full of so much absolute batshit insanity that you'll never survive if you listen to every take. Trust me, I've tried. Do you know which tags to block to avoid this kinda stuff? Cause I never seem to be able to.

Sorry if this was a bit of a rant dump, heh. I'm usually a chronic lurker, but this discourse in particular bothers me immensely.

You're absolutely fine, I mind neither bringing up previous topics nor excessive length (be a bit of a hypocrite if I did, tbh). And yeah, it's one of my least favorite SPN fandom discourses, too.

It does feel like it's pretty hard to find any corner of the fandom where you won't at least occasionally see one side or the other's worst faith not!fave-brother-is-terrible takes. And oh, do I hate the 'beaten wife Sam' half of the 'Dean is an abuser' discourse equation just as much. Like, supposedly they like Sam, so why on earth would they want to pretend this stubborn competent badass of a character is actually a helpless pathetic marshmallow?! Same with Dean on the opposite side of the fandom - it's not just the character they're constantly maligning I can't recognize, the character they "like" similarly bears very little resemblance to the one I'm a fan of!

So far as I can tell, some people just desperately need their favorite character to be the best one who is always in the right. Whether it's over-identification or what, I don't know. They seem to think they achieve it by reframing large portions of the canon as justifying, unfairly attacking, or insulting that character as necessary. Except they don't see how from the outside it very often looks entirely absurd, regardless of if they're doing it in favor of Sam, Dean, or Castiel. Which is not to say there aren't parts of canon which treat all of those characters ridiculously in one way or another? But it's the total fixation on it only being the case with their favorite character in every possible situation where it gets weird.

Every great once in a while, I do manage to come across a take that really annoys me. But for the most part? The extreme ones are just so absurd, so divorced from what anyone even vaguely trying to understand the other characters' motivations and what the show quite obviously intended? I just can't take it at all seriously. Especially when they (as they so often do) get canon details wrong or pointedly "forget" all the canon points that blatantly don't fit their narrative.

Unfortunately, like with a certain ship, when it comes to tagging? You're kind of at the mercy of the self-awareness of the poster about how much other people may not want to see their hot takes.

[shachaai]

[Hetalia Version] The Lindworm’s Lullaby

Chapters: 4/14 Rating: Explicit (For Gore) Main Relationships: Arthur Kirkland (England)/Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes (Portugal) Characters: Arthur Kirkland (England), Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes (Portugal), Original Child Character(s), Ludwig Beilschmidt (Germany), Julia Blumenschien (Fem Prussia), Kiku Honda (Japan), Lovino Vargas (South Italy), Assorted Others Other Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe - Human AU, FBI Murder Mystery/Thriller, Case Fic, Adapted from a Hannibal Fic, Baby Fic, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha Gabriel Fernandes, Omega Arthur Kirkland, Pre-Relationship, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Single Parent Arthur Kirkland, Violence and Gore Canon-Typical to Hannibal Levels, Cute Moments and Murder, Murder Scenes, Dead Bodies, Poisoning, Discussions about torture/infidelity/rape

The FBI is called in to investigate when a series of bodies shows up around Ohio: all of them alphas, and all of them skinned alive. With the killer’s motives a mystery, Ludwig Beilschmidt pulls Arthur Kirkland from the classroom and his vigil at the comatose Madeline Williams’ bedside once more to lend his insight to the case - with very little mind paid to the fact that the busy Arthur, omega and single mother to a six month-old daughter, might have some scheduling issues. Necessity - and pressure from Ludwig - drives Arthur into reluctantly asking Gabriel Fernandes for a favour at short notice. Gabriel is delighted to help Arthur with babysitting - once he has, of course, recovered from both the surprise of learning that Arthur Kirkland even has a baby to care for and, presented with the adorable armful that is a sleepy Lenore Kirkland, feeling a little skinned raw himself.

*****

CHAPTER 1 | CHAPTER 2 | CHAPTER 3

*****

*****

Chapter 4: fancy unto fancy

Arthur’s advice to Gabriel, mostly sent via text, is to take a longer and more circuitous route from Quantico to the Kirkland home in Wolf Trap rather than relying solely on the interstate highways. Fairfax County, where Wolf Trap is located, is part of the Washington metropolitan area and has the notorious achievement of being the third-worst area in the entirety of the United States of America for congested traffic. The effect is at its worst during rush hour, tired workers of the 9-to-5 regime making the commute to and from D.C., but the demands of the capital necessitate a workforce available at all hours of the day and night - and, thus, ascertain that the arteries which supply aforementioned workforce will never be clear.

Gabriel takes the - unavoidable - I-95 north from Quantico in Arthur’s thoroughly-used car, the faint odour of damp canine and baby shampoo in his nose. The olfactory mix is strange but infinitely preferable to the overpowering and abominably artificial pine of Arthur’s car freshener which had assaulted Gabriel as soon as he had gotten behind the wheel of Arthur’s Volvo, drilling something sharp, chemical and lime green straight through to the back of his skull with all the painful, migraine-inducing grace of an ice-pick. Snatching up the little tree dangling from the rearview mirror, Gabriel had (after reading the 100% biodegradable obnoxiously emblazoned across its chemical-soaked surface) thrown the freshener out of the driver-side window with extreme prejudice, wiping his befouled hand - somewhat - clean afterwards on the leg of his trousers.

Lenore Kirkland immediately demonstrates better taste than her mother by clapping her little starfish hands together and shrieking with glee as the little tree, caught at once by the wind, whips past her window, dropping her drool-wet stuffed dog toy from her mouth onto her lap.

The infant’s absolute delight at such a simple thing is a pleasure to witness, the joy of discovery suffusing Lenore’s little body entirely and rendering her a creation of pure and innocent grace. A spotless child of the biblical Garden, still unaware yet of the difference between the corrupt definitions of Good and Bad. Still unspoilt by either serpents or gods, untainted by the taste of bittersweet knowledge on the tongue.

Lenore all but glows and her sweetly childish jouissance draws the twitch of a smile from Gabriel when he glances at the infant every so often in the rearview mirror. Focusing on the night black of her curls when the memories of another happily shrieking little brunette girl threaten to rise up close to the forefront of his mind, distant days where it had been bubbles blown through golden baby bracelets entertaining the little one, Gabriel humming nursery rhymes himself rather than listening to the vibration of recorded strings on the radio.

For all she remains obstinately awake, Lenore is a pleasant enough companion on their hour-long journey through Virginia to her home. She ba ba bas her way through several Mozart suites on the radio and listens in rapt silence to Saint-Saëns’ The Swan. (Relative silence. There is something coloured neon yellow and green rolling around in the passenger-side footwell that rattles loudly every time it moves, which Gabriel strongly suspects is one of Lenore’s baby toys.) She coos in fascination at the bright yellow car in the lane beside them at one set of traffic lights, and makes a long drawn-out ohh of wonder when Gabriel points out a whale-shaped cloud to her on their right.

Gabriel turns off the interstate as they approach Wolf Trap, taking the smaller roads that twist and turn through affluent suburbia in an effort to avoid the Dulles Toll Road. Multiple signs point to the way to the Wolf Trap National Park for the Performing Arts and all its associated performance halls, to the Meadowlark Botanical Gardens and countless parks and nature reserves full of winding trails and fishing spots. Woods and forests nestle leisure, culture and art in their bosom, and each turn in the road brings a new little patch of houses, a few shops, another sign pointing the way to another park - or a much less halcyonic Walmart.

Lenore is still quietly singing to herself (motivated, now, by Bach’s Air on a G String) as Gabriel makes the turn down the road that the sat-nav promises him will be the final one before the Kirkland home. The road is lined with trees. The red evening sun flashes down on Gabriel’s arms as he passes beneath the foliage, the asphalt ahead lined by the shadow bars of overhead branches and the speckled pattern of leaves swaying in the breeze. Here and there, between the trunks either side of the road, Gabriel catches glimpses of endless fields and scrubland, large individual homes at the end of long driveways. As fewer newer builds - McMansions - as older, more traditional ones.

Obviously - and more obviously by the second -, Arthur Kirkland lives as far away from other people as both convenience and suburbia will allow him to. Even though he’s still driving down the same road as before it has been some time since Gabriel last saw a patch of dwellings clustered close to one another, and the distance between mailboxes along the road is growing cumulatively longer and longer with each one passed. And yet. The turn-off to the home of Arthur’s nearest neighbour, the one Arthur had referred to as Nancy, is, truly, quite difficult to miss. One bright red mailbox thrusts itself prominently out into the road beside a well-kept and clean beige gravel drive, with multiple bright flower stickers covering the mailbox and multi-coloured yarn knitted around its pole. Someone has hung Chinese-style lanterns in the nearby trees - along with what looks like a giant knitted ladybird.

Gabriel ignores it. (Both the turn-off and the ladybird.) He had made up his mind about what he planned to do with Lenore that evening the moment he had laid eyes on the child, and none of it had ever involved foisting Lenore on the infamously be-permed Nancy.

