#hiccups adjacent???

[writingforfishes]

That GF Show That "Everyone" Got Me On

I'm working through the first season of that cartoon show set in Oregon with the great uncle of those twin kids. (Haven't gotten to Triangle Top Hat Demon who apparently exists at some point.)

This show gives SUCH GOOD SOFT TUMMY REP.

You all. Seriously.

It's so refreshing to see SO MANY BODY TYPES after V-pop demon shows. (I love the V-pop demons shows, don't get me wrong. But old dudes with bellies. C'mon!! And Zues [spelled wrong on purpose], by beloved!!)

[writingforfishes]

Okay. But?

Society doesn't even consider me "fat" and I am OBSESSED with just fucking around with my podgy bits?

I'm making belly bagels with my belly-button.

I'm grabbing on for dear life to those "love handles" every time I cross my arms.

I don't even know why.

I don't even have a kink for it.

I just do it.

Cause it's comfy.

Normalize treating your belly like playdough.

Love handles? You mean my stim toys?

[snugboatthe2st]

My favorite thing about reading Pratchett's writing so far is how he is completely unafraid to go into a several paragraph tangent about some minor world building detail. Like, it's almost never plot relevant and is basically just empty exposition, but it's really fun.

"Agh-" Rincewind gasped, "The burn marks from those dragons are gone, but they still hurt."

(This is because the dragons, due to being to being partially existent beings fueled by imagination, don't affect the real world in a traditional sense. Instead, they share the idea of how their actions would affect reality to anyone in the vicinity. This forces their perception to make up the difference, instead imagining any possible changes brought on by the imaginary creature's deeds. This means that when the dragon's creator goes unconscious, those imaginary actions lose their anchor to this reality, instead purely latching to whoever it may most immediately effect. So the burns Rincewind was experiencing were tied purely to his psyche. This means that, like a case of hiccups, they would only go away when Rincewind forgot about it, so the shift in reality would be dropped from his mind. Hiccups in the Discworld are actually the result of a similar phenomenon, being the result of a transdimensional Octarine flare from a central fusion core of the color not unlike a sun in an adjacent dimension.

This fact was lost of Rincewind because he is a stupid fucking idiot.)

"I want you." added Twoflower.

[maxlarens]

saw that your requests are open! currently moving flats and cities and wow this is utterly exhausting and scary to do alone - would love to read a lil something with Lando where reader is moving and maybe it's pre relationship but they've known each other a long time and he somehow shows up to help reader out, in between races / on break whatever. Tysm!

omg good luck! genuinely moving is the worst and good on you for doing it all on your own that must be so difficult. i hope you enjoy this💝 i did it with best friend!reader, felt very perfect. and apparently i had some personal insecurities to address?

You’re starting to regret listening to Lando.

This isn’t a new feeling— you often regret listening to Lando. When he begs you to come out only to inevitably disappear with a girl. When he says that you look fine, only for you to look in a mirror and find your hair at weird angles or your makeup smudged. When he invites you to a race just for you to have to spend an awkward three hours around one of his flings; inevitably ending in disaster when he hops out of the car and hugs you first.

Lando’s not an idiot. Lando just doesn’t always know how to plan ahead.

Move to Monaco, he’d said. And you had. At the very least you’d had professional movers and your family then. It was hard work but you’d had help. Still, it had been such a nightmare that you’d sworn off moving again, deciding that the next time you did it’d be somewhere more permanent. That had been a nice dream— perhaps unattainable with Lando around.

It had been great, perfect even, or at least until Lando had found out about the vacant flat in his building. Then you’d been subject to a month of pointed sighs and wouldn’t it be awesome if we lived in the same building and we could work out at the same gym and we’d see each other all the time! Wouldn’t that be great?

You’d tried to tell him that you already see each other all the time, and if it really mattered to him you’d come all the way to his gym to work out. But Lando’s Lando and doesn’t know how to let a thing that he wants go. It quickly becomes a point of contention, a reason for him to whinge at dinner and direct his green puppy dog eyes at you. So, y’know, of course you fold.

Of course you do.

You don’t want him to feel unwanted. And you really do like the idea of living in the same building as him, even if moving is the last fucking thing you want to do.

You hire people to move the big things. The couch, the fridge, the bed. But you’re left with everything else and only your hatchback to move it with. You’ve collected truly an insurmountable amount of things— dishware, linens, random trinkets, clothes and books and decorative stuffed animals. You don’t realise how much it is until you’re packing it into cardboard boxes all on your own and nearly crying at how long it’s taking you.

By some cruel twist of fate there’s no one available to help you. All your friends in Monaco are Lando-adjacent, either his friends or people you’ve met through F1. You’ve got a few work buddies, but no one you feel like you can ask to give you a hand. Besides, Lando’s racing at Spa over the same weekend you’ve got to be out of your old flat— so you can’t rope him and his friends into your mess. Even Fewtrell, who would help, is on holiday.

By Monday morning you’re at your wits end. You’d slept on a thin little futon for three hours last night, and are up bubble wrapping dishes before the sun rises. You’ve got noise cancelling headphones on, blasting some house music playlist that Oscar had recommended you and you’re trying to be okay— trying to let the jumpy beat lift the panic in your heart. But you can feel yourself hiccuping, crying rather. You wipe salty tears off the bubble wrap to make sure the sticky tape stays.

It’s fine. You’re fine.

It’s just overwhelming. Doing this all alone, in Monaco, without your Mum, your Dad, without your best friend. It’s not anyone’s fault, not even Lando’s. Just you and this feeling of inadequacy that you harbour. This sense that you’re not grown up enough, that you’re not accomplished enough. Lando’s out there driving a Formula One car, flying in a private jet and partially running a business and you’re here crying over the amount of shit that you’ve accumulated.

It’s just—

You hear a faint thud, muffled by your headphones. Heart racing, thinking something might have fallen or broken, you rip them off and clamber up off the carpeted floor. You’re ready to run into the hallway, your bedroom, every room that’s still got things in it to find the inevitable wreckage.

But it’s just Lando—

Standing at your front door in an old t-shirt and shorts, with cardboard boxes tucked under his arm. He’s frowning at you. You’re not sure why until you remember that you’re still in yesterday’s clothes and there are dark circles carved out under your eyes. Tear tracks down your face as well, probably.

“What’s wrong?”

He drops the cardboard, it goes sliding onto the floor and he has to dodge out of its way as he steps towards you.

You shake your head, sniffing, “I’m fine, Lan.”

You don’t quite reject his attempt at a hug, just dodge it slightly. Force him to give you a one-armed, half-hearted thing, instead of the squeezing, reassuring hug you’re sure he meant to give you. He grumbles something into your hair that you can’t hear then says,

“Well, clearly you’re not fine.”

You sigh, push him away in your anger at yourself, “I’m fine, Lando. I just— I just can’t do anything on my own as per usual.”

You watch his shoulders drop, his eyebrows press into the bridge of his scarred nose, concern flooding his face. He shakes his head minutely, pink lips parting slightly.

“What are you saying?”

You shrug, looking away and feeling shame fill the cavity in your chest at your admittance of weakness, “You know what I’m saying.”

“That’s absolute shit and you know it,” he cuts back, “You’ve done all this by yourself haven’t you?”

He gestures around you and admittedly the room is rather empty of things. The whole flat in fact. You’ve got just the little things left pretty much, and a bunch of cardboard boxes that are ready to be ferried over to your new building. It’s not nothing that you’ve managed to do over the weekend. You sniff again.

“Don’t say that crap,” he manhandles you into a hug, winding an arm around the back of your shoulders, pulling you to him, “I’d have to pay movers a couple grand to move all my shit, you know that. I wouldn’t be able to get any of this done.”

“Yes you would,” you mutter into his chest, “You’re capable of things.”

He shakes you, just a little, like trying to knock some sense into you, like trying to make you hear your own words, “Okay. Then so are you.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, “I guess.”

After a moment, he brings a hand up to your face, uses his thumb to tenderly wipe the tears that pool in your tear duct. You don’t think anything of it then— but you do later—

When the sun is setting over the water and you and Lando are watching it and eating takeaway burgers on your new balcony, in your new flat, that has every single bit of your stuff in it. And you’re thinking about the feeling of pad of his finger on your cheek and how he’s just spent his first day of a very well-deserved summer break helping his friend move—

“Aren’t you supposed to be getting ready for Ibiza?”, you cut him a bit of an admonishing look, and scold yourself for not remembering sooner, not urging him to go pack.

He shrugs, turning his green gaze to you, the light of the sunset making him glow, “‘S fine. I can join later.”

You bite your lip, resisting the urge to tell him to go start packing straight away. You won’t change his mind, once he’s got his heart set on something he doesn’t know how to let it go.

“Will you come with me?”, he asks suddenly eager, as your heart skips several beats, “I know you said you had this to deal with. But.”

“But?”

“But. I want you to come. It’ll be no fun without you.”

You raise an eyebrow, “Ibiza will be no fun without me?”

He nods, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You’re going to say no. It’s on the tip of your tongue, on the verge of slipping out. You’ve got a million boxes to unpack, all your clothes are in suitcases, this is what your holiday leave is meant to be used for. Not the trip to Ibiza that you’d already said no to—

But, it’s Lando.

Of course you fold.

[bignostalgias]

may i req hiccup & fishlegs gushing to each other while jack is confused? (mayhaps translation au adjacent? i.e. they talk too fast for jack to keep up LOLOL) thank u ;_; have a good day!!

AAAAA that’s such a sweet idea thank you for the prompt 😭🙏 he doesn’t mind listening to them geek out, their passion is entertaining on its own ✨

[miupow]

for kinktober!! husband tyun punishing reader my spanking her! <3

𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑 ‘24 ── 𝐓𝐀𝐄𝐇𝐘𝐔𝐍 + 𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐍𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆

𝜗𝜚 ㅤ― 󠀬󠀬[ minors do not interact! ] kang taehyun x fem!reader . non-idol au , marriage au , mean dom!taehyun , punishments , spanking , possibly toxic marriage/gender dynamics , dirty talk , discipline , semi-public sex , slight exhibitionism , pussy slapping , anal fingering (f. rec) , buttplug mention , voyeurism mention

a/n ⸝⸝ oh bastard husband taehyun my beloved….

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“i said count, honey. don’t make me tell you again.”

swiftly, another ear-ringing slap descended upon your stinging asscheek, right over where he had struck you last — you bite your lip to keep in your shriek, all too conscious of the droning chatter coming out of the adjacent dining room.

“one, thank you, sir!” you squeak— you know your husband’s rules by heart, and while that had been technically your second spanking, you knew better than to count the one that you hadn’t properly thanked him for.

“good girl,” taehyun coos, his sweet low voice laced with a condescending edge that made your pussy leak. “finally listening for once. now tell me what you’re being punished for when you thank me for disciplining you. i need to make sure this punishment gets through your dumb, empty little head.”

he rubs gently at the blossoming bruises on your ass before he rears his hand back to strike you again, the sharp clap of his palm against your ass deafening in your ears. you were certain that taehyun’s colleagues could all hear from the table, your face burning with shame at the thought of them knowing that your husband was punishing you in just the room over.

