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opossumanonymous · 3 years

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How did he get in this mess?

Warnings: Inko literally uses her quirk to pull out AFOs pubic hair because I don't think anything else would immobilize him temporarily, talk of inko using her quirk to pull organs, guns mentioned

I wrote this on my phone so sorry if anything looks funky for computer users. If I made any mistakes or any characters are too ooc please tell me. Also this is a fanfic featuring AFO as Midoriya Hizashi and Inko as a ex-Black Widow and mostly features them please enjoy!~

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How did he get in this mess, face kissing the floor and completely caught off guard?

Hizashi wasn't quite sure himself actually. One minute he was doing some 'work' before he heard the voice of his wife over his shoulder.

"Hizashi, what are you doing?"

Then he was on the floor a nearly blinding pain spread over his body leaving him in fetal position unable to think of nothing else.

Once his mind got clear again he turned his head to the side looking up at the woman who he thought was his wife. Her usually gentle smile was gone leaving a cold look on her face as she read through his files. One of her hands out stretched towards him while the other clicked through the computer.

Which made him briefly realize he may have to put plan B into action but before that he had to know if this was his wife or someone else. Last thing he wanted was to do something reckless if this wasn't his wife.

"Who-" Before Hizashi could utter a word he felt another painful pull causing him to ball up even further trying to somehow ease the pain. He choked on air as Inko? Stared at him with a blank expression now turned away from the computer. She crossed her legs as she watched him wither in pain looking at with him cold emotionless green eyes.

Who was this woman she can't be Inko! It gave him brief fear realizing that a shape-shifting spy might have tricked him somehow. After all theres no way his sweet wife could ambush him, let alone be capable of hurting him this badly! But if this is someone with a shape-shifting quirk there's no way they would also have wife's quirk as well. Unless they can copy the quirks of people they shape-shift into but then-

"So was this what you were doing while I was comforting our son?"

His eyes widened at that realization, it hit Hizashi hard as he broke out in a cold sweat. He looked up at Inko who still had that chilling look on her face making Hizashi for the first time in 200 years feel...afraid.

He didn't know whether to be impressed at her or disgusted in himself, him, All for One, the symbol of evil, the villain who has brought many heros and villains alike to their knees is...afraid? It sounds unreal just thinking about it that someone could still scare him.

Not by much but still it was a feat that no one before her had done in a long time.

He felt like he was getting whiplash knowing that the same woman who cooked him breakfast nearly every morning, who cried at anything sad or happy, and cuddled up to him at night was looming over him like some villain.

"Hizashi speak up your mumbling." She spoke harshly as he felt another pull, he's starting to lose feeling in his legs.

"I already knew." He said breathless feeling defeated almost, yet another feat none before her had accomplished. He could almost hear his brother laughing from his grave at this point. "What?" Her forehead wrinkled the cold look leaving her face for a moment making her look more like the Inko he knew.

"I checked Izuku years ago, I had my suspicions when he didn't develop his quirk after he turned 5. While I can't tell what a quirk is if I don't know it, I can sense them." He told her truthfully "When I reached into his subconscious one night after I tucked him in bed, I found no sign of a quirk." He knew their was a chance Izuku would be quirkless anyway, Hizashi was from the first generation of quirk users after all.

But he would never give his son a quirk, no he's not going to let history repeat itself, if there's anything he's learned in his 200 years of life it's never give your hero loving relatives a quirk.

Plus being a hero is 10 times more dangerous now, no thanks to him, he'd rather his precious son live quirkless.

Despite the ridicule quirkless people get from society atleast he won't ever get badly hurt or worse killed. Luckily Hizashi had a back up plan just in case he needed to protect his family from themselves.

But seeing Inko looming above him is starting to make him think about adding more reinforcements to the vault. After all she's not so much of a gullible woman like he once thought she was.

"I see but that doesn't change anything, you weren't there for our baby when he needed you most. That's why after this you're going to march into our sons room and comfort him like a good father should." He almost winched at her harsh tone. He honestly didn't know if he should be scared or not. He did still have an arsenal of quirks he could use but none that were non lethal from a long range he could use on her.

"And if I don't, what will you do?" He was curious in all honesty after all it's not every day your usually gentle and emotional wife does a 360 degree personality change on you.

"Then I'll keep ripping out your pubic hairs till you comply." He felt a slight tug again at the slight flick of her wrist causing him to flinch.

He had felt tempted to challenge her, now realizing it was a mistake seeing as she has him by the balls...literally.

"And if you try anything...well you'll be surprised at how many organs count as a small objects." She said with a chilling smile which he almost hates to admit made him flinch.

He always knew her quirk was suspicious despite only being limited to small objects it could still be a deadly quirk if used right. The number of deadly weapons considered small objects was big and considering she only needs a vague idea of where an object is located to pull it to her which includes organs...Hizashi's starting to realize he didn't really know his wife like he thought he did.

After all who would've guessed his sweet Inko would use her quirk so...creatively. He nodded, head still pressed to the hard wood floor of his office.

Inko gave a sigh of relief as she genuinely smiled running her hand through her green locks. "Good I'm glad we could come to an agreement." Hizashi felt the release of her quirk as she sat back legs still crossed.

He slowly sat on all fours before rising to his knees still feeling phantom pains with each slight movement.

Once he was on his knees he wrapped his arms around her waist laying his head in her stomach. She gently caressed his head of white curls causing him to sink further into her and let out a content hum. After a while he looked up at her, the cold look on her face gone now taking a more softer expression.

"I knew you where a villain since the first week after we got married." Hizashi didn't think Inko could shock him anymore but that honestly got him, and yet again she conquered another feat.

He would have never guessed that she knew about him being a villain before now. "Honestly I felt like I got rusty since I found out so late, but I guess living a normal civilian life will make anyone like that." She smiled gently at him looking more like the Inko he knew. Or atleast thought he knew, she was one of the most ordinary people he met from her average nursing job to her adorable naiveté at times.(which he now knows was probably just an act) She played him like a fiddle, he underestimated her and made him fall even harder for her.

That's right, he didn't think it was possible to love her even more than he already did, but this moment proved that wrong.

"Wait then if you knew why did you stay and why wait until now to bring it up?"

She furrowed her eyebrows again before turning her head away from him thinking about her answer for a second before looking back. "I'm not exactly who I said I was either..." She trailed off with a far away look in her eyes almost like she was looking through him and not at him.

He took her hand which had stopped rubbing his head and brought it to his cheek. This seemed to help her focus again as she gave him a tired smile.

"I'm not a good person either Hizashi I've done alot of things that I now regret." For a moment he guessed that she was an ex-villain that he'd just never heard of.

Although that was very unlikely seeing as he liked to keep tabs on most high profile villains to find anyone with good...potential. Inko definitely wasn't a low class villain she just didn't fit the profile of a bank robber or common street thug. Her aura gave off a more experienced air to it not to mention no low class villain would have the guts to look him in the eye once finding out who he really is.

"I was once apart of an organization who specialized in training those considered...unless in society." The way she said useless held a malice to it despite her still having a smile, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.

"They kidnapped me and many other young girls most of them either being quirkless or having 'weak' quirks." Quirkless trafficking while rare nowadays still went on but he'd never heard of an organization making quirkless people assassins. Wlep there's a first time for everything he guessed.

"They trained and raised all of us to be assassins, to put it simply, they chose us because they knew we'd be underestimated."

Assassins? If someone had told him is lovely wife was secretly an assassin he'd laugh in their face before killing them for saying such a thing. But now after being brought to his knees by her he honestly isn't surprised, at this point he'd believe anything that came out of her mouth. She could tell him she could kill someone with only a plastic spoon and he'd believe her.

"I was one of the lucky ones i was able to escape before my 'graduation' if you could call it that. I was even able to find my birth certificate after months of digging through missing persons reports." She now went back to stroking his white curls as she spoke.

"After escaping I decided to live the life my mother wanted me to or at least I like to think she'd want me to." He knew she was an orphan, she'd told him that on their second date he never thought much about it.

He never even really looked into her mother much either only knowing that she died when Inko was young and that she was Nana Shimura's sister. When he found this out at first he was suspicious but over time he let his guard down, if that was a mistake is still up for debate.

"They called us Black Widows." He'd heard that name before but it's been so long, last time he heard the words Black Widow he was reading a comic book to his sick brother. It's either unoriginal or genius considering most will only think of the comic book hero Black Widow opposed to it being a real organization.

Finally getting the feeling back in his legs he stood up stretching slightly while she watched him. He stared down at her now that he had the high ground it was time to give her what she deserved.

He leaned down towards her his hands coming up to her face menacingly. But she just sat there unfazed with a serene look on her face, their was no real use in trying she knew he wouldn't hurt her. He held her face as he leaned in and gave her lips a gentle kiss.

After pulling away he took her hand and helped her out of his office chair. "Now time to go see about Izuku hopefully I can get him out of his depressed mood."

Giving her a true smile only reserved for his family he lead her out of his office not before shutting down his computer and locking the door.

"Yes please talk to him because I didn't know what to do than to apologize to him." She sighed clearly distressed. "While it has been a long time since I escaped somethings I still just don't know the right words for." She looked defeated like she didn't just have Japan's greatest villain nearly kissing her feet.

"It's fine darling soon Izuku will go back to being that happy kid again, you'll see." He gave her a final kiss before heading to Izukus room ready to help his son or else face the wraith of his wife.

He briefly wondered just how good of an assassin his wife is and just how many she's killed. But quickly shook those thoughts away as he entered his son's All Might themed room.

While he'd never ask her anything more about her past as a Black Widow he soon came to realize she was highly skilled as he watched his son on TV.

He was watching UAs sports festival with Tomura at his current hideout the boy exclaiming in shock at this year's winner.

The one to take first place was UAs first quirkless student Midoriya Izuku who took out the competition with only a pair of electroshock bracelets as wepons.

Not to say that it was only the support tools that secured his win, the way he bended dodging attacks and hit his opponents with devastating blows to the head made him nearly laugh out loud.

It was almost hard to believe that this was the same kind boy he once tucked in bed but he had to admit his son was quite reckless.

He's in all honesty proud of his son especially for beating Mizuki's brat whose bullied his poor son for years. While he isnt happy that his son's well on his way to being a hero atleast Inko trained him well.

Just how did Hizashi get in this mess he'd hoped quirklessness would make his son reconsider being a hero but it seems Inko had other plans.

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Extras:

So originally Inko was gonna hold him at gun point but I felt like AFO wouldn't be sacred of a gun so....

Also Inko has wepons (mostly guns) hidden in every wall in the apartment after all you never know when the red room might strike.

Inko still gets chubby but not from stress over Izuku being quirkless it's more so over the red room possibly finding him and taking him. She's still bad ass tho, can kill anyone with a just plastic spoon.

She also ran away from the red room before they could sterilize her.

Izuku does eventually get One for all but it's after the sports festival instead, tho he does still parade as a quirkless hero even after One for all.

He also is a vigilante on the side under the name Black Widow tho most think he's a girl because of the Black Widow reference. He even wears his mom's old Black Widow suit.

You could say he's hero Deku by day and vigilante Black Widow by night!

AFO totally knows it's him tho because he knows Inko wouldn't be that reckless or feral.

Izuku has no idea his loving father is AFO but knows his mom's an ex-assassin.

#dad for one #hizashi midoriya is all for one #inko midoriya #inko midoriya is a black widow #inko midoriya just being a good mom #bnha fanfiction #canon divergence #black widow au #bnha dad for one

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softkuna · 3 years

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Sukuna || Interview || Fic

Part 1

Content ║ Punk!Sukuna x reader. There is an oc version here.

Beauty wasn’t in the eye of the beholder, no, it is in the mind. Sukuna was enraptured. Addressed again, he shifted his posture, leaning into the arm of the couch as she did with her chair. The two were close in their cohort. An air of comfortable conversation lingered between them, much to his dismay. Her question wasn’t unusual. He’d been asked it in the beginning of his career and one where he had a planned answer.

Count ║ 2,626 K

Consider ║ Swearing. Female Pronouns (she/her).

Creator ║ This is the reader version. I took the name of the oc out. Hopefully the double post isn’t too weird? I did research on punk fashion, culture, and all which was really interesting. I knew some stuff about it before, but it’s really rich! I hope it’s not too information dense for you guys. Either way, Punk!Sukuna is now my comfort au and writing him is an absolute delight!! Also, Sorry for changing from ‘you’ to she/her ;v; it’s a lot easier for me to write/edit this way.

Sukuna had a lazy grin as he lounged back into a modern cream sofa. His arm stretched across the back of it, ankle crossed over his knee. Eyes staggered from the two cameras set up to the woman talking with some other chick. One held a small stack of papers, the other was grandly gesturing. He breathed out a short-stop breath, wishing they wouldn’t waste his time with bickering. Annoying as it was, it left a thick self-satisfactory lather over his ego.

“-didn’t you say the band?”

“Yeah, but this is better.”

“Sure… but what happens if-“

Quite frankly, he hated most press and avoided it, so to just have him in the hot seat was a double-edged blade. They didn’t get the whole band, but they did have The King himself. Whatever publicity he thrived off of were live shows, signings, fancams, tangible and real-time events. Interviews were a complete and utter waste of his time. He did a couple in the beginning, but found them pointless, callous even. They all asked the same shit. So, him coming alone was absolutely a note to pin to the fridge, even if it were a passive-aggressive post-it note.

His head turned to the two going back and forth. It wasn’t until the third minute ticked by that Sukuna felt the flashpoint of his blood plummet, “Yo! We doing this or what? You’re wasting my time here, Eros.”

The blogger whipped her head to the man with an indignant, “Excuse me?”

“Eros. Known for being reckless and unreliable? Like your scheduling.” He leaned forward, elbow on knee and chin in palm. The aura of shit-eatery exponentially growing, “You’re not excused, sorry, not sorry Princess.”

“I think you have the wrong God,” She quipped as she dusted off the front of her outfit. It was a smart look and an intentional one for an interview with a punk rocker. What would strike the best complement than a khaki academic outfit? It consisted of a white high collared button up, sleeves billowing before cinching at her wrists. The blouse was stuffed into high-waisted, cuffed khaki chinos, pleated at the center of each pant leg. Over top, a gray woolen sweater vest. Accessories included various silver rings, a black ribbon to tie under the folded collar, and small silver studs as earrings. Makeup remained that done-up natural with brow, liner, and mascara. Hair had been swept into something similar to a faux 1920’s bob, pulled loosely back. The overall silhouette made the perfect contrast.

Sukuna wanted to peg her as your average superficial fashion bitch, he really did. Even at the concert, she dressed smartly despite the pathetic look on she wore on face. It wasn’t until afterwards when he saw the burn in her eyes, that he craved for her to prove him wrong.

Black flats clacked as she approached her own seat, a matching armchair to the couch. She held a certain command once she walked in, instructing him on where to be, which camera to look at, and what the introduction would be. He listened, admiring how her small frame moved to and fro, fixing up last minute edits on a paper, chattering with who he assumed to be a videographer. It was a whole production. One that was hers. The set itself was practically out of a home décor magazine. It was a general space used across the publisher, but she was born to be there. Deserved to be there. Her calculated glee and deliberate positioning of each member made him feel as though he were looking through a mirror.

The interview process began.

She sat professionally, legs crossed and leaning on the arm of her chair closest to Sukuna. He was unmoving, that slit to his lip curling upwards as the cameras began. She introduced the blog, the channel, her social media handles. With a smile, she introduced herself, “With me in this special is lead singer of Two Face, the King of Curses – Sukuna.”

The camera panned to his lazy wave, “Yo.” He looked to her, she looked to him and for a moment she thought she saw a flicker of interest. Maybe the man was meant for cameras after all.

“After looking more into the punk scene, there’s a pretty interesting history behind it. Revolution, social discourse, poverty, violence, and unity. As someone in the scene, can you talk a little bit about what you know of the background?”

Sukuna drank in her voice, smooth and warm like the steady strum of a bass guitar. For a moment, he wondered if she sang. He quirked a brow, “Sounds like you didn’t research enough to summarize it yourself,” Eyes flickered to her features, watching as slight annoyance crinkled onto her nose then smoothed, “Let me learn you, Daisy. Starting back from rock in the 50’s, take that, strip it, build it with shit you find in the backyard…” His wrist rolled as his harmonious voice sang on, lacking even a single stutter as he summarized the movement top to bottom, inside and out, “…So, people would make their own records, sell them in plastic bags, they’d scan and reprint photos to make their own ‘zines. Shit was hard to distribute without tech…”

Much of his dissertation, she hadn’t even found on her own deep dive into the culture. Sure, the anarchist and nihilistic ideologies were well known to pretty much anyone who would listen, but the deep history and connection between communities was far beyond the surface scratched into.

“There’s a crowd of sub-genres now. Fuck ‘punk is dead’ what even is that bull shit?” Sukuna scoffed, jerking his chiseled chin to the side, “Only thing that’s dead here is – ironically – peoples drive to change.”

His interviewer sat in silence for a moment, mind spinning. He spoke in the way a well-educated University professor gave a dissertation to his peers, dripping in confidence from his storm of information. He was articulate despite the fowl language, even including a tie in to modern perception. Excitement curled into the recess of her mind. In a delightful turn of events, expectation and reality didn’t match up.

She leaned forward slightly folding her hands over the arm of the chair, “That was comprehensive. Thanks!” She chuckled, causing the man before her to freeze and thaw with a nod. She continued, “With all of this mention of D.I.Y. culture in punk, let’s talk about Vivienne Westwood.”

Sukuna kept his attention to her profile as she spoke to the camera, catching himself in the glow of her enthusiasm, “On Kings Road in England, she kickstarted the fashion movement into gear. Now, many would think that with a style such as this, it would’ve been hand-me-downs, pins, self-stitching, but contrary to this belief, many of the clothes in her store were expensive. Knock offs circulated, and seeing as much of it did have that hand-done finishing touch, many decided to take tailoring to their own hands…” Not that this was a competition, but she found herself trying to prove his ‘research’ comment wrong. Her ability to scour and exhaust her resources of fashion history is the furnace that kept her going and she would make it well known that she was not to be challenged.

The approaching lurch of a stalemate stuck to the walls of the vocalist’s stomach. Something he didn’t think he’d feel for a while. Small stuff over here may not’ve known all there was about the cultural history, but he could feel the crashing wave of fascination washing over him as she spoke. Sure, some of it he knew. Some of it he naturally garnered from stylistic preference and others he learned for marketing, however there was just a certain target she aimed for with such precision that he bled a newfound admiration.

“You’ve answered it already, yeah, I know. I saw the interview,” Her head tilted to the side, pleasant smile hinting at her trick, “but enlighten me for a second about how your natural style transitioned to what it is on stage. We’ll put up some of the photos taken from last night here,” her hand gestured to some empty space, “You basically turned chiaroscuro and made it a performance. It’s obvious in how each member contrasted with themselves and the stage.”

The chick didn’t even know who he was a week ago, yet somehow watched every interview since the start? An answer tumbled from the tongue readily, “Punk is like a renaissance of music. Like I said before, it tore down the foundations of what was before and built something new out of it.” The words were succinct, but as her pretty lashes bat, he was goaded into continuing, “Contrast is important. I like art. I like plays. Just ‘cause it’s punk doesn’t mean I can’t have it look aesthetic? Or is that a word only snobby fashion journalists can use now?”

“Hm. Change ‘journalist’ to ‘vocalist’ and you’re a word away from meeting the requirement,” It was a sour candy treat traded for his lemon warhead.

“Ouch. Miss Blog-Spot here has some sass,” His large frame leaned further into the armrest, cheek resting on that fist.

“Mister Eight-Track here is some a–“

The videographer clapped his hands, “We have sponsors, you know. We can at least censor him.”

It was Sukuna’s time to laugh a loud, hyena-like cackle. A large hand smacked his leather-clad knee. She scrunched her nose again, biting back her tongue from childishly jutting out at him.

As soon as the videographer clapped his hands again, she recollected herself, shuffled her papers, and continued on, “From what it looks like, you took a mixture of old and new high-trend brands and added a touch to them to keep with theme. Even now, you’re wearing a Real McCoy with cone spikes embedded. Is that custom made? McCoy isn’t cheap.”

Part of him hated her keen eye, but reveled in her raw talent all the same. “I’m not going to bull shit you and say I dumpster dive for my clothes. I like high quality things. What’s the point in making money if I can’t spend it? What’s a bigger ‘fuck you’ than having your version of a top-brand item being worth more than the original?” With a proud glint in his eye, he rolled the jacket off, sure to make a grand display of strong, bare arms as he did so. The muscle tank he wore was similar to the concert before, white with a pocket, neckline was stretched and worn. It hung over the dense muscle of his shoulders and chest. Sukuna could feel the trail of her eyes on him. His chest puffed from her approval. He threw the jacket over his knee, flipping the leather inside out to show where the studs had been placed, “See this? Did it myself.”

Manicured fingers touched the inside of the jacket, thumbing the connecting points that the studs were pressed in by and sealed. The work was immaculate. Sukuna leaned back, canines gleaming as he saw her mouth move in a silent ‘wow’. He picked the front of his tank top, snapping it up and allowing it to billow back to his body, “Embroidered this, too.”

He waited for her comment, her praise. Why? Like he needed some two-bit Vanderbilt bitch’s validation. He chalked it up to being praised by a master of the craft. He hadn’t been prepared for her to take the fabric between her fingers and rub it, concentrated brows cinched like a corset. Well-toned abs flinched in response to her delicacy, but she didn’t notice.

The embroidery was messy and chaotic, but it was obviously intentionally. The way the needlework was so clean, barely leaving a hole from the pull of the exceptionally soft fabric. It wasn’t floral like in the concert, but abstract stitching created crosses and streaks here and there, using the composition of the fabric as like it were a canvas. Experimentalist. It was like touching the work of Westwood herself.

God, she hated how perfect it was. It squeezed her heart to know that he was so effortlessly multi-talented. She rubbed the fabric between her fingers once more, attention being stolen by his baritone voice. She could practically hear the treble in it, “Ey Princess, you think it’s okay to just touch me?” His breath caught under the arrogant teasing of his words. Not from the words themselves. Couldn’t care less about that. What choked him up was whatever resplendent emotion flared from them when she peered up to him.

“Let me check the tag.”

“What?”

The blogger leaned back, cheekily snapping the shirt as she did so. “Your shirt, can I check the tag? I want to see what its made out of. Also, sorry.”

Sukuna blinked twice, mouth stupidly hanging open before he leaned forward, “I’ll allow it.”

He may have tinnitus, but he wasn’t deaf enough yet to miss the mocking ‘I’ll allow it,’ muttered under her breath. He wanted to laugh, but for the second time, the graze of chilled fingertips along his skin shut him up. Along the back of his neck, she fiddled to flip the collar and tug it. Her eyes squinted and a hum escaped her throat. Sometimes she wished she could read upside down. That’s when she sat on the back on the sofa and leaned closer, pulling the shirt to better read the small print. If Sukuna were a cat, he’d lean his head into her. The thought physically bothered him.

“I knew it. It’s American Pima. Thanks for letting me check.”

He missed the shiver her touch gave him as she sat back into her chair.

“While I have more questions for you, this video’s gotten pretty long already, so we’ll have to cut it a bit short here,” She gave a closing statement, motioning for her guest to do the same. With a thanks, the cameras were cut.

While the editor and videographer chatted together, She leaned heavily into the back of her chair, poised posture slipping into something more comfortable. Long lashes slid closed and a heavy drag of breath lifted her chest. Sukuna’s eyes trailed along her form, contemplating Eros once more.

She exhaled sharply, “I do appreciate you coming on stage. It’s disgusting how talented you are.” She laughed, cracking an eye open to meet his, “I prepped a lot of questions thinking you’d be short with me. It’s a shame I only got to ask a few.”

He was surprised himself. It was more than just her talent to make him talk - she may have been the first to see him as an opportunity rather than a commodity. ‘She would be the first and last reporter to see me as a meal’ was the thought he had going into this interview. He had every single intention to shut down her buffet, make it apparent that he was not to be dined on by a single soul. Yet, if his dish were ‘opportunity’, hers would be ‘intrigue’. He wanted to devour it, to know its palette and identify its spices. It was a compulsory urge to order, just to see why he craved it in the first place.

“Film the next few concerts. Backstage.”

Tags: @lovesakusa

#⛩.sukuna #⛩.fic #⛩.punk #🍺.jjk #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #sukuna #sukuna x reader #ryoumen sukuna x reader #jujutsu kaisen fic #jjk fic

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transgenderteensurvivalguide · 3 years

Note

Why is it that people seem to always support trans women more than trans men?

Lee says:

If you’re part of an online forum community that is primarily transfeminine, for example, then there’s going to be a lot of resources for transfeminine people.

But if you’re part of an online forum community that is primarily transmasculine, for example, then there’s going to be a lot of resources for transmasculine people.

And just as there are particular online spaces and communities that tend to be predominated by a certain group, there are also IRL ones that are primarily transmasculine or primarily transfeminine even if they are not explicitly defined as such.

If you feel like you aren’t being supported enough in the space you’re currently in, see if you can find a community that does focus around the resources you’re looking for!

As an example- you may have noticed that the transmasculine post-op community on Tumblr is pretty small. There definitely are multiple bloggers out there, and I think I actually follow all of them, but this isn’t really a thriving hub of phalloplasty information or support, or a large community of transmasculine folks who are post-op and post-transition (Thanks, Tumblr NSFW ban!).

So instead, I seek out the spaces where the community I want to be a part of actually is gathering. Now I’m part of many different transmasculine lower surgery groups on Facebook (over 20 of em lol), I’ve attended IRL transmasculine lower surgery support group meetings in person, and now I’m in two different Zoom-based transmasculine bottom surgery support groups.

I also believe that if you want to see more of a particular thing, you should be a part of putting that thing out there! So I still maintain my transition sideblog here on Tumblr, where I will eventually document my phallo when I get stage 1 in May. And that’s how I support the transmasculine community, in my own way. So if you want to see more supportive posts for transmasculine folks, start typing!

We also have to remember that uplifting transfeminine doesn’t automatically occur at the expense of support for transmasculine people. We aren’t trying to tear each other down, so being resentful of the transfeminine community for the people who support them isn’t a good look. Transfeminine people can never have “too much” support!

I do think that there are certain spaces online that tend to focus on positivity and support for transfeminine folks, and there’s nothing wrong with that- again, yes, transfeminine people do deserve support! Transfeminine people often face the brunt of society’s violent transphobia, and it’s important that we recognize the way that trans women specifically are targeted more than other groups are.

Trans women are often hypervisible and a lot of transphobic movements are aimed at them as a result; bathroom bills because transphobes don’t want “men” in women’s bathrooms, banning trans athletes because transphobes don’t want “men” to take over women’s teams, trans people being banned from gendered homeless shelters because transphobes don’t want “men” to sleep in the same room as women, and so on. When you listen to any of these politicians who support these gross things, you’ll hear them constantly talk about the “danger” that trans women pose (while insisting on gendering them as “men” and refusing to recognize that they’re even women). Trans men aren’t even an afterthought.

Being culturally hypervisible in the media means you’re the target of a lot of hate and the recipient of a lot of support, which is all happening at the same time. On the other hand, the transmasculine community at large is less visible in the media which means we often slip under the radar as a community which of course does tie into the erasure of the community. Transmasculine people more often slip under the radar on a personal level too, because many transmasculine people are able to pass by at least 5 years on testosterone and many choose to go stealth as soon as they’re able to.