Almost a full eight minute drive after Nancy’s mailbox, Gabriel’s sat-nav announces the turn-off to the Kirkland residence - apparently the last residential stop on the road for miles.

Gravel and dirt ping quietly off the body of the Volvo as Gabriel makes his way up the Kirklands’ drive, the vehicle's wheels crunching over dried leaves and browning sticks that have fallen onto the lane. The land around the drive - Arthur’s land - is still heavily wooded, obscuring the much-awaited sight of the FBI professor’s home until, quite abruptly, the treeline reaches its end and Gabriel is there.

In contrast to many of the large houses and mansions Gabriel had seen driving through the county, the house Arthur and Lenore Kirkland call home is a relatively normal-sized abode. Built farmhouse style, the house is a glimpse of rustic domesticity amidst fields of long, whispering grass, its clapboard walls painted a homely white in defiance of the not-too-distant shadowy woods. Ivy and honeysuckle climb the posts supporting the covered porch and local vegetation grows wild right up to the steps.

The front of the house is slipping into dark shadow as Gabriel inches up the gravel drive, the sun descending in the sky behind the building to the right, over what looks like a large barn or shed out in the nearby field. The sunset blazes some of its last glory even as Gabriel parks the Volvo and lets its engine die, a moment of perfect, still beauty hanging in the air like a teardrop from a phoenix’s eye.

Lenore Kirkland abruptly realises that the car’s radio has been switched off and starts shrieking in outrage, bursting apart the moment’s peace like a soap bubble in the sink.

Gabriel winces but leaves the infant to it. No doubt something else will take Lenore’s attention soon and the shrieking will stop, leaving Gabriel free to occupy himself with the other distractions Wolf Trap has to offer him. Just stepping out of the car he can hear multiple dogs barking inside the house - prompting the ruefully belated realisation in Gabriel that he had neglected to ask Arthur just how many dogs the professor actually owned. Too lost in his own starry-eyed wonder at the revelation of Lenore’s existence at the time, his thoughts sent in too many directions at once after only just learning about Arthur’s motherhood.

Some of Lenore’s charm begins to fade when the little girl, rather than quietening down, screams all the louder when Gabriel unbuckles her from her car seat, thoroughly upset now that music time is at an end. Even bringing her small body up against his shoulder does nothing; Lenore stubbornly refusing to be placated by her mother’s scent on the scarf that Arthur had loaned Gabriel, turning her face away from Gabriel’s throat and throwing a truly impressive baby temper tantrum with flailing hands and feet kicking against Gabriel’s chest. All the while shrieking. All furious infantile betrayal and upset. Endless wordless noise that makes Gabriel’s eardrums ring with Lenore so close to them in his arms.

With the infant protesting so much and so physically, Gabriel settles on taking just Lenore up from the car to the porch for now. Leaving their bags in the car, the tall grass parting around Gabriel’s ankles like Moses’ first faithful steps out into the waiting Red Sea. A divine miracle of timely seasonality.

Lenore rewards Gabriel’s focus on her care by kicking him rather hard - for a six month-old in soft footed pyjamas - in the ribs, prompting Gabriel to lift her teary scowling face up and away from his shoulder when they reach the cover of the porch. She throws Kitty behind them in the grass, and tears the clip of her pacifier from her cardigan when Gabriel tries to offer her the nub to chew on, flinging both pacifier and its beaded cord down in a melodramatic clatter on the porch’s planks. 

“That is hardly becoming behaviour for a little princess,” Gabriel firmly informs his charge, giving Lenore a gentle bounce in his arms. One, two: her mittens and the hood and little stubby tail on the back of her cardigan bounce as well. Her cheeks are red with fury. “Aren’t you going to welcome me to your home?”

Lenore yells even louder than before - directly into Gabriel’s ear. “Na! Nabayah!” And, louder and more defiantly to Gabriel’s third bounce - “NA!”

Her screeching has worked up the dogs inside the house even more. Judging by all the different barks, there has to be at least four canines in the pack; Gabriel can hear the thud of multiple heavy paws against the inside of the front door, the screen door rattling on the porch.

Inwardly, Gabriel sighs. It would be a bad idea to try and enter the house with Lenore in such a temper. Gabriel has some concern that Arthur’s dogs might actually attack him if they think he - a stranger - is endangering a member of their human family, so he takes a seat on the battered and creaking swing-seat nearby him on the porch instead. Rubbing soothingly against Lenore’s back even as the infant continues to scream, kick and flail at him, pushing his feet against the boards beneath them to set the swing-seat gently rocking.

If nothing else, Gabriel has to grudgingly admire the size of both Lenore Kirkland’s determinedly stubborn streak and her impressive lung capacity. Her passion for music. Perhaps Arthur has some fae banshee blood in him for his daughter to have inherited such a penchant for ear-splitting wailing, mother and daughter alike dark twin omens of imminent death and woe.

Gabriel will have to recommend Arthur get Lenore invested in swimming when she is a little older. With some training to accompany her natural ability, the child would be lethal underwater. Another Olympian for America or Great Britain’s swim-team - or a traditional ama of Japan, should the interest take her in that direction.

The wild grass in the fields continues to ripple and flow with the wind. In the distant trees, the shadows of birds take flight.

Gabriel begins to tell Lenore about ama as she continues to shriek against his shoulder and he continues to gently rock them both back and forth in Arthur’s creaking swing. Of the dwindling numbers of those freediving omega women of Japan who still dive without scuba gear or air tanks to bring up treasures from the deeps: seafood and abalones for shrines and the Japanese emperors. Shining sea pearls that had once birthed pearl aquaculture in Toba, Japan.

Ama begin their training in early adolescence, even before presentation of their secondary gender. Girls are favoured for the life due to the distribution of fat within their bodies, their perceived superior ability to hold their breath underwater for longer than boys. Of the secondary genders, omegas are preferred for their perceived purity. The touch of an omega is unable to taint the food or lustrous gems ama search for the way more carnal betas or alphas might do - but a truly talented beta or alpha could still, with enough persistence and patience for cleansing rituals, still be considered pure enough to remain an ama after presentation. The white uniforms - once, traditionally, only simple loincloths - worn by ama reflect their intensely honed skills and innate virtue, and their equally traditional headscarves are decorated with wards to bring them luck and protection whilst they dive.

Eventually, Lenore has to pause for breath. Eventually, Lenore has to pause for breath at a point when she is just too exhausted to pick up her wailing again afterwards, her small chest heaving against Gabriel’s larger one with tiredness. Sticky tears spot her cheeks like pearls and sea-spray.

“All finished?” Gabriel asks her then, his ears still ringing in the - relative - quiet.

Lenore hiccups back at him and burbles a long nonsense string of sad stuttering syllables, raising one of her hands to clumsily pat at Gabriel’s face again. Tug at one of his dangling curls. She smells like sour sweat and salt tears now over the creamy breastmilk note inherent to all infants, over the soft fruit and spice scents of her baby skin lotion and shampoo. Sadness and frustration.

“I know, ma boulette,” Gabriel comforts her, offering Lenore another gentle bounce when she hiccups wetly again, “I know. The universe is a large and uncaring place to exist within, and you are still so, so small. If God exists he answers prayers so rarely that to pray is to waste one’s breath, so scream as much as you feel the need to. If one cannot move Heaven, they must raise Hell instead.”

Lenore stares at him quizzically with her big, watery blue eyes, fat wobbling tears still clinging determinedly to her inky eyelashes. Gabriel brushes them away with the back of his knuckles before he lets Lenore snuggle-slump into the comfort of Arthur’s scarf again and all the scent trapped in its fibres, patting Lenore’s back with the slow and steady pace of a metronome to help her hiccups subside.

The sun has slipped well below the horizon now, somewhere behind the house, and long cool shadows snake their way up onto the covered porch where Gabriel sits with Lenore. It would hardly do for the infant to catch a chill so, after retrieving the abandoned Kitty and pacifier from the respective places Lenore had thrown them, Gabriel tries the door with the key Arthur had given him.

The dogs had stopped barking when Lenore stopped wailing, but they still rush out in an urgent wave of concern the moment the door swings open. And yes, dogs, plural: not two, not three, not even four but seven, a swirling maelstrom of wet noses and lashing tails that butt strongly against Gabriel’s ankles, knees and thighs. Two bark again at the sight of a stranger and one of the littlest - some terrier mix - growls, but all of them calm again when Lenore reaches down from her safe perch in Gabriel’s arms and babbles at them. Gives another little hiccup-hic, then giggles at herself.

