#Ume is a terrible person (unrelated to her straightness)

[pureiceblue]

Please you can’t make Ume straight you can’t do this to me /?????

I'm sorry anon. She'd only have sex with a woman if it was for emotional cult related manipulation.

She does that to men too, but she actually finds them attractive.

[fakecrfan]

POV: You wake up in the TMA universe at the start of season 1.

You find yourself on the streets of London, cold and confused.

You try to figure out what happened and get home. You discover the place you lived no longer exists. The place you worked no longer exists.

You try to call the numbers of family, friends, anyone you knew. Baffled voices that you don’t recognize answer you, and then hang up.

As you're wandering around the streets getting increasingly terrified, you pass by the Magnus Institute. Then, everything makes sense.

You hurry in and blurt out: "I would like to make a statement"

Rosie smiles politely.

“Alright, let’s get you the proper forms then.”

She tells you that the Archivist, Jonathan Sims, will see you in a moment. As you are waiting for him, you recall what happens to people who give statements to Jonathan Sims. Unceasing bad dreams. Unrelenting panic attacks. Enough that Jess Tyrell stopped being able to go out in public.

"Ah," you think. "I will not do that then."

You leave in a hurry. Outside, you realize:

oh, I'm the only one who can stop the apocalypse now, aren't i

You shiver. That thought can wait, you think. For now you need to find... somewhere to stay. You are effectively homeless. No, not effectively. You are straight up homeless.

You pull out your wallet to pay for food. Your card is declined. You try to use cash, only to be told it’s counterfeit. Everything is just a little too much to the left of your reality for you to navigate.

Finally you find social services of some kind. They ask for your information, including your NIN. you aren't surprised when they say the info they have on file for that number is.... not you. You are disappointed though.

They help you to a homeless shelter. You sit on your cot and cry self-pityingly for a bit, and then that pressure comes back to your mind:

The world is going to end. You know the world is going to end. You're the only one who can do anything about it.

You turn over and decide that's something you can deal with in the morning.

----

The next day, you think about it again.

"That's something I can deal with when I have an apartment," is what you think then.

So that becomes your next project. Finding your footing as a displaced person. Social services helps but it's... sporadic. It takes months for you to get more stable housing.

When you lie down on the couch of the new, well, new associate you've made, you once again remember that the world is going to end. That you are the only one who can do anything about it.

"I'll think about that when I get a job"

-----

Time continues to pass. As you are trying to get on your feet, you make feeble attempts to... start something.

You go to the Magnus Institute a few times. But it's hard. You've always had terrible social anxiety,. And everyone there seems so cold. You can feel eyes on your back: staring, watching your every move. Normally that alone is enough to make you quit for the day.

A lot of times, the main cast you remember is out doing research. When they are there, you are about to walk up and speak to them when the anxiety hits you again.

What if Elias sees you talking to them? What if he kills you?

You decide to retreat for a little while, then. Just to think of a better plan.

You spend the next month getting your first job in this new world. You start a timeline of when you think the apocalypse is going to happen, but remembering the canon dates is hard. It's not a very helpful timeline, and so you give it up.

Eventually you think the best thing to do is to wait until Elias has been arrested and then talk to the others. When Elias is in prison, he can't murder you for revealing your plans.

This means Sasha and Tim will die. But--they might have died anyway, even with your intervention. Who’s to say? Anyway, you’re not the one who will kill them. It’s not your fault.

You scan the news every day for things about the Magnus Institute, particularly the head of it getting arrested.

During this time, you do a little better. You have a nice apartment now, you think. Nice by your own standards, at least. You decorate the place a little. Get some video games that you like--or well, they aren't the same ones as in your world, but close enough you think?

Months pass.

One day it hits you that maybe the papers would never actually report on Elias being arrested.

Oh shit, you think.

You go back to the Magnus Institute then. By this point, Rosie recognizes you. She grants you the same expression one grants a wayward alley cat. You ask who the current head is. You are told "Peter Lukas."

Shit.

"Can I make a statement?"

Rosie looks nervous. "Um, the Archivist is on medical leave."

"Okay can I talk to one of his assistants?"

Rosie gets this very tired look in her eyes.

"I'll... ask."

Rosie phones the archives extension

it rings

it rings

it rings

"They've all really been through it recently," Rosie tells you. "They don't--like to talk to anyone else, now."

"I have to talk to them," you say. "Um, can you--can you tell Martin Blackwood specifically that I need to talk to him? That it's about Jon?"

Martin is--you like Martin. Martin will be nice and safe. He'll be easier to talk to than Melanie at this point, or Basira. Still, Rosie looks tired again.

"I'll have a chat with him," Rosie says. "How about you go home for now, and I'll call you when I've talked to him."

"But--"

You're bad at this. You were always bad at this. You can barely sign up for anything on your own. Your mother has done so many calls and filled out so many forms for you.

You never cultivated the skill of standing in a lobby and insisting to talk to someone. Maybe you'll just irritate Rosie and she'll blacklist you if you dig in your heels now. Anyway, you're already so tired from this. You think about going home, and playing some Medal of Honour IV.

"Fine," you say.

You go home. You play the game. You sleep.

You're not giving up, you say to yourself. You're just--biding your time.

Rosie does not call you.

It pains you, but you realize you have to go back in and ask to speak to someone again. You'll go today after work, you decide.

No, wait, you're too tired from work today. You'll go tomorrow.

Maybe on the weekend.

----

You finally go back

Rosie tells you she just--hasn't been able to get a hold of Martin.

"Fine," you say. "Any of the other assistants."

Rosie actually looks a bit worried for you. "Um, they're not--they don't take well to unexpected visitors. Let me wait and chat them up about it."

You do not listen this time.

You march down into the basement level where the archives are. The door is--well. Shit. It's barricaded? You knock. You keep knocking.

"Melanie! Basira!" you say. "I have to talk!"

The door opens too quickly. You barely get a glimpse of Melanie's snarl before she strikes and your vision goes white.

She hits you a few times. No knives, just fists. You hear Basira in the backround, barking for Melanie to stand down. Once there is an opening and you can blearily see again, you run away in terror.

It's not--you didn't intend to run. You were just afraid.

----

You go home, and realize that Melanie didn't even really hit you in a super serious way. Nothing that would warrant a hospital trip, at least. Nothing that has left you with a lot of pain, outside of the immediate terror of physical violence.

You probably could have stuck it out there. You should have.

You think about all the months--no, years now--that have passed without you making any progress.

"But that’s not my fault,” you say.

"I was having a really hard time. I was homeless. I've been struggling with my mental health. I still have to keep the rent paid and feed myself."

"It's not my fault. It's not."

"I will do something. Just--I need some more time."

You sleep.

You decide to wait a bit for your bruises to heal up before going back.

When you do drag yourself back to the Institute, now there is a PTSD reaction to going into the Institute on top of the social anxiety.

You leave quickly. Rosie looks so sad for you.

You do try to go back. You do try to get back in contact with the Archives, or go back when Jon is back up. But there's always something. Not something directly stopping you. Just--

Tiredness. Work. Illness. Doctor's appointments. Panic attacks. The Archives staff being unreachable.

The world is going to end. You're the only one who can stop it.

"That's not true though," you think. "I mean, technically anyone could. I just have a little more information that could help."

"It's never one person's fault," you tell yourself as you crawl into bed after another flight of anxiety struck you as you were about to cross the street to the Institute. "It's everything. It's--a whole system. It's Jonah's fault really. If I don't--I'm not to blame."

“I’m not to blame.”

----

You are playing Medal of Honour V when your phone lights up with a notification that there was an outburst of violence at a place known as the Magnus Institute, and billionaire Peter Lukas has disappeared in the confusion.

You should get up. It’s going to happen, and happen soon. You hand twitches on the controller.

You remember a quote you saw before you ended up here, on Facebook of all things.

"Don't wonder what you'd be doing in Nazi Germany. Whatever you're doing now, is what you would have been doing then."

Because bad things were happening in the world all the time, your preachy Facebook aunt said. There is always genocide, and famine, and war. It’s not some movie fantasy from the past.

You think about that. About the horrors in your world. Those movements that you retweeted support for and occasionally donated $5 to. The protests you awkwardly passed by on your way to work.

You quietly realize what kind of person you are. What you would have been doing in Nazi Germany, or the civil rights era in the U.S., or during the catastrophes in your own world, or right now.

It's what you were always going to do.

And so you get back to Medal of Honour V.

----

You're still dreading the apocalypse of course. It won’t be easy.  It will be around six months to a year of full on torture, specifically designed to be the worst you have ever felt. Something about that soothes you. Something about knowing you are a victim too, or maybe knowing that you’ll be punished.

But--it will end, and then you'll be alright. Everything will return to normal, and you can go back to your apartment and your job and your games. It’s not all that bad.

You feel a twinge of guilt for Martin and Jon, who you could ave intervened for. You feel more than a twinge for the worlds the Entities will infect after. But--maybe it will all work out okay. Maybe the universe is a kind place. Maybe other worlds will be able to handle the fears better.

Who knows! There is always hope!

----

[When the sky turns red and the great Eye opens, when you start to hear the howls of your apartment neighbors through the wall--

Nothing happens to you. You are fine. It does not touch you.

Oh.]

[sup-hoes-its-me]

A Hero (Shinsou x Reader)

A/N: okay so shinsou is such a cool character, kinda relatable tbh, so here we go. Friends to lovers, lots of fluff, cuteness. It took a lot of strength to take a break from writing my fav bakugo lol.

tw: you almost get assaulted

word count: 4400

Part One/ Part Two/ Part Three

So technically, Y/N wasn’t related to the Bakugos at all. She was the orphaned child of a family friend, who died a horrific hero’s death when she was only a couple years old. Without any other relatives in the area to adopt her, Y/N’s mother’s best friend took in the two year old, despite the trouble of raising two toddlers being quite daunting. Yet, her quirk wasn’t very dangerous nor special like Katsuki, so she wasn’t hard to manage in that area. Just a shy little girl, confused at the transition after the loss of her parents.

Y/N was never very strong willed like her new family. She was passive, the perfect representation of type B personality. Dependent, reliant, and fearful of adversity. The only reason she was never mercilessly bullied in her primary days was a result of her “brother’s” unrelenting defensiveness. He was an asshole, very much so, but he never let anyone pick fun at the girl. Not only did he kinda, sorta love her unconditionally as a silbing should, but his mother would murder him for not standing up for her.

But when they both got into U.A, suddenly the two weren’t equals anymore, nor would he always be by her side to watch out for her. Y/N was left behind in class C, while he soared into the top hero course. Y/N was support for the soon-to-be pros, not that she minded. The girl knew how weak she was, and unless she had a change of heart and decided to work harder on her quirk, she would never be able to succeed. She wasn’t motivated like those in Class A. Y/N never wanted the responsibility of being so good people relied on her, civilians putting all their faith into her. It was nerve wracking.

On the first day of class, Y/n said goodbye to her parents and walked to class with her brother. He carried both their bags, one on each shoulder, eyes staring straight ahead, brows furrowed with irritation as per usual. She kept her hands clasped behind her back, wandering slowly next to him, head hung. 

She was scared, admittedly. This school was huge and so prestigious. How could she ever compare to the others there? It was impossible.

“Stop being such a baby.”

“Katsuki-”

“You’re gonna be fine, and you know it. You’re more powerful than those losers anyway, if only you tried,” he grunted, turning the corner to see dozens of other students in their uniforms walking around and entering the school. She bit her lip and sighed, wringing her fingers out of nervousness. “Seriously, don’t make yourself out to be a weakling. People will target you if you do.”

She paused, not taking another step as she confessed, “I know what I should do, it’s just putting that ideal into practice that gets me everytime.” 

Time was running close to class starting, and he rolled his eyes down to her slightly quivering form. Handing her her bag, he told her calmly, “Listen, if anyone bothers you, I’m two doors down anyway. Just call me right after class if something happens, got it?” With a nod, he patted her on the head and walked away to the main entrance. 

Her eyes drew up the high building, taking in all the shiny windows and the huge shape of an H made out of the numerous floors. This place was bigger than she had ever imagined, and that only scared her more. Yeah, it was bigger because it housed a lot of students who needed room to exercise their quirks, plus they were a very wealthy institution. 

She had to tell herself that just because the building was scary certainly did not mean that the people inside were just as bad.

So she held her head a bit higher and walked through the crowds of students. She tried to remember where the counselor told her her classroom was, so she didn’t embarrass herself by getting lost on her first day. 

Yet, that was exactly what she did. The school was just too big, and she was too anxious about her first day to think properly. So, with tears gathering in her eyes, she watched at the time ticked by on the clock. Her nightmares were filled with this scenario. Showing up late on her first day and everyone in the class laughing at her. 

“Are you lost?” a voice deep and smooth spoke up behind her, and she jumped a couple inches in the air, placing a hand over her heart after it started to rapidly beat with shock.

She turned her head, brushing her loose hairs from her eyes. He stared down at her with an almost bored expression, just as his voice had sounded. He was tall, and very purple. Dark undereyes, wild violet hair in every direction. She didn’t really know what to think of him other than he was unique, dare she even say attractive in a strange way. He looked older than her, probably 16 or 17 even, based off his height and old soul aura he radiated. One thing she did notice about him though, was he felt gentle, passive and even a bit dismissive. It wasn’t the least bit intimidating, and she relaxed. 

“Yeah…” she mumbled, a bit embarrassed.

He nodded, crossing his arms over his chest. “Seems we’re in the same boat.”

“Where are you headed?”

“Class 1-C,” he hummed, beginning to walk forward again. She told him meekly that she was going to the same class, and he raised a brow. “Really? What’s your quirk?”

“My quirk is kinda lame.”

A small smile crept at the edge of his lip, her embarrassment and shy attitude amusing him. “And what would that be?”

“Well, it’s kinda weird so don’t make fun of it. I can um- well, my blood is highly basic and burns any skin issue it touches,” the girl mumbled sheepishly, rubbing the back of her neck. Her cheeks burned so much she felt like she had a fever. This is why she never liked to talk about her quirk. It was just plain absurd and kinda disgusting. Every time she used her quirk she had to slice her skin and sprinkle blood everywhere. “But, like, it does so much damage to me to lose blood that often I can rarely use my quirk.”

He nodded. “That’s definitely strange, you’re right,” he stated bluntly, and her heart stopped beating for a moment. “But useful. Really don’t know why you’d be embarrassed about it. Just because you don’t have endurance doesn’t mean strategy and technique can’t make up for that.”

Y/N caught up to him, walking at his side now although his strides were longer and harder to keep up with. She looked up to him, feeling a bit at ease seeing as he wasn’t rude about her quirk. “What’s your quirk?”

He didn’t miss a beat, his gruff voice sounding bitter and angry with his next words, “Something I’d rather not talk about. Don’t want you to spread rumors and lies about me.” 

She had never heard someone so visceral about their own quirk. It couldn’t be that terrible, not to mention she wasn’t rude like the people he must have encountered before. She felt a pang in her chest, knowing that this reaction was no doubt from prior experience being hurt. 

With a short shake of her head, she replied, “It’s okay, if you don’t tell me, but I wouldn’t judge you for your quirk, and definitely not gossip about it. I don’t have the social skills to do that kind of thing.” She laughed awkwardly. The bell rang overhead, signalling the beginning of the first period. They were officially late. “Oh, crap. We better hurry.”

“For what? We’re already late, doesn’t matter if it’s by a minute or ten.”

“I-I don’t know about that one.”

As they entered the stairwell to head up the stairs, he turned to her and paused, staring into her eyes deeply. She blinked, seeing so much purple looking in her direction. Quickly, she averted her gaze, and tucked her hands behind her back out of nervous habit. 

“I’ll tell you about my quirk if you promise me one thing.”

She opened her mouth to agree but then shook her head. Don’t just make promises to strangers, Y/N, so stupid. “Um, depends on the promise.”

He took a deep breath, never taking his eyes off of her own averted ones. Waves of pain radiated from his form, hitting her square in the chest. “Just don’t call me a monster or shit like that.” And that was the moment she felt her entire heart crumble in her chest for this boy she had just met. He expected her to think of him like a monster for something as silly as his quirk? She wanted to cry for him, being as sensitive as she was. 

“I promise.”

He started walking up the stairs again, done with his intense observation of her face, except it felt to her like he was examining a portion of her soul, her compassion. It seems he saw something he liked in her. 

“My quirk is brainwashing, or mind control, if you want to call it that.”

Her eyes widened at the words, not believing that someone so powerful was right beside her, in the same class as her even. “Like, what do you do?’

“If a person verbally responds to me, I then have complete control over anything they do.”

“That is so sick,” she whispered under her breath, but he still heard her. His brows quirked up, and he gazed down at her.”Sorry, I just think that’s a really amazing quirk.” She smiled sheepishly, her eyes reaching his. He almost had to look away once he saw the sparkle of excitement and admiration in her gaze. Those emotions were directed towards him…

As they walked past a classroom, a loud voice called from inside the room. “Bakugo Y/N and Shinsou Hitoshi. I believe you’re late to my class.”

She rushed into the classroom in front of him and he followed. They conveniently were directed to the back of the classroom, two seats directly next to each other. She took a seat in hers and he slumped down in his, rolling his eyes at the glare the teacher had given him. 

He looked over at the girl beside him, who he now knew as Bakugo Y/N. She peeked over at him, and a small smile grew on her soft lips, the bit of sparkle still present in her gaze towards him. He smothered down the urge to smile back, just lifted the corner of his lip in return. 

Shinsou wasn’t exactly interested in making friends. He didn’t need them. This girl, though, he wouldn’t mind if she stuck around.

______________________________________

“So, uh, Y/N, do you need someone to walk you home?” Shinsou asked as they shuffled out of the nearly empty classroom save for a few stragglers. “Not that you aren’t capable of walking yourself home, it’s just that-”

“It’s fine. And actually someone already walks home with me, so no.”

He cringed, feeling awkward now. He shouldn’t have been so forward with this impending friendship. They had just met, she probably didn’t want some weirdo knowing where she lived either. “Oh, gotcha.”

“In fact, there he is,” she smiled, waving to a particularly angry blond walking down the hall with his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his sagging pants. Shinsou cringed even harder at this point, not expecting her to already have a guy walking her home. She probably didn’t have much room for another good guy friend in her life, he thought, obviously overthinking things. “Katsuki! How was class?”

He frowned, shaking his head. “Deku made a fool of himself as usual, but it wasn’t awful,” the boy replied as his eyes slid from his sister to the daunting guy beside her. “Who’s this?”

“This is my new friend, Shinsou. He helped me find the classroom this morning since we’re in the same class.” Katsuki blinked in surprise, definitely not expecting his shy little sister to already have made a friend. It took her years of middle school just to have a few close acquaintances. 

“I gotta get going. My mom is expecting me home soon,” Shinsou told the girl, even if he was lying. He could go home at any time he wanted, he just didn’t want to feel awkward anymore. This guy was obviously close to her, and was giving him the evil eye for a minute now. Possessive much?

“Wait, before you go, let me introduce you to my brother.”

“Brother?’ he asked aloud. They didn’t look alike, like, at all. Nor did their personalities seem to resemble each other in any way.

“This is my brother Katsuki. He’s a class 1-A hot shot.” A pang of relief turned his stomach.

“Yeah, uh, nice to meet you.”

The blond rolled his eyes, gruffly brushing off the purple haired boy’s greeting.“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Y/N, are you ready to go?”

Y/N sighed, waving softly to Shinsou, a smile ever present on her lips when she looked at him. She mouthed as she walked away, ‘sorry’, and he just waved. 

Maybe he was a creep for watching her as she left, waiting for her to turn a corner before he let out a breath of air. All he knew was that he felt as if he was sucked in a trance. His heart felt heavy in his chest, as if it were about to explode. The feelings were so foreign but pleasant, some of the best he had ever experienced.

It just felt so good to see someone’s warm smile directed at him, not an ounce of malice behind a guise.

Yeah…He really, really liked her. 

_____________________________

The pair were friends. Honestly, Y/N was the only person you could get him to admit, albeit begrudgingly, that she was his friend. They trained together, and he assisted her a lot with her quirk. There were times when they were training alone and she lost too much blood that she would pass out and he would carry her to the infirmary. Time and time again though, teachers told him in private to monitor her. It was unhealthy to constantly lose pints of blood, and she wouldn’t be able to do it on the daily even if she wanted to. Since he and her brother were the only people she truly listened to and appreciated advice from, Shinsou recognized it as a sort of duty to take care of her.

Yet, with a bit more encouragement at the new school from dozens of teachers and other students, she actually improved on her quirk quite a lot. It wasn’t as if she had a useless quirk; it was very powerful in fact. She could burn directly through someone’s skin and the bone if enough blood was spilled. Therefore, the quirk could only be exercised in moderation.

For the first time in his life, someone actually trusted him. Not once did he consider using his quirk on her. Not only was she perfect on her own, but if he betrayed her trust like that, he might lose his closest friend. She was kind, but he wasn’t sure where her limits lied.

“Are you sure you’re okay walking home alone?” he asked his friend, who sat beside him packing up her books. Katsuki was out for the day with the flu, so she would be walking back home alone. He was kinda worried about her. She never walked by herself, always having the protection of her brother. 

But she was a strong girl. There was nothing to worry about. He had seen her fight and she was definitely capable. It was just overthinking that sent his anxiety through the roof.

“Yes, I’m totally fine,” she laughed, finding his concern humorous. “You live in the opposite direction. I’m not gonna make you walk me 20 blocks out of your way.”

Although he nodded in understanding, he definitely did not agree. He would walk all over the city for her if she needed him to. Still, when it came time to part ways on the sidewalk, they waved and went in opposite directions. It was only after five excruciatingly long minutes that the lanky boy turned and started walking in the direction of her home. Even though he shouldn’t have, and easily could have texted her, he wanted to make sure she made it home. He knew the general direction of her house, and if he walked moderately fast, he could catch up to her. 

So what if she didn’t want him walking an extra 30 minutes? If that made her annoyed, so be it.

Y/N walked slowly down the street as she usually did, her feet tapping lightly against the sidewalk. If she were being honest, she was a bit disappointed in herself for refusing Shinsou’s offer to walk her home. They would have a lot more time to talk in person before the weekend, and she never wanted to miss a beat with him. 

Maybe it was stupid of her to be so attached but she thought of him as her best friend, practically the only true one she ever had. Dozens of people came and went from her life, but this friendship felt so special. It would last a long time she thought, and hopefully she was right.

Unfortunately, she was too lost in her own dreamy thoughts to notice someone standing right at the edge of the alley she walked by in a particularly deserted area of town. A hand reached and snatched up her arm swiftly, yanking her into the darkness of the alley and covering her mouth with his other grimey hand before she could make a sound.

Her back hit the cold wall behind her, feeling the rough bricks scratch her shoulder blades through her uniform. Her wrist felt like it was on fire, burning from the harsh grip of the snatcher. Using his knee, he pinned her other hand to the wall at her side,  completely immobilizing her. She could have used her quirk, if she was able to produce some sort of blood-pouring injury, only she was trapped.

“Don’t fucking scream, you hear me?”

