#and if we all hold hands as the radio plays... the violent erasure of the world can be pushed away. all of this belongs to us. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

pumpkin-pi-e · 3 years

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Writing prompt: Yandere erasermic with darling on their period.

[Enter Hizashi and Shouta playing a board game on their day off, Shouta just knows his husband is cheating, they both do, he just can’t figure out how he’s doing it, much to the blonde’s smug delight.]

You heard them before you saw them. Voices filtered down the hall as you laboriously made your way towards the commotion.

“Don’t hate the player, Shou, hate the game.”

“We both know you’re cheating, you could at least admit to it.”

“No bluffs, just luck.”

Rounding the corner, you entered the living room only to see Yamada leaned over the coffee table, using both arms to gather a pile of goods to himself, grinning like the canary that outsmarted the cat.

The pro heroes were sat around the piece of furniture in their casuals, hair down and fuzzy socks, a board between them. An airy melody of jazz dances and drifts in the air, mingling with the spice of fresh-baked cookies; the soft glow of the television cast warmth on the matching mugs swirling with chocolate and topped with marshmallows that bobbed to the mellow beat.

“How are you doing this?” The erasure hero demanded, red irises darting back and forth between the gloating emcee and the board with a scowl.

“Just get good,” He threw back matter of factly.

“Get on my level, scrub!”

At that, Aizawa makes direct eye contact with the voice hero, looking him dead in the eyes as he lifts an arm, a blonde brow raises in question at the stare down, and in one sweeping motion he knocks the board from the coffee table, pieces and all.

...

The DJ takes a moment to process, eyeing the mess of scattered pieces silently before raising his gaze to meet his partner’s, emerald clashing with charcoal.

“No one likes a sore loser, babe.”

In response, the teacher merely flicked a remaining pawn from the table.

“If you aren’t going to play fair then I won’t either.”

A pout tugs at Hizashi’s lip for all of five seconds before he’s springing back, and on the attack. Shouta starts at the smolder he’s suddenly on the receiving end of, thrown off by his swift change in attitude, watching with narrowed eyes of suspicion as his spouse crawls towards him on all fours, wanton, expression dripping with carnality, and further scrambling discarded bits of the game in his wake. He reflexively shrinks further into the couch. “Not a fan of chess? We can play another game, baby.” Shouta backpedals, making the symbol of the cross. “We’re supposed to be having a relaxing evening, remember?” He didn’t sign up for strenuous activity. “Playing board games.” He furthered his point by sparing a quick glance at the tall stack of boxes resting forlornly at the corner of the table, indignant in their stillness as if to say: are we a joke to you? “An idea of yours, mind you.” He sternly pressed, looking back, not daring to let his lascivious lover leave his sight for more than a second. Only to find him much too close for comfort. “Here, kitty, kitty.” He croons as Shouta continues to evade his clutches. Done with foreplay, Hizashi pounces.

He jumped into his lap with enthusiasm, pulling a grunt from the body below, throwing his arms around Shouta’s neck, he threw his hair back to better grin down at his captive.“How ‘bout stripper twister?”

“Get off.”

“And if I don’t?” Slow sensual swirls over his seat drew a startled gasp that tapered into a hiss, Hizashi’s hips moved in perfect circles, throwing it back like a dancer as eager hands roamed the expanse of his husband’s broad chest, grabbing greedy handfuls of his generous pecs. “You gonna purr for me, Chaton de sexe?” He all but panted into the other’s ear, getting worked up from the promises he continued to whisper in French, voice pitching and reaching unspeakable lows with the help of his quirk, relishing the drawn-out whine he received in response. Shouta’s hips canted of their own accord—and honestly, you couldn’t blame him. Your face was aflame, and you were a mere spectator. His breathing picked up to match his better half at the absolute filth filtering in his ears. Or was it expressions of admiration and praise? Aizawa couldn’t tell, he only knew it sounded like heaven, although he suspected the radio host’s words were straight from hell—pure sin. He fisted Yamada’s shirt to ground himself, knuckles turning white in the hideositie’s fabric. Now understanding those

‘eargasms’ the loud blonde was always raving about and claiming to get, especially with those new headphones of his.