That doesn’t mean that all transmasculine people can pass or want to pass, or that transmasculine people don’t face transphobia and violence either, or that the vitriol targeting trans women doesn’t invalidate us as well or affect our rights too, or that we shouldn’t get to share our experiences or ask for support.

We can and should talk about transmasculine people’s experiences as well, and transmasculine voices shouldn’t be erased. Studies have shown that suicide attempt rate for trans boys is approximately 20.9% higher than it is for trans girls, for example, and there are many similar statistics showing that trans men struggle in many ways and face a lot of discrimination, which of course deserves acknowledgement.

Experiencing discrimination and subsequent mental health struggles isn’t something that should be glossed over, yet there are many pseduo-progressive folks in the LGBTQ/feminist communities whose posts can sometimes come across as “men are bad and trans men are men so they’re bad!” When you point out that there are plenty of marginalized men out there who need support, people are quick to say “Well, I’ll support you for being trans but I don’t need to support you because you’re a man since men have privilege and therefore perpetuate oppression!” But in the case of trans men, supporting someone for being trans is the same thing as supporting them in being a man, you can’t separate the two.

And you can spend all day talking about in what situations transmasculine people have access to male privilege and in what conditions the privilege applies and so on, but that is a separate conversation from the point here, which is everyone deserves support and that includes trans men (and gay men, and disabled men, and Black men, and Indigenous men, and Asian men, and so on).

Things like body-shaming men for having neckbeards or small penises is seen as okay even though body-shaming women for having body hair or having small breasts is recognized as misogynistic. Sometimes folks respond by saying something like “you can’t oppress your oppressor” which... makes no sense in this context. Making people feel that their bodies are bad goes against the whole body-positive feminist movement, and that’s true no matter which people you think you’re targeting.

It’s also pretty obvious that being a man doesn’t inherently make you a bad person, but a lot of the hate and anger directed at men (whether it’s posted as a joke or said seriously by someone who went through trauma) can make it difficult for trans men to recognize that they’re men because they don’t want to become the thing everyone hates.

So how do we navigate allowing marginalized people to vent about groups who have privilege without causing collateral damage to other oppressed people?

Some people have tried to solve it by saying “I hate only cis men, not trans men!” but then of course you’ve created a new issue which is the arbitrary distinguishment between a cis man and a trans man. A trans man can be just as misogynistic as a cis man, and being trans doesn’t mean anything about who you are as a person, all it says is something about the gender you were assigned when you were born.

When you say that you only hate cis men, you’re implying that you don’t hate trans men because you think they’re different than cis men in some way in their thoughts/behavior/actions which is a transphobic assumption.

Or you’re saying you know that trans men and cis men can be identical in their thoughts/behavior/actions because they’re all men, so the reason you don’t hate trans men is ... ?? because they had certain genitals at birth (which they may not have anymore) ?? And that’s also transphobic because it’s saying you hate people solely because of their bodies which they can’t always control or change and implies having a particular type of body is morally wrong somehow or that your body makes you a bad person.

When someone makes a point of telling a trans man that they hate men, it’s sometimes a deliberate transphobic tactic used to make the person feel like having a male gender identity is inherently bad and makes you bad because it’s who you are, so the only way to become a good person is to not be a man which means not being transgender. And this is some how TERFs try and convince trans teens who were AFAB to re-identify as women instead of embracing being men. It’s hard to embrace being something that people have told you is problematic so people try to repress their feelings and ignore who they are.

Yet folks who don’t say “I hate all men” and instead say “the patriarchy sucks but it’s okay to be a man and not all men are bad” have found that statement controversial too.

Even that phrase, “not all men,” is a red flag because it’s primarily used by the “men’s rights” folks who try and defend their misogyny and push their anti-feminist agenda while denying the ways that they personally benefit from the system. All men benefit from the system of patriarchy if they are recognized as men by the system, but that doesn’t mean every individual man is personally responsible for actively perpetuating oppression or that every man is a bad person.

So when someone points out the ways that men are taught to hate themselves by people who are constantly bashing on men in hurtful ways, or the struggles that men face (even if they aren’t struggles unique to men), there are people who just freak out because they think that acknowledging this is in some way trying to say that men can’t be oppressors, or that pointing it out is somehow delegitimizing women’s experiences or part of a pushback against women’s rights because the MRAs have tried to stake a claim over the entire topic.

So any nuanced conversation about ways that we actually can support men and break down oppression and uplift marginalized folks has been silenced because this toxic group has dominated the conversation and nobody wants to accidentally seem like they support those things, so they don’t support anything that focuses on men at all.

Similarly, when someone posts about something that affects trans men people (usually cis people TBH) often will respond with “trans women have it worse with that issue, and everything else too!” which isn’t a helpful response because while it’s important to recognize the way that trans women face multiple axes of oppression, uplifting trans women in a way that makes it impossible for another marginalized group to have a conversation doesn’t help anyone. It’s okay for some posts to not be about or for trans women without starting to play the Oppression Olympics games because transmasculine people also need support and space and allowing transmasculine people to talk about their experiences doesn’t mean that transfeminine people are being ignored.

All that being said, I would argue that people definitely don’t always support trans women more than trans men, and I wouldn’t even say that people usually do so. It very much depends on the space you’re in. While I do believe that there are a lot of positivity/supportive posts about trans women on Tumblr, this is, in many ways, a direct reaction to counter the large volume of hate that’s also actively being directed at trans women on Tumblr. And while there are plenty of “love trans women!” posts, there is also an issue with the lack of practical resources and material support for trans women because most of the content does not go beyond the surface level heart-emoji type post.

So in what I’ve noticed on Tumblr specifically (as this varies depending on the platform you’re using and the space you’re in), there can be more vocal (aka performative) support for trans women but it mostly tends to focus on their identities saying they’re valid women and so on but doesn’t give them much information or material support or anything else that I would deem a useful resource, whereas there might be less support for trans men in terms of “gender identity positivity for being male” but there’s more practical resources and information that they can use to aid in their transition.

Again, whatever you do, don’t complain that transfeminine people have too much support- that’s not the same thing as saying that you’d like more support for trans men struggling with X issue.

And yes, while we do have many things in common, there are some differences in the struggles the community faces and the experiences we have, and it’s okay to want to talk with other folks who are going through the same thing. That doesn’t mean that you don’t care about transfeminine people or that you think they should have a smaller platform or something, it just means you’d like support for your identity and transition (which is wholly unrelated to how much support there is or isn’t available for them).

So if you are looking for more support for trans men and feel like you aren’t getting what you need in the online or IRL spaces you’re currently moving in, you should try finding the spaces that are meant to be supportive communities for trans men and join them, whether they’re specific blogs, Facebook groups, Discord servers, or in-person/on-Zoom support groups, and also do what you can to create the support you want to see for your community!

#Lee says #not really sure what to tag this as #transphobia #discourse #suicide m #Anonymous #trans #transgender #nonbinary #lgbtq #lgbt #transgender teen survival guide #transgenderteensurvivalguide #TTSG

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barnesbabee · 4 years

Text

Welcome, to The Club || J.W

Summary: What secrets do the quiet ones keep?

Pairing: Jeong Wooyoung x Reader

Words: Oh so many

Genre: Smut

⚠ degradation, name-calling, spanking, choking, praise kink ⚠

A/N: I was writing the pornstar!au version for wooyoung and this idea popped into mind and I was like oh??? Enjoy 💖

No one knew about it... No one but the ones included. And you wouldn't know you were included until you received a pretty, pearl-coloured envelope with your name written in cursive on the back of it, in black.

It had somehow dropped out from the middle of your books once you got home and settled them down on your counter. It flew away and settled down on the floor. You cocked your head and furrowed your eyebrows, looking at it confusedly.

'Y/N'

It clearly was meant for you to read, or else your name wouldn't be on the back...

You picked it up and examined it for a second, before reaching for a knife and ripping it open. There wasn't much inside, there was barely anything. Just a black card, written on with white text with an address and a time plastered on it. No other text or information... You looked inside the envelope to make sure you hadn't left anything there and alas, inside it there was a piece of black fabric. You picked it up and inspected it, rolling it between your fingers. It was made of lace entirely, and it had the shape of a mask. You looked at it for a second before tying it around your head. You inspected your image in the bathroom's mirror. Who sent you that invite? What was it for? A masquerade ball perhaps?

Since there was no date on it you'd just assumed it was on that day, which made you even more confused. Why was it on such short notice? Did they forget to invite you previously or?...

You gave it some thought. What did you have to lose anyway? You weren't proud of it but you weren't a very... safe person. If it seemed interesting you immediately jumped on it, not giving it further consideration or even thinking about the risks.

The mask especially interested you... Carnival was long gone and the way it was sensually designed made you curious about what kind of even it was. You jumped in the shower, excited to see where the address would take you. The shower was as quick as possible, since you only about two hours and a half, and your destination was quite far.

You slapped on a red lipstick and some contour, before curling your hair slightly. The voluptuous waves definitely gave your look the intense and intimate touch it lacked.

It took you no longer than ten minutes to find a dress you thought would suit the occasion: a tight, off shoulder, v-neck black dress with a tight pencil skirt. You didn't want to wear something too flashy, only God knew what was about to happen...

You grabbed your black glitter stilettos and stuffed the mask and the invitation inside whatever small purse was lying around, ready to leave.

When you stepped outside, the cold air hit your legs and exposed arms, and immediately the idea of walking there flushed down the drain. You waved your hand, signaling the taxi passing by that you needed a ride, and he pulled over.

"Where to miss?" He asked when you settled in the backseat, eyeing your Thursday night dress choice questioningly.

You fiddled with the items inside your small bag until you found the black note, and read the address aloud to the male driver. He nodded and started moving the car.

Your leg bounced as you approached the destination, with no clue in what to expect.

"Here it is."

You looked outside of the window and looked at the building. It looked... abandoned. It looked like it would crumble down at any second and you were honestly confused.

"Um... Thank you." You thanked and handed the driver the money shown on the small screen.

As soon as you exited the car you felt fear and worry wash over you. What the fuck had you done!? What made you think this was a good idea!?

You looked at the building, and at the piece of paper in your hands. It was the right address...

You hurriedly grabbed the laced mask from your bag and wrapped it around your head.

The steps you took towards the gated door were wary and careful, almost as if something would jump out at you if you weren't careful. Your finger rang the doorbell, almost expecting it to not work, but a loud 'ding dong' echoed inside. A small rectangular hatch opened in the middle of the door. You rationalized a little and realized that they were probably asking for the invitation, to confirm you weren't an unwanted outsider.

You slid the thick, black paper through the opening and it immediately closed shut.

A second passed and you heard an unlocking sound coming from the inside, and before you knew it, you were being welcomed by a buff man and a tall woman, whose faces were totally covered by white masks.

"Welcome, to The Club." The woman said.

She took your purse and set it down along with the coats and purses of what you assumed belonged to the other guests.

You walked in slowly, looking around at the scenario. It was a long hallway, with about five dark wood doors on each side, and a big black door by the end of it.

You squinted your eyes. The inside of the house looked luxurious, you wondered why it looked so beat up from the outside...

There was some noise coming from behind the door, and you assumed that's where you were supposed to go. You stepped towards it, and as you turned the handle and opened it, your eyes immediately widened.

Before your eyes was a luxurious salon. The floor was made of dark brown marble, the walls had an exquisite bordeaux wallpaper and the windows (that were at least 4 meters tall) were covered by brown and golden curtains. You were mesmerized by the gigantic chandelier hanging beside the enormous staircase.

You were a little intimidated by the atmosphere, and you didn't quite know what to do. There were men and women, seemingly wealthy from the way they handled themselves, sitting in big chairs and sofas chatting away as expensive drinks were handed to them. It seemed as if each of them had a toy: another person taking care of them. Whether it was actually fucking, giving them head or just providing them attention, every person in the room was accompanied, and you felt very out of place...

At least you did have something in common. Everyone had a mask covering their face, whether it was a full face, or just half, decorated or plain, complex or simple, everyone had a unique way to hide their features.

All of the talking, moaning and dirty sounds stopped and all eyes turned to you. Whispers echoed around the room and you became flushed with all of the attention, not knowing what to do.

"I understand my guest has arrived?"

A voice spoke from the top of the stairs and all of the ruckus stopped once more. All of the people looked at the man standing tall above all, and he chuckled.

He looked at you, and an overwhelming sense of fear and discomfort spread through your body.

All pairs of eyes followed the seemingly important man's movements, as he stepped towards you. You kept your incredulous face while he kept his smirk. When he was just a couple centimeters away from you, he could see your blush, even with the dim lights.

The man was wearing a mask just like yours, the first identical pair in the room you had seen. His blonde hair was neatly swept back and he wore an expensive-looking suit.

He extended his hand and said in a very husky, familiar voice.

"Shall we go somewhere more private? I wouldn't want you to be uncomfortable during your first time."

You swallowed thickly and reluctantly took his hand. You weren't thinking of anything when you followed the man, you only hoped to escape the lingering eyes of the strangers.

He took you upstairs and into a big room, with nothing but a bed, a sofa, and a big wardrobe. The bed was huge, and had transparent curtains around it.

The man's back faced you.

"Who are you?"

You thought you should at least know, since you apparently were his guest. His fingers reached for his mask and he removed it, tossing it aside.

"I guess there's no use keeping this, you'll recognize me eventually."

He turned around, and you gasped at the sight.

He licked his lower lip and trapped it between his lip as you looked at him from head to toe.

It was unbelievable.

Jung Wooyung, the quiet kid that always sat on the front row, the class president that always volunteered to help teachers, the goofy, nerdy kid that always avoided girl's gazes... He stood proudly in front of you, looking like candy and practically eye-fucking you.

"Wooyoung?..." You asked, still in hopes you were wrong.

It was too unbelievable...

He stepped towards you and placed his hand on your hip, pulling you closer to him.

His finger hooked around the bow that held your mask and he undid it.

"Since we're alone you don't need this, do we?"

You shook your head lightly and allowed him to toss it somewhere.

"Wooyoung what the fuck is going on?" You asked and exhaled deeply.

He hummed and squeezed your sides.

"Exactly what you see. I run a club for rich people to drink and have a good time. Their guests are unknown people assigned to them based on their preferences. Except for you of course, I had to get you here..." His hand moved to your ass, giving it a squeeze "You tease me so much with that body... You don't even know. I love every single curve you have, and I didn't want to get you in this mess, but I just couldn't help myself, I had to fuck you."

Your eyes widened, and he chuckled at the reaction. You had no words for what he had just said...

"But why?" You asked, confused as to why he'd do this.

"Because the outside is just so boring... I needed a little something. And this" He gestured around the room "is my little something."

There was a long silence. There was no possible response to that...

"Of course I don't want to make you uncomfortable. Once you're in, you're in for good. You have the chance to walk out now and never come back." He smirked and leaned closer to your ear, so he could whisper to you "But you don't want that, do you? You love the thrill... That's why you accepted the invitation. That's why you put on this slutty dress and came here not even knowing who had sent you the mask."

You shivered under his touch and you felt the urge to succumb to whatever he wished.

His hands settled on the bottom of your skirt and started lifting it, slowly.

"Now is your chance pretty baby, when I take this off, there's no going back.”

You didn't give it much thought. You also wanted to feel the little something he talked about.

You pulled his hands away and his face fell for a second, thinking that you would actually back out.

You had other plans, however. Your fingers hooked around the hem of your dress and pulled it over your head, allowing the cloth to pool around your feet. You stepped closer to him and wrapped your arms around his neck, as your fingers played with the hairs on his nape.

"I guess there's no going back now."

Wooyoung smirked and his lips moved to your neck, kissing and licking it softly.

"I knew I made the right choice." He whispered against your skin.

You hissed and cocked your head to the side slightly, giving him all the access he wanted.

Wooyoung's fingers played with the sides of your panties, playing with them around his fingers, and snapping the material against the skin of your hip.

As he worked on leaving marks around your neck, your hands stripped him from his fancy jacket and started unbuttoning his grey silk dress shirt, exposing his chest and toned arms.

Your hand caressed his skin as it traveled down his body, ready to palm him through his clothes, however when your hands reached his belt, he grabbed your wrist and pulled away from your neck, to look you in the eye.

"You're my gest doll, I should treat you accordingly."

His hand swiftly reached for your back and unhooked your bra, removing it completely do he could look at your breasts bouncing free from the material. He then picked you up, bridal style, and threw you on the large bed.

You could feel how comfortable and soft the sheets were the second your skin came into contact with the material.

Your eyes darted to Wooyoung. He took off his belt and placed it on the nightstand, followed by his pants that he threw near his jacket.

He climbed on top of you and pinned your wrists above your head, holding them down with one hand only.

His fingers found their way inside your underwear and began teasingly playing with your clit.

The male looked down, seeing how you squirmed under his touch.

"Hmm, just as I thought, you look even more beautiful like this..."

You moaned at the comment and rolled your hips, wanting to get more contact.

"Tsk, so needy... You want more? Hm?" He asked, with a low chuckle.

"Y-yes, please, I need more."

Wooyoung hissed and his face immediately shifted. He had a feral expression, his eyes were hungry and when he heard your pretty pleads he just wanted to ditch all the foreplay and devour you there and then.

He slipped two fingers in you, earning a loud moan.

"Such a slut, begging to be fucked... But you like it, don't you' You like being fucked like a slut."

You nodded desperately, earning a chuckle.

Wooyoung removed his fingers and brought them up to his face. You watched as he inserted them in his mouth, licking them clean and tasting every little bit of your juices.

"You taste so good..." He complimented, as he moved to stand in between your legs "I can't wait to have more of you."

He gently slipped off your underwear and dipped his head down for his lips to meet your clit. You gripped his hair and your mouth fell agape when he started sucking on your sensitive bud.

His tongue flattened against your pussy, licking long stripes along it, and entering your hole occasionally, leaving no corner of your womanhood unexplored.

"Oh my God- Wooyoung you're so good-"

He pulled away from your cunt and slapped your thigh. His face was now level with yours and he gripped your jaw with one hand.

"Never say my name inside these walls, I am unknown to them, understood doll?"

You didn't dare speak, you just nodded to his words. His fingers fell from your jaw to your neck, applying some pressure around your throat as his lips attacked yours in a violent kiss.

You could taste yourself in his tongue. He would bite your lip from time to time, making you whimper at the roughness.

You placed your hand on his hardon and squeezed it, innocently looking him in the eye.

"Please..." You begged once more.

Wooyoung cursed under his breath and flipped you around. He slapped your ass, and you lifted it in the air for him. As he removed his underwear, you felt his cock slap against your ass.

He gripped your ass cheeks harshly and slapped them. When he heard your little whimper at his spanks, he smiled dirtily.

"You like this, pretty baby?" He asked.

"I do..." You muttered shyly.

Wooyoung's eyed darted to the belt resting on the bedside table, and he reached for it. He folded it in half, and swung it back, before hitting it against your skin.

You moaned loudly and the pleasurable pain you got from the sharp whips. Your cunt was dripping, and you were clenching only from the abuse he was giving your ass.

"I can't take it anymore, please, please fuck me!" You yelled between whimper and moans.

Wooyoung happily obliged and stuffed your tight hole with his cock. He moaned at the tight feeling, and his grasp on your ass grew.

"You feel so good around me, fuck..."

He started moving, and as time went by the sound of your hips smashing against each other grew louder. One of Wooyoung's hands left your ass, and he placed it on your neck, squeezing it slightly as he pushed your face farther into the pillow.

"Tell me how much you like my cock you little whore." The man growled.

"I love it... I love your big cock filling me up so well." You told him.

His cock twitched inside you at the dirty words, and his thrusts became more violent, yet sloppier.

"Look at you, taking me so well... Taking my cock like a good girl."

When he slapped your ass and tugged on your hair to whisper that in your ear, a wave of pleasure washed over you, and you clenched around his shaft as you came. You back arched, your toes curled and you couldn't silence the loud moan even if you wanted to.

Wooyoung couldn't take it anymore, and he buried his member deep inside you, releasing his warm cum inside you with a quiet moan. You hissed at the warm sensation hitting your walls.

The second he removed himself from you, he walked from the bed and put on a black silk robe and his mask.

You cocked your head and looked at him confusedly, as he approached you with a robe just like his along with your mask. He handed them to you.

"Come on, put these on, princess."

You obliged and wrapped your body in the soft material, followed by the mask. Wooyoung helped you up and held your hand. Before leaving the room, he looked at you for a second and fixed your hair, smiling a little at your disheveled look.

He opened the large door and you followed him, hand in hand.

As you stood on top of the staircase, the curious stranger eyes were all on you once more.

Wooyoung wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you close.

"I would like you all to meet The Club's new member. Welcome to The Club."

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blackenedwhite97 · 3 years

Text

Trials (An Erasermic x Reader Medieval AU Ch. 1-2)

Written: December 2020-Feb 2021

Total Word Count: 52.8 K

Wattpad link for easy reading: https://www.wattpad.com/myworks/259612193/write/1029582306

Since it’s so long and organized into chapters.

TABLE OF CONTENTS:

https://blackenedwhite97.tumblr.com/post/643722830321696769/trials-an-erasermic-x-reader-medieval-au

I've been hacking away at this since just after Christmas, it's basically a novel at this point and I'm immensely proud of it. Please enjoy! There are requests that are on the way, this longer piece just took precedence.

This post includes: physical violence, mental health, traumatic experiences and the aftermath, use of pain-relieving medications, cursing, sexual content (not full smut, sorry kids), depictions of physical assault/ beatings and forced drowning, mild religious content, and a prominent polyamorous romantic relationship.

Polyamory: the practice of engaging in multiple sexual relationships with the consent of all the people involved.

Mental Health note: This piece touches on panic and anxiety born from trauma, some religious-based discrimination and trauma as well as physical captivity and assault.

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

CHAPTER 1

Mid Summer

You leaned forward, tearing yourself away from the sun-baked iron bars that seared your bareback and slumped forward against the equally scalding irons bars in front of you. You had long since lost the ability to hold your body upright, resigning yourself to the inevitability of the burns that peeled away at your skin. It had been two full days since you'd been left in the cage to wither away under the blaring heat of the midsummer's sun. Your shoulder and legs were blistering under the constant exposure to the sun, and your rear was scraped and bruised from the rough iron bottom of the hanging cage. Your lips were cracked, any saliva to moisten them had long since dried up. The only shred of hope you had was that a particularly large cloud might roll by and shield you from the sun for a while or that the sun would set maybe a few minutes earlier today. The hunger and thirst were the most bearable part, the painful emptiness in your gut was little more than a dull ache compared to the waves of burning pain and delirium you were tormented with. At this point, you would admit to what the townsfolk had attempted to charge you with, anything to make this end.

End. You thought to yourself. The end had always been the most terrifying thing to you, where would you go, would it all just stop, would you have done enough? The end had once held no certainty and no solace for you, but now, in the face of the burning inferno in the sky and the flies that began to pick at your already decaying skin, you were sure that it had to have been better than this.

You closed your eyes and leaned your head against the bars, the hot iron pressing into your forehead. You tried to take small focused breaths; the air somehow felt cooler if you puckered your lips a bit. You breathed in place of crying, your body had no more liquid to give. You breathed with your eyes closed until a cloud came, dense and absolute. The redness of the light through your eyelids dulled and for the first time since it had risen the sun's unshakeable scrutiny peeled away from your skin. Mercifully the cloud had been lasting for a while, nearly a minute now. You blinked your eyes open so you could look up at this cloud and appreciate it in all of its merciful glory. However, when you looked up you were not met with a dense white puff of air far off in the sky, but a tall man dressed in all black and a face framed in a wild halo of dark curls.

He regarded you silently, his dismal expression unwavering. The only indicator you had that he had even registered you looking up at him was the slight readjusting of his eyes as he made eye contact with you. You instinctively looked away, no one looked kindly on any of the people who found themselves stuck in these cages let alone an alleged witch. He was taunting you; you were sure. There would be no other reason to get so close. Unless...all black, grim expression. Perhaps the executioner had come a day early. Perhaps, your suffering was to come to an end early.

He crouched down until he was in your field of view and looked up at you. His dark eyes seemed softer than they had a moment ago as they looked up through his thick dark lashes. You started to turn your head away, but his hand reached out and his fingers brushed one of your dangling legs. You tensed at this touch, too exhausted and drained to be able to properly pull away.

"Look at me." He mumbled warmly. "It's okay, I'm- a friend."

A Friend. That sounded awfully good right about now. Even though you knew he was probably lying, trying to manipulate you in some sort of way you looked back at him. What was he going to do that was worse than what had already been done to you? Your eyes met his, and you held intense eye contact for a while. He seemed to be attempting to soften his gaze and you weren't quite sure what to do with yours.

"Can you speak?" he asked, his eyes running up and down your body quickly.

You tested out movement in your throat, only to be met with sharp dray pain. An arid gasping sound was the most you could muster. You slumped farther forward, looking at him pleading eyes that tried to convey how badly you wished you could speak. He wasted no time in twisting around and reaching for a leather bag closed with a cork that was fastened to his hip. He opened it and slipped it through the bars of the cage, looking over his shoulder for any onlookers. You grabbed the waterskin with a strength that you had doubted you still had left in you and managed to get it to your lips, tilting it just enough to dribble a small stream into your mouth. Perhaps this was his game, to poison you. If it was poisoned so be it, this would be a most merciful way to die.

You swallowed until the waterskin ran dry, your body still screaming for more water. You wanted more, you needed more. You tossed the waterskin downwards in frustration at the limited amount of water it was able to provide and in a show of impressive reflexes the man reached out and caught it before it could hit the dusty road. He snorted and affixed the waterskin to his hip once more, standing.

"Your name?" he asked, his voice was gruff but at the same time kind.

You agonizingly lifted your head to look up at him, your strength hadn't returned, it would surely take more than half a day's supply of water to do that. What the water had done was dull a pulsing nausea that sat in your gut and relieved you of some of the sharp pain in your throat. You tried to speak again, this time your voice, or rather a fraction of it came out. "Y/N."

He nodded to himself. "Family name?"

You blinked hard, the sun briefly flaring up behind him as he swayed slightly on his feet. The way his stray hairs danced in the sun was reminiscent of the portraits that hung in the cathedral, of the gold-leafed angelic halos. If it hadn't been for his grim attire you'd have thought him an angel; although perhaps he was an angel, an angel of death. "Need it for my execution papers, do you?"

"No." he sighed. "I need to know if you're who I'm meant to be looking for."

You looked him up and down. True, he wore dark clothes, but they were not formal nor those of an executioner, but rather a plain set of well-worn traveler's clothes. His hair was longer than most men's in the area, and despite his somewhat disheveled appearance he had at least washed within the last few days. Under one of his exhausted eyes, a long scar stretched across his cheek, no doubt from the edge of a blade. Two of which, you'd only just noticed, were strapped across his back, rather plain and worn leather-wrapped hilts and pommels peaked out over his shoulder. He was a traveler and possibly a duelist, however, neither had anything to do with you.

"W-what if I am?" you croaked.

"Then, you're coming with me." He stated casually.

"Which would entail?"

"No hanging in a cage to roast to death in the sun." he deadpanned. "Now, what's your family name?"

You looked into his eyes. There was no sign of deceit, but then again you were in no condition to be trusting your body nor your mind's capabilities. He was right, though. This was just about as bad as it could get. You swallowed for the first time that day, it felt good to be able to. "L/N."