Tails start tentatively wagging, and Kitty gets dropped again - bonking a momentarily confused border collie on the nose. Four of the seven dogs switch their priority from the stranger in their home to their need to go and relieve their bladders against a tree outside, leaving three - the terrier, an obviously elderly chihuahua mix with a tremendous underbite that may just be too tired to race off after the others, and a brindle-haired mutt with a sharp glint of intelligence in its eyes - to shadow Gabriel’s heels as he moves deeper into the Kirkland home, leaving the front door open behind him.

Even in the twilight gloom, Gabriel can see the continuous flow of being that moves through the Wolf Trap property, outside to inside to outside again. The interior’s colours are that of nature: that of stone and wood and foliage. The furniture is mismatched but alike in either deep orange, green, blue or brown, and the walls are painted a deep blue-green. Wide, open windows everywhere give sightlines to the fields everywhere around the main building, making the sky as much a backdrop of the rooms as the walls and ceilings are.

The front room - the living room - has a double-sized camp bed in it on one side. Arthur must use it as a daybed or casual nest for three sides of it have been piled high with overstuffed pillows, and the sheets in the soft basin that forms the middle of the nest are rumpled and unmade. It’s been recently used and smells strongly of both Arthur and Lenore from even a few metres away, a floating cloud of contentment that is drowsy with milk, with warm sunshine and sleep. The scent is as heavy in Gabriel’s nose as Lenore’s warm lulling weight is against his ribcage, a gentle tickling like featherdown at the back of Gabriel’s brain.

He turns his nose down into the collar of his shirt for a moment, breathing in the scent of his own cologne until his thoughts have lost some of their hazy edges.

The rest of the living room is dominated by bookshelves - packed tightly with a truly (fascinatingly) eclectic mix of fiction and non-fiction -, a fireplace, a dusty piano covered in tchotchkes, and several chairs. A table covered in shadowy unidentifiable objects has been positioned just so beneath one window so that, during the day, it must catch a favourable amount of light, but Gabriel cannot figure out what it might be used for until he switches on the overhead lights and literally illuminates himself.

Fishing. The crafting of fishing lures to be precise, though a line of fishing rods stand sentry on the wall beside the table, just waiting to be used. Drawers of bright threads and birds’ feathers sit beside rows of gleaming hooks, scavenged deer velvet and rabbit hair, a magnifying glass set up at the front of the table to study a half-finished lure waiting in its clamp for Arthur to return to it.

Gabriel admires both it and the rack of finished lures sitting at the back of the table: from what he can see, the craftsmanship of each of the lures is exquisite, the hooks beautifully, deceitfully, hidden from the sight of unsuspecting fish by glimmering scales and bright sprays of feathers. Lure by name, lure by nature.

Arthur has made an art of a bloodsport. Fishing is a hobby for the patient - and for the productive, taking life to bring life to others through food.

“Your mother is quite a remarkable man,” Gabriel informs Lenore, hoisting the little girl up in his arms again after she reaches down to wiggle her fingers at the brindle-haired mutt still dogging his footsteps. (Seeing that Gabriel is doing nothing of particular interest, the other two have given up.) “Isn’t he?”

“Ah-burr,” says Lenore quite seriously, and decides to wiggle her hot little fingers against Gabriel's face again instead, clumsily tracing the ridge of his nearest cheekbone.

Gabriel chooses to take that as agreement, silently observing the way the child’s pupils widen in wonder when she discovers the softness of his eyelashes - and making her giggle again when he blinks deliberately for her and tickles those lashes against her fingertips.

Brave curiosity ought to be rewarded.

The Kirkland home is, of course, not all rural serenity. Though the house is generally clean and obviously well-maintained, it cannot be denied that all the signs are there that Arthur Kirkland is the single mother to an infant child, with seven dogs, a very demanding and time-intensive job, and very little in the way of a support network. There is no dog hair on the furniture but the floor near the fireplace could do with some work, and chewed-up rope toys and tennis balls have been pushed under several seats and the nest Gabriel doesn’t dare to get too close to lest he mark it with his own alpha scent. Nearly every surface - including the piano’s closed lid - has been conquered by the type of clutter that always accumulates when raising a young child, and used baby bottles and empty mugs have been abandoned here, there and everywhere where an exhausted Arthur had no doubt left them during long and sleepless nights feeding Lenore.

Setting off to find the kitchen, the floorboards creak welcomingly under Gabriel’s feet. The brindle-haired dog and Lenore’s babbling keeps him company: both seem in happier spirits now, both equally fascinated by Lenore’s attempts to stick out her little pink tongue and blow raspberries at herself.

Gabriel wipes away the accumulating drool on her chin with Arthur’s scarf.

Beyond the living room, a small hallway leads to the dining room. The dining room table itself and two of its seats are currently occupied with dirty laundry - pre-sorted for a dark wash, lighter colours and woollens still dumped together at one side. Arthur must keep on top of the laundry; the dark pile is not too large and its contents seem relatively fresh, muddy towels, a few plaid shirts and some plain, darkly-coloured baby onesies waiting to be loaded into the washing machine in the dark kitchen just a little further on.

To the left is an open doorway leading upstairs. To the right is a mudroom, leading to another doorway outside.

Decisions, decisions.

Gabriel returns to the front room, negotiating with Lenore for a few moments to, firstly, wipe away the sticky tracks of tears from her face with wet wipes he finds on the piano, secondly, remove her from her little panda/fox cardigan, and, thirdly, place her in the baby rocker he’d spotted down by Arthur’s daynest. It isn’t the electronic kind but Lenore is still able to bounce herself if she wishes to, and the baby-proofed arch that hangs over her head is decorated with dangling bells and plush stars to encourage her to reach up and grab at them. Retrieving Kitty, once again, from the floor and handing her it earns Gabriel another point in the youngest Kirkland’s books - and the brindle-haired dog’s, who sits itself patiently and protectively down beside Lenore’s rocker as Gabriel leaves the house to go and retrieve both his and Lenore’s belongings from where he’d left them in Arthur’s car.

(As a group, Arthur’s canine pack make terrible guard dogs, but one of them, at least, might make for a ferocious nanny.)

Lenore is still, stubbornly, not asleep when Gabriel whistles all the dogs inside and returns to her side, but she seems placid enough with one of Kitty’s ears in her mouth again and her guardian dog’s nose resting on one of her little feet. The picture of a darling cherub, still all pink cheeks and glossy curls.

(As dangerous and deceitful a lure as the ones on the table.)

Surprisingly, peace reigns.

*****

*****

*****

*****

Northern Virginia, including Fairfax County, is part of the Washington metropolis area: the third-worst congested traffic area in the USA, in terms of percentage of congested roadways and time spent in traffic. Of the lane miles in the region, 44 percent are rated "F" or worst for congestion. Northern Virginia residents spend an average of 46 hours a year stuck in traffic. (Fictional Special Agent Arthur Kirkland, dragged hither and thither at the behest of the FBI and with probably over a 100 hours stuck in traffic per annum with all his travelling to crime scenes, Baltimore and Quantico, is an outlier and should not have been counted.)

A little about ama. [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ama_(diving)]

If I cannot move Heaven, I will raise Hell. - Virgil, Aeneid, Book VII.312

NEXT CHAPTER

[spaceorphan18]

You have probably answered this somewhere before, but I was just wondering, what season of Glee do you think is overall the best season? I always love reading your Glee meta!

Oh, Nonny, you are a darling and I adore you <3

I have answered this question a million times and you know what? It's a great question, and I love answering it so I shall answer it a million and one times because lord knows I can't stay away from an opinion when asked to give it, even if half the people reading this will groan because they already know this discourse. Also, you have been so sweet coming into my in box and I appreciate your kindness.

Probably shouldn't be answering this while feeling a little loopy...

Anyway....

Here's the thing - which question are we asking? What is the objectively best season of Glee - the one where the artistic talent is perhaps the highest? Or which one do I prefer to watch?

If we're going for seasons that I think are well crafted, at the top of their artistic game, well structured, acted, etc, etc, etc, it would be Season 1. I think the writing was top notch comedy, the story holds together, the plot lines work, the music was cleverly integrated and everything just blended together in a magical way. There's a reason Season 1 had so many accolades, and it deserved it (mostly - there was still a fake pregnancy story line).

However... It's most definitely not my personal favorite. I do appreciate Season 1 and have a lot of respect for the cohesive story that it managed to tell (and for the comedy and for the Kurt). But I find the first half of Season 1 incredibly boring, and I don't ever feel a need to go back and watch it.

I think the part of Glee that is my absolute favorite is the Kurt/Klaine story arc of Season 2. It builds on Kurt's original story in Season 1 beautifully. The structure of it throughout the season is so, so good. Everything works just so superbly that it remains one of my favorite stories of all time. The tricky thing is that I really don't like most of everything else that is going on in Season 2.

Season 5, while I know that it's a hot mess creatively, probably is the season that I (used to**) go back and watch because I enjoyed it the most. It has the most episodes that I can consecutively sit through and not feel the need to fast forward through things. I do think it's underrated, and the comedy is still really there.