He removed his hand from her mouth for a moment to reach for his pocket, and as he did so, she let out the loudest scream she possibly could. Just as the sound came from her mouth, a cold object pressed against her throat and her heart stopped beating in her chest from sheer terror. 

To think she was a hero in training at U.A., and she couldn’t even defend herself from a quirkless criminal on the street. She felt like crying, feeling a knife against her throat, wrists held down. If only she was just a little smarter or a little stronger; anything to get her out his mess. The air was tense and heavy, and she could barely get a breath in without feeling the bitterness of the blade against her skin. 

She prayed, closing her eyes and letting the hot tears drip down her cheeks. If only someone would come and help. All Might was always there to help people, wasn’t he? Where was he? She couldn’t hope for her brother to back her up as he was sick at home, and she definitely couldn’t text Shinsou to come get her. Her phone was tucked safely in her backpack where she couldn’t dream of reaching.

God, she was hopeless. 

The thug opened his mouth to say something else no doubt cruel or vulgar, but just as the first syllable fell from his chapped lips, a shocked voice echoed down the alleyway.

“Y/N?”

Her eyes widened at the voice, relief running throughout her entire body. 

“Dumb punk, kid, just run off now.”

“No.”

“You don’t want to mess with-”

That reply was all it took for Shinsou to take control. The thug felt all control of his body lost in the air and a sort of tenseness to take over. “Drop the knife,” the student commanded, and the man indeed dropped the rusty knife to the ground, a metallic clang rang out in the darkness. “Now back away.” And so he did. 

Tha man sputtered, not knowing what was happening to his body or why he was doing these things. His face turned a bright shade of red and he threw a dirty glare at Shinsou Hitoshi, hating him with every sense of the word for making him look this pathetic. 

“Now stand still right there like the piece of shit you are. Move, and I will kill you,” he said calmly. Before turning to Y/N. “I’ll be right back with someone to help. I saw an officer go into the coffee shop across the street.” 

When he left, she inched away from the man, watching as he couldn’t do more than just stand there and look completely bewildered. A mind control quirk definitely wasn’t something you see everyday. Plus, he probably was facing the realization that he would be arrested and sent to jail to get his ass kicked by quirk users there.

He came back with a couple officers and pointed out the situation, explaining what he saw when he came to the alley. They asked Y/N for a quick statement and she just reaffirmed what Shinsou had told them and added how she was walking home alone and he grabbed her when no one was looking. And so they took him away, thanking the kids for helping catch the guy, who apparently had tried to assault and rob other women in the area recently.

That was a close call, the closest one she’d ever encountered actually. 

As they exited the alleyway, she felt sick to her stomach from what had happened, stress filling up her chest and threatening to burst out in the form of tears, only she composed herself the best she could to be strong. There really was no need to be strong. Shinsou was her friend. He was kind and brave and very intelligent, but most importantly he was kind to her. If she cried, he wouldn’t shame her. But she still felt the pressure to keep them from falling. “Shinsou-”

“I’m so glad I turned around to follow you. I swear, it’s almost like I knew something bad was going to happen, I just knew it,” he mumbled more to himself than her, really. He looked down at her finally, his eyes searching hers for any sign of distress. She looked terribly shaken up, but no tears were falling. “Are you okay? Did that guy hurt you or anything?”

“No, nothing else happened,” she told him. “I-I can’t believe you came to save me. I’m so grateful, I don’t even know what to say. I felt so helpless back there without my quirk at disposal.”

“It’s okay. It’s over now, and you’re alright. That’s all I could really hope for.” He looked down the street and then back to her, flashing a weak grin. “You wouldn’t mind if I walked you home from here, would you?” he asked, to which she silently shook her head. So, he began walking and she followed very closely behind, so close that he could feel her arm brushing against his. He figured she was scared enough, a little bit of  friendly comfort was going to help her out. She obviously didn’t want to speak, too shocked to say anything much.

After a minute or two of walking, he felt her hand slip its way sneakily into his own, tightly grabbing on as if he was going to yank it away from her. Although he could feel how shaky her hand was, it was so warm and soft against his cold and rough hands. Her fingers fit perfectly between his own. It was sappy of him to think, but jeez, it felt like those hands were meant to interlock. It just felt so fucking good. 

He shoved down those selfish feelings. Y/N was just attacked, and he was thinking about how he felt. He shook his head subconsciously, knowing that he was being rude. She was holding his hand because she desperately needed to feel safe and comfortable, not because it necessarily felt nice. She would probably hold the hand of any random dude that saved her like that. Jesus, Shinsou, so dumb. Get a damn grip, you sap.

He squeezed her hand back reassuringly. He wasn’t sure what she was feeling, but he hoped he was helping.

Her house was relatively close to the spot she was grabbed, so it was a short walk. Part of him wished it had been longer so he could have spent more time with her hand held in his. As they stopped at her doorstep, she dropped his hand and went to grab the strap of her bookbag anxiously, eyes hidden from his view. 

“Shinsou, thank you for stepping in back there. I really can’t tell you enough how much I appreciate that.”

With a wave of his hand absentmindedly, he brushed off her praise and thanks. “Don’t thank me. Anyone would have done the same, you know.” he didn’t feel like he deserves any thanks. He barely did shit back there except say a few words, and she was thanking him. Anyone would have done the same. He wasn’t special. He wouldn’t be special with the quirk he possessed. 

But god, the way she looked at him in that way, adoration and admiration staring into his eyes, completely entranced with him; it made him feel invincible, like he was on top of the world for a lifetime. He would never forget the shine in her beautiful e/c eyes in that moment, he swore it. That was a memory he’d hate to lose.

“I-I know- It’s just that…well…” Her words trailed off into silence before he felt her reach up abruptly to wrap her arms around his shoulders, falling to rest against him. He caught his balance last second, not expecting that of all things. Her head rested snuggly in the meet of his shoulder and neck, hot breath tickling his skin there. He tensed at the sudden embrace, but nevertheless wrapped his arms around her shoulders, bringing her closer. He could feel her shaking once again, and her rapid heartbeat pounded against his quickening one.

“Hitoshi,” she whispered, “You are my hero.”

Shivers ran down his spine at those simple five words, laced together by the most angelic voice he’d heard before.

That took his breath right from his lungs. He was her hero. A real hero. That was all he wanted in his life, to show people that he could be someone’s savior. The feeling of the one person he cared for more than anything saying those words to him. The feeling was unbelievable.

She pulled away after a silent moment, and waved to him gently, taking a step up to the entrance of her house. “I’ll see you on Monday, okay?” she said sheepishly, feeling something weird herself after that hug. Her skin felt all warm and gooey, like she was going to fall apart at any moment or her knees would collapse beneath her.

“Y/N, if you need anything, you know you can call me night or day, I don’t care,” he called after her. “I swear, anything for you, Y/N.”

“Thank you, Shinsou-kun.” 

“Bye, Y/N.”

“Bye.”

“You’ll call me sometime, right? So I can make sure you’re feeling better?”

“If you want.”

“Of course.”

“Okay. I promise I’ll call.”

“Yeah, well, bye then.”

“Yeah, bye-bye.”

She shut the door finally, catching the eye of her brother immediately.

Katsuki stood in the living room of their home, sipping some soup with a spoon, blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He raised a brow when she peered over at him, obviously having seen what happened outside through the front window. “What was that about, Y/N? Care to explain why that boy was all over you?”

“Shut up, Katsuki.”

He grunted, rolling his eyes at her reply. “Hey, I’m just worried for you. You can’t trust teenage boys. Take it from me since I am one. ”His voice was quite hoarse from the sore throat he had that morning, and he sounded like a frog whenever he spoke. How could she possibly take him seriously? 

“He’s just my friend. You really don’t have to lecture me on anything,” she replied, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Sure, sure.”

She waved off how annoying he was, and walked down the hall to her room. When she shut the door behind her, she finally felt herself heat up with embarrassment. Shinsou Hitoshi held her hand the whole way home. He saved her like the glorious hero he always wanted to be. The feeling of relief she felt when she heard him enter the alleyway and call for her, it made her heart melt. She would definitely take up his offer and call him over the weekend, just to hear his soothing voice in her ear. Just hearing him, or even thinking about him made a smile grow on her cheeks. 

She wasn’t sure what she felt for him. If it was simply a friendship or if her attachments were growing into something more.

Y/N just really, really liked him.

_____________ 

 Part two coming later this week. Should it be angst or fluff? I’m torn

[izukillme-knbss]

we’ll be okay

pairing: aomomo fandom: kuroko no basuke genre: hurt/comfort. can be read as romantic or platonic--definitely big hints of a future romance but this is mostly just friendship with a sprinkling of ~true love~ setting: coffeeshop au, non-basketball au, childhood friends any tw: slight mentions of drug abuse, sex and alcohol abuse. it’s a line or two, not more than that and no explicit stuff dedication: @xoxomyseriesxoxo​ !!! HAPPY CHRISTMAS ELENAAA!! we don’t really know each other, but i think you’re amazing. i know this gift is suuuper late, i’m so so sorry about that! i really enjoyed writing it though, and i hope you enjoy reading it too. have a blessed holiday season and a wonderful year ahead. you deserve it and more!!

@knbsecretsanta

--

It’s a quiet morning at the cafe, as is usual on a Sunday in December. No students rushing to class, no youngsters on a ‘morning date’ because their days are too crammed to find any other time, and no aged regulars because it’s too cold for that. Daiki’s just leaning against the counter, half-asleep and looking forward to a proper nap instead of the accursed morning shift, when the bell tinkles and the door swings open, bringing a gust of cold air in with it.

Just my luck. He grumbles softly and straightens up, blinking a couple of times. Moving from months of practice, he’s already halfway through reciting the usual, “Welcome to Miracle’s, what can I get you today?” when his eyes finally focus on the vaguely pink blur and bring it into full resolution. 

Daiki’s voice grinds to a halt like a car running out of petrol, and his jaw drops open as he stares at the girl.

Long hair like a shower of cherry blossoms. Magenta eyes that if Daiki had to guess were normally alight with mischief, but now only hold a deep weariness. A full figure (and for the first time in his short twenty-two years of life, Daiki’s eyes don’t linger on it, too mesmerised by everything else about her). A small, distracted smile that seems more forced than anything.

She looks like shit. She’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

And he knows her.

“Close your mouth, Dai-chan, or you’ll catch flies,” is the first thing that Satsuki Momoi says to him, in the most drained voice he’s ever heard, after three years of radio silence.

“I--” It’s all Daiki can do not to fall over unconscious. “Satsuki--what the f--”

“Language, Dai-chan!” Her voice rises a little higher and the dullness of her face goes down a notch, and Daiki thinks he hears an echo of the happy high-school girl she used to be. “I see you haven’t changed one bit.” 

“I see you have,” Daiki says lamely after a pause that’s just a beat too long. There’s silence for a moment before Satsuki shakes her head and smiles, a little more genuine than before.

“Even your insults are as bad as ever.” Her lips are cracked, he notices a little dizzily. She never used to let them crack in high school. Always with the lip balms and care products.

A sharp pain in the back of his left calf, courtesy his coworker Izuki, reminds Daiki of where he is. Right. Coffee shop, barista and customer.

“Um. Anyway.” Daiki clears his throat, shaking his head. “What would you like to have today?”

“Black coffee. Strongest you’ve got.” At this, he can’t help raising an eyebrow. 

“You sure? In high school, you--”

“In high school, I was a kid.” Satsuki’s voice is terse and tight, and her eyes are unreadable, in a way they’ve never been before. A chill unrelated to the icy weather seeps into Daiki’s bones and numbs his tongue. “People change, Dai-chan.”

He has no answer to that, so he just avoids her dead gaze and walks to the back to make her coffee. There’s a sudden bitter taste in his mouth as he moves mechanically, working from muscle memory gained over months of practice. But that’s just the smell of caffeine.

Right?

When he finally looks up, she's wandered off to a table by the window, thumbing lazily through something on her phone. Daiki fights to keep his face polite and neutral, the way the world's taught him to be, as he calls, "Oi, Satsuki?" 

She starts, blinking a few times before getting up and coming over. Daiki holds out the cup to her, and pretends he doesn't notice when her fingers clamp briefly around his as she takes it. 

"That'll be 350 yen, including taxes." It feels like someone else is moving his mouth. For his past, Daiki is still stuck in the moment when she first walked into the shop, the most wonderful and most terrible moment of his life.

Satsuki puts the money on the desk and gives him that empty smile again.

“See you around, Dai-chan,” she says in a voice that makes him think she’s really saying, “Goodbye.” Then she turns to leave.

Daiki doesn’t know what makes him do it. But he does it anyway, like a fool that’s been hurt too many times and still refuses to learn from his mistakes.

“It was nice seeing you again.” He isn’t lying. It was nice, and that has nothing to do with the fact that it was also simultaneously horrible. “Swing by sometime. Not to brag, but I make a good coffee.” The smile she gives him then is real, if barely there, and Daiki thinks it might even be a bit watery.

“The Dai-chan I knew would never pass up an opportunity to brag. Guess you’ve changed, too.”

She’s gone before Daiki can even think, sweeping out in that quick and efficient fashion that is just so Satsuki.

There’s one thing that hasn’t changed at all.

A few moments pass. The gentle puff of chill in the air evaporates, and soon the faint tinkling of the door’s bell is the only sign that she was ever here. 

That tinkling pales before the sound of her laughter.

--

It’s Sunday, again. Daiki is on the morning shift and wiping down the counter, again. There are barely any customers, again. Now all that’s needed is for Satsuki to breeze in. Ha, what are the odds? Last time she spoke to him, she had this air of finality about her--

The bells tinkle, the door opens, and Daiki’s head snaps up pathetically fast, his hand stilling on the counter. It’s not hope that shrivels in his chest when he realises it isn’t her, because hope is for things that might happen and this won’t. It’s… it’s something. It isn’t anything.

He knows, surely, that that last bit is a lie. (That is, if all of it wasn’t.)

The new arrival is a young man with green hair, dressed in an orange shirt and dark jeans. He’s wearing glasses that surprisingly don’t hide the elegant shape of his eyes, fringed with thick dark lashes. A walking carrot if Daiki ever saw one. He’s got a serious face, which would be so pretty if his mouth wasn’t puckered in the unforgiving line that it is. Still, everyone has a type--Daiki himself likes people who smile brightly and laugh loudly and have a sense of humour with a razor edge.

That’s just Satsuki in a nutshell, but.

The man comes up to the counter, pushing up his glasses, and says in a voice as dry as his expression indicates, “I’m Midorima.”

Daiki eyes him doubtfully. It’s somewhat familiar--perhaps he’s one of Satsuki’s friends’ friends, people whose names Daiki half-heard and now wishes he’d taken the care to remember because every word that comes out of her mouth is a diamond and he’d left so many of those diamonds to glitter weakly in the dust.

“Shintarou Midorima,” says Midorima, a glint in his eyes that suggests he thinks this is helpful. It’s not helpful at all--Daiki can’t do much but raise an eyebrow.

“Daiki… Aomine,” he says slowly, because it seems like what he’s supposed to do next by ‘social mores’. Still, he doesn’t think the carrot is a master of those either, because he just nods and shifts awkwardly in position, not meeting Daiki’s eyes.

The break room’s door clicks open, and Daiki hears Takao’s easy steps behind him--ah, so he’s covering Izuki’s shift today. A small burst of relief flowers in Daiki’s chest: despite Takao’s overbearing exuberance and Izuki’s constant puns, both his coworkers are usually very easy to work with. However, taking shifts with Izuki in the mornings… Daiki’s calf still twinges from that unnecessarily harsh kick last week. He wouldn’t believe Izuki worked at a coffee shop, much less liked coffee, if he hadn’t seen the guy murderously chug a gallon of the stuff like water and immediately revert to his normal personality. 

There’s a beat of silence instead of Takao’s usual cheerful voice. Then it rings out, loud and happier than Daiki’s ever heard him.

“Shiiiin-chan!” Takao runs out from behind the counter, jumping straight onto Midorima, who makes a resigned noise and catches him easily. Like he’s used to it. 

“Oh, Aomine, this is my boyfriend,” Takao informs Daiki, who can’t help an amused smile. “Shin-chan.”

“Midorima,” Midorima says a little too quickly, as if afraid Daiki will call him ‘Shin-chan’ too. Daiki nods, lets the briefest of polite smiles brush his lips.

“Don’t worry about us, Aomine! We’ll just be over here!” Takao sings, dragging Midorima off to the bathroom.

“Come back in case there’s a rush,” Daiki drawls half-heartedly, and goes back to polishing the counter. A few minutes pass, maybe more; he’s too busy scrubbing at a particularly stubborn stain to know. Then the bells tinkle, the door whooshes open, and he looks up, ready to welcome the next customer--

“Hi again,” Satsuki says, her cheeks pink from cold. “You were right. You do make a good coffee.”

“...hi,” Daiki stutters, blinking. “Thought you said--”

No. She didn’t say anything, shut up, she’s here and that’s enough.

“Said?” She frowns at him, and Daiki shakes his head.

“No, it’s nothing. Black coffee again?”

“Yes, please. 350 yen?”

“Mmm,” Daiki hums in response as he makes the coffee. Instead of going to a table, though, Satsuki puts her elbows on the counter and watches him. It makes him feel weirdly conscious, but he’s made enough black coffees to do it on autopilot.

“One black coffee for the madam,” he says, a bit of the snark he’d had in high school returning to his tone as he places it in front of her. Satsuki hands him the money, and the spot where their fingers touch burns. 

“Thanks, Dai-chan.” Today, Daiki notices, her smile is a little more real and her voice is a little less tired and her eyes are a touch brighter.

“No problem,” he says quickly. “See you around?”

“Yeah.” Satsuki’s eyes are warm as she looks at him. Then she’s gone, just as much of a whirlwind as the first time. But now, things are a little different.

Now, it isn’t Sayonara, but Ja ne.

--

The third week rolls around, and Daiki actually volunteers for the morning shift in place of Izuki, who gives him a relieved look. Takao just smirks and giggles. When Satsuki comes in at ten past nine, just like she did the last two times, her coffee’s already waiting. 

“Here you go,” Daiki says with a grin. 

“Thanks, Dai-chan!” 

“Also, my shift ends in an hour if you’re free today.” He says it entirely on impulse and regrets it the second it’s out of his mouth. But Satsuki’s eyes just sparkle, and though they’re dimmer than they used to be, Daiki still finds himself enthralled.

“Oh?” Her lips curve up into the ghost of a mischievous smile, and Daiki aches. “Whatever for, Dai-chan?”

“Just…” Daiki’s cheeks grow hot. “I don’t know. It’s been three years. We should talk. I… I missed you.”

A beat of silence. Two. Three. Then Satsuki nods rapidly, her face paling in the way it always does when she’s taken by surprise.

“I…” Her words come out normal, but there’s a hint of strain that Daiki only hears because he’s known her forever. “I have to finish a paper, but there's not too much left. I can stay here and do it.”

“Great.” Daiki’s proud of the fact that his voice doesn’t waver. “If you need extra coffee, let me know. On the house.” Satsuki grins, a shadow of what she used to be. 

“I’ll take you up on that one.”

She turns around, eyes on the table she sat at last time. And as she sweeps off towards it, Daiki swears he heard her whisper, “I missed you too, Dai-chan.”

--

Once they start talking, they don’t stop. There’s so much to catch up on: college (Daiki finished a year ago, Satsuki has a year left), work (Satsuki’s looking at a business degree, while Daiki’s in sports medicine. She’d originally wanted to do law, so that’s surprising), life in general. 

Being with Satsuki is easy. It’s something he doesn’t have to think about. She’s the rush of fresh air that enters your lungs after a hard run, something you didn’t know you needed until you didn’t have it anymore. Daiki falls into a practiced rhythm of banter and laughter with her, in and out, in and out, just like breathing.

She shows up on Monday, and Tuesday, and Wednesday and Thursday too, and Daiki doesn’t know when he starts expecting her to be there by ten past nine, doesn’t know when he starts brewing black coffee and volunteering for morning slots, doesn’t know when he starts waiting for the end of his Sunday shift just to take that one-hour walk with her and chat. Satsuki fills her place in his life as she’s always done, covering the gaping hole she tore in him like she never left.

In some ways, she hasn’t.

Being with Satsuki is easy, but it’s also hard. It’s hard because her eyes are always faraway, her lips are pursed and her brows are drawn with invisible tension. She’s not here even when she is, and it hurts.

Daiki knows it’s stupid to expect her to be the girl she was once. He knows she’s grown up. But growing up shouldn’t come with the amount of pain and… and whatever else it is that she carries on her slender shoulders now. Satsuki was made to live, not just survive. It bothers Daiki more than he’ll ever admit: enough that on one of their Sunday walks, he finally bites the bullet.

“What happened?”

“...happened?” Satsuki tilts her head, adorably confused.

“You…” Daiki flounders for words. “You changed.”

“Dai-chan, I’m not a little girl anymore. You changed too. You’re a lot politer.”

“You’re really gonna make me say it?” Worry takes the place of awkwardness, and Daiki suddenly finds himself… not confident, but ready to confront this. “You know, Satsuki. You’re hurting. What happened to you?”

“Dai-chan…” She sighs, looks away. “Nothing happened. Adults hurt.”

“No, they don’t.” Daiki catches her shoulder and turns her around to face him. “Not… not the way you are. Something happened, didn’t it? Satsuki, please, talk to me.” His voice cracks a little on the last word, but he couldn’t care less about looking bad in front of her. She was around before he ever looked good at all.

“I--” Satsuki’s face crumples, like a chilled tin can that just had hot water poured on it, and there are tiny stars on her eyelashes. “Dai-chan, please, I don’t want to talk about it.” 

“No, Satsuki, please. Whoever did this to you, I won’t try to commit homicide,” Daiki says, half a joke in his voice. “Can’t promise I won’t think about it, though.”

“So…” She sounds ragged and hollow. “So you’re going to think about killing me, then. Might as well do it. It’s as much as I deserve.” Daiki’s world slows and stops.

What?

He says as much, spluttering, “Satsuki--wh--”

“That’s why I lost contact,” she says, her wet eyes gazing at something he can’t see. “I… I did stuff in my early years of college that I’m not proud of, Dai-chan. I fucked up so bad… I didn’t switch courses because I wanted to. I flunked out of law and--”

The tears, gathered like diamonds in her eyes, start to fall. Daiki cups her face in his hands and wipes them away with his thumbs as best he can. Satsuki looks up at him, a mess of pain and guilt and anger, and Daiki keeps his expression as open as he can. It’s what she needs right now.

“Go on.” Even he’s surprised at how tender he sounds. “I’m here for you.” Satsuki pulls his hands away from her cheeks and sniffles.

“All of those ‘college vices’, all at once. It’s okay in moderation--you’ve done your fair share of those things, I’m sure,”--and she’s right--“but Dai-chan, I overdid it. A party every night, a new someone in my bed when I woke up each morning. I even ended up with an addiction.” More tears, which she wipes at in futility. “I missed you and home and everyone. But I didn’t dare tell you because I was so scared, Dai-chan. I didn’t want you to hate me. When Mom and Dad found out, they cut me off. And I can’t even blame them or anyone else, because--look at me! I barely sleep, I eat too much, I have nightmares every day and I’m doing something I hate more than anything.”