The man's face lit up, if you could call it that. Compared to the dismal amount of emotion before, he most definitely was happy by your response. He looked over his shoulder, shoving his hands in his pocket, and whistled. He jutted his chin towards you while still looking at someone across the way. From behind him, you heard footsteps, sporadic and clumsy. Another man appeared from over the dark-haired one's shoulder, his hair was even longer, and he bore a well style mustache as well as a set of finer clothes. He had flaxen hair that was neatly tied back into a long ponytail down his back and his emerald eyes betrayed much more than his partner's dark ones. He smiled down at you, his expression pure relief and delight. When his eyes fully settled on you his apparent happiness wavered, but he collected himself quickly and was back to smiling at you.

"Hello!" he said in a sing-song voice, that you're sure you would have adored just three days ago. "You're our lady?"

You looked up at him, his positive disposition providing a strange sense of comfort. If he was also looking for you, perhaps wherever you were needed wouldn't be so bad after all. "I- I don't know, am I?"

"She is." The dark-haired man confirmed. 'I- I'm sorry to have to prolong your situation but, do you think you can last until nightfall?"

You looked up at the two men. Were they meant to be your saviors? If so, you most definitely could last until nightfall for salvation. But, if they weren't... you shoved that fear from your mind. Your suffering was inevitable any which way but trusting them, it was the only choice you had that could turn out better. The blond man's beaming smile shrunk into a less charismatic gesture and into a comforting genuine expression. The dark-haired man had softened once again, every time you looked back to him he seemed to become more human to you. It was as if he was evaluating you just as you were him, and every inch you gave he reciprocated.

You nodded silently, wanting to save what moisture you still had left in your throat after draining the waterskin.

"Good." The dark-haired man hummed. "Zash, do you have your waterskin?"

The blond-haired man reached around to the back of his belt and without missing a beat freed it from its tether and handed it to you. You took it readily, and as you did with the first one drained it slowly until not even another drop would come out. Even though you still felt cheated with the finite amount of water in the waterskin you decided not to through this one, it felt rude. The blond man took his waterskin back and tucked it back into its respective place on his belt.

"We'll be back after sundown," The flaxen-haired man started in a hushed voice, "just hold out until then."

They both started to turn away from you, towards the bustling market across the square. Fear rose up in your chest, a fear that had managed to subside in the last day or so as you resigned to your fate. You had just been offered an impossible sense of hope, and you didn't even know their names.

"Wait, wait!" you called out after them in a hushed tone.

They both stopped, the dark-haired one didn't turn back to look at you, instead keeping his eyes trained on the crowd in the market across the street. The blond-haired turned around, looking at you expectantly.

"W-what are your names?" you stuttered.

"I'm Hizashi," The blonde smiled kindly. "that's Shouta."

Shouta tugged on Hizashi's sleeve, looking towards a cluster of people, at the center an older woman who was unashamedly looking back and forth between gawking at them and staring you down. Hizashi turned away from you and the two men disappeared into the crowd, the flurry of villagers and merchants swallowing them entirely.

CHAPTER 2

4 Days Ago

The sun was low enough in the sky for the bugs to start buzzing again and the poor animals covered in fur to try and hunt some sort of game before it got too dark. The hot summer sun had given way to a cool night that smelled of rain and brought cool breezes from the west. The dried herbs that hung in bunches in your window cell swung to and fro, small pieces of brittle stem and leaves tearing away from the bunches and littering the freshly swept floor. You watched the bunches sway in the breeze until the wind grew strong enough to snuff out some of the candles around the window and decided that perhaps a storm really would roll through and that it would be better for both you and the drying herbs if you were to pre-emptively close the shutters. So, you plucked the bunches from their hanging nails and closed the wooden shutters. Locking them in place with small brass latches and placing a heavy stone behind each shutter for some extra hold.

The world grew darker and you found yourself lighting more candles, bringing them slowly towards the center of the room and away from any stray breezes as rain began to fall and cooled the air. It was the perfect night for a warm broth, and you had some fresh bones from the last day's meals. As the night wore on your meal came close to finished and you were able to finish wrapping the small medicinal pouches for farmer Wayland's boy and set them aside for the morning. You stood and stalked over to the pot atop the embers in the fireplace and lifted the lid, the broth was boiling but the roots you had tossed in had sunk to the bottom and could be burning. You looked around the fireplace for a spoon or stir stick but found you had left it on the opposite side of the small home. You turned back to the pot filled with golden liquid and held your hand out above it as if you were holding a spoon to stir it with. From your fingertips, a spectral spoon handle twinkled into existence, inch by inch until a spoon head appeared and you were able to dunk it into the pot and give it a quick stir.

Usually, you were a lot more vigilant when using your magic, but since your shutters were closed and a storm was raging outside you were sure there would be no spying eyes lurking outside your windows to catch you. You had never used your gift for harm, not that you believed you could begin with. You could conjure objects into a semi-realistic form, they acted the same as their real counterparts in every which way except that they appeared semi-translucent and were perpetual purple collar. You could make a knife, a stone, and even a dress if you so wished. You had tried fire and water once or twice, but it always turned out as if it were frozen in time, the way artists capture fire or water in their paintings. You supposed you could conjure up weapons with which you could wage violence and war against the poor villagers around you, but you were no witch and held no hatred of that kind in your heart.

The sound of something hitting your door sent a jolt up your spine and the spectral spoon blinked from existence. You stood in silence for a moment, wondering it had truly been a knock at your door or a piece of debris lost in the storm. You turned to your door slowly, scanning it for cracks or gaps that prying eyes could have spied through. You found none but you were not calmed in the slightest. A second knock came at the door, this time it was a clear series of deliberate knocks. You scanned the room around you for any items you may have injured up and left out.

You tiptoed to the door, hoping that if you took enough time your uninvited guest would leave. But just as you arrived at the door a third set of knocks came, these were powerful knocks, frustrated and ill-tempered to be sure. You took a breath and lifted the latch to the door, opening it just enough so that you could stand in the doorway but no one else could, and held the door tight to your side. Before you stood a man, his arm raised and ready to knock again, so soon. He was draped in a waterlogged cloak that looked like it could be a rich red tone if it wasn't soaked nor the middle of the night. The hood was drawn but you could still make out a strong chin, pointed nose, and dark brown ringlets dripping with water.

"Can I help you?" you mustered. It wasn't unusual for you to get customers at your door for medicinal help, but it certainly was unusual for someone would have enough money to be wearing fine red robes to show up at your door, let alone at this time of night. You eyed him carefully catching a glimpse of a rather gaudy crest made up of two swords and a great hunting hound with something in its mouth, his nose stuck into the air.

"I'm afraid we've got caught in a storm, miss. We're looking for a place to stay the night and wait out the storm." His voice was thick and proud, and he spoke as some with years of formal education might. At the mention of 'we' you looked past him to the gate of your front garden where four men were tying their horses to your wobbly fence post and trodding on your lilies.

"Apologies on behalf of the weather, traveler," You smiled warmly. "but my home is far too small and cluttered to house you and your men. You'll have better luck at the inn in town. It's just down the hill, not but a ten-minute ride; seven if you're swift."

The man's heavy brows knitted together, and his jaw squared, he seemed displeased with your answer. "We haven't any coin, no inn will take us."

"The Innkeeper is a kind man, prone to taking on charity." You responded, inching backwards into your home and getting ready to slam the door if need be.

The man's jaw twitched and his hands, balled into fisted at his sides, were turning white with exertion. No was not a word he had heard much of in his life, you gathered. He laughed a sharp cruel laugh that sounded more like a dry cough. "I'm afraid that won't do."

The man was fast, and indeed much larger than you realized as he lunged forward. One of his large hands grabbed your shoulder and the other shoved the door open with tremendous force. You stumbled backwards and tried to pull away from his firm grip but he clamped down even harder around your arm with bruising strength. His second hand clasped itself roughly over your mouth and he shoved you backwards until your back hit the table that lined the opposite wall. His hand was so large that he was able to clasp down on your nose with his thumb, cutting off your airflow entirely. "I'm not asking this time; we plan on taking full advantage of your hospitality. You can willingly give it to us, or you can find out what your lovely little cottage looks like painted in red."

As if to provide evidence of his cruel nature the man unsheathed a small dagger, one that reflected the dim golden light of the fireplace as it was brought towards your face. He held there, lightly trailing the tip across your skin as you shuttered. With a dangerous glint in his eyes, he flinched his hand, the very tip of the blade biting into the skin of your jaw and trailing up toward your ear. You froze, where the chill of fear should have gripped your bones, instead a flare of anger ignited. Who was this man to think he could invite himself into your home and make threats on your life? Something told you that even if you went along with his requests this would turn out badly for you. You closed your eyes and focused on the crushing grip your assailant had on your face.

It was in that darkness and growing fury that a spark of brilliant purple came to you. It was in the form of a long dagger, jagged and cruel. Your restrained arm pulled back with enough force to break free and met your other between you and your attacker's chests. You could feel the cool bulb of the pommel against your palms and suddenly you could breathe. There was a warmth running down your hands and soaking through your shirt now, a wet ragged breath sputtered in your face until the full weight of a dead man crashed down at your feet. You looked up forward through the doorway and saw the pale face of a small man, a hefty coin purse at his hip and terror glimmering in his eyes alight with purple light. Purple light. You looked down at your blood-soaked hands. A great spectral gnarled dagger blade shone out in front of you, thin ribbons of blood dripping from it.

And in your sudden clarity, the dagger blinked out of existence, the cottage falling back into the dull golden firelight of the fireplace.

"Witch!" he shrieked. You had never heard a man so full of fear. "She's a witch! She's a witch and a murderer!"

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howtowhumpyourhiccup · 3 years

Text

Winter Whumperland Day 6: Mistakes

Summary: Written for Winter Whumperland Day 6. Set in a Modern AU, follows up on Day 5 'Animals'. As they arrive at their destination for the trip, Hiccup manages to slip away long enough to tell someone where he is.

Rating: Mature

Characters: Hiccup, Eret, Viggo, Ryker

Pairing: Vigcup, past-Hiccstrid

Words: 7 768

Fandom: How to Train Your Dragon

Prompt: “Branding”

Whumpee: Hiccup

Author’s Notes: Please read the tags.

I think this is the darkest fic I've written to date, which Day 6 probably taking the cake. (Unless a future Day tops that and I may now which one, but that is just my opinion) I think this counts a dark fic, doesn't it? I've surprised even myself! I've had a dark fic in mind that I've been working on, never thought I would write this one before I finish that one!

Constructive criticism is appreciated! Including on the tags! I tried to tag everything under the sun, but I might've missed some.

Enjoy!

I almost want to tag this as a coffee shop AU.

@amonthofwhump

Ao3

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Hiccup is ashamed to admit that he's quiet the rest of the way. As they sail towards their vacation destination, he thinks of his friends, his parents, Gobber, Toothless, and White Spot, too.

Will he ever see them again? He won't if he doesn't get away from these two madmen, because submitting to Viggo simply isn't an option.

He certainly tries to persuade him. He can see that Hiccup is quieter then usual and he wants to make use of the emotional turmoil he must be going through after being told how this little trip can possibly end. He's even quiet compared to his time spent in the basement and his ribs were broken back then, not allowing for much breathing space.

There's an empty look in his eyes as Viggo tries that he quite likes. It's quite promising, he finds, and so he's been persuading him with promises of letting him leave the house once in a while. They have a big yard, they can let him sit outside for a few minutes. So long as he does it quietly, of course. Cars still pass their home on occasion, so they can't let him make too much noise.

And maybe, when he's really good, they can even let him call his family or that blonde girl that clung to him.

They can spin a little story, make it seem like Hiccup's been found by them, the Grimborns, after having been missing for years. But only after it's been years. Surely by then, they'll have conditioned Hiccup enough to not leave them and not betray them. They can even give their tale the exciting twist that Hiccup now forever clings to "his rescuers". So that when Hiccup is given the generous opportunity to see his loved ones again, they won't be too suspicious when he inevitably chooses to stay with the man who rescued him rather than the people who lost him.

It's a horrible, horrible thing, truly disgusting. The worst part is, Hiccup is actually tempted by the sweet, sweet promises. He doesn't look forward to the years more of pain and misery, but he does so long to see his friends and family again. But the fact that more suffering seems more tempting than fighting that suffering is just one more reason why he can't submit.

The whole reason for them being here is to get him to do just that and if he submits, he's lost.

The steady decline of trying to physically oppose his abusers followed by the decline in opposing them verbally until all that remains is secret rulebreaking that was never secret to begin with, actively using Viggo's desire for him to save himself from hurt or the threat of returning to the basement, not correcting those men at the party when they told Viggo how lucky he was to have Hiccup... These past months have been a gradual descent to a broken spirit.

Hiccup can feel the cracks desperately trying to glue themselves back together again. He wasn't aware of it until now, after this kick while he's down, but they might've been trying to ever since he got to see the light again. The cracks were already there, they've always been there, and they can't put themselves back together. Every time they try, more of them appear, and all the more impossible it becomes to lose the pieces.

Something else that makes it difficult to keep this fight up is that Viggo can actually be called nice for once.

Of course, Hiccup is smart enough to figure out that this is just another ploy to manipulate him. Viggo knows he's close, he just needs to reel him in.

Besides the empty promises replacing the very true threats, he hugs him when he feels lost. It's nothing like the forced cuddles after sex and Viggo isn't an affectionate man either, which makes this one feel almost sweet.

How easily he sinks into the hug frightens him. How he lies his head on his shoulder and feels the tears burning in his eyes frightens him.

Though he never wants to be touched by either man, especially not the younger brother, this is the first time he realizes how deprived of affection he's been throughout it all. The sex was empty to him, when it was consensual, and besides that, there were only bruises, broken bones, and burns. His blistered hand itches terribly underneath its bandage.

In that moment, he begs for his father then. He wants him to show up out of nowhere and pull him out of this nightmare. Or maybe his mother can come down with a dragon and whisk him away back to the sanctuary. Either way, he wants them to come for him before he's lost forever.

In the final minutes of their trip, Viggo holds him, and then they land on the docks of a snow-covered fishing Town by the name of Port.

It's small and Viggo has probably chosen it because of how small and remote it is. Maybe he hopes the news of a missing 19-year-old hasn't reached this place yet or maybe he hopes the sudden appearance of a clearly very rich man scares them out of being nosy about the oddly dressed person with them.

Because just before they dock, Viggo releases him and a pair of sunglasses are shoved onto the bridge of his nose and the hood of his hoodie, and then his coat are pulled over his head. It's to keep people from recognizing him and the Grimborn's presence is supposed to scare them off. One brother rich, the other clearly trouble.

Hiccup says nothing as they dress him up in this little disguise before they land and leave the boat after anchoring.

The docks are busy. It makes sense, their biggest income comes from fishing and not the tourism their beauteous little landscape would probably attract. On a more normal day, Hiccup would appreciate the view of the mountain in the very back with the vast and wide forest at her base, but this isn't a normal day.

But he's not quite as gone as the Grimborns seem to think he is, because he notices that neither of the two is holding him. Have they been lulled into a false sense of safety by his quietness? They couldn't even drive him to the boat without blindfolding him and tying his wrists together.

But then, aren't many criminals caught because they made a mistake?

Unfortunately for them, Hiccup sees an opportunity and he takes it.

"HI- HENRY!" By the time he hears that fake name, he's already disappeared into the crowd of fishermen and dock workers.

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Minutes later, he can finally breathe. Crouching in a little alleyway between two buildings, he pants and attempts to recover his lost air. It's not easy to run with a prosthetic, but his is self-made and it was made with the intention to allow running. There's a system with a spring to allow a bit of ankle movement, too. Can't chase unruly dragons if he can't run, can he?

He dares to peek around the corner, staying low and not quite leaving his safe haven behind a trashcan, but he sees neither Viggo, nor Ryker.

Are they... gone?

Overwhelmed by the feeling of relief, he sits back against the wall, staring straight ahead of him.

No, this can't be real. He can't have really just escaped, right? This has to be some sort of prank or a joke. It can't have been that easy.

But he checks again, this time daring to peek out a bit farther, and he still doesn't see either of them.

They're gone. And not just at work gone, they're gone gone!

He feels emotional and it's so easy to lose himself in that emotion, but if he doesn't get back up and start moving, they won't stay gone for long. That's the only reason why he manages to get back up on his feet and face the public outside of the alleyway.

Scanning his surroundings a third time, the people who pass him by are staring, but he gets why. He's wearing sunglasses in the middle of the Winter in a small town that probably isn't used to much.

So he gets moving and wonders what his next move is.

They've only traveled along the shore, can he grab a cab or travel back by bus or train somehow? Though, there is the problem that those options require money, which is something he doesn't have.

The police? No, he feels strangely distrusting of them after their failure to find him for so long.

The hospital? That means finding out if Port even has one and if he can navigate his way there before he's caught.

But then he comes across a little story, a fishing and bait shop, and something promising catches his attention through the window.

A poster with his face on it. A missing person's poster!

He walks in urgently, nearly ripping the door off its hinges in his hurry, the bell above it jingling loudly, and removes the hood of his coat.

Unfortunately, there is only one person present in the story and he, a man with black hair tied back in a ponytail and a blue tattoo with meaning on his chin, he doesn't look at him with the most welcoming of frowns.

Can Hiccup blame him? Who comes into a calm store in the middle of Winter with sunglasses and a hood on? And nearly breaks the door on his way in, too! Still, he doesn't waste any time as he makes his way to the counter.

"Listen, Bub, I don't know what you're planning on doing, but if it's trouble you're looking for-" The man speaks with an English accent, but he's cut off when Hiccup reaches him.

"Please," He begins, removing his sunglasses and pulling the other hoodie down. "You need to help me, I'm-"

But he barely needs to say anything, the second he reveals his face, that of the young man's changes to one of shock and he whirls around in his spot, immediately searching for and finding the poster hung on the store's bulletin board.

"You're him?" He asks, pointing first to the poster and then to Hiccup. Hiccup nods, happy that someone recognizes him. This man, Eret he reads on the nametag that is a sticker on his sweater, recognizes him.

"You're actually alive? I followed the news, they said that they caught the guy and that they were sure you were dead because the guy wasn't giving up where you were!" He talks to him and Hiccup finds that to be news to him.

"If they caught the guy, then who have I been held captive by since June?" He asks, quietly sarcastic instead of loudly sarcastic like before, and runs a hand through his hair in frustration.

Is that why they never came for him? Because they just put someone in jail and called it a day?

"Please, you have to help me. The people who kidnapped me, the actual people responsible, they want to kill me!" As if he wasn't already alarmed enough before, he certainly is now. But Eret seems to take it in stride and nods understandingly.

"Don't worry, you're safe here." He tells him, briefly grabbing his fist to squeeze it reassuringly. He draws back and pulls his phone from his pocket. "Do you want to call the cops?"

His thumb is ready to dial, but Hiccup hesitates and thinks of the likelihood of them showing up when they arrest some guy and then assumed he was dead just because they couldn't be bothered to actually solve his case. The media attention hounding them for answers must've annoyed them instead of urged them to find some.

So Hiccup shakes his head.

"Can I have your phone for a sec instead?" He asks and Eret, figuring he might try to call someone who can be of actual help, decides to hand it over after unlocking it.

"Thank you," Hiccup thanks him and leans on the counter to spare his stump his weight for a moment. He sags in relief, holding a phone without consequence for the first time in forever. With Eret here, he already feels a bit safer.

But Hiccup doesn't immediately call for help, instead signing in into the first social media account he can think of to find the first person with an account he can think of.

Astrid.

Perhaps, the smarter idea would be to call his dad or someone who can come get him. Maybe he could've called his mom to tell her where he is and maybe then the "whisked away by dragon" dream isn't so farfetched after all.

But that's not what he does and he can't quite explain why he didn't either. He'll kick himself for it later, but all he wants is to see his friends.

When he finds Astrid, he notices that her head has changed since the last time he's seen it. It's no longer her and Stormfly, now it's her and him. And as he scrolls through her page, she hasn't posted much of her usual stuff, instead there are just pictures of him and pleads for any tips. He's always known that she has a library full of him, none of these were taken without his permission.

So he's right about one thing. His girlfriend and friends have been looking for him in one of the few ways they think they can. And his dad, well, he doesn't have an internet presence, but he doesn't need one for Hiccup to know that he hasn't given up on him yet either. He hopes so, at least.

There are those emotions again, he must be tired.

Eret watches him, sees him wipe at his eyes with a sleeve quickly to avoid spilling the tears they both know are there. There are blue bruises surrounding a cut on his cheekbone and staining his jawline. It appears his left hand is bandaged, too. Even without the context of the escaped abductee, Eret can still tell he's been through the wringer and so he walks away from the counter.

Hiccup hurriedly looks up, too alert.

"You want something to eat while we wait? Something to drink? We only have snacks, but I think they"ll keep you going until we can get some actual food in you. You want a coke?" Eret asks as he stands before the fridge, wondering if he can lift his spirits with a little food. He does look awfully thin.

"That would be great, but I don't have any money on me." Hiccup informs him that he can't pay for anything for the time being. Turning to a different screen on the smartphone, he quickly finds the call function with the intention of dialing his dad's number.

"It's on the house!" Eret opens the fridge to take a coke from. Next on the list will be a candy bar and he'll probably go for the one with the most calories.

Hiccup smiles at him and for once his smile isn't forced. It's small, but it's certainly there.

Behind them, the door to the store opens, and the little bell jingles. Eret barely responds to it, it's a sound he's heard so many times before. In his search, he disappears behind some shelves.

"You own this place?" But Hiccup looks over, taking his eyes away from the phone, away from the number he's only just dialed a mere three numbers of.

He finds them and he can tell by the built and the clothes who it is. He doesn't need to see his face to know, his bald head covered by the hood of his jacket. And as he spots something gleaming in his hand, he simply freezes in place.

This store is too small and Ryker is upon him too soon.

"No, I don't, my dad runs this shop, I'm usually out at sea. So it won't be a problem, I'll take care of it!" Eret replies to Hiccup's question, completely unaware of what's transpiring before the counter. Behind those shelves, he isn't quite close enough to hear or to see what's going on.

Ryker's too close to run away from without making a scene and the brothers hate making a scene. If he does anything stupid, the man kind enough to help him out will get hurt. Eret doesn't look particularly weak, but Hiccup knows Ryker isn't and he doesn't want to take any unnecessary risks. Not when someone else's life could depend on it.

The tip of the knife pushes into his stomach, threatening to pierce his coat with ease. It certainly looks sharp enough for the job.

"She hasn't been in your sight for a few days and you already forgot her? Don't think that just because she's in a shelter that she's safe." Ryker is so close Hiccup can smell and feel his breath as he whispers in a growly voice.

He did think that White Spot being out of the picture meant that they couldn't use her against him. Apparently, he was wrong.

"And what's worse, dragging an innocent man down with you, are you? You better be quiet and follow my lead or your new boyfriend is going to die in a mugging." Ryker threatens him with Eret's life If he takes the money from the register, people are probably not going to link a presumed mugging case to a kidnapping case. And if there are cameras, well, Ryker isn't so stupid as to leave those intact.

"You're-" Hiccup wants to tell him that he and Viggo are sick for playing with the lives of a two-month-old cat and an innocent, but Ryker raises a finger in warning and he quiets down.

"Hiccup?" Upon not receiving an answer, Eret returns with an armful and lays eyes on the other man, too.

He'd welcome him, as he would any customer, but he doesn't like the close proximity between him and Hiccup.

"What's going on here?"

Ryker wraps a strong arm around Hiccup to pull him against him and the young man jumps when he can feel the knife be pushed into his lower back now. It's with such pressure that it makes him gasp in discomfort.

"You'll have to excuse us. My brother's partner here thinks he can get attention by pretending to be that poor missing boy. Not the first time, he's been in and out of institutions for years. He's an addict, too, so please don't be angry with him." Ryker uses the fakest voice he can muster as he excuses Hiccup's behavior before he pulls him along.

"Hiccup-" Eret is ready to jump in, but Hiccup stops him.

"It's Henry, actually. And he's right, I should be going." It hurts to accept that false name for his own, no matter how briefly, but he feels like he needs to. It's bad enough that White Spot's sole purpose in life is to be used as leverage, he doesn't want Eret to get hurt just because he made the stupid decision to go into the first shop that had his face in it.

Eret doesn't give chase when Hiccup is pulled out of the store, he's left to watch them go. The jingle of a bell has never sounded as ominous as it does at that moment.

"Maybe making an addict out of you wouldn't have been such a bad idea. At least addicts don't run." Ryker growls into Hiccup's ear and he can't help but feel like he talks out of experience.

Inside the store, Eret leaves his armful of delicious goods on the counter. His gaze is still on the door and he debates running after the two all the same. He's weighing his options, how risky would that be?

But then he notices that Hiccup left his phone and picks it up.

"He never even got to call anyone." Unlocking the screen, he notices a partial number. He takes a screenshot of it, maybe it can still be of use later, and then swipes the phone app away to see a stranger's social media page.

"Astrid Hofferson?" He reads out loud and sees the number on one of her posts asking for tips.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Maybe asking Eret for help was a mistake, maybe the decision to go with Ryker was the mistake, either way, Hiccup can't say he regrets it. There were too many uncertainties in that situation, too many risks, he feels like he made the right choice.

After a... reunion with Viggo, they take their bags and stuff them into a rental car. It's the nicest and most expensive one Port has to offer and it makes Viggo sneer in disgust, but it'll have to do.

While Ryker has seemingly calmed down a bit, as a matter of fact, he almost appear expecting something, Viggo's anger is so thick it's palpable. The whole ride to their destination, there's pressure inside Hiccup's chest, a pain, and it's difficult for him to keep breathing. And while neither brothers are chatterboxes, the silence is unusual even for them, and that makes the storm brewing on the younger one's face all the more concerning.

What is supposed to be their home for the next two weeks is a cabin far, far outside of town. It, too, is way below the younger Grimborn's usual taste and it further rubs in the fact that this vacation isn't supposed to be a vacation.

The second they enter and the door closes behind him, another hit, this time on his other cheek, and a pair of hands wrap themselves around his throat.

"No!" That is all Hiccup can choke out before his airways are closed off and he's pushed into the nearest wall.

"What about last chances did you mishear, Dear?!" The temper flare Viggo's been holding in on the way here bursts free and he squeezes.

Ryker watches for a moment with little care, only glad that Hiccup isn't getting out of this without consequence, and he's soon off to find his usual room. Viggo may think this place beneath him, but Ryker quite likes it.

"N... n-" Hiccup would respond, except he can't. He can't draw a single breath and he can't exhale one either. His lungs are burning to do both, the pain in his chest worsening. All he can do is try to remove those hands from his throat and that's hard to do with one hand burned. His good foot is standing on its toes, too.

"What do I have to do to make you submit to me, you stubborn boy!" Viggo shouts. He would squeeze harder if he could without irreparably damaging something important and it's taking him everything to hold back just that.

"St... st-" Hiccup continues to try, pulling on his abuser's hands, attempting to curl his fingers beneath Viggo's without luck. He's begging him to stop, face red, teary-eyed, and saliva with nowhere to go building up in his mouth.

Is this how he's going to die? By being strangled to death? Surely, Viggo isn't willing to give him up quite yet? Why put all these months in him just to throw him away?

Black dances at the edge of his vision, threatening to consume him. He wants air so badly. He wants the pain to stop.

