#and man we struggle enough as it is with being seen as a monolith

[falsebooles123]

Diary of a Horror Buff 8.27.22

UGH so I don't really have any big plans for today. besides sending a work email and finally making some progress on my handmaids essay. I know that the essayist I watch have there same doubts and issues but I just feel that I'm too stuffy of a writer.

Here I 'll give you a taste.

First lets get the chestnut out of the way. Is Gilead Fascist. Well thats hard to say because Gilead is definitely a dictatorship, surely authoritarian but I’m a writer not a politician. However Fascism does tell a story and we might as well discuss that. 

Let us focus on the Narrative of Fascism. 

The Mythic State: Fascist believe in a sorta of golden age, a period where people kept to themselves and we didn’t tolerate the bad sort, you know, the infirm, pagans, sodomites, immigrants. No we all kept to ourselves and the world was palm fronds and bunches of grapes. Now obviously this is a fetisization. An appeal to antiquity. As they say. Reject Modernity Embrace Tradition. 

Tradition: With that focus on the mythic State they evoke traditional systems. And within that traditional system it demands society conform to traditional hegemonic roles. Those that fall outside of that. The infirm, the sexual intermedieries, the melanated, are often seen as outliers at best and traitors at worse. 

The invasion. Umberto Eco discusses how fascism demands struggle for struggle's sake, there is always a battle, always an enemy. The enemy is not just a combatant but a disease. Its miscegenation, its degeneracy, its corruption through cultural imperialism. The disease must be staved off it must be stamped out. To protect the people the mythic and now present nation. 

The Nation: Fascism demands tribilism yes, a monolithic and hedgemonic culture yes, but also a very strong sense of collectivism. Its not simple that everyman his ability. Its everyman his zeoletry. To be with us you must strive out the invader yourself, you are the hero, you are the protector, but you also must be a believer. Because those of little faith are just as bad as the invaders. 

Now I’ve been a bit vague on the actually elements of fascism and for that I request you spend some time reading Umberto Eco and other theorists on this topic. Now that we have these elements let us apply them to Gilead.

I should mention that this is also character diologue so yeah I just love to make this complicated for myself. but yeah were are the jokes were are the funny funnies. are my thoughts insiightful enough to actually have people enjoy what I'm saying. Am I just too akward to make my ideas shine with the right tone????

But enough self-doubt a lot of the people I look up to as essayists have literally degrees in this subject and I am a culinarian that likes to read.

Ok lets stop bellyaching and actually consume media.

The Tractate Middoth (2013) dir. Mark Gatiss

ok so I'm slowly finishing up the AGSFC. also I love that they explicity gave both of the young men in this movie explicit girlfriends cause these hoes had chemistry. Just you wait till I make one of these M.R.James and then all these ghosts be sucking man dick.

Ok so this one is actually a lot of fun. Sacha Dhawan plays a young man working his way through college. An older gentlemans like yo bitch run up the stairs and grab this book for me. so he goes and does that and ooh nooo its a spooky ghost. Also this ghost is probably the most iconic in this series so far. No offense to Gordon but he was more about setting a vibe then creature design.

At the same time this film feels very modern in its screenwriting. we have the first 10 minutes devoted to character development and we focus heavily on his thoughts and feels throughout. Wheres gordon was just kinda vibes based there were characters sure but they were kinda inconsequental to the mood lighting.

Mutant Land (2010) dir. Phil Tippet

ok so this was quite lovely. Phil Tippet is a special effects artist known for being in a lot of things like Robocop, Jurassic Park, and Star Wars, but he also has done some directing work as well.

So this one is a short three minute sci fi horror which I honestly need to watch more of. I do like Sci-Fi but its one of those things I never get into because it has so much world building that you have to delve into. Something I like to do but might not have the energy for.

This one i fantastic its grimdark set on a planet where everyone is starving and some intrepid explorers chase a rabbit into some ruins. Shenanigans, (violent dismemeberment) ensues.

The Marshalls (2016) dir. Adeena Grubb

You think the real horror is that guy locked in a cage but its really the Modern Farmhouse decor.

This was lovely. Very Burtonesque and atmospheric.

The Maker (2011) dir. Christopher Kezelos

When Youtube Autoplays but your not upset in the slightest.

This follows a craftsmen who is making some kind of effirgy as a hourglass ominously tics down. I don't want to ruin it so just watch it.

2AM: The Smiling Man (2013) dir. Michael Evans

Imagine:

there was a spoopy creepypasta man but he does a jaunty jig before he kills you.

But like also people be like that sometimes its called drugs.

it was spoopy though I will give Evans that good job.

The Smiling Man ALTER (2015) dir. A.J. Briones.

So this was fun a little girl, (pigtails, overalls, little teddy bear the whole shebang), is hanging out at home watching the same 100 Color Classic Cartoon DVD boxset I had as a kid.

Until ooh noo a spooky balloon is just sitting in the middle of the hallway. SO she follows this trail of balloons that are weighted down with a bag of something, Candy? Chicken Bones? those little funeral dolls from japan?

There called Kokeshi Dolls, and some people gave them to children so that a mountain spirit could protect them, which is like a completly different vibe then what I was thinking.

anyway little girl walks downstairs to her kitchen and theres some horrifying geek just scurrying around and painting on clown makeup.

this kind of geek.

Altitude ALTER (2019) dir. Nicole Scherer

Ok did I ever tell you how much I love survival horror. I don't watch it very often but when its dones well it can just be horrible satisfrying.

ok Shawn Ashmore was so fucking hot in this.

this one was pretty good two alpinists are climbing a mountain when they can't find there cabin, they then go delrious up on the mountian.

also they had like nordic accents but like with common english names and I always love how those sound, (sahr-rah, pe ah ter, toe mas.)

Shenanigans, (supernatural induced psychosis), ensue.

The Absense of Eddy Table (2016) dir. Rune Spaans

I mean I clicked on this mostly just because the style was cute. Big Mouth could never.

OK please tell me why you like this show. I hear it gets better but i'm just having flashbacks to that time in the first season were the dudes brothers force him to eat a ookie cookie and that grossed me out and I'm a freak that likes dick and buddybating.

this one follows some guy probably named Eddy Table who running around a forest, and accidentally comes across some naked chicks with tiny tits and absolutely gigantic asses. Like 100% unrealistic body types for women. Also some weirdo bites the girls on the pussy and they become infected with some horrifrying parasite. to be honest I have no idea what this thing is supposed to be like but it has a slightly horny vibe. Theres this palnts that look like titties, others that are always releasing little white plumes of smoke, tendral things.

Clearly this forest is tryhing to brain fuck.

but i mean also we got dumb himbo and his feral girlfriend vibes so thats nice.

Milk and Cookies (2015) dir. Graham Denman

Ok so I shared the SuperCUT version so this should have Milk and Cookies, M&C: Walters Revenge, and M&C: CHristmas in July maybe??? Idk I'm still watching it.

ok whats the tea whats the vibe.

basically this is another crypt monster called Walter who dresses like Santa but is more of a krampus type.

Also I love that the sequel literally just jumpcuts to this chick going into a full ass christmas heist plot. also shes using one of those plastic candy canes as a pointed and I love that for her.

OK usually I hate goonies vibe shit but this was absolutely lovely. It was funny it was over the top and its so aggresively christmas that who can't help but love this little elf.

also this supercut didn't have the last one but I'm watching it anyway.

So the third one is animated and follows a grumpy teenager whose stuck with a bunch of rich white people who are like,

"ummmmmmm is this eggnog, organic and free trade"

and then Walter just murders everyone. ugh love that for him.

I just love how Crypt TV isn't afraid to just be completly absurd. There like bitch we're crypt tv we do what we want, you want a evil santa just murder a bunch of yuppies, well fuck you thats what you get.

The Listing (2015) dir. Luke Jaden

Damn I've heard of bad roommates but this is ridicoulas. Yeah this is just the story of an enterprising monster trying to make a suitable home for itself but then realitors keep trying to wash his windows.

Playing Doctor (2015) dir. Jon Kovel

oh Jon Kovel you little scamp.

so yeah this is another one of Jon Kovel knee slappers. some parents go to pick up there kids have the most cringy middle class white people conversation and then oopsie daisy, your kids were playing doctor but I'm sorry we lost the patient. Beautiful comedy thank you Kovel.

anyway sluts thats going to be the end of our movie watching for today stay tuned tomorow for more.

#Youtube

[orhelponefaintingrobin]

Atlas Shrugged (I promise this one's about RWBY)

Okay, so, I’ve been thinking about Atlas recently, just because I’ve seen a couple of bits about it on here. But I wanted to talk about how fucking brilliant a name ‘Atlas’ is for what this kingdom is. Because, when I hear Atlas, I think of two things. The first is, naturally, the myth; Atlas being the god who holds up the world. The second is ‘Atlas Shrugged’, Ayn Rand’s book about how rich people are great and should just fuck off and leave us poor masses behind because we don’t appreciate them enough (not a fan of hers, I’ll be honest…). There’s an old video from the creator now going by Sophie From Mars, from a few years back, where as a sidetrack they remark on how disappointing it is that the title ‘Atlas Shrugged’ was wasted on a book that cynical and awful, because the image it conjures, of this god, responsible for the entire world, feeling so apathetic that he would just shrug it off, despite the destruction that would cause.

I will add a disclaimer here that I have absolutely no evidence, let alone belief, that the comparison I’m about to make is even vaguely intentional on the part of either the current writing team that put together the fall of Atlas or Monty’s original plans/outlines that they’re working off. This is, if I’m honest, me pulling something out of thin air just because I’ve noticed it and I think it’s fun.

But I still think there are some interesting parallels between Atlas and ‘Atlas Shrugged’. Don’t get me wrong, in a lot of ways Atlas would be Rand’s worse nightmare; a nation where the government and army are deeply connected, where the most powerful man is an army general who is more than comfortable restricting civil liberties when he deems necessary. For someone as rabidly anti-government/anti-regulation as Rand, it’s basically the opposite of the world her heroic rich people create in ‘Atlas Shrugged’. That said, it’s also a kingdom where, as we see, the better-off parts of their society get to literally hover over the heads of the masses who they neglect and exploit; Atlas has some fairly clear class disparity and, therefore, a decent bit of exploration of class as a theme (think about how, at the start of the Atlas arc, we’re brought to connect to and see the people in Atlas, and especially the military, as the people on our heroes’ side, and the Happy Huntresses as antagonistic, only for that to be entirely flipped in V8).

But, more importantly, ‘Atlas Shrugged’ is, from a more left-wing view, ultimately a story about the privileged and wealthy in society saying ‘fuck you, got mine’ when people start to push back on them doing whatever they want and abandoning them to fend for themselves. This is, I’d argue, the meaning of the title; the wealthy class are Atlas, shrugging off the responsibility for the world because they don’t care what happens to the people they are supposedly holding up.

In Volume 8, Atlas, and its leadership in Ironwood, see the threat to their survival, and they see Mantle, the society already pushed down, literally below Atlas, where the people fighting to be treated the way they deserve are brushed off as criminals to be targeted. And Ironwood’s plan is to abandon them even more. Mantle was struggling as it was, and would undoubtedly have no chance if left to fend for itself. Atlas knew that the thousands of people living in Mantle were going to die, and what did the city in the sky, that saw itself as the monolith holding up the world, do?

Atlas shrugged.

Only, in this story, it’s not the world that falls.

#Is this one too far? #I feel like I'm really stretching things here #But I've been thinking about it a little bit and once I saw the parallel to the book and its title I wanted to share #because I thought it was kinda fun #RWBY Meta #RWBY

[dilfdoctordoom]

On Tom Taylor, the Current Nightwing Run & Ableism

I did mention I was gonna do a post about it, so here we are. There are some things I want to make clear before we begin: the issue exploded on Twitter on the very first day of disabled Pride month; disabled people have been discussing the ableism in Taylor’s Nightwing run since it began; nobody has blamed Taylor for what happened to Barbara in 2011. We are, however, blaming him for the way she is written in his series during 2021. 

I am also going to be discussing the ableism in the fandom in this post. The reactions I have seen, from here to Twitter to TikTok, are showing not only a great misunderstanding of the situation, but a purposeful misunderstanding. The very real reasons disabled people are angry right now have been twisted to make us seem ridiculous and overly sensitive and I cannot help but feel that is very intentional.

Another quick addition: disabled people are not a monolith. Barbara Gordon spent over 20 years as a paralyzed wheelchair user. Stating (and I would like to note, never truly showing) that she is a part time cane user now is still erasing her disability. These things are not interchangeable.

So, with that out of the way, let’s begin.

Tom Taylor’s run is ableist. That is a fact of this situation. He made the active choice to include a version of Barbara Gordon that is ableist caricature. Story wise, the role that Barbara plays could have easily been filled by anyone else. There is no real season, within the narrative and outside of it, for Taylor to include this version of Barbara Gordon, who has received a decade of criticism from disabled people. It’s very well known that this iteration is problematic, to put it kindly, and Taylor is aware of that. 

He made the active decision to include her, anyway, showing, at the very least, that he is passively, if not actively, ableist. Passive ableism is still ableism and disabled people are allowed to take issue with that.

That alone is reason enough for disabled people to be angry. But that’s not why things exploded on Twitter.

On July 1st, the very first day of disabled pride month, the new design for Barbara was dropped. After months of teasing Barbara’s return to a wheelchair using Oracle (see: Last Days of The DC Universe, Batgirl (2016), etc), they debuted... a new Batgirl costume that the artist has openly said draws inspiration from the Burnside suit.

There’s a lot of issues to unpack here, so let’s start small: the issue with consciously calling back to Burnside. The Burnside era of Batgirl stories was... beyond awful. The villain of the series’ first arc, was an AI based on Barbara’s brain patterns when she was disabled. It was evil because of all the rage and pain Barbara felt. The actual Barbara, on the other hand, was good -- because she was able bodied. Because her PTSD had been tossed aside. It was a horrifically ableist era that drove the idea that Barbara’s life was terrible when she was disabled; that it was some horrible, twisted secret.

Comics have kept that narrative going. Barbara is seen hiding books on chronic pain; she reacts aggressively to the mere idea that she could be in a wheelchair again, acting like it would be weakness. Whereas Barbara had once been Oracle not because of, but in spite of, her disability, who was fantastic representation for the disabled community, she now acts like it is the most shameful thing in her life.

To call back to Burnside is to call back to that ableism and make no critique of it. If anything, it’s to embrace the ideas of that era.

There is also the design itself to consider. Many people have pointed out the inclusion of a back brace, as if that saves it from ableism -- it does not. Any person who has ever worn a back brace can take one look at this design and know that they did not consult a disabled person. Hell, by how impractical that thing is, I doubt they even Googled a picture of a back brace.

It’s a superficial acknowledgement that Barbara is supposed to be disabled. Something that was apparently thrown in to appease the numerous complaints of Barbara being able bodied; something that no one working on it put any effort into.

When it comes to aids, this is not a new thing for Barbara in Infinite Frontier. She’s said to be using a cane occasionally, that we got a better look at in Batman: Urban Legends, and as any cane user can tell you... that is not a cane that could feasibly be used. It’s another pathetic attempt to acknowledge that Barbara is supposed to be disabled, without actually doing anything of importance.

[IMAGE ID:  A segmented cane with a tri-pointed handle with a wrist strap. There is a stripe across the sections to connection them, labelled “solar battery charger buttons”. The text reads: “telescoping antenna doubles as cane or weapon if needed”. END ID]

Dropping this design (which we have now established to be problematic) on the very first day of disabled pride month is a sickening move. The very first day, and DC has doubled down on their disability erasure, thrown in superficial things like a back brace to act like it’s fine.

Tom Taylor is definitely involved in this, whether you like it not. No, he is not in anyway responsible for the events of the New 52 and what they did to Barbara Gordon, but that does not absolve him of blame for what is currently being done to her in his run.

When the design dropped, it started trending due to disabled fans reactions. To be clear: we were directly calling out the ableism in this design. This was Tom Taylor’s response:

[IMAGE ID: A tweet from TomTaylorMade that says: “Hey, @Bruna_Redono_F I think our new Batgirl suit is getting some attention.” He then adds a winky face emoji and tags @jesswchen and @drinkpinkkink. Attached are a screenshot showing that Batgirl is trending in the United States and a picture of the design itself. END ID]

This is him, bragging about how the disabled community reacted. Perhaps before this tweet, you could’ve made an argument that he was not ableist, but after he flaunted the fact that disabled people were rightly furious over this, like it was something to be proud of? No. If you are defending him, you are a part of the problem.

Taylor has included ableist writing in his Nightwing run, beyond the inherent ableism that comes with the current iteration of Barbara Gordon (whose inclusion, yet again, is his decision).

[IMAGE ID: A panel from Nightwing #79. Barbara and Dick are standing in his apartment. Barbara is saying: “I have some pretty new technology holding my spine together. I’m happy to do most things -- eat pizza in the park, take down low-level thugs -- but leaping from rooftops seems... unwise.” END ID]

What Barbara says in the panel above has bothered a lot of disabled people. The implication that she couldn’t “eat pizza in the park’ and “take down low-level thugs” without a spinal implant that conveniently erases her disability is... fucked up, to put it mildly. Those are both things that Barbara has done in a wheelchair. The first one is something wheelchair users can do and the implication that it’s not is beyond offensive.

But, let’s leave Barbara behind for a moment. I have previously mentioned that disabled people have been discussing the ableism present in this run long before July -- and that ableism is not only centred on Barbara. Dick is also a player in all this.

Dick Grayson was shot in the head. I don’t believe I need to retread the story, but just in case: Dick was shot in the head by KGBeast, developed amnesia from the event, and went by Ric Grayson for a long enough period in comics. If you have been active within the DC fandom for the past year or so, you know all about this controversial storyline and its fallout.

The Ric Grayson arc concluded itself the issue before Taylor became the writer for the series and ever since his tenure has begun, Taylor has completely ignored the reality of Dick being a disabled man. We understand this is comics, that things do not function the way they do in our world, but still -- it is clear that this gunshot wound to the head has affected Dick massively. We had an entire arc dedicated to how he struggled to find himself in the aftermath.

Taylor is choosing to write Dick as an able-bodied man, despite his canonical injuries and how they would impact his life.

This man is choosing to give empty gestures towards Barbara being a disabled woman (as discussed above, the completely dysfunctional back brace, etc) whilst writing her as able-bodied as possible. He writes both Dick and Barbara as able bodied as humanly possible. That is ableist. He is ableist. This is the same man that said he made a dog disabled ‘in honour of Barbara’. I do not think I need to elaborate on why that is bad.

The least he could’ve done, was get a sensitivity reader. We know that Taylor is not beyond getting people from marginalized communities to consult on his work (see: Suicide Squad), so why, when writing two characters that should be disabled, one that the disabled community have been criticising for a decade, does he not reach out to a single disabled person? A mere Google search could’ve improved the situation massively. In both the new design and the current writing, it is beyond clear that this is not just an able-bodied person writing it -- it’s an ableist person.

He could have listened to the numerous disabled fans that spoke out. Instead, he chose not only to refuse to do that, but to describe justifiable anger as ‘raging’. He treated us like we were crazy for daring to speak out about blatant ableism being parading around of us in our pride month.

Tom Taylor has failed to do the bare minimum and in doing so, he is, at very, very least, guilty of complicity. Again: passive ableism is still ableism.

The argument at hand is not just about Barbara Gordon and the continuing ableism that shines out from her current writing. The argument is about the treatment of disabled characters in his run. It has also become about the way he treats physically disabled people.

We also can’t have this conversation without acknowledging the fandom’s role in it all. I waited a day to write this up, to allow all the reactions to flood in... and I am sickened.

We have everything across the board. Able-bodied people that have actually listened to disabled people, who have supported us (which is deeply appreciated). Able-bodied people who may have had good intentions, but a skewed sense of the situation and perpetuating some of the more insidious lies being spread around (IE. that this is only about the new costume).

There are, obviously, the ableist reactions, though, that we will be discussing here. People deeming the current issues as ‘crazy’, calling disabled people ‘overly sensitive’ and ‘delusional’. Many people have completely glossed over the examples given for why Taylor, specifically, is ableist, and instead have resorted to telling disabled people that we are wrong and should be mad at DC instead.

It’s important to note that Tom Taylor is an adult man. He doesn’t need a fandom to attack disabled people for daring to call him out. He is not the victim in this situation; he has, for quite a few disabled people, been the aggressor.

I have seen claims that Infinite Frontier is a ‘slow burn’, implying that disabled people need to patient... as if we have not waited a decade for less ableist writing. There is a complete refusal from able-bodied fans to actually listen to what disabled people are saying. They would much rather rush to the defence of the (honestly rather mediocre) current Nightwing run. 