“t-two, daddy, sir— thank you, i was being a slut—“

another spank, harder and louder than before. you barely manage to contain your scream, choking on a strangled whimper as you blink away tears. “how were you being a slut?” taehyun asks, so nonchalant and casual like he was simply going through paperwork. while his carefully crafted facade infuriated you to no end, you reveled in the feeling of the growing bulge in his slacks rubbing up against your tummy.

“three—! thank you, daddy!” you warble, trying to hide your face in taehyun’s pant leg. “i was f-flirting with your friends, a-and letting them touch me—“

taehyun stops to adjust your dress before he spanks you again, expensive fabric bunched around your waist to expose your bare ass and pussy. your lace panties were pooled around your ankles, trapping your legs together as you bucked and squirmed over your husband’s lap.

“four!” you all but shout— you would cover your mouth if your wrists weren’t being held behind your back by taehyun’s free hand. “thank you, sir! i was a bad wife, i’m sorry—“

he shuts you up with a spank aimed at your pussy, peeking out from between your quivering thighs— you bury your face in taehyun’s leg to muffle your shriek of pain and pleasure, unable to hold your noises back anymore with your sensitive pussy stinging. “i should bring them in here,” taehyun remarks coldly, calloused fingers ghosting over your glistening pussy lips, “let them watch us; how about that, honey? let everyone see how you get punished when you’ve been bad?”

“i’m sorry, daddy!” you sob into his slacks, tears and drool soaking the fabric. “please don’t, i’ll be good, i promise!“

“that’s what i like to hear.” taehyun hums, working two thick fingers between your folds to plunge deep into your hole. the wet sounds from your cunt as he pumps his fingers are obscene, and tears truly begin to fall down your burning cheeks as you hiccup and whine and try your absolute best not to start screaming. “i invite all of my colleagues over for dinner, and my little wife decides to whore around like i can’t control my woman. you embarrassed me, baby. and this pussy is dripping so fucking much— you want me to fuck you, huh? well, bad wives don’t get cock.”

he slides his fingers out of your cunt and trails them up your slit to your winking little asshole, the wet slick coating his fingers perfect lube for them to bully their way inside without much resistance. “such a bad little girl but you take my fingers so well… bad wives don’t get to cum either, so you better behave while i stretch this little asshole out for the plug. then you’re going to go back out there and apologize for your behavior, you understand?”

“y-yes sir.” you whimper, sniffling.

“good girl.”

[paradoxbeta]

there is never going to be a normal way to put this but can we see your iterator designs naked

like. just. how'd you design them under their clothes

yeah of course! heres a moon i whipped up

and now for some talking, because ive thought a bit about clotheless iterator designs:

moon's design was inspired off of the atlas models from boston dynamics (and probably all subsequent iterators i draw will be at least somewhat inspired off the same). theyre pretty handy sources of inspiration considering they look awesome, and since their movement is astonishingly fluid, theyre great models for what sort of joint and limb designs create articulate results. i think its obvious which one had the heaviest hand in inspiring looks to the moon

moon is an older model so in terms of squishiness (for lack of a better term) there is none except for the face. actually, little related detail, the base of her thumb is not flexible, its essentially a small solid block. if youve ever owned a poseable mannequin hand with an inflexible thumb base you probably know that it can cause issues with fine motion in specific circumstances: its just a hiccup of being an older make. the more recent you go then usually the less bare-bones the designs are, they get filled-out midriffs and more "pinchable" areas. take this guy for example:

this is old art and there's things here i would do differently now, but note the squishier underarm: that sort of thing (generally) becomes more common the more recent your models are.

another thing that changes over old to new models is the amount of variation in how the body is constructed, at the beginning i imagine there were only a few select tried-and-true "right" ways to do things, but as time goes on and more avenues of construction become available, designing an iterator's puppet becomes more and more of an art form that is influenced more and more by the judgement and creative tastes of the puppet designer(s). paneling becomes more a matter of aesthetic instead of functionality, and you start to see vanity features appear more frequently (like nipple adjacent markings as seen above, lol).

id say that while older models are closer to the atlas models in appearance, the newest iterators would probably bear more resemblance to the cyborg bodies found in the alita: battle angel film

anyway all of that is to say naked iterators are cool

[strawwritesfic]

Kelvin!Spock x Female!Human!Reader: Mr. Right

Summary: When one door closes, another opens—perhaps the door you were meant to enter all along.

Warnings/Tags: Starship Enterprise; post-Star Trek Beyond; friends to lovers; breakup; almost kiss; counselor!reader; Star Trek: The Original Series references; Star Trek: The Next Generation references

Relationships: Spock/Reader; Spock & Nyota Uhura; past!Spock/Nyota Uhura; past!Kevin Riley/Reader

Challenge: “160 Collective Drabbles” challenge by BobaPop on Lunaescence Archives.

Requester: @lovemesomeescapism

Tag List: @imaginesfire

Notes: For once, this is not a repost for this challenge…technically. I did write a response to the prompt "Mr. Right" ages ago, but when I was reposting, I decided that the Now You See Me one shot I wrote really wasn't worth keeping. Someone on Tumblr asked me for a Spock one shot, so I slipped him in as a replacement.

It's been a really long time since I finished something new. I realize that I am rusty. This is actually several drafts into attempts to write this one shot. For the first time ever, I actually cannibalized previous drafts while trying to get the meandering dialogue and point back on track. It still doesn't feel quite "right" to me, but it's probably going to take some time before I get back in the swing of things, and I'm ready to let this one go.

Mr. Right

Throughout Terra's history, human beings had sought the comfort of white noise. Quiet droning sounds proved beneficial for many aspects of mental health in the species. As a counselor on board the U.S.S. Enterprise, you'd recommended listening to white noise to dozens of fellow crewmates and patients alike. The best way to do this in the deep space you'd all been exploring for nearly five years was to turn everything in one's quarters down until the low hum of the ship's warp drive became audible. Many of those crewmates and patients reported back to you with decreased stress levels, improved mood, and a distinct uptick in ability to concentrate. Almost all of them said they got better sleep.

Now you learned that every single one of them had lied to you.

You'd spent the better part of the evening-adjacent hours lying face-down on your sofa, trying and failing to take a nap. The scratchy, standard-issue pillow beneath your face was soaked with tears. Your chest ached. Worst of all, any attempt on your part to get your mind off what upset you just ended with you crying harder. All the while, that awful rumble went on and on and on and on relentlessly, allowing you no respite long enough to drift off and forget your current predicament.

A chime cut through your misery. You paused without so much as lifting your head. As of three hours prior, you were officially off duty for the day. Nothing required you to answer the door unless an order came down from a superior officer, and they would call first. Probably it was only Uhura coming by to check on you. Having been through her own breakup during this voyage, surely she would understand when you didn't let her inside.

The chime sounded again, and with it came a surge of possibilities flooding your mind. What if your visitor was dealing with a crisis? Cases of PTSD had been on the rise since the events on Altamid. You could hardly ignore that in favor of your own small, personal crisis. Off duty or not, your role as a ship's counselor would not allow you to wallow in self-pity when someone might need your help.

As your boots hit the floor, you pressed one sleeve of your rumpled blue uniform to the corner of each eye. The gesture wouldn't do much to disguise what you'd been doing over the course of your time off, but you felt a little steadier afterward. Breathing deeply in and out helped too—until you hiccuped. But you could prepare yourself no more. Squaring your shoulders, you stood, walked over to the door leading to the corridor, and opened it.

Just outside stood the familiar, lanky figure of the ship's science officer. The second you spotted him, you wiped your sleeve across your face with greater urgency.

"You're not one of my patients," you said, "or Uhura."

"A very astute observation, Lieutenant [L Name]," Spock replied.

A long moment elapsed during which the two of you stared at one another. Several fellow crewmates in various uniform colors threw curious looks at his back as they passed by on their ways to wherever they were headed. Your friend, meanwhile, allowed a single dark eyebrow to drift toward his hairline. He clearly had no intention of moving on.

"What are you doing here?" you sighed at last.

The wayward eyebrow rejoined its brother. "Lieutenant Commander Uhura informed me that you left your office this afternoon in distress. I note that her assessment was an accurate one. If anything, you appear to be in more distress now than she described to me then."

You couldn't lie to Spock, not when you looked the way you looked after a crying jag like the one you'd just had. So you didn't bother to try. "Fine. I'm in distress. But really, Spock, it's not the kind of distress you can help with. I'm sure Captain Kirk will need you on a landing party any minute now, so if you'll excuse me—"

"Lieutenant Commander Uhura also informed me of the cause of your distress."

"Of course she did." Sometimes you wished your two friends were a little lighter on the "amicable" part of "amicable exes." "Let me guess: You came by to tell me that you told me so."

"As a Vulcan, I have no reason to rub my correct prediction in your face, if you will forgive the Terra colloquial."

You let out a wet laugh despite yourself. "You're pardoned."

"What I have done is stopped by the mess hall. If I am not much mistaken, ice cream is a traditional consolation food in these types of situations."

He produced from behind his back a number of different colored tapes. So startled were you that you found yourself unable to say anything. Never in a million years would you have imagined Spock of all people standing in front of you and offering you junk food of all things. Your silence went on for so long that he had to prompt you to speak:

"Was I incorrect in my understanding of how to handle Terran breakups?"

"No," you said, then, "I just didn't want you to find out about the breakup until I could pull myself together."

"I surmised as much, given that Lieutenant Commander Uhura found out about your circumstances before I did, although you and I are closer friends. It would have been more logical for you to contact me for assistance than her."

Vulcans as a whole were difficult to read. Even factoring in your education and training, as well as your friendship with Spock that had gone on for several years now, you could only guess his feelings the majority of the time. Not so then. Something about his tone made him sound hurt. Maybe you could chalk that up to projecting your own feelings onto him, but you couldn't risk that assumption.

"It's just that you warned me against dating Kevin," you explained. "As ship's counselor, I should have seen the end coming a kiloparsec away."

"Perhaps. But one might also say that your extensive proximity to the crew's emotions might cause some loss in objectivity on your part."

"So you're not here to make me feel worse?"

"I came for consolation purposes. That is all."

"Well, all right, then."

You stepped away from the doorway. Spock followed you in. He paused only long enough to press the button to close the door before he came to join you in your sitting room. A crate sat on the floor along his path, and he looked at you questioningly as he walked by it.

"Those are Kevin's things," you said.

"Expedient," he observed.

Normally, you might have tried to go for a little more decorum around him, but that day you didn't have the energy to do more than flop back onto your couch. At least you were upright. Spock, on the other hand, claimed a dignified perch at the end of your chair. The two of you certainly made an odd pair.

"He had so many hair products!" you burst out when the awkward silence turned unbearable. "I should have known we wouldn't work out. Who brings that much hair spray into deep space?"

"Humanity can hardly be expected to iron out all its flaws when you all cling so hard to your baser emotions."

"Do you mean Kevin's desire to look nice, or my need to be in a relationship?"

Spock blinked, then smoothly said, "In this case, I refer to your former beau's preoccupation with personal grooming."

"Right. Either way, I'm about ready to get rid of all my own baser emotions. Not feeling them would be a blessing." You got back to your feet and thrust one hand in Spock's direction. "Ice cream tape, please."

He offered one to you.

"Spock," you said warningly.

"I do not believe that heartbreak is an excuse to overeat. I only brought so many because I was unsure which flavor you would select."