And then Viggo's glare softens lightly as an idea comes to mind. His eyes fall on the fireplace on one end of the room.

"Ryker, light the fireplace. I may have an idea." His hard gaze goes back to Hiccup, who is only moments away from losing full consciousness, while Ryker returns and does as he's told.

Hiccup passes out soon after, the hold on his throat relinquishes and he crumples to the ground.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When he comes to, it's to his hoodie being pulled on, alarming him.

"No... No-no!" He croaks out a protest, weakly attempting to pull those hands away from him now, but in his current state, he's no match for them.

He's pinned to the ground on his front by Ryker, his face pressed into the wooden floorboards beneath the fire.

"Oh, stop your struggling, you know it's pointless." He tells him and Hiccup can't reply to that, his throat in too much pain. The hurt inside his chest is horrendous as well.

"Please-"

"If you want to be let go, then either you undress for us or we'll have to use force," Viggo says, crouching by the fire. What he's doing there, Hiccup doesn't know and can't see, but it's can be good. It sounds like he's playing with the fire, poking the wood inside. Is it a fire poker?

Hearing no more protests from him, Ryker releases him and Hiccup somehow manages to get up on his knees. He glances towards Viggo and what he's holding doesn't seem like a fire poker to him, but he can't see the entire thing.

"I'm waiting, Hiccup, don't test my patience any more than you already have," Viggo warns him and, reluctantly and with difficulty, Hiccup does as he's told and slowly removes both the hoodie and the t-shirt underneath. At his belt, he hesitates.

The clothes they made him wear, he's just noticing that they're the ones he wore the day he was abducted.

What a time to notice that.

"That's enough. Now, back to me." Viggo tells him, standing up with the rod he holds as it's glowing a bright orange. At the very end, there are the distinct letters of 'V.G' and they're the brightest part of all.

With horrible dread does Hiccup realize that they plan on branding him. Him! Like cattle! Like property! As if they couldn't treat him like any more of a personal slave, they want to do this to him.

"No!" His throat hurts as he speaks. When he makes a move to stands up, Ryker is quick to take an arm and twist it behind his back, making an end to his futile attempt to escape.

A cry rips out of him, worsening the pain. He can squirm and writhe, but all it does is convince Ryker to test the limits of his elbow. Cringing, Hiccup can feel the joint's want to pop apart.

With just this move alone, he's completely restrained and Ryker grabs his hair with his free hand and pushes his head down.

Though never an overly prideful kind of person, Hiccup had dignity at some point. That seems to be gone now as he has no problem begging them not to do this to him.

"No, please, not that! I'll behave! I swear I'll behave this time, just don't brand me! Viggo!" He hates those words, hates that they even need to be said, that he needs to beg for something so inhuman to not be done to him. His voice comes out hoarse and there are cracks with every other spoken word.

But Viggo doesn't care to listen to his pleas. While the iron is hot, he comes to stand by him and with one swift motion does he choose a spot and presses the branding iron on his right shoulder blade.

The feeling of flesh searing away is instant and Hiccup screams. Whitehot agony sets his nerves ablaze and they scream with him.

Viggo holds it there for a second, two seconds, three, until a total of five have passed and that's when he removes it. Those five seconds felt like an eternity and Hiccup's life has been changed all over again.

He doesn't need to see it to know that it's there, he can feel it on his skin. He's been branded to be someone's property and after everything that's already been taken from him, Viggo might as well make him something akin to furniture.

The figurative cracks bleed and they give up on trying to fix the damage.

Ryker releases him and Hiccup brings a hand to his arm, folds over, and cries, his forehead pressing into the floorboards.

He's been defeated. What more needs to be done to him to prove that? He never stood a chance.

Viggo stands over him with a smirk, certain that his young captive has finally been broken.

"Get me the medical supplies, Ryker, we don't want that to get infected." The younger brother tells the older one and he leaves to search the luggage for them. They'd certainly come prepared for this.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"If you'd just been smart and stayed out of trouble, this could've been avoided," Viggo tells him sometime later as he puts the finishing touches on the dressings covering the fresh brand. Honestly, Hiccup has no one to blame but himself. If he hadn't been so stubborn, this wouldn't have been necessary.

As for the brand, it's been properly cooled, cleaned, and there's a healing and disinfecting salve on it. All that remained were the dressings and Viggo has been applying them gently.

They're sitting on the bed they'll be sharing together for the next two weeks and he's faking being nice again. He's acting like a net, there to catch Hiccup at his lowest moment thus far, like he was on the boat. Like he was the day Viggo let him see sunlight again.

Hiccup doesn't respond to him, which is quite fine with Viggo. He usually has an answer for everything, very annoying, so silence from him is a good chance of pace.

The dressings are in place and Hiccup doesn't shy away when a kiss is placed on the back of his neck, his hair moved out of the way. The hand stays on his neck, thumb rubbing his spine.

In as much pain as he is, Hiccup doesn't even feel the usual cold shivers those touches give him.

But then thick lips come down on him again, meeting with his hair, the skin on the back of his neck, and then his shoulder. They're placed deliberately slow and Hiccup can feel his heart sinking. He can already tell what's about to happen, what his wanna-be owner wants from him. The same thing he's wanted from him since the very beginning, that which he's used as a shield more times than he'd like to admit.

"Lie down on the bed, on your front." Viggo growls into his ear, this time not in anger, but in desire. His hand caressing Hiccup's back and coming too close to the overly sensitive area surrounding his shoulder blade, he can only listen.

He kicks his shoes off, brand pulling beneath the dressing, and removes his prosthetic before he gets further up on the bed. He lies down, his arms wanting to wrap around a pillow only for him to yelp when the initials on his back don't agree with him. So now two letters have more say over his own body than he does.

That hand returns to his back and he can feel its fingers tracing his spine upwards, going ever so slowly until they reach his hair and then they go back down. Going lower and lower, they reach his belt and that's when they leave.

He can hear the other remove his shoes, a belt that isn't his be undone, and then he's straddled. All he can do is bite into the pillow and hope it'll be over soon. That is how his first evening on this trip ends.

The fight has entirely left his body.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning, Hiccup is certain he's finally been broken. The brand and last night's sex, if it could be called that, after he thought for a short moment that he was free is what it took.

Every single day since he's seen sunlight, he's had to wake up at 5 am, every day without fail. While Viggo showered and went on with his morning routine, Hiccup was expected to lay his clothes out for him, make the bed, and then make breakfast. Every single day.

So imagine how strange it must feel to wake up and see that it's light out. It's winter and so the sun shouldn't even begin to rise until after eight. Have they let him sleep in?

His head is heavy, his everything is heavy, and the brand, while still painful, doesn't burn quite as much as it did the night before.

Reaching for the watch on the nightstand, he sees that it's 11 am and that is even more troubling. And yet, Hiccup can only decide to take whatever punishment must be awaiting his tardiness. What's the point of fighting it?

He gets up and dresses in the same clothes as the day before. He doesn't know yet if he's allowed to shower or even wash up, so he attempts to ignore how uncomfortable he feels, feeling sticky with sweat and whatever else, and he finds his way to the living room and then the kitchen.

As he walks, he doesn't feel like he's the one doing the walking. He doesn't feel like he's entirely awake either, though he's certain he is. It's like he's stuck somewhere between reality and a dream.

When he finds the kitchen and the Grimborn Brothers, it's not him who tells them good morning with a sore throat and a barely audible voice, and neither of the two even mention how long he's slept in.

On autopilot, Hiccup leans down and presses his lips to Viggo's in a good morning kiss. There is no feeling behind it, certainly no love, not even the slightest hint of something akin to like. Though he's almost certain good morning kisses used to have a spark to them once upon a time, in a long distant past.

They talk to him, like they would talk to a person, and Hiccup doesn't hear himself respond, but he does. He's too out of it for the words to reach him, though it's him that they leave.

He's starving, but he gets to work on lunch for the two older men first. Because that's expected of him, because what he is to them, what he was taken to be, was nothing but free personal labor. A one-dimensional companion with a select desirable attributes and personality traits. Someone willing to give it up for free and without complaint whether he feels like it or not.

A slave, that's what they searched for in him, and a sex slave is what Viggo was specifically looking for. One they could have the pleasure of personally destroying until nothing was left. One Viggo could occasionally play chess with if he wanted to.

The thought should hurt, but if it does, his mind is too far away to realize it.

Are minutes passing? Before he realizes it, lunch is over. Ryker has left while Viggo is with him as it's his turn to eat, their hands together on the table. And then lunch is over and he's unpacking their stuff while they're each off doing... he can't remember what Viggo told him.

Hours are passing and it seems like time is no longer a concept he can perceive as it goes by like a blur. It seems like his mind and his body have separated from one another, though still very much in touch.

The day goes by and he can barely remember it, though it still somehow goes so agonizingly slow. He sits around for most of it, only leaving his designated spot on the couch when he's told to go do something.

Somewhere inside of him, the very notion that he's been broken saddens him, but he's all out of tears to shed. And even if he shed some more, who would care? Viggo would see it as more proof of his victory. He'd use it against him, comforting him as he'd done on the boat and after the branding. And Ryker, he would just find amusement in it after all the trouble's caused them.

It isn't until evening creeps up that he seems to be snapping out of his trance. He's been washed by then and it's like he's waking up from an hours-long slumber.

It's time for dinner and as Hiccup is finishing it up, the brothers are sitting at the table waiting for him to be done. They're talking, almost completely ignoring his existence. Or rather, Ryker is talking and Viggo occasionally hums in response while not bothering to actually listen.

Ryker is complaining about having had to go through all of this and needing to travel all this way just to break one person.

"I told you, Viggo, you should've stuck to female. If he were one, he'd be knocked up and known his place already. Like a woman would." It's a disturbing thing to say and Hiccup feels sick to his stomach, almost counting himself lucky that he was born a male.

And now he finds himself thinking about the phrasing Ryker uses. "should've stuck to." Hiccup has had his suspicions, of course, but this means he definitely wasn't the first. And this cabin that is Grimborn property, but has gone unused through most of the year as it is far beneath their standards, and where he would have his last chance to become theirs for good, is probably a murder cabin.

Does that mean all those previous people, mostly women, but without a doubt, there were men amongst them, too, have they all been buried here? With these two, Hiccup doubts they were even allowed to identify as themselves under their roof.

No longer paying attention to the food, his gaze goes downwards and sticks to the wooden floor. Are they outside? Or is there someone beneath his very feet?

"Henry!" Viggo uses what is apparently not only a fake name for in public, but also a new and permanent name. He has to stand in a hurry to shut off the stove, the fish in the pain falling apart and burning to a crisp.

To do so, Hiccup is shoved aside and the pain falls, landing on his toes.

"Oh fuck!" A yell leaves him, his foot off the floor as a terrible pain radiates from the limb. It's cast iron, so he can expect his toes to be broken, if it's just that.

This must be the universe spitting on what remains of Hiccup haddock. What else could this possibly be?

"It's your own damn fault for being such a clutz." Ryker can't stop his chuckling. "Another reason why we should've stayed with girls, Viggo, at least they know how to cook."

"That is so insulting." Hiccup mutters as he leans on the kitchen counter, he doesn't even realize that he said anything.

But then, he's not supposed to speak unless spoken to or unless explicitly given permission. Like a dog told to bark on the command, but to otherwise keep silent.

Ryker stares at Hiccup in surprise. Meanwhile, as Viggo was trying to salvage their dinner, he stares at his pet project, too. Only then does Hiccup realize he's spoken. Those were just four simple words, but they rock all three of them.

"What was that, my Dear?" Viggo challenges him to repeat himself, to show if he's brave enough to speak up again and prove that he isn't quite as there as they first thought he was or if he'll prove that he's mistaken.

Looking up to him, Hiccup can feel his heart pounding in his ears.

"I'm-I'm just-just-I'm just saying that-that it's... that's it's- you know- sexist to think of women in such a way." Hiccup can hear his thoughts shouting at him to shut up, to finally, for once in his goddamn life, keep his trap shut if he doesn't want a repeat of last night.

But the words are out before he can stop them and his sentence isn't a mere four words like his previous one.

Does that mean... that he isn't as broken as he felt like he was?

"I suppose thinking you could still come around was a mistake." Viggo is surprisingly calm as he speaks up again. There is the undeniable undertone of anger, however.

Ryker recovers quickly, figuring he isn't entirely surprised by this turn of events.

Hiccup hasn't been given them sass for months for nothing, after all, even he recognizes that. To date, Hiccup's been the most troublesome one by far. Viggo's methods have been much too damn slow. Him and his meticulous planning... If it were up to Ryker, that boy would've been broken long ago.

But the laughs. He laughs because this means only one thing.

"You see this, Viggo? You know what this means, don't you? We get to kill that boy, after all!" He laughs, almost relieved with this surprise.

When the laughter abates, Ryker grabs Hiccup by his hoodie.

"And after we ride ourselves of you, it'll be my turn to choose your successor and I've had my sights set on a pretty lass for months already." Once again he's in his face, close enough for Hiccup to feel the spit on his skin.

Who? Who is this girl that's going to be next?

"Remember that girl of yours?" At the mention of Astrid, his eyes grow wide and he grows colder than he's ever felt than in all the time he's spent with them.

"Blond, pretty, good curves, tits, and ass, if there's something I can respect you for, it's that you have good taste. And when you're dead and buried, we'll be taking her next." Never in all his life, no matter how short it's about to be cut, has anyone ever dared to sum Astrid up using only her body.

"And don't you worry, I'll take good care of her as I personally make sure she's broken before her first month is up. I'll tell her all about y-" When Astrid and Ryker's apparent plans with her are brought up, it sparks something inside of Hiccup he thought he'd lost. The urge to punch someone in the face so hard that they lose a tooth.

So the biggest proof that he can still get up while he's down no matter what, is without a doubt when his reaction to such a horrid thing is to follow up on that urge and punch Ryker in the jaw with such strength and anger that he ends up flooring a man bigger and stronger than him.

It is... such an invigorating feeling.

"Don't you... Don't you dare talk about her like that. I don't care what happens to me anymore, but don't you dare think about hurting her, my friends, or anybody that I love the way you've hurt me!" He warns them, growing louder with every word to the point that he's shouting.

And it feels so, so good.

He wants to cry and this time out of pure relief, out of the sheer overwhelming flow of emotion coursing through him.

For once, Ryker is the one too frozen to move. Never has he been flattened by anyone before, let alone someone like Hiccup, who is looking all too energized by his achievement.

But while his attention is entirely on the elder of the two, the current object of his hatred, it's the younger one to takes action before Hiccup can get any more ideas. He uses the fallen frying pan and lifts it high before bringing it down onto his skull.

The pain erupts, but it disappears quickly as Hiccup passes out, temple connecting with the kitchen counter on the way down.

Either way, it's suddenly black before his eyes.

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"Abysmal." Breaking the silence for the first time since they started playing, Viggo does so with an insult.

"You're not the most supportive of winners, are you? You could've at least given me an "you did your best, kiddo!" instead if giving me that." Hiccup isn't a sore loser. He can be a bit of a boastful winner at times, but he's not a sore loser. Still, when that is what he gets to hear upon losing at chess, again, he does feel a little sore.

Viggo is a very critical man, it seems.

"I would never say such a thing. You have to earn it first and your poor chess skills make me nauseous." Hiccup rolls his eyes, feeling even sorer.

His left leg is up on a chair, complaining after being on his feet all day. Maybe Astrid was right and he should've listened when she told him to come home with her. An evening with her and Snotlout, maybe even Fishlegs and the twins if they feel like coming over, definitely sounds 100 times better than this.

But Viggo is clearly a lonely man or he wouldn't be spending his after work hours on a young adult who can barely play the game he wants to play with him.

He pulls his phone out, realizing what time it is.

"I'd ask Viggo, the greatest chessplayer of all time, to teach me some of his tricks, but it's almost 11 and I haven't eaten anything yet. Astrid's going to kill me if I don't go home now." He tells his opponent, missing, the dangerous disappointment on his face. He misses it as he's texting Astrid to come to pick him up.

He's perfectly capable of walking himself home, but Astrid clearly insisted on her and his friends coming to get him, so he listens. She can get a bit overprotective of him at times ever since the whole Dagur incident and he hates worrying his loved ones.

The text message sent and slouching in the chair, Hiccup looks up to Viggo as he cleans their game up.

"A great chessplayer never just reveals its secrets, Hiccup." He tells him when he finishes and their eyes meet. "But you would do well to learn from him if you intend to survive even one game."

"Now if you'll excuse me, I believe I need to head home myself." With the folded chessboard and work briefcase in hand, he takes his leave.

As he reaches the door, Hiccup briefly stops him.

"Sometimes being smart isn't enough, Viggo. You'll see, someday my stubborn butt will beat you!"

Hand on the door, Viggo takes a moment to look at Hiccup, who will, without mercy, roast someone so badly they'll need an actual burns unit, but somehow can't bring himself to say the word "ass." He's a funny one, for sure, and Viggo only holds so much weight to his words.

"Goodbye, Hiccup." He tells him and exits the coffee shop.

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writerbyaccident · 5 years

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Fate (Yandere Izuku MidoriyaxReader)

Request: Can you write a bit where villain! deku is taking a civilian or weaker hero hostage, and maybe flirting with them a bit? Thank u <3

Part Two

There were some days when you really hated your job. Working at a bank wasn’t really anyone’s dream job (at least, no one that you wanted to know), but working at one in such a busy city was especially heinous. You swore that every other day some two-bit villain trying to make a name for themselves found their way into your place of work, thinking that just because they had a moderately strong quirk that they could get away with robbing you blind. It was utterly routine for you at this point, and honestly, you got more annoyed at the attempts now than afraid. A hero would always show up sooner or later, and you had survived so many of these encounters without a scratch on you that you saved your concern solely for your customers. But today, today things were different. Today, you thought to yourself distantly, you should probably set aside some concern for yourself.

This time it wasn’t just some hack villain or overly-ambitious criminal that stood before you. No, this time it was Deku. He looked just like the pictures and clips of him that you had caught on the news, immaculately dressed in a white button-down shirt, a black vest and tie decorating it, black dress pants, and a pair of obsessively clean dress shoes. Green hair was combed smooth with the appearance of something that was naturally more chaotic and a smattering of freckles made him look deceptively innocent. His eyes though were something that the news footage had failed to capture properly. They were bright green, possessing an unnatural luster to them. The feeling you got looking into them was that they were somehow crawling in your head, devouring everything it found there as if your memories and secrets were prey. Really, you realized as Deku grinned at you, he just looked too eager.

“Well,” he chuckled, as if the two of you were sharing a private joke, “it certainly seems like you know the drill.” It was true, as soon as he had entered with his goons you had told the customers to cooperate, getting the ones still in shock to sit down on the shining marble floor. You only nodded in response though, heart stuck in your throat, keeping any words you might have used firmly inside. “Though, I should remind you, you even try to use your quirk and I’ll kill you before you can blink.”

“I—I don’t have a quirk,” you stammered. At your confession, Deku’s smile only grew, though now it seemed to take on a hue of genuine interest. You had caught his attention and not just as a target.

“That, now that is perfect,” he exclaimed with dark joy. “You know, I stopped believing in fate when I was a kid, but something like this makes you wonder. I mean, a cute little hostage like you turning out to be quirkless? Do you believe in soulmates by any chance?” You just stared back at him blankly, unable to tell if he was serious or not.

“Aw,” he cooed in a surprisingly soothing manner, “aren’t you a shy one? It’s okay, I used to be that way too.” Staring at him, you wondered why he was being so talkative with you. Was he like this on all of his jobs? But your thoughts were interrupted, when Deku suddenly slammed his hands on the counter that separated the two of you, nimbly lifting himself up and hopping over so that he stood right in front of you. You tried to back away, but before you could make much progress, Deku wrapped one arm around your waist, pulling you towards him. Once he secured you firmly against himself, so close that you could feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, he leaned down towards your ear.

“You want to know why I stopped being like that though? It’s cause, one day, I learned something. I learned that no one is going to give you what you want. You have to take it,” he whispered.

“And what is it that you want? To hurt people who’ve done nothing to you?” you asked bitterly, startled into talking without really thinking. “Cause that’s all I see you doing.” Deku let go of you at that, removing his arm but then placing his hand around your chin, tilting it upwards so that you were forced to look right into his eyes. Humming absentmindedly while he scrutinized you with a slight smirk on his face, Deku was silent for a moment.

“That’s not what I want,” he muttered, a flash of something dark and burning peering into you from his eyes. Deku started to lean towards you again, and you noticed with alarm that he seemed to be aiming for your lips. Instinctually, without considering what the consequences might be, you pushed him away. Deku stumbled back, caught off guard by your sudden movement.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” you spat at him. With his head bowed, you couldn’t see his eyes when you said that, but you could see the way his mouth twisted.

“That wasn’t very nice,” Deku said, his voice sounding oddly choked. “I wasn’t gonna hurt you, you know.” Lifting up his head, you saw that his face had become somewhat flushed, and were those tears gathering in his eyes? He stepped towards you, and afraid of what he might do, you spoke again.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” you cried, “I shouldn’t have done that.” Once you apologized, Deku’s entire demeanor changed again. The tears in his eyes disappeared quickly and he broke out into such a genuinely bright smile that you felt blinded by the sudden shift.

“Aren’t you sweet? It’s alright dear, I forgive you,” he soothed you, reaching out and gently stroking your cheek with his thumb. After a moment though, one of his lackeys called out to him, shouting that they had finished loading all of the money. Soon after that, you heard the sound of approaching sirens.

“Right on time,” Deku sighed, sounding sincerely disappointed. “I’m afraid that I have to cut things short darling, but don’t worry, I’ll see you soon.” And with that, he left, taking his goons and his new supply of cash with him.

The rest of the day was fairly average for one that included a robbery; you got a desperately needed drink of water, checked on your coworkers, and gave your statement to the police. You told them everything Deku had said to you, but they didn’t think much of it. Reassuring you that he had only been trying to give you an extra scare, the police told you that you were free to go home and that they’d be in contact soon. You left the bank, though you didn’t go straight home. No, after the ordeal you just had, you decided that you had earned an early drink, and so stopped at a bar before taking the bus back to your apartment. By the time you staggered to your door, unlocking it with uncoordinated movements, the creepy way that Deku had singled you out was just a dim recollection at the back of your mind. At that point, it was far too easy to agree with the police, that it had all meant nothing and you could move on with you life. That is, until you saw the single crimson rose that had been left on your bed.

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very-grownup · 3 years

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THE YEAR IS 2020 AND I WATCHED NEON GENESIS EVANGELION FOR THE FIRST TIME, PART 6

Episode 17.

A military tribunal grills Misato and gives her shit for not presenting Shinji for grilling and/or grilling him herself. There are a lot of shots of silhouettes in isolation and heavily shadowed faces obscuring expression in this episode. Lots of NERV talk about branches and the Dead Sea scrolls and attempting to intuit the intentions of Angels.

The rest of Episode 17 and Episode 18 behind the cut.

There are apparently two more EVAs out there in the US and Germany but actually only one more because one of the other two just fucking disappeared with like everything including the people all around it?

There's also ... another teen with the power to pilot the giant upsetting robots and it is both a shock and concern when various people find out who it is although we the audience do not find out who it is (it is probably Shinji's classmate with the little sister who got hurt).

There's just a lot of stuff that seems to be setting up things for the next episode with no resolution so there's not much to report on. Kaji isn't dead. Rei misses some school. That one girl in class who isn't an EVA pilot is trying badly to express interest in dude with sister.

Shinji cleans Rei's shitty garbage apartment, Rei blushes and has some kind of quiet Rei crisis about thanking him after he's gone and also about Shinji's awful father because she still has his broken glasses and they're like the only non-utilitarian thing she owns.

There's no angel attack or anything particularly weird or cool or gross. Just a big sense of building to something. Ritsuko has a coffee mug with cats on it that says CAT CAT CAT CAT and that's pretty great. This concludes my report on Episode 17 of Neon Genesis Evangelion.

Episode 18.

It culminates in maybe 10 solid minutes of me with my hands over my mouth in absolute horror, so. Let's go.

After all the setup of last week's episode with the mysteriously disappeared EVA and the EVA coming from America for a new pilot who is clearly Tohji whose sister got hospitalized because of EVA fight fallout, things open with Americans talking American! They're transporting the American EVA by air on I don't know bungee cords or something and this thing is such obviously colour-coded bad news. It's like, dark grey and black. Then they fly into huge ominous clouds with lightning flashes. This is fine and will be fine.

Misato's off to be involved in all the stuff that NERV needs to do for having a new EVA and even though she has a perfectly good roommate to look after Shinji and Asuka, she tells Shinji that Kaji will be babysitting them instead of Penpen. Fuckin' Kaji. Before she goes she tries to work up to telling Shinji the identity of the new EVA pilot while Shinji works up to asking her about the disappeared EVA rumour. Good job Shinji! Asking questions, even though it's scary! Misato reassures him about THEIR EVAs and safety to avoid bringing up Tohji because ... Misato's a disaster who is trying to be a responsible grown-up and sometimes knowing the right thing to do and wanting to do it isn't enough. Ritsuko gives her a hard time about this later because everyone agrees that Shinji should know Tohji is going to pilot an EVA and since Misato is the only person who said 'someone needs to look after this literal child when he isn't in the robot' she has to be the one to tell him. Because EVERY ADULT IN THIS SHOW SUCKS AND IS FAILING THE NEXT GENERATION except for Misato and she's an overworked alcoholic who gets a pity pass.

All the kids are tense and weird because they know Tohji is going to be piloting an EVA or want to pilot an Eva themselves or are trying to confess to Tohji or they're Shinji. (Asuka almost manages to relate to someone like a normal teen so good job, Asuka.) Rei has a feeling. Lots of opportunity for /literally anyone else/ to tell Shinji that Tohji's the new pilot at multiple opportunities but no one does.

Instead, Shinji tries to have a nighttime man-to-man conversation with Kaji. Fuckin' Kaji. Shinji wants to know what Kaji thinks of his father. Kaji mocks him for this being the only way Shinji can think of to get to know his horrible father, then is flippant about how actually you can never really know another person. But you know who you can really never know?

WOMEN.

Fuckin' Kaji.

So the next day Tohji isn't in class because he's getting EVA orientation which at NERV means he gets in the EVA and they turn it on and see what happens and hey, guess what, the ominous dark EVA almost immediately becomes a BAD TIME. It opens the mouth it has to scream and also it has jagged red teeth in its horrible unnecessary mouth and then a part cracks or something and it's like a huge gooey organic pulsing thing on the EVA and when they try to eject the pilot plug it becomes blocked with goo tendrils.

It's been whole episodes since I last commented on how upsetting I found the design of these giant robots but hey, the giant robot is upsetting and I hate how it has teeth and screaming and all the goo even if the goo is possibly not part of the design since it's also an Angel?

THEN THE GIANT ROBOT GOES MORE BERSERK AND FUCKING BLOWS UP THE ORIENTATION TEST SITE OR SOMETHING AND IS ON THE RUN and there's a weird, creepy quality to how the EVAs are animated when they move, a hugeness of arm movement that is very unrobotic, but moreso with this EVA. It's good and cool but also I hate it.