**I say used to - because it's been a long, long time since I've gone back to watch Glee on a semi-regular basis.

I do think the shine of enjoyment of Season 5 has worn a little -- especially since I have seen it so many times, and do agree the little issues add up. But it's my happy place a lot of the time.

Seasons 4 and 6 I feel about the same. After writing fic about it -- I have a deep love for Season 6, even in its imperfectness. And Season 4 is underrated and has a lot of great things going for it, even if the introduction of the newbies is rough and the ending suffers from external factors.

And, as everyone infamously knows, Season 3 is last. The first third and the last third has some of the truly worst story lines of the entire show. And the way they treat Kurt as a Rachel story line prop and Blaine as a jukebox just frustrates me. There are still parts of Season 3 that I enjoy but as a whole, the ironically most structured season feels the predictable, boring, and just plain bad.

(apparently this is now an unpopular opinion - but it didn't used to be.)

It has been a long time since I've watched the show, and at some point, I would like to do so again. It'd be interesting to see if any opinions have actually changed. But for now... here's the short answer to the question -

Season 2 Klaine

Season 5

Season 6

Season 4

Season 1 back 9

Season 2 non-Klaine

Season 1 front 9

Season 3

(This is all very controversial, but it's how I feel)

Thanks for the question, Nonny! Don't be a stranger!! :)

[multitudeofmeus]

You can't remember the last time anybody- Huh?

How long have they been there for? You don't remember seeing anybody else in here but you for a long time.

The mass by you perks up in response to your hazy acknowledgement, letting out a husky belch with attached emotions that could vaguely be interpreted as glee. Whoever they are, they must've been trying to get your attention for a while. Scrounging together what fragments of social behavior you have left, you manage to slur out a question: who are they?

They can't remember, not everything at least. But they do remember some things, which they regale in labored breaths and multiple breaks.

They were a hunter. or at least someone who hunted to survive. They'd go out, find the tastiest thing that had legs, kill it, eat it, and then do something else. That was their life, for a while.

They something changed. A group of unknown people took them from their cave and threatened harm if they didn't get their demands met. They thought it was an overly elaborate roleplay, so they played along. Tasked with eliminating entire populations of endangered animals, they carried out their part, feasting on whatever game was on the menu.

But they kept eating. And eating. And eating some more. Until, their habits sapped all their natural talents from them. Now useless, the group abandoned them in the back alley of a food place, where the local manager condemned them to the basement, forced to subsist off scraps. Then they outgrew that, and now they're here! That is all they could remember...

But they don't seem to be saddened by this at all! They've lost everything and now they share the same fate as you, so what changed? You plead with them for an answer.

The mass (which has a silly beanie on its head, you just noticed) musters the best shrug someone without usable arms can muster. They mused that even if they can't remember most things, the things they remembered were fun! And even if they're lost past, nothing can last forever. You just gotta take life as it happens!

...

..!

You never really thought of it that way. This entire time, you've languished what you lost (and to your own actions, somewhat), but that was in the past. Clinging onto it as a desperate coping mechanism only further tore your psyche to shreds, a horizon you could never reach. But here she was, enjoying herself! Sure, they had it rough, but the fun times came and gone and no amount of effort could bring them back. So they didn't worry about it! All that mattered to them was that they had a roof over themselves and food in their belly. Maybe wallowing in your own self-pity isn't the plan of action.

So instead you talked. It was no easy feat for either of you, but you talked day in and day out to pass the time. Sometimes you shared sensations, other times you tried to recall what fragments of memory you still had, and occasionally you even just rambled about nothing at all to fill the noisy void. And they did the same!

You still can't remember who you are, even when you try your absolute hardest. It sucks the absolute worst and you still wouldn't wish this on even your worst enemy. But maybe, just maybe...

You don't have to suffer alone. After all, somebody cares.

(A hypothetical "situation sucks mega-ass but it's not as terrible" alternate part 3! Art by the ever-great @pink8seed!)

[televinita]

Am listening to Taylor Swift music again, and have been seized by the need to talk through some of her older albums -- favorite songs, personal history, whatever comes to mind. Maybe in yet another attempt to try and figure out my overall fave / ranking of them as a set? No real order is planned for this so I thought I’d start with this one, because I realized I actually hadn’t listened to it in quite some time.

(I don't really know what this mini-project is going to be but I’ve been noodling on it for a few nights and now seems as good a time as any to share.)

Background/Overview

When it was new -- and a 2010 Christmas present for me -- it was my favorite of the three, but now I'm not sure. The thing is that it has several songs I like better than the entirety of Fearless (except for #1 fave Change), but it also has a handful I find less interesting compared to that one’s “13 track listings, stars beside them all” success, and I can’t decide how to weight that. It does absolutely have the prettiest cover and booklet, though.

Songs

Ask me my favorite song on this album and I’ll say without hesitation Long Live. I don’t think that will ever change; it’s in my all-time-faves across her whole discography. The twin/companion piece to Change, it never fails to make my heart sing. It came out after I was an adult but it still makes me nostalgic and occasionally teary as hell for high school. Bonus association: this was my mental soundtrack for the end of Glee season 3 too (”for a moment, a band of thieves in ripped-up jeans got to rule the world").

Runner-up faves are Haunted, which really lives up to its name (Wuthering Heights-haunted style, maybe... between the electric guitar tearing open the scene and the chimes, the instrumentation is epic; this may be the only song that actually loses emotional impact as an acoustic/piano version), Better Than Revenge (which is my not-even-that-guilty pleasure and I will JAM OUT to it to this day; "no amount of vintage dresses gives you dignity" is SAVAGE and I love it), and The Story of Us ("looks like a lot like a tragedy now" is one of my favorite quotes to bust out in episode reviews about ‘ship destruction, or was when I still did those), which is similarly jam-out-worthy. Ooh, and Sparks Fly is one of those songs where I'm like, "WHY wasn't this a single, it's so good." I’m actually always kind of surprised that one isn’t the album opener; “my mind forgets to remind me you’re a bad idea” is my anthem for giving shows/ships/characters/episodes way more chances than they deserve. (Grey’s Anatomy. We’re mostly talking about every time I dip back into the Grey’s Anatomy waters). In slow-songs-I-like territory: Enchanted, which is frankly too pretty for the person it’s actually about (but helpfully easy to apply to anyone and relevant to every listener’s life). And Back to December, which suffers rather unjustly from my knowing that it’s about The Boring Taylor, because I used to automatically skip it about half the time, yet every time I actually listen to it I'm shocked to realize it’s way prettier than I remember. Both musically (when male vocals...enhance?? a taylor song??) and lyrically.

As far as the other singles, I kind of killed Mine for myself with overplay, but I do think it's one of the strongest singles she's ever released...and as I’m listening to it now, I think it might be back! What good music, what a sweet scenario, and how much do I love the “brace myself for the goodbye / ‘cause that’s all I’ve ever known...” part.

Mean is fun and deservedly sassy, although it too is recovering from overplay (with the added demerit of being covered in the worst, least appealing possible way on Glee and feeling tainted forever. Once upon a time this was in my top 5 for the CD). Speak Now is fun too, but also...damn, so much more juvenile and mean-spirited to me now than Better Than Revenge. You don't help a dude ditch his bride at their wedding! If he shouldn't be marrying her you talk to him BEFORE THE CEREMONY???? I have definitely lost enchantment with this one over time.

One I don’t know how to feel about: I have to be in the right mood for the song so I don’t always let it play through, but as a late bloomer homebody and perpetual looker-backer, the second half of Never Grow Up really kicked me in the heart when I first heard it. I thankfully never ended up having to experience this, but "here I am in my / new apartment in the big city / they just dropped me off / it's so much colder than I thought it would be / so I tuck myself in, and turn the nightlight on" really described all my deepest fears about graduating from college and still brings a twinge at the mere thought.

On the downturn: unpopular opinion but while Dear John is full of great lyrics, it’s just so damned slow that I skip it almost every time. I’m really hoping it gets reinvigorated by a Taylor’s Version, because whenever I give it a chance, I just end up freshly disappointed by the wasted potential.

Innocent is slightly more compelling music-wise, but still rather slow and often skipped, not least because it just...feels weird. Uneven. There are some great lines and a good idea buried in here, but with its history and context it's so patronizing even when I’m on Taylor’s side that it ends up cringe.

Meanwhile, Last Kiss doesn't even exist to me. It covers the same criminal territory as Back to December but it's EVEN SLOWER. Bonus Tracks I didn't hear them until the end of 2012 and even then only as standalones on Spotify, separate from the album associations, I absolutely love all three, more than the last 5 or 6 above in fact. Ours is the companion piece / sequel to "Mine," If This Were A Movie is sweet, and Superman is so cute and catchy.