Disabled fans know that comic book spaces are ableist. We know that both DC and Marvel and many of their writers are ableist. We are still allowed to be pissed as hell about it and acting like the current reaction being had right now is disabled people being ‘overdramatic’ is yet another example of how the able-bodied side of the fandom both refuses to listen to and undermine disabled people when we call out ableism.

We know it when we see it. We always do and we always will and we will always be able to recognize it far faster than an able-bodied person. If this many disabled fans are coming out and talking about an issue, calling it ableism, then it’s time for you shut up and listen.

Stop being a part of the problem and start supporting disabled fans for once.

#barbara gordon #dick grayson #nightwing #batgirl #tom taylor #tw ableism #okay to rb

[thewidowsghost]

The Portal (Daisy Johnson x Simmons!Reader)

Daisy Johnson Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Anon asked: Hiya! I have a request. Daisy Johnson x reader. Instead of May being stabbed by Sarge, it's her daughter Reader. Who then "dies" in Daisy's arms, her fiancee and Daisy being by her side when she is put into the healing pod (?) (Set in season 7.)

I did tweek this a little bit. I wrote this as a Simmons!Reader, instead of a May!Reader.

(Y/n) Simmons advances with Sarge into the room, Izel standing in front of the Monoliths.

“You seem much more like yourself,” Izel tells Sarge. “And just in time. They’re on the other side, waiting for a sign.”

Izel makes her way up the stairs towards (Y/n) and Sarge.

“Why don’t I send you through and you can tell them yourselves?” (Y/n) pulls a shrike dagger from her jacket.

“Stand back,” Sarge says, and (Y/n) glances over at the man, but she steps back. “She’s mine.”

Izel continues up the stairs. “I’ve always been yours.”

“Not like this,” Sarge replies, thrusting out a hand and it closes around Izel’s neck.

Sarge jumps forward, landing on top of Izel, pinning her to the ground.

“There you are,” Izel says with a grin.

(Y/n) makes her way down the stairs, clenching the two shike daggers in her hands.

Sarge unsheathes his sword, the sword making a shink noise, and hs lowers it near her face.

“No,” Izel says, beginning to struggle. “How do you still have that. It doesn’t belong in this world.

“Neither do you,” Sarge replies.

(Y/n) raises her shrike daggers, still watching Sarge and Izel closely.

“I’ve watched you destroy planet after planet,” Sarge says. “All you are is death. Even that song cuts through me like death. This pain - I’m done with it.” Sarge grits his teeth, starting down at the woman.

Sarge goes to stab Izel, but the sword stops above her chest.

Izel laughs, and Sarge’s arms strain. “You can’t do it, can you?” Izel asks.

Sarge breathes heavily, slumping back, and then standing up.

“Sarge?” (Y/n) asks, beginning to look panicked, her accent heavy

Izel gets up from the ground.

. . .

Daisy, Mack, and Yoyo run for the control room. “Great tactical decision, luring the zombies back here,” Mack says.

“That obviously was not the plan. I had to clear a path,” Daisy replies.

“What, for a man we can’t trust?” Mack asks. “We don’t know what tricks he has up his sleeve.”

“I know for a fact that he’s the only one that can kill Izel,” Daisy answers.

“Oh, let me guess, he tell you that?” Mack says.

“Look, Sarge started to remember who he really is,” Daisy says, looking for Yoyo for support. “And you would’ve seen it for yourself if you didn’t volunteer to be kidnapped.”

“Do we really have to do this right now?” Yoyo asks the two desperately.

“You really think this man is Coulson?” Mack questions, and Daisy blinks back her tears.

“Maybe not all of him, but he remembered my name,” Daisy replies. “He called me Skye. How would he know that?”

“Because that’s what they do!” Mack bellows. “I went to enough Sunday School to learn that when the devil shows up, he’ll be wearing the face of someone you trust! He’ll make you question everything you see and everything you know!”

“He is not the devil,” Daisy murmurs.

“We don’t know what he is,” Mack replies.

. . .

“Do you remember now?” Izel asks Sarge.

Sarge steps back, his back to one of the little portals.

“They’re waiting for the sign,” Izel goes on.

(Y/n) steps off the stairs, still clutching the daggers. “She’s playing you, Sarge. Don’t listen.”

“Like you have new sense,” Izel goes on, as if (Y/n) had never spoken, “new understanding.”

“Don’t let that thing inside of you take control,” (Y/n) says, and Sarge looks at her. “There is good in you. Look at me!”

“Your friend doesn’t know when to quit,” Izel tells Sarge. “Tell me,” she starts towards Sarge. “What do you feel?” she asks.

(Y/n) stares at the man who looked like the father figure she’d had for the last few years.

“Anger,” Sarge replies. “And fear. Fear of this pain that’s been a knife in my heart for so long.”

“That’s love,” (Y/n) tries. “That pain is love. I know . . . “ (Y/n) starts towards the man, “I know, because I was afraid of it too.” She moves to stand beside him. “You helped me realize that I should love who I love.”

Sarge looks over at (Y/n).

“Remember us,” (Y/n) goes on. “Daisy, Mack, and Yoyo. Fitz and Jemma. May. You love us.”

“You’re right,” Sarge says, surprising (Y/n). “It’s love. The pain is love.”

(Y/n) sighs shakily. “Yes.”

“And now I know how to end it,” Sarge goes on, and (Y/n) tilts her head in question.

(Y/n) suddenly gasps as something cold slides under her ribs and out her back. (Y/n)’s hands search for the sword buried in her body, gasping again.

“To cut it out of me,” Sarge goes on. “Slice it away and be done with it.”

The sword in (Y/n)’s stomach makes a sort of squelching noise as Sarge spins (Y/n) around, her back facing the portal.

(Y/n)’s breathing quavers as her hands grasp at the sword. Sarge shoves her through the portal.

. . .

Leo Fitz and (Y/n)’s sister, Jemma, stare at the monitor, Fitz’s eyes wide with horror. Jemma’s stomach heaves and she turns, burying her face in Fitz’s shoulder, shaking with silent sobs.

“(Y/n),” Fitz murmurs, hugging Jemma.

May fixes her horrified gaze on the monitor, watching Sarge and Izel.

Fitz’s shirt goes wet with Jemma’s tears, and the other agents stare at the monitor.

“Fitz-Simmons, do you read?” the agents hear Daisy asks and the others look at each other, their hearts clenching at the thought of having to tell Daisy Johnson that her fiance was dead. “We are pinned down. They’ve breached Zephyr One.”

Jemma lifts her head a little from Fitz’s shoulder.

“Any word back from the temple? Is (Y/n) okay?” Daisy asks.

Jemma looks into Fitz’s eyes. Tears are streaming down both agents’ cheeks and they can’t find themselves to answer Daisy for the time being.

“Control, do you read?” Daisy’s voice is more panicked this time.

The COMMs beep and May says, her voice quavering. “(Y/n)’s down.”

“What?” Daisy’s voice is full of terror.

“Sarge, he - he stabbed her,” Jemma chokes out. “S-she -” Jemma can’t continue, a lump welling in her throat.

“S - she’s gone, Daisy,” May says.

“T-that’s not possible,” Daisy says. “That -”

“We saw it with our own eyes,” Fitz’s voice shakes.

The interference whines, and there is a static noise.

“Daisy?!” Jemma calls, and more tears well in her eyes.

Fitz steps forwards. “COMMs are offline. And somehow I’ve been locked out of the system.”

“That’s weird. Let me . . .” Jemma steps forward, rubbing her eyes.

. . .

Mack catches Daisy as she sways dangerously, her eyes unfocused and glazed over.

“Y-you were right,” Daisy looks up at Mack. Mack’s eyes are full of sadness. “I - I should never have trusted him.”

Yoyo stares off into space.

“I should’ve -”

Mack’s voice if full of pain, “No. It wasn’t right for me to judge -”

“No, don’t - don’t - don’t do that,” Daisy puts up a hand to stop Mack. “Don’t you walk it back. I - I did this,” Daisy’s voice cracks. “(Y/n) . . . This is on me.” Daisy’s hand goes to the engagement ring on the chain around her neck.

Yoyo looks up from her hands on the glass table. “Then make it mean something,” she says softly.

Daisy looks over at Yoyo.

. . .

“What joy, watching you strike her down,” Izel tells Sarge. “How does it feel to be your true self once more?”

“Long overdue,” Sarge says in a deep voice.

Izel chuckles. “Agreed. You’ve been held hostage in this vestle for far too long.”

“For centuries,” Sarge says in his normal voice.

“Yet here you are,” Izel says. “Ready to claim what we’ve always longed for.”

“A new home,” Sarge agrees.

“It’s only a matter of time . . .” Izel says, “. . . now that the sign has been sent.”

. . .

Blood pools under (Y/n)’s body, the sword still embedded under her ribs.

Three dark figures step off the pedestals and move towards the still open portal.

One of the figures looks down at (Y/n)’s body.

. . .

“That look in your eye,” Izel says. “I’ve seen it many times before.” She cups Sarge’s cheeks. “Just never upon this face.”

“It still feels foreign,” Sarge admits.

“Give it time,” Izel tells him.

. . .

“I’d be grateful for that . . . if you hadn’t been the one responsible for my captivity,” Sarge punches Izel, and she hits the wall.

“You’re wrong,” Izel growls.

Sarge grabs her neck and Izel grunts as she’s lifted to her feet. “You left me to rot in our world!” he hisses.

“You could not exist outside it,” Izel rasps, her breathing heavy.

“Which is why I sent you to retrieve the Di’Allas,” Sarge says. “To make me whole.”

“Finding them proved much more difficult than we imagined,” Izel replies, her breath still raspy.

. . .

The three dark figures start up the stairs of the Temple, gathering around a daias with light glowing from it.

The figures take the amulets from their necklaces, holding them for a moment.

. . .

“Soon the other will join us,” Izel tells Sarge on the other side of the portal. “Once the Three open the Temple of the Forgotten, the flood will come. Soon, they will all be free.”

“Free to take form, to know what it is to feel - as we do,” Izel says. “Hunger, thirst, pleasure . . .”

“Pain,” Sarge asks.

Three amulets thud on the sand outside of the portal, almost hitting the middle Monolith.

Izel turns around, studying the amulets.

. . .

“If I turn, I need you to put one of those knives right up here,” Yoyo says, sitting with her head resting against one of the Quinjet’s seats as she feels the shrike moving around in her chest.

Daisy looks up at the ceiling, tears welling in her eyes again. “I - I can’t lose another person . . . It won’t come to that.”

“It might,” Yoyo replies. “And Mack won’t be able to do it.”

Daisy bites the inside of her cheek, remaining silently, nodding slightly. “But it won’t come to that.”

“And you?” Yoyo asks, looking at Daisy. “Ready to unleash the beast?” she asks.

Daisy fiddles with the straps of her gloves.

“Fate of the world, as always,” Yoyo says.

“Today, I have something else on my mind,” Daisy replies grimly. Her engagement ring is resting outside her suit now.

“What’s that?” Yoyo asks.

“Revenge.”

. . .

“You did this,” Izel says, picking up the amulets. “You sent her there. Either you underestimated the girl’s strength, or you didn’t want her death to begin with.”

“Watch yourself,” Sarge growls.

“Maybe you haven’t shed the chains of this pitiful vessel!”

“You ready to find out?” Sarge replies.

Izel advances through the portal, her gaze falling onto the pool of blood on the ground and the absence of a dead body.

“I see you discovered life and death are meaningless in this realm,” Izel says, looking around the temple. “Which is why we’re so curious that you cling to one and dread the other. I sang my song. Connected our worlds. Now I will open the door to this temple so our kind can pass through, find a voice of their own.”

“Humans will fight back,” a figure emerges from behind a pillar, a bloody sword hanging loosely at her side. “They always do.”

“The shrike have hollowed them out,” Izel says. “There’s no fight left. They won’t struggle as he did.”

“Yeah, Sarge,” the bloody figure asks. “Not my favorite.”

“In a way, his struggle was a battle because of his devotion to you and your team and his devotion to me.”

“You sure death is meaningless here?” The younger figure asks. She levels her sword. “Because those other three evaporated.”

“Their energies will live on as something else,” Izel replies.

“Right,” the woman says. “I’ve heard that before. Well, then . . .” the figure whips the sword upwards, leveling it to her face, “. . . get ready to be reborn.”

. . .

Mack, Daisy, Deke, and Yoyo advance through the temple, flashlights held in front of them.

Daisy, Yoyo, and Daisy advance into the main area of the temple where Sarge is standing, staring at the portal.

“Daisy!” Mack says and Daisy thrusts out her hand, blasting Sarge with omf of her seismic quakes, his skin flaking off.

Sarge knocks Daisy back, and Mack advances, Yoyo’s back arching with pain as the shrike moves more in her chest.

“Daisy, please,” Yoyo pulls the shrike dagger from her pocket and Daisy takes it. “Before it gets worse . . .”

“You put up a good fight, Director,” Sarge tells Mack. “We’re no match now.”

He knocks Mack back, and the man crawls over to Yoyo. “Please, stay with me.”

“I - I can’t do it,” Daisy hands the dagger, getting to her feet to face Sarge once again.

“Why do you continue?” Sarge asks Daisy.

“Let me guess - surrender and we’ll never suffer again?” Daisy replies. “I’ll be suffering for the rest of my life because of you!”

“No,” Sarge replies. “I’ll make sure you do.”

Izel appears behind Daisy, the younger woman’s back to the portal.

Izel grunts as a sword appears in her chest. Sarge’s eyes widen as (Y/n) appears behind Izel, her hand loosely gripping the sword.

“Singing a different song now, aren’t you?” (Y/n) says through gritted teeth, the wound in her stomach re-opening.

Izel turns to dust and as (Y/n) begins to fall, she throws the sword.

Mack catches it, slicing Sarge in half at the waist.

Daisy catches her fiance, the portal closing above them.

“(Y/n) . . .” Daisy whispers frantically, shaking (Y/n)’s shoulder. “Hey. Hey,” Daisy says, (Y/n) starting, her eyes flashing open.

“Daisy . . .” (Y/n) rasps, her face pale.

Tears well in Daisy’s eyes for the third time that day and she brushes the stray hairs out of (Y/n)’s face.

Mack and Yoyo hold each other, watching (Y/n) and Daisy’s final farewell.

“Tell J-jemma,” (Y/n) gasps, “I-I love he-er. Daisy,” (Y/n) murmurs, weakly lifting her hand to cup her fiance’s cheek.

Daisy leans into the touch, knowing that this would be the last time she would ever feel (Y/n)’s affection like this.

“I love you,” (Y/n) rasps, letting her thumb brush along Daisy’s cheek-bone.

Daisy lets out a sob. “I love you.” She rests her forehead against (Y/n)’s shoulder as her fiance’s eyes close for the last time.

(Y/n)’s head lolls against Daisy’s and Daisy lets out another sob, her hand clenching around the engagement ring on the chain around her neck.

Tears slide down Daisy’s cheeks, her shoulders shaking.

There is a sound of lights flickering on, and the agents lift their heads, shielding their eyes from the bright lights.

Jemma Simmons is framed in the light, Deke coming into the main chamber, holding up a gun.

“She’ll be fine,” Jemma says calmly, walking down the stairs with some sort of syringe in her hand, other agents behind her, holding up a Cryochamber.

Jemma crouches down beside her sister’s body, injecting some fluid into her.

Two of the agents lift (Y/n) into the Cryochamber and Daisy can finally breath as a puff of breath from (Y/n) fogs up the glass in front of her face.

“We’ll repair her tissue in a few hours,” Jemma goes on, “once she reaches the correct core temperature. But right now, we have to move.

Word Count: 2688 words

Skye / Daisy Johnson x Fem!Reader Taglist:

@imapotato

@confusinggemini612

@marie45019

#daisy johnson x fem reader #daisy johnson x female reader #daisy johnson x reader #skye x fem reader #skye x female reader #skye x reader #daisy johnson #quake x reader #quake x female reader #quake x fem reader

[thealexchen]

i’ve actually read both of the articles that you mentioned earlier! I could see where both of them were coming from at varying points, though shannon liao’s struck me as a tad harsh, as someone who felt very seen by Alex, particularly with regard to her asian-american identity, and the cultural details and familial attitudes you see displayed throughout the game (especially in episode 5.) I could see why others would like them to be more overt, but they’re still present & relevant as is, imo.

I'm happy you read and enjoyed them! Well, since we’re on the subject, I might as well give my fuller thoughts about all this. This answer got horrendously long, so I'm putting it under a read more. I really wanted to talk about this more fully, so thank you for sending this ask!

I definitely see Robert's point in his article. Alex didn’t need to be Asian for the story of True Colors to be told, but it’s still meaningful that she is so that Asian fans and fans of color can look up to her and feel represented. The Chens buck a lot of stereotypes too: Mrs. Chen was not a “tiger mom” and her kids and husband remember her fondly. Mr. Chen doesn’t push Alex and Gabe to excel in school, and in fact neither Alex nor Gabe went to college, but they still had happy futures. Alex isn’t the best friend or the Asian schoolgirl or the dragon lady or the Asian nerd. But at the same time, when Robert says "Alex never really talks about her thoughts on Chinese culture,” that’s like— well, what’s wrong with talking about it? Why not talk about it more explicitly? The words “Asian” and “Chinese” and “Vietnamese” aren’t even used in the game when "gay" and "lesbian" were, and that's a little disappointing.

I figured people would figure out Alex was at least Chinese because of her last name, but I saw some streamers unsure of what Alex’s ethnicity even was (“Alex is… Chinese, right?”). That was disappointing because Asians tend to be treated as a monolith when we’re so internally diverse. Also, it’s completely possible to miss that Alex and Gabe are also half-Vietnamese. Their mother’s name is Giang “Wendy” Chen, a Vietnamese name, but that’s only in the credits. There’s far less Vietnamese (and Southeast Asian) rep than Chinese, so I wish that had been made more explicit.

In Life is Strange 2, Sean and Daniel’s struggles (personal and institutional) were centered around their identity as half-Mexican boys. True Colors almost seemed to be going in the opposite direction in that Alex’s Asian heritage never really becomes plot-relevant, but Alex and Gabe’s background comes into focus in the last chapter.

Part of Shannon’s critique was that because Alex’s parents aren’t in the picture, the game can’t explore Asian culture through a familial lens. There is some truth to that: for children of immigrants in particular, their parents are their strongest (and sometimes only) link to their race and culture. I thought a big missed opportunity was exploring Alex’s possible sense of isolation and struggle to reconnect with her Asian heritage after being separated from her family.

After growing up with two Asian parents, eating Asian food, celebrating Asian holidays, likely speaking Asian languages, etc. it would have likely been disorienting and lonely for Alex to suddenly be raised by non-Asian foster parents and lose all those traditions all at once. Possible comments like “I really miss Mom’s pho” or “Do you know how difficult it is to find hoisin sauce in the stores around here?” could have inferred more at that specific kind of loss and isolation in Haven Springs. The game touches upon this very briefly when you look at Gabe’s shrine, and Alex does comment “I don’t even know if I’m doing this right… but I felt like I had to do something.” In this way, I find it especially poignant that she still held onto cultural traditions after so long.

But I still thought Shannon’s critique was overly harsh. The little details really do add up, like in Alex’s childhood home, and meant a lot to me too. And most importantly, there was representation behind the scenes too: Alex was voiced by two(!) Asian American women and the lead writer, Felice Kuan, is Chinese. I think Alex naming her mouse Shu-shu was my favorite detail. Because it’s the one detail you can’t miss. Every streamer remembers Shu-Shu’s name and loves how cute she is and they can probably infer it’s a Chinese term. It just is so visible and empowering in that way and my heart felt warm every time I heard someone say “Aw! Shu-shu!"

But that doesn't mean Alex's Asian heritage didn't matter at all. I really appreciated that Alex's backstory still mattered because she came from a poor, working-class immigrant family. Her life circumstances were used for drama, but none of Alex's suffering was racially motivated and that felt tastefully done. I’m gonna paraphrase a comment I saw on alliebeemac’s playthrough of episode 5: "It's no coincidence that both Alex and Ryan lost their mothers at a young age, but because Ryan's father was a military veteran and had a high-paying job as a Typhon foreman, he got to keep his childhood whereas Alex's entire world was torn apart... And if you want to look at it even more metaphorically, the white patriarch Jed was able to preserve his own image as a hero and 'good old boy' of Haven by literally sacrificing an immigrant family to the mines with the expectation that nobody would come looking for them. Whether you're an immigrant or whether you're a foster child, the system is saying 'we don't care about you.'"

And at the end, Alex tells Jed, "You want to look away and pretend the men you hurt weren't people. But I won't let you.” It's a deliberate stand against Jed (a white man)’s dehumanization of poor laborers, including her Chinese immigrant father. Jed isn't explicitly portrayed as a racist, but his actions come from a privileged, and subsequently racist and classist place. For me, it worked better than LiS2's portrayal of racism because it was subtler and more personal. Alex stands up against Jed out of a personal sense of justice for her brother (and her father).