The kids get called in and this is around when I covered my mouth and just kept getting increasingly upset because Shinji's dad is in charge due to Misato maybe being blown up and Shinji's dad wants the kids to eliminate the rogue EVA with Tohji inside. Rei knows, Asuka knows. Shinji still doesn't know but he knows /a/ kid is in there and that is enough to make him unhappy and reluctant with his father's 'destroy the rampaging robot' orders. But Asuka gets taken out fast. Then it basically teleports onto Rei and starts dripping more awful goop. There's lots of gross veiny pulsing in this episode, very Akira, I hate it, and the goop from Tohji's evil EVA melts and infects the hand of Rei's Eva and I guess it's Angel goop that lets the Angel control the EVA? So the infection can't get further than the EVA hand. And under the brave leadership of Commander Ikari the obvious solution is just /fuck that whole limb/ without desynching Rei from her EVA so hey why not just a teenage girl screaming as she feels like her entire arm is ripped off, cool cool cool.

So now it's down to Shinji who still doesn't want to destroy this giant robot with a child in it and even if his heart was in it, this thing is fucking intense. ALSO IT'S STRETCH ARMSTRONG? Like, it goes from shambling to shooting its arms out insanely long to choke Shinji's EVA. It's choking Shinji's EVA so hard that bruise marks are showing up on Shinji's throat. Meanwhile, his father is telling him to stop being a useless child who is being choked to death by a giant robot and do the child murder like I'm ordering you to, child I hate. Shinji won't and also Shinji can't because he is being choked to death.

At NERV it is suggested to Commander Ikari maybe they should lower the synch on Shinji's robot so he can't be choked to death /through a robot/ and for reasons known only to shitty dads, that's not an option. But what is an option is just shifting control from Shinji to the AI control and if AI control is an option maybe just work on doing that instead of this whole child soldier thing but no one at NERV can hear me over the sound of parental neglect.

Everything goes red when the dummy AI is implemented and fuck the colour work in this series is /so good/ and Shinji just has to sit and feel everything as his robot proceeds to destroy Tohji's robot. Ripping limbs, punching until everything is cracking and blood is everywhere. Don't worry, America made sure their giant robot was also full of red, red, red blood. Vast quantities of blood. In the setting sun a river looks like blood. There is blood weighing down a traffic light in an amazing shot. It's awful. Shinji doesn't know it's Tohji, but we do. The robot that is so clearly an extension of Shinji's body even if he can't control it removes the pilot plug from the grisly wreckage of Tohji's robot and it crushes the plug, the orange liquid spurting out and he /still doesn't know/.

Commander Ikari smiles.

Shinji's father has been a bad father throughout, sometimes in ways that really, distressingly resonate, in really lowkey, banal 'bad dad' ways, but here he's just a monster. He can see his son, hear him, but he doesn't care. It doesn't penetrate.

After everything, Shinji is just numb in the robot, still and shocked, unable to grapple with this overwhelming sense of having just killed someone, horribly and violently and brutally. It's bad and you feel bad and I started crying and still Shinji /doesn't know/.

Then cleanup and ambulances arrive and out of the giant robot wreckage they pull the somehow still alive Tohji and then Shinji /does/ know, he sees Tohji's battered and beaten body, and Shinji starts screaming because somehow it's worse. This concludes my report on Episode 18 of Neon Genesis Evangelion.

#neon genesis evangelion report #fuckin' kaji

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sweetsmellosuccess · 3 years

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Sundance 2021: Day 1 & 2

Films: 5

Best Film of the Day(s): Summer of Soul

Coda: It is mostly a truism that the festival tends to start things off on Thursday night with a genial offering, to whet the appetite, as it were, for the vastly more far-reaching, and oft-madcap rest of the program. Sian Heder’s sweetly realized light drama, about Ruby (Emilia Jones), a high school senior in Gloucester, MA, who works in the early morning non-school hours on her father’s fishing boat, and full-time as the only member of her family, including mom (Marlee Matlin), father (Troy Katsur), and brother (Daniel Durant) who isn’t deaf. Balancing out her workload, she joins the choir, in order to be able to spend time with her crush, Miles (Ferdia Walsh-Peelo), and turns out to have significant enough talent that her flinty music teacher (Eugenio Derbez), encourages her to apply to the prestigious music college in Boston of which he is an alum. Formulaic, to be certain, but moving nonetheless, with fine performances from the family — in keeping with the film’s own set-up, all but Jones actually deaf — and a strong sense of their relationships, especially between Ruby and her father. Heder’s screenplay also plays out the difficult dynamic between Ruby, and the rest of the hearing world, as the lone interpreter and defender of her family. As she puts it, they can’t hear themselves being laughed at, but she has no choice. It’s certainly glossy, but it’s also heartfelt, as in one pivotal scene, as Ruby performs a moving duet with Miles for the choir’s big show, Heder unexpectedly douses the sound for a few long moments, giving us a moving sense of what her parents get to experience during their daughter’s moment of artistic triumph.

Censor: As the title suggests, Prano Bailey-Bond’s discreet horror flick is about the idea of repression — what we want to cut away from the ugliness of the human experience. Set during the Thatcherite ‘80s, during an era where “video nasties” had become the topic du jour of cultural critics and political wankers, suggesting the sudden proliferation of demented, ultra-violent straight-to-video releases in the UK was somehow leading the country into sadistic nihilism, as opposed to their representing the result of Thatcher’s choking brand of right-wing oppression. Enid (Niamh Algar), a censor working for the government to render such films as Asunder, and Violent Coda properly palatable to the squirming masses, by excising excessive eye-gougings, brutal rapes, and disembowelments just enough to pass the board. She’s already living with her own past demons, a younger sister who disappeared in the woods under her watch years before, leaving her family shattered. Bailey-Bond shoots the film until the very end, as if underground, even while literally outside. Enid makes her way through the tube stations, and pedestrian tunnels, to her windowless office, and back again, with overhanging branches, overpasses, and canopies keeping her away from contact with the outside world. Creepy — but notably restrained in its own depictions of violence, save for the grainy, 4:3 imagery Enid has to make her way through at her job — Bailey-Bond’s film works well as a half-remembered bad dream from a similar tableau as Peter Strickland, but doesn’t quite have to chops, visually or in its surreal storytelling, to push it past those boundaries. It’s gripping enough, but doesn’t stick with you terribly long.

Summer of Soul (...Or When the Revolution Could Not Be Televised): In 1969, during the Summer of Love, when white hippies and counter-culturalists were grooving to Woodstock, and NASA had successfully landed whitey on the moon, an entirely different sort of cultural fusion was taking place in Mt. Morris Park in Harlem. A performer and concert promoter named Tony Lawerence conceived of the event, a big outdoor stage where for six consecutive weekends, people could flock to the free shows that featured Jazz, Afro-beat, blues, R ‘n B, gospel, Motown, and funk. More than 300,000 attended the concerts in total to watch legendary performers including B.B. King, Mahalia Jackson, Max Roach, Mavis Staples, Gladys Knight, Hugh Masekela, a 19-year-old Stevie Wonder, Sly and the Family Stone, and, in the sort of fierce performance that defined her live presence, Nina Simone, but even though the shows were meticulously filmed, the footage had never found an outlet, until now. Ahmir “Questlove” Thompson’s directorial debut doesn’t just present the artists’ performances (though it certainly could have), but adds insight from some of the surviving artists, and some of those in the crowd who witnessed them. He also works to put the shows into the cultural context of the time, when a rare mixture of political outrage, multicultural strength, and a dawning of the Black Pride movement created a fulcrum for Harlem, and Black people all over the world. Hippies got the press, and much of the mainstream media coverage, but Thompson makes a strong case as to how the same repressive forces that lead to the explosion of the counterculture movement amongst white college students and young people, also affected the rise of rebellion and tide-shifting in communities of color. Watching Jackson and Staples perform a riveting version of MLK’s favorite gospel song, “Take My Hand, Precious Lord,” in the wake of the black leader’s assassination, or Simone rip into “Backlash Blues” is to witness the shift of cultural winds, as they whipped across a steamy, jam-packed park in Upper Manhattan.

John and the Hole: The title is, on first blush, terrible, but as with several things in this confidently enigmatic coming-of-a-kind-of-age tale from Pascual Sisto, there’s more to it than that. What initially sounds dumpy becomes somewhat cannily constructed: It’s meant to evoke a kind of modern myth vibe, along the lines of “Jack and the Beanstalk.” As it turns out, the film’s refusal to explain itself becomes a significant strength. John (Charlie Shotwell), is a 13-year-old kid from a wealthy family outside of Boston. Skinny and stammering, he’s also difficult to read, either by his parents (Jennifer Ehle and Michael C. Hall), or his older sister (Taissa Farmiga). Which is why, when John’s family wake up one morning at the bottom of a deep, cement shaft — part of a bunker built in the woods near their house — after having been drugged, and dragged there by John, their reactions run from mildly surprised to mildly upset. John leaves them down there, occasionally stopping by the edge to drop down food, water, and jackets, while he lives on at the main house, zipping around town in the family’s Volvo SUV, and taking out cash when needed from his dad’s ATM card. At first, he finds it liberating — eating a mound of chicken nuggets, endless pizzas, and leaving the mess littered around the house, as he attempts to stave off suspicions — but, eventually, he gets lonely, and realizes he prefers their company to being on his own. There’s maliciousness implied in his actions — a frequent shot looking up at John from inside the pit keeps re-establishing the peculiar power dynamic in the family — but nothing happens, it appears, that can’t be taken back. Sisto shoots the film sumptuously, drawing out the beauty of their immaculate house in contrast to the mess it slowly becomes under John’s ambivalence (an idea neatly echoed with the rest of the family down in the bunker, who quickly become filthier and filthier until the mud and grime seems etched into their pores). What conclusions it may draw are difficult to ascertain, in keeping with the nature of the project, but there is the definite sense that the nuclear family, as rigid as the formation may seem, remains a useful tool for healthy emotional growth after all.

In the Earth: Shot in the summer of 2020, in response to the pandemic (director Ben Wheatley explained pre-screening that he wanted a film that “reflected the politics of the times”), the film is loaded with imagery of madness and obsession. Or, you know, what happens to the human mind when it’s forced to stay in place for months at a go. Set in the near future, when a different and even more deadly virus has devastated the planet, the story concerns a scientist named Martin (Joel Fry), who needs to head deep into a boreal forest to find a research lab headed by a former flame (Hayley Squires). He is aided by a guide, a forest ranger named Alma (Ellora Torchia), who takes him on the supposed two-day trek. En route, however, they run into trouble in the form of Zach (Reece Shearsmith), a crazy devotee of the forest gods, and what he believes are their ritualistic demands. Breaking free from him, they arrive at the research lab, only to find similar insanity. Wheatley’s film feels rushed in places, and is violently incoherent in others, but its sense of immediacy is acute. With its characters having plunged into bizarre cryptic conspiracy theories, having plunged deep into the Boreal heart of darkness, and the sense that reality has been splintered, it ends up being a pretty fair summation of current life and times. It might not hold up under much scrutiny years from now, but it could hardly be more of the moment in the meantime.

Sundance goes mostly virtual for this year’s edition, sparing filmgoers the altitude, long waits, standing lines, and panicked eating binges — but also, these things and more that make the festival so damn endearing. In any event, Sundance via living room is still a hell of a lot better than no Sundance. A daily report.

#sweet smell of success #ssos #piers marchant #films #movies #sundance 2021 #virtual film festival #summer of soul #in the earth #john and the hole #coda #censor

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softkuna · 3 years

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Sukuna || Interview || Fic - oc

Part 1

Content ║ Punk!Sukuna x oc. There is a reader version here.

Count ║ 2,626 K

Consider ║ Original Character. Swearing. Female Pronouns.

Creator ║ I swear this will go somewhere, I just enjoy the set up too much. So this is the version with the oc that I have. Her first name is Koyori. I have tagged this so that if you dislike ocs, you can read the other version. But! If you like ocs, hopefully you’ll like her ;v;. I did research on punk fashion, culture, and all which was really interesting. I knew some stuff about it before, but it’s really rich! I hope it’s not too information dense for you guys. Either way, Punk!Sukuna is now my comfort au and writing him is an absolute delight!!

“-didn’t you say the band?”

“Yeah, but this is better.”

“Sure… but what happens if-“

Koyori whipped her head to the man with an indignant, “Excuse me?”

Black flats clacked as she approached her own seat, a matching armchair to the couch. Koyori held a certain command once she walked in, instructing him on where to be, which camera to look at, and what the introduction would be. He listened, admiring how her small frame moved to and fro, fixing up last minute edits on a paper, chattering with who he assumed to be a videographer. It was a whole production. One that was hers. The set itself was practically out of a home décor magazine. It was a general space used across the publisher, but she was born to be there. Deserved to be there. Her calculated glee and deliberate positioning of each member made him feel as though he were looking through a mirror.

The interview process began.

Koyori sat professionally, legs crossed and leaning on the arm of her chair closest to Sukuna. He was unmoving, that slit to his lip curling upwards as the cameras began. She introduced the blog, the channel, her social media handles. With a smile, she introduced herself, “I’m Yama Koyori, and to join me in this special is lead singer of Two Face, the King of Curses – Sukuna.”

The camera panned to his lazy wave, “Yo.” He looked to her, she looked to him and for a moment she thought she saw a flicker of interest. Maybe the man was meant for cameras after all.

Much of his dissertation, Koyori hadn’t even found on her own deep dive into the culture. Sure, the anarchist and nihilistic ideologies were well known to pretty much anyone who would listen, but the deep history and connection between communities was far beyond the surface scratched into.

Koyori leaned forward slightly folding her hands over the arm of the chair, “That was comprehensive. Thanks!” She chuckled, causing the man before her to freeze and thaw with a nod. She continued, “With all of this mention of D.I.Y. culture in punk, let’s talk about Vivienne Westwood.”

Sukuna kept his attention to her profile as she spoke to the camera, catching himself in the glow of her enthusiasm, “On Kings Road in England, she kickstarted the fashion movement into gear. Now, many would think that with a style such as this, it would’ve been hand-me-downs, pins, self-stitching, but contrary to this belief, many of the clothes in her store were expensive. Knock offs circulated, and seeing as much of it did have that hand-done finishing touch, many decided to take tailoring to their own hands…” Not that this was a competition, but Koyori found herself trying to prove his ‘research’ comment wrong. Her ability to scour and exhaust her resources of fashion history is the furnace that kept her going and Koyori would make it well known that she was not to be challenged.

“You’ve answered it already, yeah, I know. I saw the interview,” Koyori’s head tilted to the side, pleasant smile hinting at her trick, “but enlighten me for a second about how your natural style transitioned to what it is on stage. We’ll put up some of the photos taken from last night here,” her hand gestured to some empty space, “You basically turned chiaroscuro and made it a performance. It’s obvious in how each member contrasted with themselves and the stage.”

The chick didn’t even know who he was a week ago, yet somehow watched every interview since the start? An answer tumbled from the tongue readily, “Punk is like a renaissance of music. Like I said before, it tore down the foundations of what was before and built something new out of it.” The words were succinct, but as Koyori’s pretty lashes bat, he was goaded into continuing, “Contrast is important. I like art. I like plays. Just ‘cause it’s punk doesn’t mean I can’t have it look aesthetic? Or is that a word only snobby fashion journalists can use now?”

“Hm. Change ‘journalist’ to ‘vocalist’ and you’re a word away from meeting the requirement,” It was a sour candy treat traded for his lemon warhead.

“Ouch. Miss Blog-Spot here has some sass,” His large frame leaned further into the armrest, cheek resting on that fist.

“Mister Eight-Track here is some a–“

The videographer clapped his hands, “We have sponsors, you know. We can at least censor him.”

It was Sukuna’s time to laugh a loud, hyena-like cackle. A large hand smacked his leather-clad knee. Koyori scrunched her nose again, biting back her tongue from childishly jutting out at him.

“Let me check the tag.”

“What?”

The blogger leaned back, cheekily snapping the shirt as she did so. “Your shirt, can I check the tag? I want to see what its made out of. Also sorry.”

Sukuna blinked twice, mouth stupidly hanging open before he leaned forward, “I’ll allow it.”

“I knew it. It’s American Pima. Thanks for letting me check.”

He missed the shiver her touch gave him as she sat back into her chair.

While the editor and videographer chatted together, Koyori leaned heavily into the back of her chair, poised posture slipping into something more comfortable. Long lashes slid closed and a heavy drag of breath lifted her chest. Sukuna’s eyes trailed along her form, contemplating Eros once more.

He was surprised himself. It was more than just her talent to make him talk - she may have been the first to see him as an opportunity rather than a commodity. ‘Yami Koyori would be the first and last reporter to see me as a meal’ was the thought he had going into this interview. He had every single intention to shut down her buffet, make it apparent that he was not to be dined on by a single soul. Yet, If his dish were ‘opportunity’, hers would be ‘intrigue’. He wanted to devour it, to know its palette and identify its spices. It was a compulsory urge to order, just to see why he craved it in the first place.

“Film the next few concerts. Backstage.”

tags: @lovesakusa

#🐇.oc #⛩.sukuna #⛩.fic #⛩.punk #🍺.jjk #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #sukuna #ryoumen sukuna #sukuna x oc #ryoumen sukuna x oc #jjk x oc #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk fic #jujutsu kaisen fic

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stellar-imagines · 4 years

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[OC] NSFW SCENARIO REQUEST: ❝before we pass.❞

[ Fandom: Kimetsu no Yaiba ] [ Characters: Tomioka Giyuu, Ihei Yukiyo (OC) ]

「Everyone has something they want to do before they died. This was the same for Yukiyo and Giyuu who held feelings for one another.」 [ Ihei Yukiyo’s Biography ]

TOMIOKA GIYUU

Giyuu and Tanjirou were side by side when they stepped into the east past of the forest. The four Demon Slayers, Yukiyo, Miwa, Tanjirou and Giyuu were entasked with investigating a village from where the Demon Slayer Corps have received reports from. The reports include details of the mysterious incidents happening in the forest by the village. They had separated themselves into two groups as there were two different demons lurking somewhere within the forest, far from each other. The burgundy haired male padded through the forest, following the scent that his nose has picked up, Miwa and Yukiyo's scent.

The reason to why the two males were rushing was the fact they didn't hear any sort of response from the two girls when they called out. Giyuu was somewhat relieved to find the two girls had defeated the demon but was worried when he finds them injured all over. He was more concerned for Yukiyo who was laying on the ground, bleeding profusely as Miwa tried to contain the blood. Giyuu quickly looked over Yukiyo's wounds and did all he could to patch it up. Tanjirou and Miwa left to find a place where they all could stay. The people from the village were more than happy to give them what they needed, using this opportunity to thank the Demon Slayers.

That was a night ago. Miwa woke up next to Yukiyo who was being watched over by Giyuu.

"Where's Tanjirou?" Miwa finds herself asking.

"He's outside." Giyuu said and with that, Miwa excused herself and left.

Giyuu finds himself staring out at the window to see that Miwa had found Tanjirou. He watched as the two exchanged words until Miwa starts crying, only to be comforted by the burgundy haired male who pulled the crying girl into a hug and patted her back. The sight somehow reminded him of the past, mainly when he and Yukiyo were younger. As he stares at Yukiyo, his eyes landed on her short hair. He clearly remembered when she suddenly showed up with a new hairstyle.

There were rumors about her supposed sexual promiscuity but even after cutting her hair, she still drew attention, which makes her uncomfortable and disgusted. He recalls Yukiyo's twin, Kiyoko, saying things about how pretty her hair was. Giyuu completely agrees with that but he never understood why people thought Yukiro was promiscuous. While he was too busy reminiscing the past, Giyuu failed to notice that Yukiyo has woken up. The girl lets loud a groan, taking time to digest the current situation. Her eyes were blown wide when she remembered what happened.

"Where's Miwa?!" she looked at Giyuu in panic.

"Don't worry, she's fine."

"That's nice to hear. I'm glad that I was able to protect someone properly." Yukiyo had this pensive look on her face that Giyuu did not miss.

Giyuu decided to leave her and call Aoi to have a look at your condition. It took 3 whole days for Yukiyo to recover from her injuries and she was given a break. On the break, she decides to put up a report of her latest mission in her estate. The sliding doors that led to the engawa were wide open, allowing the moonlight to illuminate the room she was in. Yukiyo stopped writing, putting down the brush and letting out a sigh. Giyuu slid the doors close and switched on the lantern.

"What's wrong?" he asked, watching as Yukiyo put away her papers.

"I just.....don't want the same happening again. Just like when I was with Shinobu." she replied sadly. The guy knew that it was a sensitive topic to her because she blamed herself for not being able to do anything about that. For days, Yukiyo blamed herself for being weak and trained herself. She had been fighting together with the Insect Pillar against the Upper Moon 2. In the heat of the battle, Yukiyo was knocked off her feet by Doma which caused her to black out for a second.

"Kyojurou too." she added.

"Anyone can die in this battle. Whenever and wherever. Death is unpredictable, it comes all of a sudden. I wonder, if Kyojurou and Shinobu has a goal. No...." she shook her head.

"I wonder if they had something they wanted to do before they died." she continued, fiddling with her fingers.

"How about you? Is there something you want to do before you die?" Yukiyo questioned.

"Something that I want to do?" Giyuu finds himself muttering.

He faintly recalled having a similar conversation with you, your late sister and Sabito when you were both much younger. Something that he had always wanted to do before he died, what he would do once the fight with Muzan and when the world is finally free from demons. Giyuu leans forward. How long has he been bottling these feelings of his? Did he deserve someone as amazing as Yukiyo? He needed to tell her. How much he treasured her, what kind of things he would do for her, everything. But his body moves faster than his mind. And before he realizes it, he was kissing the girl of his dreams.

She wonders if this was what Giyuu wanted to do before he died. Yukiyo didn't realize how long she had bottled her own feelings she had for Giyuu. It was as if the world froze around her because she suddenly forgot the threat of demons. Her eyelids fell shut, letting her body succumb to the sensation of being held and loved like this.

"Sorry, I should've....." he mutters. The words were at the tip of his tongue and he scolded himself for giving into the urge of kissing the girl in front of him. Giyuu pulled back. Yukiyo understood that he wanted to tell her that he loves her. Yukiyo grabs Giyuu by the sides of his face and kisses him passionately as if to respond to his confession. They both end up falling on the ground and when they separate, she hugs him.

"You were never good with words. But, I still love you."

There was a moment of silence before Yukiyo spoke up.

"It's probably a bit selfish of me.....But before I die, there's something I want to do with you."

Time moved so slow afterwards, every single kiss he left on Yukiyo's skin and every single touch they left on each other's skin felt like a drug that they didn't want to stop consuming. The two had somehow, magically, wound up in the bedroom with Yukiyo laying on the comfort of her futon. Their haoris were carelessly thrown to the side when they entered the room and next to go were uniforms. When Giyuu got down on his knees and slung her legs over his shoulder, Yukiyo gripped onto the sheets of her futon and braced herself.

She tried hard not to be too loud. Even though there shouldn't be anyone around at this time of day in her estate, she thought that it would be a bit embarrassing. But every time Giyuu's fingers brushed against her skin, felt like he was leaving a trail of fire along with it. A gentle flame that didn't burn her but instead, it warmed her and lulled her into a sense of security. Yukiyo settled her hands within his messy hair when she felt his tongue slide across her clit. her walls instantly started to clench around his fingers.

"You're tight, Yukiyo." Giyuu grunts, pushing his fingers deeper inside the girl.

"Ahh.....wait, don't push in so quickly." she moans softly.

Giyuu watched her every reaction as he tried new methods to earn something out of the girl. Yukiyo finds herself being overwhelmed with love and lust. Her breathing quickened along with the pace of the water Hashira's fingers. Her hips started to rock with his fingers and she calls his name between pants. When she felt the knot inside her stomach tighten, she gripped onto Giyuu's wrist who seemed to stop moving his fingers. The male slid his fingers out and let out a breath that he, himself, didn't even realize he was holding in. As much as he wanted to cum all over his fingers, his raging erection spoke otherwise.

The sound of fabric rustling caught her attention and it made Yukiyo realize what was about to happen. Despite being the one who started all of this, she was starting to feel a bit insecure. No words were exchanged when she felt Giyuu's cock rubbing against her folds. It was really happening and yet, she was unable to say anything. Her expression was a mess and she was unsure what she was supposed to feel at this point. Yukiyo was overwhelmed with joy, fear and embarrassment. Giyuu drew her attention back on him by cupping her cheek in his hand. He pushed in slowly, paying close attention to Yukiyo's expression.

"You okay?" Giyuu moved his hips when Yukiyo seemed to be moaning in pleasure instead of whimpering in pain like she did earlier.

"Yeah....Feels weird though...." the girl nods in response. It was like a dream honestly. There were insects chirping in the background, reminding the girl that it was night time. The pain subsided faster than she had expected.

When she opened her eyes and looked at Giyuu, she took a moment to admire his determination and the love swimming in his eyes. Every inch of his cock was pounding inside of her, robbing her sense of reason and her ability to speak. It took her all she had to not lose her mind. There was a sudden burst in his movements as if her soft mewling and moans spurred him on. She let out a whine when Giyuu pulled his cock halfway our before sinking it back in. The lewd, wet sound her cunt made was just too much. Yukiyo pulls the male closer, burying her face onto his neck.

"Giyuu!" she cried out, her voice muffled by the male's skin.

"Yukiyo....." Giyuu laced his fingers between Yukiyo's and eventually got lost in pleasure. He hisses, fastening his pace and relishing the way her walls clenched around his cock. Her orgasm built up even faster when his fingers began rubbing her clit. She saw her vision blur a bit, and at that moment, she was certain that she was gonna reach her end soon. Giyuu on the other hand, had his attention fixated on the feeling of her cunt walls squeezing his dick and let out a growl when his own orgasm hit.

He quickly pulled himself out of her and Yukiyo turned to the side, trying to regain her breath. Before she could properly process what had happened, she felt a warm substance just below her stomach, mostly on her thighs. Giyuu left the girl to rest while he went to refresh himself and retrieve a few items. When he returned, he was surprised to see that the girl laid still in the same position without any clothes on. He must've tired her out. Giyuu took responsibility and cleaned her up. The feeling of the warm rag against her skin stirred the girl awake. Yukiyo blinks a few times before sitting up. The water pillar offers her a glass of water with a small hum.

"When do you think this whole thing will end?" Yukiyo suddenly mutters as she takes the cup of water from Giyuu.

"Who knows?" Giyuu says in response, following the girl's gaze which was fixated on the moon.

Both only hoped that it would be soon. They had a lot of things they wanted to do together. Yukiyo's fingers twitched when he felt Giyuu's fingers brushed against hers. The two of them held hands as they watched the moon.

"I hope it all ends soon."

Giyuu had muttered those words to himself.

Total: 1966 words Published: 28.07.2020

Thank you for requesting! ｡٩(ˊᗜˋ)و*｡ We’ve actually, never typed for an OC before. Mainly because we don’t have our own OCs. Sorry that it took us forever to finish this. It’s been 3 months?? ― author Lou

Thank you for requesting! We’ve been super busy with our assignments and whatnot. It has been 3 months since we received this request and honestly, we’ve came to realize how bad we are with smut. But we hope you liked it. ― author Natsuki

Requests are closed for now! Matchups are closed!