[necrosin]

❝ a formal invitation? ❞ the concept alone is humorous to the point of LUNACY : suguru standing before the high council in all of their absurdities and their never ending absolute insistence that traditionalism shall prevail above ALL ELSE, regardless of the poor results that traditionalism brings. there would be shock and outrage and fury and that silly little demand for his head on a platter, the whole fever pitch amplified by SATORU HIMSELF, for so called justice to be done, boring and ridiculous things. they would try to kill him, of course, after attempting to enumerate his ever growing list of crimes, which would be inconvenient but manageable, even without satoru there. A WASTE, however —— the whole of the council are bumbling idiots at best, the type powered by spite and self importance, but they are sorcerers still, and suguru is loathe to spill sorcerer blood. ❝ how generous of you. make sure to put on a good show for me, ❞ it will never be, of course, preoccupation with images and the compulsion to stay alive and that thing called morality that satoru doesn't give a damn about but suguru certainly does.

maybe satoru would even be bemused by such a fraught and violent display. perhaps caught upon the loss of lives, perhaps not / it would depend on the day / suguru would triumph, of course —— he isn't THE STRONGEST, anymore, but he is one of the, worthless as the title may be in he objective else. the council were the ones to declare him a SPECIAL GRADE SORCERER, after all, and perhaps they should reap the consequences thereof, though that's neither here nor there. satoru would enjoy seeing him ( always enjoys seeing him with that sort of masochistic glee ) wild and unmoored and violent, would be arrested by it, perhaps / or perhaps that's just his arrogance speaking. evidence abounds, however, their innate violence with each other, the intimate complexities and rituals of bleeding each other, forcing space in each other for themselves, et cetera. what's murder in comparison to that? violence, still. cold violence, perhaps, violence without passion.

❝ my wife, ❞ crooning absurdities / it's a silly thing, yet another shred of abject insanity, always with a touch of reality interjected. his wife, gojo satoru, it should sound moronic in thought alone, though it simply leads possession to rearing its head as it always does, when it comes to satoru, satoru, satoru. fixation draped in the pretty makings and dressings of love —— obsession and love are so similar to each other, aren't they? practically the same, essentially the same, his beautiful love, his handsome wife / he'd half meant it as a drawling sort of blaspheme when he'd said it surrounded by spring air and the thrill that once again satoru will follow him to the ends of the earth, wheresoever he may go. the other half spoken from the heart, genuine as could be : a silly declaration, proclamation. his wife, gojo satoru. ❝ who doesn't buy his wife flowers, either, ❞ a smirk cutting across his face, something humored dancing along it, the idea of bringing each other flowers laughable at best, almost pitiable at worst. ❝ don't you think all effort must be equal? ❞ a gentle sigh, the cut of his mouth slashing wider, ❝ i guess not. you love being spoiled. ❞

besides, flowers are so impractical —— what would they do, with flowers? flowers already dead, flowers destined to wilt : bruises and markings and remnants of themselves, their bones and blood stranded in each other, representations of this macabre display they recreate again and again, are far more practical.

perhaps it's unworthy to call it a display. a display is temporary, tangential / fitting for these moments wherein they tear into each other with fervent adoration verging on outright worship, satoru's skin against his own, an undying want for each other raging, seething, furious around them. NOTHING LASTS, perhaps this too will end, the physicality of them, claws set into each other's bodies and curling around bones and marrow and ravaging each other, reaching in and in and in, tearing each other apart : an intimate ritual. scars will remain, regardless / and in all the world nothing will be so absolute as satoru being his from the moment their eyes met and the world seemed to quiet, and suguru being satoru's in return, the overwhelming learning of each other, committing each other to memory, embedding each other into their bones, a gentler thing, once upon a time.

then again : A DISPLAY is a show, a viewing, a farce of one thing or another / a clandestine devotional suits the term well enough.

❝ you never noticed the walls were thin? ❞ the floors are too, the third years who lived beneath them had to move, groaning and bitching all the while. it's strange, to recall the past and know it with such clarity, suguru noticing things satoru doesn't / the list of which is perilously small, practically miniscule. of course satoru didn't realize, really, a fact as unsurprising as any other : shoko had refused to claim a room anywhere near them, always down the hall, never right beside, and no other soul would dear to live so near them. it's amusing that students had been choosing rooms close enough for satoru to notice at all, but suguru supposes the novelty of living beside your teacher was enough to drive them as such —— living next to your handsome teacher must be some trite overwrought romance novel somewhere. ❝ melodrama you were getting invested in, ❞ an amused reiteration, an echo, ❝ let me guess : you were also getting so nosy that you were starting to interfere with the drama and had to move before you began to get involved with it, ❞ dry and partly teasing, a wild presumption made on satoru's inherent curiosity and therefore nosiness, long term experience giving way to a knowing. the act of learning each other, carrying on.

it's difficult to imagine satoru as a teacher / suguru rarely ever pays much mind to it other than in passing alone, the hilarity of the thought not quite enough to catch upon, the edges of it smooth and simply present. much like the recollection of their past, an overflowing thing, swollen upon three years of inane tales and near death experiences and the way they wound around each other, their notes scrawled in the margins, favorite passages highlighted. it is something there and known, embedded into his heart / into the void / not something perused idly or actively, a part of him as surely as all of the curses he's imbibed and all of the hopes and desires for the future he wishes to carve. it wasn't the same, satoru says —— of course it wasn't, the walls cooler to touch and shifting, a strange in between of housing one person yet the memories of two people. suguru does not yearn for the past, not in this way or any other : but it is still his past, after all. ❝ and ( ... ) your other reasons? ❞ a delicately arched brow, satoru's skin stretching infinitely, warm to touch. ❝ unless there were only two, of course, ❞ he presumes the others are along the lines of : adulthood, independence, students finding weird things about their teacher, et cetera.

he shifts beneath satoru's touch, body sinuous beneath him, the subtle roll of his hips. suguru presses his fingers into the hollow, the dip of his spine, pleased as satoru arches, seeking touch. ❝ i had no hand in the dent getting there, ❞ haughty as anything, and technically true, he had no direct hand in it but like most things with them in those springtime turned summer heat days, it was both of their faults, one way or another. ❝ any requested invoice would be denied, since it was your fault, ❞ hands drift higher, higher, seeking satoru's ribs in return, the hollow between them, the way his fingers slot perfectly in between. filling spaces in each other, creating cavities all the while. a huff of laughter, ❝ the only check i'll hand you is one for donations, for you to fill out at your leisure. ❞

❛ well i hardly meant it like that suguru. ❜ he all but purrs, considers rolling his hips but thinks better of it. he likes when suguru's like this, difficult and unrelenting and it's sort of how he always is / has always been but there's a difference; their endless games, from prodding to whatever sly amalgamation of a relationship they attempt to forge against better judgement. besides, satoru hardly considers himself good, he considers himself very little outside what he knows to be objective, and respectable is almost laughable. whatever he inherits loads him with that heavy burden — to save or to not, it's simple really and yet — but what he is isn't enough to offset who he's become: annoying, arrogant, a real weirdo. how much he cares depends on the day, but satoru avoids unnecessary self pity like familiar people tend to avoid him: with a fierce determination rooted in solid judgement.

there's pity enough that he can't avoid anyway, the vile regret sickening him whenever maybe crosses his mind. it's obsession really, the way he gasps at the stretch of void careening ever further from his gasp, but there are nicer words like love that a lesser man might equate it to. he tries to nurture it, to shower it in golden light and fresh spring water, something has to grow, something has to happen; for him to pour effort into something so fruitless, for him to fail ( inevitably so ) leads him to the only conclusion he could ever stumble upon. divine punishment by his own hands, a comedy of errors so extreme it leaves him manic. again he considers that one death, the one that changed them, and so often does he ignore the incessant reality of him ( dead outside, his eyes dry and disgusting, bugs crawling under his skin even now ) not being there: the gun shot rings as clearly in his head as it must for suguru.

little parts of him stayed there still, in the dirt.

❛ i formally invite you to our next meeting, in that case. ❜ he pictures them, red in the face, sweating, if looks could kill. ❛ they've heard them all by now. it's a fun game we play, i think. they get a kick outta watching me blush and i'm given free rein to be a dick. ❜ which is one of those silly half-truths he's gotten so fond of / that they kick back and forth avoiding saying what they really mean. it would be embarrassing, if he were with anyone else, the way he so desperately tries to cling to his image.

suguru likes jealous, probably likes possessive but there's never enough need to rake his nails any harder than he already does. he knows, as he knows all things pertaining to their stranded affection, that satoru would sooner gut himself than promise himself to someone else so: ❛ i'm you're wife, asshole. ❜ and it's so disgustingly honest that it catches on behind his teeth as he speaks, expelling a euphoric feeling that strikes him whenever he lets too much slip. ❛ your attentive, beautiful wife. ❜ he's aware of the way moonlight pours across him, how his eyes catch the light and glimmer against it, down at the object of his seraphic affection. suddenly taken with the idea of clawing him open, he settles for pressing down, heavy eyes ever roaming. ❛ and you never even buy me flowers. ❜

does he want flowers? …. what do people even do with flowers? he's never had any.

he's kissed instead ( who even needs flowers, actually ), bitten. his lip sore and still swollen, red under the light that coats them. he fights back in the lazy way he always does, letting it happen and sighing softly at all the right moments.