Do I wish we had more? Yeah, absolutely. I wish Alex got to actually speak Mandarin or Vietnamese in the game because that's so rare in games, even though I knew that would be unrealistic because Erika Mori is Japanese. I wish the character artists had at least made a version of Alex and Gabe’s models without shoes, because it just didn’t look right to see them wear shoes in the house (especially in bed??) and even LiS2 had Sean and Daniel in their socks in some scenes. I wish Alex and Gabe talked more about their family while Gabe was still alive and Alex could have had that comfort of someone who misses the food and customs they used to celebrate. But like I said, one piece of media isn’t gonna please everyone. And Asian representation in particular is so tricky because not only is there not enough of it, but Asian Americans are so diverse and come from so many different backgrounds. Children of immigrants are going to feel more connected to their Asian heritage than third or fourth gen kids or mixed race kids for example. Everyone is going to have a different definition of “Asian culture” and “accurate representation.”

But on a meta-level, it really means so much to simply have an Asian face on the box of a major Western game ❤️ Like even just seeing the way Alex's eyes crinkle when she smiles or how other characters find her attractive (like Steph’s note during the LARP preferring Alex’s natural black hair), it feels so affirming. It’s incredible to see an Asian girl be called the hero of her own story, to see her succeed and fail and cry and laugh and fall in love and kiss another woman and be comfortable in her bisexuality. It acknowledges that the queer community includes Asians, that Asian girls can also be curvy, that Asian girls can and do struggle with mental health. And like Erika Mori said, Alex is a fully-realized character and that’s what makes her so compelling, first and foremost. She also has a strong moral compass and dreams and fears and is such an incredible role model for people of all backgrounds, and that’s what makes her identity as a queer woman of color so much more meaningful.

#life is strange true colors #listc #asian representation #answered asks #anon #alex chen #gabe chen #chen sibs #life is strange #true colors #true colours #lis: tc #life is strange 3 #my post

[fanonical]

Writers of HP content: Draco is bad and terrible and there is no reason for him to have fans he could never be redeemed or feel sorry for the actions he took despite being a literal child born into a cult Also writers of HP content: we are 90% sure everyone wants to fuck Snape. He is the best character ever written. It's perfectly okay that a man in his 30s abuses kids. Feel sorry for him because he called a girl a slur and she wouldn't have his children after that

wait.... i get what you’re saying and i also fucking hate Snape but... Snape was Also a kid who was groomed into a fascist hate group (i wouldn’t call them a cult tbh) and Draco used the word “mudblood” MUCH more than Snape did from the evidence we have in the books.

i also don’t think the same people glorifying Snape are the ones demonising Draco, or at least not on a large scale. if this was aimed at us, we’re Certainly very critical of Snape (i hate his guts as a person even if i enjoy him as an anti villain) and we’re pretty lenient on Draco.

i think this take is pretty misguided. i agree with the substance of what you’re saying but... Draco is responsible for his actions and gives no evidence of remorse for being a fascist throughout the books. i like to draw from Cursed Child for some of his older characterisation in my thoughts about him, because i think he’s one of the better written characters in it, but this still doesn’t really account for his actions as a teenager — and teenagers are old enough to know better. Draco was forced into being a death eater, yes, and this must’ve been an incredibly traumatic experience... but nobody FORCED him to be a fascist. he treated everybody around him as lower, from people poorer than him, to people who struggle academically, to people who are of a different heritage as him.

this fandom is full of people with cold takes and awful opinions, so i wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve seen people with these hyperbolic Cold Takes simultaneously but... i haven’t.

tl;dr: Draco should be held accountable for his actions (and is redeemable, altough not redeemed in the books) and also the Harry Potter fandom is not a monolith and shouldn’t be treated as such

[mediaevalmusereads]

Black Sun. By Rebecca Roanhorse. New York: Saga Press, 2020.

Rating: 3/5 stars

Genre: fantasy

Part of a Series? Yes, Between Earth and Sun #1

Summary: In the holy city of Tova, the winter solstice is usually a time for celebration and renewal, but this year it coincides with a solar eclipse, a rare celestial event proscribed by the Sun Priest as an unbalancing of the world. Meanwhile, a ship launches from a distant city bound for Tova and set to arrive on the solstice. The captain of the ship, Xiala, is a disgraced Teek whose song can calm the waters around her as easily as it can warp a man’s mind. Her ship carries one passenger. Described as harmless, the passenger, Serapio, is a young man, blind, scarred, and cloaked in destiny. As Xiala well knows, when a man is described as harmless, he usually ends up being a villain.

***Full review under the cut.***

Content Warnings: blood, violence, gore, body horror, drug/alcohol use, self-harm, suicide, mutilation, reference to child sex slavery

Overview: I came across this book while looking for fantasy novels set in non-European-inspired worlds. I got really exited about the premise: a pre-Columbian, indigenous-inspired story? With multiple perspectives? And crows? It sounded great! Unfortunately, I couldn’t give this book more than 3 stars for a number of reasons: I felt like the writing could have been a little bit better and that character motivations could have been more clear; and I ultimately didn’t feel like the story was a true race-against-the-clock until the end. While I’m intrigued enough to pick up book 2 in the series, I do wish this book had done a little more to make me feel connected to the plot and the characters.

Writing: Roanhorse’s writing reminds me of some New Adult prose styles: it feels straight-forward, clear, and well-balanced, but sometimes tends to tell more than show, especially when it comes to emotion. I really liked that I could follow the prose without issue, but I often felt like Roanhorse was dumping some info on me and expecting me to absorb it right away. For example, Xiala (one of the protagonists) tells us that she’s always felt like an outsider and that’s why she has such an immediate connection with Serapio (another protagonist), but I didn’t exactly feel that. There were also some worldbuilding details that seemed to be inserted to flesh out the world - which was great - but ultimately didn’t feel relevant to what was going on in the plot.

This book is also told from multiple perspectives and flashes forward and backward in time. While I personally was able to follow the voices and time skips just fine, some readers might find it a challenge.

Also, without spoiling anything, the end of this book seemed to rush by WAY too fast, and I honestly didn’t feel like most of the book was building to it.

The worldbuilding, however, was wonderful. I really liked the way Roanhorse described the look and feel of everything from the tastes, smells, sights, etc. and I loved how diverse and rich everything felt. While I don’t know enough about various Indigenous groups to comment on whether or not the cultural elements were incorporated well, I did like that various populations didn’t seem to be monoliths and varied in terms of social structure, dress, and custom.

Plot: The plot of this book follows two-ish threads: in one thread, Xiala must get Serapio to the city of Tova in time for “the Convergence,” a time when the celestial bodies are aligned AND there’s a lunar eclipse. In the other, Naranpa must navigate a plot to oust her from the priesthood while also dealing with rising opposition from clan Carrion Crow (and their cultists, with whom Okoa is involved).

Because of the many POV characters and the flashbacks in time, it was difficult to feel any sense of urgency in either plot thread. Xiala and Serapio’s thread was a travel narrative, and most of the conflict stemmed from the fact that the crew just straight up did not trust Xiala. At first, I thought we were getting a narrative where the crew mistrusts Xiala because she’s Teek, but then they appear to be ok with her in what was a pleasant subversion of my expectations. But then something happens and we’re back to what I expected, and it proves inconvenient for getting Serapio to Tova in time. Because I didn’t feel like I had much of a reason to want Xiala and Serapio to succeed (Serapio’s motivations are mysterious and Xiala mostly wants wealth), I felt pretty “meh” about them potentially missing their deadline. I would have much rather seen Xiala (and perhaps the crew?) be challenged and grow from the setbacks she experiences at sea, and for her to become more personally connected to Serapio so the journey shifts from one done to earn untold wealth to one where Xiala wants to help her friend (even if said friend ends up being deceptive).

The Tovan plot is likewise a little “meh” because there wasn’t a huge sense of urgency or suspense. I felt like I didn’t know the clans enough to feel strongly about their politics (aside from understanding that killing people is bad in the abstract), nor did I have a concrete reason for wanting the institution of the priesthood to remain (once I learned more of their history and the fact that most priests - called “Watchers” - would rather be elitist than minister to the people).

Perhaps that’s why I felt a little underwhelmed by the plot as a whole: while things certainly happened, I ultimately didn’t feel like they impacted the characters’ inner lives much, or if they did, that evolution was told to us more than shown. While I understand that Black Sun is the first book in a series, I still would have liked the plot to have more of an impression on the characters.

Characters: I think it’s safe to say that this book follows 4 main protagonists: Xiala (a Teek sea captain who fills the Han Solo archetype), Serapio (the mysterious blind man with crow-themes magic powers), Naranpa (the Sun Priest who struggles against traditionalists to make the priesthood more active in people’s lives), and Okoa (the son of the murdered Carrion Crow clan matriarch). While I liked all of these characters, I do wish they had been a little less dependent on archetypes (lusty sea captain, Chosen One, etc). Maybe things will change as they develop in later novels, but for now, they’re fun and certainly likeable in their own ways, but not mind-blowing.

Xiala is likeable in that she’s a hot mess with a heart of gold. She drinks, swears, and gets into trouble, all in the pursuit of earning enough wealth to make a living. She is also Teek - a member of a (rumored) all-female island clan, whose members have special sea-based magic. I liked Xiala’s connection to the sea and the way she communicates her people’s stories and cultural values. However, I do wish she was challenged a little more to want something more than material reward.

Serapio is an intriguing character in that he fits the archetype of dark, mysterious Chosen One. While I appreciated that he wasn’t a gruff loner (instead, he seemed eager to connect with people while recognizing that his appearance might unsettle them), I also think his backstory is a little too “edgy” for my tastes. His motivations were somewhat shrouded in mystery, which made it hard to know whether or not I wanted to root for him to succeed, but because he’s not a complete jerk, I found him interesting enough.

The connection between Xiala and Serapio could have been a lot stronger than it was. While I liked that they bonded over their “outsider” statuses, I ultimately felt like this was told to us rather than shown. Thus, when they kind of sort of “get together” later in the novel, it doesn’t feel earned. I didn’t understand what Xiala saw in Serapio other than his physical attractiveness and (maybe?) feeling like he didn’t treat her as a foreigner. While fine, I wanted Xiala to be more attracted to Serapio’s personal qualities, not just that he was nice to her. Same thing for Serapio: I didn’t get the sense that he had genuine feelings for Xiala personally, just that she was intriguing because she was Teek.

Naranpa, the Sun Priest, was an interesting figure in that she was caught up in the politics of the priesthood. While I liked watching her navigate the various setbacks and conflicts with traditionalists, I ultimately wish I had been given a more compelling reason to root for Naranpa to succeed. Trying to make the priesthood more hands-on and philanthropic is all well and good, but it felt too abstract. I wanted Naranpa to have more personal stakes - because she comes from the “gutters” of the city, is she more invested? But if so, how does she reconcile that with her decades-long absence from where she grew up? There was a little of that, but ultimately, I didn’t feel like I had a reason to want the priesthood to continue. I didn’t understand why Naranpa was so attached to the priesthood as an institution; why didn’t didn’t she cut her losses and go elsewhere?

Okoa is something of a late addition. His perspective doesn’t appear right away, but I think that worked out fine, considering when it appeared. Okoa is a warrior who finds himself torn between keeping peace between his clan and the Priesthood and joining a rebellious cult who wants to restore the old religion and seek revenge against the Priesthood for past trauma. While I think his perspective was important, I didn’t personally feel invested in this plot or Okoa’s dilemma. Perhaps it’s because I didn’t feel like the rebels were treated as having a real grievance; we’re told about the past and told that it was harmful, but because we don’t get the perspective of someone dedicated to the Cause, I didn’t feel like I could sympathize with it. Okoa himself is resistant, calling the rebels “cultists” and saying that though he understands their grief, he doesn’t want to support violence. Perhaps if Okoa felt threatened by the cultists, or if their cause was a true threat to the stability and well-being of the clan, then I could feel more involved. But as it stands, Okoa was somewhat wishy-washy, and I couldn’t quite understand the stakes to make his indecision feel justified.

Side or supporting characters were interesting. I really liked that Roanhorse included plenty of queer characters, including trans and non-binary/third gender characters who use pronouns like xe/xir. My favorite was probably Iktan, the head of what is essentially the assassin’s branch of the priesthood.

TL;DR: Black Sun is an intriguing fantasy with intricate worldbuilding and premise. While I personally felt like the inner lives of the characters could have been more developed and the plot more compelling, I think this book (and author) will satisfy many fantasy lovers, and I look forward to picking up the next novel in the series.

[aaluminiumas]

Mercenary

The man called Wango failed to spot the female mercenary: he neglected and despised the drastic change of weather – such occasions were rather frequent in this part of the world. However, he did feel an obscure threat in the snowstorm whirling around him and attacking him from different angles – it almost behaved like a human being.

The blizzard quickly reacted to his attempts to defend himself from snow: whenever Wango turned away from the fluke of wind, the invisible enemy followed suit; every time he tried to cover his face from the snow, the microscopic particles became more persistent and aggressive, making their way into his eyes, nose, and ears, grazed across his skin as if in hope to dig underneath it or leave painful, bleeding scratches.

“Don’t be in a hurry, Wango.”

A derisive female voice cut the blizzard blinding the victim. Ambush seemed too insipid an action, so Monet, an advanced Devil fruit user, made her presence absolutely evident. She naturally played with the weather; her fingers, much like Doflamingo’s, pulled invisible strings causing various changes. A gentle move to the side and a gust of wind slapped the man across the cheek. A rough swat down – a wad of snow hit him powerfully in the temple. A clenched fist – and a white fortress formed around the man who had been lippy enough to try to double-cross Doflamingo himself. Not only that – he seemed to be on the take; some other pirate had bribed him to pry into the Donquixotes’ secrets.

“The fuck?!” the man cursed, looking around, his optics narrowed, a woolen scarf wrapped around the lower part of his ashen face with a large mole on the left eyebrow. “What’s going on?”

Genuinely fascinated by the game, Monet did not reply; the snowstorm abated. Using the slack period to his advantage, Wango fished out the map; a moment later, and a powerful gust of wind yanked it from his frozen fingers. Then, relying on his memories and summoning the images of the juxtaposed landmarks, the man endeavored to orient himself. Unfortunately, most of them were concealed underneath thick layers of snow. Perplexed, he made an irresolute step towards the nearby forest – he wouldn’t dare dart directly into the grove, but the trees may be a good enough bolt-hole. He couldn’t stay there for long, sure, but it’d certainly save him the trouble and give him a brief respite to collect his wits and regain his composure.

Plowing through the newly increasing snowstorm, Wango, panting, headed towards the woods, the distant howl of the wind reverberating in his skull. He’d seen extreme conditions, he’d been to numerous islands with harsh climates, but nothing could compare to this. The more he struggled to muddle through the snow, the weaker he became – he sensed he couldn’t achieve his goal. The forest seemed to remain in the same spot, or even farther than he initially thought; almost falling down to the ground, the man estimated whether he was able to crawl to it. Or was it all a mirage? How could a tree grow here, in this ice desert?.. And that voice that called him through the sleet – it wasn’t real, was it?..

Monet chased him unceasingly, surrounding the man by the amplifying snow walls and thus cornering him, so he had no escape route. The forest appeared a risky enough destination as he might skulk through the spreading branches and eventually get lost, so the woman amassed all her energy and lured him in the wrong direction, occasionally leaving a vague track of footprints in her wake to instill a vain hope in him. As devious as Doflamingo himself, Monet had devised a beautiful plan, worked out the kinks, and now she knew perfectly well what to do next. In fact, she needn’t go into detail with a man like Wango as he meant no harm to her, a strong soldier trained by the topmost members of the Donquixote Family, but she nonetheless wanted it to operate without a hitch. Monet put much time and effort into reducing possible jeopardy to a bare minimum, and she would loathe seeing it go to waste. Nobody checked Wango’s liaisons as of late, and the woman felt little to no desire to involve his potential companions or partners. She had a task to accomplish, and in this case, collateral damage would not be welcome.

Unable to squelch a bout of ominous mirth mixed with obvious gloat, Monet let out a quiet chuckle. The man, distinctly alert, turned around to face nothing but a pair of bleak curious eyes gazing at him through the white veil of snow.

“Who the fuck are you?” Wango exclaimed, clearly disoriented and frightened. “What are you doing here? Chasing me?”

Monet did not reply immediately. Instead, she used the protracted pause to savor the victim's sheer consternation.

“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice trembling. “A Marine?”

“Marine. Funny.”

Monet emanated a quiet chuckle – it was immediately muffled by the wail of the wind. Bewildered, flabbergasted, the treacherous pirate staggered back, his face a grey mask of dismay. Mesmerized by the yellow orbs, he couldn’t dragoon himself to look around and impel his brain to work.

“As I have said, don’t be in a hurry.”

Wango gasped, stumbling further, retreating. In a moment, he realized he wasn’t moving anywhere – his only escape route was cut off by a large wall made of snow.

“Who are you?” the man demanded again in a desperate attempt to buy some time, his brain working frantically, contriving a plan to escape his fate. “What are you?”

Monet let out another chuckle. The pirate, breathing heavily, rapidly examined the walls around him. After all, she – if it were a she – couldn’t be invincible, right? Everybody had weaknesses, and all he needed to do was to discover and hit them. Fiercely. Or, at least, to find out what made her tick, so he could play along, deceive her and flee while he still could. Unfortunately, he knew precious little about Devil Fruit users, so all his suppositions regarding the apparition’s powers were limited and may not evince the status quo. Of course, if Devil Fruits were indeed a thing, not an old legend told by nostalgic pirates embellishing their adventures with details that never existed. Anyways, he should use the bits of information he’d occasionally picked in his numerous trips abroad and do it right now – otherwise, he’d be buried underneath snow dunes.

The walls of the improvised fortress moved an inch closer towards the man. Unable to pinpoint the source of the chortle, the man kept gyrating and swerving in all directions. There must be a crevice, a tiny hole, a crack that would ruin the whole citadel when pressure applied. The wall seemed bleak and monolithic, save for a minuscule seam between two snow slabs. Wango wondered if he could break it by a powerful push, but as the plates irrevocably tightened around him, he stopped hesitating and leaned onto the junction.

The woman was watching him intently, her avian eyes fixed on the man’s pale face and his miserable endeavors. She clearly enjoyed the game and already envisioned the climax she had already acted out in her head: nothing could surpass the beauty of the scene her brain generated. If only Doflamingo could see it, he would be delighted. He’d savor the cruelty she precipitated on the disloyal pirate.

Wango, shoving the impregnable wall, spotted a glimpse of extreme atrocity in the yellow orbs glowing under the snowy veil. Albeit the pretty face outlined by the wind didn’t reveal any particular emotion, he was sure that this woman – or whoever the hell she might be – would not let him go. He needed to outwit or defeat her, and the latter option appeared far-fetched: she already used her power on him. He needed to rely on his street smarts, nothing else would help.

“Who sent you?” Wango demanded, his shaking hands pushing the wall.

“A friend of yours. Our mutual friend, to be exact,” came a singsong answer.

A spark of recognition. It couldn’t be– it couldn’t be, right? He was offered protection, given guarantees – after all the risks he underwent, after all the hindrances he’d overcome?.. He thrust the plate with his body, but it didn’t budge – though it did prevent the wall from moving.

“What friend? I don’t have friends,” he snapped, “Might be another self-assured prick thinking he can order me about.”

“Might be.”

Her voice dispersed in the roar of the wind that slowly abated. The snowflakes no longer seemed ferocious – instead of viciously scratching his skin, now they gently caressed the weather-beaten face and got interlaced with the eyelashes. The irresolute moonlight tickled the treetops and descended onto the ground illuminating the ruins of the snow fortress around him. The forest resembled picture-perfect tranquility, an exile from the frenzied world concentrated on wealth and glory – he should definitely ponder such an option over.

Monet approached him from behind. Quietly, she sashayed over to the man, her spidery hands tenderly lying onto his shoulder, cold breath hitting him on the skin already bitten by the frost.

He did not fight back. Chained by overwhelming consternation and panic, the man certainly planned to talk his way out – even though he didn’t have a knack for speaking, eloquence was certainly not his strength, he nonetheless hoped she’d hear. Actually, he intended to plead – to beg, to gravel, if needed; once proud and arrogant, Wango realized that the outcome depended solely on her mercy – or lack thereof. Monet succeeded to inculcate fear in him, but instead of the fight or flight reaction she expected, Wango palsied, his limbs stymied, only the greenish orbs were desperately swerving around.