The glare you leveled at him seemed to make him think better of lecturing you on the dangers of gluttony—as well it should have. This was the same glare that you gave Dr. McCoy when you were tired of listening to him. Unlike with Dr. McCoy, you smiled once Spock dropped the rest of the tapes into your outstretched hand.

"Thank you." You headed for your in-quarters food producer, then turned your head to ask over your shoulder, "What flavor do you want?"

"I do not require ice cream."

"Come on, Spock. If you're going to spend the evening commiserating with me, you have to have some ice cream, too. That's a critical part of the Terran breakup process."

One corner of his mouth twitched. "I'll have pistachio, then."

You fed the yellow-green tape into the slot. A quiet beeping noise covered the hum of the warp drive as the computer worked. While you waited, you flipped through the remainder of the flavors until you found the one you wanted.

"I don't think it would be a good idea for you to give up emotions," Spock said.

"Huh?" Frowning at him, you replaced his tape with yours. "Aren't you the guy that's been talking about doing the Kolinahr when we get back to Earth?"

"That's different. I am a Vulcan."

"Half Vulcan."

"Vulcan enough."

A shriller beep put an end to this potentially sticky subject. The ice creams were ready. You dumped the rest of the tapes in a basket next to the food producer, picked up the bowls, and brought them back to the living room. Spock took his with a grateful nod, though he waited until you sat down again before taking a bite.

"Maybe I'd be a better counselor if I didn't have emotions," you mused. "If I wasn't blinded by my own feelings, I could help the crew more with theirs. I shouldn't have the same problems as they do after all the studying I've done."

"While that may indeed make sense, it is hardly realistic. Besides, if you did not have your human emotions, you would no longer be the [Name] that I know, and I believe that I would miss her."

You couldn't help but smile around the spoon in your mouth. Popping that out, you said, "I bet you say that to all the Terrans you like."

"Hardly. In fact, that captain may benefit from an hour or two without his usual emotions."

"I appreciate you saying that, Spock."

"I am only speaking the truth. I have no intention of bolstering your ego artificially, even if doing so is a part of the Terran breakup process."

"I know." You slowly lowered your spoon back to the bowl, staring off into space. Something was dawning on you—something that might have dawned on you sooner had you not been so enthralled with your own feelings. "You know what else I appreciate? You coming here to help me today. Not every first officer would go out of their way for a ship's counselor like that."

Spock fixed you with an unblinking gaze as he said, "You mean a great deal more to me than most ship's counselors mean to their first officers."

"I don't care what Captain Kirk says. You sure know how to make a woman blush."

"I have had some practice with the activity."

"Remind me to thank Uhura later."

"Thank her for what?" Spock asked.

Maybe you were reading the signs wrong. Maybe you were just desperate. If he had to ask, you had to be wrong. But you took a deep breath anyway, and said, "Helping me realize that maybe the guy I've been looking for this whole time has been my best friend all along."

How could it have taken you this long to work it out? No one else spent as much time with you as Spock did, not outside of your office hours. It didn't matter if you were in the mess hall asking for a round of Fizzbin after dinner or you wanted a quiet night in your quarters. He always seemed to be there. You felt comfortable around him. Maybe you didn't always understand Spock; maybe Spock didn't always understand. But you didn't enjoy anyone's company the way you did his. And you had to wonder when your eyes met just then if he felt the same way, and if this coming-to-see-you-with-ice-cream thing was his way of showing you that.

"Well," he moistened his lips before going on, "I certainly feel that our relationship is founded more steadily upon mutual interests and desires than it is upon a passion for hair products."

You leaned forward. "You know, that sort of relationship sounds really appealing right about now."

"It does?" Spock shifted closer to you.

"I think it's about time that I dated someone whose first thought in the morning isn't beating me to the sonic shower, don't you?"

By that time, you both had come so close that it wouldn't have taken much more movement on either of your parts to touch lips. Your heart gave a painful leap inside your chest. Was this too much too fast? Even if you had just realized you'd had a thing for Spock for a while now, you had only just broken up with your last boyfriend that morning. Treating Spock as a rebound was the last thing you wanted to do. He didn't seem to mind, though. His mouth drew closer and closer to yours until you could feel his breath on your face.

The communicator in your room chirped. You jumped. Spock paused before sitting back up in his chair. Then you rose wordlessly, stepped over to the panel, cleared your throat, and pushed the button.

"[L Name]," you said.

"[Name]?" Uhura did not remark on how breathless you sounded, thankfully. "I need to talk to Spock."

"It's for you," you said unnecessarily. Spock had already reset his face into its typical blank mask and made his way to the communicator himself.

"Spock here. What is it, Lieutenant Commander?"

"Captain Kirk needs you on the bridge. We have a situation up here."

"What kind of a situation?"

"There's a former United States President floating outside the ship. He says he needs our help."

"I will be there right away."

A second chirp signaled that communications between your room and the bridge had ceased. Spock turned back to you.

"My presence is needed on the bridge," he said.

"So I heard."

"I apologize. I believe we were in the middle of something."

"It's all right."

He didn't move.

"Spock, go. Don't you want to know why a deceased historical figure has asked for the Enterprise's help?"

"I'd prefer to stay here," Spock said. "But you are correct. I must leave. Will you still be here later tonight?"

"Yeah." You surprised yourself with the eagerness of your answer. "Yeah, I will. I promise I won't run off with any other lieutenants while you're away. I'll save the rest of the ice cream. We can share it when you get back."

There it was: The slight curl to Spock's mouth that told you that you weren't making up the mutual attraction between you both after all. "To use another Terran phrase, it's a date."

He hesitated another moment longer before he quickly exited your quarter. You grinned as the door slid shut behind him and the white noise returned full force. As you sunk into your couch and pillow this time, you found you didn't mind the hum as much. In fact, the sound did exactly what it was supposed to do: Relax you. Kevin and his excuses from that morning felt farther away than your own home planet. Maybe you owed him a thank you, too, because if you were still with him, you wouldn't have slept as well as you did that night knowing that Spock would be back soon.

[unwantedshivering]

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

HEADCANONS for KEVIN KATCHADOURIAN as you try and figure out what he truly feels about you.

WARNINGS: mentions of reader death, emotional manipulation, overall toxicity

FOR: Kevin Khatchadourian

NOTES: @slasherscream totally inspired this, their characterization of kevin made me want to write for him !! :) this is entirely too long to be considered hcs btw

HOW IT STARTS

Truly, you believed he hated you. Why else would he stare as though he was trying to telekinetically explode your head? It’s a wonder how you even started hanging around him. It wasn’t necessarily out of your own volition, really, as you were just the Khatchadourians’ neighbor tutoring and hanging out with Celia in exchange for your sibling receiving archery lessons.

You grew up practically adjacent to Eva’s household, so it was just a small, kind gesture you’d do when you visited from college. You remembered that weary, worn down visage of hers from your childhood and let it pull at your heartstrings. You were sensitive, and perhaps that’s what drew him in.

You were watching a kid’s movie with Celia, and unbeknownst to you: Kevin was eyeing you.

He wasn’t usually home, off in his room when he wasn’t attending his own classes. Quiet. Off-putting as he would taper down the creaking steps, barely acknowledging your presence before leaving. Usually he’d grab an apple, glance over you as if you were nothing but air.

It was intriguing to you. Kevin had always been intriguing to you. He was unnaturally, uncannily pretty. Like a bust set on display within his own modern-century home, you couldn’t touch or manage to decipher him. It was embarrassing to say he had been the face of several boyfriends in your silly teenage dreams.

It was pure happenstance as he came down just in time to watch as you hiccuped during the movie, tears streaming down your face. Celia was long-gone off in dreamland on the couch.

It wasn’t enthrallment that Kevin felt. It wasn’t even want. It was a sick, morbid curiosity. Celia, despite her humanity, wasn’t entertaining to Kevin anymore. Not as she was when she was eight and entirely naïve, cut bare in her love for her big brother.

You gave him something new. He halted in his steps. For the first time in simply years, you heard Kevin speak to you.

“Stay a little bit longer.”

Through your own bewilderment, you agreed. Kevin had no reason to continue his sweet, loving son act. Not really. Still, he smiled something that could only be described as honey. It was drenched in a sickening sweetness, something with a bite. A bit of blood in his teeth.

He took you archery shooting. It was way past the acceptable time for you to be in the Khatchadourian household, and yet you stayed. Fly wrapped in silk. Bug to be eaten, saved for later.

It felt magical to be the center of Kevin Khatchadourian’s attention. In school he was a little misunderstood and disconcerting, but nothing truly horrific happened. It was that same quietness he displayed that made him so elusive, so lovely to you.

He displayed amazing skill when it came to archery, a terrifying mastery. You only chuckled nervously when it whizzed past you, making your hair stand on end and fingers clench.

“I’m sorry,” he said, yet it was low, accompanied by eyes that seemed anything but apologetic. “You should really stand on the side, I must’ve overshot it.”

HOW HE IS IN THE BEGINNING

As you continued staying longer, mutual exchange forgotten, he grew more and more expressionless. The most he would usher you was a glance under firm eyebrows, a wry little twitch of lips when you did something particularly amusing. You felt like a piece of brain tissue on a petri dish.

Kevin was actually scarily kind to your sibling and family though. It was like a flip-switch: he went from helping your mother with carrying dinner to silently staring at you, trying to pick apart your body, all smiles and good-boy mirth gone from his eyes. Most of the time, he fiddled with his technology as you did your own thing. Reading? He’d be clicking away, his incessant typing as your white noise. Crochet? Doing it outside as he practiced archery. Talking? He’d stare to let you know he’s listening.

Unfortunately, this still left you neglected. Initiating physicality was on his own terms, and you’d get a quick look before being brushed off if he wasn’t into it. Speaking about your troubles with him is met with silence. At the beginning, it was even met with slight condescension and mockery. One step forward? It didn’t matter, Kevin himself was never going to be able to fulfill all of your needs.

It wasn’t as if you didn’t have other friends. Most of them didn’t know Kevin. If they did, they didn’t speak of him to you; speaking of him made you jittery, a little doe-eyed, but you always spoke of him fondly. They could never understand why.

Kevin knew all your friends. You were at a house party, introducing them with a blinding grin on your face. He disliked them. If there was one thing he held other than apathy, other than wanting to feel more than he’s capable of, it was the need to harbor your attention. You were his only source of anything. You were clearly fond of him, no matter how strange or unnerving he showed to be. You talked seamlessly and mindlessly about your interests. He knew sunsets were pretty, but because he saw them through you. He knew what cafés were the best, what to get his mother for a gift when Frank pressured him to.

In the same breath, Kevin resented and found himself thinking often on that part of you. There wasn’t a way he could name it, but the feeling was dull. It stung a bit, hearing you speak about anything outside of his reach. He liked the sting somedays: it was proof he felt. Other than his heart thrumming in his ears, he felt something other than disdain and unadulterated anger.

He hated feeling jealousy, though.

It was quiet like the rest of him. Your friend, Matt, kept pushing. It was becoming sickeningly obvious that he thought of you more than a friend, and yet whether it be your own denseness or the fact that you’d known Matt since forever, you didn’t stop him. Not the meaningless touches on your arm, not the compliments on things only Kevin thought he’d noticed about you. Sick. Sick. It was that old, juvenile anger he felt spike again.