❛ no. ❜ he sighs, ❛ i better not. all of my stuff's there. ❜ almost all. it doesn't feel wrong anymore, to stake claim, to tie them together where once they'd been conjoined. suguru is … a lot of things, but none of that matters so long as he can feign against veracity that suguru is irreproachably his, in that perfect way all that comes from him exists as. satoru has to love him, has to continue to love him, with the ferocity embedded in him since that first day; it has to be ruthless, it has to burn bridges and defy all worldly knowledge, he has to love suguru like a reflection, like the ache in his bones. there's room still for more, always, if he carves out the parts of him that dare whisper doubt, that mumble such obscenities against them that his gut rots like old fruit at the sound of them. if he's going to make up for all the gore in their shadows / the blood on their hands, wet and dripping always / he's going to love suguru like it's the only thing that matters ( trying to trick himself into thinking it is ).

❛ there were reasons. ❜ and he knows suguru will pry them out of him, sharp tongue licking at old wounds so he skips past the part where he's denounced for his ridiculous devotion to their past life ( as if suguru considers it a flaw, how funny ). ❛ it got weird, living next to students, i was getting too invested in drama… and did you ever notice how thin those walls were? —— i didn't. there's only so much a man can bare to listen to melodrama before something has to be done. ❜ he lifts his hand as if to count on them all the silly little reasons he moved, but his hand wraps around his forefinger and hangs limp, eyes drifting elsewhere.

❛ ——— and it wasn't the same. ❜ at first, he'd only left when shoko deemed it necessary he see sunlight; he'd stayed curled in the sheets still holding some air that they'd shared, poured over the side table littered in memorabilia of a time that seemed so far removed from him that it was impossible to place. whether yaga was being kind, or there really was suddenly so little to do that satoru was let alone to wallow in an almost tomb, he'd never figured out. his stomach had growled and he refused it, the only punishment he let himself have. it'd been a lifetime and only about two-weeks before the sad boy act got old and he washed the sheets, scrubbed the floors, bleached the dishes, swapped out the soap they shared; it'd been a mistake, maybe, fueled by some late night / too early morning determination to change something, anything. there were things missing, poloroids and clothes he'd hunted for after that'd fallen to his insatiable wrath that night. it served only to push him forward, out of that room, out of those strangely lucid days where only a lack of options kept him breathing. what else was he going to do? die? fat chance. ❛ but whatever. ❜

again he dips his hands onto suguru's ribs, poking into the soft skin and watching it meld and shift. the humanity of the man under him, the reality that he exists and can be touched serves only to marvel him. ❛ we don't talk about the dent. ❜ it'd been his fault, after all, and he'd been so desperate to avoid punishment. what a funny thought. ❛ but it's not there now. if they did make me pay for it, you'd know. i'd be requesting an invoice. you're the reason it's there, after all. ❜ lies! he giggles at his own indignity, arches to feel the trace of fingers drip into the hollow space of his spine. his words tumble, breathlessly, ❛ —— then again, you're so high and mighty these days, you'd probably hand me a check. ❜

[angelbaby-fics]

Can you do a fic where steve or Bucky accidentally drops the reader?

#stucky 🌻🦋☀️

Word Count: 435

Pairing: Bucky x Little!Reader

A/N: Oh man, I'm sorry its been so long! And that this isn't very much!! But I'm hoping to get back into the groove I was in earlier this year with my fics, and the first step is getting started!

Of course, neither Steve nor Bucky would EVER intentionally drop you, and are probably even more protective than the average person.

The only way I can imagine it happening honestly is if something happened with Bucky’s arm that he couldn’t control, because keeping you safe is as natural to him as breathing.

It wasn’t even a malfunction, quite the opposite actually.

Bucky had just gotten his arm refurbished in Wakanda, getting it equipped with new skills and updates, in addition to general upkeep.

As an added bonus, Shuri had polished the arm to give it a little extra flair!

What she’d neglected to do was tell Bucky about the polish, and so the first thing he did when his arm was reconnected was scoop you right up into a big hug. 

He spun you around, both arms around you as he pressed you into his chest, but as shifted you into his left arm to fill out some paperwork with his right, you felt yourself lose your traction. 

Next thing you knew, your bottom hit the floor!

You looked up at Bucky with wide eyes, him staring back at you just the same. 

You paused for a moment before bursting into tears, and Bucky rushed to you in an instant, trying to pick you up again, but you fled from his grasp.

“No daddy!! You drop me!!” You cried, shrinking away from him.

Bucky’s heart was broken; it was his absolute worst nightmare to be in any way responsible for hurting you and making you feel scared.

Even though he knew it had been an accident, he still blamed himself for not being more careful.

“Angel, I’m so sorry. Daddy didn’t mean to!” He pleaded with you.

You could see the pain in his eyes, the fear come true of hurting you especially with his enhanced limb.

You knew he was insecure about it already, and you didn’t want to make him feel worse.

Even though you were still shaken from your fall, you knew in your heart that Bucky would never dream of hurting you on purpose, so you slowly got up and walked back towards him.

“It's ok daddy, accidents happen.” You said, offering a smile.

“You wanna try again, sugar?” He asked, holding his arms out to you, but you shook your head, not quite ready to risk it again.

“I wanna walk and hold your fancy hand!” You said, grabbing his vibranium fingers with glee and tugging slightly, indicating that you were getting impatient, wanting to get all this adult stuff over with so you and your daddy could go play.

Taglist: @babybatdani @cherryynoir @simpingbutch @xxxqueenlaufeysonxxxxo @mogaruke @flthyhrts @mariexoxosblog @stuckysgirl27 @midnight-dreams-23 @mischiefsemimanaged @0witchtrials0 @my-river-lilly @erynnnn @tired-spider-siblings @tamzindouglas @st3rgirl ​​@rach2602 @bradfordmyworld @keirabux @teddybearsgrr @sleepybabyxo @bunnyweasley23 @simpforsebastianstan06 @angies1021 @acahope311 @marvel1984 @little-love-bee @charliessafespace @avoyen1998 @milfdilfslayer23000 @mylittlesafehaven99 @bootlegmothman420 @lokisgirlszendaya

please note that due to how big its getting i will be revamping my taglist in the near future so keep an eye out!!

[comfyswitcherblanketfort]

If It Didn’t Count In Seminary...

hi! double posting! hope you’re ready for some priest smut on this fine thursday evening! another @thewitcherbog bingo prompt for the smut card! the square was ‘just the tip’ 😏 @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde beta’d for me and lemme tell yall they are the best beta. so fuckin good. my grammar is much better and i have been validated to hell and back

Pairing: Geraskier, but as priests

CW: they fuck, i mean... its ‘just the tip’ as a prompt  lol, anal sex, anal fingering, some serious mental gymnastics the only useful thing i learned from christian school lol

_________________________

“I’m sorry Daddy, I’ve been naughty.”

Geralt closed his eyes and heaved a weary sigh as the youngest addition to his clerical staff leaned on his office door, “Brother Pankratz,” his tone was one of warning and for that, he was rather proud of himself. No one had tested him like this little brat in years. 

Whether it was teasing, like that entrance, or winks over the lunch table when someone almost made an innuendo or, worst yet, walking around with his collar open and most of his shirt buttons undone, it seemed Jaskier was always taunting Geralt. And, God save him, it was working. Geralt had had two wet dreams about Jaskier since his arrival a month ago and if he were honest with himself, he was looking forward to the next one. 

Jaskier rolled his eyes, still smirking when Geralt looked up to see him crossing the room to his desk. Only he didn’t sit in one of the chairs like usual, he perched himself on the desk right in front of Geralt, nearly in his lap. 

“Come on,” Jaskier lowered his voice and glanced over his shoulder as if he hadn’t shut the door tightly behind him, “you really buy into the idea that a Lord who loves us so much would make something so good and keep it from us? Don’t- Don’t quote scripture at me, Geralt. Those aren’t your thoughts.”

With a grimace, Geralt did his best to pretend he wasn’t aching to reach out and grip the younger priest, “I do.”

Jaskier narrowed his eyes, a sly grin taking over his face, “But you don’t like it do you?”

“What’s not to love?”

“Ha-ha. Very charming,” Jaskier grumbled before pulling his performance back to where he wanted it, “It’d be a shame to let that… delicious body of yours go to waste.”

“I ser-

“-Serve the Lord, I know,” Jaskier interrupted, opening his legs and leaning forward to rest his hands on the back of Geralt’s chair, putting their faces just inches from each other, “But so do I. And his…” he took a moment to look Geralt up and down as he paused for effect, “masterpiece deserves to be worshipped.”