“How many people have you already betrayed?” the woman asked nonchalantly, the smarmy voice penetrating his ears. The woman did not look threatening; something in the tone was lulling him to sleep while the snow sucked in his boots and crusted. “Weren’t you taught the basic human virtues? Honesty, sincerity… shall we say, loyalty?”

The wench might be opiating him by her quiet voice and the insidious warmth her skin exuded. Or was it his own body?.. Nevermind. He must wrench free from her viselike grip, or he’d end up freezing here to death – he already felt drowsy. Plucking out his feet, Wango mustered all his strength and remaining stamina to jump back. It did not help: he realized that he was trapped, that the ruins of the fortress stood there unharmed, and the space between him and the woman was so narrow that he could barely plan his maneuver; his panic-stricken brain hardly reacting to command.

“You just don’t understand,” he mumbled, imploring, his tongue hardly moving, “Please, listen to me, whoever you are,” his optics uncontrollably circulating, “It had to be… I had to do that! They’d kill me if I hadn’t–”

“Death is a release, isn’t it?”

Monet sounded half-sardonic, half-joking this time; there was a note of seriousness in her voice, though it was mostly concealed by the emotion she failed to properly convey. Still, a tinge of crystal clear disdain trickled into the words.

“I’m a poor man,” Wango whined, “I’m a poor man abused by many–”

His senseless wailing started to get on her nerves, and for a second – just a second, not more – it diverted her attention. Using that short respite, the man turned around, darted forward, and seized the woman by the chartreuse-colored hair. Hauling her over to him, the man licked his chapped lips and pulled out a rough shiv pressing it to her underjaw.

“You think you can play me, bitch?” Wango hissed, his hazel eyes burning with untamed ferocity.

“I most certainly do.”

Another grin distorted her lips, and the woman dribbled through his fingers – her green locks, her face, her body slowly morphed into snow that materialized behind him. Her hands clawed into his shoulders, clamped him tightly against her lean frame. Wango, unable to have forestalled such an action, tried to kick her in the legs, but the holdfast tightened, her icicle-like talons piercing his flesh.

“Death is a release,” Monet intoned into his ear, her whisper drowning in the shrill of agony and extreme anguish. “Soon you’ll see.”

Swiftly, she fished out her elegant dagger and slashed his throat in one methodic, steady gesture while propelling Wango away from her. The gaping wound splayed open, almost beheading the man. Shocked, dumbfounded by the fierce and rapid attack, he choked and hastened to put pressure on the cut but to no avail. The blood was already gushing all over his trembling hands, momentarily soddening his clothes and splattering across the snow forming a crimson trail in the direction of the looming forest in the distance.

In several minutes of ugly convulsions, he was dead. The tranquility, not disturbed by the brief melee, finally reigned.

“And salvation too, isn’t it?”

Stepping over the corpse, the woman squatted beside him and pulled a ring off his middle finger: Doflamingo had indicated his trust by giving the jewelry to the man. Wiping her fingers off the blood-soaked shirt of the cadaver, Monet left the place. If her Young Master had any doubts regarding her loyalty, by now they most likely dispersed.

#monet #one piece #op #fanfic #fanfiction #donquixote doflamingo #doflamingo x monet #doflamingo

[ahhhhh-spines]

I’m sitting here generally frustrated with a lot of the conversation about trans men, privilege, male privilege, etc.

1. Yes, transmasculine people, including and sometimes especially trans men, struggle. We need support. We frequently have a very complicated relationship to privilege, masculinity, manhood, etc, especially those of us who’ve lived a good chunk of our adult lives as/being seen as a woman. Some of us are punished for being men, or being too close to whatever whoever it is thinks a man is. The trauma from being treated like [failed, inadequate, greedy] women doesn’t just disappear as soon as we change our pronouns. Sometimes being seen as a trans man makes us even more vulnerable. We need and deserve support and care and love.

2. Privilege and gender and the process of being gendered by the people around you are extremely complicated and I don’t think it is accurate or useful to put it out there that all our privileges disappear as soon as we’re known to be trans men, or deviate in any way from cis white straight gender conforming manhood. (This is my experience as a white trans person who tends to read cis but is not stealth; I’ve heard about some cases where it’s complicated from tmoc and people who’ve socially but not medically transitioned as well, but I expect that there’s a lot less latitude.)

Some stuff I’ve experienced: being hired at a higher salary than the more experienced female coworker who brought me into the company. No longer being aware that I’m the only technical woman in the meeting and feeling like I can’t admit that I don’t know something, and having it be obvious people will think I’m a woman when I speak. Being spoken to over female coworkers. Being seen as less trustworthy when I came in with a worked out answer/proposal, because I guess that a man coming in with a defensive vibe is an insecure one with something to hide? But if I didn’t do that as a woman, obviously I hadn’t planned enough and didn’t know what I was talking about. And this one was from a man who absolutely knew I was trans! Not getting as much shit from doctors about my weight as I hear trans women talk about. Not worrying about balancing “attractiveness”/“making an effort” with “professional dress,” because even as a man who frequently reads queer, my body is not sexualized in the same way, at least in professional spaces. Sometimes even when I know they know I’m trans. Men just being friendlier to me - hard to describe, but the vibe is different. Buddy-buddy, kind of. And even before transition, for whatever reason, a lot of the female body shame bounced off me.

I’m lucky in many, many ways. But I’m still not that stealth/closeted/super masculine guy that gets held up as the only one that even kind of gets “male privilege.” I’m fem enough that an ex gently laughed at me when I was like “wellll, I don’t know if I’m really that femme…”. I think I tend to read some kind of cis queer/gendery amab if you’re looking for it. I usually am read as male, and that usually is a pretty sticky read - so even if I kinda get tossed in the “trans” bucket once someone learns I’m transmasc it’s not “you’re actually a woman” - but last month I got gendered as female despite having a v-neck showing chest hair and facial hair around the edges of my mask. So if anyone tells me they absolutely know how people parse gender cues - nah. Nope. There are some tendencies in any given culture but it’s still messy.

Which is all to say - it’s complicated, and while I am absolutely lucky, I don’t think my situation is unique. And I don’t think we do favors to younger trans people and people earlier in their transition when we put it out there that that stealth/straight/mayyybe masc4masc/definitely gender conforming path is the only one that has a chance of not being only maybe accepted conditionally as a Real Man if you’re lucky.

I don’t want to minimize that being a trans man can be a really hard road. But I am cautious when I look at rhetoric that echoes some of the old “your life as a trans person is just going to suck unless you are adequately stealth and cis-passing” cautions that are used to warn people away from transitioning at all, or that frame transition as an absolute last resort. It is possible for a trans life to be a joyful life, and there exist people whose understanding of the category of “man” includes trans men to varying extents, and I don’t think that a single monolithic “male privilege” is an adequate analytical tool for understanding the complex ways these privileges can show up (or not) over our lifespan.

[horrorkingdom]

Quiet

I never saw the ocean till I was nineteen, and if I ever see it again it will be too goddamn soon. I was a child, coming out of the train, fresh from Amarillo, into San Diego and all her glory. The sight of it, all that water and the blind crushing power of the surf, filled me with dread. I’d seen water before, lakes, plenty big, but that was nothing like this. I don’t think I can describe what it was like that first time, and further more, I’m not sure I care too.

You can imagine the state I was in when a few weeks later they gave me a rifle and put me on a boat. When I stopped vomiting up everything that I ate, I decided that I might not kill myself after all. Not being able to see the land, and that ceaseless chaotic, rocking of the waves; I remember thinking that the war had to be a step up from this. Kids can be so fucking stupid.

I had such a giddy sense of glee when I saw the island, and it’s solid banks. They transferred us to a smaller boat in the middle of the night, just our undersized company with our rucksacks and rifles and not a word. We just took a ride right into it, just because they asked us to. The lieutenants herded us into our platoons on the decks and briefed us: the island had been lost. That was exactly how he put it. Somehow in the grand plan for the Pacific, this one tiny speck of earth, only recently discovered and unmapped, had gotten lost in the shuffle; a singularly perfect clerical error was all it took. It was extremely unlikely, he stressed, that the Japanese had gotten a hold of it, being so far east and south of their current borders, but a recent fly over reported what looked like an airfield in the central plateau.

We hit the beach in the middle of the night. I’d heard talk of landings before, and I’m not ashamed to tell, I was scared shitless. I don’t know quite what I expected, but it wasn’t we got, that thick, heavy silence. Behind the lapping of the waves and the wind in the trees, there was… nothing, no birds, no insects. Just deathly stillness.

Another hundred yards deeper into the eerie tranquility of the jungle, we stopped in a small clearing for the officers to reconvene, and it was obvious even they were spooked. I wasn’t a bright kid, but I knew enough to know that something was very wrong. It was like the whole island was dead. I remember I could only smell the sea, despite the red blossoms dangling from the trees.

It wasn’t an airfield, on top of the plateau. I can’t tell you what it was, because I’ve never seen anything like it, and I don’t think anyone ever will. If I tell you it was like the Aztec pyramids, but turned upside down, so that it sank like giant steps into the earth, you’d get the basic idea of it, but that somehow fails to capture the profound unearthliness of the structure.

There was no sign of individual pieces in the masonry, it appeared to have been carved out of a single immense block of black rock into a sharp and geometric shape. It was slick and perfectly smooth like obsidian, but it had no shine to it. It swallowed up even the moonlight, so that it was impossible to see how deep it went, or even focus your eyes on any one part of it, like it was one giant blind spot.

Our platoon drew the honor of investigating the lower levels, so we descended the stairs as the rest of the company surrounded the plateau. We took the stairs slowly and carefully after the first man to touch one of the right angle edges slit his hands down the bone.

At odd intervals down the steps, there were several small stone rooms; simple, empty, hollow cubes of stone with one opening, facing the pit in the center. There was no door that we could see, and with the opening being four feet of the ground, you’d have to put your hands on that black razor sharp edge to climb in into it.

We circled the descending floors, shining our lights into each of the small structures; They contained the same featureless black walls and nothing else. No dust, no leaves and other detritus from the jungle, the whole monument was immaculate, as if the place was just built; but that couldn’t be right. The whole structure felt incalculably old to me somehow, despite having no way to articulate the particular reasons.

Down near the bottom you could see that it simply sloped away into a darkness that swallowed the flashlights. We tossed first a button and then a shell casing down into the pit, and waited in the unearthly silence, but no sounds returned. No one spoke, we simply turned away from the yawning abyss and continued our sweep of the bottom rung and the last of the small structures.

The body in the back corner was almost invisible at first in the thick shadows, but the long spill of drying blood reflected the light of our flashlights, and it led right too him. He was coiled tight, arms around his thighs, and his face tucked into his knees. You could see badly he was cut, his clothes opened in ragged bloody tatters to reveal the pale skin and bone beneath it. He may have been dressed in a Japanese uniform, but it had been reduced to ribbons; I only had few seconds to look at him before we heard the first shots.

It echoed like the buzzing of faraway insects in the still jungle, swallowed almost instantly by the blanket of quiet. By the time we reached the top, the rest of the company had vanished. There were shell casings on the ground, and the hot smell of gunpowder in the air, but they were gone. The trees were deathly quiet around, there was not a trace of the nearly fifty other men that had come ashore with us. I could taste bile rising in my throat as panic threatened to cripple me; I felt crushed between the yawning pit and razor edges on one side and the dead jungle and the pounding ocean on the other. The silence rang in my ears and I struggled to still myself.

They were just inside the jungle, waiting for us. They came out from between the trees with all sound of a moth, simply sliding into our view.

I can try to tell you what I saw, the same as I did to the army doc on the hospital ship when I first woke up, and again half dozen other various officers over the following months, and you’ll have the same reaction they did; that I was a dumb country rube suffering from heatstroke and exposure and trauma. That I was crazy.

You know me. You know I’m not crazy. And I remember every second of that night with crystal clarity.

The thing, the first one that caught my eye, was wearing the skin of a Jap soldier, all mottled with the belly distended from rot. The head drooped, useless and obscene on the shoulders, tongue swollen and eyes cloudy. I could see where it was coming apart at the ill-defined joints, with ragged holes in the drying flesh. At the bottom of each of these raw pits was blackness, deeper than the stones of the buildings; a darkness that seemed to churn and froth like an angry cloud.

The thing moved suddenly, the head snapping and rolling backwards as it dashed towards us. I had my rifle clasped tightly in my hands, but it simply didn’t occur to me to fire. All I could do was gape silently at the macabre sight bearing down on us, and think absurdly of my mother’s marionettes.

A gun went off beside me, and I turned to see a dozen more of the horrors darting silently in on us. Among them were a few more rotting and swollen forms, but the majority wore the same uniforms as us, and were pale, fresh, and soaked in blood. More bullets zipped through the air, and I saw the grisly things hit again and again, but they never slowed. I caught a glimpse of the First Sergeant’s vacant glassy eyes as his head dangled limp from his shoulders; I saw the great ragged wound in his back and the shuddering darkness that inhabited his corpse when he leapt just past me without a sound, landing like a graceful predator onto the soldier beside me. The others around me began to drop in a silent dance of kinetic energy and blurred motion

I was on the track team in high school, and it could have got me to college. I didn’t need an invitation. I just ran. I ran blind through jungle, caroming of tree trunks; I ran until I saw the ocean, and it struck a new ringing note of terror in me. I don’t remember actually deciding to swim, but when I turned back to the tree line, I saw one of the white and bloody things emerge, running on all fours, the hands splayed wide and the back contorted and cracked in an impossible angle.

To this day, the mere thought of the ocean still brings on a cold sweat, but that night I let it embrace me, let the tide drag me out to sea, if only to bring momentary relief from the impossible monolith and terrors on the island. The days I spent drifting off shore and blistering in the sun were a welcome release from the silent island.

I never saw the war. They sent me home as soon as I recovered.

It was comforting in a way, when I thought no one believed me. It allowed me to believe that it never happened, that it was a product of my mind. But as I got older, I’ve found that it is pointless to lie to anyone, especially yourself. I know what I saw.

Someone else believed me too. I’ve seen maps of where they tested the hydrogen bombs in the South Pacific.

—

Credited to Josef K. (aka entropyblues).

#explore #horror #follow #beginner witch #creepy #creepy photo #creepypasta #horror community #journal #new to tumblr #freaky #like me #horror kingdom #horror stories

[theculturedmarxist]

@agentsyzygy

>i mean... porque no los dos? race is just as real as every other socially constructed thing about us. it’s both/and in this case, not either/or. sure, the government will kill any white person that demands real change as quickly as they’ll kill anyone else, but the reason fewer white people do so is absolutely due to white supremacy, and insisting otherwise is obtuse at best.

What you’re saying is “race is just as real as a bunch of other things that aren’t real.”

Okay, let’s assume that’s true for a second. Race is just as real as, say, religion. Christianity for example. There are Christians just as delusional about the functioning of the universe. I wouldn’t doubt that there were some in the capital yesterday that believe that God put Trump in the White House—and didn’t he? Aren’t all things in the hands of the Intelligent Designer? Are those idiots justified then in believing that Trump is their anointed one? Is that something you’re expecting me to respect as being just as true as anything else?

Treating race theory as if it’s legitimate is completely self-defeating for opponents of racism in all its forms. You’re essentially admitting that race is real, and once you’ve accepted that nonsense you’ve lost. You’ve bought into the bullshit of race ideology and now you fight the impossible battle of winning using rules that you don’t control and make no sense. You say, “okay, we admit it, races are real, which means racial differences are real, which means that one race is more suited to this or that than another race,” and so on and so on. We’ve seen where this horseshit goes, and it’s fucking nowhere. It leads to wasting time trying to prove that black men aren’t hypersexual criminals or that Asians aren’t unempathetic bug people and that Jews aren’t controlled by a secret global cabal or whatever. You might as well try and prove that bigfoot or the bogeyman don’t exist, because the answer doesn’t fucking matter to the people that want to believe in that shit anyway. You can see the truth of this in the struggle for women’s rights against religious fundamentalists. It doesn’t matter how much evidence you have, how logical your arguments are, because the fundamentalist doesn’t care, and you’ll never argue them out of that belief. The only answer is to deny the validity of religious arguments entirely, not fucking treat them like they’re “just as real as any other socially constructed thing.”

“White supremacy” is the same sort of mystic mumbo jumbo. The BLM protests were overwhelmingly white and much more wide spread than yesterday’s buffoonery. If “white supremacy” is the conclusion to which this government and society are working, it’s doing an incredibly shitty job of it. The vast, vast majority of white people have been suffering horrifically for decades now. Deaths of despair, extreme poverty, murder by cop, etc, etc, have all been hitting white members of the working class just as hard as black members of the working class.

“White supremacy” might be an ideology that the US government et al cultivate, but “white supremacy” isn’t the goal of the US government. It doesn’t care about white people any more than it does about black people. It’s sole and only only concern is the supremacy of the wealthy, full stop. If it were concerned in the least bit about the supremacy of white people, it wouldn’t be doing every day its fucking damnedest to threaten its very existence. It wouldn’t be destroying the economy it relies on to maintain such a fantasy. It wouldn’t be destroying the environment it needs to survive. It wouldn’t be poisoning the water it drinks, or the air it breaths, or rushing fucking headlong towards its own nuclear annihilation. Nothing it does makes sense from the perspective that it is concerned with the white race. If we’re to accept this nonsensical idea, we also have to accept that many of the primary proponents and facilitators and beneficiaries of “white supremacy” are themselves not white. Barack Obama was overwhelmingly carried into office in his first term primarily with the votes of white people. It’s looking like now (if the theories about Biden resigning after inauguration are true) we’re going to have another black president in the person of Kamala Harris. And after a quick survey of the Biden cabinet, we have

Anthony Blinken, Jewish.

Janet Yellen, Jewish.

Lloyd Austin, Black.

Merrick Garland, Jewish.

Deb Haaland, Pueblo.

Tom Vilsack, White.

Xavier Becerra, Mexican.

Miguel Cardona, Puerto Rican.

Marcia Fudge, Black.

Pete Buttigieg, White.

Jennifer Granholm, White.

Denise McDonough, White.

Alejandro Mayorkas, Cuban Jewish.

Ron Klain, Jewish.

Michael Regan, Black.

Neera Tanden, Indian.

Linda Thomas-Greenfield, Black.

Katherine Tai, Taiwanese.

So I dunno man, how real do you wanna treat the “reality” of race here? Because it looks like we have more Jews in Biden’s cabinet than good, honest White People™. Or should we debate where Jews belong on our race lists? Whether or not the Catholics on this list are in fact white enough? Do you think we should be concerned whether or not these papists are in fact agents of the Pope? How deep do you want to go with this “social constructs are real” shit?

Examining the racial background of these people is nothing but a waste of time. Whatever their racial or ethnic or religious background, their liberal college admissions pamphlet diversity is underscored by their monolithic class character—Bourgeois.

Race is nothing but a delusion. While that delusion might factor in to the decisions and motivations of some people, might be cultivated and used in the maintenance of the status quo, itself is not reflective of reality in the slightest degree. It’s a bourgeois ideology, and accepting it as in any way valid, perpetuating it, and using its incoherent reasoning to try and explicate the functioning of the world is as useful as divination or dousing, like trying to treat a cancer patient by leeching them or purging their humors. I don’t have any time for it and I’m not going to treat it like it’s actual medicine.

#race #racism

[trans-advice]

Hey, for the past 5 or so years I have privately identified as nonbinary or not conforming to any gender, and even recently requested that my boss and coworkers use they/them pronouns. About a month ago I stumbled across a "gender critical" blog and started reading it. I know it's a bad idea to engage with trolls, especially when it will impact your sense of self, but I felt restless that my existence was being debated and wanted to hear the other side. Now I am feeling confused (1 o 2 asks)

I’m feeling confused and gross, wondering if all this time I have been actually working against my own feminist beliefs, or if I’m just being naive and getting indoctrinated. Like,I worry about me being a female who simply didn’t subscribe to gender stereotypes, tricking myself into thinking I"wasn’t like the other girls". I have also been wondering about what it means to identify into an oppressed group, and why we can’t talk about it without being dismissed as a dumb TERF. (1 o 2 asks) Thx

— Eve: CW: long post, possibly rambley, could’ve used better editing, transphobia, “gender critical”, recuperation, discussion of “terf” politics, recuperation of liberation movements, politics, oppression, rape culture, anti-fascist, anti-capitalist,

So basically I have tried for almost 4 weeks to write a response detailing this stuff. however it’s gotten too unwieldy. i tried to condense it, but this was as close as i got. it’s practically like 3 drafts back to back. I couldn’t figure out the differences & when i saw similarities it seemed significantly different enough. so I’m not editing any further. here’s a mindvomit. i wish i had this more polished but I can’t do that & i didn’t get a response.

however I’m going to make a history book recommendation, a referral to gendercensus2020, and i need to emphasize that these are much more like personal beliefs & not generally the tone of this blog which aims to give advice & positivity, while this is inherently political, the good bad & ugly. and there are trans people of various persuasions so I don’t want alienate them. i dissecting some ideologies that are transphobic, how they became that, how they got recuperated, and how you can find the same concerns being addressed. I’m answering this because it totally makes sense to me that this is asked in good faith & I want to respect your concerns & show that there are better methods of liberation activism that are trans affirmative, or at least must become & develop into such.