#stellar-imagines #kny:tomioka giyuu #oc:ihei yukiyo #giyuu x oc #smut #tomioka giyuu x oc #kny imagines #kny x reader #kny headcanons #Kimetsu no Yaiba #kimetsu no yaiba scenarios #kimetsu no yaiba headcanons #kimetsu no yaiba imagines #demon slayer #demon slayer scenarios #demon slayer imagines #fanfic

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paperbagpetrichor · 4 years

Note

How about the Stardust Crusaders + Iggy (if you can) with a stand user with powers similar to panty/stocking from panty and stocking with garterbelt (can turn their clothes into weapons, for example, their panties into a gun or stockings into a sword)

[ I really loved this idea and enjoy writing fight scenes, so this wound up being super long. I apologize! ]

Things weren’t looking good.

The day had started off fine. The Speedwagon Foundation had flown in and delivered what was prefaced to be a ‘badly-mannered’ stand user to assist the group in their fight against Dio. And then Polnareff had decided to go poking around, once the door to the back of the helicopter was opened, shooting taunts and questioning if there really was anyone there at all, teasing that whoever it was, they had to be small, or scared, or in other words the complete opposite of what their group needed now, but something black and white and fuzzy had leapt onto his face, furiously ripping out chunks of Polnareff’s beloved hair and farting straight in his face, while Kakyoin, you, and Jotaro exchanged confused looks (or at least as confused as you’d ever seen Jotaro - you were still fairly new to the group, but somehow you’d managed to gather the conclusion that Jotaro wasn’t the most expressive of men) as Joseph explained that Avdol had found the dog. The stand-using dog. Reasonably enough everyone but Polnareff was relatively alright with this idea. As the aircraft took off, the six - seven, if you included Iggy - of you drove off, only to come to an abrupt halt just a while later at the site of that same helicopter from earlier.

Except now it was in the ground, and the people flying it were either dead or dying. You cringed as the last one died but simultaneously caught a thought right as the others confirmed it: this was the work of a stand user. One that none of you knew the location of. Unfortunate, that. But you were determined to figure it out, whatever it took, running through possible plans only for the water to spring up and catch Kakyoin in the eyes, slamming him back against the now-tilted car with a groan of pain. Polnareff raced to help him and you cursed. There wasn’t any time to waste here.

Something bulky wouldn’t do here. You needed something that could slash, move quickly and hit precisely, albeit something ranged, unless you wanted to end up like your red-headed friend. A bit of weight would be necessary unless you simply wanted to stun the enemy, too. With a final thought, as the rest prepared themselves, readying their stands at their sides, you did more or less the same, save for one key detail: whereas their stands were separate entities entirely, yours was already on you. The small floral clips in your hair lifted off and flew to your hand, shifting from an innocent accessory to small throwing knives in mere seconds. As Joseph wrangled Polnareff and Kakyoin - the two farthest away from the car, and the two main targets of the stand - to the top of the car, you got ready to climb on, only to watch as the water continued towards the car. You shot your first two, hitting the strange stand and slowing it for a moment, distracting it with the noise of the blades crashing against the sand, before hopping into the car as it appeared to evaporate. Retrieving your weapons, you ensured everyone was inside before speeding apart.

“Attacks through sound - vibrations of the sand. Can go anywhere and come up anywhere. User not spotted, probably highly ranged,” you repeated the information all of you had gathered aloud as the car raced across the ground. Polnareff was checking over Kakyoin; the others kept their eyes peeled on the outside, ready to alert you to fight should the stand re-emerge. Thankfully you managed to catch a moment to spare. And then you lost it. The water was already tilting the car before you had time to think. Everyone caught a grip on the automobile - even you as, with a grunt, you transformed a sock into an icepick and stabbed the sunroof, finding nowhere else to cling to - only for Iggy to jump off. Instantly you had an army of throwing knives and darts at your side, depleting the entirety of your hairpins into the small, compact weapons. You’d at least hoped the dog would be smart enough to not get you all killed.

Those hopes were, of course, dashed, as the rest of you found yourself aboard a ship sinking into the ocean, or rather a car sinking into the sand. You sprung upon your icepick and grabbed a hold of the back of the car while the others did the same, only for a few moments of quiet.

This time, when the water attacked, you were ready. When it sliced the tires, you managed to slow its pace by throwing your darts right through it, the metal-tipped edges forcing the liquid to spray back, away from the car, confusing the stand enough for your group to hit the ground at the same time, the stand temporarily distracted before vanishing entirely. Your darts flew back and you readied them without a sound. Regardless of how unfocused the stand may have gotten, it had certainly heard the six of you land roughly on the ground. Time to go for round two: new strategy: bring out the big guns. Your thigh-high socks formed into the heaviest but most functional weapons you could think of in the moment, two bulky oversized rifles, which you promptly threw down a few feet to your sides, the force of your arms and still-transforming guns proving strong and unfinished enough to break into two, four total, now fully-fledged, and as the heavier ends sent sand flying up into the air while the lighter ones hit the ground with just as much force, you prayed it would be enough to fool, or at least disorient, the enemy. “Nobody move.”

That was the problem: there were six of you, and you’d only created four diversions. At any moment, two of you (at the minimum, depending on the success of your plan) could be attacked. With the darts and knives still ready, you didn’t have enough material left to create anything remotely massive enough to throw in place of a human dummy, unless you wanted to lose your undergarments. Avdol had your back. His ring trick had seemed to work perfectly, and he summoned Magician’s Red right as the water reappeared, only for the stand to turn around and pinpoint Avdol as its target. Crap. No wonder - five footsteps. It wouldn’t have made any sense if one of you randomly decided to start walking, only to stop so abruptly. Just as it darted towards Avdol, your darts sprayed the liquid apart, and you threw a piece of the rifle beside you to the ground right as Avdol stumbled back, incapable of covering his steps but crashing right in tandem with the man. There was still a chance he’d be targeted again, but at least now the odds were equally split. Nevertheless the man must’ve been hit. Instead of landing on his feet, he crashed backwards, blood spattering from his neck only for the stand to emerge its true self. Jotaro darted after it, and grabbed Iggy on his way, eliciting a glare from you at his sudden movements. Great, now you had more work to do. You called back your weapons - they had already performed their business - after reminding everyone to not move. With a flick of your wrist they transformed into javelins. Despite your own orders, you took off after him, falling into step with Jotaro so as to create only one noise together, masking it by spreading your spears into the ground a safe distance away, creating two different paths. You were careful to keep the javelins at an uneven pace, always hitting as you and Jotaro took steps in tandem, but adding another every now and then to maintain the illusion that two people were on one path rather than one. From what you knew of the stand users you’d encountered so far, they’d likely go for the larger opportunity rather than a single person.

Before you knew it Iggy’s stand had emerged and both he and Jotaro were airborne. You understood it now: Iggy was going to lead Jotaro to the stand user. And you were going to follow. You quickened your pace and the rate at which you threw your distractions, keeping just a few feet behind Jotaro should the enemy discover your tricks, watching with hitched breath as The Fool began to sink. Knowing Jotaro, he was going to pull something. He was effectively trapped if he didn’t do anything. He cast a glance over his shoulder at you, and you nodded back, preparing yourself. The instant his foot pushed him off the ground one of your javelins landed six feet off from his position with enough force to imitate a kick of a footstep. Joseph’s voice was the only thing that stopped you from following: Jotaro was the only one who could finish the stand user off. And this offered you yet another opportunity.

Silently, you stood, still and stiff as a board, before sprinting back to the group. If someone was to start running, the enemy’s concentration would have to be split from Jotaro to monitoring the other movement, too. Again, though, it was only a fifty-fifty shot. Your spears hit the ground feet from you right as your feet hit the ground, racing back to the group, only to reverse their direction once you were at the halfway point. If you were careful, you could at least lead the stand user away from the group. This would give you some time to help Kakyoin and Avdol recover along with Joseph and Polnareff. They were so close now.

And then water sprung up like a wave in front of you.

You cursed. If you wanted to defeat the enemy, you had to recall your weapons and force them into something more powerful. This meant your footsteps wouldn’t be covered. But if you didn’t try, you were doomed. You called for your stand and morphed the mass of everything you had into a long, curved sword. If you could get a few hits in, you could at least divert the attacks, without letting them get near the others. You feigned left and the water followed, only for your feet to leave the ground in a jump to the side and manage to slice through the water. Just as quickly as you had managed your attack, however, the enemy struck your dominant arm, which held the sword, cutting deep. You fought back a screech of pain and switched arms. There wasn’t a chance that you would be as powerful wielding it in your other hand, but you had to buy time. With a small sigh you shortened your blade and formed some more darts, hitting the ground away from the others in a desperate attempt to mislead the enemy, but by now the stand had managed to discover your tricks. A gun, although most likely to cause more hit damage, was risky, especially if it had a powerful recoil, which would easily alert the enemy stand both through the noise of the fire and your steps back to counterbalance it. Just as you struck out once more with your sword, the water suddenly disappeared, just as quickly as it had come. Nevertheless you remained motionless and cast a warning gaze to the others. This didn’t guarantee Jotaro had finished off the stand user, especially since the stand could disappear at any moment it chose. But you didn’t have much of a choice besides moving. As quickly and lightly as you could go, you made your way back to the car, helping to carry Avdol and the barely-conscious Kakyoin inside before stationing yourself above the now caved-in sunroof. If something went awry, you were prepared.

But nothing did.

You met up with Jotaro and Iggy, both of whom were panting, and got them into the car. Jotaro explained the defeat of the enemy, and everyone conscious let out a sigh of relief.

“I couldn’t have done it without [y/n].”

Your ears perked up at Jotaro’s mention of your name. “No kidding. She had you covered the entire time,” agreed Polnareff, casting a nod of approval in your direction.

Joseph leaned back and sighed, adjusting his hat and casting Jotaro a reprimanding but nevertheless warm gaze, grateful that his grandson was still here despite his arguably reckless behavior. “Thank you.”

“We’re lucky to have you.” Even Avdol, still bleeding, congratulated you.

Your face flushed at their compliments, but nevertheless you shook your head, prioritizing. “A celebration can wait. We need to get Avdol and Kakyoin help.”

Joseph nodded. “And this time, we’re not going to be followed.”

You could only pray he was right.

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hedwigstalons · 4 years

Text

High Expectations - Ch17

This was meant to be a fic about Gordon but as I get further through the timeline the other brothers start waving more and pointing out that they are an important part of this and should be considered too. Alan has been feeling a bit left out and wants some attention.

Thanks to @willow-salix for her amazing editorial skills and ‘quick chats’ that are somehow never very quick.

Earlier parts: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen,

AO3 chapter link

Chapter Seventeen

If Gordon’s journey out to Marineville for officer selection had been different to his first visit to the base it was nothing compared to the contrast of the journey home. This time his journey north had needed no furtive sneaking off, no cover stories and no lies. There had still been plenty of butterflies in anticipation of the trials ahead but he had faced those trials with the blessing and support of his family. His father had even travelled to the airport with him rather than entrusting him solely to a driver.

The journey south, however, was accompanied by butterflies an order of magnitude greater.

As he exited Marineville to board the bus back to the airport it was impossible to miss the imposing hire car in the visitors’ parking lot or the even more imposing man stood next to it. So far he had managed to maintain a level of anonymity but as he left the cluster of participants he was acutely aware of the whisperings behind him. He ignored the mutterings and strode over to his father, his head held high, it didn’t matter if they worked out who he was now, he knew he had earned his place on his own merits.

“So Gordon, how did it go?” There was still that look of pre-emptive sternness, as though Jeff was waiting to receive another mediocre report card.

Gordon couldn’t stop the grin that flashed across his face or the air of cocky smugness, he was riding the wave of success again and it felt good. “Aced it. The standard was a lot higher and only about a third of us got through but when the next intake comes around you are looking at the newest recruit to WASP.”

The sternness dropped away and was replaced by the look of pride Gordon had seen directed at his brothers far more than himself. “Good, son. You can tell me about it on the journey home.”

As they headed away from the base Gordon recounted the tests and challenges he had faced. For Jeff it was like having a much younger Gordon back, the one who had regaled him with tales of race wins and given blow by blow accounts of dives, turns and sprint finishes. His fourth son spoke freely and animatedly in a way he hadn’t heard for years and Jeff realised just how much of his sons’ lives, all of them, he had missed out on by burying himself in his work and leaving the boys to fend for themselves. He was trying to be more involved again, to listen to them, but his sons had gotten used to existing without him around. All too often he’d come in to hear Gordon ending a call to one of the others, usually Virgil, or arrive home just as Alan was finishing telling Gordon about his day. He rarely got to hear their news now and was almost never the first to be told; it didn’t make it any easier knowing this was a situation of his own making.

Jeff drove them, not to the main Marineville airport, but to a much smaller private air strip just out of town. As they turned off the route being followed by the shuttle bus Gordon kicked himself for not realising sooner that they wouldn’t be on the regular flight. Of course they wouldn’t, his father hadn’t taken a scheduled flight in years.

As they entered the cockpit of the jet Jeff slipped into the co-pilot’s position leaving the main pilot’s seat for Gordon. It had been an intensive few months going from minimal experience at the controls through to being able to take charge of the family jet. His swimming training had always prevented him from experiencing this part of the family education before but now his time in the skies had him thrown in at the metaphorical deep end in the race to get qualified before starting WASP training. Scott of course had gained his private licence on his seventeenth birthday, desperate to achieve official recognition at the earliest possible moment, and Virgil and John hadn’t been much older than the official minimum themselves. Gordon’s dedication had been tested as he crammed in what the others had spent years learning gradually.

This was where the butterflies came in.

He still wasn’t yet able to fly unaccompanied but he was getting closer. Today though it seemed he was to be tested to a whole new level. A two hour flight down the coast, taking off from an unfamiliar runway, was a jump up from the short flights he had taken until now. To make that leap while utterly exhausted following a gruelling three day selection course was perhaps a step too far.

He looked to his father for confirmation that this really was what was expected of him and received only a silent nod in return but if there was one element of being a Tracy that Gordon had truly mastered it was not backing down from a challenge. He pushed the tiredness away, buried the self-doubt with it, and with Jeff next to him scrutinising his every move he requested permission from the tower and taxied out onto the runway.

Jeff stayed silent as Gordon completed the maneuver. He watched the precise and controlled movements his son made, finding little to pick fault with despite watching with a highly critical eye. He knew Gordon must be desperate for his bed, the dark bags under his eyes a testament to what his body had been subjected to, but he needed to be sure his son would be capable of rising to a challenge. Now that he knew Gordon had been accepted into WASP and would receive rigorous training on all manner of submersibles his son changed status from dependent child to potential rescue operative.

He had already started considering the possibilities of expanding the scope of his organisation to include water rescues, indeed he already had the first concept sketches for a submarine, but for that to become a reality he needed an aquanaut. Being accepted into WASP was a start but until Gordon held both his pilot's licenses, for both up in the sky and under the waves, Jeff wasn’t yet ready to consider his fourth son as a full part of his vision and so for now he was content to watch, and wait, and plan, leaving Gordon ignorant of his ideas.

xoxoxox

Barely a week after the selection course the letter arrived confirming what Gordon had already been told at the end of the trials, that he would be joining the next officer training intake. Even though the contents of the letter were no surprise it was still reassuring to see it in black and white, indisputable proof that WASP had confidence in him and that his future path was set.

“So, when do you start?” Jeff asked across the dinner table.

“Huh?” Gordon snapped his head up in surprise, he had been oblivious to the room around him as he read the letter through several times, drinking in the validation it gave him while butterflies fluttered in his stomach at the prospect of actually going off and doing it. “Oh, um, beginning of July, then it’s…”

He didn’t get any further. The scrape of chair and the clatter of discarded cutlery cut him off as Alan flew from the room and disappeared down the hallway, the slam of a bedroom door confirming where he had gone to ground. Jeff sighed and half rose from the table, his expression showing anger at the rudeness of the departed teen, but Gordon waved him down.

“No, I’ll deal with this.”

Gordon had been sensing the impending storm ever since he got back from Marineville. Amongst the congratulations of the family one voice had been noticeably absent and it seemed that the official confirmation letter was all that had been needed to bring it to a head. The last thing he needed was for their father to make a difficult situation worse by laying down the law.

Alan’s room was the typical teenage mess. Clothes lay discarded on the floor and various electronics were piled on surfaces next to empty water glasses but in amongst all the mess it was clear where his passions lay. It was like wandering into an untidier version of John’s room. Star maps adorned the walls and there was a model rocket that Gordon had every confidence could make it into space if that was how Alan had designed it. The difference between this room and the usually unoccupied one next door, apart from the mess, were the newspaper cuttings, article print outs and piles of Olympic memorabilia that vied for space with the astronomical paraphernalia. Dotted around the room was evidence of a devotion to Gordon and the swimmer was sure you could piece together the story of his sporting career if only you took the time to collate the collection.

“Alan…”

“Leave me alone, it’s what you’re going to do anyway.” The voice was muffled, smothered by the pillow in which Alan was buried face down.

“Alan, please, talk to me.” Gordon picked his way carefully across the room and sat on the edge of the bed next to the sprawled figure. The only answer he got was a choked sob and he felt a wave of guilt at the upset his brother was feeling.

“I hate it here. I hate it. I hate it.” Alan sat up and glared at his brother, there was venom in the voice as anger crept in around the upset. “Everyone gets to leave and I’m going to be stuck here on my own. Maybe Virgil will add me to his pity list and call me cos you sure as hell won’t have the time. I don’t want to be his next pet project and charity case though.”

Alan’s words cut deep, as he had intended them to, and Gordon found himself wondering if that was all he’d been to Virgil, a project to feed Virgil’s desire to help people. Surely not? The friendship and growing bond between them felt real enough but the familiar doubts began to creep in about his self worth. He tried to shake them off, knowing the dark places such thoughts could lead him to.

“That’s if Virg can even make time for me in his busy schedule once he goes off to Tracy College. Why the hell does he need to get space rated anyway? He’s never shown any interest in being an astronaut before. Fine, John’s pretty much had his name down for the space programme since birth but why does Virgil get to go too?”

So that explained the animosity towards Virgil, Alan was harbouring a deep jealousy that he was getting to do something that was Alan’s own dream. The youngest Tracy had always made it clear that he would be the third of that name to head into space after his father and middle brother and yet here was Virgil taking his spot, seemingly on a whim. This, coupled with the growing bond between Gordon and Virgil, had evidently ignited a burning resentment.

A shuddering breath wracked the Alan’s body as the primary reason for his upset flooded back into his mind. “I..I don’t want you to go.”

Whatever the issues were with Virgil, Gordon couldn’t shy away from the fact that he had been slowly drifting away from Alan to set up a new life. He had been Alan’s primary source of company for so long, had been a confidante and carer to the younger boy, and now he was heading off leaving Alan facing a future of loneliness. Their father was trying to be more involved but he was still a virtual stranger in Alan’s life and had a lot to learn about parenting teenagers.

He wanted to let Alan know that it would all be ok. Wanted to tell him that soon enough he would be out of this hateful city and in a place where their father and at least some of his brothers would be around a lot more. He wanted to tell him about the rockets and the space station and everything that he knew would ignite his little brother’s passion. But he couldn’t. Even if their father hadn’t expressly forbidden it there was still a fundamental issue in that the island wasn’t actually theirs yet and until the deeds were signed and move confirmed he just couldn’t plant the seeds of the dream in Alan’s mind if there was any chance of the dream crashing down. Instead he had to make do with platitudes that must have felt empty to the devastated teen.

“It’ll be ok, you’ll see.”

“Will it?” The words were spat at him.

“It will; trust me on this. I’m not going anywhere for a little while yet and I’ll still be able to call, I’m going to be at Marineville not Mars. Those first 6 month of training will be pretty intense but I’ll still get some time off.”

“And what about after that? What about when you aren’t at Marineville but you’re getting sent all over the place like Scott does? You won’t be able to just pick up the phone or head back for a weekend if you’re under water on the other side of the world. You may as well be on Mars then.”

Gordon slung an arm around his younger sibling, drawing that smaller form into a hug. He half expected Alan to pull away but he took it as a good sign that the anger was burning out when Alan acquiesced and leaned in heavily against him.

Alan felt like his whole world was dropping away. Of course he had known this moment would come but the arrival of the letter had just hammered home the inevitability of the situation. He felt angry at Gordon, angry at their father and more than a little angry at himself. He was fifteen for goodness sake, he shouldn’t be needing hugs from his big brother, but he still didn’t pull away from that warm hold. There was something comforting about those strong arms, honed through years of hard exercise, that made him feel safe and with that feeling of safety came the assurance of familial love. He clung to it, knowing that all too soon his last brother would be leaving just like the others had; his big family had run out, he was the last and he would be alone.

Of course he had been alone before, Gordon had been away enough times at competitions that he was capable of fending for himself but this time was different. This wasn’t just a few days with the excitement of following the swimming results to keep him occupied, this was a whole new future and he was facing the prospect of being alone with the father who seemed barely aware of his existence. The next few years stretched bleakly ahead of him leaving a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“None of us know what the future holds but even when I’m not here you aren’t going to be on your own. You’ve got four big brothers and we all care about you, you will always be able to get hold of one of us. I need to do this though, Al. If it wasn’t Marineville it would have been college somewhere and it won’t be much longer before you’re choosing what you want to do with your future too.”

There was a damp sniff. “Gonna miss you.” The admission was a quiet whisper but it stabbed deeply into Gordon’s heart.

“Gonna miss you too, Sprout”

They sat there a while longer, each lost to their silent thoughts but still needing that physical contact. Gordon sincerely hoped it would be okay. He’d been so focussed on his own future and excited about the prospect of a fresh start and fresh challenges that he hadn’t fully considered what he would be leaving behind, or rather who he would be leaving behind. He had been looking out for Alan for nearly five years and now he would be leaving. Alan’s whole life had been punctuated by loss as first his mother, and then the brothers who had stepped up in her place, disappeared one by one. Now he would be adding another loss to the pile leaving Alan behind with just the father who had been far too distant for far too long.

#High Expectations #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #military selection #abandonment #loss #loneliness

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certifiedmoth · 5 years

Text

Parent’s Night In

Dad!Michael x Reader

Summary: Michael and Y/N finally get the house to themselves for one night while their kids are away

Notes: This is really sweet and fluffy!! I could write about dad!michael for the rest of my life (and I just might, oops), also - michael’s kids don’t actually make an appearance in this fic, so it’s not really michael being a dad, it’s more about what mikey & y/n get up to when the kids aren’t there ... anyways, enjoy! ♥ (gif credit to @lngdns)

Warnings: Smut (unprotected sex, light choking, cum eating), light daddy/mommy kink, light breeding kink, lmao i’m ridiculous i’m like “it’s FLUFFY” and then proceed to list my warnings like BREEDING KINK, CHOKING

Word Count: 7.3K

___

Sighing from exhaustion, Michael’s fingertips curled around the ornate door handle, opening the large mahogany door to his secluded and private home in the sanctuary. Expecting to hear the familiar and entertaining sounds of chaos fill the air, the devil’s son was instead greeted by silence. He couldn’t remember a time when his house had been so quiet and still. Since the arrival of his little ones, movement and noise seemed to fill every grand hallway and room. Their infectious laughter and the pitter patter of their tiny feet echoed throughout the large contemporary-style home at all times of the day. What was once a quiet paradise shared between him and his lover, quickly grew into a home overflowing with love.

It had been years since you and Michael had decided to finally start a family. It was much too big of a house for just the two of you, Michael had pointed out one afternoon while walking through the gardens in the large estate with your hand held gently in his. With the sun almost setting, it had gleamed against his golden hair and turned his eyes into blue pools of liquid crystal, making him look almost godlike. If you hadn’t known better, you might have thought he was an angel.

“You know, my love… As much as I’d love to hide away here with you forever,” his strong arms found their way around your waist, pulling you against his warm body. “This place might look a lot nicer with some little ones running around.”

That night, Michael had promised to put life inside of you. Loving touches and sweet moans filled the air as your bodies moved passionately together beneath the sheets; the two of you intertwined and inseparable without a care in the world. In your blissful state, you would have stayed that way forever if it weren’t for the chirping of birds outside, reminding you a new day had arrived. The stars had vanished and the sun had crept its way into the sky once more, Michael’s promise being fulfilled as he placed gentle kisses to your bare stomach, whispering, “This is the beginning of everything, my love.”

Over time, the two of you eventually grew into five and upon reflection, you both thought you were crazy for putting off being parents for such a long time. So much love and joy came into your lives with each pregnancy and each new addition to the family. Michael loved being a father and you loved being a mother. Your family meant everything to the both of you.

Shortly after the birth of your last child, the two of you laid under mountains of blankets in your four-poster bed laughing at the fact that you were somehow finally outnumbered. Three children and only two of you. Michael had sat up against the antique headboard and crossed his hands behind his head, leaning back cockily while muttering a nonchalant, “I can handle it.”

Memories of previous fiascoes involving Michael as a parent all filled your mind as you squinted up at him. He had once spilled a bottle of milk all over himself, the black of his designer coat drenched in the white substance. And not to mention, the very first time he ever changed a diaper – It was something he definitely did not like reminiscing about. And who could forget the time he trudged through the house, looking utterly exhausted as two squealing toddlers hung to each of his legs? The memories brought a smile to your already laughing face as you pat his thigh condescendingly and spoke in a mocking tone, “Okay, sure, papa bear.”

But years later, he showed that he genuinely could handle it. He never once faltered as a father, or a husband, for that matter. Always loving and attentive to each and every one of his babies needs – including yours.

Michael stood still in the grand entryway, his brows knitting together as he took in the silence of his once noisy home. “Y/N?” he yelled loudly, hoping to hear your angelic voice ring throughout the halls. “Hello?” His graceful legs carried him away from the front door, only to pick up a stuffed animal that had been thrown on the ground from earlier. His boots echoed throughout the house as he walked into the living room, noticing how still the air was. His long fingers fidgeted with the plush cat before exhaling a discontent sigh and discarding it on the couch.

“Hello…?” his voice, which now carried a slight tone of agitation, rang throughout the house as he considered where his loved ones could be. A kiss from his wife or a hug from one of his babies would have been really appreciated after the long day he had. It became apparent to Michael earlier that he worked with a bunch of non-deserving imbeciles who seemingly forgot who Michael was and what he was capable of. Certain individuals had decided upon themselves to question Michael’s way of running things, even challenging him in front of the board. And he might have had to put a couple of people in their place – in his own particularly cruel and satisfying way. The silence that ensued was quite enjoyable on his end. However, the silence he heard now in his own house did nothing to soothe his nerves. He longed for the sound of his loved ones.

“In here, baby!” Your voice eased his worries as it rang from the kitchen just a couple rooms over. He would never tire of hearing you call him by that name. Every new day as you awoke in bed, you greeted him with a kiss and a small, “morning, baby.” Hearing the pet name come from your lips filled him with an insurmountable amount of love and he wondered every morning just what exactly he had done to deserve you.

Aromatic smells of garlic and basil wafted through the kitchen as he found you with your back turned to him, attending to something on the six-burner stove. His boots clicked loudly against the marble floor, only stopping when the warmth of his chest radiated against your back. “Hm, what’s this? My beautiful wife all by herself?” His arms wove around your waist as he placed a gentle kiss on your bare shoulder. The soft material of his black coat felt comforting as his body wrapped around your tiny frame.

“Not by herself anymore,” your pleased voice rang in his ears as you stopped stirring the boiling pot of water full of homemade pasta. As you put the wooden spoon down and turned your head over your shoulder, you were greeted with blue eyes. The same blue eyes you had fallen in love with all those years ago. “Hi, baby,” you leaned in for a quick kiss, finally greeting the man who possessed your heart.