“I keep telling you I don’t understand French.” Shouta grumbled, in a huffy mood over the sweet tunes his lover coaxed from him. He looked off to the side to hide his blush, retreating into his turtleneck, reminding you of a tortoise receding into its shell; in doing so, his eyes widened imperceptibly, though the way his pupils dilated, blowing wide as he finally became aware of your presence was unmissable. He drank in the object of his obsession with unquenchable appetence, having been denied the sight for far too long. Sustaining eye-contact, he let his head fall backwards onto the couch cushion, exposing his neck for Hizashi to devour; he pulled him closer so that their bodies were flush together before grinding up into the welcoming heat, a staccato of low sighs leaving him with each roll, earning an appreciative hum from the one ravishing his throat. Hizashi met him thrust for desperate thrust as he nipped and sucked the sensitive skin into blossoming hickeys. Aizawa wasn’t given long to admire as Hizashi recaptured his attention; sensing his distraction, he seized his chin so that they were once again facing one another, commanding his gaze like the diva he was. Shōta rolled his eyes, the corner of his lips twitching up into a smirk.

“There’s no need, baby! Not when I could just show you.” His words were smooth as silk and caused a delighted shiver to run up Aizawa’s spine, his toes curling at the deep velvety tone they were delivered in. Grabbing a handful of blonde tresses, he pulled the other down for an impassioned kiss; the effect was instantaneous, Hizashi squealed happily, groaning his approval against his spouse’s lips, a sweet little cry Shōta was all too pleased to swallow. A frisky kitty, and feeling particularly mischievous, he yanked. hard. So hard in fact you’d be surprised if the DJ’s neck hadn’t snapped. “ahhhHHHHH-!” The force behind the tug disconnected them and Yamada’s shout of ecstasy resounded throughout the entire apartment. The floor vibrated beneath your feet and your ears rang from the reverb. You clutched them, dropping to your knees in a vain attempt to block out the sound, and your eyes scrunched with the effort. You knew he had a set of pipes, but damn. You couldn’t even hear your own thoughts. Everything was shaking, your body hummed, and it felt like your brain was being scrambled. So focused on trying to tune him out, you failed to notice that the foundation had stopped quavering; but you caught on when you’d regained the ability to hear yourself think. Rising shakily, you allowed your arms to fall; looking back at the pair, you saw Aizawa with his hand around Yamada’s neck. “-eckk—!” The sound cut off at the hand gripping his throat “The neighbors are going to complain,” and it only tightened, eliciting a choked moan from Hizashi. “again.” With no small amount of effort did he raise his head in order to flash his man a cheeky smile, straining against the grip holding his hair back. “But I bet they know your name, handsome.” He reared forward, diving back in with a ferocity that knocked the erasure hero back, hailing him with a flurry of perfervid kisses and leaving a few blonde strands behind. Shōta received him with open arms, and you winced as you heard their teeth bash together in Hizashi’s voraciousness. It didn’t escape your notice how his voice had lost its cunning. His once honeyed words ebbed into hoarse calls of his partner’s name—lacking his usual loquacity.

For someone whose jobs centered on the use of his words, they seemed to be failing him; desperate strangled noises left him between each frenzied kiss. In his urgency, he tugged impatiently at Shouta’s bottoms, you shifted awkwardly, debating if it would best to try again at a different time. Aizawa caught your movement from the corner of his eye.

Although he didn’t mind an audience, he felt he should let his husband know.

Removing the hand from Hizashi’s neck, he used it to gently push him back, their kiss breaking with an audible smack—

“mmph!?”

Hizashi voiced his complaint, a whine built in the back of his throat as he once again tried to close the distance between them, blindly following his lips; Shōta dodged by holding a hand to the emcee’s face, stilling him. Yamada’s green eyes finally snapped open and he looked around in confusion.

“Wha???” He sounded so lost.

“Wha’s happenin’?”

Shōta’s head craned towards you.

“We’ve got company.”

Hizashi followed his line of sight and those emerald eyes landed on you. They were misty and he was still a bit disoriented; It took him a second to register but after blinking the tears away his face lit up with gladness, a gasp left him and his hands clasped his mouth. He shrilled in elation, bouncing excitedly on his husband’s lap. He shot to his feet, fighting the desire to rush over and squeeze the life out of you in an affectionate hug. The DJ waved exuberantly instead, “Hey, babygirl!” His voice was rough, a cough racking his frame before he continued, ”H-how are you?” He questioned softly, carefully, treading lightly, as if you’d scurry off if he so much as raised his voice or moved too quickly.