So I’m going to recommend the book “Transgender History (Second Edition)” by Susan Stryker, which I have put on our blog’s google drive account, so hence a link. It goes into the historic common ground between the feminists & LGBT+ peoples. It also gets into historic movements. And on top of that, the first chapter is literally a list of terminology deconstructing gender, which is also helpful for analyzing topics feminism analyzes..

https://drive.google.com/open?id=1IvCwNvCJ_EiDmOer4zS8SbFGz4m-WDJ1

another thing you need to know regarding the label lesbian back in the day is that it was a catchall for any woman who didn’t have sex with men. now granted, this was a cisnormative understanding, but basically lesbians included celibate women, asexual women, and of course bisexual women in addition to gay women.

basically the normal advice of wait til you have your own money to have sex, wait til your mid 20s, don’t rely on a man to pay your bills etc, all of this comes from political lesbianism, which was like be celibate or else have sex that doesn’t involve sperm. (granted, communities cannot be monoliths if they want to be ecosystems, like any movement label there are different interpretations made by members of it, and therefore there are some strands that uphold a homonormative appreciation for conversion therapy. perhaps a middle ground for understanding how that happened is that joke about macho sexuality purity “if a man masturbates with his hand, he’s using a man’s hand to get off, then it’s gay.” granted, there was of course a political/economic reason to this, but still, it seems in terms of history that this joke was considered actually legitimate.)

“lesbian” was a catchall for women who didn’t have sex with men. this included ace, celibate & gynephiliac women. part of the reason these communities were conflated again had to do with the economic pressures to get married which I’ll detail a few paragraphs from now. (while this next thought could be incorrect because I did just learn about ‘compulsory heterosexuality" a month ago, I think the vestiges of those economic pressures are basically the gist of “comphet”.) the goal of political lesbian as well as lesbian separatism was to build an economy/get money that didn’t require submission to patriarchy, via marriage, pregnancy etc. so basically in an effort to build like support networks, “men” were shunned as much as possible.

however these networks ended up replicating capitalism, (partly due to oppression against communes & other anti-capitalist activities) which then replicated the oppressions of capitalism. it makes sense that transphobia had formed of assimilation/respectability politics for such feminists. To quote from the criticism section of the Wikipedia article on the women’s liberation movement.

> The philosophy practised by liberationists assumed a global sisterhood of support working to eliminate inequality without acknowledging that women were not united; other factors, such as age, class, ethnicity, and opportunity (or lack thereof) created spheres wherein women’s interests diverged, and some women felt underrepresented by the WLM.[208] While many women gained an awareness of how sexism permeated their lives, they did not become radicalized and were uninterested in overthrowing society. They made changes in their lives to address their individual needs and social arrangements, but were unwilling to take action on issues that might threaten their socio-economic status.[209] Liberationist theory also failed to recognize a fundamental difference in fighting oppression. Combating sexism had an internal component, whereby one could change the basic power structures within family units and personal spheres to eliminate the inequality. Class struggle and the fight against racism are solely external challenges, requiring public action to eradicate inequality.[210] >

birth control helped to liberate women & that accommodation/handicap for reproductive health disabilities (disability is merely inability to do something that’s Normative. so if having a uterus, pregnancy/menstruation/having breasts etc aren’t considered normal, which is especially common in a patriarchal society for these examples, then it’s disability.) It should be said that due to the desire for bodily autonomy to regulate our own body parts, as well as a desire to manage our fertility & sterilization, the transgender movement has a lot in common with feminism’s female-as-disability movement.)

it should also be noted that before the medical transitioning became accessible that us trans people relied a lot more on social transitioning than medical transitioning. it should also be mentioned that the medical procedures are available & used by cisgender people too.

that being said, since both cis females & transgender women were denied birth control etc, there was a very intense fear of impregnation happening & trans women going back in the closet not only to get money under patriarchy but also because life raising a kid is hard. like if you’ve ever seen “the stepford wives” & look at how the ally husband betrays his feminist wife, then that should clue us into how a lack of birth control scared us.

the problem with the school of feminism that emphasizes physiological sex over gender identity (in order to deny the existence of trans people with female-organs or not) is that it doesn’t account for birth control & how that’s affected the landscape, the economy etc, the revolutionary impact of birth control basically. it also ignores that trans people & cis women feminists have the same goals when it comes to getting freedoms about reproductive rights & bodily autonomy. therefore it ends up being transphobic & wanting to run back into the times when we didn’t have abortion access because they want to hurt us.

That being said though, we need to have birth control & more in order to help liberate trans people too, so if somewhere doesn’t have birth control, then we’re not doing well either because it’d pay a lot more to be transphobic (which of course it doesn’t now when we have birth control & various medical & other technologies). i think what I’m trying to say is that similar to disability accomodations clashing with each other, if we of the women’s liberation, the trans liberation, and the gay & lesbian liberation, and the bisexual & ace liberation get stranded then we’re all doomed. granted we might be doing that due to defensiveness with hostility similar to how in the 1980s feminism got very conservative in USA & how some transgender people get spared in systems with strict gender conformity & anticolonialist values, it’d be wrong to say that all our liberations are in conflict with each other. they can be mishandled, but ultimately, safety still tends to favor cisheteropatriarchal people. internalized patriarchal thinking is like internalized queerphobia, and so forth.

I want to emphasize that it is relatively easy for transgender people especially nonbinary people to find gender critical discourse somewhat appealing. Here’s why: TERFs & Gender Critical discourse is agender-normative disability discourse regarding reproductive health & other AFAB organs. (a disability is being unable to do things that society considers normative. so if you can’t drive & your locale de facto requires it, then that’s a disability. also in usa you’ll find that pregnancy & disability are the main things welfare programs prioritize. a pregnancy can be harmful, but can be easier with the right monitoring etc. which again is the same with disability.)

the problem though is that they then insist on misgendering you as one of the binary genders based on objectification of your body (specifically, “morphology”). point being, because you feel dysphoric over being misgendered as something nonbinary as being mislabeled as cisgender, this implies that you are indeed transgender.

https://gendercensus.com/post/612238605773111296/the-gender-census-2020-is-now-open

—

Now to be clear, there are historical economic considerations that made the decisions to specialize on the intersectionality of cisgender AFABs, but the economy & technology has changed. Basically marriage back in the day was economically necessary because there was effectively no birth control available. Therefore, to get child support etc, required getting the father to pay the consequences. However, marriage was very much a chattel property institution, marital rape was still legal, and women couldn’t get credit etc in our own names.

#

At the same time, similar to birth control being unavailable, hormones & other procedures for medically transitioning trans people were unavailable as well, which meant social transitioning & wardrobe etc were the main methods of affirming our gender. however, we sometimes got lucky & had a doctor write us a note affirming our gender & sometimes we got even luckier & govts accepted this. this however required getting labelled sick & begging doctors to give us treatment & getting money for this since insurance companies etc still discriminated against transgender people even when we agreed to have our gender identity situation labelled as sick & medically necessary. (similarly insurance companies still refuse to cover abortions & so do some doctors & hospitals.)

#

So this meant that AFABs were concerned about getting hijacked via impregnation. Because of the patriarchal economics of the whole thing, people were afraid of “the stepford wives” repeating itself in their own lives, where the mind can only handle what the ass can stand would mean trans women would go back into the closet.

#

Granted, that’s a bit misrepresentative of trans women & trans people because trans people & cis women who can get pregnant do have a lot more in common. we take the same meds, go to the same clinics, menopause etc gets taken due to distress over how our bodies work, etc. then again, how would trans AMAB people have gotten the money for child support?

#

historically & still to this day we basically had to beg doctors for the ability to get hormones to get a surgery to get a gender marker change & so on, which granted, what we trans people had available to us varied from locale to locale because it required collaborations of trans people, doctors, and the local govts & especially their police stations. again, before roe v wade abortion providers were super underground & secretive & there were specialized units at police stations for hunting down patients & providers under the charge of “murder”. it’s the same dynamics.

#

seriously trans people & people with bodies that can get pregnant, menstruate, menopause, etc, we go to the same clinics! women’s health clinics take trans patients, planned parenthood takes trans patients, do i need to go any further on how trans people & feminists have the same interests regarding reproductive health?

—

as for political lesbianism:

basically the normal advice of wait til you have your own money before having sex, wait til your mid 20s, don’t rely on a man to pay your bills etc, all of this comes from political lesbianism, which was like be celibate or else have sex that doesn’t involve sperm. (i’m not sure what the conditions were like surrounding not piv sex among the straights, and therefore what the likelihood of avoiding piv sex was. I do know that rape culture was much more heavily normalized than it is now.)

“Lesbian” was a catchall for women who didn’t have sex with men. this included: - ace, - celibate - bisexual - gay women. Part of the reason these communities were conflated again had to do with the economic pressures to get married, (while this next statement could be incorrect because i did just learn about ‘compulsory heterosexuality" a month ago, i think the vestiges of those economic pressures such as weddings are basically the gist of “comphet”.)

The goal of Political Lesbianism as well as Lesbian Separatism was to build an economy that didn’t require submission to patriarchy, such as that of marriage, pregnancy etc. In efforts to build like support networks, “men” were shunned as much as possible.

However these networks, (partly due to lacking radicalization) ended up replicating capitalism, (partly due to oppression against communes & other anti-capitalist activities) which then replicated the oppressions of capitalism. It makes sense that transphobia had formed of assimilation/respectability politics for such feminists. To quote from the criticism section of the Wikipedia article on the women’s liberation movement.

> “The philosophy practised by liberationists assumed a global sisterhood of support working to eliminate inequality without acknowledging that women were not united; other factors, such as age, class, ethnicity, and opportunity (or lack thereof) created spheres wherein women’s interests diverged, and some women felt underrepresented by the WLM.[208] While many women gained an awareness of how sexism permeated their lives, they did not become radicalized and were uninterested in overthrowing society. They made changes in their lives to address their individual needs and social arrangements, but were unwilling to take action on issues that might threaten their socio-economic status.[209] Liberationist theory also failed to recognize a fundamental difference in fighting oppression. Combating sexism had an internal component, whereby one could change the basic power structures within family units and personal spheres to eliminate the inequality. Class struggle and the fight against racism are solely external challenges, requiring public action to eradicate inequality.[210]”

[beerecordings]

20. “Bud, you can’t rest yet. Keep your eyes open.", writer's choice of characters and universe?

Sid ol buddy ol pal of course what an excellent prompt I may have written way too much but it is what it is and please enjoy my friend. Op definitely didn’t need to come after Marvin again but go off I guess, me

20. “Bud, you can’t rest yet. Keep your eyes open.”

They’re going to betortured.

It’s obvious. Ducttape and rope on the desk. Pliers, belts, buckets, rebar rods, and ahose beside them. A drain on the floor.

Marvin hisses lowthrough his teeth, glaring at the pane of one-way glass thatseparates him from his enemies. Chase sinks lower in his arms, hidinghis face against his shoulder, and Marvin grips him tight, running asoothing hand through his hair, guilt and fury pooling, tepid, in hisstomach.

This is his fault.He wasn’t careful enough. How long had they been tracking him for? Heshould have known. He should have seen. He should never have stoppedhis tarot card readings, never mind that they made him “edgy” or“paranoid” or “restlessly desperate to change the course of thefuture” in the words of a certain familiar doctor. He’d rather beparanoid than snatched off the street with his little brother in tow.They thought he was Jackie. It’s not fair. It’s not his fault. Marvinsets his chin on Chase’s head, his blue eyes flashing.

“Holy shit, holyshit, holy shit,” Chase is groaning through gritted teeth. There’sblood on his face from the blow that knocked him unconscious. Marvincan hardly bear how angry it makes him. He concentrates hard on thedoor, trying his best to set it on fire, but his magic is wild andundirectable without his playing cards, and apparently he’s gotnothing to give right now.

It’s just him. It’sjust him and his Chase.

“You’re going tobe okay,” he tells his little brother.

His voice is cooland clipped. He strokes his thumb across the back of Chase’s neck.

“I’m sorry I’m acoward,” Chase whispers. “I’m sorry I’m not Jackie.”

Marvin decides notto tell him that if he were Jackie they’d both be dead already.

“You’re not acoward. Don’t be afraid. I’m not going to let them hurt you.”

Correction: he’sgoing to be tortured.

But not Chase.

Not Chase.

Alright.Marvin cracks his neck and growls as the door clicks open, hiscanines sharp in his mouth. Let’s do this. Not my firsttime around this track. They don’t call me magnificent for nothing.Pain’s just neurons. Torture’s just weakness made into violence. Andblood is just blood.

“I’m going to askyou one more time,” says the man with the belt.

He has a face likea rat and his eyes are the color of sludge and Marvin hates him.

“Where’s the BlueMask?”

Marvin spits bloodand draws his mouth into a smile that snarls. “Probably gettingmore of your buddies incarcerated, Markowitz. Face it, jerk-off –your organization’s crashing down around you and all it took was meand my brother running around in capes and masks to send it intodeath throes.”

The belt comes forhis face this time, and the sting is worse than any bug or needle,sending hot red agony through Marvin’s cheek, as though he’d beenbranded by iron. He can’t hold back a scream.

“Leave him thefuck alone!” screams Chase, tied to a chair in the corner. “Leavehim alone, let us go! When my brother finds you, you’re going to wishyou were never born!”

Yes, Jackie will beangry. Marvin smirks up at his captor, who returns his look with aglare to melt winters. Marvin understands that he is looking at amurderer.

“My brother’sgoing to kill you,” he announces, sing-song. “The Blue Mask iscoming, he’s coming! Oh, Mr. Markowitz, pray to your gods and settleyour debts, my brother is coming.”

Markowitz drawsback the belt and Marvin flinches, but the blow never falls. Instead,his captor leans down and reaches out, gripping Marvin’s chin tightenough to bruise and locking their gazes together.

“You are a boldthing, aren’t you, White Cat?”

He has an accentMarvin can’t place. Markowitz is one of a dozen names he goes by.They’ve been tracking him for weeks, and Marvin knows he ought to beafraid. This is a crime boss, not a late-night mugger with a shakygun, and the things Marvin knows he’s done – they aren’t pretty.

“Well, we’llfigure out a way to get what we need.”

“Fuck you,”Marvin snaps.

“Sothis is one of your brothers, huh? Twins, that’s cute. What’s yourname, kid?”

“Don’tlook at him,” snarls Marvin, watching him turn to Chase.

“Yeah,don’t look at me.” Chase is emboldened by his brother’s ferocity.Markowitz steps forward and Chase does his utmost not to tremble.

“I’mguessing you know where the Blue Mask is, don’t you, twin?”

Ittakes Chase too long to get the word “no” out. Markowitz laughs.

“You’lltell us, little man. No doubt about that.”

“I’llnever tell you anything.” Chase struggles against the ropes on hiswrists. “I’ll die first.”

He’snot stupid. He understands the consequences of telling them justfine. With the element of surprise over Jackie, they’d swarm into thehouse and kill him, and Jameson, and Henrik, and if they didn’t findJack, there’d be no one to care for him and he’d die in his sleepanyway. No, Chase needs Jackie to find them, to save them. He knowsthat he will. He trusts his big brother. He’s never let him downbefore.

Healso understands the consequences of his refusal. If he’s going to betortured – fine, torture him. He’s scared, but he’s determined.Their lives are not a fair trade for his own.

Hisbrothers are all that matters.

Markowitzstands back, looming over him like a monolith. “Nah, kiddo,” hesays, reaching into his suit jacket to get a cigarette. “You’re notgoing to die. Tell you what, twin, I promise right now I won’t lay adamn hand on you. But your brother’s not getting off that easy. I’llbeat him to shit, torture him until he’s begging me to end hismiserable life, and then we’ll see how eager the two of you are totell me where the Mask is.”

Markowitzturns to the one-way glass, lighting fire between his teeth. “Getin here and truss this little brat up like a carcass in a meatfridge. I think we’re going to have to cancel all the cat-naps fromhere on out. Hope you got a good night’s sleep, kitty. You’re notgoing to get another one ever again.”

Ah,Marvin realizes, his heart fluttering in his chest. Sleepdeprivation.

Thisis going to be fun.

Theyset up a little cot for Chase. Clear the room of their weapons andeven bring them both water and a little food when a few hours havepassed.

ButMarvin doesn’t get to be relieved.

He’stied up, hanging by his wrists from the ceiling, and fuck, these guysmust be experts, because he can tell they’ve hit specific pressurepoints just to make it as painful as possible. His whole body acheswithin five minutes of being hung up like this. After hours, it’sbecome a steady and horrible fire throughout his bones, and if hedoesn’t keep his head lifted and his toes on the ground, pain becomesexcruciation. He shakes like a shot fox, panting just to make hischest move, reciting poetry in his head to give him anything to focuson besides the hurt.

“Howare you doing?” asks Chase, softly.

He’snot allowed to touch him. They found that out pretty quickly. Forevey place where Chase tried to support his body, soothe his wounds,or give him physical comfort, there is the bright red band of thebelt striking Marvin’s body.

“Okay,”Marvin says, clearing his throat and opening his eyes. Chase sits athis feet, pale and anxious. “I’ve always wanted the full piñataexperience.”

“Wow.”Chase is trying not to laugh. Marvin’s just glad to see the blood’sbeen wiped off his face. “The sarcasm.”

“I’mnot sarcastic ever, Chase. Will you get me some more water?”

Chasehurries to his feet and brings back a paper cup full of water,lifting it to his brother’s mouth. It hurts to swallow.

“Marv?”asks Chase.

“Yes,honey.”

“Howlong do you think it will take Jackie to find us?”

Marvinswallows again and does his best to lift his head up. He smiles.

“Notlong, right? You know Jackie. Probably about to burst through thatdoor any minute now.”

Buthe doesn’t.

Thenight passes.

Marvindoes not sleep.

Marvin spits waterfrom his mouth, vomit rising up with it. His soaked hair hangs downaround his head and his whole body drizzles chilly water.

“You want to goto sleep? You want a break? Just tell me where the Mask is, kitten.”

He’s been up forwhat, about thirty-six hours? Please. Like that’s going to break him.

They spray him withthe hose again and Marvin grits his teeth down on a scream, his bodyjerking uselessly against the ropes. The pressure on the water ishigh enough to leave marks across his body, patterning his black andpurple bruises with red.

Chase has longsince given up shouting at them to stop. He sits huddled in thecorner, his hands tied up, gripping anxiously at his clothes,refusing to cry. Occasionally, Markowitz’s men turn to smile at him,to see him in distress, but all he does is glare back, his mouth setand his eyes angry.

Marvin doesn’ttalk. They fuck with him for hours. He chants Angelou to himself andrefuses to scream.

“Where’s yourbrother?” they ask.

He lifts his eyesup to them, smiling. “Did you want to see me broken?” he recitessweetly. “Bowed head and lowered eyes? Shoulders falling down liketeardrops, weakened by my soulful cries?”

“Shut this kidup,” groans one of the men. They come forward with duct tape.

“Does myhaughtiness offend you? Don’t you take it awful hard ‘cause I laughlike I got gold mines – ”

They tape hismouth. He laughs beneath the gag and closes his eyes as the pressurehits him again and again, singing freedom poetry in his head.

That’s how theykeep him up the second night, the cold water striking him like fireagain and again and again. Chase tries to stay awake, as he stayedawake the first night, to give his brother some comfort, but hecollapses into unconsciousness on his little cot around four in themorning, and when he wakes up at noon, Jackie has still not come.

And Marvin hasstill not slept.

“He must not beable to find us,” Chase whimpers, pacing in front of Marvin,playing with his hands.

Marvin groans,trying to order his thoughts. It’s becoming increasingly hard tothink. He doesn’t know why they’re doing anything they’re doing. Hejust wants to go to bed. “No, he’ll find us,” he manages, tryingto set his head down, only to be reminded of the horrible pain of theropes tying him up. “This guy’s good, that’s all. But Jackie knowshis trade, he’ll find us.”

“I’ve got to dosomething.” Marvin thinks Chase is probably talking more to himselfthan to him, but he’s just grateful to listen to his voice. “Ican’t just sit here while they torture you. I’ve got to get you somesleep. I’ve got to get you out of here.”