There was a barely there acknowledgement of the fact that you were attractive. He found you attractive even faintly. Then, there was the notion of your attractiveness shoved in his face. Others found you attractive.

His family already assumed you were dating. You hung around too often for them to not believe so. Your friends? They didn’t know. Before this, Kevin didn’t necessarily care whether or not you were called his significant other or the person he kept around. It was only then where he realized the perks of you being his: no Matt.

It was impulsive. He kissed you. It was under the porch light after Matt hugged you goodbye, and as he started to pull out of the driveway Kevin ducked in for the kill. It was impulsive, a bit too strong, and left you lightheaded like you drank more than you should’ve. Being with Kevin was like being an alcoholic.

There was an emptiness in his eyes as he pulled away. He didn’t even hold your cheek, he simply ducked forward. You felt… odd. Confused and a bit embarrassed that you let him do that simply for his own whim. What you didn’t see were the indents of Kevin’s fingers in the cup he was holding onto the entire time, the way he fiddled with the lighter in his pocket, the way his jaw clenched.

WHY STAY

There’s a certain value Kevin placed on you. You don’t know if it’s that of a toy, lover, or a third scarier option. There’s a big chance you’d never know either.

What you do know is that he’d give you his jacket when it’s cold, and surprisingly he’d take off yours for you when you enter his house. It’s done so casually that you forget it’s typically uncharacteristic of him.

He played nice with Celia when you’re around. He played nice with your family, to the point where you might even misunderstand and believe he wanted them to think highly of him.

Kevin could be awfully kind. It’s never a kindness for the sake of it, but it only ever distinctly shows itself around you. If you were ever sick or vice versa, you’re spending all your time around him for the day.

If he had the fever, he’d push his forehead against yours while you’re both lying down, lazily breathing with his eyes closed. If you were the one ill, Kevin sits on the bed instead, placing one hand on your hand or your forehead. It’s a cool, light feeling. His hand is large enough for it to fully encompass your face if he so wished, or at least your neck, and yet he chose to be gentle.

He doesn’t like the idea of you being special to him though; the fact that you’re exempt from even some of his antagonizing ministrations makes it frustrating. You shouldn’t be. You were something he hung around and dated technically, so the idea of you actually being the definition of a significant other made him heavy in the chest.

If you show that you like the idea of being special to him, at least in the beginning, it’s easier for him to pull away. Whether physically or emotionally, he can shut off completely from you. Deciding to stay is what does it for him. How can you stay? Even with all the silence and work it takes for him to do anything?

His kisses grow less rushed. They’re even somewhat experimental later on. Kevin doesn’t really know if he likes it, but he knows you do. A nip at your lip, eyes closed, fluctuating pressure. He’s a fast learner. He’d pull away prematurely, waiting to see how you’d react. Usually he’d just walk away afterwards like nothing happened, but if he’s feeling the reactive impulse to he’ll duck right back in.

Kisses with Kevin leave you panting. Sometimes you believe he truly is attempting to steal your breath, and he might just be. He has more often than not almost let the arrow hit you when you watch him practice archery. It never does, but it’s always close. There’s a furrow in his brow afterward, like he’s examining how he himself feels on you almost dying by his own hands.

He has also more often than not found that it leaves him annoyed.

[howtofightwrite]

thank you for the clear, honest response! but i will admit to being caught off-guard since i wasn't suggesting the scenario from the protagonist's point of view at all, but rather from an antagonist or villain sort of perspective. i went in with the assumption that it was the less morally upright person making violent actions (i.e kidnapping) and the hero protagonist experiencing the fallout.

your words felt very much like what i was trying to say in acknowledging that it's dangerous, but more concise; perhaps i simply was overzealous in crafting the scenario? i am sorry for giving the wrong impression.

it might be helpful to state that it was actually my only ask to this blog aside from this one; it has no connection to other inquiries regarding heroes taking violent action. i might have had the impression that a previous anon was writing a detective story of sorts, where the protagonist was dealing with opponents who wouldn't hesitate to use violence, and thougnt to state what i felt could be done to keep the protagonist's head relatively intact despite head injuries. my apologies for the broad assumption!

Yeah, without wanting to light you up this time, the problem with the scenario is a little deeper than I might have addressed in the previous comment. And, in fairness to you, that was a long ask, and Tumblr doesn't accommodate my preferences for how to fully respond to comments like that. (Which is to say, break it into pieces, and deal with each part independently.)

The problem you're running into is an idea that heroes and villains view violence from fundamentally different perspectives. In isolation, this isn't automatically a bad thing, but it does leave you vulnerable to engaging in some classic Saturday morning cartoon grade philosophy. “The bad guys only use violence because they're bad, but the good guys only use violence because they're good.”

Again, if this fully terminated in a discussion about how proportional use of force can be an appropriate, or sometimes even a necessary, response, that would be one thing. Unfortunately, a lot of writers stop at that point, and internalize a double standard for violence based on an artificial delineation that doesn't even exist in their characters' world.

There are a lot of reasons that the author can pull hard for their protagonists, and those will spill over onto the audience. The protagonist is (probably) the character the author identifies most with. As the primary PoV character, the protagonist is in the best position to advocate for their own thought process. Due to sheer exposure, and whatever adversity the protagonist has experienced up to that point, they audience is also likely to be more sympathetic to the protagonist's position.

This does mean, when your protagonist starts going over the line, your audience is going to be less critical of their actions. At least, up to a point. You can take this all too far, and lose your audience, which is part of where our cautions about violence come from. But that's an adjacent issue.

However, within your world, it's important to assess when, and how, characters use force based on who they are. And, in fairness to you, that was something you were partially conscious of. The critical hiccup was that the roles of protagonist and antagonist are agnostic to who these characters are in your world. People will use whatever tools are appropriate for completing their objectives, regardless whether you think they're the hero or villain. That includes, potentially, use of force.

The distinction I made poorly is that your kidnappers don't use force because they're the villains, but they use it because it's a critical tool for doing their job. I'm struggling to come up with a scenario where you'd have a human trafficker as the protagonist of your story, but it's not going to fundamentally alter their approach to violence, nor their methods. (Not saying the scenario is impossible, but it would run the risk of being extremely distasteful.)

Perhaps, a more palatable example would be an assassin. They're still popular as edgelord protagonists, and can just as easily be antagonists. However, they also do a fantastic job of illustrating that the hero or villain status doesn't (especially) alter the evaluation of whether they're a protagonist or antagonist. Leaving a large body count, in either case, simply means that that something got out of control, and in either case, this is someone who's been killing people.

Something that might seem like a non-sequitor at first, coming out of the Patreon Discord server last week, was a reminder that, when you're using the D&D alignment chart, you can absolutely end up with evil protagonists. Not even in the sense of villainous protagonists, like with The Godfather films and novel, but characters who are genuinely the hero of the story, and evil. My preferred example of this remains Jack Bauer (Keifer Sutherland) from 24.

The inverse is much rarer. Some Javier-style investigators probably fit the bill of good-aligned villains. Though, these are usually paired against criminal protagonists, or at least protagonists who've been framed or falsely accused.

The reason this tangent is relevant is twofold. First, it's important to remember that your protagonist can be evil. They can, absolutely, be a bad person. As mentioned earlier, because they're your PoV, they'll get some deference from the audience simply from being their primary point of access to the world. Second, concepts like good and evil may be far more determinative over their use of violence, but the idea of protagonists and antagonists exist independently of that. Who your characters are will have a much bigger impact on the degree of violence they'll be comfortable with inflicting.

Beyond this, there is a real problem for a lot of writers, who think about violence with that Saturday morning cartoon logic. It's absolutely fine to have extremely violent protagonists, however, the question you need to start with is whether that violence fits with who they are, outside of their role in the story you're telling.

Related to this, and it drives a lot of the, “I want a protagonist who doesn't kill people,” is the idea that your protagonist needs to be a good person. They don't. And having a protagonist who inflicts grievous harm on people, but stops short of actually killing them doesn't absolve them of the harm they're causing. You can argue that someone who tortures someone, “for good reasons,” and finishes with a mock execution is less evil than someone who does the same but simply executes their victim when they're done, but both of these are pretty evil acts across the board, and you'd be pretty hard pressed to argue that the former is fully innocent, when lasting harm has been inflicted upon their victim.

So, ultimately, as a general rule, knockouts don't work. It's a kind of moral hand-wringing that authors engage in because they're afraid of their characters being perceived as bad people, or because they want a consequence free way to close out a fight scene. Just like in the real world, knockouts don't really do what the author wants, because they're, at best, a deferment on future violence. The impulse to preserve your character's moral high ground is certainly understandable, but in most cases, this method will be detrimental to your work as a whole. It reduces the tension from future violence, as your reader now knows that there's an easy out with no lasting consequences. There are ways to have consequence free fights (such as characters managing to create an opening and escape), but the hard knockouts don't work as well as you might hope. I'd hesitate to call knockouts, “bad writing,” but they certainly open the door to some of our worst impulses as writers. Impulses we really need to resist, as they don't lead to better stories, just more contrived scenarios.

-Starke

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[writingforfishes]

Taking this fish thing and running with it, not unlike scissors.

Alright "Fishes", what are you?

I got this thing. Which I think is great cause salmon completely change their look halfway through their life when they go mate and die.

I relate more to the changing look part than the mating and dying part...obviously.

[coquelicoq]

Xiao Heng had managed to get his very inebriated wife into their room without carrying her, but only just. He had in fact tried to pick her up at one particularly tricky part of the hallway (a lip in the floor had threatened to trip her up, literally and figuratively), but she had insistently pushed at his arms until he let her get back to her very important business of navigating around the obstacle. Now he led her to the bed and sat her on the edge, hovering for a moment to make sure she wasn't about to fall over, then settled on the floor to take off her shoes.

He had just gotten the first one off when she spoke. "Hey," she said.

He looked up. A'Li was staring at him, a bit glassy-eyed, a furrow between her brows. "Yes?" he said, and when a reply was not immediately forthcoming, added, "How are you feeling?" She needed to drink some water, though he had been hoping to get her in a more stable position first before going in search of a pitcher.

"You," she said suspiciously. "Whatchu doin' down there?" She squinted. "Gongzi," she tacked on after a moment of consideration.

Gongzi? That was a new one. "I'm taking off your shoes," he ventured, and held up the one in his hand. "Since I think it may be beyond your capabilities at the moment."

The brow-furrow deepened. "Your face," she said.

She wasn't always the most eloquent drunk, but she'd get to a sentence eventually. "My face?" he prompted.

There was a pause as she inspected him with half-lidded eyes. "'s good," she said finally.

Waiting for her to make a sentence had been worth it. "You like my face?" he said, delighted. His wife was a delightful drunk.

"'s good face," she said, sounding defensive. Her lips were turning down at the corners. Adorable.

"I'm glad you think so," he said, still feeling, despite all the intervening years, just as warm as he had that night in the rain in Luyang.

She must have found something about his reaction unsatisfying because her frown deepened. "'s'not that good," she said. "Not as good as th' face--" A hiccup cut her off and she startled, losing her train of thought. She stared at him in surprise. "What?" she said, as if he had been the one interrupted.