Daiki doesn’t think words will work here, so he just pulls her in, close to his chest. Satsuki sobs and shakes in his embrace, her head against his sternum, crying her heart out.

“Are you disappointed in me, Dai-chan?” Her voice is small, and it comes out broken between sobs. Daiki pauses for a second before shaking his head.

“No. We fuck up sometimes. It’s okay.”

He doesn’t know if it’s the right thing to say, but Satsuki’s arms tighten around him and she stops shaking, so he thinks it just might be.

“It’s okay,” he repeats, stroking her hair. “You’re okay.”

“I’ll be okay?” Satsuki whispers.

“Yeah,” Daiki says, and means it. He doesn’t know where he’ll start with helping her, how things will go, but… “As long as we’re together. Just… stay.”

“I’ll stay.” Satsuki exhales into his shoulder. “I’ll stay, Dai-chan.”

“Then we’ll be okay.”

“We?” The confusion in her tone is palpable, but there’s also a tinge of hope at the very end. Daiki doesn’t say anything, just holds her closer and affirms that hope. 

It could be a long road, but that road isn’t too long for them to travel together. Nothing is too much for Daiki and Satsuki, not when they’re together, because they’re Daiki-and-Satsuki again.

And that’s why they’ll be okay. 

[magnumdays]

Magnum PI 2x20 - A Leopard on the Prowl review-ish

So I watched 2x20 after 2x19 both times and maybe that colored my view of it a little. In a both good and bad way. I enjoyed 19 so thoroughly I kind of just had a good feel going into this ep, since we started with some Miggy with the lads (always a good time) I had high hopes for this episode as well. At the same time I wasn’t sure how it was going to beat 19. Which it solved by not doing.

Yeah, as far as a season finale I’d say this one was pretty weak. Where was Ivan? Where was the personal stakes and involvement? Icepick is not a important enough character for us to care about and while there was some worry for Rick it all felt a tad bit lack luster - for a season finale. If not for the whole Higgins is leaving (which to be honest I was kind of figuring wouldn’t happen even with the way they’d been building it up) this wouldn’t have felt like a finale at all.

So yeah, this should have just been a normal episode. We could have skipped the Vigilant or Love tour ep. and used the Icepick plot for one of those instead and had a totally different season finale...maybe with Ivan? This seasons big bad? Or are they setting Ivan up as the whole series big bad? Because that would suck (as some of you know I found Ivan to be like the lamest bad guy ever.)

Yeah. That’s how I’d have done it but...

On the plus side we did get some nice moments, starting out we got Magnum worrying Higgins will go back to London and decide she wants to stay...maybe she’ll meet someone... (I swear, some lines make me think Lenkov is co-captain of the Miggy ship with me...)

And later when he’s out paddling he admits to himself he’s really going to miss her. We also have Miggy having a little bit of a thing with the “You’re bailing on our partnership - I’m NOT! Turing into a I’m sad you’re leaving but you know I’m still going to bother you all the time while you’re in England...” 

I feel like if Rick hadn’t shown up we might have gotten some more emotion here. But he does walk in and I guess that’s a symptom of this whole episode.

There are a lot of things that could have leveled it up but failed to, emotion vise. Like how about Icepick doing the robbery to keep Rick safe because someone was using him as leverage? Instantly I care more about him and there for would care more about everything.

Or actually having Magnum work to “fix” the visa problem rather than just randomly handing it off to Robin. I mean I already winged about this in the 2x19 review a bit but having Magnum actually have to trade some favors or make some promises would have been nice. Maybe having him reach out to some dangerous contact he had at the CIA from back in the days or something that could come back to bite him. 

Or radical thought HAVE HIGGINS ACTUALLY HAVE TO GO BACK TO THE UK. I didn’t think this was really a possibility even before watching the episode and while I don’t mind the whole “Higgy now owns Robin’s Nest” (in fact I really enjoy it) it did feel like a bit of a cop out. Like what was the point of the whole visa expiring and fake wedding fake outs? Nothing changed other than that she is now officially Magnum’s boss and own’s Robin’s Nest. Was that what it was all about? Then why not go there straight away and skip the whole fake wedding bit?

We had all this angsty build up with her deciding not to marry Mangum and then no one at all and time running out. It could have been a bit bittersweet and almost fixed the rest of the episode if it had just ended on Magnum and Higgins hugging at the airport or before she gets in the cab after everyone throw her a party. He could have gone “see you in six months”  and she’d be all “Count on it“.

I’m not sure if they didn’t go that route because they were worried about not getting renewed and thought this would be their last episode ever and they wanted to wrap it up neatly with a bow on top or what? 

It’s not like having a six month time skip would have been that big of a problem, or having the first episode of season 3 be Magnum constantly calling Higgins while she’s in London. 

With the time difference this could have been hilarious he’d be phoning her in the middle of the night because it’s day time in Hawaii and/ or the other way around. Maybe there could even be some totally implausible snow. Miggy could also both have matching calendars with the days counting down until she can return... Then we could have had 3x02 in England when Magnum and Gordon (and maybe his son) come for a visit. (I may or may not also already ranted about this and how great it could be.)

So yeah, this was a fine random episode and I’d have probably really enjoyed it a lot as one - but because for this I had “season finale expectations” it didn’t really do it for me. I did try to not even think of it like that on my second watch and that actually made it work a lot better.

I it does have stuff going for it; there are no unrelated off-theme subplots to get annoyed by, Rick gets some actual good reason for being in the story, the investigation is fairly tight if in true Magnum fashion rather unbelievable, the word “laptop-ing” is used, a crazy fight on top of a moving truck, the Ferrari for some reason being able to drive in reverse but not normally (is this a thing? that just seemed overly stupid to me but I know nothing about cars.)  

Plus we have Higgins saying goodbye to the lads, which is honestly like in my top ten Higgy moments of this season.

Verdict: My mother enjoyed it.

 In end we do get our faves looking adorable (I really love Higgy in red)

Look at my babies being all happy 

Seriously I kind of almost like this scene better as gifs because they look really-really happy when you just look at them, even if the conversation was somewhat...not what I’d been hoping for. In fact I actually want to talk about the weirdness of it; 

Magnum: “So you’re not going?”

Higgins: “Um, you want me to?”

Magnum: “No!”

Why would she ask that? She actually manged to sound like she’s genuinely worried he is unhappy about her staying - when she knows he is the one that set it all in motion. When he’s been working so hard to make sure she gets to stay. This is either terrible writing or brilliant writing because either they forgot Higgy knows Magnum did this for her OR they’re revealing just how important Magnum’s opinions are to her (and how she’s still unsure he really wants her around). I don’t know, maybe I’m reading too much into it but it seems a rather strange thing to ask otherwise.

Now onto  the next part of the conversation which is equally baffling.

Magnum: “I’m just... surprised. What did they do?“

I mean I guess he could be suprised if didn’t check in with Robin but wouldn’t he have called Robin to see how things were going on the visa thing? Shouldn’t he be saying “I knew Robin would come through for us you! What he/they do?” because he basically just trusted that Robin would fix it for him. 

By just having this conversation go maybe a little different 

“So you get to stay?”

“I do.“

(I’d love for her to say I do at some point because of the whole wedding that wasn’t...Maybe we could get a hug here... like come on guys! If there was anything that could have redeemed the whole thing a Miggy hug is pretty high on my list)

Slightly awkward stepping back moment.

“I knew Robin would come through for us you! What he/they do?”

It would just have read a lot better and given us a tad bit more payoff for the visa wedding wackiness that was the past few episodes. Which I’m still not sure why they did that because they sure as heck didn’t use it for maximum drama. I’d almost be able to believe they did randomly go to AO3 and check the popular fics and decided since Marriage of Inconvenience was kinda popular they should do something like that...and then failed utterly to execute it any kind of satisfying way. (I know I know, I’m giving myself way too much credit...)

Still, over all I’m not sure what I feel about this episode. There was nothing super wrong with it but it really wasn’t a finale. Higgins departure/ visa plot turned out to not really mean or change anything. No one but Icepick seemed to have more than like a second of feels during the whole thing. Some stuff just needed more.

So yeah, that’s my thoughts on the matter. I meant for this to be short because I didn’t think I had that much to say about this episode. As it turns out, I kind of sort of did. I guess that’s to be expected as it was the finale! What did you guys think? Love it or hate it? Somewhere in that even more dangerous “whatever zone”?

[uncloseted]

1/2

1/2

1/2 Hi. I think I could use some help, I'll try to make this short. When I was 14yo (I'm 20 now) I dated a 18yo guy, thank God we were taking it slow and never made things official. Now that I'm older I can see that relash was rlly wrong. He was manipulating, used me to boost his ego, forced me to do things I wasn't comfortable doing and I think although we weren't official, he cheated on me? (more on that later). After a few months of fooling around, I found out something about him that I didn't like and confronted him about it, with the intention of ending that relash. He started begging me not to leave him, asking me tricky questions about the things I had heard of him with the intention of "making me realize" he did nothing wrong, and he even became violent with the person who told me those things, to the point I couldn't break up with him because I was scared. I just stopped answering his texts and calls because I was afraid of even talking to him and eventually he took the hint and suggested we broke up. We decided to stay friends, but that only lasted a few days, because one day, via Facebook Messenger, he suggested we got back together and I rejected him, so he blocked me. Months later, I had to close my Facebook due to harassment (not related to him) and opened a new one. Facebook showed me his profile in 'people you may know' and I decided to peek out of curiosity. Turns out, the moment we broke up, he started uploading photos with his new girlfriend. The descriptions of those pics said the exact same things he used to tell me, and I ain't good a math but I did some calcs and he had to be with her while still being with me lmao. I really didn't care, I was just happy I got rid of him, and I moved on with my life. Some time later I fell head over heels for a guy from my workplace, who I still hold close to my heart. I have trust issues and I am a very private person, especially with my relashs, so I didn't tell anyone about this guy except from like 3 friends. One of them was a girl (that we'll call Anne) who was like a sister to me, and was also friends with my ex. Over the next 2 years I had a relash with this guy, everytime I talked to Anne I used to tell her more details about my relash. Then, one day, I got a text from my ex. He texted me like we were besties and nothing had ever happened between us, like he didn't block me TWICE (yeah, he blocked me from my new Facebook too even though I never tried to reach out to him). I was angry at his nerve and told him so, he realized I was upset and changed his persona from confident and tough as nails to regretful and soft, telling me he was sorry for being so immature all those years before, but excusing his shitty behavior by saying he always "kept an eye on me". Um, wtf? He told me he was always asking stuff about me to Anne, looking out for me. I wanted to know what exactly he knew, but, trying to manipulate me again, he said he would only tell me if I accepted to play a game with him: I could ask him one question if he would ask me one in exchange and so on, and we had to be ttly honest with each other. I really didn't wanna get into his shenanigans but I only had one question (wtf do u exactly know about me, creep?) so I accepted. He asked his question first (dID u fEeL sAd wHeN i bLoCkEd U?) and I asked mine. I thought he maybe knew something about my school stuff and MAYBE that I had been dating someone else. Turns out he knew every. single. detail about my personal life. Not only he KNEW I was with other guy...

2/2 Not only he KNEW I was with other guy. He knew his entire name, the school he attended and every little detail from our relationship and other stuff about my personal life. Every single thing I told Anne, opening my heart to her, she told him. I felt terribly violated. I felt like a dissected frog, open for anyone to see my most inner parts. I felt ashamed, unprotected, sad and angry, all at the same time. I told him what he did was disgusting, to never reach me again or try to "keep an eye on me", and that I would make that job easier for him by getting Anne out of my life. He apologized, said he understood the situation, would respect my wishes, and wished me a happy life. I thought that was it. It took me a while but I got to heal, to feel safe again, although I still have a hard time trusting my friends. But I was wrong. Months later he sent me a Friend Resquest. I was a lil afraid, but tried to calm myself saying he probably just was checking if I was still upset, so I rejected the request and again convinced myself that was really it. But then he sent some girls to take pictures of me during my high school graduation ceremony and recently, his cousin (who was my friend when we were 14 but haven't talked since) texted me. I know that sometimes nostalgia makes you reach out to old friends, but we weren't close at all. Besides, he acted super weird, didn't even try to make small talk or let the convo flow naturally, but went straight for super specific and weird questions: are you studying college? what are you doing with your life? are you in a relationship? I was really weirded out and considered the possibility he may have been asking all those things because my ex asked him to do so, so I kept my answers short and vague, not giving him the info he wanted, and although I def came out as cutting, he kept asking. I tried to still be friendly because I didn't wanna seem paranoid, but I think he realized I wasn't telling him anything over texts, so he asked me to meet again over some beers with his friends on October 27th and that's when I stopped answering. I thought about that strange invitation for a few days until it hit me: October 27th is my ex's birthday. So much about respecting my wishes. I spent the rest of that month really nervous that cousing would try to reach out again, but nothing happened and I started to feel calmed again. Until, in November, he wrote me again, this time asking me if I wanted to go to the beach with his friends. I haven't even bother to open that text. Since them, I've been super paranoid. I know my ex's attacks aren't that consecutive (more like every two years: he contacted me and sent me that friend request when I was 16, hijacked my graduation at 18 and now sends his cousin at 20) but I can't help but think he's always there "keeping an eye on me" and planning his next move. I stopped accepting any friend requests because I'm afraid he will send someone for me, and if someone I already have on my friend list but idk texts me and after some small talks asks me about my life, I get paranoid and ask them why they wanna know and if they have some hidden intentions. Also, there's a mall near his house, and everytime I have to go there to buy something, I feel like crying because I'm afraid I'll stumble with him. I probably sound crazy. Some people may think I'm exaggerating and I should just let my ex stalk me and act all obsessed, but I feel dirty everytime I think about him knowing my personal stuff. It was just so traumatizing the first time. Do you get me? I feel like nobody gets me. Please help me, what can I do? I don't know how to make him stop, I'm tired of living in fear.

Not to start this off with an unrelated thought, but when did Tumblr get rid of its character limit on asks? I don’t think I’ve ever seen it let someone send in a message this long in one ask.

To get to your situation, I can definitely see why this would be a stressful and uncomfortable situation for you.  The first thing I would do is to stop interacting with your ex and people related to your ex.  You don’t owe his cousin anything.  Block both of their numbers, block their social media accounts, etc., and do that for everyone else who’s friends with your ex (or put them on limited profile/create a “close friends” list on social media).  Tell all of your friends in no uncertain terms that you don’t want them talking about you to your ex, even if it’s stuff that seems harmless, and cut those people off if they do talk to your ex about you.  

The other action you could take is to file a restraining order.  If you go down that route, you’ll have to fill out some forms and file them with the court, and then have a hearing with a judge where you explain your situation.  Then, you’ll have a second appearance in court where the stalker is present, and you both get the opportunity to explain the situation.  The judge will then determine the final order and the conditions of that order.  It can be a bit of an involved process, but it may give you some peace of mind.

The last thing I would suggest is going to therapy.  It seems like you’ve been through something traumatic, and a mental health professional can help you to work through that and move on from it.  There are many options for therapy, both online and in-person.  If you have health insurance, your insurance should cover at least some therapy sessions.  If not, some therapists provide services on a sliding-scale, and online services like BetterHelp can be less expensive than traditional therapy. 

[sunshinelikesstarwars]

Day 1: Role Swap

For this prompt, I’ve imagined a Jedi Satine and Duke Obi-Wan situation. I’ve mixed it up a bit, though. I hope you enjoy!

—

Satine stood quietly next to her Master, waiting for the group they were meant to accompany. She was doing her best not to fidget. They had arrived at the landing dock early, after all, and it didn’t make much sense to be upset about punctuality when no one was technically late.

Qui-Gon knew her too well, though. “Patience, my young padawan,” he said with a smile. “Keep your mind in the moment.”

“Yes, Master,” was the automatic reply. Even with the constant reminders, the lifelong lessons, and the ever-present example of Qui-Gon’s own serenity, she still longed to be doing something all the time.

Her Master chuckled. “Did you happen to read the mission briefing? I seem to have forgotten to look it over.”

She knew he was using the excuse to distract her. Still, Satine wondered how Qui Gon functioned as a Jedi before her apprenticeship. Had he ever read a briefing of his own free will? With a small sigh, she summed it up: “It’s two missions in one, really. The first part is to provide extra guard for a prince on his flight to Stewjon. The second is to guard the royal family once we get there.”

“Royalty, hm? Elected, I assume. I’m afraid I don’t know much about Stewjon.” The comment was innocuous enough, but the sideways glance and raised eyebrows were an obvious request for information.

“Sometimes I think you take ‘living in the moment’ too far, Master,” she said wryly. “It does pay to learn of the past, you know.” He chuckled. She proceeded to tell him what she knew anyways. “The Stewjon system does have an elected monarchy, but the House of Kenobi has had a member as king or queen for the past century. Most Stewjonian citizens live on the planet Stewjon itself, and while they are known for being opinionated and stubborn, the Kenobis are equally well known for being excellent negotiators; hence their continued control of the system.”

“And who is this prince?”

“Prince Obi-Wan Kenobi is the second son of Queen Ati-Rin Kenobi. He has been on Coruscant for diplomatic training with the Senate.”

“I see. And why are we guarding the royal family?”

“Stewjon’s monarchy has recently received troubling threats from a possible terrorist group and reached out to the Temple for assistance. We are to provide security for the royal family until the worst of the danger has passed, preferably while conducting our own investigation regarding the terrorists.”

“Interesting. What about—“

The conversation came to a halt as a small group of people, presumably including the prince, arrived. When she looked for a moment longer, it was obvious who the prince was. His clothes were simple in design, but made from finer fabrics than the rest of his entourage. He wore what Satine assumed was the traditional plaid of his House as a sash, a pattern of green, blue, and gray, draped elegantly from shoulder to opposite hip. His auburn hair was stylishly arranged. Every inch of him looked polished, refined, put together—in short, an ideal prince.

While Satine liked to think she didn’t judge others based on appearances, something about this prince (the way he held his head as he walked, the perfect smile on his face, his impeccable clothing) annoyed her. He was too good to be true. Politicians tended to be corrupt anyways, especially ones born into privilege, so trusting that perfect smile would probably not turn out well. She did not like Prince Kenobi, she decided. Of course, she could do nothing about this revelation—a Jedi helps even those she may not like—so she would look at this mission as a trial of patience. Hopefully it wouldn’t last long.

Master Jinn stepped forward and she followed him. “Your highness,” Qui-Gon said with a bow. Satine wondered how her Master had known for sure this was the right man before she mimicked him, being sure not to bow any deeper than was strictly necessary. “I am Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn,” he continued, “and this is my apprentice, Satine Kryze. We have been sent to accompany you to Stewjon.”

The prince returned the bows with a nod and said, “A pleasure to meet the both of you. I am Obi-Wan Kenobi. Thank you for your willingness to help my family in this time of need.” Satine was proud of herself for not scowling at his probably insincere thanks. Did such an arrogant-looking man even care about his family? And she was sure there was some kind of slight in his behavior. He no doubt believed himself to be above the assistance of Jedi, seeing as his guards were checking the dock and the ship unnecessarily. Did they think someone could get past a Jedi? Fools.

She was rather surprised when he met her gaze. People tended to ignore her once they heard she was an apprentice. “I don’t suppose you have any relation to Clan Kryze of Mandalore?” His striking blue eyes were unsettling.

“A Jedi has no family,” she said. Inwardly, she winced. That sounded so cold and abrupt. And possibly as if she was ashamed of her heritage. “That is, the Order is our family.” Better, but not quite it. “Rather, a Jedi forsakes attachment to better serve the Force.” This was terrible. What had been his question? Had she answered it? She could feel her Master’s amusement through the Force, and her mouth twisted a bit. What an auspicious start to a mission. Not ten minutes in and she already looked completely incompetent.

If the prince was amused or bemused by her rambling, he didn’t show it. He nodded with that same perfect smile. “Of course. Forgive my curiosity; I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” Again, probably insincere. He’d probably meant to start one of the “but Mandalorians hate Jedi” conversations that seemed to happen when her birthplace was disclosed. Satine released the annoyance his statement caused with a huff. Insufferable man.

He turned to Qui-Gon. “Shall we board? I’m quite anxious to be home.” He and her Master walked side by side up the ship’s ramp with Satine trailing behind and the prince’s guards behind her.

Hopefully, this would be a short mission.

-

The moment they exited hyperspace above the planet Stewjon, the feeling of wrong—danger—caution flooded Satine’s senses. She quickly rose from her meditation in one of the side rooms and hurried to the common area of the ship she was sure Qui-Gon would be.

He looked right at her as she came through the door. His face would appear calm to others, but she saw the tightening of his mouth, the slight furrow of his brow, that indicated his concern. He’d felt the warning, too. He made a small gesture with his head that meant “stay here,” then took his leave of the prince and walked in the direction of the cockpit.

The prince himself also seemed to sense something was wrong. He looked from Satine to the door Qui-Gon had left through and back, all the while shifting in his seat (and somehow managing to make it look refined). “Is anything the matter?” he asked when it was apparent Satine would say nothing.

“I’m sure all is well, your highness,” she replied. He might be spoiled and arrogant, but her job was to protect him. She must keep calm. The guards and crew in the common area seemed to sense nothing wrong at all, and it wouldn’t be wise to start a panic over a feeling the Force had sent. After all, it might have to do with something entirely unrelated.

A part of Satine sighed. These sort of things seemed to happen quite a lot on their missions. And it was almost never unrelated.

Determined to project peace and tranquillity into the room, she took a seat near the prince. She hoped it wouldn’t be long until her Master returned.

The prince turned his perfectly coiffed head her direction and smiled. “I’m sure you’re right.” Satine smiled back (hopefully it was convincing). Apparently it was, because he continued, “By the way, what would you like me to call you?”

She blinked. “Um.” Nice. Your wittiness is unparalleled, Satine.

“It was something Master Jinn said earlier,” he went on, and she noticed the slight tightening of one of his fists. Oh. He’s nervous and trying to distract himself. “He said a Jedi apprentice was called a...hm, a padawan, right?”

“Yes,” she said, impressed against her will that he had remembered the rather obscure word.

“I wasn’t sure if that was a title of sorts, or if you prefer ‘miss,’ or if you’d like me use your first or last name, or something else entirely.” Again against her will, Satine found herself impressed by his composure. He kept eye contact, was breathing evenly, and his voice was unstrained. The only tells of stress were the slight rambling and that single fist. “I have the feeling that we’ll be spending a fair amount of time together in the future, and I’d like for us to start off on the right foot.” And he smiled again, his teeth perfectly straight and white (dental procedures, surely), his skin flawless (due to makeup and ridiculously expensive treatments, no doubt), his eyes kind (more makeup and a lifetime of practice at looking sincere).

Before she could give an actual answer, Qui-Gon reentered the room. He was by the prince’s side in a moment. “Your highness, you’ve received a comm,” he said.

The prince frowned a little. Rising from his seat, he said, “Oh. Of course. I’ll take it in—”

“It’s a recording. And I believe your guard will wish to hear it as well, if it is what I think it is.”