Despite his best efforts, and all those witty retorts that had helped him escape so many soccer moms on Sunday afternoons, Geralt found his mouth was dry and his head was empty. 

In a low husky voice, leaning in to whisper in Geralt’s ear, Jaskier broke him, “I’ll show the Lord my gratitude and awe through you. Please?”

Geralt moaned as he nuzzled into Jaskier’s neck and whispered, “Just the tip?”

“Oh? Oh.” Jaskier leaned back just enough for Geralt to see the absolute glee on his face, “Going right in for the kill?”

Reaching up to run his hands up and down Jaskier’s side, Geralt blushed furiously and refused to make eye contact while he answered, “If it didn’t count in seminary…” 

“Oh Daddy’s been naughty!” Jaskier exclaimed before pulling Geralt up into a messy frantic kiss.

Breaking away just long enough to speak as he stood, now towering over Jaskier still sat on his desk, Geralt mumbled, “Not Daddy.”

“Father?” Jaskier gasped. When Geralt wrinkled his nose Jaskier shrugged and started unbuttoning his shirt, “We’ll work on it.”

Geralt didn’t give him a chance to work on it right then though, just pulled him into a rough kiss and tore at his buttons so frantically that a few of them simply popped off. Jaskier gave a delighted giggle at that and set to running his hands over every square inch of Geralt’s torso. His hands were soft and Geralt had a hard time focusing on their kiss with the way Jaskier treated him so gently. Every now and then he’d glide his fingertips over a ticklish spot and Geralt would shiver, which only made Jaskier do it again before moving on. Geralt’s hands had found a home gripping Jaskier’s shirt, his hold tightening whenever Jaskier did that thing with his tongue that made Geralt moan. 

It seemed like a lifetime before Geralt pulled back, though it was probably only minutes. He thought Jaskier looked like he’d be content drawing it out for hours before finally fucking him, but he’d let himself want it and now he wanted it. He wanted the burn and the little pop of a cockhead passing his muscle and fuck he wanted to feel absolutely filthy. 

“Get rid of the slacks,” Geralt grunted, finally stripping down to nothing but his dress socks and giving his cock one self-indulgent stroke before leaning on his elbows on the desk and arching his back. 

“Oh, Geralt. You spoil me,” Jaskier growled, divesting himself of his clothing and running his hands over Geralt’s hips. 

“Fuck, just get on with it.” Geralt was panting and bracing himself for the couple of minutes of discomfort before the fucking actually became worth it.

Jaskier smoothed his hands over his whole back, swiping over his shoulders too as he leaned over the older priest, his cock resting in the crevasse of Geralt’s ass, “Oh sweetheart, relax. Just because it’s a sinful little loophole doesn’t mean it has to hurt.”

Geralt tried to look over his shoulder at Jaskier but his hair fell in his eyes so he settled for his tried and true sarcasm, “Sure.”

There was a brief pause where Geralt thought he might have done something wrong before he heard Jaskier spit and suddenly warm wet fingers were circling his hole. And wasn’t that new? Geralt shivered at the little sparks of pleasure that shot up his spine. No one, certainly not himself, had touched him like that. It didn’t even matter that it was wrong anymore. He didn’t even feel all that filthy without the dirty talk he remembered from back in seminary, and he found he liked this much, much more. Jaskier was gentle with him, spitting now and then to wet the way as he slowly added one finger, then two, then three as Geralt shuddered and fell nearly boneless onto the desk. 

When Jaskier’s fingers brushed something inside him that lit his whole body alight, Geralt moaned, an absolutely debauched sound that reverberated off the high ceilings in his office. 

“Shhh,” Jaskier laughed, “you want the whole parish to hear you?”

“Don’t ca-are!” Geralt gasped as Jaskier did it again and his cock twitched. He hadn’t ever had sex this good. Hell, he could barely say he’d had sex at all, but this was by far the best. 

A pitiful little whimper fell from his lips as Jaskier pulled his hand away, soothing him with his words and clean hand the whole time. This time when he felt the sensation of a cock pressing against his hole he didn’t tense up. There was no discomfort in the burning, only a nice stretch as Jaskier ever slowly pushed in and pulled back, spitting to ease the way. Geralt let his cheek fall on the desk and bit down on his lip to keep from shouting when Jaskier’s cockhead popped past his muscle.

The soft groan that escaped instead got praise from Jaskier, “That's it, darling. You’re so good, so, so good for taking me so well. Are you enjoying yourself? Hm?”

“Ung-huh,” Geralt’s barely cognizant response made Jaskier chuckle until he clenched and Jaskier was moaning too. 

The younger priest pulled back and Geralt sucked in a breath as the head of his cock caught on his entrance before popping out. He was so close, so, so, so close but he’d only touched his cock once. He didn’t understand and truly didn’t care, he just hoped Jaskier wasn’t far behind him as he did his best not to rock back on the cock teasing him closer and closer to orgasm. He vaguely registered Jaskier pumping his cock with the tip still inside him, only barely noticed when Jaskier ordered him to touch himself, and he was surprised he obeyed without a second thought. 

Three strokes and he was cumming all over his desk drawers, shaking and gasping, and probably clenching as he rode out the high he’d missed for decades. He shivered as Jaskier came inside him, the aftershocks mixing pleasantly with the feeling of being filled and Jaskier’s hands on his back.

Jaskier pulled out after a few seconds, plopping back into Geralt’s chair and, with a breathy, exhausted laugh, pulled Geralt into his lap, “Thank you.”

“Mmmmm,” Geralt didn’t want to think, just bask in the afterglow pressed close to Jaskier. 

“What’s my penance, Father?” Jaskier teased, brushing his fingertips over one of those ticklish places he’d found earlier. 

Without thinking, Geralt hummed his response, “More than just the tip next time.”

[hopeswriting]

Behold, The World's Worst Seven! (Eight actually, but they all failed first grade math)

[Plain text: “Behold, The World's Worst Seven! (Eight actually, but they all failed first grade math)” in big text. /End PT]

CW: Swearing

[Plain text: “CW: Swearing” in bold. /End PT]

Inspired by this writing prompt.

*

Quite frankly, this is absolute bullshit.

Now yes, they did all sign up for risking their lives for the good of the world whenever it’d be needed, and knew what they were getting into when they did, but it’s always been understood by everyone that no one was ever going to expect that of them. Not the part about them being willing to risk their lives for the good of the world, but the part where they’d be able to accomplish anything even if they did so, let alone saving the world.

To begin with, their team only exist because the ones who looked what seemed to be the certain end of the world back then dead in the eye, and said “go fuck yourself” to it were ruthlessly thorough in assuring the continuous survival of humanity. So they created their team too, but only to be a moral support at best. The “Well, if they weren’t deployed yet, then things can’t be so bad. There’s still hope.” kind of moral support. Or the “Even if we fail here, there are still other teams left who can finish the job for us. We won’t die meaninglessly, so let’s do our part as best as we can.” kind of moral support.

So effectively, they’ve been paid all this time to only live the good life in their Special Town, and keep themselves in shape for a possible deployment they all knew would never happen. To cheer on the teams who are actually sent out in the field, and celebrate their returns or mourn their deaths, and promise revenge they knew they would never be the ones asked to do it. To be pretty and looking the part at the very least and at most, so important people can point at them and say “That team may have failed, and that one, and that one too, but they’re still alive and kicking, and just as resolved to save your butts for you at the risk of their own, so please calm down, keep having faith in us, and keep sending us your money.”.

Effectively, their team was created as an absolute last resort no one thought they’d ever need to actually use.

There’s a reason why it has never been deployed in all the history of its existence.

There’s a reason why the results of their tests landed them in this team.

There’s a reason why they’re the Z-team, so fucking excuse Skull for not taking their sudden order of deployment well.

None of the others are either, and their room has never been so quiet before. The air is heavy with tension too where they sit around their for-important-discussions table, suffocating like a rope tightening around his neck, making it feel like the table’s digging in his guts even if he isn’t touching it, and making the others feel too close to him like they’re pressing against each other.

And now get this, because absolute bullshit doesn’t even begin to cut this whole situation, but Skull should be the one to do something about it, as the leader. Not a leader, leader, mind you. Not in any capacity of actually having the abilities of a leader at the very least, that’s for sure. But the results of his tests and his overall stats were the best upon the formation of their team, and have consistently remained the best ever since—to Skull’s glee and pride and the others’ ever-increasing annoyance and rage—, and so he’s ended up in the leader position.

Now all the teams leaders are chosen like this because numbers don’t lie, and it’s hard to argue against them however much bruised your ego is in the face of them. It doesn’t always reveal to be a wise choice either, not at first, but the chosen leaders thrust into that position whether they wanted to or not always prove themselves worthy of it, either by tapping into the potential that was always there now they were given the opportunity to do so, or by forging themselves into a leader through fire by successfully completing their missions and surviving them.