“Chase,” Marvinsays. He squints his eyes, pausing. It is Chase, right? For a secondhe looked like Henrik. Fuck, he’d give anything to have Henrik hereright now, to take him down off the ropes and make all the pain stop.No, but then Henrik would have to be tortured too. Anyway, this isChase. What were they talking about?

“Can’t you usesome magic, Marv?” Chase pleads, pausing in his pacing to stepclose. He glances at the one-way glass, wishing he could see wherehis enemies were so he could sneak a few minutes of support forMarvin’s body. “Fire or mind tricks or even some plants just tofreak them out?”

Magic, right.That’s his thing. Like in Dickinson: ‘To Tomes of solid Witchcraft –Magicians be asleep – But Magic hath an Element Like Deity – tokeep – ’

“Marv!” Chasebrings him back to reality and his eyes flutter open. “Bud, yougotta stay with me. If they see you falling asleep they’ll come inhere and spray you with that fucking hose again.”

“Right,” humsMarvin, refocusing. “Sorry, man, I – I need my cards. Magic hasan element… it’s so wild without my cards, I can’t just lash out oryou’ll get hurt too.”

Marvin becomesdistantly aware that Chase is crying. Distress jolts him back toattention. “Oh, don’t cry, Little Dipper. It’s going to be okay.”

“It’s been almostthree days and you haven’t slept.” Chase’s mouth trembles. “Iwish they would give me a turn so you could have a break.”

“No, I don’t wantthat. I don’t…” Well, he would like some sleep. But not atChase’s expense.

“Maybe I couldtalk to them. Get you a break. Maybe I could – fuck, I don’t know.I’ll figure something out. I’ll – ”

Something moves inthe corner of Marvin’s vision and he jerks in his ropes, turningtowards the movement, but whatever it was has already stopped moving.Chase is still talking, but Marvin can’t even hear him over thepounding of his heart.

He could have swornthat, just for an instant, he caught a glimpse of Antisepticeye.

He can’t stay awakeeven with the ropes. He can’t stay awake even with the water. They’veslapped him, struck him, beat him, turned his legs blue from kicks, and still he is heavy, heavy, heavy. How long has he been up for? There isno light in their basement cell and time is now marked in Chasesleeping and bursts of intensity within the constant pain.

He’s given up ontrying not to scream. Sometimes he screams just when he’s alone withChase, because he’s scared and exhausted and he might be losing hismind. It makes Chase cry. He hates that, but he can’t think clearlyenough to offer him any comfort.

Markowitz comes inpersonally again on Marvin’s fifth day of consciousness. In his hand,there is a shock rod, the kind ranchers use to drive their cattle.“Hi there, boys,” he says, flicking it on and stepping close toMarvin. He hasn’t bothered to tie Chase up again, and the littlebrother stands before his friend, his eyes narrow and full of hatred.

“I hear the cat’sbeen yowling,” says Markowitz, grinning brightly. “You ready totalk, White Cat?”

Marvin swallowspainfully. His body shakes. He can’t find the right answer. He wantsto say “yes,” but then again, he’s lost track of what thequestion was to begin with.

“No?” humsMarkowitz. “You don’t know? How about you, twin? Just tell me whereBlue is and I’ll let your buddy here lay down right there on that cotand get a good night’s sleep. Won’t touch either of you again. It’llall be over.”

Jackie and Henrikand Jamie and Sean. Jackie and Henrik and Jamie and Sean. “I’llnever tell you anything,” Chase hisses, but his fury is dimmed byhis watering eyes.

Markowitz shrugs,turning on the shock rod. “You will eventually,” he says, in atone like they’re discussing a board meeting this afternoon. “Someoneget in here and tie this kid up.”

Marvin’s head keepsdrooping down, his eyes fluttering shut. Every time, he gets a shock,and every time, he screams. Chase has begun screaming with him,protest and cursing and words of comfort for his brother, but none ofit helps, none of it changes anything at all; he’s never felt sohelpless in his entire life –

Markowitz shockshis brother again and Marvin screams, blue lines of bruisingapparating where the blow falls on his bare ribs.

“No more!”Marvin screams, his eyes rolling wildly in his head. He thrashes likehe’s in his death throes, blood trickling down from his over-burdenedwrists. “No more! Please! No more! Please! No – ”

“Where’s yourbrother?” Markowitz snarls. “Tell me and I’ll end it.”

“Leave himalone!” Chase howls.

“My brother –my brother – here and there and everywhere.” Marvin groans andshakes, yanking, yanking, yanking on the ropes. “My brother –which brother, I have so many.”

“The Blue Mask,”growls Markowitz. “Where is he?”

“He – he –our little house – ” Marvin pauses, breathing low and heavy. Oncemore, he drags his proud head up, and he looks his enemy in the eye.“Where’s my brother? Don’t you know? Already on his way here,coward.”

Markowitz strikeshim so savagely that Marvin’s head snaps back and his whole bodyweight crashes onto the ropes, accompanied by a dull popping sound inhis right shoulder. Marvin’s mouth opens in an agony, his eyesburning a little bit too blue to be human, and he lets out a cry likea dog on the hunt. “Pain is just neurons!” he shrieks, and thegrass that encircles the building that holds them begins to lengthen.Dandelions shove against cold concrete, threatening to break throughthe floor. “Torture is just weakness made into violence! And bloodis just blood!”

Fire explodesacross the floor of the cell and now it is Markowitz’s turn toscream, a cry of shock at the flames come to life around him. There’shollering in the next room over and extra men dart into the room,startled into action.

With the hose inthe room, it doesn’t actually take them long to put the fire out.Markowitz is coughing and the room is full of smoke, but the onlydamage done is across Chase’s calf, where his flesh is badly burned.He toppled his chair in his panic, and he lies across the floor, histeeth gritted hard and tears leaking from his eyes.

In the middle of itall, hanging from the ceiling from blood-stained wrists and adislocated shoulder, his body contorted into an unending agony,Marvin is asleep.

Markowitz, stillspitting out curses and trying to shake off his terror, comes forwardwith the shock rod again.

“No,” criesChase hoarsely. “No.”

“All you have todo to make it stop,” Markowitz hisses out, shaking with fury. “Istell me where your brother is.”

“I can’t,”Chase sobs. “No, no, no.”

Marvin flickersback to consciousness. His dull eyes lock absently onto Chase’s, andbeneath his breath, he whispers Whitman.

“'Touch me,‘”he says, drifting. “'Touch the palm of your hand to my body as Ipass.‘”

“I’ll keep himawake,” Chase promises, looking up at Markowitz. “Just let metouch him and I’ll keep him awake.”

Markowitz regainscontrol of himself and the situation. A low smile grows dark on hismouth.

“Well, twin,”he says. “I think that sounds like a lot of fun.”

They untie Chaseand they set a bucket on a table beneath Marvin’s face. If his headfalls too far, he will drown. Chase limps over to his brother andlets his head fall against his shoulder, weeping.

“'Don’t be afraidof my body.‘” Marvin intones gently.

From then on, he ishaunted.

From then on, he ismad.

He screams andthrashes. Chase does his best to keep him calm, but there’s not muchuse.

“Stay away fromme!” he screams in his delirium, and his eyes glow but no powercomes. He’s too exhausted, too distressed, too confused. “You thinkyou get to touch me, glitch? Stay away, stay away, stay away!”

“It’s me!”Chase begs him to recognize him. “It’s me, please, Marv, it’s okay,it’s okay. Anti’s not going to hurt you. Here I am.”

He strokes his hairand brings him water and tries to keep him awake as gently as he can,but there’s no gentle options left. He’s been awake for a week and heis collapsing in on himself, shaking and moaning and crying, cryingalmost constantly. Chase doesn’t think he’s even aware of it.

“Chase, Chase,it’s just neurons!”

“Okay, buddy,okay. Come here, stay awake.”

“It’s justweakness!”

“I know. I’msorry, Marv, I’m so sorry. Bud, you can’t rest yet. Keep your eyesopen.”

“It’s just –it’s just – I want Jackie.” He bursts into sobbing. His face iswhite as a desert cloud and his eyes are shadowed so heavy in purplehe looks like someone tried to use watercolors to paint him.

“Me too,”whimpers Chase, pushing back his hair.

Marvin’s headcollapses down into the bucket and Chase yelps, rescuing his facefrom the water. His eyes are rolled back in his head and his face isslack. He keeps dropping into these deep but second-long sleeps.Chase shakes him, but he doesn’t wake.

“I’m sorry, I’msorry, I’m sorry,” Chase cries. If he doesn’t keep him awake,Markowitz will do it will water and electricity. This is the onlyway. This is the only thing he can do. Keep Marvin awake and hopethat Jackie will come.

Chase slaps Marvinhard across the face.

He’s saving Henrik.

Or was it Jack?

He’s savingsomeone. That must be it. That must be how he came to be here.Otherwise, he would never have ended up in Anti’s grip. He wouldnever have let the demon get him otherwise. He would never have letsomeone sneak up on him and steal him away. He’s a magician. He’spowerful. Anti just got lucky. Marvin just got lazy. Pain is justneurons. Torture is just weakness in violence. Blood is just –

“Stay awake,”Anti croons, low and sweet, his green eyes glittering in thedarkness. He strikes Marvin sharply, sending pain bursting throughhis face.

“Fucker,”Marvin chokes out, in a voice weak and rasping, and Anti laughs.

Oh, he reallydoesn’t feel well. He really, really doesn’t feel well. His wholebody’s on fire and his brain – why can’t he think straight? Whycan’t he think at all?

“Why don’t youjust tell me what I want to know?” Anti asks. He steps back,towards a table, and picks up a knife, big and serrated, made forhunting and skinning deer or foxes. Marvin whimpers, terror drawinghim back to consciousness. “This can all be over.”

“I don’t knowwhat you want,” Marvin says, and he realizes he is crying, heavyand pathetic, snot and tears running down his bruised, exhaustedface. “Chase knows, ask him. Please don’t hurt me. I can’t – Ican’t – Where’s Jackie?”

“I was wonderingthe same thing.” Anti shrugs, looking almost mournful. “Whydoesn’t he come? Why doesn’t he save you? Doesn’t he know I’m aboutto tear your flesh off?”

Marvin weeps.Marvin weeps. Someone touches him. Someone holds him.

“I’m right here,”whispers Chase, warm and close. “I’m right here, I’m right here,I’m right.”

“Please,”Marvin begs. He doesn’t know who he’s begging. He doesn’t know wherehe is or why this is happening. “Please, make this stop.”

“I can’t, I’m sosorry.”

“Chase,” hegroans. “Chase, tell them what they want to know.”

“No, no, pleasedon’t say that, you know that I can’t – ”

“I need you tomake this stop!” Marvin wails. “I need you, why won’t you helpme?”

Chase’s answer isdistant and incomprehensible. Reality has betrayed him. Chase hasbetrayed him.

“Bastard,” hespits out. “You’re with them, aren’t you?”

“No, no, Marv,you know I wouldn’t do that.”

“You won’t helpme. I thought we were brothers. I’ve held you through your suicidedays. I’ve loved you since the day you were created. Why are youdoing this to me? Why won’t you let me sleep? Chase, please, please.Chase, I’m begging you. Little brother. Little brother.”

“It’s all goingto be okay soon. We’re going to be okay once Jackie comes. We’regoing to be okay.”

“Fuck, I hate youso fucking much. Don’t you dare lay a goddamn finger on me. Littletraitor! Little brat!”

“No, no, please,I love you.”

“Oh, honey, isthat my little brother? Chaser, Chasey. I love you too, I love you somuch. Oh, I burned you – I didn’t mean to, I’m so sorry. Where arewe, Chase? Can we go home? I’m so so tired, Little Dipper.”

Desperate, Chaserisks supporting his body for a few minutes, and Marvin makes a noiseof pure relief and falls asleep against his head. The punishment forthose short minutes comes from one of Markowitz’s workers, who comesin, shoves Chase away, and, coolly and efficiently, shocks Marvin atthe bottom of his throat until his whole collarbone is black.

And still, Jackiedoes not come.

“Thinking,tangling shadows in the deep solitude,” Marvin whispers on dayeight. “You are far away too, oh, farther than anyone.”

It’s Neruda, a poetfor love and revolution. Chase wonders if it’s better to let him stayin his head or to try and draw him out. In the end, he only standsbefore him, soft and resolute, and tells him, again and again, “I’mright here, buddy.”

“Your presence isforeign, as strange to me as a thing. The shout facing the sea, amongthe rocks, running free, mad, in the sea-spray.”

“I’m right here,Marv. I’m not going anywhere.”

“The sad rage,the shout, the solitude of the sea!” Marvin’s voice breaks and hishead drops down. Chase, eyes dripping, reaches out and lifts up hischin, brings him back to awakeness, to life.

“You have to staywith me,” Chase weeps, touching his face. “Jackie’s coming soon.”

“It collapses,crackling. Fire, fire,” says Marvin, and then finishes the poem,his blue eyes dead and unseeing: “Who are you? Who are you?”

Chase cries for along time.

“He’s coming,”he promises Marvin. He has to give him hope. He has to keep himawake. He has to trust in his brothers. “Jackie’s coming soon.Jackie’s on his way.”

He is.

He’s coming.

He’s angry.

Markowitz crashesinto the room and Chase is up, on his feet, immediately, standingprotective in front of his brother, holding up his head.

Markowitz holds agun.

“Move,” heorders shortly, flicking the gun to the side. “Now. Unless you wantto get shot too.”

Upstairs, there iscrashing and the shouting of frightened thugs. It makes Chase laugh,wild, almost hysterical. He understands that Jackie has come.

“He found you!”he cries, pressing his head against Marvin’s and letting his brothertumble into sleep against his shoulder. “We told you, didn’t we? Wetold you he’d come. We told you we’d tell you nothing. And you wantto spend your last moments of life killing somebody you’ve alreadytortured for days? Fuck, I hope God is real so he can damn you. Iguess I used to think Hell was like all that fire and brimstonebullshit, but now I know different.”

Markowitz breatheshard. His finger on the trigger. His pupils blown wide. The smell ofhis terror is delicious.

“Hell is beingkept awake,” says Chase simply, closing his eyes and listening tothe sound of Marvin breathing, slow and steady. “And you, Mr.Markowitz, are never going to sleep again.”

The gun goes offand Chase waits to die.

But the bulletnever hits its mark.

Instead, it sitssuspended in the air, unmoving, between Chase and his enemy, asthough time has stopped for the fiery piece of iron.

“What the fuck?”whispers Markowitz. He stares at the bullet, his jaw hanging open,until a small cough makes him whirl around.

Jameson stands inthe doorway of the room, looking dapper in a blood-stained suitstraight out of the 1920s. He smiles coldly, holding up his littlewatch.

Then he pulls out aknife and steps forward.

Markowitz aims thegun again. Chase laughs to see just how unimpressed his littlebrother looks. “You really should have gotten the hint about myfamily when Marvin set this fucking room on fire spontaneously,” hesnarks, reaching out towards Jameson. His little brother tosses him aspare knife obediently and Chase, with a relief so powerful it makeshis chest burn, begins to cut Marvin down. “We’re not reallynormal. And now, we’re going to make you pay.”

Jackie appears inthe door beside Jameson, dropping the body he was dragging from hishand. Behind him, face covered, Henrik holds a dripping scalpel inthe darkness.

Markowitz pays.

Chase shouldprobably feel guilty for how much he enjoys seeing him suffer, but hedoesn’t.

Marvin sleepsthrough the whole thing. Through the fight, through Jackie running tohim, through everyone circled around them, distraught and worried.Through police sirens and a hospital visit. Sleeps and sleeps andsleeps.

It’s wonderful.

He wakes up towarmth.

Warmth and comfort.

He’s back home, inhis own bed, a pack of cards lying on the table beside him, plants blooming all around him and the windows open to the summerbreeze. There’s a sticky note pressed against the wall above hishead, covered in Jackie’s messy handwriting.

“I’m right in myroom if you need anything. Henrik’s watching out for you too. You’regoing to be okay. I’m sorry I wasn’t there then. I’m here now. I loveyou.”

Marvin smiles.Memories of what happened can wait. For now, he lies in warmth andcomfort, dazed with fatigue and contentment.

Chase lies besidehim, breathing slow and steady. Safe and whole and courageous.

Marvin curls up at his side, andhe goes back to sleep.

#tw torture #chase brody #marvin the magnificent #jseegos #whump #bee writes #thanks for requesting sid!!

[imagines4abrokenheart]

My request is kinda similar to my first one. (Dragon Ball) Android 18 (Destroyed Future Version) Finding a guy hiding out from the Androids. But she thinks he is cute so she decides to make him her boyfriend. (Even if he likes it or not) But if she catches him trying to escape she sits on his face to teach him a lesson, having his face trapped under her booty until she is sure he will be faithful to her

I gotta ask, what’s your obsession with women sitting on dudes faces to show dominance? I’m not judging, but what is so fascinating? Also, sorry this took so long but I tried to go extra, so I hope you like it!CW: Male reader, Mentions of gore(very brief), POV switching(Only once), Facesitting to show dominance, male submission, mentions of enslavement and forced pet play. 

Queen of Apathy’s new pet

The buildings stand in defiance of the people who fell. They are no vulnerable flesh but concrete and steel, not as timeless as the mountains that ring the city but able to outlast the civilization that created them by centuries. Given enough time even the smooth grey will give way to a jungle of green and this “ancient” civilization will lay ruined for future generations to discover and perhaps piece together how we lived. I wonder if they'll know how we, with all our labor-saving devices could barely glean six hours sleep, and even when the opportunity to rest came our stress levels kept us unwillingly awake. But for now, all I can do is walk ant-like between the monoliths, grey at my feet, grey at every side, under a carpet of grey that promises nothing but a storm. In the end, it was not our using up of resources that killed us. It was our arrogance and lust for technology that doomed us, for it was man’s own created machines that slaughtered us simply because they could.

A bleak, thin wind it was, like a fine sour wine, searching the marrow and bringing no bloom to the cheek. A thick dreariness that hung in the air and condensed in my lungs making it difficult to breathe. The sky swirls, ominous clouds tinted with the blood of the fallen which had turned to mist in the heat of their death, curling together like a serpent. These clouds were followed by the sudden burst of lightning, sometimes flashing bolts of pure energy seem to stand for long moments around certain buildings. Count one, count two, count three, then, came explosions of thunder in great waves of discordant and demented sounds. The noise level became so intense that it rattled what few windows were still intact. The wind raised to the level of a thousand howling hounds.

I bend forward, pulling my hood over my head and picking up my pace. I run into an abandoned building, the rain pounds against my back like bullets. By the time I get to my sanctuary, I am soaked to the bone and stand shivering like a rat just pulled from the water. My teeth clatter together to create a melody with my pounding heart as it thumps against my ribcage. I drop the hood of my jacket down, it slaps onto my back with a wet splat that has a small, childish chuckle leaving me at the obscene noise. I breathe slowly, in then out to still my heart and relax my tense muscles. They hadn’t been seen in some time and so I had volunteered to go out to scavenge the cities with a small group. I had wondered away from the others, I wanted to see my old apartment and try and scavenge what I could from it- at least pick up a few of my old toys for the kids back home, I knew they could use that cheering up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If apathy was a person, Dr. Gero once said, her skin would be pale from lack of sun and her limbs would seem to thin and long for her torso. Her hair would be as pale gold as wheat overdue for harvest, swaying in the wind and eyes of a clouded sky on a summer day. Her voice would be of a viola, slow and even with the hint of more emotion under a stone facade of uninterest. If apathy was a person, I would be her. Through all his constant monologuing, that was the few things I remember. Apathy, yes I am apathy. Nothing is as interesting anymore, if things were different would I still be apathetic? Possibly, what could be stronger than my brother and I?

Flying over this broken cityscape brings more waves of disinterest, constant boredom that gnaws like an insistent rat at the back of my mind. It burrows itself in my bones and tightens my muscles to the point I feel I may explode if I don’t find something to do. My eyes scan below me, surely scavenge teams have been sent out? Surely, one human will be foolish to walk out in the open. I close my eyes, crossing my arms and weaving around buildings in frustrating ease that spoke volumes for the monotony of my current life. However, I jerk to a halt. A noise, soft and near blending into the rain that mops my hair. Feet, running. My eyes scan the area now on full alert and spot the retreating form of someone running into a building. A smirk dances onto my lips and I fly higher into the sky, knowing the building had a hole on one side of the roof. As I approach the roof I can hear it chuckle, a deep sound. A male. I descend at a quicker pace, peeking inside to get a feel of the situation before chuckling myself.