His face glowed from their gameplay turned hot and heavy. You knew better than to assume it was out of modesty because you had learned they held no shame. You recalled one morning where you’d awoken to tremors; the penthouse shook so violently you thought there was an earthquake. In your half-awakened state you’d panicked, ripped off your covers and sprinted into the living-room spouting about said earthquake, and you felt like you were in the Twilight Zone when Aizawa snorted into the back of his palm, snickering in amusement amidst your tirade, he’d looked as if he were battling laughter, his shoulders trembling. Hizashi rubbed at the back of his neck sheepishly as he hurriedly explained there was nothing to be alarmed for. He’d just gotten a little carried away and—! Unable to contain himself, Shota had burst into peals of uncontrollable laughter as the hilarity of the situation finally became too much for him, something you’d never seen him do, you felt like you’d witnessed an anomaly. He seemed to shock even himself, his hands flying to his mouth, endeavoring to smother the traitorous noise to no avail, meanwhile Hizashi whined and hid his face in his husband’s shirt, said man wheezing and gasping for air, jostling him with each breath. It was then that you’d stopped to take in their position. You’d soured at the conclusion you’d come to, as obvious as a slap in the face. Having leveled them with a glare, you’d turned and stalked black to your room, throwing a dirty look over your shoulder for good measure. Howls of laughter and frenetic apologies for disrupting your sleep played you out. A dull thump followed by frightened calls of a certain raven-haired teacher’s name could be heard, mirth having overtaken him and effectively taken him down.

No Shame.

The radio star always wore his heart on his sleeve, a trait you’d initially found charming; meaning you could practically see him restraining himself; Hizashi’s fingers danced in antsiness, wanting so badly to reach out for you; the fidgety digits drew your attention and he promptly clasped them behind his back, offering a disarming smile when your eyes flitted back to his face.

“Hello, kitten. Did you need something?” He wasn’t as barefaced as his companion with his delight at your appearance, though both his expression and words were filled with warmth, the latter holding a tinge of innocence as if he hadn’t known you were there all the while.

You’d been a bit moody the last few days, never hostile, just a bit more withdrawn, and they were ever so happy to see you up and about again, they were always happy to see you.

Your eyes squint at him but your head tips forward a fraction in what could barely pass for a nod.

“Looks like we’re gonna hafta put our game on ice.” The DJ commented, looking over his shoulder to regard his partner whose gaze was fixed on his ass. You couldn’t see his face, but you could hear the grin in Hisashi’s voice, “Enjoyin’ the view?” Shōta scoffed, scowling up at his husband as he crossed his arms. “‘Just luck’, huh?” Now that the voice hero was standing, he had a perfect view of his backside, it’d virtually been shoved in his face when he’d stood; while he’d initially given it a cursory glance, miffed at having it block his field of vision like a freaking solar eclipse, with how tight his pants were, he could make out the familiar shapes jammed into his back pocket.

“What can I say? With this ass I’m always winning.” Hizashi winked, and quick to change the subject he turned back to you, tossing a few pawns from his pockets and into the discarded pile.

“What’cha need, beauty queen?”

Oh god, by some absolute fucking miracle, you’d managed to drag your tired body out of bed and stumble into the sitting area with the full intention of demanding supplies, only to freeze up from a pang of embarrassment under the inquisitive gaze they pinned you with, now the subject of poignant interest.

“I...I need—um...”

This isn’t in any way going how you envisioned it would; you’d mentally rehearsed, you were gonna waltz in here and demand that they—if they wouldn’t let you leave, the least they could do was ensure your basic needs were accounted for, and you had every mind to tell them such; unfortunately for you, all that came out were stammers and soft squeaks resemblant of the pet name they so loved calling you.

“Kitten?”

Aizawa stood to join his husband’s side, both of them hanging on your words, patiently awaiting a response.