This would be the perfect opportunity to move the conversation in a more productive, sleep-adjacent direction, if he weren't dying to know whose face his wife liked better than his. "You were saying, you've seen better faces than mine, apparently," he said. He was not pouting, because he wasn't a baby.

"Yeah," she said, emphatically. "Face of Xiao Heng. M' husban'."

"Your…husband?" he said slowly. "Your husband Xiao Heng? You like his face better than my face?"

"So what?" she said, belligerent. "'m allowed. He's mine."

"That he is," Xiao Heng agreed, nonplussed. She must be drunker than he thought. Drunk enough to forget who he was--but thankfully not so drunk that she forgot he existed. Theoretically. Somewhere.

"Well," she said, seeming appeased. "You got good eyebrows."

"You like my eyebrows, huh?" He raised them at her.

"Yeah," she said, jabbing a finger in their general direction. He caught it before she could poke out his eye. "Nice an' hairy."

"You like my eyebrows because they're…hairy?" he asked, but she had already moved on, her gaze now trained hazily on his mouth. "What?" he said, curious to know what she would have to say about that part of his anatomy, but she just kept staring. "You are so drunk," he teased.

"'m not," she said, frowning again. She pushed at his hand until he released her finger.

"No? You're totally sober right now? Could have fooled me," he said.

"Not drunk. Don't get drunk," she said. "Not safe."

Now it was his turn to frown. "How come it's not safe?" he said, though he wasn't sure why he was asking. He already knew the answer.

"People can do stuff. To you," she said, enunciating carefully, "when you are incap…sasitaded."

"Incapacitated," he said automatically.

"Sapsidated," she agreed, nodding her head, then stopped immediately and clutched her temples. He put his hands on her thighs to steady her, then thought better of it. She thought he was some stranger, after all.

She squinted at him again. "You're not gonna, though," she said matter-of-factly.

"Not gonna what?"

"Do stuff to me."

"That's right," he said. "I won't do anything. How could you tell?"

"Just know these things," she said loftily.

"Oh?" He smiled, relieved and endeared. She felt safe with him, even when she didn't know why. Teasing, he asked, "But how do you know these things?"

"Tell you a secret," she said, leaning forward precariously. He caught her by the shoulders, propping her up. In the whisper-shout of drunks everywhere, she said, "'m a very. Smart. Cookie."

He loved her. To the ends of the earth, he loved her. "Is that so?" he said, and thought about how much he would kiss her in the morning. She would be cranky, and her breath would be horrible, and he would kiss her and kiss her and kiss her. "And that's a secret?"

"What's a secret?" she asked curiously, and he laughed, and she glared at him, and he felt his love for her like a balloon about to burst inside of him. "I think it's bedtime for you, sober-niangzi," he said.

If looks could kill they'd be scraping pieces of him off the walls tomorrow. "Sober-furen," she corrected, and then added, "'s'not for you to decide," managing to sound imperious despite her drooping eyelids and the fact that only his intervention was keeping her from faceplanting onto the floor.

"That's true," he said. "That was just this one's humble opinion. What does sober-furen think? Perhaps she'd like to play a game of Go?"

"'m very good at Go," she said, and then, emphatically, "very good. Better'n you def'nitely."

"Yes, I believe that," he said. "Well, you would be doing me a great favor not to challenge me to a game of Go this evening. My ego is very fragile, you know."

"Yeah, I bet," she said, much more confidently than he thought was warranted, then she smiled at him. "'s'okay," she said, reaching out and haphazardly patting the side of his topknot. "Least you got good eyebrows."

Xiao Heng felt his heart clench inside him from an excess of tenderness. One of the things he had learned from knowing A'Li was that hearts could do that. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than for her to recognize him, to remember that they played Go all the time and she was in fact better than him, specifically. For her to love his eyebrows because they belonged to him, her husband. "Have you told him?" he asked. "Your husband. Does he know how much you like his face?"

"He knows," she said. "I told him."

"Maybe you should tell him again," said Xiao Heng. "The next time you see him. I think he'd like to hear it again."

"You think?" she asked, and then, before he could reply, she started to rise from the bed, as if to find him and tell him that very instant.

He caught her and pulled her back down. "Not right now. Just sit and rest your eyes for a moment. When you open them, he'll be here and you can tell him anything you want. Okay?"

She looked down at him, still on the floor. "He'll be here? How d'you know?"

He smiled. "Just know these things," he said. "I'm something of a smart cookie myself. I get it from my wife."

She was quiet long enough he thought surely she had lost the thread of their conversation. But eventually she said, "Okay. Then I'll wait here fr'im."

He thought of the long years she had already waited, and wanted to tell her, he's here, I'm here, I'll never make you wait again. But her eyes were closing, and she trusted him, both the him-that-was-here, to be a safe person, and the him-that-was-her-husband, to return to her. He knew what a gift that was, to be trusted by her.

So he took off her other shoe, then made quick work of her hairpins. He swung her legs onto the bed, one hand behind her shoulder blades to lower her back onto the cushions. He lifted her head and repositioned the bolster under her neck. He hadn't had the chance to make her drink water, and he'd surely hear all about that tomorrow. But he was looking forward to it--tomorrow, that is. Tomorrow she would recognize him.

He sat on the edge of the bed and brushed a strand of hair out of her face. "See you when you wake up," he murmured, and looked toward the east, willing the earth to turn faster, willing the sun to rise.

[musicforastylesrestaurant]

Bestie could you pls write something about dadrry taking care of his sick toddler. Just him cuddling them and dotting all over them 🥺

Sick On Tour.

masterlist || ask me anything <3

blurb masterlist is here.

authors note - this was actually such a cute concept to write about! feel free to send in some concepts if your own by clicking here.

word count - 3.8k

in which, touring europe was meant to be a fun thing to do as a family, but when your toddler suddenly developes a sickness bug, you watch with fond eyes as your husband takes care of your little one, nursing them back to full health.

You stood by the hotel room window, the sun casting a warm glow across the room, as you watched a vibrant blue sky stretching as far as the eye could see.

It was a beautiful day outside, but inside your heart was heavy with concern.

Your three-year-old daughter, Willow, lay curled up in bed, battling a nasty stomach bug which had developed during the middle of the night when she came running from her adjacent hotel bed and onto yours and yours husbands.

The tranquility of the night was abruptly shattered when a soft whimper filled the room, jolting you awake. Your eyes blinked open, adjusting to the dim light, as you turned your head towards the sound.

There, in the faint moonlight, you saw your three-year-old daughter Willow standing by her bed, her little face etched with worry. Instinctively, you sat up, your heart pounding, and motioned for her to come closer. She hesitated for a moment, then shuffled her way towards you, her tiny feet tiptoeing across the carpeted floor.

She crawled onto your bed, her small body trembling. The scent of vomit wafted through the air, and you immediately understood the cause of her distress. Panic surged through you as you glanced at Willow's bed, confirming your suspicion.

"Oh, sweetheart, you've been sick," you whispered, gently pulling her closer. She buried her face against your shoulder, her cries muffled against your nightgown.

Harry stirred beside you, awakened by the commotion. His sleepy eyes widened as he took in the scene before him. Without a word, he reached out to Willow, drawing her into his protective embrace.

"What happened, love?" Harry asked, his voice filled with concern.

Willow hiccuped through her sobs, trying to form words between her tears. "I... I feel... sick," she managed to say, her voice quivering.

You looked at your husband, worry etched across your face. "It's alright, Willow. Mommy and Daddy are here for you," you assured her, rubbing her back in a soothing motion. "Let's get you cleaned up, my love."

Harry carefully lifted Willow from the bed, cradling her against his bare chest. She wrapped her arms around his neck, clinging to him as if he were her lifeline. The three of you made your way to the bathroom, where you began the process of cleaning up the mess.

As you gently wiped away the traces of illness, Willow gazed up at you, her wide, tear-filled eyes searching for comfort. "Mommy, I don't feel good," she whimpered.

You kissed her forehead softly, offering words of reassurance. "It's alright, sweetheart. Sometimes our tummies get upset, but we'll take care of you. Daddy and I are here to make you feel better."

Harry, ever the rock in times of need, interjected, his voice filled with warmth. "That's right, princess. We'll take care of you until you're all better."

Returning to the hotel bed, you settled Willow between you and Harry, cocooning her in your embrace. She nestled against her father's chest, seeking solace in his familiar heartbeat. His arms enveloped her, providing a sense of security and protection.

Willow's sobs slowly subsided, her trembling body finding solace in her father's warm embrace. Harry's gentle voice continued to offer words of comfort, soothing her worries as she drifted back to sleep, nestled against his chest.

You had been eagerly looking forward to an afternoon out with Sarah and Glenne for months, when Harry had told you that he was going to be touring in Wales, the three of you were going to go and look round at all the different sights that city had to offer, but now the thought of leaving Willow alone in her weakened state weighed heavily on you.

Every parent hated seeing their child sick, every toddler was bound to get sick just like when you all had the flu and Harry had to cancel some of his shows, you were all suffering with the flu but Willow took it exceptionally hard due to the fact she couldn’t exactly voice all her thoughts and feelings.

Just then, your husband Harry walked into the room, a sympathetic expression on his face which made you snap out of the daze you appeared to be in.

He understood the dilemma you faced and was determined to find a solution.

"Hey, love," Harry began gently, coming over to stand beside you. "I know Willow isn't feeling well, but you've been planning this day with Sarah and Glenne for so long. They've been looking forward to it too. Maybe we can find a way to make it work?"

It was true, seeing as this was one of the only days where you didn’t have anything planned, Harry had told you that it was fine that you go out with the girls and see the city of Cardiff but that was before Willow got sick.

You didn’t want to let your best friends down but you didn’t want to leave your daughter all high and vulnerable.

You turned to face Harry, the sunlight highlighting the worry lines on your forehead. "I can't bear the thought of leaving Willow like this, Harry. She's so sick and uncomfortable. What if she gets worse?"

Harry reached out, taking your hand in his, his touch providing a sense of comfort. "I understand your concerns, sweetheart. But remember, everyone’s here with us., and they all love Willow as much as we do. If I need any help, Mitch is next door who has a toddler himself, he can help take good care of her while you're gone."

Tears welled up in your eyes as you looked at Harry, your voice filled with worry. "What if she needs me? What if she feels scared and doesn't understand why I'm not there?"

Harry's voice softened as he pulled you into a reassuring embrace, the warmth of the sun's rays wrapping around you both. "I promise you, love, if Willow needs you, I'll call you immediately. We'll make sure she feels safe and loved. And sometimes, kids surprise us with how resilient they can be. Right now, she needs rest and care, and you deserve a break too."

You hesitated for a moment, torn between your desire to be there for your daughter and the longing to spend time with your friends.

Eventually, you took a deep breath and nodded, drawing strength from Harry's presence. "Okay, Harry. I trust you. Let's give it a try, but just know that you’ll be getting a text at least every twenty minutes to check on Willow.”

A genuine smile lit up Harry's face as he squeezed your hand gently. "Absolutely, love. I’ll keep a close eye on her, and if anything changes, you’ll be getting a call straight away to come back immediately. Sarah and Glenne are waiting for you, and they'll understand if you need to leave early."

With Harry's unwavering support and reassurance, you made your way to the door, the sunlight filtering through the window like a gentle reminder of hope.