A lone guy soaked to the bone and thinking he was safe. How...pathetic. Truly, apathy did not feel like this. I landed silently, his back still turned to me. Surely, he had heard me or was he so enraptured with his escape from the rain that he was truly oblivious. I stand behind him, a sudden wave of giddy anticipation for what I could do this human thumping through my body from head to toes. He was none the wiser to my presence just behind him. I could blast a hole through his back, strangle him from behind or if I don’t mind getting dirty, I could rip his intestines out as he slowly bleeds to death and watch as the life leaves his eyes. However, we are both startled as he turns abruptly and he screams, throwing himself back against a wall. For my part, my eyes only widen a margin before I am closing in on him.

My hand snaps up and my fingers wrap around his neck, feeling his quickened pulse against my palm. His own hands fly up to grip my wrist and he struggles to breathe. He gasps, eyes glassing over and mouth gaping like a fish. His hair is tousled and wet, clinging to his forehead and his eyes look frantically at my face and at the things behind me. He begs, only barely with my crushing grasp. My head tilts, my own eyes flickering around his face and body. For a human, he was attractive I could suppose. More of an endearing cuteness added to the fact of how weak he was, it was like seeing a puppy. Your instinct to kill it diminished when it gave you pleading eyes and soft, high pitched whines. My hand unlocks from around his reddened throat and he drops to the floor. His hands now feeling around his throat as he coughs and sputters, trying to scoot further back into the wall and appear as none threatening as possible.

I rest my hands on my hips, thinking. If I killed him now, it would be boring again. I’d fall right back into the rut I was in before with nothing to do. However, if I kept him around I could have endless amount of fun. I could make him do useless chores, do tricks like a dog. 17 wouldn’t be happy at first, but he did say I could have anything I wanted and perhaps, at least for the time being, I could keep him on a leash. If he got boring I could torture the location of the other humans out of him and get a new toy. What to do now, though? He seems submissive enough but what would really drive home the fact he is laughably weak compared to me?

A smirk slowly drew up my lips and my pearly white teeth exposed themselves. I knelt before him, grinning like a shark as I slowly undid my belt. If it worked in the animal kingdom, surely it would work for this. He was just a dog now. I stared in down as he watched in abject horror as I grasped my belt in hand. “Your hands. Put them out in front of you.” I practically purr out, I couldn’t have him thinking he could try to get away and if his hands were bound he wouldn’t be able to stop me. He doesn’t listen at first, stares blankly at me before I snap the belt. That jolts him into action and he presents his hands as if he were expecting to get handcuffs. I chuckle, “Used to being bound, are we?” I cooe before quickly binding his hands together with my belt. I then stand, stepping on the extra belt and effectively pinning his hands to the ground between his legs.

I turn my body, my foot that stands on the belt simply twisting with me instead of picking it up. I could hear him swallow and it causes a chuckle to work its way out of me. I then grab a fistful of his hair, using it as an anchor. “You’re pathetic, a dog. A lowly mutt that serves no purpose but for my entertainment.” I then lean back, pressing my ass to his face. He struggles but I keep his arms and head still as I grind.

“Do you understand? You belong to me now. I am your master, your Alpha and you are nothing but an omega who lives to serve me until the day I decide you are useless.” My voice is chipper, giddy at the end and I laugh. My eyes sparkle with a level of pure delight, not even killing can accomplish these days.

He whimpers like a dog, body going limp and I can feel him nod, agreeing to whatever I say. I pull away, he gasps for breath that I had stolen from him for a second time. I step away, throwing him to the ground and he lands on his side. His eyes are red and puffy, wetness now from crying running down his cheeks. His face is a deep red from my action and he shivers from a combination of cold, fear and pure humiliation. My head tilts up, looking down at him from my nose and my hands go back to my hips.

I may be the personification of Apathy, but that does not mean I can’t take an interest in something.

#Dragonball Z #alternate universe #android 18 x reader #dragonball imagine #dragonball x reader #male reader

[mighty-mighty-man]

A Scapegoat and a Sacrificial Lamb

Villain!Might Oneshot

The world’s most infamous Villain, All Might, is not who he seems to be...

It wasn’t how his day was supposed to go.

Toshinori Yagi had every intention of carrying his groceries home, making a paltry meal to fill what little remains of his stomach, and leaving the world to its own troubles for a night. He’d made his appearances. He’d paid his daily dues. He ought to have been content to let these damp and winding streets lead him home to bed where he could finally rest his weary body.

Something rumbles beneath the bridge.

He grips his bag a little tighter. Not his business. Not his problem.

His disinterest dissipates with the frightened cry of a child.

“A Villain?!”

Toshinori finds himself flinching. Instinct bids him to slip away quickly, be unnoticed and avoid accusations. But nobody can see him here.

No, he cannot be the reason for that screaming.

He takes a final glance in every direction to be certain there will be no witnesses. And then, he stretches into his full form.

Bones crack. Muscles bloat and inflame, pushing from the inside against a frame no longer suited to handle them. His body is a core filled with steam, but the metal casing has myriad leaks. Sparse remains of godly power seep through cracks.

When he leaps from the top of the bridge to the mouth of the tunnel, he smiles and holds his hand out. A slime-bodied brute turns to meet his gaze, his body rippling from shock. From terror. In his ghastly maw is an unconscious middle-school boy.

“You’d best put that down. You don’t know where it’s been,” Toshinori cackles. He clenches his fist, the pressure of his strength stirring a gust of wind through the tunnel.

“It-it’s All Might!”

The Villain screams upon seeing this bigger predator enter the scene. Yagi takes a few benign steps forward and the panicked slime-ball drops the child, zips through a gutter grate, and flees shrieking.

All Might sighs, somewhere between relieved to have avoided expending his power and disappointed in the cowardice of his non-opponent. He walks to the unconscious child.

Skinny lad. Freckled, a tad unkempt, plain. The Villain kneels down to touch the boy’s thin neck. His whole head is almost small enough to be crushed in All Might’s hand.

There’s a pulse and he’s still breathing. He’s a lucky little bugger. All Might turns his attention to scattered items beneath the overhang, all things once packed neatly into this victim’s backpack. He sighs and takes a moment to tidy up and dump them back into the bag.

The world’s most notorious Villain, and here he is picking up schoolbooks for a little boy. There’s something about it that strikes the man as both pathetic and bittersweet. How different his life would be with an injection of domesticity.

Alas, it cannot be so.

He finds a wet, damaged notebook blown off to the side and picks it up. The written title is almost illegible. But inside?

All Might frowns. The kid is a Hero fanatic. He has quirks, costumes, weakness and strengths for a gaggle of Pros written in these damp pages. He flips through, careful not to tear the delicate lines. Although, it might be wiser to destroy this information. In the wrong hands, it could rip Hero society to pieces.

“Y… You...”

So it’s too late, then. So be it.

All Might stands up and tosses the bag to the groggy schoolboy. “Oh? Did you live?”

His eyes are wide. He trembles and cries openly, silently. The little puffball of a child is on the verge of vomiting.

All things considered, this is a mild reaction.

“That’s a shame. I don’t really have time to deal with you right now, however. Behave yourself and return to your menial life.”

“You’re All Might… aren’t you?” He speaks in gasps and whimpers. It’s almost unintelligible. But this isn’t All Might’s first rodeo. He knows all of the sentiments by heart. “You are! You’re the Symbol of Evil! Mankind’s Atrocity…!”

The monolithic man turns away, hissing steam from his lips. “That last one is newer, and I don’t think it’s going to stick. Mind your mouth and refrain from speaking to me that way.” He rolls his shoulders, cracks his back. “Farewell, young peon. Pray that you do not cross me again--”

Something bounces off the back of his head.

He grumbles. All Might turns to find the boy has struggled to his feet. The lad hurls a second, and then a third, notebook at the Villain. Everything bounces harmlessly off of All Might’s chest. “You… You’re a mass murderer! You should be ashamed! I’m… I’m not going to let you leave before Heroes come and put you away for good!”

The brat can’t just let it go, can he?

Brave. And foolish.

“You?” All Might scoffs, walking back into the darkness. His keen eyes scan the boy, who is more afraid than ever. Yet he does not stand down. Nor does he flee. “And how do you plan to accomplish that? What pathetic quirk would give you the ability to hold me here? I need a good laugh! Go ahead! Tell me!”

He hurls his whole backpack, rudely undoing the good will he received earlier. “I… I don’t have a quirk.”

“Oh?”

“But I won’t let you get away!” His voice cracks when he screams.

That’s enough nonsense for one afternoon. All Might lifts the child by his collar, hoisting him a good five feet off the ground. “You’re an annoying little whelp. Ungrateful, too. I was perfectly willing to let you skitter away home, but you’ve tested my patience. For that, you--”

The crying, wailing, scrawny kid bites him.

Bites him.

All Might gawks. “You have to be kidding me.”

There’s is no reply but a wordless squeal, and the child’s attempt to tighten his jaw. He doesn’t draw blood. Doesn’t even break skin.

But he does get a mouthful of steam.

All Might swears and drops the kid. Time is up. He turns away to get out of the tunnel, get one good jump in before he’s stuck down here with the lunatic child.

No good.

No luck.

“Waaah?!”

All might looks down at his skinny wrists, his emaciated body. He aches worse now than ever. It feels as if his rib cage has been blown out from the inside and all the pieces of his torso need to be shoved back into place. He’s broken, undone by his own immeasurable strength. A cracked vessel no longer able to hold water indefinitely.

He grimaces as he turns around again to regard the annoying boy. “… You’ve seen too much.”

“What are you?! Where is All Might?! Are… Are you…?!”

He sighs and leans against the wall, finding his grocery bags right where he left them. The plastic crinkles against his fingers. “Take a long look, kid, and make it last. This is how I actually am. The World’s Monster, the Bedlam Man, the Symbol of Evil; just a tired old man.”

He gasps, hand over mouth. “I… I won’t tell anybody! I swear!”

“No, you won’t.”

“Are… are you going to… to kill me?!”

“What? No!” He scowls. This day is one headache after another. His belly is unsettled and he isn’t sure if it’s hunger or anxiety. His lung is only giving him shallow rasps to work with. And he has to keep listening to this child’s avid screeching. “I don’t care what you do as long as you keep this quiet. I doubt anybody would believe your story anyhow, so you’re not much of a threat to me. I’m just a guy doing his job, and you’re just a brat who had a trying afternoon.”

“Your job is killing people! You’ve slain Heroes and you’ve murdered civilians!”

“Have I?”

“Yes!!”

“Are you certain?”

“I…” He pauses, finally allowing a second of silence.

Toshinori rubs his forehead to chase back an oncoming migraine. “Whenever I collapse a building, tear a bridge down, whatever it is… There are always Pros around to mitigate the damage. I make sure of it. I’m not ignorant; there are plenty of innocent people who have gotten hurt in my attacks. But deaths? There’s only been a handful of those.”

“But… The Heroes--”

“Not every Hero is good person. Society, government, law enforcement… Sometimes there’s a failure on their part to police the real monsters in this world. It’s better to take the trash out yourself than wait for someone who will never get up to do things of their own volition.”

The boy doesn’t have a question or reply for that. Good. He can chew on his thoughts for a while. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Izuku Midoriya.”

“Well, Midoriya, you seem to like Heroes. There are plenty of them. Can you think of a few who shouldn’t have their position? Can you imagine some of them are more harm than good in this world?”

“I… But… When you kill them, you martyr them.”

“Yes.”

“If you really believe they’re bad, why would you do that? Why would you let the world remember them fondly instead of trying to reveal their secrets and get them arrested?”

“Because this world is fragile.” He clenches his fist, as if he could crush everything with little effort. He could. Heaven knows he could if he wanted to. “Human beings are fickle and frightened, just animals who elevate themselves in their own minds. We like to believe we are smart, that we have infinite potential. But people are not especially intelligent, and they are limited by their views. Society needs beacons to aspire to and it needs anchors to despise. What I provide is a service. And what you gain is a belief in goodness and hope. For the price of a few frights, people get to live their daily lives without focusing on a million horrible things. Just one. Just me. I break something, and then Heroes come and break me. Right?” He pats his side, lifting the edge of his shirt just a bit to reveal the thick, twisted scar that coils around his side. Even now, years after being afflicted, Toshinori can feel its pangs with every heartbeat.

“I...” Izuku holds his head in his hands.

It’s too much for the boy to think about. Toshinori knows it. Shouldn’t have dropped the bomb, but it’s already too late.

“… Now that I have that off my chest, I’ll be on my way. Live a good life, Izuku Midoriya.”

“Wait!”

He sighs, cracks his neck when he leans back. “What is it now? I’m a busy man.”

The boy swallows and clasps his hands together, working on keeping his breaths even. “If what you’re saying is true, then you don’t even think Heroes are a bad thing necessarily. Just some of them. But what about other Villains?”

“Kid...”

“What convinced you to think this way?! Are there other Villains like you that aren’t doing things for their own sake?!”

“Boy, I’ve got a life...”

“Is society completely broken?! Have we all been living under a curtain while the ones we’re taught to hate rally the world against themselves?!”

“Boy! Enough!” He grunts and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Pick one question. That’s all I’m going to answer.”

He ponders for a moment, buying time by wiping his eyes and tugging the collar of his shirt. He manages to find his ultimate query after pushing his hair out of his eyes.

“I… All I ever wanted was to be a Hero, even though I’m quirkless. Somebody who could become strong enough to defeat you and end your reign. But now that I’ve seen this… now that I know… What can I do to help bring peace to the world?”

It’s a tough question. The kind of philosophical delving better done over tea and breakfast, or marijuana and chips. It’s not discourse to be entertained on a dirty street, in the middle of the day, with a near-complete stranger.

“There’s nothing you can do.”

Izuku freezes from the bottom of his toes to the top wisps of his unruly hair. “… But...”

“I’ve spent a lifetime devoted to this work, and I’ve learned enough to know peace is a pipe dream. Human beings are innately flawed and drawn to violence and prejudice. Even when you give them all a common goal, they fight against each other and diminish their own chances. There’s no threat big enough, no pillar strong enough, to do anything more than keep them distracted for a while. There is no peace, kid. There’s just different brands of chaos.”

He finally takes his leave of the boy, off toward home. Off to take a bath for the first time in ages, maybe get a few hours of sleep. Off to turn the ringer on his phone down and ignore the news a while longer. Let the world go on autopilot.

Can’t do it. Can’t relax.

Toshinori doesn’t even make it through a shower, let alone a bath. He is wired up and anxious, thinking, plotting. His mind doesn’t turn off just because his body needs it to.

There are things that have to be done.

There are lesser Villains that need to be beaten down into their places and away from civilians. There are Heroes getting too big for their own good, egos swollen, mouths running. Wars stirring in the West. Protests with good ideologies squashed by authoritative bigots.

People need something to agree on.

They need something to unite them.

And damn. Damn, if he had the energy, he would be out there now, sowing the seeds of terror that keep the world tied together.

He can’t.

He can no more transform again today to cause havoc than he can snuff out his will to improve this stubborn society by any means necessary.

He gets up, gets dressed, and talks a walk. It’s more of ‘taking a limp’ than anything else. His pains are back. His medicine barely helps these days.

Toshinori manages to get down all the stairs in his apartment complex, get out the door, and meander a few blocks when he notices a crowd of people growing. Shameful lack of regard for traffic laws, but then, it’s none of his business. He intends only to peek over a few shoulders while he passes the scene idly by.

The Slime Villain from earlier.

He scowls and finds a place toward the back of the mass, leaning against a pole for balance. Toshinori realizes he ought to have killed the bastard when he had the chance rather than let him run amok elsewhere.

The whole street the Slime Villain is on becomes a torrent of flame and disaster. He has a different schoolboy wrapped up in his greasy tendrils. This one isn’t as meek as Izuku. He panics and flails, using some explosive quirk to fight back. It’s not doing him any good.

There are Pro Heroes on the scene.

And they aren’t doing anything.

One holds the line of onlookers back but that’s the most they’ve accomplished. They argue and scream at each other about what to do, how to proceed, whether or not they should throw everything on the line for this one, innocent life. They don’t know how to deal with a little fire and a little water at the same time.

And they’re pathetic cowards, every one.

Toshinori shakes his head, watching this unfold. The boy doesn’t have gills. He’s running out of firepower. He’s dying.

This is a ripe Hell.

If he could summon the strength, he would charge in and end this ugly scene. Put the Heroes in their place, finally get rid of the liquid assailant.

But he’s got nothing left to use.

“Sorry kid. Wish I could do more. Just gotta hope some smarter--”

“Why won’t any of you do anything?!”

Toshinori straightens his back, looming over the crowd to spot the carrier of that familiar voice. Sure enough, young Izuku Midoriya in all his trembling glory is at the front of the crowd. He yells at the Heroes nearest him, Backdraft and Death Arms.

“You need to stand back!”

“You have to save him! Why aren’t you putting out the fires?! And why aren’t you running in to grab Kacchan?! It would be as easy as--”

“I said, stand back.”

Rough. But the boy needs a dose of reality. Nothing will bring him closer to the truth of this world than seeing the failures of those who stand atop the food chain. Heroes aren’t good. They’re just lawful.

Izuku rushes into the fray.

Into the fire. Into the danger.

Toshinori swears his battered heart stops beating. A cold sweat drips down his back.

The boy is insane.

He screams and throws his bag at the Villain. He tears at the liquid and cries out to the other boy. A friend?

Just by giving the lad a decent breath he’s accomplished more than the Heroes.

And that…

That strikes a tone somewhere deep inside Toshinori’s jaded soul. The life he’s chosen is not easy. It was never meant to be. The suffering has been of his own volition, and it exists for good reason.

The moment the world becomes complacent, innocent people die.

Because of this strange, determined kid… Because of this inspiration, he can manage another minute. He can force himself to keep fighting.

Toshinori takes a step back, throwing away his frail form. He stands to his full height, blown up from within by immense power.

“You wanted to see a Villain? Well. Here I am.”

Sand on the beach stays hot long after the sun has gone down. The moon hangs low in the sky, not quite full but still silvery and stunning. He’s far enough from city lights to appreciate the night sky. As long as he’s looking out over the endless, inky ocean he can see stars. Their reflections pepper the water, looking like dust specks against a fluid wasteland.

He takes another drink of water from his plastic bottle. Toshinori has to wet his mouth and gather his courage before swallowing another round of prescriptions. It never gets easier. Massive pills in different shapes and sizes, all cataloged into plastic boxes in his pocket. He watches them with disdain. It wasn’t that long ago that he didn’t need these to survive.

Years go by faster and faster. How many more will there be? Blink, and it’s over.

He hears somebody treading over the sand so he downs everything and gets ready to go. Wouldn’t be right to disturb the stargazing. Wouldn’t be right to interrupt this beautiful sight with that of his own emaciated body.

Izuku Midoriya plops down next to him, running his hands through the sand, watching the last sliver of sunlight disappear over the horizon.

Toshinori sighs, putting his pill box into his over-sized pocket, brushing his bangs out of his face. He’s not mistaken. The boy has managed to track him down. “How did you know to find me here, kid? Should I be looking for hidden cameras and a police brigade?”

“I’m not wearing a wire,” he chuckles. He even pats his chest to be convincing. Izuku doesn’t look into the Villain’s dark eyes. For a minute, he seems to be enchanted by the beautiful, shimmering void above. “You had a lot of sand on your shoes. I noticed it earlier, and this is the closest beach. It also doesn’t see a lot of tourists because of the trash, so it’s quiet. I figured you must come here a lot. Guess I was right.”

“You’re smart. It’s going to get you into trouble.”

“Hah. Yeah…?”

“But worse than that? You’re brave. That’s what really gets people killed.” Toshinori lays back against the earth, staring up. He can hear the ocean sighing against the shore. Its aria is enough to tame the endless cosmos into something soothing rather than maddening. “Bit a Villain, talked to him without running away, and then came here seeking him. You know I can kill you.”

“Just like you killed the Slime Villain?”

“...”

“Why did you do it?”

Toshinori takes a deep breath. He spots a satellite. The little, artificial astronomical body crosses the sky so slowly. In his prime, All Might could have outrun it. “He assaulted two children today alone. To me, that leaves no place for redemption. It’s better this way.” “Seems kind of unfair, doesn’t it? To judge somebody’s life that way and just… end it.”

Toshinori shrugs. “I’ve racked up plenty of sins. What’s one more?”

Izuku takes off his school bag, sets it aside, and then lays beside the wicked man. He holds his hands over his chest. “When I saw Kacchan today, somebody who has always been mean to me and yet claims he wants to be a Hero, in trouble and scared? It was really weird. I can’t stop thinking about it. And about how the Heroes nearby didn’t help him at all. And about what you told me earlier… At the end of it, you were the only one who did anything, All Might. You saved Kacchan and the guys I looked up to didn’t.” He turns his head, sand stuck in his green hair, gaze fixed on Public Enemy Number One. “You’re not a bad person, All Might. I don’t think so, anyway.”

“Then you better think again. I’m the worst.”

“No, you’re not. You’re helping people. You’re just doing it in a scary way.”