“I n-need,” It was so much more embarrassing than you’d thought, but it wasn’t like you had anything to be shameful about; what you were experiencing was natural and normal, and you refused to be ashamed over it, if anything they were the ones who should be ashamed for not taking into account that at some point you were going to require certain essentials; their claim after they’d swept you away was that they were hgoing to see to your every need, just ask, and you’d receive—how you’d never have to worry about anything ever again. In the current state of affairs, you didn’t think they were doing a very good job.

You just wished you could find the nerve to voice such concerns.

“uh...” no longer able to maintain eye contact, you looked off towards of the kitchen; your skin prickled, your head was pounding, and you were overheating. You felt light on your feet and in this moment you just wanted the floor to swallow you up; if it were possible, you’d recant every past rejected wish to Saint Nick in exchange for a new one, a vanishing quirk. ‘Cause no way were they letting you walk away from this. Not after you’d garnered their attention. This was a mistake. You couldn’t do this. Maybe you should just—

“Pumpkin?” More gentle prodding. “What’s the matter? You ain’t lookin’ too hot.” (Harsh jab from Aizawa) “Ow! You know that’s not what I—”

“I mean you always look hot—smokin’!” He quickly rephrased, “It’s just uh...ya look kinda...sick? Like yer gonna hurl.”

“It’s okay, Kitten. You can ask us anything.”

“Yeah! Y’now you can come ta us with anything.”

“I-“ Your world spins, and suddenly, you’re seeing topside. A momentary loss of balance, courtesy of the headache between your eyes, has them rushing to your side; one of them scoops you into their arms, instantly coddling you. You look up to see frightened green eyes, and a halo of blonde tresses that tickled your nose as they fell into your face.

Oh. It was Hi-Fi.

“My poor baby! Are you okay?!” He’s peppering kisses all over your cheeks.

A hand presses against your temple, it’s coolness giving you moderate relief. “She’s warm,” Low-Fi.

“Pretty kitty, please let us know what you need; whatever it is, we’ll do our best to provide it.” Shouta cups the side of your face, stroking your cheek with the pad of his thumb and Hizashi places a kiss on your heated forehead.

“All’s ya gotta do is phone in that request, listener!”

You burned with more than just a temperature. Indignation coursed through your veins, burning you from the inside out. You shouldn’t have to rely on them for anything. You’d had your own job, your own money, your own business; you hadn’t had to lean on anyone, loathed the very thought of it; and climbing the sharp-edged ladder of success—clawing your way to the top, lacerated palms and displaced qualms, you’d made certain you’d never again have to depend on another soul for as long as you lived. Dull from being doled disappointments, you were of the gospel that you couldn’t count on anyone but yourself; you bought your own things, you felt your own tits, a certified boss ass bitch. When you’d first started seeing the couple, it was you that picked up the tab despite their protests, you who wooed them with fancy gifts, reveling in their flushed expressions—and as flattering as it all was, how could you ever come to rely on them the way the heroes wanted if you had it all figured out? Quickly enamored, the pair was swift to offer you a room in the penthouse, their hearts burned whenever you were apart; but to their dismay you’d declined; you already had your own home, one you’d worked hard to obtain, taken the time decorate, a home you were unwilling to part with; and truthfully, you simply hadn’t been ready for such a transition. Lovely as their companionship was and as much as you joyed in their attachment, you’d only been dating them a few months, it was a little too soon for all that. Of course they were disinclined to accept your answer. They chipped, and chipped, practically took a sledgehammer to that ladder, and marveled as you fell spectacularly, like an angel falling from heaven, their angel, who fell right into their arms. And you watched as the life you’d built, and tried so hard to maintain came tumbling down, everything you tried to salvage crumbled to dust in your resentful un-relinquishing grip, and of course they were there to help pick up the pieces. The metaphorical scars, and phantom pains rendered all for naught. You hated needing anyone for anything, and they wanted you to rely on them for everything. The thought embittered you, of giving them exactly what they wanted, and despite your pride you swallowed that bitter pill; after all, no one can fill those of your needs that you won’t let show right?

“I...I need feminine products?”

Hizashi’s brows knitted in befuddlement, and you could practically see the cogs turning in his brain as he processed your words, mentally cataloging every sanitary item he’d purchased.

You had a plethora of bath and beauty products, he’d made certain of it. Shampoo, conditioner, facial cleanser, perfume, shaving gel, body wash, etc. He’d ensured your bathroom was fully stocked. “Songbird, sweetie, yer gonna hafta be a bit more specific.”