"Remember, I love you, and you're just going to be just a phone call away," Harry whispered, his voice carrying a reassuring warmth. "Enjoy your time with Sarah and Glenne, and know that when you return, Willow will be in your arms, feeling better."

With one last glance at Willow, who lay sleeping peacefully, you let the sunlight guide you forward, casting aside your worries for a few hours. The day outside held the promise of healing, and you allowed yourself to immerse in the present moment, trusting in Harry's words and the love that surrounded Willow in your absence.

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Harry stood in the hotel room's small kitchenette, a pot of soup simmering on the stove. The aroma of warm broth and vegetables filled the air, creating a comforting atmosphere.

Once the soup was all cooked, he settled it next to the sippy cup of water on the tray and made his way over to where the hotel bed was.

With a tray in his hands carrying a bowl of warm soup. Willow, his three-year-old daughter, sat propped up against the pillows in the hotel bed, her small frame wrapped in a cosy blanket.

Her cheeks were flushed from the fever, and she looked weak and tired.

"Hey, angel baby," Harry greeted her softly, placing the tray on the nightstand. "I made you some soup. It's going to help make you feel better."

Willow mustered a weak smile, her voice frail. "Thank you, Daddy."

Harry settled himself on the edge of the bed, picking up the spoon and gently blowing on a spoonful of soup to cool it down. "Here, sweetheart, open up. Just take small bites."

Willow obediently opened her mouth, allowing Harry to feed her a spoonful of the warm soup. She tried her best to swallow it, but a wave of nausea washed over her, and she coughed, spitting the soup back into the bowl.

"Oh, it's okay, Willow," Harry reassured her, his voice filled with empathy. He grabbed a tissue and gently wiped her mouth. "We'll take it slow, alright? No rush."

Tears welled up in Willow's eyes, frustration evident in her voice. "I don't want to be sick, Daddy."

Harry's heart ached for his daughter as he gathered her into his arms, holding her close. "I know, sweetheart. It's not easy. But we're here with you, and we'll do everything we can to help you feel better."

Willow nestled against her father's chest, seeking comfort in his embrace. Harry stroked her hair soothingly, his voice gentle and reassuring. "Let's try again, okay? Maybe just a tiny sip this time."

Willow nodded, sniffling softly. She took another small sip of the soup, her face scrunching up in discomfort. She swallowed, but her body rebelled, and she vomited once more, tears streaming down her face.

Harry held her tightly, wiping away her tears. "It's alright, Willow. You tried, and that's what matters. We'll find something else that won't upset your tummy."

Willow's voice trembled as she spoke, her disappointment evident. "I'm sorry, Daddy. I just can't."

Harry kissed her forehead, his voice filled with love and understanding. "You don't need to apologize, my love. It's not your fault. We'll find another way to nourish you. How about we try some dry crackers or toast? Something lighter that might be easier for your tummy?"

Willow nodded, finding solace in her father's words. "Okay, Daddy. Maybe that will be better."

Harry gently guided her back onto the pillows, reaching for a plate of crackers and a slice of toast. He placed it within Willow's reach, his voice soothing. "Take your time, sweetheart. Whenever you feel ready, you can have a nibble. And if you're not hungry right now, that's perfectly alright too."

Willow nodded, her energy depleted. "Thank you, Daddy. You're the best."

Harry's heart swelled with love for his daughter as he caressed her cheek. "You're welcome, my brave girl. I'll always be here for you. We'll figure this out together, and you'll feel better soon."

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Harry stood in the bathroom, a concerned look on his face as he carefully prepared a warm bath for his three-year-old daughter, Willow, who was battling a stomach bug. He adjusted the faucets, ensuring the water was just the right temperature to provide some relief to her discomfort.

Taking a deep breath, Harry glanced at the assortment of bath products on the counter. He reached for a bottle of soothing lavender bubble bath, knowing its calming scent might bring some comfort to his little girl.

"Alright, Willow, we're going to have a special bath today to help you feel better," Harry said, his voice filled with gentle reassurance. "Let's make it extra relaxing, shall we?"

Willow, her face pale and tired, nodded weakly. She clutched her stomach, her tiny body aching from the persistent bug. But she trusted her dad to make things a little easier for her.

Harry stood in the bathroom, a concerned look on his face as he carefully prepared a warm bath for his three-year-old daughter, Willow, who was battling a stomach bug. He adjusted the faucets, ensuring the water was just the right temperature to provide some relief to her discomfort.

Taking a deep breath, Harry glanced at the assortment of bath products on the counter. He reached for a bottle of soothing lavender bubble bath, knowing its calming scent might bring some comfort to his little girl.

"Alright, Willow, we're going to have a special bath today to help you feel better," Harry said, his voice filled with gentle reassurance. "Let's make it extra relaxing, shall we?"

Willow, her face pale and tired, nodded weakly. She clutched her stomach, her tiny body aching from the persistent bug. But she trusted her dad to make things a little easier for her.

Harry knelt down beside her, placing a hand on her back. "I know it's been tough, sweetheart, but we'll do our best to make you feel a bit better, alright? The bath will help soothe your tummy."

Willow mustered a faint smile, grateful for her dad's comforting presence. She leaned into him, seeking solace in his touch.

With great care, Harry helped Willow undress, taking his time to ensure she felt safe and comfortable. He selected her favourite towel, soft and fluffy, ready to embrace her delicate skin.

Harry stood in the bathroom, a concerned look on his face as he carefully prepared a warm bath for his three-year-old daughter, Willow, who was battling a stomach bug. He adjusted the faucets, ensuring the water was just the right temperature to provide some relief to her discomfort.

Taking a deep breath, Harry glanced at the assortment of bath products on the counter. He reached for a bottle of soothing lavender bubble bath, knowing its calming scent might bring some comfort to his little girl.

"Alright, Willow, we're going to have a special bath today to help you feel better," Harry said, his voice filled with gentle reassurance. "Let's make it extra relaxing, shall we?"

Willow, her face pale and tired, nodded weakly. She clutched her stomach, her tiny body aching from the persistent bug. But she trusted her dad to make things a little easier for her.

Harry knelt down beside her, placing a hand on her back. "I know it's been tough, sweetheart, but we'll do our best to make you feel a bit better, alright? The bath will help soothe your tummy."

Willow mustered a faint smile, grateful for her dad's comforting presence. She leaned into him, seeking solace in his touch.

With great care, Harry helped Willow undress, taking his time to ensure she felt safe and comfortable. He selected her favorite towel, soft and fluffy, ready to embrace her delicate skin.

As Harry prepared the bath, he added a few drops of the lavender bubble bath, watching as the water transformed into a frothy, fragrant oasis. He swirled it gently, creating a cloud of bubbles that floated atop the surface.

"Look, Willow! We've got magic bubbles today!" Harry exclaimed, his voice filled with playful excitement. "They're here to make you feel all cosy and relaxed."

He lifted her into the tub, ensuring her body was well supported. Willow winced as she eased herself into the warm water, the discomfort evident on her face.

Harry sat on a stool next to the tub, a washcloth and a gentle, fragrance-free soap at hand. He dipped the cloth into the water, wringing it out before carefully washing Willow's body, mindful of her sensitivity.

As he washed her, Harry maintained a soothing conversation, speaking softly and tenderly. He distracted her with stories of their favorite adventures, trying to ease her mind from the uneasiness caused by the stomach bug.

"Remember that time we went to the park and fed the ducks, Willow?" Harry asked, a gentle smile playing on his lips. "They quacked so loudly when you threw bread to them!"

Willow managed a small smile, her eyes flickering with fleeting joy. "Yeah, Daddy. They were funny."

Harry continued to cleanse her, moving with gentle strokes and utmost care. He avoided any sensitive areas, mindful of her discomfort. Willow leaned into his touch, finding solace in her father's loving presence.

As the bath went on, Harry noticed Willow's fatigue growing. He poured warm water over her hair, gently massaging her scalp with his fingertips. Willow closed her eyes, surrendering to the soothing sensation.

"Daddy, I don't feel good," Willow murmured, her voice barely audible.

Harry's heart ached, his love for his daughter shining through his eyes. "I know, sweetheart. I wish I could make it all go away for you. Just a little while longer, and we'll get you out of the bath and into some cozy pajamas."

He carefully rinsed away the soap, making sure not to get any water in her eyes. Once Willow was clean, he lifted her out of the tub, enveloping her in a soft, warm towel. She leaned heavily against him, seeking his support.

Harry carried Willow to her bedroom, laying her on the bed. He dressed her in the softest, most comfortable pyjamas he could find, being extra gentle as he handled her delicate frame.

"Almost there, my brave girl," Harry whispered, placing a tender kiss on her forehead. "Now, let's get you settled and rest up."

"Daddy, can we cuddle on the sofa? My tummy hurts," Willow requested, her voice soft and vulnerable.

Harry's heart melted at the sight of his daughter in need of comfort. He nodded, a gentle smile gracing his lips. "Of course, sweetheart. Let's make you feel better."

Harry carefully lifted the duvet from their bed and spread it over the sofa, creating a cozy nest for their cuddle session. Willow eagerly climbed onto the sofa, nestling herself against Harry's side. He wrapped the soft duvet around their bodies, cocooning them in warmth.

"Are you comfy, my little princess?" Harry asked, brushing a strand of hair away from Willow's face.

Willow nodded, her eyes lighting up with anticipation. "Yes, Daddy. Can we watch 'The Little Mermaid'?"

Harry couldn't resist her request, knowing that the familiar story would provide a soothing distraction from her discomfort. He reached for the TV remote and found the beloved Disney film, adjusting the volume to a gentle level.

With the movie playing, Willow nestled closer to Harry, finding solace in his embrace. She rested her head on his lap, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest with each breath.

As the film unfolded, Harry couldn't help but marvel at Willow's innocent wonder. Her eyes were glued to the screen, captivated by Ariel's underwater adventures. He smiled, knowing that even in the midst of her illness, her spirit remained resilient.

Halfway through the movie, Willow's eyelids grew heavy, her body succumbing to exhaustion. Harry continued to stroke her hair, his touch gentle and soothing.

"Daddy, I'm tired," Willow whispered, her voice barely audible.

Harry's heart swelled with love and tenderness as he looked down at his daughter. "It's okay, my love. Rest your eyes. I'll be right here with you."

Willow snuggled deeper into her father's lap, finding comfort in his presence. Within moments, her breathing steadied, and her little body relaxed into a peaceful slumber.

Harry couldn't help but smile, his heart overflowing with affection. He watched as the characters on the screen continued their enchanting journey, but his attention was solely on his sleeping daughter. He marvelled at her innocence and the depth of his love for her.

It wasn’t long before you were walking through the hotel door.

You turned the doorknob and stepped into the hotel room, feeling a mix of exhaustion and excitement after a day of sightseeing in Cardiff with your friends.

As you entered, a heartwarming sight awaited you - your husband and your precious daughter fast asleep on the sofa, their peaceful expressions revealing the toll the stomach bug had taken on your angel baby.

A soft smile graced your lips as you quietly approached them. The scene was too precious to resist capturing, so you reached for your phone from your back pocket, snapping a photo to cherish the love and vulnerability that filled the room.

It would most likely become your wallpaper later.