Deep breaths. This is the closest Toshinori gets to sleeping some nights. He hopes it doesn’t feel much different when he finally fades into the aether. “I wanted to be a Hero. I was about your age, just a bit older. My mentor led me through everything and she taught me how to be a good man. A good Hero. I was sure what I wanted in life was to stand up against evil, be the kind of righteous and strong that everyone could rely on so they could live free, happy lives.” He reaches up toward the sky. Stars shine between his fingers but there’s nothing to grab but air.

“What changed your mind?”

“She died.” He has to pause and fight off the tightness in his throat. “She was killed by a Villain, a man who was ancient and horrible, and I couldn’t do anything to help her. I tried for a long time to get it out of my head and move on. But the more I looked at the world without her in it, the more evil I saw. And finally, I decided I wasn’t the man to bring the world together; I was the one who needed to put it on edge and keep it from ever forgetting the injustices that came before me. And the one to keep people on their toes so they never have time to turn on each other again.”

Izuku contemplates for a while, taking deep breaths. “I don’t know if I can agree with that view. Always seeing the world as such an unhappy, evil place. But I also can’t argue with data. In the last fifty years or so, since you’ve been active? There have only been a small handful of wars, and they ended fast. There’s less violence in the world as a whole. But I think there’s also a lot more restrictions placed on people. Quirk laws are more stern than they used to be. The governments of the world tend to grip their citizens tight and claim it’s for public safety. A lot of the things you’ve done have helped. But I think there’s just as many things that have hurt everyone.”

Toshinori smiles, the bitter taste of life thick on his tongue. “I think about that a lot, too. It’s exhausting to fight so hard against one enemy only to create another. But any time I disappear for too long? Things go to shit.”

“Yeah… So what’s going to happen if you… When you’re not around someday?”

“… I don’t know. I worry about that.” He pats his chest. “And I don’t think it will be a whole lot longer. Maybe a couple years, if I’m lucky.” He turns his head to look into the bright, green eyes of the youth.

There’s something about Izuku that sets him apart from the world. His innocence? No. He’s not naive, he’s just optimistic. It’s the determination that has Toshinori contemplating. It’s his kindness in spite of a world that has given him only disappointment and cruelty.

“Do you still want to be a Hero?”

“Me? I… After today...” Izuku sighs. “I hate to admit it, but yeah. It’s my dream. I’ve heard plenty of times that it’s impossible and I don’t need you to remind me.”

“I wasn’t going to. I was going to suggest something else.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“When I go… That’s it. That’s got to be the end of having an evil man be the world’s most prominent icon. It’s not good for the future. If I got to pick, I’d want whoever rises up over me to be somebody who knows the world enough to be wary, but who feels compelled to act in a positive light rather than through terror.” Toshinori lets the sand run through his fingers. “I think you should become a Hero and defeat me, just like you’ve always wanted.”

“Wh-what?! What do you mean?!” He coughs and sits up, shaking the filth from his hair. “After all of this, and getting to know that you aren’t so awful, how can you say that? I don’t want to hurt you, All Might. And… And even if I did, we both know I can’t!”

“Not yet you can’t.” Toshinori sits up with him, smiling. There’s something warm in his soul, revealing to the man how cold he has been for so long. “I’ve been playing scapegoat for a world full of problems for a long time, and I have the power to do it because of a rare, unique quirk. One that can be passed from person to person. It’s what gave me my incredible strength. Now… I’m too hurt to use it properly, and I’m starting to get too old for it, too.”

“From person to person… Is that really possible? A quirk like that…?”

“I got it from my master, she got it from hers, so on and so forth. And I’m going to give it to whoever I choose to succeed me.” Toshinori points at the boy, the strange and jittery Izuku. “You.”

“ME?!”

“Yes. It’s the best way things can go, isn’t it? You’ll use this same power to grow into a wonderful, talented Hero. You’ll be an antithesis to my work, make people feel safe and inspire them to live without fear instead of being steeped in it. The Symbol of Evil will die to the Symbol of Peace.”

“I… I’d…?!”

“If you don’t have the stomach to kill me, we could stage it. Either way, it would be the end of my reign. And I think the world would be better off trying a new, more rose-colored lifestyle. What do you think?”

Izuku swallows, his eyes flooding with tears that streak down his face. “Do you really mean that? You’re going to keep fighting for what’s right with nobody ever knowing you meant well? And… you’d give me your quirk?”

“I’ve never met anybody as worthy of One For All as you. You’re the sort of person who should be a Hero. You’re smart enough to question the status quo because you’ve been hurt by it. And you’re brave enough to love this world unapologetically. You’d set a great example for new generations. I want you to be the one who succeeds me, Izuku Midoriya.”

The old Villain holds his hand out to the boy. “Will you take this torch from me and continue on, making the world a brighter place as you go along?”

Izuku sobs against his sleeve. He tries to reach out with his eyes closed, fingers blindly searching for the other man’s hand.

Toshinori can’t help but chuckle. “I’ll take that as an agreement. That’s it, then. From today on, you’re my student. Let’s make your future brilliant so you can do the same for everyone else.”

He holds Izuku’s hand and allows him to cry out the overwhelming emotions of the moment. The cosmos echoes their tender exchange with a handful of meteors that rush across the outer spheres of the planet, burning themselves to make a glorious sight for the people below who will never truly grasp their magnitude.

#bnha #all might #yagi toshinori #midoriya izuku #deku #villain au #fanfic #my work #oneshot

[ernmark]

You mentioned headcanoning Brown Jacket and Sir Damien as autistic - could you talk more about that? I'd love to read your thoughts on it.

Brown Jacket and Sir Damien have a lot of behaviors that remind me of students I had during my brief stint as a teacher, as well as my brothers and some of my friends. 

Autistic people aren’t a monolith or anything like that, so don’t take it that way. It’s one of those things where any of them in isolation might not be worthy of note, but so much of it feels familiar to people with this one thing in common that I can’t not see it.

This gets really, really long, so it goes under the cut.

Jacket

(All of Jacket’s lines are taken from Time Gone By unless they’re marked otherwise.)

He’s very literal and to-the-point. 

JACKET: So. Do you have a good reason forwalking out in the desert? Besides your death-wish.

JUNO: Besidesmy what?

JACKET: It’s well-documented.

JUNO: Documentedwhere? How long have you been watching me? Isthat how you found me out here? (PAUSE. NO ANSWER) Hello? 

JACKET: Hello.

JUNO: What the hell are allthose?

JACKET: Doyou mean the buildings or the tents?

JUNO: Idon’t know. Both?

JACKET: Well.Some are buildings, and some are tents.

JACKET: I am going to step into this shop andbuy a large decaffeinated Jovian tea with two sugars. You will stay here and watchto see what they do.

JUNO: Is the teasome kind of code? What does it mean?

JACKET: It means I am thirsty. It is largebecause I am very thirsty, and decaffeinated because I have a predisposition toaddictive—

JUNO: Where the hell did youcome from?!

JACKET: The door.

JACKET: How do you feel?JUNO: Sugar.JACKET: I do not know this emotion. (Monster’s Reflection)

I’m not kidding, I had two students who talked exactly like this.

One thing to note here is that he’s answering the questions that he’s being asked, but he isn’t addressing the unstated reason why it’s being asked in the first place. 

Another thing to notice is that it’s very important to him that instructions are clear; I’d argue that he elaborates because he isn’t entirely sure that the full meaning comes across, while Juno picks it up easily.

BUDDY: At any rate, once we’re open my big friend is going to work the bar; you’re going to play sad drunk at one of those tables by the door.

JACKET: You will be drinking carbonated tea. Focus will be crucial.  

JUNO: Alright, so. You want me to watch thedoor while you make your trade-off. Keep an eye out for anything suspicious,and… 

JACKET: Don’tuse your eye. 

JUNO: Yeah,thanks, I got that. Anything else?

Like Talfryn (who is canonically autistic), he has a hard time with jokes when they come from Juno. 

JUNO: Not a bad metaphor, for a giant, talking block of stone.JACKET: I did not get it from a stone. (Monster’s Reflection)

JUNO: Think I’ve got more sandstorm in my lungs than air.JACKET: A sandstorm is mostly air, Juno— (Monster’s Reflection)

JUNO: So,what, is his name actually The Big Guy?

JACKET: Thatwould be absurd.

JACKET: You make that noise a lot, don’t you.  

JUNO: Oh, sorry, does it bother you? Don’tmind me, just the guy who’s been playing peekaboo with his large intestine forthe past hour—OW, ow, ow. 

JACKET: You said your organswould not fall out.

JUNO: It was a joke! Do bigcaveman get joke?

JACKET: I do not know. I havenever met one.

Juno doesn’t understand how to deal with Jacket, which makes him interpret Jacket’s literalness as stupidity or malice, and leaves Juno acting like a big asshole. I see this a lot in real life. 

JUNO: Oh, hey, wasthat sarcasm? Maybe the big guy’s gotenough brain for a sense of humor after all.

JACKET: I have alwayspossessed a sense of humor, Juno. You are just not funny.

This is notably different from Buddy– he knows her well enough to understand what she needs and wants, and she communicates in a way that she’s sure he understands.

SOUND: A THROWN GLASS HITS THE WALLBESIDE JUNO AND SHATTERS.

BUDDY: Iasked for quiet.

JACKET: Iwill clean this. Would you like another drink, Buddy?

BUDDY: No thank you,darling. You may take his away as well; I believe he’s had enough.

BUDDY: Throwme the comms, darling. Then you know what to do.

JACKET: Ofcourse.

BUDDY: …And I waited.

JACKET: Fortwo years.

BUDDY: Well,so much for being allowed to keep one’s own secrets.

JACKET: Hewouldn’t have believed you if you said it.

He also uses a ‘script’ to deal with people that he’s not familiar with– something that somebody else advised him to do when dealing with people so that he has an easier time interacting with them.

JUNO: H-hey, what the hellare you doing? Put me down, you… The hell? I… I knowyou. 

JACKET: A correction: I know you.I have been told it is important to speak accurately, when beginning a businesstransaction.

JACKET: There are, in fact, many other things that could go wrong, but Buddy has told me that patients often find the truth unsettling— (Monster’s Reflection)

There’s also this sequence: like with a lot of the autistic people I know, he’s very rule-oriented, in this case on bike safety. He also doesn’t pick up on Juno’s clear (to me, anyway) agitation and discomfort until Juno verbally expresses what he’s wrong.

JACKET: Good.Be sure to strap in.

JUNO: Notuntil you tell me where we’re going… Of course. Another man of mystery.Listen, I’ve really had enough of these, so if you can’t even tell me wherewe’re going I’ll— (OOF, AS JACKET THRUSTS A HELMET INTOHIS STOMACH)

JACKET: I’ll tell you. I was just looking for ahelmet in your size.

JUNO: Whatthe… How many helmets doyou keep in that bag?

JACKET: Bike safety isimportant. 

There’s also this sequence:

JACKET: Have you used any of your eye’s specialfunctions since we entered the Cerberus Province?

JUNO: What? I haven’t—

JACKET: In the interest of fairness I shouldtell you that if you have, I will be forced to crush your head with thisdumpster lid.

JUNO: How is that anyfairer—(JACKET GOES TO CRUSH JUNO’S HEAD. JUNOIS REASONABLY PANICKED)Whoa, whoa, there! No, I haven’t usedit. You said that’s how Ramses is gonna track me, right?

JACKET: That is good.

If it were me, I wouldn’t tell Juno that I’d kill him if he said yes, because then he would have incentive to lie. But Jacket does, because it’s important for him to be clear and fair. He also takes Juno at his word when, once again, Juno has every reason to lie.

He is incredibly devoted to the things that he loves, and when the things he loves are threatened in any way, he reacts with a kind of growling anger that I’ve seen so many times from my brothers that it’s almost uncanny.

JACKET: And if you vomit on my hovercycle Icannot be held responsible for what happens to you next.

JUNO: Well,if I wasn’t concerned before, I sure as hell am now! Listen, I told you, if youmake me do anything—

SOUND: JACKET SLAMS THETABLE.

JACKET: Youlisten.

JUNO: Even to afforda low-end eye… that must’ve been a hell of a car.

JACKET: (IT HURTS TOTHINK ABOUT. THIS IS THE MOST EMOTION HE SHOWS ALL EPISODE. IT IS NOT MUCH.) We will not discuss this.

JUNO: Yeah, now that you mention it, I’ve been meaning to have a dermatologist take a—

JACKET: Do not complete this joke, Juno, or you will regret it.

(In this case, he recognizes the joke well enough to predict the punchline, and that he doesn’t want Juno to speak inappropriately to Buddy)

JACKET: Shedidn’t open at the correct time. I became concerned.

 BUDDY: Youtook the door off its hinges.

 JACKET: Iwas deeply concerned.

I’d like to draw attention to the fact that by the end of Time Gone By, Jacket is starting to like Juno– you can tell that by the way he tries to take care of Juno in the last scene. 

JACKET: Thesun is almost down. You areshivering.

JUNO: Yeah,well.

JACKET: Thereare coats downstairs—

JUNO: You reallyhave one of those Music Machine things up here too? Does anybody even go uphere?

JACKET: Wouldyou like me to turn it off?

JUNO: Didn’tsay that.

JUNO: StupidMusic Machine. Oughta be a law.

JACKET: Would you like me to turn itoff before we leave?

It’s the same way he shows affection to Buddy throughout the episode, and it’s not something he’s really shown toward Juno until this point, which is really sweet. 

Sir Damien

I started to get some of that vibe from Sir Damien back when he was first introduced. 

The first time we see him talking to Rilla, he’s recounting a story and she’s finishing his sentences, word for word– but he doesn’t catch on that she’s already heard the story that morning until she says so explicitly.

RILLA: (LAUGHS)DAMIEN: What is it? Is there something on my face? Have I done something foolish?RILLA: You told me all about your bedtime basilisk this morning, Damien. Remember? I made you the antidote to its poison.DAMIEN: Oh. Yes, I… suppose I did. (KotCLotS)

In that same exchange, he has to ask her outright why she’s laughing. He doesn’t immediately connect it to the fact that he’s retelling the story. He’s struggling with her body language, and it’s adding to his anxiety until she explains herself. 

He doesn’t dwell on his insecurity with her, though– as soon as that’s out of the way, he’s excited again:

Well, I’m just… ecstatic! What luck, a monster trying to kill me in my sleep! And when Angelo nearly broke our tie with that soggy parrot in the caves! (KotCLotS)

I mentioned earlier the rule-oriented behaviors, particularly about small rules that someone like me would overlook as unimportant. Like my brothers? They don’t lie, and they get super upset when you try to fudge the rules to take advantage of a coupon, or something like that. I see that behavior in Damien:

DAMIEN: I’ve acted a terrible fiend just now. I have lied to you. Yes, I was worried I’d be bored. Yes, I was concerned about my competition with Sir Angelo. (KotCLotS)

RILLA: Come on, hold my hand. We’re going to look out over the Queen’s balcony.DAMIEN: But I’m only supposed to guard, not enter the— Rilla! 

DAMIEN: I intend to have a fair fight, monster. Throw your knives, and I will throw my bow.

DAMIEN: Yes, she is certain to be furious with me. But it is to be my punishment and my penance. I challenged you to an unfair duel. I insisted we fight to my advantage. Half of my hands were armed, and only a fourth of yours were; an advantage two times over.

There’s this sequence:

DAMIEN: When… when will we be married?RILLA: You know that, Damien. Soon.DAMIEN: But… why not marry during the Festival?RILLA: You want to get married tonight?DAMIEN: It wouldn’t have to be tonight! The Festival lasts three nights! We have two full days to prepare! (KotCLotS)

Let me tell you about a regular conversation I have with my younger brother:

Me: No, I can’t hang out tomorrow. I’m exhausted and I need to rest.Him: How about tomorrow morning, then?Me: No, I’ll be resting still.Him: How about tomorrow at noon?Me: No, I want spend the whole weekend resting.Him: How about Monday morning?Me: I don’t know. I can’t schedule things right now.Him: What time can I call you to schedule things?

It’s an awkward disconnect because he has trouble reading the underlying feelings behind my words– namely, that I’m too tired to even think about making plans– and I’m too tired to communicate clearly in a way that would satisfy him.

With Damien, his struggle to read Rilla’s unspoken meaning contributes to his anxiety:

Did I ask her when? I don’t recall. Did I ask her and she didn’t answer? What does that mean, Saint Damien? Does it mean she doesn’t want to marry me? That she doesn’t love me? Perhaps she doesn’t today. Perhaps she never has, or what if—

…Have I pressured her too much? No, no… but what if I have? What if I always have? I’ll have to ask her. I could go right now, it would be just a moment, but what if some foul beast should come when I am tending to my weakness of theheart, what if— (KotCLotS)

He needs to verbally ask her for clarification (which, honestly, is rarely a bad move in a relationship) becuase he doesn’t trust himself to interpret her nonverbal cues. 

RILLA: I know it’s hard for you. I’ll say it as many times as I need to. I love you, Damien. (KotCLotS)

RILLA: Finally home. Saints, that was a longnight. 

DAMIEN: Yes, long, but, well, enjoyable, I thought? You hada good time, I hope?

RILLA: I had a good time, Damien. I’m just tired.

DAMIEN: Tired? Have I tired you?

RILLA: Actually, staying up all night at the festival mademe tired. Weird, right?

DAMIEN:Yes, yes, that makes sense. (Moonlit Hermit)

There’s a recurring thing going on about the way Damien interacts with people. Rilla and Angelo are familiar with him and usually know how to help him when he gets worked up.

RILLA: If you have to, fine, but let it slow down first. Do you want me to sing to you?DAMIEN: I… I… (HEAVY BREATH) Always. (KotCLotS)

ANGELO: Well… come now, this isn’t like you at all! Why don’t you just speak your heart, like you always do? That always seems to lift your spirits. Except for when it, uh, sinks them. (KotCLotS)

ANGELO: Oh, he does this quite often, Sir Caroline. I’vefound it best to let him ride it out. (Lady of the Lake)

ANGELO: Here, see, thisis how you do it. Come up here, my friend. (HE PICKS DAMIEN UP)

DAMIEN: (YELPS AS HE GETS PICKED UP) Ah! Let me go, Sir Angelo! My Rilla, I have to findher, I have to—

ANGELO: Shh, now. Speak your heart, Sir Damien. You did nottell me about this lizard’s eyes before. Do they… (HOPEFUL, AND ALSO GIVING AWAY THE ENTIRE SECRET) … have some sort of powers of manipulation? (LotL)

DAMIEN: But Sir Angelo, I must speak my heart—

CAROLINE: Again?    

ANGELO: No, no! I’ll stop you right there, friend. Take thistrial as progress in our mission. We will clear this curse upon the village ofBallast and come that much closer to understanding our adversary! (LotL)

For people who know and understand Damien, like Queen Mira, it’s simple enough to work with him to accomplish a task. 

QUEEN: His single-mindedness mayirritate you, but I suggest you learn to use it. He will fight when injured. Hewill never rest. When Sir Damien’s been convinced the demons of his heart canbe quieted with an action he will perform that action to the ends of the earth. (LotL)

For someone like Sir Caroline, who doesn’t bother trying to figure him out and just expects him to interact with the world exactly like she does, there’s endless frustration.

CAROLINE: But Sir Damien… I’ve been searching for nearly twoweeks now, and I can find no reason you should keep him as close as you do.

Sir Angelo, myself, and at least half a dozenother knights are stronger fighters than he. When given a research task hecollects turns of phrase instead of information. (LotL)

SIRCAROLINE: You see, this was the second piece of advice I tookfrom you, my Queen: making use of what you called Sir Damien’s singlemindedness,and what I might refer to as his incessant need to think and talk about thesame topics for hours, days, and weeks at a time.

(Collecting turns of phrase when he should be researching also suggests that poetry is Damien’s Special Interest. His trademarked singlemindedness is itself one of those things that makes me think of autism.)

Like I mentioned with Jacket, it’s something that I’ve seen a lot of with my family, with my friends, and with my students, where a person goes into an interaction assuming that the other person is neurotypical, and they misinterpret nerodivergent behaviors as rudeness or stupidity; meanwhile somebody who’s familiar with how that person works can better explain or ask for clarification. 

There are other little things that are harder to pin to one specific quote. He tends to ramble about one thing in particular for longer than some people may think is appropriate. He’s impeccably loyal to the Queen, to Rilla, and to Sir Angelo. The way he reacts to losing Rilla is itself uncannily reminiscent of the way my little brother has reacted to certain events– they seem disproportionate and extreme from an outsider’s perspective.

Of course, I don’t like spending too much time drawing parallels between Sir Damien and my brothers, because I write porn about Sir Damien, and I’d rather not ponder my brothers’ sex lives if it can be at all helped. 

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