Maybe you could say it without actually saying it.

“Um. You know, like, feminine hygiene products?” You stressed, hoping they’d catch your drift, but they continued giving you blank stares.

The pair exchange a look, perhaps to see if the other was making any more sense of the situation than they were.

“You’re going to need to be frank with us, kitten.”

“Yeah! Rip it off, like a bandaid!”

“Ineedpadstampons,femininewipes,femininewash,andmaybeadouche?” Your face was on fire but it was impossible for them to misconstrue with how painfully candid you were. Stealing a glance, you saw they both sported similar blushes; Hizashi held a pink tinge around his nose that bled into his cheeks and Shōta adopted a rosy tint; their coloring more out of shame than embarrassment due to their oversight.

In a race to rectify their mistake, their voices overlapped, tripping over themselves to scramble for apologies.

“Oh my gosh, we’re so sorry, princess!”

“We’re very sorry, kitten. It was never our intention to-”

“-we’ll do better! Me ‘n Shou’ll be better about takin’ care-a you-!”

“-we hadn’t even considered—”

“-I promise! I swear—!”

“-just let us know what you need, just tell us and we’ll—”

“-Yes! Anything, anything at all-!”

You already did.

“-It won’t happen again, kitten. We promise—”

“-Oh god, I’m a fuckin’ failuuuuuuure.” Hizashi bemoans, having been the one in charge of your toiletries.

Their remorse was palpable and their guilt endless.

Although you shouldn’t, you were starting to feel bad for how much they were kicking themselves. Their self-flagellation was seriously taking the wind out of your sails; your own frustration paling in comparison. Not to mention you were still under the weather, and their constant back and forth was worsening your dizzy spell. Eagle eyed, Aizawa takes notice and undergoes the task of reigning in his husband, the blonde pressing impossibly close and nuzzling desperately into your neck, apology after apology spilling from his lips. Shōta grasps his shoulder, but to his surprise you beat him to it.

Your head inclined and a hand covered his mouth, halting his speech. The pain behind your eyes praised you. “Hizashi, you guys, it’s not that deep, stop being so dramatic.” He pulled back to appraise you, he didn’t seem convinced. “...I forgive you, okay?”

He lit up like a Christmas tree, perking up instantly. You were squished against his chest once more in a suffocating hug. A joyous shout of, ‘FUCK YEAH!’ had you cringing away from Hizashi as he fist pumped ecstatically.

“Not so loud, ‘Zashi.” Came a gentle reproof, resulting in another apology from the boisterous blonde.

“Sorry, lil listener.”

...

“Do you..uh...need ‘em right now?”

You nod.

“Cool! Cool! No problem-o! Uh...Just run that list by us again. Hit us one more time, baby!”

“You said it so quickly we hardly caught what was said.”

Heat rushed to your face. You couldn’t fucking do it again. The first time just about killed you.

They must have sensed your demur because the pros upped their persuasion.

“You don’t have to be so shy, kitten. We don’t mind. It’s really no trouble.”

“You don’t gotta get embarrassed, it’s only us!”

“We only want to provide for you.”

“Most guys don’t wanna hear about that stuff...” You were pretty sure they didn’t even know what those things looked like.

“Um, songbird? W-we aren’t, uh, it don’t bother us. Like, we aren’t grossed out or nothin’.” Usually loud and lively, Hizashi was soft-spoken and sincere as he gently clasped your cheeks, encouraging you to look him in the eyes. Taking your smaller hands in his own, Shōta pitches in as well.

“We can handle a little blood, it’s sort of unavoidable in our profession.”

When you’re stubbornly tight-lipped, the emcee proposes a different idea.

“K! How ‘bout you type out whatcha need in Shō’s phone? That way we’ll have a list to check off, make sure we don’t forget anything.” He looks to his partner to see if he’s down with the plan and Shōta’s already pulling out his mobile. “One of us should stay behind with kitten. That could have been a nasty fall.”

“Shō! Hold KitKat,” It’s an abbreviation of ‘kitty cat’ one of Hizashi’s many nicknames for you. “I gotta hit up Google.”