“Hi, my love,” he whispered as he pulled away, his hand continuing to rub soothing circles on your waist. The over-the-top smile you gave him before turning back to the food on the stove had his own plush lips turning up at the corners. “And… exactly where are my babies?” He questioned, refusing to let go of his hold on you as he squeezed your waist abruptly, enjoying your ticklish body squirming against his own.

“Michael, do not start with that,” you warned unconvincingly as the laughter in your voice betrayed you. “Miriam took them for the night,” you winced as a drop of hot water splashed against your hand. Even with something you loved as much as cooking and had done a million times before, you were still your same clumsy self and it warmed Michael’s heart to see you like this. He mindlessly took your hand in his and placed his lips gently to your skin – his way of making things better. “She practically begged me,” you mumbled, shaking your head. “Said something about ‘missing the youngsters’, I don’t really know,” your shoulders shrugged as you placed bundles of basil in a second pan full of simmering tomatoes.

“Well…” Michael’s voice was smooth like honey as he continued, “Good – As much as I love our little ones, it’s nice to have the place to ourselves for once,” he closed his eyes, breathing in your calming scent. “My love, I’ve missed you…” His delicate fingertips moved your hair away from your neck and he placed a small, but loving kiss there. “Let me go get out of these clothes and then I’m all yours.” His grasp on you finally lets up and the warmth your back grew accustomed to vanishes as his boots clicked once more against the floor.

Watching him walk across the room, you admired the way his tight pants showed off one of his greatest assets and just as if he read your mind, Michael turned his head knowingly to look at you. With his eyes squinted, he purred a quiet “naughty girl” and shot you a wink before swiftly exiting the kitchen.

The silver utensils clinked against one another as you set the table in your dining room for only two that night. Candles flickered in their respective places with the chandelier high above in the air casting a soft glow around its surroundings that turned the atmosphere into an intimate one. The smell of freshly made pasta filled the warm room as it sat in porcelain dishes ready to be devoured. The only thing that seemed to be missing was a special someone to share it with.

“Boo,” a voice whispered right next to your ear causing you to shriek and clutch your chest in shock.

“I hate when you do that!” you scolded your laughing husband who found too much enjoyment in using his transmutation abilities to startle you.

“I know, darling – But you’re just too adorable when frightened like this,” his voice smooth as velvet as he held in his outstretched hand the last thing that was needed for tonight – your favorite cabernet.

“You’re lucky I love you or else I might not want to put up with you,” you grumbled in a joking manner, feigning a small pout as he leaned in to place his lips against your temple, giving it a quick kiss before walking towards your chair and pulling it out.

“Oh hush, you’ll put up with me for eternity, just as I’ll put up with you even after we’re sitting as king and queen in my father’s domain. Now… Please sit, mademoiselle,” he tilted his head towards the plush oxblood and gold chair. The corners of your mouth lifted from the sound of the French word rolling off his tongue. He knew that was one of your weaknesses, the cheeky man. You rolled your eyes at him, slyly mouthing the word “whatever” before finding your place on the soft cushion.

Abruptly, your chair is pushed in as Michael bends down gracefully behind you and places his face close to yours. The warmth of his skin radiates off of your neck as his delicate breath cools the skin there, sending a small shiver down your spine. His stubble, the result of him not shaving for a couple of days, rubs against your skin in a teasing manner and the alluring man whispers lowly, “Now I know you aren’t using the W word with me. What would your children think, hm?”

The scoff that leaves you entertains him like nothing else, “Don’t play the mom card on me!”

“I most certainly will play the mom card on you, my love.” His once amused eyes adopted a feigned innocence and his plush lips turned into an exaggerated pout, “Your children would be so upset about mommy treating daddy like this.”

You shook your head in disbelief and placed your elbow on the rich, thick wood of the dining table, hiding the large grin that was plastered across your face behind your hand, “Just pour the wine.”

His deep and elegant laugh echoed off of the walls as he opened the bottle of red. You admired the muscles in his toned arms tensing as he worked the cork out. This was the Michael you enjoyed most. When he dressed casually, a simple black t-shirt that hugged his chest tightly and sweatpants that once again showed off his perfect physique. His long, golden locks were hung in a loose bun with the occasional strand falling out, framing his handsome face. The red eyeshadow he wore in public still painted the corners of his cerulean eyes and you fell in love all over again. How icy his eyes had looked the first time you met him – but now how warm and inviting they were. The ice in his irises turning to a sizzling fire that burned blue – they never failed to swallow you up whole in the sapphire warmth that they held.

With both of your glasses filled generously, Michael took his place across from you. You noticed he still wore his jewelry from earlier in the day as the rings adorning his slender fingers chimed against the surface of his glass when he picked it up ever so gently to take a sip. Carefully, you watched as he licked his lips of the crimson liquid, his eyes closing shut in a moment of bliss as he savored this moment of peace.

“Are you done staring?” Your face scrunched up at his calm words and the smug look that adorned his face as his eyes then opened and stared amusingly back at you.

“No, I’m not done. I think I’ll stare for a bit longer, is that okay with you?” your tone playful as you stuck the tip of your tongue out at him.

He shook his head as he began eating from the plate in front of him, letting out a small sound of satisfaction as the flavors melted against his tongue. He went to pick up his wine glass again and shot a wink your way, “Tsk tsk, such a trouble maker, you are... This is amazing, by the way, my love.”

His praise warmed your heart as you began eating yourself. “Of course I am… Plus, you’re a trouble maker yourself, Mr. Langdon – you don’t fool me for one bit,” you winked back at him. “You need somebody to match your troublesome ways – Why else would you have married me?” You laughed to yourself, enjoying the familiar banter you and your husband frequently shared in.

“There are a million reasons why I married you, ma chérie. And I’m not trying to fool you,” his eyes showed a dangerous edge to them as they gleamed under the soft light of the room, a devilish grin appearing on his striking face. “Although I do believe you still have me beat, regardless of how troublesome I am, Mrs. Langdon.”

“Whatever you say,” you cheerily sing, the smug look on your face not wavering. The corners of Michael’s lips turned up into a smile as he finally felt relaxed from the stresses of his day.

You both took your time enjoying your meal without the hassle of having to wrangle 3 children under 7 years old to stay still at the table. Dinner time was always nice, but it was usually spent with toys littering every surface and making sure every kid ate enough. To just have each other’s company was a gift – and neither of you took it for granted.

Your dishes found themselves in the sink to be left for later and your wine glasses (and a new bottle) found their place on the glass coffee table in the living room, thanks to Michael’s abilities. When you had offered to have a movie night, Michael replied, in his own affectionate way, by swiftly picking you up and carrying you to the plush, sectional couch where your wine was waiting for you.

“How did you know I’d want to come in here?” You squinted at him while picking up your glass and finishing off what was left in there.

“Darling, even if I couldn’t read your mind, we’ve known each other so long I basically know what you’re thinking at any given time,” he shrugged nonchalantly, pouring some more of the crimson liquid into your neglected glass.

“You said you wouldn’t do that, Mikey.” The nickname he was never fond of. It was juvenile and undermined his power, apparently. You didn’t think that but he had some serious opinions on the matter one very drunk night 5 years ago.

His eyes glanced from your wine glass to your own irises swiftly in a warning manner. “I said I would try not to do that,” he spoke calmly.

“Oh, don’t tell me the big and powerful antichrist can’t fight the urge to read a simple human’s mind,” you pushed further, loving the way his chest puffed out as he was getting riled up but didn’t want to show it.

“Y/N, you know what I’m capable of – perhaps it’s just that I’m not trying my hardest to stop your thoughts from flooding my mind. It is nice, occasionally, hearing your voice more frequently. Although, I can’t say that applies to the present.” Michael looked positively happy with himself as he breathed out a victorious sigh and took his place next to you against the emerald cushion.

Even though you were a pain in his ass, something he was able to joke around with you about, he truly loved how defiant you were – How you were never afraid to challenge him. He was aware of how in love you were with him, so he never worried about your intentions. A younger, more insecure Michael would have broken down at your words. There was so much shame that followed Michael around those days about how needy he was for your love and praise. He needed to know that he was loved always, and if he never received that he would have spiraled. But the Michael who laid next to you tonight was a different man. He knew that he was the only man to cross your mind. The only man to have access to your heart. He never needed to worry that your love for him wasn’t true – He was confident and secure in just how loved he was.

The fireplace lit by itself and some candles nearby as well, casting the room in a dim glow. The air felt warmer and cozier as you two nestled in the comfort of each other. The couch you lay on was big enough for nearly three of your families to enjoy but you and Michael always gravitated towards each other, finding yourselves intertwined and melted into one another.

“Any ideas, love?” Michael questioned while flipping through channels on the large flat screen and absentmindedly playing with your hair. A habit of his you found out early on in your relationship. You swore it calmed him almost as much as it did you – It gave him some type of comfort to rest his hands in your hair and play with the loose strands. It was one of your favorite things that he did. Such a small, but loving act that never failed to soothe you.

“Hm…” your voice trailed off in thought. “I was thinking we could watch the omen?” You joke, noticing the way his hand stills and his face shifts to look down at you – There was no doubt that he was glaring at you. His intimidating appearance did nothing to you though as you knew him better than anyone and knew he would appreciate that joke. The corners of his mouth eventually turn up, betraying him as he fights a smile.

“You know…” Michael starts off with a sigh. “I’m so good to you… I treat you like a goddess, I bring you gifts, I’m a good father, a loving husband… and this is the kind of treatment I get?”

The laugh that erupts from you is contagious as it reverberates off the walls. Michael shakes his head while a soft chuckle falls from his lips. You can feel his chest move as some loose strands of his hair tickle the side of your face. How warm and soft he was and how grateful you were to be held in this man’s arms. And there he was, beside you, feeling as if he was the luckiest man on earth to be able to hold you against him and call you “his”.

“Okay, what about Omen 2?” you ask, looking up at him with mischief in your eyes. The scoff he lets out almost sounds comical. In retaliation, his hands quickly snake around your waist and dig into your skin causing a loud yelp to erupt from you.

“Michael, stop!” you plead between gasps. Your laughter and squeals fill the room and the other man enjoys the way you fight back against him. Michael always loved how ticklish you were; the sadistic side of him rarely ever came out around you, because he loved you too much to cause you any real pain, but he did enjoy the pleasurable suffering that came out of attacking you like this.

“Maybe you should be nicer to me…” His voice a mere whisper as he hummed against your skin while pushing you down onto the couch. You were enveloped in his warmth, his body laying against you possessively. Somehow when you two were alone, things always took a turn, regardless of what you were doing. You never really could seem to keep your hands off of one another. Regardless of your age, you were still two needy teenagers hopelessly in love.

“But if I’m always nice, you might not behave like this…” you purr, nudging your nose against his.

“So, your bad behavior is really just a cry for attention, then?” His face is smug and triumphant – the cocky bastard, you think to yourself. He quirks his eyebrow before placing a small kiss to the corner of your mouth. “No naughty words, mama… You really ought to learn to be nice to daddy.”

You want to continue fighting him, but the more he talks, the more your body melts against his. Your breathing deepens and all that fills your mind is how good his body feels against yours – clothed or not.

“I- I thought I told you to stay out of my head, Langdon,” you manage to get out. Your hands trail down to the small of his back where his shirt has bunched up, revealing a small part of exposed skin. He’s warm to the touch and you can’t help but dig your hands under the band of his sweatpants to feel more of him. He eyes you hungrily while a smirk graces his golden face. Slowly, he leans down close to your ear, his breath hits your skin and it drives you crazy with lust.

“I thought you like it when I’m inside you?” His voice taunts as he notices the chill that runs through you. You can feel his smile against your skin as he takes his time kissing your neck, sucking gently and occasionally leaving small love bites.

“Baby, no marks. We don’t need the kids asking why mommy’s bruised all over,” you remind him.

“Wear a scarf or makeup to cover it. I’m not stopping,” his voice is stern as he bites harshly on your skin before pulling away to place his forehead against yours.

Your breath is shaky with desire and he matches your intensity as you both breathe in each other. You lay there for several moments, neither of you feeling the need to rush or say anything – you simply take your time feeling each other and melting into one another.

He’s the first to move when he places his plump lips gently on yours, holding them there for a second too long. His movements are slow and passionate and it sets your heart ablaze to feel so much love radiating off of him.

“We could make another one, you know…” His voice soft and his hand gentle as it strokes your cheek. The blush that has found its way onto your skin warms his heart as his blue eyes stare down at you longingly. Some lose strands of his golden hair fall around your face and you can feel the metal of his rings grace your cheek as he holds you as if you were a delicate glass figure, capable of breaking at the slightest touch.

“Think you can handle another one?” you whisper.

“I can handle it,” the corners of his lips turn up making you replicate his smile as your mind remembers the exact moment he uttered those same words after the birth of your last child.

All it takes is Michael leaning down the slightest bit and his lips are attached to yours. Your familiar taste, in addition to the copious amounts of wine consumed that night, hits his tongue and he pushes his body further down onto yours. You feel him harden more as your hands roam his body – making their way from inside his sweatpants to underneath his shirt, exploring his warm skin. You needed to feel him on you and from the way he was acting, he needed you just as bad.

His lips found their way to your neck again as he mischievously sucked red and purple marks, making sure to disobey your previous command. The feeling of his tongue running over the sensitive love bites causes you to exhale a needy moan and Michael catches it instantly.

“Somebody’s a little excited… hm?” He teases, nipping at your skin. “Is somebody a little desperate for my touch?” Michael smugly questions while continuing his assault on your neck. While he was busy with tasting you and marking you, he paid no attention to the way in which his pants grew tighter – But you did.

“I wouldn’t say that I’m the only one,” you push his hips down onto yours while simultaneously thrusting up. His movements still as a sensual moan falls from his slightly swollen lips. His stubble rubs against the sensitive skin on your neck and you wince, before the pain turns to pleasure. The smell of his cologne fills you while you take notice of his hard length resting in between your bodies.

“Of course I’m desperate for your touch,” his tough guy act comes crumbling down as he is replaced with a soft and needy longing to feel your bare skin on his. To be as close to you as he can – to feel your warmth surround him and comfort him.

Michael’s hand makes its way under your shirt, exploring the skin there before resting on your breast. He massages you tenderly, noticing the way your nipples perk up at his familiar warm touch. A moan is released from your mouth while he pinches your nipple and rolls it in his long fingers delicately. You were filled with so much need for this man, it was almost becoming unbearable. Your underwear became more and more drenched with your arousal while his erection twitched against your stomach – your bodies needed one another, needed to touch one another and elicit that sinful euphoria that only you two could give each other.

You started tugging at Michael’s shirt and he replicated your actions. With his lips still attached to yours, he lifted himself up, bringing you with him to rid you both of your clothes. Much to his dismay, you pulled away but only to lift his shirt off of his body and let it drop to the floor. Your hands ran down his chest as you took in the sight of him – no matter how many years you had been together, you never got over the way he looked. You melted at the sight of your bare husband, but needed more. His lips captured yours again while your fingers went straight to his sweatpants.

“Eager miss,” Michael smiled against your lips, enjoying the feeling of your hands so close to where he needed them. A small whimper fell from your mouth at being called out for how desperate you were for the man before you. Michael delicately lifted your shirt off of you and discarded it gently to the floor before pulling you in for another kiss. His tongue licked your bottom lip while he let out a shaky breath from the feeling of your fingertips gracing his neglected cock. You could feel a wet spot from where his precum had leaked out and you thought for a moment to tease him about it, just to get him a little more worked up – but the truth was that you were too desperate for him, you needed him now. You couldn’t waste time on banter right this second.

With Michael being as sneaky as he is, his hand appeared against your core eliciting a small gasp from you. He took his chance and dove his tongue into your mouth, tasting you while rubbing little circles against your clothed heat. Your arms went around his neck as you pulled him close to you and rocked your hips gently against his fingers. The pleasure pooling in your abdomen was screaming at you with need for him.

“Baby, I need you… please…” You nearly begged your husband. Your hand raked itself into his golden hair, massaging the lower part of his scalp as his hair rest lazily in its bun. His strong arms wrapped themselves around your waist, your legs instinctively wrapping around him as you were gently laid against the plush cushions again.

“Anything for you, my love,” he breathed out huskily, pulling his sweatpants off while licking his swollen lips. The sight of Michael finally completely bare nearly had you pawing at the man; you would never tire of seeing him like this.

His cock glistened and bobbed up and down as he knelt before you and slowly dragged your pants off of your legs, throwing them beside his own. Michael noticed the plush cat from earlier lying beside you and he frustratingly tossed it on the floor, not needing a reminder of who that belonged to while him and his wife were trying to be intimate. He leaned down to envelop you in a warm embrace, sighing contentedly in the crook of your neck at the feeling of your skin against his. Nothing comforted him more.

“Love you so much,” he muttered, feeling absolute safety and love being this close to you.

“Love you, too” your voice a mere whisper. His length rest against your stomach, leaking precum onto your skin. Your hips swiveled around his to try and urge him on and he bit back a groan, taking your hands and raising them above your head to hold them down; a small act of dominance while he lined himself up with your entrance. He laced his fingers in between yours and gently kissed you while thrusting into you slowly.

You shared moans between each other at this familiar feeling taking place. Nothing felt as good as Michael fitting comfortably inside of you. And nothing gave him as much bliss as being surrounded by your warm walls. Your bodies melted in to each other, just as they had a thousand times before; he moved his hips back slowly, only to thrust into you once more.

He found a nice, slow pace, wanting to savor and feel every part of your body. His cock slid in and out of you, setting your body on fire from the feeling of him stretching you out over and over again. Michael’s face rest in the crook of your neck, his stubble rubbing deliciously against your skin with each thrust of his hips. So tender he held your hands above your head while rubbing small circles with his thumbs against your skin. You felt his large rings against your hand, but you paid most attention to the one on his left ring finger – Sometimes you still couldn’t believe you were blessed enough to be married to the love of your life. And to feel the things he made you feel. Particularly like this, with his hips curving into yours upwards, hitting your g-spot with every thrust.

The moans that escaped your lips were heaven to his ears – Sometimes he truly thought you were an angel. “How could something this beautiful belong to me?” He would think over and over again, completely in awe every time he had you beneath him like this.

“Michael… faster…” you pleaded, feeling the fire in your lower abdomen spark. His hands left yours and instead found their place elsewhere. His left arm wrapped itself under your neck to support you and his right held your hip tightly in its grasp. You didn’t think he could possibly get closer to you, but here he was holding your body in his arms while picking up his pace and snapping his hips into yours; his lips danced across your skin.

The tip of his cock thrust deep into you as lewd sounds filled the air. His adam’s apple bobbed up and down while the veins in his arms became more prominent as adrenaline coursed through him. Your head felt dizzy with lust and need for Michael to give you your release, but you also wanted to savor this moment – for it to never end. You needed him, but at the same time you wanted to take your time. His chuckle broke your train of thought.

“Darling, trust me when I say this isn’t the last you’ll have of me tonight. Go ahead and chase your high, my love,” he encouraged the fire in you building; his building as well.

“Leave my thoughts alone,” a small giggle left your lips, quickly being replaced with a moan at a particularly hard thrust.

“I thought we share everything?” He teases, thinking back to the vows you spoke on your wedding day.

“But, that’s not fair,” you whine. “I can’t read your mind,” your breath hitches in your throat at how perfect he feels inside of you right now. You never wanted this to end, but took him on his word that this was only the first round.

“I always speak freely to you. You can ask anything your heart desires and I will tell you. You know that, my love. Do you-“ he groans, closing his eyes for a second at the feeling of you clenching and unclenching around his long length. “Do you want to know what I’m thinking about right now?” You stare deeply into his lust-filled blue eyes, your brows furrowed and mouth agape, not being able to respond besides the small nod your head makes. “How badly I want to put another baby in you,” he exhales a growl, his mouth straightening into a line before lowering himself and thrusting into you harder.

His words set you ablaze and you found yourself lost in ecstasy. “Give me a baby, Michael, please,” you beg, raking your nails against his back. “I- I want you to fill me up,” your voice breaks as you feel your orgasm building – an intense pleasure begging to be set free. His breath is shaky against your throat and his thrusts become a bit sloppier as he nears his end himself.

“C’mon, my love. Let go,” you hear his husky voice in your ear as your body begins to tense; you held him tightly to your body feeling your pleasure building and building, ready to explode. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the air as Michael rocks his hips into yours. Your needy and desperate moans make it hard for him to focus on anything else but bringing you to your release.

You feel yourself about to tip over the edge as your muscles tense, your breath hitching in your throat and then suddenly you are hurdled into your orgasm, your body letting go as you scream Michael’s name. You feel an explosion of electricity which fades into waves crashing all over your body – pure euphoria. The man above you keeps his tight hold on you as he witnesses you come undone before him.

You slowly begin to open your eyes as the pleasure dissolves leaving you in a state of bliss. You see Michael looking tranced as he watches you before he leans down and crashes his lips on yours, needing to taste you to send him over the edge himself.

“Don’t cum on the couch, baby. We don’t need the kids seeing what we get up to when they’re away.” Your voice is weak as you continue, “Try not to make a mess.” He grips your hip harder as you poke fun at him.

“If I make a mess it’s because of you,” he grunts, his voice raspy and dangerous. “And how tight you are,” he thrusts hard into you enjoying the noise that leaves your lips as he bottoms out in you. His arm resting beneath your neck comes around and he places his large hand around your throat, squeezing gently to tell you to behave. His breath is shaky and you can feel the muscles in his back tense as he’s dangerously close to his own release. “How warm you feel around me,” his irises darken and he lowers himself to kiss you passionately, keeping the tight hold on your neck. “How wet you are… How I’m covered in your arousal,” his hot breath hits your skin as he growls against your lips.

Michael feels the fire in the pit of his stomach grow as his thrusts become sloppy. It’s harder to control himself as he chases his high – the feeling of your lips on his neck feels too good as he groans against your skin. His cock is drenched in your own cum; the loud, wet noises as he thrusts into you fill the dim room.

“My love, I’m… I-“ Michael thrusts as far as he can into you and his body stills, his cock twitching as he releases his warm cum deep inside of you. He grunts loudly as cum explodes from his tip, painting your walls with his seed. This feeling of euphoria is too much and he never wants it to end. He rubs his stubble against your neck as his sweet groans fill your ears; his hips thrusting a couple more times into you to make sure his cum is properly inside of you.

Michael’s body rests on top of yours as he tries to catch his breath, his own pleasure dissolving to leave him in a state of pure bliss. His head rustles slightly against your neck and the loose strands of his hair covering your face soothe you as you hold onto Michael. You feel positively full of him and you think to yourself, you never want this to end, as well.

Your hands delicately run down his back, comforting him as he collects himself and lifts his head to rest his forehead against yours. You take a moment to breathe in each other before he places his lips gently on yours, kissing you with every ounce of love he has for you. “I love you,” he whispers against your lips, stroking your cheek.

You smile up at him, gently tucking a strand of his golden hair behind his ear, “Love you more.”

He shakes his head, smiling down at you as he pecks your cheek softly, lifting himself off of you, “Impossible.” His voice is defiant as he pulls out of you, some of his cum dripping out of you and onto the cushion beneath you.

“Michael, what did I tell you,” your laugh breaks the silence of your house. “You’re cleaning that up,” you look down at the small mess.

“Actually,” he looks at you mischievously. “You’re cleaning that up.” He takes one of his ring-adorned fingers and gathers his cum on it, bringing it to your lips with a smirk on his own. You stare back with a dangerous look yourself, the smile evident on your face urging Michael on. You stare intensely while opening your mouth, ready for him. Michael places his long digit on your tongue and you wrap your lips around him, moaning at the familiar taste. You swirl your tongue around him and suck his finger dry, before he removes it with a ‘pop’ sound.

“Naughty girl,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss you and taste himself. He snakes his arm under your waist and holds you to him as he flips you both over; him resting beneath you on the plush couch while your head lays on his chest. His heartbeat can be heard while you run your fingers gently up and down his stomach. His own have taken their place in your hair while he kisses the top of your head.

When you had first met him, his touches had been fast and harsh; he gripped you tightly as if afraid you might slip from his fingers. He was gentle with you nowadays – he had no reason to fear that you’ll leave him. He was soft and delicate, always placing feather-light kisses to your lips in the morning and holding your body close to his gently at night. And he was no different now, his hands graced you softly while he placed kisses to your hair and took in your familiar warmth.

“I think we might just be lucky, my love,” Michael’s voice is soft as he snakes his hand around you to rest on your stomach, something he did immediately after every time you had had sex and given birth nine months later. He just had a way of knowing – even this early on. Your eyes found his and you both shared a look of love before leaning down to rest your head against his chest again, savoring this perfect moment.

You caught yourself in a trance while you ran your fingers across the scars on his arm. “Do you remember when we did this one?” You ask softly to your husband, catching him off guard. He looks down and finds you tracing one of his particularly long gashes from a previous blood ritual you both had taken part in.

“Of course, ma chérie,” his smirk is evident in his voice as a deep chuckle rumbles from his chest. “How could I forget? That was the first time I fucked your other little hole,” he remarks smugly.

“Michael!” you scold him playfully while lifting yourself and hitting his chest. He catches your hand in his and brings it to his lips, kissing you gently while his laughter continues. “So vulgar,” you whisper jokingly while leaning down to kiss him lightly.

“If I remember correctly, you enjoy it when I’m vulgar,” he replies huskily, running his hand down your back. “And if my memory serves me right, you particularly enjoyed that night – and the many others that came after,” he teases, as his hands find their place on your hips, pulling you on top of him as he swivels your hips against his gently.

“Hm, I’m not sure… I think you’ll have to jog my memory,” you feign ignorance, a playful smile forming on your lips.

“Oh, is that right?” His brow raises as he leans up, forcing you into a sitting position. “Hm… I think I will have to help you remember,” he whispers against your throat as he lifts you both off of the couch. Your small giggles can be heard in his ear as he carries you to the master bedroom.

“My darling, I do hope you’re prepared for what I have planned for you tonight,” he whispers against your skin. “You’re going to get fucked so hard, you’ll never be able to forget it,” his voice is raspy and dangerous as he grips your skin tight in his, making his way down the hall. “Our children will wonder what happened to poor mommy,” he chuckles dangerously, kicking open the bedroom door.

“And you were worried about some hickeys,” he remarks to himself; his laugh echoing throughout the house as he shuts the bedroom door.

Taglist:

@1-800-bitchcraft @babypinkstyles94 @babydollcake @mega-combusken, @lathraios, @cocosfern @lunarfawns, @sojournmichael, @michaelsapostle, @langdonsdemon, @kleineshaschen, @et-tu-bitch, @whydonthumansfly, @junkful, @solitalangdon, @ultralightbeamsnstuff, @leaveittothewolves, @olobersy, @pumpkinspiceharry2, @fckinsupreme, @femaleantichrist, @peachesandfern, @bloodsuckinvampire, @freak-war-hour

#michael langdon #michael langdon x reader #michael langdon fic #michael langdon imagine #cody fern #dad!michael #ahs #my writing

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plays-the-thing · 4 years

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Netflix’s Witcher: What Makes a Good Adaptation? – A companion piece

If you’ve somehow found this without seeing the video first, here’s a link:

In this video I analyze the screen adaptations of Lord of the Rings, A Song of Ice and Fire, and the Witcher series. I use the comparisons of the three to discuss what makes adaptations in general work and to explain why I feel the Witcher is heading down the road to mediocrity.