After taking the picture, you leaned in and pressed a tender kiss to both Harry and Willow's foreheads, whispering, "I love you both more than words can say," as your lips met their skin.

The soft touch of your kiss stirred Harry from his slumber, his eyes fluttering open to meet yours. He blinked a few times, a sleepy smile forming on his face.

"Hey, love. You're back," he murmured, his voice laced with warmth and held a slight rasp due to the fact he just woken up.

You settled down beside them on the sofa, grateful for the comfort of their presence.

“Yes, I'm back. How was your day here with Low?" you asked, your voice filled with curiosity.

Harry shifted, making room for you on the sofa, careful not to disturb the snoozing tot.

"It was eventful, to say the least," he replied, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Willow had a bit of a rough time with her stomach, but we managed. We watched 'The Little Mermaid,' as she requested, and cuddled up together. She fell asleep just a little while ago."

A mix of relief and concern washed over you. "I'm glad she had you by her side, Harry. You always know how to make her feel safe and loved," you said, admiration evident in your voice.

Harry smiled, his eyes shining with love. "She's my little princess, after all. Taking care of her is the most important thing to me."

You took a moment to gaze at Willow, her tiny frame nestled against her father's. A surge of gratitude filled your heart for the incredible bond they shared.

"How was your day with Sarah and Glenne?" Harry asked, curiosity evident in his eyes.

You recounted the adventures of the day, sharing stories of the places you had visited and the laughter you had shared. The joy in your voice was contagious as you reminisced about the memories made with your friends.

As you finished sharing your day, you turned to Harry, your eyes filled with concern. "And how was Willow? Did she have a tough time today?"

Harry nodded, his expression filled with reassurance. "It was a bit challenging at times, but we managed. She had her moments of discomfort, but we made sure to give her the care she needed. She's a strong little girl, just like her mum."

A warm feeling spread within you, grateful for Harry's unwavering love and dedication to your family. You placed a gentle hand on Willow's back, feeling the rise and fall of her breath.

Love On Tour.

More like Sick On Tour.

[revive-the-fandom]

The Dragon Hunters

First, to cover everything we learned of the Hunters excluding Johann's involvement:

The Hunters have been around for "generations" which according to wiki is 20 - 30 years per generation, making the hunters at least 40 years old, likely older. We know this because Ingar Ingerman's techniques have been used by Hunters for "generations".

(The fact that Fishlegs is unaware of Ingar's existence implies that he was either ancient, and "generations" refers to great-great grandparents or older, or that Fishleg's family broke away and purposefully forgot/didn't teach/lied to their children of their true family origin)

This age of the Hunters was also implied by Viggo, whose grandfather is mentioned as being either Hunter or Hunter adjacent many times in the series. Him playing as the Marauder and not the Viking Chief in Maces and Talons also suggests that he was a Hunter.

Making the age of the Dragon Hunters closer to 80 years. This is calculated using the average age for Httyd Vikings having children being 25 (Valka was 20, Stoick was 30 their average is 25, Hiccup and Astrid were both 25 when Zephyr was born) + Ryker and Viggo (the youngest known generation) being at least 30 or older.

This also makes Viggo a nepo baby/inheritor of the Hunter's legacy/throne/chiefdom etc rather than simply the best tactition there (this is of course, ignoring that Ryker is actually first in line as it seems that until RTTE he was happy for Viggo to take charge, possibly even waiving his claim for Viggo - or in a less happy circumstance, was forced to waive the chiefdom by his parents/grandfather).

as for the dragon eye:

it's belonged to Viggo's tribe for centuries, and Viggo feels slighted by the loss of it. So we know that this is personal to Viggo's family/tribe regardless as to whether Viggo's tribe is the Dragon Hunters, is what became the Dragon Hunters, or if it was only the ancestors of a few Dragon Hunters (Ryker and Viggo).

This brings the possible age of the Hunters up to 200 - 300 years, as long as Berk has been settled/fighting Dragons. Or this is just their origin, when Viggo's clan settling in the region before becoming full blown Hunters.

we also know that Viggo knows the ins and outs of the Dragon Eye's construction, more so than even Ryker.

so it's possible that this information was passed down through the leadership of the Hunters, or more specifically, to the inheritor of Viggo's tribe's chiefdom. Both suggest that Viggo's grandfather may have been the one to impart this knowledge onto Viggo, as we also have the implication that Viggo inherited his intelligence (and love for Maces and Talons) from his grandfather.

The Dragon Eye going missing also seems to imply that the Hunters were felled/disbanded/forced into exile at some point, and Viggo and Ryker are only just now restoring them from the ground up - possibly in their grandfather's name. This is also where ym headcanon that Viggo at least used to live in/grew up in York/Jorvik comes from, as it would explain his english accent (ok, in the context of the show.. not real life as this accent wouldnt exist).

we also get a little insight into why the Hunters had this dark age/disbandment through Viggo's fall from power - the Grimborn's have no loyalty/regard for others and a short violent temper:

and viggo's focus on only his own pride

which is more than likely what killed them - the people rising up or abandoning them. which is technically what happened to Viggo, both through Ryker's betrayal, and the Hunters leaving him for dead.

Ryker's betrayal makes more sense when considering that he was the people's man.

the Hunter's purpose, why they exist as a group, is to earn money. there is also additional themes of conquering the unconquerable, power and control, and genuine service to a people threatened by beasts.

The Hunters may have originally formed as a warrior group that worked as a sort of pest control, their methods for dragon killing are better and more refined than any other villain we see in the series, including the movies and grimmel as the movie villains seem more interested and successful in capturing and forcing dragons into a slave army than they ever are in killing anything.

the Hunters may then have begun using, or even spearheaded the use of dragon parts in clothing, materials, weapons etc. which might have earned them more money than pest control, leading to them using auctions and markets as their primary source of income.

their use of dragon root seems to be standard knowledge + practicality as Berk knows what dragon root is they just didn't refine it or use it in the same way.

their ships are confusing as they're mulltihull ships that are more in line with what Drago sails than what the vikings sail. this is confusing as Drago's ships are destinctive because he comes from elsewhere in the world and has travelled far to reach Berk. the Hunters ships seem to be stolen from Drago's fleet. perhaps suggesting a raid or battle, or even defection - but this doesnt fit with Krogan's arrival and their attitude towards their "buyer" (Drago).

To me the ships seem to be a bit of an oversight. an inconsistency that wasnt supposed to be thought about because they were just recycling assets (in the same way that Ryker is a recycled Drago design).

so s4 ends with the death of the Hunters in Shell Shocked: Viggo and Ryker are fighting each other and the majority of the Hunters have fled to Ryker's side (he is the people's man after all). Ryker is killed, viggo is injured presumed dead, the Hunters are all but destroyed (again)

months go by and Krogan gathers up the remnants of the Hunters and forces them (penalty of death) to become his flyers.

Krogan's motivations are to bring success to Drago, in rtte's instance this seems to be through providing a Bewilderbeast for Drago.

Krogan seems to have thought that the Hunters are his best bet for finding a bewilderbeast, or gathering the resources to do it himself. He's known as a big buyer by Viggo and Ryker, so has only met them briefly if at all. He seems to have scoped out the Hunters in Auction Heroes and Midnight Scrum and decided that Viggo and Ryker are below him.

Krogan then apporaches Viggo and explains how he's usurped the Hunters and trained his flyers.

Krogan then offers Viggo the resources to recover the Dragon Eye from the volcano so that Viggo can keep ahold of his tribal artefact and potentially rebuild his empire, in return for his help in finding and capturing the King of Dragons/Bewilderbeast. Krogan gets access to Viggo's intelligence, and Viggo gets access to Krogan's resources.

Viggo's motivation seems to remain power, wealth and pride.

Viggo and Krogan crucially neglect to follow Ryker's example, they don't care for their men or armies, which ultimately leads to their downfall yet again:

Viggo obviously has his epiphany moment where his worldview is flipped and he learns to respect dragons, perhaps as a reflection on his relationship with his brother, and how his brother chose companionship and loyalty over wealth and power.

Krogan's armies are repeatedly defeated via their singetails not being loyal to the flyers.

Viggo dies as part of his redemption and Krogan is murdered for not realising his.

which explains the Hunters and everything we know about them excluding Johann. but now lets add Johann into the picture:

given all we know of the Hunters and the implications from Viggo that he inherited the leader position or revitalised it, it's unlikely that Johann was the "true" leader or secretly the leader of the Hunters. That position remains with Viggo and Ryker.

and we know that Krogan is both working for Drago and has usurped the Hunters through force. so Johann has no part in that either.

Johann himself says that he's paying them, so there's no loyalty to him outside of money.

there's so many issues with Johann so let's just start with his statements in In Plain Sight

Johann reveals his motivation is to find the King of Dragons which he believes is the key to his wealth and power

so all Johann wants is power and money, which he thinks the King of Dragons will get him. it's unclear if Johann plans to sell the bewilderbeast to Krogan (who gives it to Drago) or if he's oblivious to Krogan's motivations and just thinks he's there for the gold he's paying him.

I think it might be the latter because in King of Dragons Krogan betrays him twice, attempting to kill him. first by not warning him to dodge the bewilderbeasts ice, and then by stealing the egg and fleeing and leaving Johann to fight the bewilderbeast and hiccup and toothless alone.

Johann claims to have been working against the riders since Breakneck Bog

which happens in the first ever season, Riders of Berk, and is only Johann's second appearance, which I believe is an oversight from the writers as his first appearance 8 episodes prior had him sell poisonous flowers to Mildew who poisoned the dragons on Berk. was he not also behind that? that was actually much more villainous than Breakneck bog as he spent that episode begging them not to go there, stranded at sea, and then he loses all of his wares and gold.

this tirade against the Riders is more suspicous as his third appearance has him sneak the Berkians onto Outcast Island to rescue Hiccup.

his fourth has him stuck in a frozen sea, rescued by Hiccup and Toothless and then stranded on Berk with the speed stingers until the ice thaws.

his fifth has him sell smokebreath infested metal to Berk from Dagur. which, again, is more villainous that Breakneck Bog as it destroys Berk's armoury and comes directly from Dagur.

Johann also facilitated Dagur's escape, but, once again got stranded at sea. it makes you wonder just how good of a swimmer he is to have this much trust in his plans to incorporate getting stranded this many times.

these two I have less complaints about in the "bad plan" department but they do cause some bumps with the "when did Johann ally the Hunters" question.

His speech to Hiccup, mentioning Breakneck Bog, suggests that he's been involved since Riders of Berk, when they were 15 - 16 yros. but his reaction to Viggo and Viggo's reaction to him in Last Auction Heroes is extremely weird if this is true:

theres no need for any of these theatrics if they're in league with each other. if they are in league with each other here then Viggo should either be expecting Johann, and understand that the Riders are likely plotting something. or he should have some sort of communication with Johann that suggests they know each other, or that Johann can't talk freely else he'll blow his cover.

the way this scene in Auction Heroes plays out makes it seem as though Viggo has no idea who Johann is, and that Johann is still playing the long game by being deep undercover.

so when did Johann and Viggo actually join up?

I believe Dagur joined sometime around Have Dragon Will Travel as that's when he gets the dragon proof metal, which is associated with the Hunters alone.