You’re carefully transferred to Aizawa; the hero plops into the couch with you in tow, sagging into the cushiony oasis. Once you’re settled in his lap, he hands you his phone; It’s new, sleek, black and already opened to the notes app; a bulletin greets you, the yellow bar blinking in and out of existence as it awaits your command.

“So which one-a us is headin’ out? We could all go, could do a pickup order?”

Any other time you would’ve jumped at the opportunity. But you felt like absolute trash. You weren’t interested in going anywhere but back to bed.

“I’ll go. I have a few things to grab anyways.” Figures. The erasure hero was even keener on keeping you indoors than his husband.

“Anything we need for the house? I might as well get them while I’m out.”

“Oh! Now that‘cha mention’ it, I could use some-” There’s a back and forth as they discourse on what supplies and groceries are low on stock, ingredients and meal planning for the following week; their chatter is drowned out whilst you busy yourself inputting the necessities you need into the phone with nimble fingers, tapping away at the large screen and carrying a certain finesse that impresses Shōta, the type of guy that just lazily swipes his thumb across the keyboard. He urged you closer with a delicate motion, complimenting your dexterity and gracing you with a chaste peck on the cheek. They ask your opinion on numerous things, how you felt about particular dishes, if you were running out of anything, if you wanted Shōta to bring you back something, et cetera. Satisfied with your list, you handed the device back to its owner for him to pocket. “-babe, you already know munchkin hates carrots.” Hizashi chided, rooting through the cabinets and taking inventory.

“He needs a vegetable, you can’t allow him to eat junk all of the time. He’d live off of pizza rolls if you let him.”

“Hey!” He whirls around, “My meals are perfectly balanced! An’ comin’ from you?! Do you even know how much sugar we go through?? Not to mention the coffee I’m constantly havin’ to restock??”

Aizawa cuts his eyes at him. “This isn’t about me.” He reaches forward and nabs his mug from the table, taking you with him and taking a very long, very loud obnoxious sip. Hizashi just looks so done at the display. He chases it down with a marshmallow and slaps the ceramic against the glass once he’s finished. “My diet is perfectly healthy.”

“Mmhmm,” the emcee crossed his arms, leaning against the counter, “are you done?”

You’re jostled again as he pushes the mug forward. “This needs more sugar.”

Yamada sighs, coming to swipe it from the coffee table. And as he’s heading back to the kitchen, Shōta adds, “More whipped cream and marshmallows too.” A dramatic groan of, “Ughhhhhhhhh! I hate it here!” is given in response. You sit in silent amusement at their banter, enjoying the homey atmosphere.

Aizawa observes as you become increasingly agitated, squirming and fidgeting in fits and starts, restless. Quiet huffs accompanying each jerk. “Is something the matter, kitten?” “Uh...it’s-” You shift, and he isn’t sure if it’s bashfulness or something different. “It’s just cramps.”

“Tummy troubles?”

“Aw, d’ya want some Tums? Pepto Bismol?” Mic asks, carrying a plate of cookies. They’re placed on the table and Shouta’s mug is returned to its coaster. You lean forward, reaching for one of the confections. The aroma had teased you since the moment you’d left your room, titillating your tastebuds. Hizashi looks confused-concerned, when you grimace and fold into yourself, nursing your midsection. Not touching, only hovering protectively; your pelvis had protested the movement, making its disapproval known by way of stabbing pains.

“Noooo,” Your response was moaned, a lamentable sound that pierced their hearts. “not stomach pain, menstrual cramps.”

“Oh.” Their eyes leapt toward one another, sharing a panicked glance. “Well, we...might have some Tylenol?” Shōta’s words were optimistic though his tone was laced with uncertainty; he looked to his husband for confirmation. “Would that be okay?”

“Yeah! Uh...maybe? I dunno.” While his reply had started enthusiastically, a hype man at his core, he quickly lost confidence. It bled into hesitancy near the end. “I’m sure we got some though, lemme go check!” He raved, keeping the faith.

“Cutie ‘tootie?” There’s light rhythmic tapping at your knee. Mic squats beside you, his palm upturned as he presents you with a cookie. You gladly accept, thanking him. After administering a loving pat on the head he’s standing and off in search of pain relievers.

Suffice to say, you made quick work of the treat.