One guard member managed to look both annoyed and thankful at the same time. Obi-Wan was frowning in earnest now but settled back into his seat while Qui-Gon worked on pulling up the message on the holo in the center of the room.

Qui-Gon gave a solemn nod in the prince’s direction before he pushed one final button and image of a person with wide, terror-filled eyes appeared, crouched and clutching a small recording device. Some of the guards gasped—they must have recognized the person who was dressed in what looked to be a uniform of some sort.

“This message is for Prince Obi-Wan Kenobi. If a member of Kenobi staff intercepts this message, please proceed to act according to code blue and see this message delivered immediately. Prince, I hope this message reaches you before you reach Stewjon.” The person shot a worried glance over their shoulder. “I must be quick. All transmissions from the palace are being blocked and monitored, going in and out. This is a special line, one known only to heads of security, and should be secure. Obi-Wan, my prince, I’m so terribly sorry, but your family has been killed.”

Satine looked over at the prince with wide eyes. He was white-faced but showed no other emotion. Both arms were crossed, both hands in fists. She quickly looked back to the message.

“The House of Kenobi has been targeted, all members of it. I can only assume that this…this gang is the one who threatened your family so publicly. I am unsure of the status of your brother Owen, as he was also off-planet at the time of the attack, but all family members that were at the palace have been killed. Obi-Wan, you must keep yourself safe. Do not come to Stewjon, do not come to the palace, and be—“ The recording changed angles suddenly as the device was dropped. There was a staticky scream and other garbled voices before the recording cut off.

The room was very silent. The prince sat, staring unseeingly. Satine shot a wide-eyed glance at Qui-Gon as the guards started to discuss the message.

Satine felt as if this was a failure on the part of the Jedi. Had they not acted quickly enough? Every government was threatened at some point, after all. Should they have come ahead of the prince? Made a public statement that the Jedi were protecting the family? Relocated the entire family off-world immediately? She tried to release her feelings to the Force. This was a time of crisis; this was no time to dwell on anxieties.

Eventually, the prince stood, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. “A-alright.” The guards went quiet, and one with a hat slightly different than the others (she assumed this was the captain of the guard) stepped forward.

“My prince,” the woman started, but Obi-Wan shook his head and brushed past her.

He walked to a panel near the door and pressed a button. “Attention all staff. Code status has been updated to blue. Please act accordingly.”

Immediately, Satine felt a wave of panic and concern from all corners of the ship.

“Sir!” cried one of the guards. “Sir, this is a dangerous situation. If even one of the crew is part of this—this gang of murderers—“

“Then I will not travel to find my brother with them in tow,” the prince said. His voice was much harder now, but still refined.

The captain of the guard pinched the bridge of her nose. “Your highness, I wish you would’ve talked this through with us.”

“There’s no time. We shouldn’t even still be standing here talking.” He turned to the door. “No doubt they have some sort of trap planned for us here, and if they know their group has succeeded, they are more likely to spring it. We need to either make our escape now or prevent any sabotage from happening.”

And then the lights cut out, red emergency lights turned on, and a dispassionate voice started saying, “Warning. Depressurization at dangerous levels is detected,” over the speakers.

[canchewread]

Editor's note: while I've certainly been away from Can't You Read for quite a while, anyone who follows my work at ninaillingworth.com or my Patreon blog already knows that I've been writing (and podcasting) again. You can check out some of my latest essays here, here and here; to listen to the podcast I co-host with Nick Galea (No Fugazi) just click here.

Today however I'm back on my bookworm bullsh*t with another curiously dated review of left wing literature from my extensive library of pinko pontification. In today's review, we're going to be taking a look at “The Chapo Guide to Revolution: a Manifesto Against Logic, Facts and Reason” written by five members of the popular left wing podcast “Chapo Trap House” - specifically, Felix Beiderman, Matt Christman, Brendan James, Will Menaker and Virgil Texas.

Baby Steps up the Ramparts

It is I will theorize, utterly impossible to write a review about the Chapo Trap House book without engaging in the extremely online, three-sided culture war that has sprung up around both “the Chapos” themselves and the enormously popular podcast they host. In light of the fact that seemingly everyone on the internet who detests the show regard the Chapos as slovenly crackpot losers born on third base and podcasting from mom's basement, it really is alarming how much digital ink has been spilled about the various types of “threat” to all that is good and holy this simple irony-infused podcast supposedly represents. While I intend to largely sidestep that discussion by focusing entirely on the book and not the podcast (which I don't listen to regularly, to be honest with you), I accept that virtually nobody reading this is going to be happy unless I do something to address the elephant in the room, so here goes:

Neera Tanden and her winged neoliberal monkeys can eat sh*t, but extremely online leftists have a point that the Chapos themselves occasionally skirt the line between mockingly ironic reactionary thought and just plain old reactionary thought; although this is not particularly alarming to me because they're Americans and America itself is a breeding ground for reactionary ideas – decolonizing your mind is a process and I'm pretty sure it's one I myself am also engaging in still every single day of my life at this point. Importantly, in my opinion this failing does not make them cryptofascists so much as the product of American affluence; I'm having a hard time understanding how teaching Marx and Zinn to Twitter reply guys serves the fascist agenda in any meaningful way. While I obviously can't pretend to know another person's heart, in my opinion the Chapo boys are definitely leftists but they're obviously not labor class and yes it's a little hard to explain away the group's loose affiliation with the (objectively strasserist) Red Scare podcast through co-host Amber A'Lee Frost - but I'm not going to waste a couple thousand words trying to untangle Brooklyn independent media drama from half a country away and besides, Amber didn’t write this book. Despite these critiques however, I think it's important to note that under no circumstances am I prepared to accept the argument that with fascists to the right of me, and lanyards, um also to the right, the real problem here is... Chapo Trap House.

Ok, with that out of the way let's dive right in and talk about the question I think most folks who've written about The Chapo Guide to Revolution have largely failed to grasp – namely, what kind of book is it precisely? Combining elements of comedy, playful online trolling, historical analysis, political theory and good old-fashioned cross platform promotional marketing, the book has often lead critics to compare it to catch-all comedic efforts like Joe Stewart's “America” or even humorous men’s lifestyle advice texts like “Max Headroom's Guide to Life.” This is I think an essential misreading of the fundamentally earnest and direct tone the book actually takes in its efforts to reach a fledgling audience growing more receptive to left wing ideas. The Chapo Guide to Revolution is, as the cover says, a manifesto; but rather than serving as the mission statement for a particular formed political ideology, the Chapos have written an extremely effective, entry-level argument for why labor-class millennials should be leftists – and, of course, why they should listen to Chapo Trap House; this is still a cross-promotional work after all.

Naturally as befits a book about a comedy podcast, albeit a very political one, the Chapo Guide to Revolution is an extremely funny book that does a remarkable job translating the type of caustic online humor previously only found in left wing Twitter circles, onto the written page. While its certainly true that this quirky style of comedy can be a little difficult to grasp for the uninitiated, and typically a cross-promotional work of this type will get bogged down in self-referential humor and inside jokes, the book mostly avoids this trap by sticking with the basics and assuming that the reader has literally never heard an episode of Chapo Trap House, which in turn makes the humor fairly universal and extremely accessible – at least for anyone under the age of fifty. This endeavor is greatly aided by the dark and dystopian, yet hilariously eviscerating art of Eli Valley; a man who himself has since become one of the leading left wing critics of establishment power online through his extremely provocative sketches and ink work.

The truth however is that if the Chapo Guide to Revolution was merely just a funny book, I wouldn't be reviewing it here today. No, the reason this book is worth writing about at all lies in the fact that underneath all the jokes, taunts and “half-baked Marxism” lies an objectively brilliant work of historical analysis, cultural critique and left wing political theory – albeit an unfocused theory that borrows heavily from half a dozen functionally incompatible left wing thinkers and literary giants, but a fundamentally serious work of political philosophy nonetheless.

Yes, that's correct; I said brilliant. Where think-tank minions and neoliberal swine in the corporate media see a petulant pinko tantrum, and  online leftist academics see privileged dudebros appropriating Marx (poorly), I see a brilliant and yet stealthy synthesis of political theories, historical analysis and organizational ideas originally presented by writers like Howard Zinn, Noam Chomsky and Thomas Frank. Drawing on historical theories from Marx, Gramsci and Rocker, the Chapos have cobbled together a rudimentary political philosophy that represents a crude and yet promising welding of anarchist concepts about labor, Marxist concepts about economics and democratic socialist concepts about politics, collected together under the generic banner of “socialism.”

At this point some of you are undoubtedly snickering, but please bear with me for a moment here because what the Chapos (or their ghostwriter) have done in this book is truly a marvelous thing to behold precisely because you can't see it unless you're paying close attention. By positioning The Chapo Guide to Revolution as both a comedic work and an introductory level text, the authors have created a sort of unique crash course in left wing history, geopolitics, philosophy and political theory for a newly awakened generation of Americans who find themselves increasingly politicized whether they like it or not.

Underneath the acerbic millennial humor, “extremely online” diction and unrelenting waves of sarcasm, The Chapo Guide to Revolution is also a surprisingly accurate “CliffsNotes” style textbook presentation of multiple broad-based social science subjects – here are just a few examples:

In “Chapter One: World” the book presents a rudimentary and yet deliciously insightful history of post-World War II American empire that draws on authors like Howard Zinn and Noam Chomsky, with a touch of contemporary writers like Greg Grandin and Naomi Klein. In particular the attention devoted to condensing the target audience's formative experiences with empire like the War on Terror, the invasion of Iraq and the war in Afghanistan, into a short and coherent narrative that can be easily shared with other novice political observers makes this book an invaluable resource for budding millennial leftists  Additionally, while it certainly might have been an accident, the Chapos' choice to wrap this “Pig Empire geopolitics for newbs” lesson in a protracted joke about America as an extremely ruthless corporate startup at least touches on ideas presented by writers like Roxanne Dunbar-Ortiz, Sheldon Wollin (or Chris Hedges repeating Sheldon Wolin), Joel Bakan, Rosa Luxemburg and others.

In Chapters Two and Three, entitled “Libs” and “Cons” respectively, the authors conduct a remarkably thorough political science lesson on the two major mainstream political “ideologies” in American culture, including both a rough outline of their history and their modern calcification inside the Democratic and Republican parties. Of course both of these sections rely heavily on the personal experiences of the authors growing up in a politicized America, but these discussions also dip into the works of Thomas Frank and Cory Robin to explore and critique the liberal and conservative political mindset respectively; in particular the Chapos summary of Robin's work on the conservative worship of hierarchies is an inspired distillation. More importantly however, the Chapos also expose the way in which these two ideologies represent a false dichotomy within the greater confines of a larger capitalist socioeconomic order; which is of course a (still absolutely correct) idea straight out of the works of Karl Marx.

In Chapter Six, appropriately entitled “work” the authors engaged in a disarmingly earnest discussion about wage slavery, the false promises of the protestant work ethic and the history of terrible jobs available to the labor class under various iterations of the capitalist project. This is followed by a humorous, but dystopian review of what future jobs might look like if the neoliberal socioeconomic order continues on as it has so far, and an extremely brief but sincerely argued pitch for completely transforming the role of work in society through some from of technologically assisted anarcho-communism. This last idea is admittedly a little half-baked but you have to admire their balls when the Chapo boys flatly call for a three hour workday; a position that will undoubtedly be popular with the labor class who're currently engaged in all those sh*tty jobs the book describes earlier in the chapter. Once again this synthesis of left wing ideas about work does represent a new and unique formulation, but despite the humorous and original content you can also clearly see the influence of anarchist writers like Kropotkin, Rocker and Goldman in this chapter, as well as contemporary authors like David Graeber and Mark Blyth.

Unfortunately, if there is a downside to writing a brilliantly subversive comedy book that functions as a “my little lefty politics primer” for politically awakening millennials, it's that you simply don't have the space for an intellectually rigorous examination of all the ideas you're sharing – there is after all a big difference between reading the Cliff Notes version of Zinn, Chomsky or Marx, and reading the original theories in their full form. Furthermore, the individual life experiences, idiosyncrasies and humor styles of the authors do at times bleed into the text in a way that I personally suspect was detrimental to the overall analysis. Here's a short list of “sour notes” I found in this otherwise remarkable book:

From what I have listened to of the Chapo Trap House podcast, it has always been my impression that the Chapos were particularly effective critics of American corporate media, so I was a little disappointed that the chapter on media in The Chapo Guide to Revolution was a fairly tepid and narrow discussion about (admittedly vapid) bloggers turned celebrated pundits. Don't get me wrong, I'm sure power dunking on the likes of Matty Yglesias, Meagan McArdell and Andrew Sullivan was viscerally satisfying for the book's target audience, but there's really not much of a broader critique of the media's ideological role in American capitalism and culture here like one would find in Herman & Chomsky's “Manufacturing Consent”, Matt Taibbi's “Hate Inc” or Michael Parenti's “Inventing Reality.” This absence I fear has the tragic side effect of reinforcing the idea the American corporate media sucks because egg-shaped moron bougie pundits are bad at their job and not because of the inherent failings of the for-profit media model and the institution's true role as an ideological shepherd keeping the masses aligned with the goals of elite capital and the ruling classes – almost exclusively against the bests interests of the labor class.  

The introduction is written in what I can only assume is a sarcastic imitation of right-leaning self improvement books with a touch of Tyler Durden's Fight Club ethos thrown in; this might have been a better choice in a completely different book but it's largely out of place with the rest of this book. At this point I should also say that the best part about the Kidzone intermission is that it was only two pages long. Needless to say, neither one of these sections did anything for me whatsoever.

While it's entirely possible that at forty-three years of age, I'm simply too old to really get the “millenialness” of the chapter on Culture, the simple truth is that I found most of it to be a fairly useless examination of pop culture influences the Chapos hold in reasonably high esteem. As someone who isn't particularly engaged in watching lengthy television series or regularly playing video games, I really couldn't dig into most of the material presented and the less said about the art jokes and the bizarre absurdist discussion of elevator brands, the better. There is however one rather notable exception here in the brief essay on The Sorkin Mindset, which is an objectively brilliant evisceration of the liberal obsession with the West Wing and the tragic effect that obsession has had on Democratic Party politics – this really could have gone in the chapter on “Libs” because it's that valuable of a tool for understanding and critiquing the modern liberal lanyard worldview. Finally I guess I should note that while the Chapo boys' insightful critique of the vapid “prestige TV” phenomenon is both interesting and correct, it really only “matters” if you're a consumer of these types of series – and I'm not.

While I certainly understand the authors' decision to use their notes section to preemptively debunk bullsh*t complaints about the more outrageous accusations they level against the American establishment, I would have liked to see a “recommended reading” section. It is very clear that the Chapos have a reasonably strong background in imperial history, political science and labor theory and I feel like pointing readers towards writers who expand on the theories they summarize in The Chapo Guide to Revolution might have been a better use of space than printing links to old internet articles bad faith actors will never type into a search engine anyway.

Although it might seem like there was more about the book I didn't like, than I did, this is a little misleading – the first three chapters of The Chapo Guide to Revolution are pure fire and comprise over half of the volume. If you throw in the brilliant chapter about work and labor theory, the overall package is far more substance than style, despite the fact that it remains humorous and a little bit edgy throughout the book. While it's certainly fair to say that an introductory primer on why you should be a leftist for newly-politicized millennials isn't a must-read for everyone, the simple truth is that the vast majority of online leftists I know could learn a thing or two from this rudimentary synthesis of various left wing ideas into the seeds of a working, modern political ideology compatible with a uniquely Americanized, millennial left.

While no three hundred page comedy book written by five podcasters from Brooklyn is going to teach you everything there is to know about socialism and left wing ideology, there's something to be said for offering an accessible, entry-level alternative tailor-made for a target demographic already being heavily recruited by the fascists. As a starting point for exploring left wing political thought, you could do a lot worse than The Chapo Guide to Revolution and for a generation of kids who've mostly been encouraged to be passive accomplices to their own subjugation while blaming their misery on anyone even more powerless than they are, there is perhaps nothing more valuable than a condensed narrative that explores how to even think about another way to live.

Remarkably, this book finds a way to deliver on that monumental task while simultaneously failing to grasp one single relevant thing about the cherished American novel Moby Dick. Despite this infuriating literary myopia and insolence, this still might literally be the best book ever written for young American leftists who simply aren't going to spend ten years reading academic literature written by dead white guys from Germany and Russia. - nina illingworth Independent writer, critic and analyst with a left focus. Please help me fight corporate censorship by sharing my articles with your friends online! You can find my work at ninaillingworth.com, Can’t You Read, Media Madness and my Patreon Blog Updates available on Twitter, Mastodon and Facebook. Podcast at “No Fugazi” on Soundcloud. Chat with fellow readers online at Anarcho Nina Writes on Discord!

[chubbyooo]

Blurred Lines: Cursed Past Chapter 46 - Perspective

let’s get right back into that writing spirit with the continuation of last time

After a bad panic attack Kyradia wakes up not where she expected with a strange ally

Kyradia felt her head brush against something soft as she opened her eyes, she frowned what had just happened? where was she? She looked around she could see the trees and hills of Odessen how had she gotten out here? She turned to see the large stocky form of a sith pureblood sitting there meditating, Kyradia thought he looked farmiliar he had greying short slicked back hair and long jedi robes.

After a few seconds of silence he turned around with a bright smile “ah you’re awake that’s good” Kyradia frowned she definitely recognised him but from where

she had to ask even if it was rude “um who are you and uh how did I get here” she’d been in the med bay healing up how did she make it here

the pureblood continued smiling “well it’s a shame you don’t remember me, to clear that mystery up it’s Dzûsa the hero of Tython” Kyradia’s eyes widened of course it was wow he had gotten old “and after your little spill I thought I’d bring you somewhere that I like to use to calm down” little spill? 

Suddenly it all came flooding back she had told Ashara about Ossus and she’d disappeared she looked around frantically how would she find her now “I’m uh sorry Dzûsa but I can’t stay I’ve gotta go find my friend she’s rather upset” Dzûsa’s expression didn’t change 

he nodded “yes she seemed pretty upset when I saw her” Kyradia was only half listening as she was still looking around

Kyradia stammered “wait you know where she is? please please tell me” Kyradia started breathing heavily 

Dzûsa took a deep breath “here’s the deal I’ll tell you if you take a second, think things through and let me help you calm down” Kyradia grimaced was this jedi blackmailing her into therapy.

Kyradia sat down in a huff “fine!” Dzûsa smiled seemingly satisfied with the arrangement 

Dzûsa turned to her “so Kyradia what is the issue with the Ashara situation” Kyradia played with her hair awkwardly did she really have to do this

Kyradia sighed “well I uh made a mistake that she disapproves of and now she’s super mad at me” hopefully that was enough 

Dzûsa raised his eyebrow “Kyradia I’m going to need more than that” damn it what if he was mad too

Kyradia held her arm “well I kinda helped Darth Malgus remove the jedi presence from Ossus” Dzûsa nodded Kyradia couldn’t tell if he was angry he was so emotive last time she saw him but now he was so calm

“hmmm yes that does make sense why she would be mad” Kyradia was shocked Dzûsa didn’t seem mad at all but jedi was is whole thing

Kyradia stammered “um aren’t you upset about what I did” Dzûsa smiled shaking his head

he let out a little hearty chuckle “not particularly the Jedi are just another group of force users with a different name, the faction is not important it’s those within it who rise above like Lana and well you” Kyradia felt a small well of pride even if it wasn’t deserved, Dzûsa chuckled “and the jedi always find a way to survive I’m not worried”

Kyradia was taken aback he didn’t even care “um uh thanks for forgiving me I’m not sure Ashara will have the uh same view” Dzûsa cocked his head with a sympathetic smile

“Kyradia I’ve been forgiven for doing much worse” Kyradia frowned really Dzûsa the straight edge jedi he chuckled as he saw her expression “I’m assuming you don’t know my history, I was a sith prodigy back in the great galactic war I did plenty of awful things, I left my family and everything behind and those jedi still forgave me” Kyradia was shocked she’d never bothered to learn about the hero of Tython was he really once a sith? and a GGW one?

Kyradia looked at the floor “the thing is I don’t think I deserve to be forgiven” Dzûsa looked at Kyradia with an understanding smile

he put his hand on her shoulder “everyone deserves to be forgiven Kyradia even if they don’t believe it, a very smart blond taught me that” Kyradia chuckled she forgot he was Lana’s squeeze no wonder she was so cheerful earlier 

Kyradia took a deep breath “uh thanks Dzûsa I think that helped” Kyradia went to stand but Dzûsa stopped her damn it more really?

Dzûsa smiled “just one more thing Kyradia I want you to calm down so I’m gonna teach you a little technique” Kyradia nodded ok that wasn’t so bad if it got her the information “close your eyes and try to focus on something you have a connection to, reach out see if you can find it” Kyradia frowned that sounded kinda hard “if it doesn’t work no issue it should help your mind get perspective” Kyradia supposed it couldn’t hurt. She closed her eyes what should she focus on? something easy something she held close, what about her old nexu teeth necklace that’d do. 

She focussed reaching out as she felt her vision shift across the stars she assumed heading to Dathomir that’s the last place she’d seen it but to her surprise it went to a different planet on what seemed like a transport ship. She frowned confused suddenly losing the connection and opening her eyes she had to admit she felt calmer.

Dzûsa smiled “did that help” Kyradia nodded she had to admit she felt calmer admittedly a little angry about whoever nicked her necklace

Kyradia turned to Dzûsa “can I pleease know where Ashara is?” Dzûsa’s gave a wide grin nodding

“yeah she’s just over that ridge” Kyradia sighed of course she should’ve know

Dzûsa chuckled to himself “good luck Kyradia and I wouldn’t mind doing this again if you ever need it” Kyradia considered the idea it wasn’t so awful

Kyradia nodded “sure why not” Dzûsa smiled letting her leave.

Kyradia rushed down the hill as quick as her injured stomach would let her until she could see Ashara sitting on a log crying. Kyradia felt so awful why had she kept it from her so long how could she have been so inconsiderate, Kyradia knew how her impulses. Kyradia shuffled up quietly sitting down opposite Ashara.