However, this is a hugely complicated subject, and the works themselves are also complex, especially Martin’s work. I make plenty of claims in the video that a reasonable person could disagree with without any explanation for why I think they are true. Unfortunately, if I were to go down every rabbit hole that I touch on the video would be hours long, so I have to gloss over some potentially confusing or controversial statements.

Enter this post. Here I will be attempting to pre-empt any questions that I think people may have, and go through my thought process on certain claims. I don’t recommend that you read the whole thing. Each explanation will be followed by a timestamp and relevant quote from the video that I am expanding upon so that you can quickly search the page and find what you are looking for.

I’m sure there will be things I don’t think to cover, or things that are poorly reasoned both here and in the video, so feel free to ask additional questions. Just please check to make sure you aren’t asking something that I already covered here.

I will also be attempting to give as much credit as possible to all the wonderful writers and creators who have influenced my thinking with regards to these works. I’ll be linking as much as possible to my sources, as well as to additional content that expands on ideas I mention. Also I’ve included some personal tidbits and commentary, just for fun.

Under a cut for length.

INTRODUCTION:

Huge props to the people who put together the behind-the-scenes footage of LOTR. I’ve watched all the bonus footage numerous times in my life. If you have any interest in the nitty-gritty of how movies get made, I can’t recommend it enough. It really shows all the work and complexity that goes into making movies. That they even get made at all is honestly incredible, especially massive undertakings like LOTR.

[3:30] And if you've ever wondered what the hell happened to The Hobbit, to me it seemed like they were indulging all of these worst impulses instead of catching themselves and editing them out like they did in LOTR.

As soon as I saw that they were making three Hobbit movies my hopes plummeted. It just reeked of executive meddling, and of trying to make the story into something it just isn’t. Lo and behold, that’s what we got: sticking in loads of unnecessary and thematically incoherent material to stretch out the runtime and make it more “epic.” I couldn’t bring myself to watch past the first one, but Lindsay Ellis has an excellent video series exploring in detail what went wrong with the trilogy.

PART ONE: LORD OF THE RINGS

[8:40] If you followed the events and the chronology of the book they would just hang out with Faramir for a little bit and then the movie would end

Technically it’s more complicated than this because that’s already following the revised movie timeline. In reality, Frodo would have just left the Black Gate. They *are* moving the events around to some extent, usually by a few of days here and there, but they can’t move stuff together that takes place weeks apart or the whole timeline would crumble.

[9:55] You can call it the theme, the soul, the spirit, the point, or whatever else you want, but the great works of fiction have something at their core that pulls everything together and elevates it into art. It’s a difficult thing to describe, but I think this scene perfectly tapped into the soul of Tolkien’s work.

Huge shout out to Bob Case and his video “Blame of Thrones” for first introducing me to this concept and the language of the “spirit” of a work to describe this phenomenon. In many ways the first two parts of this video are merely building on the LOTR-GOT comparison that he makes in that video, digging a little deeper and looking at more specific and concrete (and spoileriffic) examples of what he’s talking about so that we can apply these ideas to the Witcher…and beyond. Like all his work, it’s excellent. His YouTube is pretty much inactive these days, but he also occasionally writes content for Shamus Young’s blog if you want more of his work.

PART TWO: GAME OF THRONES

Alright, here it is: the section that really caused me to want to make this companion piece. Earlier I mentioned that I have sympathy for the GoT showrunners, and I really do. Martin’s work is incredibly complex, and so this section dominates the blogpost because there is so much to explain and no way that I could explain it all in the video without incredible bloat.

First I should mention that I, and all the writers I am going to credit here, share a very specific interpretation of Martin’s work. This isn’t the only interpretation. I doubt it’s the interpretation of the majority of readers. Obviously, I fully believe it is the correct interpretation, but the showrunners clearly had a wildly different one.

People who have this interpretation express it in different ways. Joannalannister collects hers in her tag #the-meaning-of-asoiaf. PoorQuentyn expresses it here, and in his analysis of Davos, Quentyn, and Tyrion. Other writers express it in their own ways.

With my lit degree hanging over my head, I can’t help but see it as a problem of competing artistic movements. To me, HBO’s Game of Thrones is part of the art movement of the past few decades, namely postmodernism. Art movements are complex, but basically postmodernism is the cynical reaction to the sincerity of modernism which came before it. Cynicism is, I think, the defining trait of Game of Thrones.

But it is NOT the defining trait of the books. In my view, Martin’s ASOIAF is part of the art movement that we are moving towards, which is starting to become known as metamodernism. Metamodernism is a reaction to the nihilistic pessimism and cynicism of postmodernism, and replaces it not with the unbridled sincerity of modernism, but rather oscillation between the two modes. It can be both ironic and sincere, deconstructionist and constructionist, apathetic and affectual. Once you have peeled back all the layers however, it is ultimately hopeful and optimistic. It embraces a sense of radical optimism. In metamodernist works optimism is often radical because the world the characters live in can be so dark. But that darkness serves only to highlight those characters that can hold fast to virtue amidst such darkness.

So, be warned. If you believe that Martin’s work is all about controlling the Iron Throne, and believe that cynicism is for the wise and honor is for fools, we just aren’t going to see eye to eye.

[12:45] Ned is a competent northern politician who has some trouble adapting to southern culture. Through a combination of bad luck, some understandable mistakes, and a misconception about his position, he fails in his goals.

The show didn’t invent the idea of Stupid Honorable Ned. Plenty of people believed this, even before the show. Obviously I believe they are wrong. If you would like to read more about it I would suggest Steven Attewell’s analysis of Ned’s chapters that he does on his blog, particularly Eddard XI and Eddard XIII. Steven does a much better job of analyzing Ned as a political actor than I ever could.

[13:00] Most of these changes are subtle…the best example is the council debate about whether or not to assassinate Daenerys.

Many of the ideas in this section are pulled from two essays by turtle-paced: Poor Doomed Ned and The Argument to Assassinate Daenerys. Turtle goes deep into the details of the differences between the Ned Stark of the books and the show, and I skimmed some of their comparisons for my argument. Steven Attewell’s analysis of this chapter is also worth reading.

[14:09] It’s a good argument, and I think in the books we are expected to mostly agree with Ned, both morally and politically.

When I say “expected” I mean from the authors point of view, which of course relies on me being correct about my interpretation of Martin’s work. Obviously I think I’m right, but if you don’t agree with my interpretation you may not agree with this statement.

[14:16] Notice also that the supporters of the assassination: Littlefinger, Varys, Renly, and Pycelle are all villains (all except Pycelle are trying to destabilize the kingdom), and the people who oppose it, Ned and Barristan, are heroes.

Each of them represents a different sort of evil. Littlefinger is a scheming sociopathic villain. Varys is a well-intentioned extremist whose willingness to commit utterly heinous acts in the pursuit of his goals makes him a villain. This is because, as Huxley puts it, “The end cannot justify the means, for the simple and obvious reason that the means employed determine the nature of the ends produced.” Renly is narcissistic ambitious evil, willing to throw a realm into war to satisfy his own ego, and is totally uncaring about the lives of other people. It isn’t precisely correct to say that Pycelle is a villain because he represents the banality of evil. He thinks he’s just doing his job, but he’s morally bankrupt and politically corrupt.

[16:40] It would take too long to list all the ways that Tywin is awful, and everyone knows it.

To clarify, I mean that everyone in-universe knows it. For some god-forsaken reason, some readers seem to think that Tywin was just being effective after he unleashed the Mountain on the Riverlands and violated every military and political norm in Westeros.

If you are going to say that he is “Machiavellian” I would encourage you to actually read The Prince, where Machiavelli says “Nevertheless a prince ought to inspire fear in such a way that, if he does not win love, he avoids hatred” and goes into the reasons why.

[17:17] Tywin on the other hand accomplished a lot of short-term gains by being as treacherous and dishonorable as possible. But this has a cost: by proving themselves fair-weather allies they surround themselves with the same. Nobody trusts them, and so their allies scheme and betray them.

Oberyn and Doran are both scheming in their own way to revenge themselves on the Lannisters for the deaths of Elia and her children. The Tyrells poison Joffrey and scheme to spirit Sansa away to Highgarden.

[17:36] Ned failed due to a couple of minor mistakes, some bad luck, and treachery.

I mention a few times that Ned, and more broadly the Starks, get “unlucky.” Again, Steven Attewell does an excellent job of documenting this with his keen eye for how GRRM cheats political realities, but I’ll note a few of the many ways George has to bend over backward to screw the Starks.

In AGoT Catelyn leaves King’s Landing roughly around the same time that Tyrion leaves the wall, and both are on horseback. In order for them to meet at the Inn at the Crossroads Tyrion has to travel roughly 2,000 miles in the same time that Catelyn travels 400 miles. This is basically impossible, but necessary for the plot so that Catelyn can lose Tyrion at the Eyrie. If she had caught him somewhere further north she could have simply chucked him into her own dungeons and managed his trial herself.

Cersei has been trying to kill Robert for goodness knows how long with just as unreliable methods as “get him drunk on a hunt.” In order for Ned to get screwed she has to succeed in killing Robert at precisely that moment. If it had failed like every one of her other attempts she is most likely dead, because Ned would tell Robert the truth about her children as soon as he got back.

In order for Theon to take Winterfell, veteran military man and castellan Ser Rodrik Cassell has to stupidly empty the Winterfell garrison while he knows that Ironborn raiders are running loose in the North, not even leaving behind a mere twenty-five to fifty men that would have completely thrashed Theon’s assault. If Theon can’t take Winterfell, the Red Wedding doesn’t happen (as Martin has told us that the real inciting incident of the Red Wedding was the fall of Winterfell).

[17:41] However, killing him was a terrible idea, and backfired on the Lannisters instantly.

Continuing this theme, the Lannisters were in an absolutely horrible position at the beginning of the War of the Five Kings. They pretty much just have their bannerman in the Westerlands. Stannis seems to have the support of most of the Crownlands, and he and Renly are splitting the lords of the Reach and the Stormlands (with Renly having the larger chunk). The Starks have all the support of the North and the Riverlands combined. The Lannisters are surrounded by enemies who outnumber them on all sides. Killing Ned immediately jumpstarts a war that will almost certainly crush the Lannisters. That it didn’t took some very thin plotting and improbable developments at times, but overall George made it work. For more analysis of this, again check out Steven Attewell Blog: Race for the Iron Throne.

[17:48] Tywin was killed by both a guest whom he considered his ally, and his son.

I firmly believe Oberyn poisoned Tywin. Here’s a good rundown of the evidence. Beyond simple means, motive, and opportunity it also provides neat answers to lingering odd questions like why Tywin rotted so oddly and aggressively, why Tyrion knew he would find him in the privy, why Oberyn was willing to chuck his life away for a confession before seeming to have secured revenge against Tywin.

It’s also thematically juicy. I love the idea that Tywin, who so egregiously violated Westerosi norms culminating in the total breach of the social contract at the Red Wedding, was a victim of contrapasso. He can’t be protected by social norms, so he gets poisoned by his guest and ally. Did Tyrion know he was dying? Had he put it all together? Was that bolt really an act of mercy? Perhaps it was one final service to the Lannisters, to keep the dream of their alliance with the Martells alive. Who knows, but boy is it interesting to consider.

[18:13] his alliances fall to pieces, and his children are abandoned by even their own family.

I’m referring here to the infighting between the Tyrells and Lannisters (and Martells, though they never had any intent of staying true to the alliance) after Tywin’s death (though there was some before as well, just intensified after Cersei takes over from Tywin). Kevan forces Cersei to take the walk of shame, and Jaime and the rest of the Lannisters abandon her to that fate.

[19:41] Just like Lord of the Rings, and the Witcher, ASOIAF is clearly dedicated to anti-violence. Not pacifism: all three works have heroes dealing out retributive violence in order to try and restore justice.

I understand it might be odd to suggest that three works which feature so much violence can be dedicated to anti-violence, but depicting something is not the same as endorsing it. I would argue in the case of Martin’s work in particular that his depiction of violence, so un-romantically brutal and direct, is intentionally revolting, and therefore is designed to be anti-violence. Martin purposefully makes you want revenge on certain characters, gives it to you, and then forces you to stare at the inhumanity of this thing you thought you wanted. Yeah I wanted Theon to pay, but not like that. Yeah, I wanted Cersei to pay, but not like that. Yeah, I want the Freys to pay, but I don’t think I’m going to like what Stoneheart is going to do to them.

There is a certain amount of this in the Witcher as well. I can specifically think of one scene in The Blood of Elves, but I promised no Witcher spoilers.

The violence in LOTR is much more romanticized, but as Faramir says: “I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend.” The hero is still Frodo, who doesn’t fight anyone or anything in the whole story. Frodo is a pacifist, but his pacifism is enabled by others who are willing to fight.

[20:07] In a Dance with Dragons Daenerys allows the old slave-holding class to maintain too much power and so they immediately attempt to continue the old violence of slavery. Daenerys did not commit enough violence against the slave-owners, so they were allowed to continue existing, and as long as they existed they were always going to abuse and oppress the ex-slaves.

A couple years after the release of ADWD, an obnoxiously wrong and poisonous idea began to creep into the ASOIAF fandom: Daenerys’ violence against the slaveowners in Slaver’s Bay is dangerous and immoral, and peace is the better option. This idea was most persuasively argued in the Meereenese Blot’s series of essays.

I’ll quote some of the conclusion here:

“They are supposed to feel this generic distrust for everyone, and to fail to grasp that their peaces were actually quite successful. Dany is supposed to conclude — wrongly — that her behavior through most of the book was silly and foolish. And if you came away with those impressions too, it’s perfectly understandable…The whole plotline is designed to maneuver Dany into a mental place where she’ll decide to sideline her concerns for innocent life, and take what she wants with fire and blood.”

This idea, much like the idea that Daenerys is some sort of unhinged fascist just waiting for the right trigger, makes me unbelievably angry. This idea that I am supposed to value the life of the slaveowner and the slave equally, and that maintaining a “peaceful” slave-owning society is an acceptable alternative to violent revolution is so fundamentally revolting to me, that it turns my stomach even to write that sentence.

Some fans went even as far as to suggest that Daenerys’ occupation of Meereen was a parallel to the US occupation of Iraq, and that she was engaged in erasing an authentic slave-owning culture that she despised. If you read the above series of essays, you can see that they are, at the least, enabling that kind of thinking.

To be clear, I do not consider any slave society to be worth a damn thing. Anything that continues it is evil and all that attempts to destroy it is good. That being said, once again Steven Attewell does a better job than I ever could of rebutting the ideas of the Meereneese Blot, and explaining how the correct parallel of Daenerys’ actions in Meereen is the American mistake of abandoning radical reconstruction. He describes her actions in Meereen as abandoning a revolution half complete. I highly recommend reading it, especially if you are American.

Martin is not a pacifist. He has said he would have fought in WWII. He demonstrated against Vietnam. As far as I know, the first time George ever used the words “Fire and Blood” was in a book released in 1982 called Fevre Dream:

“I never held much with slavery […]. You can’t just go… usin’ another kind of people, like they wasn’t people at all. Know what I mean? Got to end, sooner or later. Better if it ends peaceful, but it’s got to end even if it has to be with fire and blood, you see? Maybe that’s what them abolitionists been sayin’ all along. You try to be reasonable, that’s only right, but if it don’t work, you got to be ready. Some things is just wrong. They got to be ended.”

Daenerys is a slave-freeing, slave-owner-killing Hero with a capital H. She has made mistakes. I weep for the lives of the slaves that she has thrown away by abandoning her revolution, by failing to give the people of Astapor the strength to defend themselves, by maintaining a false peace that allows the Meereneese KKK to kill ex-slaves in the night. I shed no tears for the slaveowners that she has killed. When you treat other human beings as property you forfeit your right to Prosperity, Freedom, and Life. Preferably in that order—I would prefer that a slave society could peacefully transition, that those who attempted to continue it could be locked up, and that bloodshed could be avoided. But sometimes violence is necessary.

Daenerys will make more mistakes, I am sure. I believe that she will swing too far in the other direction, temporarily. But that’s a topic for another time.

[20:57] She comforts the hound even as he threatens her and helps him on his path from violence to peace.

Sandor did not die, despite what the Elder Brother told Brienne. He uses his words very carefully, to suggest that the Hound is dead, but that Sandor Clegane the man is simply “at rest.” He has become a brother of the isle.

“On the upper slopes they saw three boys driving sheep, and higher still they passed a lichyard where a brother bigger than Brienne was struggling to dig a grave. From the way he moved, it was plain to see that he was lame.” - Brienne VI, AFFC

[21:40] If they don’t understand why Tywin is a villain then of course they won’t understand why the Others are the main villains of the series, and will probably replace them with some blonde queen. And if you don’t understand that the cold of the human heart is the real enemy than of course you’ll think you can stop winter by just stabbing it. Like Tywin would.

In the books the Others are the villains. They are what the whole story is building towards, much like in LOTR the story builds towards Frodo casting the ring into the Fire. Martin has said that he thinks that the finishing chapters of LOTR, like the Scouring of the Shire, were important, so we may see something like that, but the clear emphasis will be on the existential evil, and cleaning up Cersei or Aegon “Targaryen’s” mess will be a clear step down in importance. It’s something that the heroes have grown beyond, but still need to handle, just like Saruman in the Shire.

[22:04] There’s nothing wrong with liking Game of Thrones, or disliking Lord of the Rings, or anything else.

I really do mean this. I am going to be critical of things you like, and am going to praise things you love. People are different, that’s to be expected. I am not here to pretend that people should only like the things I like. I’m interested in what makes these stories work. I said much the same thing in my last video about some of the new Star Wars properties. People tend to get really attached to the media they like (I’m no exception) and that can color our perception of criticism. Do try to keep in mind that if you like something I criticize it isn’t an attack on you. You have a sacred and personal relationship to the things you enjoy that no one can take from you. I like all kinds of stuff that other people might consider bad, and that’s okay. Actually it’s great, because it gives us something to talk about.

I may genuinely hate Game of Thrones because it butchers something I came to love, but that doesn’t mean I have anything against the people who do like it for their own reasons. We’re all just out here enjoying what we like.

PART THREE: THE WITCHER

There is less in this section for two reasons. First, I promised not to spoil anything past the material covered in the show and I’ll stick to that here. Second—full disclosure here—I haven’t read all of the books because after Blood of Elves I got pretty bored and from what I had heard they did not improve in quality, and if anything got worse. Having already felt that going from the anthologies to Blood I was happy to end my reading there.

If something I say is contradicted by a later book that I didn’t read feel free to let me know.

[23:31] First I should mention that Sapkowski’s works are not on the same level as Tolkien’s and Martin’s, who are the best and second-best fantasy authors of all time. I have enjoyed the Witcher books that I have read, but they are not anywhere near as complex or beautifully written.

This is just my opinion, see above paragraph. I really do think that it’s a pretty common opinion though. I’ve read it before, and you often see people recommend the first two Witcher anthologies in a “if you like it maybe see if you like the rest of them?” sort of way. Book sales numbers also support this, though by all accounts they are exploding in the wake of the show.

But, one potential issue is that I’m reading a translation so I have no idea how good Sapkowski’s prose actually is. You get a lot of sentences in the US edition like: “it must be both bothersome and irritating.” Translation is art, not science, and passages like these make me worry that the translator is just translating each phrase without worrying about all the subtlety that makes language beautiful. These are minor examples of course, but they worry me about what else might be changed. So take my criticism of his writing with a giant, translated, grain of salt, in that I don’t read Polish.

[23:58] Despite this, Geralt the Witcher has been worming his way into popular culture for years, interestingly on the back of a series of video games

Google trends clearly show that the video games are what primarily generated interest in the character before the show. There were no English editions until around the time the games started coming out, and the US editions all feature concept art from the games on the covers. The release of the subsequently translated books after the games received very little attention in comparison to the games.

[24:15] In my opinion, that decline of focus on Geralt was the greatest weakness in the books, and the focus on Geralt is the greatest strength of the games. Because Geralt is at the core of what made Sapkowski’s story and world engaging in the first place. He is a fascinating character in a way that Ciri, who is a fairly standard fantasy “chosen child,” could never be.

This is just my opinion, and I explain why I think Geralt is so great in the subsequent paragraphs. Reasonable people can disagree on this, but I’ve come across more than a couple fantasy characters who could be generically described as “royal orphans with special powers.” It’s not exactly novel. Geralt is pretty novel, at least in terms of what I have read.

[24:49] He suffers many of the same psychological problems that characters like Tyrion and Brienne suffer from in Martin’s work

The technical name for these kinds of issues is “internalized bigotry.” This happens when you get treated consistently horribly by the society you live in due to some fundamental fact about yourself that you didn’t choose, and eventually you begin to believe and “internalize” their opinion of you. For example, people expect Tyrion to be unlovable, conniving, lecherous, and debauched. Eventually he simply leans into these characteristics, because in a way it’s almost easier to be what people expect you to be.

[25:48] To top it off, he hides all this inside a cynical and nihilistic exterior, he pretends he doesn’t care when in fact, he cares more than anyone.

The shot that accompanies this, of Geralt looking intently at what’s happening in the room while others tend to be watching with a sort of mild curiosity like you might at an unexpected circus performance, did an awesome job of conveying this idea.

[26:36] This was kind of a cool idea, but predictably their scenes ended up being generally less interesting and engaging then Geralt’s. Yennefer’s were sometimes fantastic but Ciri’s rarely were.

This was the opinion of fans that I most commonly observed. I don’t have any empirical evidence of this. If you have any that either supports or contradicts this please let me know, I would be fascinated to see it. I could see someone really loving Yennefer’s scenes, and I personally enjoyed a lot of them, but I don’t understand how someone could walk away from the first season with Ciri as their favorite character of the three. I’ll come back to this in a later section.

[27:40] In many ways the first two books, and the games, have more in common with Sherlock Holmes than they do most other fantasy stories.

Really a more accurate comparison would be Philip Marlowe since Geralt is definitely more of an American Pulp detective than a British one. I do love the similarity between Geralt’s Witcher Senses in The Witcher 3 and Sherlock’s detective vision in Crimes and Punishment. I can’t make the same comparison to a Philip Marlowe game, because no one’s made one yet.

Actually that’s not strictly true. There was one game that came out in 1996.

[28:12] But Netflix’s Witcher has barely a whiff of detective fiction anywhere. I think this has caused a lot of fans to feel alienated by the show, even if they can’t explain exactly why.

It’s not reasonable to expect people to know why they like or don’t like something. It’s a feeling, and unless they have experience with writing, narratology, literature, film studies, or just read a lot of tvtropes.org, they are not likely to be able to put their finger on what it is. This causes people to disproportionally blame the things that are most obviously wrong. The premiere example of this is Jar Jar Binks in The Phantom Menace. Jar Jar was obviously bad, but he doesn’t even come close to the top ten biggest problems with the movie. It was much worse that there was no main character or understandable plot and drama. Check out Red Letter Media’s legendary review for more on that.

I think a similar thing happened with Ciri, in that her story was sort of obviously underwhelming and so received a lot of flak, but there are deeper problems with the show.

[32:04] The third change is more subtle, but I’m worried that this Geralt genuinely believes in neutrality.

Just like Ned, the showrunners would not be the first to espouse this view. This quote in particular about “evil is evil” is obnoxiously peddled about as a justification for fence-sitting despite the fact that Geralt’s actual behavior doesn’t support it at all.

I don’t know for sure if the showrunners genuinely think Geralt tries to be neutral. There’s some evidence for yes in the first episode, the Borch episode, the Striga episode, and a couple of others. There’s strong evidence for no in the Duny/Pavetta episode. We’ll just have to see.

To be clear, when I mean “neutral” I mean in the face of immediate violence or injustice. Geralt often doesn’t care who is king, as he explains to Ostrit. But he won’t let a Striga continue to kill people just for coin.

[37:20] When the writers took away Ned’s best arguments for his actions, when they took his story of existential triumph, of not compromising his morals, and turned it into a simple tragedy, they showed they clearly did not understand his heroism.

See PoorQuentyn’s explanation of existential heroism, and how it applies to ASOIAF.

[37:58] In the books, Ciri and Yennefer are included in the story through their connection to Geralt, because he is our hero and the foundation of our connection to the world. In the show they are included before ever having met Geralt, and they take up time that could have been spent focusing on those devilish detective details that make Geralt’s stories and character work.

Originally this video had a lot of discussion about how well these two other characters worked, but it ended up being kind of useless because it comes down to personal opinion, and the writers failure to properly use Geralt massively overshadows whether or not someone liked or didn’t like either of the other two leads. Again, I get why someone could like Yennefer’s scenes. I get why someone could maybe even like her scenes more than Geralt’s. Anya Chalotra did great. I thought the writing was a little weak at times, but on balance pretty decent. Geralt gets the benefit of all his stories being straight adaptations, and she didn’t, so it was a pretty decent job.

On the other hand, I thought Ciri’s storyline was a giant waste of space. When I think of all the best moments in the show, Ciri doesn’t show up in any of them. She spends the entire season running away from and interacting with fairly minor and forgettable characters that did not need to be introduced in this season. Calanthe, Eist, and Mousesack were great characters and the actors gave great performances, but that did not make up for the fact that her storyline went nowhere and did nothing to justify its inclusion. If someone loved Ciri’s storyline I would genuinely be interested to know why.

[39:10] I do have some sympathy for the writers of the Witcher.

Many times in this video I mention sympathy for various writers. Moviemaking is a massively complex undertaking. If you know anything about the difficulty of getting these things together you’ll know that it’s an absolute miracle any movie gets made and takes herculean effort from everyone involved. Television series are arguably even worse because they are longer, more complex, and often have a lower budget despite that. The people involved are honestly doing their best, and I recognize that, even if I criticize the product.

[39:47] They are in this unfortunate position where they can’t really pull the majority of their writing straight from the books because the material isn’t really strong enough by itself.

The books are very dialogue heavy. As I allude to, the one scene that was very close to the book is that scene with Filavandrel and it’s just obnoxious because the two characters just dialogue at each other. It goes on even longer in the book. How well that works in a book is up for debate but it wasn’t going to work on the screen, and it didn’t.

These problems are not insurmountable though. You can put other footage over these monologues. You could have included some footage of Elves fighting in their war. You could have footage of the “cursed” daughters of Lilit being locked in towers or autopsied while Stregobor explains it. I get this is more budget, but that budget went other places.

On the other hand some great scenes that I think would have translated excellently shot-for-shot from the book with little additional budget, like Renfri and Geralt in the Alderman’s attic, are entirely cut. Ah well.

[40:25] Well, I have my theories, but it in the end it doesn’t really matter.

I have a sneaking suspicion that somebody thought it needed to be more “epic” than the first two books are, so we got all this princess and political stuff in early. If there’s any merit to the idea that this series “copied” GoT, it’s somewhere in here, just like how the Hobbit got poisoned with all of the “epicness” of LOTR.

[44:54] Lastly, I’m gonna do my best to put out more regular content going forward. I’m aiming for at least one video a month.

I place no limitation on topics. It’ll probably be mostly media analysis, but if I’m honest I’m just going to write about whatever interests me. That’s the best way to keep myself interested.

That being said, if you have something you think I should analyze let me know. If I’m interested, I might do it.

#witcher #netflix witcher #lotr #asoiaf #game of thrones #anti-got #lord of the rings #adaptation #video companions

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