Heather likely joined soon after.

but Johann doesn't seem to start acting suspicious or in league with the Hunters until s5, in Sandbusted. as his last appearance in s4 is Dire Straits, where he is the only survivor and near victim of the submarriper.

if he was in league with the Hunters at this point, why would he sail directly over the submapripper, planted specifically by the Hunters. if he was in league he could have just watched from a distance to check it was working, or have the Hunters themselves check.

Sandbusted has him send the Riders on a mission to find what's killing the merchants (sandbuster) which could easily be a trap set by him to separate the riders and get them killed off (hiccup specifically).

Dawn of Destruction has him separate Hiccup and Astrid from the Riders and the Edge immediately before the flyers attack. which also works perfectly fine for someone in league with them.

everything in s5 works towards the plot twist that Johann is secretly working with Viggo and Krogan. so it seems most likely that Johann joined between s4 and s5, after Ryker's death and the Hunters disbandment. He may even have paid Krogan to build the flyers and recruit Viggo to help him track down the King of Dragons.

He would need Krogan to bring skill and ruthlessness and to be a leader more interested in the results than the game. Viggo to bring his knowledge, experience and most importantly the Dragon Eye to track down the King of Dragons.

This would explain why Johann seems so out of the loop in Dire Straits and Auction Heroes, as he wouldn't have been allied or privy to the Hunter's plans. and he would still be undercover from Viggo and the Hunters as a whole.

His actions prior to this, such as Riders, Defenders, and Have Dragon Will Travel were likely his own plans, independent of anyone else's influence (and yes, i still think they're stupid plans as he ends up stranded at sea, losing massive swaths of his wealth which we have established is his entire motivation, and needed rescues from dragons a fucking lot).

the outlier here that I struggle to fit in is Edge of Disaster, as he pulls the Riders away from the Edge right as the Hunters attack. this happens in s2, long before he theoretically join in s5.

my best guess is that the Hunters, possibly with Dagur or Heather's help, were trying to use Johann as a distraction. Johann, being intelligent and hating the Riders might have seen this opportunity and "fallen" for the Hunter's trap/distraction - this might have involved the Hunters herding him towards the Dragon Nest.

However, this doesn't explain why Johann wouldn't blame the Hunters for forcing him into the Dragon's path, as it would take the blame/suspicion off of him for writing to Hiccup that he was under attack by the Hunters.

so to recap:

the Hunters likely evolved from Viggo and Ryker's clan, they may have stolen their multihull ship design from a section of Drago's army at some point. the Dragon Eye was created and their grandfather likely held a chief/leader position before the original Hunters were destroyed, likely because of the Grimborn's lack of loyalty to their crew and/or family. The Dragon Eye was lost and the Hunters disbanded, Viggo and Ryker ending up miles from home, possibly Jorvik.

Viggo and Ryker re-establish the Hunters, with Ryker giving Viggo the leadership role. They pick up allies in the Archipelago, Dagur most predominantly, followed by Heather, who recount to them that the Dragon Eye has been found and is being held by the Riders.

Viggo and Ryker then begin their war with the Riders, but Viggo falls into the same trap his ancestors did and forgets to value his crew or family. Ryker usurps the Hunters with the crew's support, but it ends in disaster and Ryker is killed, the Dragon Eye lost and Viggo injured.

Johann realises the potential of the Hunters now that they've disbanded and pays Krogan to recruit Viggo to use the Dragon Eye and rebuild the Hunters (under Krogan's command) to find and sell the King of Dragons.

or at least, that's the best that I can understand the Hunters?

[saturnniidae]

Closest thing to a weighted blanket is Toothless laying on top of him. Unfortunate side effect of not being able to breathe </3

Hiccup likes being manhandled.

[kai-malewife]

Drunken Night | Alhaitham

Alhaitham x gen!reader

Summary: Alhaitham abhors alcohol. Not only is it harmful to your health, but it also reduces anyone to a blithering imbecile, much like his roommate. Alcohol turns people into fools, yet Alhaitham is one of them.

Warnings : Not explicit but pretty suggestive (implied smut), mention of alcohol/drinking, making out, fluffy teasing, Alhaitham is a bit ooc?, very clingy and affectionnate scribe, a little clumsy too

Cross-Posted on Ao3 @ Zhonglis_cake_saves_lifes

Link here!

To say that Alhaitham could not hold his liquor was a major understatement. 

Sure, he'd had a drink with Kaveh a handful of times, seeing as the architect was quite the wine enthusiast, but he'd always limit his intake to no more than half a glass, hardly enough to get him tipsy in the slightest. He was always the responsible half, burdened with carrying his mindless roommate back home, the latter inebriated beyond recognition. He had grown accustomed to such a boundary and the unbidden duty it entailed, although at times he was more than inclined to abandon him there.

And now, sitting in the lounge of his very own home, he ponders: how is it that he finds himself in this predicament? 

His entire face is searing hot to the extent of vertigo, a sharp dizziness rendering his brain unable to sustain a decent train of thought, all the while his clothes clutch onto his damp skin, feeling unduly constricting, especially in a certain area he would rather avoid mentioning…

Perhaps it was the fact that you were both already inside the house, and thus there was no need for either of you to remain sober? Or maybe was it your exasperating obstinacy in prodding him until he relented to your plea? It's not as though he is fond of alcohol; booze tastes foul and is nowhere near healthy for your liver, particularly with the amount you've both consumed over the past hour. Then again, just how long can he truly retain his inflexible façade when you're flashing him that bright, toothy grin of yours as you so very ‘innocently’ refill the cup in his hands? 

He could rack his brains all night long, there was no denying that he was partly to blame for allowing himself to get carried away.

‘’Y’know alcohol’s supposed to loosen you up, right? No need t’be so stiff…’’

Your dulcet tones reach his reddened ears, each individual syllable keenly perceived, yet he struggles to process the sentences spilling past your lips. Glassy eyes dwell upon the pink flesh in motion, soft and seductive as strings of words flow, sparking within him a spontaneous urge to kiss you that he, unsuccessfully so, desperately attempts to suppress, unwilling to succumb to what he deems to be "uncouth" urges.

You’re facing him from the opposite end of the couch, peppily slurring nonsensical musings amidst a few hiccups, a sluggish smile etched on your face. 

A costly, now half-empty bottle of wine stands tall atop the wooden coffee table adjacent to the sofa alongside two glasses, both devoid of liquid. The room is spinning, and he can already sense the onset of an astronomical migraine pounding within his cranium; the dim glow of the bulbs adorning the living room ceiling combined with the extensive amount of alcohol coursing through his veins barely allowing him to discern anything past your hazy figure.

‘’...Hm? Haitham?’’ 

He closes in, body moving of its own volition, as though immersed in a trance, regaining his senses only when the gentle scent of your perfume, impregnated with the faint stench of liquor, pervades his nostrils. 

Your lids flutter shut in anticipation of a kiss, one which, curiously enough, does not occur. 

A frown creases your brows in bemusement and you glance up at the scribe, solely to be met with his signature taunting gaze; his lips had remained hovering above yours, distant of hardly a few millimeters, and tugged in a smirk even more irritating than the amused glint in his eyes. You scoff.

‘’Seems like drinkin’ didn't knock that lame sense of humor out of you, huh... ’’

''I, for one, do not believe it could ever deprive me of such an inherent trait of my personality.''

Despite his elaborate vocabulary -and dirty tricks!-, it is plainly obvious that your lover is not quite his usual self given his feverish demeanor -pinkish cheeks and unfocused stare- and the way his words, jestingly mumbled at little above a whisper, loosely drift to your ears, distinctively low and monotone albeit uncharacteristically muddled, almost nasally. Hardly fitting for one as well-spoken as the Scribe.

You shove him away in a huff before turning your back on the man in retaliation for his nasty prank.

‘’Jerk.’’

‘’Oh my, your words deeply wound me.’’ Attentive to your reactions, or rather lack thereof, he snickers at your sulkiness; a quiet, nearly inaudible sound filling the air. ‘’Come on. Don’t be like that.’’

‘’Should’ve thought bout’ your actions much sooner then.’’

Perhaps it is due to the influence of the wine, but Alhaitham neither has the desire nor the intention to leave the poor you alone. He just can't help teasing you a little, even more so when you respond in such an entertaining manner.

His large palms settle on your waist in a delicate but clumsy gesture, and before long, his warm forehead softly collides with your back, pressing gently against your spine.

‘’I’m sorryyy.’’

He playfully stretches out the last syllable, not a shred of remorse apparent in his voice, his hold on you gradually morphing into a full-blown embrace. The heat emanating from him seeps through the fabric of your shirt as he nestles even closer. 

The bizarre idea of a childish Alhaitham does not entirely sit well with you, but it is truly a sight to behold - not that you’d cave in and accept his half-assed apology just yet. After all, wouldn't it be much better to relish in the sporadic phenomenon that is a clingy Alhaitham for a little while longer?

Kisses begin to trail up your body, arising in the gap between your shoulder blades and extending all the way to the nape of your neck, ultimately spreading across your jawline with boundless affection and tenderness. And once you finally do turn to face him, to grant him all the attention he sought so dearly in his lovesick, drunken state, he doesn't miss the opportunity to capture your lips in one swift motion. 

Your fingertips leisurely reach towards his face in response, all past indignation long forgotten. Silken digits loiter on the pale moonlight skin, gliding along each feature, each curve and bump, in mellow circular strokes, soundlessly indulging the contented sighs escaping his throat. You cup his cheeks, pulling him immeasurably closer, your tongues intertwining in a slow, lustful dance as he carefully eases you down onto the sturdy sofa arm.

He props himself up above your breathless form, and as things grow more and more intimate, he fails to notice the extent to which one of his hands, lying flat on the padded surface, had inched closer to the edge of the upholstered seat. Utterly enthralled by the intensity of the moment, intoxicated by the taste of your tongue and the heavy panting flooding the room, Alhaitham inadvertently exerts more weight onto his palm, causing, to no surprise, the latter to slip, and resulting in the Haravatat student falling off the couch, and of course, dragging you down along with him.

It takes you several seconds to fully comprehend the situation, the shock sobering you up a bit.

His bare, toned back is resting flush against the cool stone flooring, and you, blouse unbuttoned and damped in sweat, now straddling him.

‘’…Seems like gravity’s gotten the best of Sumeru’s feeble scholar, hm?’’

He rolls his eyes, mumbling a retort you don’t quite catch under his breath. You find yourself unable to hold in a laugh at the look of sheer embarrassment written all over his pretty face. The scribe was notorious for his foolproof schemes and frequently boasted -though he prefers to call it "merely asserting his abilities"- of his lack of blundering. It is therefore truly a remarkable feat to witness him fumbling in such comical fashion. You’d almost feel bad for him. 

Almost.

Sensing the built-up arousal pulsing through his pants from beneath you, you flash him a smirk, preparing to resume what had been initiated on the snug sofa moments earlier when a sudden thought crosses your mind.

‘’I totally forgot but… Won’t Kaveh be home soon?’’

Alhaitham doesn't reply. Instead, he digs into his trouser pocket and retrieves a golden metal key dangling from an overly cutesy charm. Too cute for somebody the likes of your stoic boyfriend.

‘’Don’t worry about him, I already made sure he wouldn’t be an inconvenience.’’