She didn’t say anything until Ashara looked up and saw her, Ashara’s face was covered in tears as she stammered “h-how do I keep f-falling for it” Kyradia sighed letting Ashara say her peace “I-I mean every time y-you say you’ve changed and I just blindly follow you believing everything you say as you manipulate me again” Kyradia knew she was right but she really wasn’t trying to this time

Kyradia sighed “Ashara I-I promise this time I really just wanted to see you” that was the truth she knew it was 

Ashara frowned her sadness turning to anger “then why didn’t you tell me” Kyradia had no right answer for that how could she? she’d messed up so bad

Kyradia stammered “I told you I was scared of what you would say I-I-I’m so sorry it was a terrible thing to do the Jedi didn’t deserve that” Kyradia had never agreed with Jedi methods but still she shouldn’t have taken such pleasure in it

Ashara grimaced “You think I give a FUCK about the jedi, you used me as your personal ‘oh I’m not such a bad person’ buffer to feel BETTER about your fight with Kavaraa” Kyradia’s eyes widened was that really what she had done? “you don’t talk to me for like a year after our reunion and suddenly you want to SEE me all I was to you was away to feel better about the decision YOU regret”

Kyradia was at a loss for words she didn’t even realise but she was totally right that was what she’d done even if she hadn’t realised “Ashara I-I swear if I did that I didn’t mean to seriously as far as I was concerned it was unrelated” she could see the tears welling up in Ashara’s eyes again

“but it wasn’t Kyradia you know it wasn’t you used me for a purpose and only for that, fuck every time you just manipulate me for your purposes” she took a moment to compose herself “and I always fall for it because apparently that’s my lot in life to be a stupid sucker” Kyradia had no idea what to do all she wanted was to do whatever she could to help her

Kyradia took a deep breath “I’m sorry Ashara I’m so so sorry I understand if you hate me and never want to see me again” Ashara’s anger melted as she began to sob again

Ashara looked at her solemnly “Kyradia, you know you ruined my life right?” Kyradia felt the question hit her like a ton of bricks

She took a deep breath “yeah I know” it was the only fair answer she could give really

Ashara tried her best to compose herself “like I had promise as a Jedi and could’ve done great things but now I’m just some Jedi who’s best friend is a sith who they hate” she took a long sigh “but somehow she always helps them because she’s too invested with the idea they could be better, the idea that maybe she didn’t throw her life away” Kyradia felt awful she had no idea Ashara had been going through this since they met.

Kyradia had to do this it was the only fair thing “well I can think of two solutions either you keep helping them try to be better and one day they might be an actual decent person, or you leave and the sith won’t stop you for fear of manipulating the jedi further” she looked at Ashara dead in the eyes Kyradia was trying her hardest to keep herself together, please please choose the first option.

Ashara looked distraught tears covering her face as she stared back, after a long minute she stood up and began to walk away. Kyradia watched as she walked out of her view, she didn’t blame her why would she want to stay Ashara had been right she was just manipulating her so she could feel better about her own shitty decisions. She hoped with every part of her she would come back but knew Ashara wouldn’t want to stay with a bitch like her, Kyradia put her head against her knees and softly began to cry...

[galahadwilder]

The Agreste Letters, Ch. 5

The Agreste Letters Archive

The next morning everything continued as if Marinette’s whole world hadn’t been flipped upside down. She overslept—again; no new revelations as to Hawkmoth’s or Chat Noir’s identity had broken overnight to anyone but her. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine that nothing was different, that everything was normal, that her partner hadn’t revealed himself to her while also springing the dreadful truth about one of her heroes on her without so much as a warning. But then she opened her eyes, and Adrien’s seat was empty, and she heard his voice break as he said his father’s name, and the bottom dropped out of her stomach all over again.

“He didn’t tell me anything,” Nino said. “Maybe he’s taking a sick day?”

Alya shook her head, drumming her stylus on her desk. “You don’t remember that time he puked in the bathroom and then came back to class?” she said. “I don’t think he even knows what a sick day is.” She turned to Marinette, Who was staring out the window. “Mari, you know his schedule. How often does he miss a day?”

Marinette grunted without turning her head. “He doesn’t even miss weekends,” she mumbled. She hoped he was okay at Fu’s—if he was Chat, anyway. She hadn’t thought to confirm. There hadn’t been time to think anything through before he’d spilled his identity and she’d freaked out, leaving him alone. He didn’t have anything but the clothes on his back, the ring on his finger, and the sleeping bag and inflatable mattress that she’d summoned for the Lucky Charm.

”I’m sure he’ll be in soon,” Chloé scoffed. But even she couldn’t hide the worry on her face. This wasn’t just anyone missing school—this was so out of character for him that pretty much the only explanation anyone could come up with was that something terrible had happened.

Which, of course, it had, but nobody but her knew that.

”Maybe I should call his father?” Mme. Bustier said. “I’m sure he’s fine, but this is... unlike him.”

”His dad’s in the hospital,” Marinette said.

Alya crinkled her brow. “Maybe Adrien’s visiting?”

That was when Principal Damocles burst through the door. “Caline, I need to speak to you.” He eyed the class. “In private.”

Marinette’s attention immediately snapped to his jacket pocket—she could see The Owl’s mask sticking out of the top. He’d sworn to her that he’d stop his superhero antics after the whole Dark Owl mess; if he was about to put the mask back on, then he must’ve been terrified.

Everyone was getting scared, she realized. He hadn’t even come home last night. To the rest of the world, it was like Adrien had vanished off the face of the Earth.

Her heartbeat got louder, her pulse filling her ears as Bustier followed Damocles our of the classroom. She was causing so many people so much worry—No. This isn’t your fault. It’s Hawkmoth’s, she told herself, trying to calm the pounding in her head, her chest. Adrien is fine.

But was he? What if she was wrong? She hadn’t stayed. What if he hadn’t made it to Fu’s last night? What if something had happened? Worse—what if she was wrong? What if he wasn’t Chat Noir at all? What if what his disappearance was completely unrelated?

What if something had happened to him?

Acid rose in her throat. She’d left him alone on that rooftop, and now he might well be dead, and she was sitting in class doing nothing.

She jumped to her feet. “Excuse me,” she murmured, ducking around the desk and fleeing out the door.

She barely made it to the restroom in time to throw her head into the sink, her stomach heaving its contents straight out of her throat and filling the porcelain with vomit. She fell against the sink, shivering, trying not to cry.

But, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the blue butterfly that passed through the window. Saw it light on her purse. Saw it disappear into a rush of blue motes of light.

Hello... um, Ladrona? a very familiar voice said inside her mind.

Marinette froze, her heart bursting in her chest, as relief swept through her entire body. He’s okay. It was definitely Adrien’s voice she was hearing, now, and she knew only one person who had the Butterfly Miraculous. Adrien was Chat, and both of them were okay.

She sobbed.

Listen, I know what you’re thinking, the voice continued, but I’m not him. My name is Greyling and I’m one of the good guys. I kind of need a favor, but only if you’re cool with it.

”You... have m-my phone number, Adrien,” she whispered. “You couldn’t just call?”

He was silent for a moment before replying. You know who I am? he said.

”You gave me a heart attack.”

I’m sorry, he said. I think Hawkmoth can monitor my phone. And what I’m about to ask of you is not... strictly speaking... legal. This way you can claim he was controlling you if the police catch you... he sighed. Or if Ladybug finds out.

Marinette gritted her teeth. Everything he was saying right now was suspicious, and if it had just been Adrien, she would have balked, even for him. But this was Chat Noir. This was her partner. She trusted him beyond life.

“Okay,” she said. “I’m in. What do you need?”

She could hear Greyling swallow over the mental link. I need you to rob my house.

***

Marinette hadn’t looked too good when she’d rushed out of class. The expression on Damocles’s face had been bad enough, but Marinette had been off all morning—if she didn’t know any better, Alya would have thought that her friend knew a little bit more about what was happening than she let on.

Still, seeing her this distressed was always... bad. Hit Alya like a punch in the gut, if she was honest.

She opened the bathroom door, ready to ask if Marinette was all right—only to see a girl in dark blue, distinctive Hawkmoth lighting-bolt mask painted on her face, short black punk-rocker hair under a black beret.

Alya froze.

Marinette—or whatever Hawkmoth had named her—turned to her. Met her eyes.

Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.

”I’m sorry,” the Akuma that had taken Marinette whispered, and then she vanished out the window like a thief in the night.

The Agreste Letters Archive

[misscrazyfangirl321]

Bad Things Happen Bingo fill for “I’ll Only Slow You Down,” with Garcy. Also a fill for Garcy Whump, which @agentmarymargaretskitz requested an age ago. 

@badthingshappenbingo

Rating: T 

(AO3)

-

They barely make it to the shelter of a nearby barn before he collapses, near dead-weight colliding with the floor. (But he's not dead, she reminds himself. He's fine. He's going to be fine. She won't-can't-consider any other alternative.)

She scans the barn for anything that could be a makeshift weapon, and settles on a shovel, leaning against the wall. It isn't much, and it won't help her long if Rittenhouse bursts in guns blazing, but it's something, at least.

With that settled, she kneels by him, taking him in. How many times he was hit, and where, she isn't quite sure. But there's so much blood she can hardly think straight. (It's been a long time since she's fainted at the sight of blood, but she thinks she might do it now.) "How can I help?" She asks, because he's the expert here. This can't be his first field injury, she reminds herself.

He blinks up at her uncertianly, as if her words aren't quite registering, but finally, he manages a single word in response: "Run."

"Run. Right, I need to get help. Um, Wyatt and Rufus are probably-" Her mind is racing, trying to calculate where she's most likely to find the other half of their team, but he shakes his head urgently, cutting her off.

"You. Run. You have to get-" He gasps, eyes shutting briefly, and she can't stop the burst of panic as she reaches for him, grabbing his shoulder. He starts, and forces out the rest of his sentence, weak and raspy. "Get back to the Lifeboat. Go home. Before-Rittenhouse."

His eyes fall shut once more, and it takes her several seconds to register what he's saying. Leave him behind? Just let him die?

"No," she snaps, alight with fury. He's just going to give up? To leave her? And he wants her to abandon him? How could he? (She can't lose him, too. Not him. Please.)

He grunts, taking several deep breaths, and she reaches out on instinct, stroking his hair. It's smeared with dirt and blood, and who knows what else, but she doesn't falter. "I-Lucy," he whispers, "please. Please, you-I'll only slow you down, and I can't-I can't make it like this. Please. I'm... I'm sorry."

A tear slips down his cheek, and she can't quite breathe. He's sorry? She desperately wants to wrap him in her arms, to hold him together by force of will alone, but she can barely find the strength to wipe his tear away. "I'm not leaving you."

"I can't lose you," he murmurs, and she shakes her head, scarcely letting him finish, voicing the truth she’s been afraid to admit for far too long.

"And I can't lose you."

Silence. His head lolls to the side, and her heart all but stops. Then, he speaks, so softly she can hardly hear him. "I love you." There's something final in his tone, calm and sure. As if he knows that she can't turn that back on him. Can't say the same back to him.

And she wishes she could. Oh, she wishes she could. But it's too soon, and she's too afraid, and she never gave herself a chance to fall for him. She could, oh so easily, but they need more time. Tears burn her eyes, threaten to fall, but she wipes them furiously away. Realizes too late that she's smeared his blood across her cheek. (Her stomach turns at the realization.)

"I-I-"

He opens his eyes, somehow impossibly tender in spite of everything. "It's alright, Lucy. Go on." He stares at her, as if trying to memorize her. Trying to imprint her face into his mind for these last moments. She presses her lips together tightly, looking away.

For a moment, she doesn't think she'll even be able to stand, but with effort, she pushes to her feet. Rises unsteadily, half-expecting her legs to collapse underneath her.

Not fair, not fair, not fair.

Forward, she orders herself, and somehow, her legs obey. She takes a step toward the open door. Another, then another. Hyper-aware of his gaze following her out, keeping watch until the last possible second. Even now, if a Rittenhouse agent charged in, he would take the shot. Would save her life, even with the last bit of his own.

What is she doing?

She stands in the doorway, frozen, a cacophony echoing in her mind. Her stomach is so twisted she can hardly walk, and her breath refuses to come evenly.

Too many people lost, in one way or another. Amy. Her mother. Her father. (Her real father, not Benjamin Cahill. That man is nothing to her, and he never will be.) Wyatt. Jessica. Rufus, temporarily. Even Noah, though that one is mostly on her.

And now, Flynn.

It isn't fair.

Rage washes over her, and the noise that leaves her isn't quite human, but she's far beyond caring. "No," she growls, whirling back to face him. Marching back to his side furiously. Her hands tremble, but she ignores them, fixing her gaze on the battered man on the floor. He looks exhausted, but firm, ready to insist with everything inside him that she-. "No," she repeats, before he can even get a word out.

She has lost too many people. She refuses to lose this one.

"I'm not leaving you," she snaps, dropping to her knees beside him. Grabs his collar when he starts to protest, and presses her lips to his.

It's over in half a second, more a fierce claim than a true kiss. But he is hers, and she refuses to let him go. His eyes are wide and startled when she pulls away, even with his face deathly pale. She cups his cheek, traces a thumb over his nose, and shakes her head.

"I'm not leaving you," she says, softer this time, but no less determined. Holds his gaze, desperate to make him understand. "Because you and I are both getting out of this alive. We're going to get back to the bunker, a doctor is going to patch you up, and you're going to be okay."

He shakes his head, doesn't seem to have the strength to do more, and she smiles tenderly. "And then? You're going to make me dinner. And we're going to eat it in your room, and pretend it's a date. We're going to dance in front of the TV in the middle of the night, because neither of us can sleep anyway. You're going to glare at Wyatt over my shoulder, and I'm going to pretend not to notice. And..." Her heart stutters, but she forces out the words. "I'm going to get a chance to fall in love with you. Okay?"

He looks as if he's not quite sure she's speaking English, or maybe he thinks he's hallucinating from blood loss. Utter, complete, tender disbelief.

Still, he nods.

"Good." She shifts closer, resting a hand over his heart. "Good."

-

By the time Wyatt and Rufus find them, Flynn has lost consciousness completely. It takes both of them to carry him, while Lucy clings to the gun she barely knows how to use, scanning for Rittenhouse agents.

In the bunker, it's touch and go for longer than Lucy cares to remember, a chaotic swarm of shouting and beeping and panic. His heart stops at one point, and she thinks hers does as well, until they finally get it beating again. He needs a blood transfusion, and she's more surprised than she should be that Wyatt doesn't hesitate to offer.

Finally, finally, he's stable.

She shifts on the uncomfortable stool she's been on since this started, her back screaming in protest. No matter. He'd do so much more for her. She could stay here forever.

"There's nothing you can do for him," Agent Christopher says, when she stops in to check on him. "He just needs rest. Both of you do."

"I'm not leaving him." Her voice is hoarse from all of the shouting and crying she’s done, and her words lack the strength they’ve held before, but not the conviction. She means them as fiercely as ever.

"Lucy, you've been up for almost 48 hours." The older woman looks her over with the motherly stare that always makes Lucy shift in her seat. "No offense, but you look terrible." A sniff, a wince, then- "And you smell it, too. Go. Shower. Eat something." Before Lucy can find the words to protest, Agent Christopher holds up a hand. "And while you're gone, I'll get a cot moved in here, so you can get some sleep."

Very, very briefly, Lucy has the presence of mind to realize that Wyatt will probably object to that. Will probably be hurt by that. (Although maybe not; he's been oddly subdued this whole time.)

But if the alternative is leaving Flynn alone... "Okay," she whispers. "Thank you."

-

When he finally wakes, she's by his side, book in hand. (A gift from the local den mother, Agent Christopher. Truthfully, Lucy couldn't tell you half the things she's read, but it gives her something to focus on besides the worry curling around her chest, suffocating her.)

He blinks at her slowly, taking her in. "You're okay," he whispers, utterly relieved.

That ridiculous man. That ridiculous, wonderful, precious man. Her breath catches, and she can feel tears pricking at her eyes once more. "I'm okay? You're the one who almost-" Her voice cracks, and she can't force the words out. He swallows hard, holding out his hand, and she takes it in her own. Holds it up to her lips, and presses gently.

"I-" He stares for half a second, then shakes his head. A ghost of his usual teasing smirk flickers on his face. "You are... Impossibly stubborn."

She laughs, as much out of surprise as anything, then meets his gaze steadily. "And you love me for it."

He stills. Takes a deep breath, and says, deliberately off-handedly, "Well, that's... Not the only reason."

Maybe she should be afraid. The last person who told her he loved her broke her heart. But somehow, she's utterly calm. If they made it through this, they can make it through anything.

"About.. What you said..." His gaze drops, and he studies their entwined fingers. "If you didn't-if you were just-" He sighs. "I won't hold you to it."

Her heart shatters on the spot for this man, who thinks he means so little to her, and she presses another kiss to his hand, fierce and unrelenting. "Well, that's too bad," she says, with forced lightness, "because I'm holding you to it."

A cautious smile flickers on his face, and hope dances in his eyes. "Truly?"

She can’t help but smile in return, tightening her hold on his hand. "Yes. Truly."

-

It's breakfast, not dinner, and it's amazing, because of course he can cook. Rufus catches them dancing by the light of the TV, and they collapse against each other, laughing. (He slowly backs out of the room.) He and Wyatt do glare at each other, but not as often; there seems to be a grudging respect growing between the two men.

And when she falls for him, she knows without a doubt he will catch her.

-

A/N: If anyone has any requests for this, let me know!

[villainousvillains]

Loki x Reader - There’s Always More

Requested by Anon: 💚💚 love the blog darling! could you maybe do a loki oneshot where the reader had fallen in love with Loki, but never told him? so loki goes on and gets a girlfriend, introduces her to everyone and the reader is just devastated? and maybe the reader ends up confessing her love for loki during a screaming match they have.

A/N: I’m trying to get back into the writing groove, sorry for taking so long to get something out. I blame summer fever. Hope this is more satisfactory that I think it is lol.

For the fourth time, Loki took the leftover lasagna out of the microwave, touched it, then put it back in.

“You’re taking forever,” I stated, staring at him as I sat on the stool at the counter. I propped my chin in my right hand, annoyed yet entertained by the god who couldn’t figure out the microwave.

“It’s still cold,” Loki muttered, putting a few more seconds on the microwave.

“Then try putting more than…” I leaned over to see the time he had inputted, “ten seconds on at a time.”

“I don’t want to burn it,” Loki said as if he were stating the obvious. I smiled.

“Right. We don’t want another popcorn incident, do we?” I teased.

Loki narrowed his eyes and shook his head at my audacity to speak of such a thing. It was times likes these that overwhelmed me with feelings and made me want to confess everything. Sadly, however, that was not how I dealt with these things. My plan was usually to ignore the feelings until I was over 100% positive the other person felt the same way. Sure, the plan had its faults, but that was how I chose to live my life.

“You’re going to be around tonight, aren’t you?” Loki asked, taking his food out again.

My heart skipped a beat, but I ignored it. “Yeah. Why?”

Loki shrugged. “I just want you to meet someone.”

I nodded, not understanding what that meant at all. That wasn’t really what I expected him to say, but that could still be good, right?

Nope. Not right. Very wrong, I soon learned. Loki had disappeared all day which was something that did happen once and a while, but it had been happening more often lately which both concerned and aggravated me.

He finally showed back up a little before dinner along with the person I assumed he wanted me to meet. All of my fears resurfaced when he walked in with a beautiful girl. Loki didn’t have an arm around her or anything, but it was obvious he was introducing her to everyone as his girlfriend.

His girlfriend. I felt sick.

Not sad, or angry, or… some other negative emotion. Just… kind of sick. I dealt with this by doing the only thing I knew how to do. I allowed a low groan to rumble through my throat and squeezed my eyes shut for half a second before I smiled and walked on over to introduce myself.

And afterwards, I ran to the gym.

“Oh my god!” I grunted, fists clenched. I frantically looked around for some boxing gloves. I had never boxed before, but Steve would do it when he was mad, so I thought I’d give it a whirl. I kept my teeth clenched as I shoved my hands into the gloves.

I would fluctuate between being mad for thinking I even had a chance with Loki, then sad for the same reason. I kept trying to sort out my emotions because that always seemed to help me, but then I realized I couldn’t which only made me angrier.

“You’re really bad at that,” a voice said behind me. I knew who it was immediately and let out a sigh as my hands dropped to my side.

“I know,” I replied, keeping my tone even and calm. I kept my eyes down as I turned around and pulled the gloves off. “Those are… sweaty,” I muttered.

“Are you okay?” Loki asked. “I’ve never seen you… box before.” He walked over to me, a small smile playing on his lips. He really had no idea. I almost went along with it. It would have been easier to pretend I was annoyed by some other avenger and then we could just go back to normal, joking around with each other and me ignoring everything I felt. But I didn’t want to. Not anymore. It was exhausting.

“I thought I’d try it. Steve seems to enjoy it.”

“He also enjoys five hour workouts and going to bed at 7:00.”

I was supposed to laugh, I know, but I kept my straight face. I looked at the ground as my elbows sat on my knees and hands were clasped.

“Do you not like Isabel?”

I pressed my lips together and shook my head. “No, of course not. I like her.” I cleared my throat. “Where did you… where did you meet her again?” Every word I tried to speak hurt so much.

“That movie I went to with Thor,” he replied, the playful smile leaving his face, replacing it with a truly concerned one. He could tell from my tone.

“Right. When I was sick.”

“Yes.”

There was silence for a few seconds. Loki looked around the room while I focused my gaze on the floor.

“So you’re not going to tell me what’s wrong? That usually means it’s my fault.”

I hesitated and looked up at him. “It is.”

“Oh. I see.”

“You see?” I snapped out of my daze and stood up so I wouldn’t have to break my neck trying to see his face. “I highly doubt that you see.”

“You like my new girlfriend just fine, but you’re jealous,” he said triumphantly as if he had solved the most difficult of puzzles. I felt a fire in my stomach.

“I’m sorry,” I said loudly and overdramatically, “What?”

“You are jealous because I may not be spending as much time with you and you-”

“Oh my god!” I shouted. “So many things wrong with everything you just said!” Loki clamped his mouth shut. “Don’t say I’m jealous of anyone ever because that is a petty emotion that only makes you feel like you have some sort of power of me or some dumb shit like that-”

“Wait, Y/n I didn’t-”

“No!” My finger sprung into his face to stop him from talking. “You just don’t understand, and I’m tired of you guessing the wrong thing.”

Loki scoffed and threw his arms out. “Then what am I supposed to do? You won’t tell me what’s wrong! You must know you’re being difficult.”

I almost exploded again, but I instead unclenched my fists and rubbed my hands over my face. “You’re right,” I said, my voice muffled by my fingers. I let out a loud sigh and sat back down on the bench. “I’m sorry.”

Loki shook his head, confused by my outbursts and seemingly random mood swings then sat beside me. “Please tell me.”

“Okay.” I sighed yet again. Maybe if I sighed enough I would get dizzy and pass out. “It is about Isabel.”

“You don’t like her. I knew it,” Loki said firmly, making a fist.

“No!” I groaned with exasperation.

“What else could it be? You obviously-”

“It’s not that I don’t like your girlfriend, it’s that I don’t want you to have one!” I shouted, throwing my arms out dramatically. I just ripped it off. Ripped it off like a band-aid.

Loki’s eyes narrowed and I felt like he was looking through me. I felt judged, vulnerable, stupid. Stupid for feeling these things which wasn’t how it was supposed to work, but that’s just how messed I am.

“What do you mean?” he asked. I knew the look on his face. I knew exactly what he was doing. He had a suspicion and he was going to keep asking questions until he knew for sure in the most painful way possible.

I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t be able to see how much of an idiot I was going to look like. “I mean, I don’t want you to have a girlfriend unless it’s me.”

As soon as it came out of my mouth, I felt gross and terrible. It was because of how vulnerable I was making myself. I abruptly stood up and walked to the complete other side of the room, craving distance between us.

“Why are you- are you going somewhere?” Loki called, standing up. He started to walk toward me.

“No, no. Just talk from over there. I need distance.”

The sound of Loki’s snicker traveled through the air. “You’re so strange.”

I crossed my arms and shrugged.

“I didn’t know,” he said after I didn’t respond.