At least that’s how it goes for the first two tiers of the ABC-teams. Not so often for the last tier. And least of all when it comes to the Z-team.

They’re the Z-team for a reason, and Skull really couldn’t emphasize it enough to save his life. Which is too bad, because his life now sure hangs on his ability to do exactly that.

Still, he’s the leader, and so he clears his throat, straightening in his chair.

“Shut the fuck up,” Reborn says.

“Alright,” Skull says, slumping back in his chair. Whatever. Suits him more than well, even. They can all have an internal breakdown in peace then, see if he cares.

“Are you sure about this?” Reborn asks.

Skull rolls his eyes. “You don’t think I double-checked with her? Triple-checked?”

“I don’t know, you know how lenient they can be with the tests with the last tier of the teams. Tell me again how well you did on the hearing one last time?”

“Feel free to check the files if you don’t believe me.” He gestures with his head to the stack of files in the middle of the table. “They’re right here.”

Reborn doesn’t move a muscle to take one of them, his arms tensely crossed on his chest, glaring at him instead. No one has made a move to take one of them yet, and it speaks volumes of how well they’re taking the new that even Verde refuses to touch them. “You don’t say? I can see just fine, Lackey.”

“And I can hear just fine, thank you very much,” Skull bites back.

“And you can both shut the fuck up and focus,” Lal snaps, sparing them a scathing glance before trying to set the files on fire again with her gaze alone. “What the fuck happened to the A-team?”

��Missing in action,” Skull says.

“The B-team?”

“Missing in action.”

“C and D?”

“Take a wild guess.”

“The fuck happened to the E to Y teams?” Colonnello asks as Lal purses her lips tight, probably stopping her from jumping over the table to throttle him.

“All confirmed dead ever since the L-team.”

“Fucking hell,” Colonnello curses under his breath. “And we’re supposed to do something about it?”

“No, wait,” Luce cuts in, “that’s a good thing, isn’t it? Not the people who died,” she hurries to add with a wince, “but, well, I mean… none of the first tier teams were confirmed dead, right? So isn’t our mission just a research, rescue and extraction one? And at worst a supporting one should we find them in good enough condition to go on.”

“I didn’t know you had God on speed dial like that,” Reborn mocks.

“Well, he for sure wouldn’t be on your speed dial, would he?” Luce shoots back, all sweet voice and sweet smile.

Both Skull and Lal snort, Colonnello snickering.

“Get fucked,” Colonnello says, and completely ignores what can only be the noise of Reborn stomping on his foot under the table.

“You okay there, Viper?” Skull asks, not really because they have yet to say a word or even move a muscle, but maybe they’re having that bad of an internal breakdown if they missed the opportunity to jab at Reborn.

“Alright, let’s please all refocus again for a second,” Fon says, raising a placating hand, his voice strained and his smile stiff on his lips. “I can’t seem to follow what’s happening. What do they expect us to do where all the other teams failed? Literally all of them?”

Lal sighs, raising a hand to pinch the bridge of her nose. “Jack-shit, that’s what. It’s not about us being able to do anything the other teams failed to do, or them expecting anything out of us. It’s about procedures. They already deployed all the other teams except for ours, so what else are they supposed to do now but send ours out there too?”

“This is all besides the point, you utter and worthless proof of the highest peak of humanity’s idiocy.”

A stunned beat of silence passes, all eyes turning on Verde.

Colonnello scowls, straightening in his chair like he’s gearing up for a fight. “Dude, what? Fucking uncalled-for, bitch.”

“Say that to me again,” Lal says, deceptively calm and casual, but clearly begging Verde to give her the excuse to punch his teeth in.

“Go fuck yourself,” Reborn says at the same time.

“How could it not be the point?” Fon asks, his voice polite and pleasant, but his smile twitching.

“Okay guys, easy,” Luce cuts in. “Maybe let’s just all try to… stay calm.”

“Oh, so now you want us to be diplomatic with each other, do you?” Reborn asks, his voice biting.

“Oh my God,” Skull can’t help but blurt out, rolling his eyes hard, “really? You’re literally the one who started it.”

Viper laughs.

Well, not really, but the smallest noise they let out is undoubtedly amusement, which catches everyone’s attention because Skull sure would love to know too what is there to find amusing in their current situation.

Verde takes advantage of the silence to let out a long-suffering sigh, taking his glasses off to clean them with a tissue. “Should I even waste my time trying to explain it to you lot?”

“Verde—” Skull starts disapprovingly, frowning.

“Shut the fuck up,” Reborn says, and Skull emphatically throws his hands up in the air. Reborn leans on the table to better catch Verde’s eye at the other side of Colonnello, a razor-sharp smirk on his lips. “Are you trying to pick a fight with us, Verde? With me?”

Verde doesn’t spare him a glance, putting his glasses back on his nose. “They’re sending us out in the field. Us, the Z-team. Meaning we’re talking about an A-level threat here, if not one even beyond that.” There’s subtle and not so subtle flinches at his words, but he smoothly ignores it. “Which is not even to mention how we’re only learning of all of this now, so before they even sent out the first team to deal with the threat, they already considered it dreadful enough they couldn’t be certain they’d be able to get rid of it, and so chose to keep it hidden so to not make the masses panic. Do you idiots understand what I’m saying here?”

“Just cut the crap and go to the point, Verde,” Lal says through gritted teeth.

Verde huffs, and taps a quick and impatient finger against the table. “It may very well be apocalyptic landscapes awaiting us outside the walls of this town. The end of the world. The STU-Special Town may very well be the last surviving battalion of humanity. So perhaps,” he drawls out slowly like they wouldn’t understand him otherwise, his voice full of scathing sarcasm, “you want us to focus on that instead.”

His words sink in in a dead silence until Viper bursts out laughing, so loud and out of nowhere, they all flinch and startle, almost jumping out of their chairs.

“Jesus fuck!” Lal curses, bringing a hand against her chest.

Viper laughs like they just heard the funniest joke on earth, sounding less delighted and more hysterical and out of their mind, and soon has to lean on the table to keep themself upright.

“What the hell…?” Skull says to the room at large and to no one at the same time, watching them warily.

“Ha!” Colonnello gloats. “As long as I’m not the first one to lose it.”

“No, they’re right,” Reborn says. “This is hilarious. Behold everyone, the Z-team, humanity’s last line of defense. What could possibly go wrong?”

Reborn and Colonnello catch each other’s eye before breaking into laughter too, sounding just as hysterical as Viper.

Skull stands, slamming his hand on the table. “Alright, enough! You guys keep your fucking shit together, will you?” Reborn opens his mouth, but Skull repeatedly slams his hand against the table again until silence falls on them again, all their attention on him. Except for Viper’s who’s still laughing, that is, but whatever. “No, you shut the fuck up, Reborn. You all shut the fuck up. Like it or not but I’m the leader here, so you will listen to me.”

“Oh, good Lord,” Lal says, looking a bit horror-stricken all of a sudden.

“Oh my God, you are,” Colonnello breathes out, a same kind of horror in his voice and on his face.

Skull puts his hands on his hips, puffing his chest out. “That’s right, I am. Meaning I’m the one calling the shots here.”

“God almighty,” Verde deadpans, looking in the distance, and Skull’s eyebrow twitches.

“Maybe if you all weren’t even more incompetent than me,” he points out faux-casually, because fuck them, quite frankly. Skull got and has defended his position as a leader ever since fair and square, thank you very much.

Viper laughs harder, stopping Reborn and Colonnello from tag-teaming him until they kill him, though just barely.

Viper wheezes, but just as they all exchange glances, silently agreeing it’s about time they do something about them before they laugh themself to death, they start calming down.

It takes a while, but they eventually lean back against their chair and wipe their tears away. “Sorry about that,” they say, pausing to take deep breaths of air, some lingering chuckles tumbling from their lips still. “But I’m fine now, I can face reality now. So,” they start, finally drying their eyes and cheeks to their satisfaction, “let me get this straight. We’re all dead, right? Am I getting this right?”

*

Publishing this one fully on tumblr too because honestly I’d love for someone to pick this up. Not in a “I’m giving this idea up” way, but in a--idk, an open writing thread kinda way, I guess??

Like I’d have loved to write more for this, at least far enough we’d see the Arco actually out in the field, trying and failing at completing their mission because I think it’d be super funny to see lol, but I can’t figure out what their mission would be/what kind of threat would have taken out all the other teams to save my life. Also this is typically the type of setting that requires some world-building, and it’s unfortunately not my forte.

So yeah, if someone is inspired by this or have ideas of what could happen next, totally feel free and welcome to add to this! And not necessarily in a fully written way or a written way at all either, feel free to just throw ideas at me!

Also the credit for the title goes to @/cloudspark.

Hope you guys enjoyed the story, thank you for reading!