“I didn’t want you to know.”

“Why?”

I hesitated. I knew why, but how to phrase it? Because I was a coward? Because I was too emotionally insecure? Because I wanted him to just miraculously figure it out on his own?

“I… I was just scared. I think. I wasn’t sure how you’d respond and you know I’m not good at communicating emotions and stuff,” I finally said.

“That is true.”

I gave in to a small smile. A huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders.

“Did you know that Isabel doesn’t like Reese’s?” Loki asked. I looked at him from across the room to the best of my ability and shook my head a little. “I don’t think I can be with someone who doesn’t like Reese’s. I may have to break up with her.”

I furrowed my brows even more, wondering if I was understanding him right.

“On an unrelated note,” he continued, now pacing the perimeter of the room. “Are you free tomorrow?”

“I, um, yeah of course… I don’t-”

“I can’t quite hear you,” he interrupted, and midway through the sentence, the figure across the room faded away in a green mist. My breath caught in my throat and I frantically turned around, trying to find his true form. I held back a frightened squeal when I turned right into his chest, then I took a step back. “Well? Are you free?” He repeated, looking down on me.

I looked into his dark eyes, glanced at his playful smile, and took a peek at his slightly disheveled hair that he obviously didn’t know about or else he would have fixed it by now.

I loved him so much.

“I’m always free for you, you know that,” I told him casually.

“Your tone and your gaze do not match,” he replied. He was on to me. “Why do I feel there’s more you’re not telling me?”

A brief surge of courage took over and in one swift motion I closed the small gap between us and connected my lips to his. It was passionate and fast, my sensations overwhelmed before I pulled away once my brain caught up to my heart. Loki’s had had made its way to my neck and he held me close as we looked into each other’s eyes, taking in every fleck of color, every slight movement. I took in a short breath so I would be able to get the words I wanted to say out.

“Because…” I breathed, “there is.”

TAGGED:

@sarahivi @ilvermornyqueen @gladerb5 @tbetz0341 @1800-fight-me @nowitsyourturntocry @lokilover2000 @emergenciesstory @savemealoevera @frostymoon11 @stayfrosty-royalsunshine @scarred-neptinite @phonegalhelp @cruisingheightswithdragons @lusty-loki @ourdeliciousfoxcollector

[llamaswrites]

Spiral

Fandom: Overwatch

Rating: Teen

Pairing: Doomfist: The Successor | Akande Ogundimu/Lúcio Correia dos Santos

Summary: 

Hana said it took twenty-one days to form a habit.

It should have been simple to do.

The universe only gave him four days before everything went wrong.

Read on AO3 here.

It was yet another of Hana’s spontaneous theories and, like most ideas she came up with unrelated to battle tactics (either in Starcraft or actual combat), it was completely awful.

“It’s really simple in theory,” she told Lúcio through a mouthful of chips and ice cream. It was a combination that he always found awful, but it made appearance any time either of them had something go down that required ‘bestie time’, as Hana put it. “You just need to stay so busy that you can’t think about him. Eventually, you’ll just forget to think about him. They say it takes twenty-one days to form a habit. Think you can do it?”

Hana didn’t know much about Akande, other than he was exactly Lúcio’s type and managed to severely bruise his fragile heart. She didn’t even know his name, because he’d never told her and she’d never asked. It was the unspoken rule when they got together that the other person didn’t pry, to just let everything flow out naturally.

This time, Hana perched on the ratty old couch she’d found in the depths of Watchpoint: Gibraltar, after having put on something awful (anime, probably) on the holoscreen at the front of the room. Lúcio sat on the floor with his back against the couch, letting Hana comb her fingers through his recently cleaned hair. After a lot of practice, he was comfortable with her helping twist his hair back into locs.  

It was hard, sometimes, to reconcile this Hana with the one he went on missions with. When she was out of the MEKA, she was bright and happy and spontaneous. In it, she was cold, calculating, and brutal, everything she trained to be as essentially a child soldier.

“I’m going to bet that’s worked for exactly no one ,” he told her, eyes trained on the screen in front of him but not really watching. “How do you come up with this stuff?”

“I don’t,” she said, but then backtracked. “At least, I didn’t come up with this. It’s something 76 mentioned to me once.”

“You should leave that poor guy alone,” Lúcio mumbled, and then asked “What did he have to say? I didn’t think he really had anything or anyone outside of just being an old soldier past his time.”

“You tell me to leave him alone and still want to scoop? I don’t think that’s fair!” She tugged on a completed loc playfully.

“It’s not like you’re going to leave him alone anyway. Just spill!”

He expected Hana to spill immediately, like whenever she had a juicy piece of gossip about someone on base, but she hesitated. “I’m not really sure if it’s my story or whatever to tell, but...I found him one night when I was exploring, out near the big beacon that acts like a lighthouse over the straight. His visor was off and he was slamming back this cheap ass beer. I asked him if he wanted to have some company, to share some war stories and beer because I had some too and god knows none of us are getting therapy anytime soon and he told me, ‘That’s not why I’m out here’.

“He let me join him though, and few beers later he started talking. Said that back when he was the head of this whole shindig, he had a person that he was really close to, that he fell in love with. He never told them though and they died when that base blew up. He told me that piece of advice, though. Said that’s how he got over it. Maybe it’ll work for you.”

“Did he ever say who they were?” Lúcio asked, curious.

“Nah,” she said, flipping a finished loc over his shoulder. “But hey, his advice has to be worth something. He’s got way more age and wisdom and senior discounts than we’ll ever have. He probably knows what he’s talking about.”

He hummed softly in agreement, but couldn’t help imagining 76 up on that lighthouse tower. Hana probably didn’t realize that if he was up there mourning by himself that his tactics for forgetting hadn’t worked after all. Maybe his advice had worked once upon a time, but obviously something or someone recently dragged every bit of thought and obsession and grief back to the forefront of his mind. Lúcio didn’t plan on taking Hana’s advice, at least not originally. As was the case with everything in his life, but especially concerning Overwatch, trouble soon followed.

He told himself at first that he wanted to know more about Akande because he needed to thank him for the research and schematics left behind on the holo tablet. Not because, he scolded himself, he was still enamoured with the man despite not seeing him in over two weeks and despite the lack of any further promise. Searching for him on the web hadn’t been his immediate course of actions because it felt weird to search for someone he’d been so...personal...with in such an impersonal way. Lúcio was afraid of what he’d find, afraid that his experience that night would be far from unique, even if nothing was promised to make it that way. He soon found that with Akande, that should have been the least of his worries.

Instead, he checked the message Akande left for him on the datapad, hoping for some overt contact information he missed on his first glance through or clues in the metadata. The message itself was as unhelpful at it had been before. Checking the metadata was no better; it was as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to it, leaving it utterly unsalvageable and utterly useless. It was too much like recovered data from old watchpoints and Talon bases, deliberately obscured and damaged to hide the fingerprints of individuals long gone, or long damned in their pursuits.

Lúcio chose to look past the oddity. Surely Akande had his reasons for masking his digital trail. From his knowledge to his (too) expensive suit to the small red plates on his head announcing the fine intraneural nerve wiring to his prosthetic, it was clear he was someone , someone who dearly didn’t want to be found trivially. It should have scared Lúcio more than it did. He wasn’t prepared for how hard the fear and realization would hit him.

It had been entirely too easy to find out about Akande on the web. Lúcio thought that he misspelled his name at first because surely this couldn’t be the intimidating but gentle man he met. A quick check of the message of the datapad confirmed he had it right and a hard, cold lump of anxiety settled deep in his gut. He steeled himself and clicked on the first biography page that popped up. His eyes lighted on the picture and the lump immediately shot up into his stomach, nausea rising quickly. He threw the datapad (the same one from Akande) violently away from him and dashed to the bathroom to lose his lunch. The datapad landed on the bed’s comforter and was fine. Lúcio’s emotional state, however, was not.

Lúcio could honestly say before he saw Akande’s picture that there was not much he regretted in life or, at least, nothing he regretted deeply. He mourned deeply those lost in the revolution he’d started, wished there had been a better way, but he knew his regret would do nothing to change the past and only dishonor their memory. He didn’t really regret the actions that led him to lose his lower legs; after all, he wouldn’t be the same person or have all the same friends today with them.

After emptying his stomach, he rested his head back against the wall. He realized, panting slightly, that this was his first true regret. The only person that could reasonably be worse in this situation might be Gabriel Reyes, if he ever really was a person when he was still in Blackwatch (there was still so much he didn’t know or wasn’t privileged to). Or maybe Widowmaker. Still, Akande -- Doomfist -- was terrible in his own right. He killed so many in his rise to power through Talon; more still would be lost Talon’s warmongering efforts succeeded. He was the antithesis to everything Lúcio stood for in his life and Lúcio had let him see the most vulnerable part of him, both personally and with his tech.

The memory of being touched gently by Akande, by the same hands that killed so many, flitted by in his brain and Lúcio smashed his head back against the tile wall, quashing down the nausea that rose violently in him with pain. He took a few deeps breaths and tried to center himself. Maybe this wasn’t as bad as he was making it out to be. After all, Aka-- Doomfist certainly hadn’t mentioned to anyone what had happened between them and if he did, it hadn’t gotten out. Maybe this was just another passing thing for Doomfist or at most, some manipulation on Talon’s part. He couldn’t let it get to him. He wouldn’t.

The keypad beeping faintly in the distance was all the warning he got before Hana barged into his room, 76 in tow with a tray of food. Apparently in his internal angsting, he missed dinner. Hana joined him on the floor of the bathroom without hesitation, smoothing his locs away form his face. 76 positioned himself in the doorway between the bathroom and bedroom with the tray balanced on a single hand, obviously irritated by being dragged along but still not leaving.

“You never miss dinner, are you sick?” asked Hana. Lúcio shook his head and smiled weakly at her.

“Nah, I’m not sick,” he said and tried to stand up. Hana pulled him back down to the cool floor.

“What’s wrong? I know something’s wrong. Is it him?” she asked once more. Lúcio glanced up quickly at 76. The old soldier seemed to be unimpressed by what the youngsters before him were talking about and studying the room around him. An arched eyebrow above his visor, though, cued Lúcio into the fact that 76 was actually listening to their conversation.

“Um, kinda,” Lúcio admitted quietly, trying to prevent 76 from listening in. It probably didn’t work; super soldier hearing made having private conversations near impossible. “Just...I think I need to take your advice, for once. I’m driving myself nuts.”

Hana helped him to his feet and together, they stumbled back into the bedroom. His prosthetics feld like dead weight as he settled back onto the bed. Hana relocated the tablet to his bedside table, where 76 also placed the tray of food. 76 averted his gaze when Lúcio undid the locks on the prosthetics but Hana just leaned on his shoulder, entirely used to seeing his legs off and knowing it just made everything more awkward if she ignored the elephant in the room.

76 took up post by the door, clearly waiting for Hana as she whispered to Lúcio, “Love sucks. It gets better though. I promise.”

“It’s not, uh, love and thanks. For the advice. And for dinner.”

She pushed herself off his shoulder and off bed. “No problem! Text me if you need anything else. And hey, maybe you should start taking my advice more often.”

“You had a good idea for once?” rumbled 76’s voice finally. “The world must be ending.”

Hana pouted at him with crossed arms as he poked roughly at the keypad to open the door. 76 waited outside in the hall as she hugged Lúcio.

“Can it, mister,” she told the old soldier as she joined him in the hallway. “Besides, this bit of wisdom wasn’t one-hundred-percent Hana Song Certified. If it goes topsy turvy, it’s your fault.”

The door closed, but Lúcio could still hear the indignant, “My fault?” from the other side as he flopped back down the bed. For some reason, he had a feeling that sleep would not come easy.

Everything that could go wrong, did so like this:

Hana said it took twenty-one days to form a habit. Simple enough, Lúcio thought. Overwatch always had a plethora of missions available, ranging from escort situations to active combat situations. He signed himself up for the most mind numbing missions he can find after he fails to not think of the night in Rio for a week straight. This will work, he told himself.

And it did, for about four days. Four days of pushing himself to the limit and falling in his bed or a cot every night, absolutely exhausted. Four days of getting up, showering, and throwing himself back into his work, healing and guiding and fighting with blood making his skin tacky.

His life hadn’t been this intense since living back in the favela under Vishkar. These missions were the most extreme Overwatch had to offer, the ones that were always waiting for one last brave soul to make them a reality. Lúcio found himself crawling through vent ducts and scorching under the heat of the Cairo sun, all in the name of justice (and keeping his mind off of Akande). He didn’t even realize his plan was working.

Everything went wrong, starting like this:

They’re up in a satellite state of Russia and the air was cold enough to make breathing physically hurt. The sun, just starting to set below the horizon, did not help the temperature at all. The mission is in an area that could be described as a slum. Each shack was built out spare parts, whether from the siding of trains or the hulls of Volskaya mechs and rats, more impervious to the cold than Lúcio was, ran underfoot.The streets were narrow and wound through it in an almost non-Euclidean manner, making it all the more impossible to avoid the sharp icicles hanging from the tin ramshackle roofs. If not for the cold, it would make Lúcio miss his favela fiercely.

There was a definite sense of poverty, yes, but also a feeling of community and belonging. Everyone here knew each other and each other’s business, which made the Overwatch team’s presence all the more glaringly obvious. Their objective was a specific omnic living in one of these shacks, particularly escorting them to safety from the harshly anti-omnic groups circling like sharks around the neighborhood. Omnics were exceedingly rare in Russia, though this omnic had managed to survive long enough to see many others of their kind to safety. Now, only they remained, trapped by those wanting to prosecute them for the crime of protecting others. The community didn’t know or trust their intentions to help, though, and so hidden the omnic remained.

Today’s squad was smaller than their usual six man. He was accompanied by Soldier 76 and McCree, of all people and was dismayed when neither man seemed very bothered by the cold. They split up early on, to gain more ground, and Lúcio found himself quietly skating through icy alleys, followed only by the quiet hum of his sonic amplifier and the stares of the slum’s residents. There was at least a clue to where this omnic might be in the form of some sort of symbol painted on the upper left of their door, but that was according to the worried omnics this one helped. Still, working on old information was better than none at all.

He barely turned a corner when an explosion nearby rocked the slums, causing some of the icicles to fall from the eaves, shattering on the ground melodiously. Lúcio quickly backtracked to the alley he came from in search of better cover, hand reaching up to the comm in his ear to consult his team about what just happened.

76 only had time to growl out, “Talon, Reaper,” before the rest of the icicles crashed down in a cacophony as something heavy landed behind him. Lúcio froze, heart in his throat and his skin prickling up from something other than the cold. He had a feeling that, if he were to turn around, he would know exactly who was behind him.

Everything went wrong because Hana’s plan couldn’t possibly account for Doomfist finding him in the middle of a mission.

Once, he read that the now extinct wolves in America proper would refuse to look at or acknowledge humans when they were caught in a trap. Sometimes, a wolf would twist itself around in a trap if that meant not looking at a human nearby. It was as though they thought trouble didn’t exist or would go away if it wasn’t acknowledged. He didn’t understand it then, but he did now.

“We meet again, Lúcio Correia dos Santos,” rumbled a voice behind him. Lúcio willed his knees to not give out and turned around finally, knowing that not facing an enemy was probably the stupidest thing he could do, next to being intimate with the same enemy.

The next stupidest thing came out of his mouth a moment later and he wanted to slap himself. “Just Lúcio is fine, but you know that.”

The corner of Akande’s mouth twitched up into a smirk as he approached Lúcio. The way he moved reminded Lúcio of some sort of big cat stalking its prey. Any other time it might have been a flattering comparison, but in this case…

The prey was a rather idiotic frog.

Lúcio skated smoothly backwards, intent on putting some space between himself and Akande--Doomfist---he really needed to stop conflating this man with anything but enemy . He hoped Doomfist wouldn’t force him to wallride to escape, as he knew there was another wall fast approaching behind his back. Escaping that giant gauntlet while having little control on a wall other than forward was not Lúcio’s idea of a good time. Really, Lúcio ought to just flee but some stupid part of him wanted to know why he was sought out specifically.

Thankfully, Doomfist stopped. Still, his huge frame filled up the narrow alley to the point where Lúcio could barely see past him. In contrast to the images he saw in his earlier search of the Talon, the mountain of a man actually wore a shirt, with one long sleeve that nearly extended past his free hand and the other tied up above his gleaming gauntlet.

“I am glad to see you once more. You were not on any of the usual missions you take for Overwatch.”

Lúcio’s first thought was that, duh, he wasn’t on any of those missions because he was trying to avoid the man, whether it was actually encountering him or simply thinking about him. His second was to question if Akande was actually looking for him . Was the man actively stalking Overwatch just to talk to him? Subtly, he muted the comm in his ear, listening with only half attention as 76 screeched commands into their line like a hoarse, old crow .

“I have to say that, uh, I’m not really that glad,” Lúcio as he shifted his weight back and forth on his skates and studied the eaves. They were just tall enough that wallriding might be possible to get past Doomfist, but there would be a problem if he wanted to launch himself on top of the building due to the eaves.

The smirk dropped instantly and Lúcio felt his veins turned to ice. Happy Akande was terrifying and intimidating but this was on a whole other level. He wasn’t sure if he would be more intimidated of Reaper if the ghast decided to show his face right then and there (it was doubtful though, if the traded gunfire between a pulse rifle and shotguns in the distance was anything to go by).

“I must admit, I thought you might be slightly more cordial, especially after how our first meeting ended.”

Nope. Nope. What man experienced in modern combat would ever say that in the possible presence of comms that either side could hear ?

“Yeah, no, not after what a quick search of you brought up. No way.” Peeking down the other alley revealed a McCree rolling by like a tumbleweed, quickly followed by gunfire. That was a definite no.

“You did not realize who I was.” It was not a question. Lúcio glanced back and met Akande’s gaze levelly. There was no referring to him as Doomfist anymore, not with his insistence of talking about that night.

“No,” he said. Akande huffed out a laugh and shook his head incredulously. The slight movement caused his giant gauntlet to gleam with the weak rays of the dying sun.

“I see. So you make it a habit then, to let total strangers make modifications that could leave you helpless? To let them bring you to the end and--”

“Could you not?” Lúcio interrupted. “Go there, I mean. To answer your question so you will stop coming back to that, no, I don’t. Now if you could stop mentioning that night, I’d be super happy because I know we both have active comms and I don’t particularly want an international syndicate knowing the details of what I do in my free time.”

“My comm is muted,” Akande said. “I assume yours is the same.”

The gears turned in Lúcio’s head, though he was quickly brought out of his reverie by another explosion, this one closer than last time. Helix rockets, maybe?

“Your team doesn’t know either,” he said slowly.

“Yes,” said Akande.

“You’re not here for Talon reasons,” Lúcio clarified and then asked, “Why are you following me?”

This gave Akande pause.

“This is not entirely Talon related, no,” he said. “I saw a kindred spirit in you that night. One who knew what it was like to fight and rise above, to overcome and be better for it.”

“So, what? You think I’m just going to follow you back to Talon because you helped me out that night? Because I fought in a war and came out on the winning side of it?”

“I did not think it would be so simple as that, but in essence yes.”

A harsh laugh rang through the air and Lúcio realized it was his own. Even Akande looked surprised.

“You really must think I’m some sort of idiot.” Akande tried to object, but Lúcio continued speaking over him, fueled by a level of anger he didn’t know that he possessed. “No, seriously. Did you really think I would be, what, seduced by you into joining Talon? Just because I fit into some part of your weird philosophy? Let me tell you a few things.

“I’m not better because of what happened with Vishkar in Rio. Just because I don’t regret my actions doesn’t mean I want to go through it all again, that I can say I’m better for everything that happened. I don’t know how you could think anyone could be better from losing their legs, their family, everything in their life, from watching children and their parents die from the labor they were forced to do or the beatings from being out past curfew. Even worse is seeing people die in the name of a cause you yourself have spearheaded, before they could ever know a better life.

“You think I’m better for that? That they’re better for that? You can seriously fuck right off with that ideology and take your rich boy self elsewhere because I’m done here.”

Lúcio rushed towards Akande and started to crouch to begin his jump. Akande, seeing the change in posture, lunged for him but missed him by inches, hurtling towards the other end of the alley with the gauntlet. Homefree, Lúcio continued to wallride and flipped around to watch as Akande pulled up short of crashing at the end of the alley before backflipping off a wall to land in the larger street.

“Lúcio, wait!”

The first shot, he reasoned later, didn’t make its mark because Widowmaker wasn’t anticipating the manner of his exit from the alley. Still, it shattered the green plexiglass of his goggles and caused him to land off kilter, not entirely balanced on his skates.

The second hit him, but also not in its intended place. Akande, having realizing the gravity of the situation far before Lúcio did, lunged out of the alley and tackled him into the ground. Still the sniper’s bullet found its way into his right lung, entirely too close to his heart. He wouldn’t know that until later, though.

Lúcio’s world seemed to grind to a halt. Some part of him dimly registered how nice and warm Akande was over him, especially compared to how cold it was. Another part registered Akande yelling into his now unmuted com, ordering Widowmaker to stand down as he was pulled into the man’s lap, while his own comm screamed in his ear.

Akande ripped off part of his sleeve and balled it up. When he pressed it against the wound on Lúcio’s chest, the pain finally cut through the haze in his mind.

Fuck.

He’d been shot.

Pain crawled through his chest like fire and he couldn’t suppress a whimper that came out even more pathetic than it should with a pierced lung. It had been so long since he was last shot -- usually his blades were quick enough to keep him out of the line of fire. It was a familiar enough of a sensation to know that something was very, very wrong with the way pain flowed through his body.

Akande murmured apologies as he cradled Lúcio’s body and kept the cloth pressed to the wound, though it was quickly apparent it was doing nothing to help. Lúcio smiled and tried to laugh, even as he failed catching his breath. There were worse ways to go than been looked after by a really attractive guy he thought and he must have vocalized it because Akande ruefully chuckled as he raised a hand to cradle Lúcio’s face. It was getting harder and harder to keep his eyes open and the hand that was cradling his face soon turned to striking it lightly, probably in an attempt to keep him awake.

He heard footsteps quickly approaching and suddenly, the pain cut to a fraction of what it had been. Lúcio found the strength to crack open his eyes and he saw Akande still looming over him, tense and lit by a warm yellow light. Lúcio let his head loll over to the side and saw 76 crouched by them. That explained the light, most likely from one of the soldier’s portable biotic fields.

“I’m not going to kill you,” 76 said quietly. “I’m not even going to tell anyone about this. I’ve been through this same thing. Just please, give him to me. We can still save him from the venom.”

Venom? Was that what was making this so painful?

Akande hesitated, before gently lifting Lúcio up from his lap and letting 76 take him into his arms. The cold leather of 76’s jacket was significantly different from Akande’s own natural warmth and Lúcio shivered violently. Akande’s hand stroked the side of his face gently and Lúcio leaned into the warm touch thankfully.

“Take care of him,” Akande told 76, who inclined his head slightly in response. The soldier shoved the biotic emitter in his pocket and took off running. Lúcio didn’t make to the ship before losing the fight to unconsciousness, but he was awake long enough to hear the tell-tale boom that announced Akande’s takeoff with the gauntlet.

It took three days for Lúcio to wake up completely.

In the meanwhile, he woke up for seconds or minutes at time.

Once, he woke up to Hana tying his hair back in a scarf, considerate of the way it went absolutely bonkers whenever he slept or neglected to take care of it. Her face was puffy and red, probably from crying and she stroked his face gently when she saw that his eyes were open.

Another time, he saw Zenyatta meditating in the corner of the room, lit only by the afternoon light filtering in through the blinds. The chiming of the orbs around the omnic quickly lulled Lúcio back into unconsciousness.

When he finally awoke, the room was empty save for 76. The old man sat in a chair in the corner where Zenyatta previously was, snoring beneath a magazine that lay on his face. The room was darkened and from the lack of light outside, Lúcio could guess it was well past the time any decent person should be awake. Sore and conscious of the too-tight bandages that swaddled his abdomen, Lúcio carefully sat up. He was surprised when nurses didn’t immediately swarm in with the pick up in heart rate, but it was night after all. He noticed that someone had taken his legs off and it irked him slightly that they weren’t in sight.

He tucked a stray lock of hair back into the scarf and dipped his head to his chest to inspect the wound, or what little he could see of it. Purple blood vessels, so dark they were nearly black, crawled out from under the bandage, clearly damaged by whatever the bullet was laced with. It would be a long while before he was completely recovered. With the wound so close to his heart, he was lucky to even be alive at all. Sighing, Lúcio pulled the covers back up over his chest just as someone entered the room.

The omnic clearly wasn’t a nurse. His (because this was probably the most masculine omnic Lúcio had ever seen) expensive suit looked extremely out of place in the hospital and he wasn’t the standard build that any of the nurses probably were. In contrast to most omnics he knew, including Zenyatta, this one had custom sculpting done on his frame to give him a more human-like appearance, belying that he was something outside of the range of the common omnic. Lúcio also noted with some disquiet that all of the omnic’s vital lights were red.

Could this be the omnic they tried to rescue in the slum? God, he hoped so. His luck lately would have this mystery bot be entirely bad news.

“Ah good, you’re awake,” he intoned, mechanical voice belying an accent that was, again, entirely by choice and out of the common range for most omnics. The omnic placed a wrapped box, presumably a gift of some sorts, at the foot of his bed with many more Lúcio hadn’t noticed before.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t recognize you,” said Lúcio. The omnic chuckled darkly.

“That is good,” he said, “for both you and me, but irrelevant nevertheless. I am here on behalf of a mutual friend to check on you and deliver a gift.”

Lúcio eyed the omnic carefully. He was starting to have a few guesses to who this omnic might be and quite a few of them led back to the hole in his chest.

“How...exactly did you get in here?” Lúcio asked and glanced at 76, who still appeared to be quite passed out but still breathing. “Overwatch’s security is pretty good and if I don’t know you…”

“Their security can be the best in the world but it’s not going to stop the owner of this hospital from walking in whenever he pleases.” The omnic tapped at the datapad on the wall, pulling up Lúcio’s charts and examining them. “And don’t go looking for my identity either, you won’t find anything worthwhile there.”

Another glance at 76. Another snore.

“Did you, uh, do something to him?”

“Just a mild sedative in the coffee creamer. Don’t worry, he’ll wake up eventually.”

“So, if your...friend....needed to know how I was doing, why not just check my records through the access you already have?” Lúcio asked and the omnic turned away from the datapad with a sigh.

“Do your questions never cease? And you never ask the right one...Humans, even the more intelligent ones, are astoundingly illogical sometimes. Seeing the records was not enough to assure his heavy heart, though I’m not sure what my presence here will do in regards to that. I will say though, you are looking remarkably well for being on the receiving end of Amelie’s gun.”

Everything clicked at once.

“You’re from Talon. Akande sent you.”

“Finally, some sign of intelligence. Yes, he did. For some reason I’m failing to comprehend at the moment, he has stake in your continued existence. Now that I’ve seen sign of life in all your lacking faculties, I shall take my leave.”

And like that, the omnic strutted out of the room just as suddenly as he had arrived. Dumbfounded, Lúcio could only stare at the small present, wrapped in red paper, sitting out of his reach at the foot of the bed. Everything was spiralling out of control. The night with Akande should have never left the hotel, but now it landed him in the hospital. Overwatch probably thought that he was compromised, Talon was probably looking at him like he was a piece of meat, and now everyone would know how much he messed up.

A short time later, 76 startled himself awake with a snore and then proceeded to act like he’d never been asleep in the first place. Lúcio didn’t enlighten him as to their curious visitor and soon enough, 76 was replaced by a weepy, but happy, Hana. With her, she brought the datapad from where he had abandoned it beside his bed. He left it closed and let her chatter away about what was happening back at the Watchpoint. Being the friend she was, she immediately picked up on his quietness though he initially tried to wave it off as a reaction to recovery and the drugs they had him on.

“76 told me what happened, you know,” she said quietly. “As far as I know, he didn’t tell anyone else. You can talk about it if you need to.”

He shook his head and his gaze caught on the box at the end of the bed for what was probably the thousandth time. Tracing his gaze, Hana grabbed it.

“You keep looking at it,” she explained as she dumped it in his lap. It was heavier than he thought it would be. “Just open it. I think I know who it’s from.”

Sighing, Lúcio carefully untied the silk ribbon binding the box and lifted the lid. Inside was a poncho of some sort, made from tan lengths of woven cloth with green stripes running parallel to its length. Upon closer inspection, there seemed to be little stylized frogs embroidered upon the cloth, hopping the length of the stripes on the front of the fabric leading up to what Lúcio presumed was the neck hole. The reverse side was lined with a heavier cloth, softer than the top fabric by far.

“It’s neat,” said Hana as she reached out to run her fingers over the texture, “but what is it?”

“I’m not really sure either,” Lúcio said. “Look, you can take off the lining.”

“It looks really warm,” Hana murmured as she smoothed her hand over the soft lining. “Which is good, you’re always shivering unless you’re south of the equator! He probably noticed too.”

Lúcio said nothing and traced the outline of a frog. Hana watched him mope for a moment before she snatched the gift from his hands.

“You should wear it!” she announced and fed her hands through the fabric, presumably trying to find the neck opening to shove it over Lúcio’s head.

“Hana, no,” he objected. “I’m fine. Also I have no idea how to wear it.”

“Hana yes,” she said, “and we’ll figure it out together. Hold still!”

Luckily for Lúcio, Soldier: 76 chose that moment to wander back in the room with Efi, a hand on her shoulder. Probably to keep her from excitedly bouncing on the balls of her feet, something she almost alway did when she came to see him.

The hand failed to keep her from tackling him.

“Lúcio!” she cried as she barreled into his chest. Lúcio nearly bit through his lip to keep from crying out as her head smashed into the bandages on his chest. “I was so worried but everyone else at Overwatch said you were going to be okay but the mission details said that both Widow and Doomfist were there and oh my gosh I can’t even begin to imagine what happened, you should have taken Orisa with you--”

“Efi, it’s alright,” he reassured, prying the small girl from her tight hug around his chest. Efi didn’t seem to notice him gritting his teeth. “It all worked out okay. We’ll try to take Orisa next time, okay?”

She nodded solemnly and added, “She would have been able to kick Doomfist’s butt. Then he wouldn’t be able to hurt you or anyone else.”

Lúcio looked up guiltily to meet Hana’s pained gaze (and 76 too, if he’d actually been able to see past the visor).

It was funny how the most innocent phrase could just punch through him like a bullet.

Thankfully, Efi was distracted by the gift in Hana’s hands.

“Oh! An agbada! Can I see it?”

“Is that what this is?” Hana asked. She handed over the folded fabric to Efi, who sat back at the end of the bed and unfolded it. She traced the pattern and giggled when her fingers found the frogs.

“Yup,” she said. “It’s a super common thing for men to wear in Numbani. Or really, any Yoruba guy anywhere. Where did you get this? It’s really cute!”

“Um, a friend gave it to me,” Lúcio admitted.

“A guy friend?” asked Efi with a sly smile and Lúcio felt his face start to burn. She laughed. “It’s okay, I can tell. With the way that this was woven, I can almost guarantee a guy made it. Here, let me help you put it on.”

Lúcio leaned forward as much as his bandages allowed him to let Efi slip the agbada over his head. He was only able to get one arm through a sleeve for fear of snagging his IV, so he elected to keep it slightly wrapped around his abdomen under the cloth. Efi tugged the agbada into place, consequently dislodging the breathing tubes from his nose.

“Oops, sorry!” she said as he fixed them. “But really, you look pretty good. You’re not quite tall enough to be called agunt'asoolo, but it suits you anyway. Whoever made this for you really put a lot of care into it.”

“Yeah...he did.” Lúcio mumbled as he ran his free hand down the front of the agbada. This was physical proof of either how smitten Akande was with him, or how desperate Talon was for him to join them.

He wasn’t sure what was worse.

“I’d still wear something underneath it in the future,” said Efi, oblivious to his turmoil. “It’s really meant to be an overcoat of sorts. Maybe Orisa and I will make you some beads for your hair to match with little speakers in them. Don’t you think that would be awesome, miss Hana?”

Hana nodded with a tight smile on her face. The look she shot Lúcio plainly said we need to talk about this soon and Lúcio averted his gaze back down to the agbada. 76 was not immune to the tension in the room and checked an imaginary watch on his wrist.

“Five more minutes, kiddo,” he growled out. “He’s not going to get any better with you playing on him like a jungle gym.”

Efi plainly struck up a pout. When her parents let her visit Orisa back at whatever watchpoint she currently based out of, the pout was the demise of nearly anyone around her and she was consequently able to get away with murder.

Nearly everyone, except for Ana and 76.

Soldier: 76 stared down the small girl and when it became apparent that he wasn’t bowing, Efi turned her attention back to Lúcio, chattering about some of her newer plans and his concert schedule. When finally 76 determined her time was up, she hugged Lúcio tightly (and no, he wasn’t going to admit exactly how much it hurt, it was humiliating that the strength of an eleven-year-old’s hug made him want to cry) and hopped off the bed. It was Hana who escorted her from the room this time, leaving 76 and Lúcio alone in the small room.

Lúcio shrugged off the agbada and folded it carefully as his nurse finally came into the room. 76 took it from him and set it by the holopad at the side of the bed while his nurse ran through his vitals and started a new drip of medicine going.

“You’re going to be out like a light here in a few,” said his nurse, “so you may want to do whatever you need to before you’re dead to the world again.”

His nurse helped him walk stiffly to the bathroom and after settling him back down in bed, left. 76 settled down in the chair beside the bed and Lúcio prepared himself for a lecture. The old man said nothing, though, as Lúcio fussed with the scarf around his hair (hopefully Hana was up for helping him redo all of his locs once more). Finally, the soldier let out a sigh.

“You’re not the first to do this, you know,” he said, “and you’re definitely not going to be the last.”

“I’m not exactly doing anything,” Lúcio told him, trying to keep the snapping edge out of his voice. “Really, I’m trying not to do anything. But...but…”

He shook his head and immediately regretted it as dizziness sucker punched him from the movement. Obviously, the meds were kicking in.

“But he won’t let go,” 76 said. “And really, I don’t think you’re ready to let go either. Kid, you look like a love sick idiot anytime you so much as see that thing he got you.”

Lúcio flopped back on the bed and huffed.

“So?” he finally snapped, feeling more than a little immature. “So what? Are you going to take me off mission rosters because I’m compromised? Remove my agent status?”

“I’d be a hypocrite if I did,” said 76 and Lúcio stared at him. “Again, you’re not the first to do this. You have a good head on your shoulders and I don’t think you’re going to be leaping to join Talon anytime soon, or give them too much information.”

“So why bring this up, then?” Lúcio’s words came out slurred and his mind struggled to gain traction. He wondered if he’d remember this discussion the next time he woke up.

“I just…” 76 sighed again. “I just don’t want to see you making the same mistakes I did. There’s two sides to this, there always is. Don’t do anything stupid but…”

76 reached up to the visor as if to pinch his nose but settled for running his fingers through his white hair.

“Just know that there’s more to life than fighting, okay? If there comes a time that you’re starting to doubt if you’re in the right place, don’t ignore those doubts. Listen to them. It’ll serve you well.”

76 stood up and reached out to lightly ruffle what he could reach of Lúcio’s hair.

“Take care of yourself, kid. Get some sleep.”

Lúcio watched with drooping eyes as the old soldier marched out of the room and thought back to his encounter with Akande. The face Akande had given him when Lúcio ripped into him was one of a man who, for the first time in his life, doubted the ground on which he’d built his life. 76’s words echoed in his head as he gave into the medication and spiralled into unconsciousness.

He sincerely doubted that he was the one having second thoughts about where he was in life.

[virmillion]

What Was Missing

me? writing something unrelated to what i’m supposed to be working on again? it’s more likely than you think // aka i had another idea and wrote it down and hopefully it doesn’t suck // TLDR i try to write with some different tools and it maybe isnt terrible but i guess we’ll find out (@ the limericks, im lookin at you)

a n g s t      (or at least my attempt at it)

Pairings: none, maybe prinxiety if you squint

Warnings: blood mention, lots of yelling, character death (sort of), let me know if you see any more

Word count: 4k ish

It started as most problems do in the mindscape—a sudden absence, a feeling that something was missing. Something, someone, who really knew anymore? With Roman gallivanting off to his room every odd day to fight another dragon witch, his booming voice was rarely missed so much as endured when it was present. Logan, research in hand, was oft to chain himself to a desk and not back away until his eyes were burning, eyelids heavier than his textbooks. Patton, so concerned with keeping everything together among the other three, rarely had a chance to shut himself away for some peace and quiet, no no no, his responsibilities were too great. But one day, one certain day that had no peculiar charm nor supernatural air about it, his duties felt… shorter, somehow. There was less to be taken care of, but Patton could not for the life of him tell you why. At least, not until the gaping hole demanded it be noticed, not until it was screaming so hard and so loud, Patton might well have gone deaf in its efforts. The only problem with it being so loud and so insistent lies within its very nature—this absence is not the sort to announce itself, so much as it is the type to slink away quietly, to duck out when nobody’s looking. Maybe this is why Patton initially seeks out Roman to inquire about his relaxed day. Maybe this is why Logan didn’t set down his research quickly enough. Maybe this is why they were too late.

“Hey there, kiddo,” Patton says one unremarkable morning, knocking gently on Roman’s door. The emptiness down the hall screams bloody murder, all consuming to each of Patton’s senses. Maybe this is why Patton is too disoriented to realize that, for once, Roman isn’t the source of the noise. Maybe this is why Roman cautiously eases the door open, one hand resting on the hilt of his blade, only to be met with the concerned face of the moral side.

“What’s up, Patton?” Roman replies, widening the door like screaming jaws as he lets his hand relax a bit from the sword. Not all the way, though.

“Something just feels off, y’know?” Patton struggles to put into words his feelings, his subconscious distracted by the cries and yells and shouts. “It’s as if the last few days have been really, I don’t know, simple? I haven’t had to do as much, and it just doesn’t feel right.”

“Can’t say I understand,” Roman apologizes. “Now if you’ll excuse me, there is a dragon witch I really must be off to see. If you could be so kind?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Patton nods, backing out of the room as Roman draws his sword. Maybe the door closes too quickly for Roman to notice the strained look in Patton’s eyes, or the way he can’t quite seem to stop tugging his ear, like too much sound is being absorbed at once. Maybe the finality of Roman’s door slamming shut is what steers Patton away from what could have saved the absence.

    At Logan’s room across the hall, Patton doesn’t bother with knocking on the door that’s already ajar, instead walking straight through the impossibly clean room to the hunched figure in the chair. It jerks awake as Patton taps it lightly on the shoulder, revealing Logan huddled under a mass of blankets, his eyes swollen pits of red and grey from inadequate sleep. The same blanket is bunched around the base of his chair as when Patton put it there two nights ago.

    “What is it, Patton?” Logan demands, his eye twitching gently. Maybe it’s from overworking himself. Maybe he hears the cries, too. “I have very important work to be doing here, as you should very well know.”

    “Well, yes,” Patton admits, “but you look as if the only work you’ve been doing is catching up on the sleep you never get. I had something else to bring up with you, but, um,” he glances over at Logan’s pristine bed, looking as impeccable as if it had never been slept in before. Patton has a sneaking suspicion this might be the case, but maybe he’s just a little tired, too.

    “I have absolutely no requirement for such frivolous endeavours as sleep,” Logan scowls, disgust lacing every word. “You most of all should know that we hardly require any of that human nonsense, from sleep to hydration to food. With all of your silly baking festivities, I would expect you to have figured that out already.” Patton bites his lip before he can make some sort of joke out of the situation, knowing quite well that this isn’t the time. Maybe there’s never really a time to make a joke with any of them. Maybe the yells are in his head, and he just needs to let them pass over, like an angry storm cloud.

    In his own room, Patton takes a few deep breaths, desperate to let the warm lights in his room soak through his skin, make the noises go away. Why should he be desperate, anyway? He’s had so much extra time, he got to see everyone in the mindscape today! Roman, and Logan, and—and—and—and—

    The lights suddenly get brighter, too bright, as the yells crescendo, turning into shouts into screams then back into cries into sobs into whimpers into silence. Patton rubs his temples gently. Maybe he’s just overworked. Maybe he’s just exaggerating the problem. Lots of people hear things that aren’t there. You’re not a person, Patton. Patton knows this. He knows that he’s not human, that there’s no reason for baking or sleeping or drinking, but it’s all in good fun. All for enjoyment. The yelling is not enjoyment. He did not ask for the yelling. In fact, he would much prefer to have the yelling silence itself. Maybe he’ll go take care of it himself.

It’s impossibly cold out here

Way up on the highest tier

Why haven’t they come?

It’s all so numb

Why can you not recall the year?

    “Now where is that blasted dragon witch?” Roman mutters to himself, stalking silently through the cattail reeds, sword drawn. Itching for something, anything, to fight, Roman lashes out at a blade of grass in front of him. Before he can mow it down, the noise returns. Quite obnoxious, to be frank, but indelible nonetheless. It skewers through his skull, screaming as his sword swings, stopping it short to smack the grass blade and allowing the green spike to swipe back at him, scratching the side of his face. Louder, louder, the noise mumbles and moans and mourns and Roman must move on, make more progress meeting his maker in the scaled madam making her monstrosities as Roman remains in the reeds. The noise gets louder. Roman chops through the sea of grass. The screams cut across his clothes, criss-crossing so crassly the prince can almost catch the cutlass in his hand.

    Somewhere ahead, a dragon roars, undercut by a woman’s scream. Not a damsel in distress. This damsel is the distress. Damn. Roman throws his arms over his head, squeezes his biceps, anything to make that screaming shut up. Not enough. He backs carefully out of his room, head pounding, sword thrown haphazardly in its scabbard, and the whole package is tossed into the reeds. That’s a problem for later. Roman’s head pounds harder, hurting, hurts oh God help him he heaves with his hands on his knees hearing every helpless howl hammering through his head help him please help.

    In the lounge, the furthest room possible from the yelling screaming cursing crying, Roman collapses upon a couch. Something under his back, sharp and prodding, makes him sit up. A pair of bulky headphones. Now where on earth could these have come from? Regardless of the reason, Roman slips them over his ears, expecting some sort of punk song to carry him away, tuning out the cries for help.

    Why though? Why does he expect a punk song to come on? He doesn’t even know where these headphones came from, any more than he can explain away the screaming that grows ever louder. Why is it so. Loud?

    “Oh thank gosh Roman you’re out here,” Patton sighs in relief, stumbling into the lounge area with one fist curled against his head. Worry lines etch themselves into his face, deeper than if they’d been there for years. Replacing something else that was there for years. Or never there. “Why are you just sitting down? I’d expect you to at least be doing something exciting.”

    “I am, I’m listening to the—the head—the headphones—the headphones.” Roman’s voice trips over itself, warping and warbling, where were the headphones why wasn’t he holding the headphones was he ever holding the headphones why weren’t they there when were they there?

    “Okay buddy, whatever you say,” Patton smiles, not seeming to notice the little… we’ll call it a glitch… in Roman’s system. “Want some cookies?”

    “Don’t you do anything else besides bake?” Roman sneers. Something pushes at his mind, the yelling, thoughts, something, but it screams and cries to stop, not to get going on an argument he wants no part in. The yelling is louder. “Last I checked, we all had real duties to perform to help Thomas, and making cookies at the drop of a hat isn’t exactly a useful skill to a living person with real thoughts and feelings.” Roman gives Patton a once-over, suddenly standing—when did he stand up he was supposed to be sitting down—and continues, ignoring the hurt welling up in his companion’s eyes. “Oops, I guess that would imply that you, feelings, are real. My bad.” Stop it Roman stop hurting him stop it!

    “Right. I’ll just, um, I’m just gonna be over, y’know, somewhere that isn’t, uh, isn’t in here.” Patton rushes out, both hands pressed against his face now. Roman sags a bit, sitting standing sitting standing kneeling sitting standing sitting standing sitting sitting sitting sit still. Bounce bounce bounce back and forth between being everywhere and being nowhere and being everything in between. The screaming increases. Help.

It’s probably been but a day

You were always just in the way

They don’t know it’s you

Your screams coming through

Forgotten, you may as well stay

    “Honestly, how am I expected to get important work done for Thomas when I’m plagued by that infernal sound?” Logan mutters, whipping the blanket off of his back. Who does Patton think he is, intruding on Logan’s privacy like that without asking? The blanket is still in the way, rumpled in a heap over his feet, so Logan does the most logical thing he can think of—kicking it across the room, getting progressively more pissed each time it doesn’t cooperate by breaking the laws of physics. Is that really so much to ask?

    The blanket finally beaten into submission, Logan makes for the commons, a permanent grimace set upon his face as the yelling recedes behind him. Expecting a calm scene in which he can bask in silence, Logan is sorely disappointed by what greets him in the lounge; Patton staring at a wall, motionless, and Roman sitting standing sitting standing not holding still. How displeasing.

    “Have you two seriously lost your grip so easily?” Logan demands, freezing Roman in place and getting Patton to snap his head over. “Regardless of why this sound is occurring, we all need to work together to resolve it.”

    “All?” Roman asks. Patton echoes him, softer and more unsure.

    “Yes. All.”

    “But we aren’t all here.”

    “I can’t say I understand what you mean. You, me, and Patton. All.”

    “But that’s not, I mean, it isn’t like we just—”

    “Roman, I have never known you to fumble for words so largely as this,” Logan scolds. “All. Three of us. That is all. Now, if you’re done with whatever your situation is, we really need to get back to the task at hand—getting rid of that sound.” Roman casts his eyes down, face burning, but he’s finally sitting down, and staying that way. The cries get louder.

    “Patton, care to share your input?” Patton mutters something about the days being easier, the same spiel he fed Logan not long before. “Not that. Something useful would be nice.” Patton quiets, biting his lip. A tinge of something, regret perhaps, floods through Logan for a split second, but just as quickly, it vanishes.

    “Okay. Alright. What’s missing?” Logan tries. His glasses slip down his nose. He does not adjust them.

    “It’s really loud,” Roman offers, “so it must have been important.”

    “Then why can’t I remember it?” Patton hisses, gripping his forehead tightly. His fingers go white. Louder.

    “Maybe it was just annoying, and this is its lingering irritation,” Logan says.

    “It’s down at the end of the hall with our rooms,” Patton begins, flinching at nearly every word. Too loud. Make it stop. “Maybe we could investigate down there?”

    “I second it,” Roman replies. “It’s as good a place to start as any.” As one, not dissimilar to a hive mind, the trio rises—when did Logan sit down?—and move toward the screeching. Ice cold laces through their blood, frozen fingers creeping down their backs as their ears seem to split. If you asked them later, none of the three could tell you whether their feet walked them down the hall, or the room pulled itself closer, using their agony as a grappling point. Louder. Deafening. One way or another, they arrive at the screaming door, vibrating from the noises coursing through it, all amplified by the door itself. The bravest of the bunch, Roman, cowers in fear. He’s not about to touch that monstrosity. The brain of the bunch, Logan, knows in his mind that the door can’t really hurt him. He does not reach for the handle. Patton. Patton stretches a hand, fingers trembling as the sound leaps across the axons and the dendrites to his nails and skitters through his bones, weaving between muscles and fat to fill him up until he’s gasping, choking, overflowing. Patton opens his mouth to let it escape, and the screeching heightens. Louder. Louder. LOUDER.

    Screaming and crying and shouting and moaning all at once, Patton wrestles the door handle down and presses forward, first with the handle, then his other hand, and his shoulder and his foot and Logan and Roman join in, pounding the door that refuses to give way to their attacks on it.

    The handle shatters in Patton’s hand.

    The screaming stops.

    A soft sigh takes its place.

    Then silence.

They’re actually trying to look

All because your voice is a hook

Here you remain

Your ears unstained

Maybe now you should close the book

    Patton glances at the shards of metal in his hand, then back to Logan and Roman. He’s so stunned, he almost can’t feel the edges digging into his skin, feel the tiny red pearls beading at the surface. He holds them tighter, trying desperately to hold onto what the three all realized before it can vanish again.

    Virgil.

    We forgot Virgil.

    “Patton, your hand,” Roman murmurs, looking at the offending body part that refuses to let go of the handle, refuses to let go of what he can’t believe he forgot. Maybe he doesn’t deserve to remember.

    “We need to get that wrapped up,” Logan adds. He takes Patton gently by his free hand, pulling him down the hall toward the commons, where they keep a few first aid kits, just in case.

    We forgot Virgil.

    Suddenly, Patton is in the commons, barely wincing as Logan carefully wraps bandages around his hand, Roman extracting the shards of metal as he goes. Maybe each stab is a fraction of what Virgil felt.

    We forgot Virgil.

    Maybe Virgil forgot them.

    Patton looks on blankly as Logan finishes, gently tightening the wrapping and tying it off. “We need to help him,” he mumbles. Logan waves it off, checking the floor for any lost metal pieces. “We need to help him.”

    “We need to figure out why he’s gone first,” Logan retorts. “We don’t know why he left, and we don’t want to make it worse. At least it’s finally quiet.”

    We forgot Virgil.

    “Yeah, remember how we left it last?” Roman cuts in. Patton shakes his head.

    “It all kind of went foggy right up until that screaming.” Virgil’s screaming.

    “There was an argument,” Logan begins.

    “Thomas was having a social problem,” Patton continues.

    “He was worrying,” Roman fills in.

    “We told him off.”

    “He went silent.”

    “Didn’t even fight back.”

    “Sank out.”

    “No sarcasm.”

    We forgot Virgil.

    “We need to help him.”

    “We still only have the vaguest of reasons for his disappearance,” Logan says. “We cannot afford to make it any worse, if this is the least we’ve seen of what is involved with a missing Virgil.” A missing Virgil. A thing to be fixed. Not a friend to be found.

    “Maybe the room will tell us,” Patton whispers. Grasping at straws. Anything.

    We forgot Virgil.

    “Right, the room that shattered the thing you need to get inside of it. Brilliant, Patton, truly a work of genius,” Roman sneers, bouncing between sitting and standing again.

    “Not the time for attitude,” Logan reprimands. “It’s the only idea we have to go off of, so we may as well, given the lack of success shown by ignoring the noise.”

    “Not noise. Virgil.” Patton sniffles.

    We forgot Virgil.

    Patton is the first to rise and head for the door with no handle, now a deafening silence in contrast to the aching screams of earlier. Logan follows, all efficiency and strategy, despite the fact that no one is really sure what to do next.

    “Even if we find out why he’s missing, that won’t bring him back,” Roman complains. “Besides, do we really need the Edgelord back?” Patton clenches his undamaged fist in an effort not to do something he’ll regret later.

    Through gritted teeth, he spits, “of course we need him back. He’s one of us.”

    With no small amount of discomfort in the air, the trio makes their way to the silent door, each peering down and squishing in to try to see through the hole left by the door handle.

    Only gaping space beyond.

You know, it’s really not so bad like this

They claim to regret, yet remain remiss

You like being alone

This could be a home

This is how you leave, vanished like a wisp

    “Move aside,” Roman orders, stepping back with his sword drawn. Patton and Logan leap out of the way of the door as Roman charges. He raises his sword, giving a battle cry, and barrels forward.

    The door opens.

    Roman’s momentum carries him through, swinging his sword regardless as the door slams shut behind him. Patton and Logan remain outside.

    His sword goes flying into an endless abyss of stars and blackness. The red sash across his white attire tightens, constricting and squeezing like a viper before completely tearing off at the shoulder. Now a limp ribbon, it follows the sword into nothingness.

    “What’s going on?” Roman attempts, but his voice is too hoarse, too small, lost in everything and nothing. The world around him seems to expand by the second, nothingness multiplying by nothingness exponentially. Silent.

    Where is Virgil?

    Sound.

    Behind him.

    Roman turns to where the door is—was. Gone. Above it, a strip of nothingness with no stars in it. A silhouette against the shining lights. Roman blinks, shakes his head, blinks again, and he’s suddenly beside the silhouette, looking out at an endless expanse of space. He turns his head.

    Virgil.

    Before Roman can open his mouth, offer an explanation, ask for a reason, Virgil punches him in the face.

    Hard.

    Roman goes down.

    Hard.

    Virgil disappears, and the world splinters.

    And shatters.

    “Just shut up! Thomas doesn’t need you dragging him down like this!”

    “I hate to say it, kiddo, but Roman’s right. You really don’t need to be so… much.”

    “Indeed, your excessive overtime is dragging all of us down with you. Don’t you suppose you might feel better if you were to, perhaps, lay low? Stay quiet?”

    They’re always demanding your silence

    They never consider emotions violence

    Their words will bite

    Don’t put up a fight

    Just seclude yourself on your islands

    “Too good to talk back? Come on Virgil, where’s that dry wit? Hit me with it! Hit me!”

    “Roman, don’t taunt him. We don’t want him to get worse.”

    “It may not be in our best interest to discuss this in front of him.”

    You think your words aren’t ringing

    Hatred in their bite stinging

    But please have no fear

    I’ll soon not be here

    Not even a bell left dinging

    “I wish he’d just leave, we’d all be better off and he knows it.”

    “Now Roman—”

    “I don’t think you should—”

    “I hate him.”

    Roman blinks again, finally remembering.

    Why did he say that? It was a moment of weakness and stupidity, and he wants nothing more than to take it back. A little hard to do, given that Virgil is nowhere to be seen. Just space. The vast sky. And Roman. Alone. No sword. No sash. No purpose. What did you do?

    “I just want to know one thing,” a voice whispers, coming from every direction at once. Impossibly quiet, to the point that Roman has to strain to hear it. “Why did you say it?” The drawling, apathetic tone, in a voice otherwise identical to his own, it has to be Virgil.

    “I didn’t mean it, it was just the heat of the moment, I swear—” Roman babbles.

    “I didn’t ask for excuses. I asked for a reason.”

    “I don’t have one! Because I’m stupid, okay? That’s why.”

    “Unfortunate.”

    Roman waits with bated breath for the voice to come back, even just to yell at him some more, anything but being alone in this room.

    Silence.

    Alone.

    Please come back.

    Waiting.

    Waiting.

    “I just wanted to see the stars.” Roman glances to the right—the voice actually had a concentrated source this time. “You all forgot me, but no one forgets the stars.” A constellation takes shape in the distance, a vague silhouette of Virgil, unless Roman is just kidding himself. “No one forgets you.”

    Before he can respond, Roman watches the world fall apart again, depositing him on the ground in an endless white space. He can’t tell where the walls end and the ceiling begins. The only thing standing out in this room, besides himself, is the black lacquer door. Stabbed through its center is his sword, his red sash twined around it.

    The voice doesn’t come back.

    Roman yanks the sword from the door with little resistance, fixing the sash over his shoulder. The door swings open. Patton and Logan are gone. He heads for the common area. Logan’s nose is buried in a book, while Patton stands at the counter icing cookies.

    “Patton? Where’s, uh, where are your bandages?” Roman asks, looking at the hand that appears perfectly healed.

    “Weird joke, Roman. Is that the kind of humor that’s hip with the kids these days?” Patton twirls an icing bag in the air. “I can be hip.”

    “Logan, have you seen Virgil?” Roman asks as he moves out of the kitchen, leaving Patton to his cookies.

    “Seen whom?” Logan doesn’t look up from his reading.

    “Virgil! Anxiety? Hot Topic? Edgelord? J-Delightful?” Logan lifts an eyebrow and peers at Roman over his book.

    “I will admit to not often utilizing humor, but even I know that this is not it.”

    Roman leans against the back of the couch, suddenly unsteady as his mind is hit with too many thoughts at once. The most important one, the only one that truly matters, pierces his skull like so many unheard screams and cries.

    They forgot Virgil.

Tag List:

@sakurahayasaki @erlenmeyertrash @lemonpepperpizza @irish-newzealand-idian-dutch @milomeepit  /// im gonna tag some other people that didnt ask to be because everyone knows i c r a v e validation @asexual-trashbag @tinysidestrashcaptain @notafeeling @the-prince-and-the-emo @princeyandanxiety @fallingamor @prinxietys sorry if you didnt want to be tagged feel free to ignore this

[thisiswhymomworries]

Saw your post about sneaking out. Do you have any more stories about you and your sister?

So Paige and I lived in a TERRIBLE apartment while we were in college. You walked in and the kitchen was straight ahead, with the hot water heater just RIGHT THERE. making eye contact. being ugly

there were wasps all the time?? I don’t even fucking know how or why, just always wasps

and we might have heard our neighbor get murdered

it was just a bunch of groaning and the occasional wall thump, nothing we hadn’t heard from over there a million times before. this dude had zero sense of rhythm, but his girlfriend still fucked him anyway, the lord bless her little heart

on any given evening, we could hear from the front wall of our living room:

thump ………….. thump ……… thump … thump, thump, thumpthumpthump

long pause

thump ………….. thump ……… thump … thump, thump, thumpthumpthump

break time

I, an innocent lesbian, asked my one (1) male friend, why does he do that?

“uhhhhh, he’s um. Morgan. he’s. he’s trying not to cum”

this poor boy was giving it to her in thirty second intervals, trying his “I think I can” little train DAMNDEST not to cum

so the night of the Incident, when we heard groaning and odd thumps, neither of us were concerned. and to be fair, I have no idea what the actual timeline of events was here. this could’ve been totally unrelated to the Possible Murder

which went like: Neighbor Boy and Fuck Friend took a lot of drugs, got really high, and had a bad trip. Fuck Friend was later found the next morning, face down ass up balls naked in the Liberal Arts parking lot, mumbling about how he’d killed his friend

this might not be true. the official story the university released is that Neighbor Boy overdosed, Fuck Friend just felt guilty about providing the drugs, and there was absolutely NO MURDER in their university housing

but. I mean. believe what you will

anyway, Paige and I both answered questions for the police officer who knocked on our door, but at this point, we thought it was a robbery or maybe someone else had finally filed a complaint about all the sex noises

which I mentioned to the officer. like, this poor boy was Dead and I straight up told her his rhythm was off, and now I understand why she looked at me like I was a heartless monster but at the time, I thought she was just mad because maybe her man’s rhythm was off too, idk

but like I said, we thought it was no big deal!! maaaaybe a drug bust, at the worst. so we close our door, do our thing for an hour, but then we get hungry

Paige tells me to order from that delivery service that will get you food from anywhere and deliver it to you for an extra $5, because the truck we share that I bought from a Dude My Dad Knows for a thousand bucks doesn’t have air conditioning and the review mirror fell off and the passenger door doesn’t open

so I make the order, give these people our address, and we wait

twenty minutes later, I get a panicked phone call from the delivery person saying they’re at the address I gave, but there are like four cop cars outside???

which should have been a sign!! a warning!! but noooo

my dumbass told them to go ahead and come up, there was a thing earlier, but it’s cool now

the police are in the process of blockading our apartment complex btw, because at this point in time, they only have Fuck Friend’s possible confession and are investigating it like a murder

but SOMEHOW this random dude carrying a McDonald’s bag gets waved in

at this point, Paige, who has much better survival instincts than me, is insisting something is Wrong. I disagree and open the door to prove everything is fine

and we both watch as my delivery guy carrying our McDonalds comes up the stairs at the exact moment two EMTs carrying a fucking BODY BAG go down

so that’s how we accidentally ordered mickey d’s to a possible murder investigation and I gave out a $20 tip

[deadcactuswalking]

‘ZEZE’, The Perfect Trap-Rap Trainwreck. [REVIEW]

2018 has been a pretty odd year for popular music. I mean, it’s been pretty impressive too, tons of records are being broken right now, in fact, the song we’re going to talk about today has broken one of those records (although easily one of the least important ones). I’ll talk more about 2018 as a year overall when I make my best and worst lists (which, no, this song won’t be on either despite who made it), but let’s just focus on this one song, and how perfect it is – despite being freakin’ awful, generic and borderline unlistenable. Let me elaborate.

SONG REVIEW: “ZEZE” – Kodak Black, Travis Scott & Offset – Produced by D.A. Doman

What record did this break, do you ask? Well, with the advent of SoundCloud rap, mumble-rap and emo-rap becoming the new wave, some stranger music has crept onto the charts, whether it be because of its sound or background and/or origin story. Memes have gotten music popular for ages but a 90s Latin reggaeton/house track by the “Chacarron Macarron” guy which translates to “Give me your little thing” becoming a top 40 hit is relatively unheard of – this is especially weird because the remix with Pitbull was released way after the song blew up and then fizzled out. I know Pitbull was always on his way out and he’s basically now a living meme anyway but it’s still a shock to see stars I knew so well fade away like this – oh, yeah, and how does celebrity status and star-power matter even more than it ever has been and none at all at the same time? We’re about to get a Mia Khalifa diss track released in February by two teenagers after a fake tweet was posted by some Instagram page on the charts simply because of the power of some girl in cosplay lip-synching to the second (and more meme-able) verse on TikTok.

Hit or miss - I guess they never miss, huh? – Smoke Hijabi, iLOVEFRiDAY’s “Mia Khalifa Diss”

Yet we still can’t get rid of that pesky Drake rascal, hell, he nearly hit #1 again, this time entirely uncredited!

I did half a Xan, 13 hours ‘til I land / Had me out like a light, ayy, yeah – Drake, Travis Scott’s “SICKO MODE”

Last year we had the shortest song to reach the top 5 since the early 1960s, with “Gucci Gang” by Lil Pump, peaking at #3 despite a puny runtime of a mere 2 minutes and 4 seconds. Today, we’re talking about a song that peaked just one slot higher, and became the highest-charting song EVER on the Hot 100 that starts with the letter “z”. Yes, it’s an odd, unimportant and pointless milestone but it’s something nonetheless. Oh, but that’s far from the most interesting part of this song. Let’s talk about the production first, mostly because any time I can stall before talking about Kodak Black should be savoured greatly. It was produced by D.A. Doman, most known nowadays for that “Taste” song by Tyga, in fact, Tyga even remixed “ZEZE” because the beats were so similar, and there’s only one beat Tyga ever does all that well on – and it’s tropical synth-lead trap. The bass on “Taste” was mixed well, though. I feel like there’s too little here and it could do with some pumping up, although it does give the steel pans a very airy feel, to be fair, and those little tiny details like that funky synth that just kind of appears briefly as a speck in Kodak’s refrain are just really top-notch, and that catchy and clean vocal sample playing throughout the song pushes this beat into truly great territory. Hell, the beat was so good that it made the song a meme months before its release, where people added a caption to Kodak and Travis dancing very... interestingly to the song. There was also a teaser where it was just 40 seconds of the beat building up with people saying “f**k ‘em up, Kodak” in the background, and someone was dancing there too. I don’t know, all I know is that this beat is fantastic and... everyone’s gonna mess this up, aren’t they?

Well, Travis doesn’t, really, he’s just odd. After like 5 seconds of the beat without any percussion or bass, just the steel pans and basically no build-up excluding Doman’s producer tag, the catchy “D.A got that dope!” phrase, it goes straight into the beat, bass and all, as well as Travis’ vocals which have like twenty layers each of some gross autotune and reverb effects. Seriously, it’s slathered to hell and back with vocal manipulation and it’s really unpleasant, especially when it’s drowned in all these ad-libs. Let’s focus on the lyrics of Travis’ hook, though, because they’re really cute. It plays out as, to say it bluntly, “Baby’s First Rap Chorus”. All the clichés are there, but in their purest form.

Ice water, turned Atlantic (freeze!) / Nightcrawlin’ in the Phantom (skrrt, skrrt) / Told them hoes that don’t you panic

His wrist is froze because of his diamonds. He has a black luxury car, he’s lazily referencing his other, much better songs, and he has to add in those essential “skrrt, skrrt” ad-libs. Oh, well, at least there are attempts at being unique here, with the last line, especially since we can assume they’re in water here, so Travis desperately reassures the countless amount of women he is having sex with, “Don’t worry, it’s a Phantom! We’re not going to drown to our deaths!” And then he goes, “screw it”, and starts actually adjusting the Phantom so they have more space, thus his “hoes” do not die, depriving him of pleasure and satisfaction.

Dropped the roof, more expansion / Drive a coupe you can stand in (IT’S LIT!)

You know what, that’s a good idea, but, yeah, I’m kidding, it’s not that deep – it’s just that he’s driving fast. Of course it isn’t anything all too conceptual.

Took an island (yeah), flood the mansion (big water!)

Sorry, what was that last part?

(Big water!)

Big water? I mean, I know the line is about how he took a lot of producers and rappers to his ASTROWORLD sessions on a Hawaiian island or something, but is “big water” seriously something people say? It just seems so dumb and kind of childish. In fact, while we’re on the subject...

B****es undercover (in the sheets!) / I’m an a** and tiddy lover (big a**) / Guess we all made for each other

Rappers never really brag about taking time to appreciate the woman’s body whilst “in the sheets” but you know what, sure, I’ll take that, but the second line just potentially demonstrates the naivety of this chorus, like, it’s just pure rap cliché but in such a way that makes it seem like Travis is a robot that has been analysing rap lyrics and programming a very blunt and obvious bar that exemplifies that. Oh, and the last part is just a dumb filler rhyme, although it’s kind of funny to think about how it must be up to destiny that Travis’ girl has a big butt and he likes big butts.

Now that all the dawgs free (yeah, yeah) / And we out in these streets (alright) / Can you do it, can you pop it for me?

The robot theory is developed even further when we notice these two statements are entirely unrelated. My friends are free from prison, but we’re still in the streets, therefore, pop that kitty for me, girl. This is how the chorus ends too, it’s so anti-climactic, although I do want to point out that Offset more than makes up for Travis’ strange twisting of lyrical cliché, as his verse is pretty fantastic. The flow is great throughout, with some nice switches that keep the surprisingly long verse still feeling fresh and short by the end.

She an addict (addict)

Please don’t rhyme it with—

Addict for the lifestyle and the Patek (Patek), big daddy

Son of a—

Anyways, there are plenty of relatively memorable lines here that end up being pretty quotable, such as... UK football references?

In the middle of the field like David Beckham (field, bow-bow!!)

Oh, and they kind of explain what “ZEZE” means – it means “zombie”, a slang term for, of course, lean... because it’s 2018.

Pop pills, do what you feel, I’m on that zombie (hey, hoo!) / I’m more like Gaddafi, I’m not no Gandhi (Gaddafi, hey)

Oh, um, some of these lines come off as kind of rapey though, which is not the greatest tone to go for when you have a song with Kodak Black, to say the least.

I go in her mouth, she can’t tell me nothin’ (ugh, ugh, ugh)

Oh, and I guess it’s finally time to talk about the alleged rapist elephant in the room.

On my Kodak, woo, Black, ooh, know that – Childish Gambino, “This is America”

I’m not going to bring up his allegations anymore because frankly they’re completely irrelevant to his performance here, and all he actually adds to this review is proof for my conclusion: this song has so much good qualities, but they paint them in the grossest green colour possible. Each one of these guys just ruin the gifts they’re provided with. In fact, the beat changes for Kodak so he doesn’t sound as offbeat as usual, and, of course, it doesn’t work at all, he still sounds pretty terrible as always, but still, D.A. Doman switches up the beat slightly (which was near perfect as it was) to accommodate for the talentless and directionless ramblings of Mr. Kodak Black.

Pull up in a Demon, on God (on God) / Looking like I still do fraud (fraud) / Flyin’ private jet with the rod (rod) / This that Z-s**t, this that Z-s**t (this that Z-s**t)

Kodak is so unlikeable here. He sounds like he was on a news interview, with a noticeable Southern drawl, that went viral enough in 2011 to get an autotuned Songify This remix. Honestly, it sounds that painful of a vocal, and without the Gregory Brothers’ pretty great production and knack for melody, this is just a strain on both Kodak’s voice and my ear-drums.

I got the fire on me in BET Awards

I’m less surprised that you have a gun rather just that you’re allowed in the BET Awards.

In a Hellcat cos I’m a hell-raiser

Man, this song is robotically programmed, I swear! There’s no attempt at portraying any unique lyrical characteristics, personality or even a single attempt at interesting wordplay, rather we get a catchier version of Kodak’s typical topics, just in an even more boring flow this time, and delivered like he’s on pain medication... which is probably what they’re going for here. What a waste of a fantastic, beautifully-produced instrumental, one of the most diverse and unique trap-rappers out there in the form of Travis Scott, who is relegated to his awfully-written hook duty, and what a waste of that amazing Offset verse. Seriously, Offset, kick Kodak off, switch him for another awful human being, Tyga, and save this song (including Travis’ admittedly fun, albeit silly, hook) for your upcoming solo album. I can’t let Kodak Black own this song, it’s too good for him in concept. What a perfect trainwreck. Everything is given to them completely prepared and in good condition, and then they just trash it. This song is when you get something valuable or useful for a damn good price and your dog eats it within five minutes of you opening it.

Hit that Z-walk, Dickies with my Reeboks

Oh, come on, Kodak, I know I don’t like your song but you didn’t have to give me Vietnam flashbacks of Lil Dicky. That’s just not cool. See ya on Thursday, everyone. Peace.