Shō was pleasantly surprised when you fastened his arms around your waist, wearing them like a seatbelt. You secured one of them in place with your own arm, as if he’d ever withhold his touch from you. You slipped your fingers between his, intertwining them together. He allowed you to do so, to manipulate him however you saw fit, willing and pliable under your ministrations. He flexed them, wondering at the sight, and sensation of his hands in yours. There’s a dusting of rouge to his cheek as he squeezes back.

——————————

“What did you find?” The erasure hero asked, drowsily watching his other half pace to and fro, Hizashi’s faced glued to his phone.

“Says it’s okay, how many ya want, honey bunch? One or two?”

“None.”

They glance at you as you’re quite adamant about not needing pills, and Shota begs to differ. The death grip on his hand spoke otherwise. And he thinks, as you clamp down on him after another contraction, that he knows what it’s like to be a husband in a delivery room. Something he never thought he’d experience. He isn’t complaining, anything to help ease your discomfort; he’d offered reassuring presses of his own, but he’d be lying if he said he understood your opposition.

“But-!” Hizashi looks put out, disappointed. “Dont’cha want somethin’ to take the edge off?”

Your head shakes negatively, and he frowns. He goes to insist but he gets one from his husband as well. He sighs, snagging a set of keys from the rack.

You’re honestly surprised they let it go so easily, they never let things go. In hindsight, you supposed you should’ve been a bit more suspicious, but you’re just glad they dropped the subject. You didn’t feel like fighting them on it.

“I’ll go warm up the ride, you warm up with princess before ya jet!” He leans down, and Shōta meets him halfway as they share a kiss. “‘Kay caffeine king?”

“Mmm.” He hums an affirmative, burrowing further into the couch, enjoying the heat you donate as you too make yourself comfortable by cuddling into his chest. His eyes close, and there’s a click indicating the blonde’s departure.

You sat for a bit, listening to his steady breaths, the lull of his heartbeat, rocked by the gentle rise and fall of his chest. You twist around to view him, and he cracks an eye open to regard you when you stir. You spend a good chunk of time simply taking him in, with him doing the same, and you aren’t sure whether it’s the lighting, music, the complicated feelings you can’t suppress—because as angry and frustrated as you are, you still care for them, terribly so, or perhaps it’s the cloying sap you tended to become around this time of month, but you find yourself extending a hand to brush his bang aside, revealing that handsome face you’d grown so fond of. You wished he’d show it more often; it was too cute to be hidden under all that fringe, and you tell him so.

“I like being able to see your face,” Deft fingers card through his hair, and using both you fashion the fluffy mane into a faux bun, “I’d love to see it more often. You should wear it up every once and awhile.”

His lidded eyes are wide on yours, a blush quickly blooming, and suffusing to his ears, cute little things you rarely ever see.

“Means I’d get to praise that pretty puss,” Shouta’s pupils are dilated, and you swear they’re expanding with each compliment as he basks in your hero-worship.

“and it means I get to do this!”

You smooch his forehead, another thing you’re usually unable to view. Like before, the erasure hero withdraws into his sweater, muttering a low, “Thanks, kitten...” His delivery is soft and tender, one of those diminutive winning smiles tugging at his cheeks. He’d always been so fun to tease, responsive and susceptible unlike his blonde counterpart, whose life’s mission was to see you self-implode. “You look so pretty in pink, sweet prince.” It was nice to flip the script now and then.

His dietary habits a sore point of contention, he grumbled, shaking his head so that his hair fell into his face once more, hiding his deepening flush from scrutiny. You toss it up again.

“There’s that cute face!” You coo, smiling broadly. Aizawa slouches even further into the couch, burrowing deeper into the cottony collar of his pullover. “Aww, cutie!zawa!” A thumb caresses his face, just below his eye where his scar lies, and ever so gently do you inch forward, and with as much care as you can muster, you kiss him, your lips meet the mark in a delicate press. But It wasn’t a blemish, it was the testimony of his survival. It did nothing to detract from his rugged beauty; in your opinion it only enhanced it. “This is your cutie mark!” You excitedly declared. You’re struck with the realization that if it hadn’t been for his tenacity, his strength, there’s a genuine possibility he wouldn’t be here with you now. Overcome with emotion, you crush him in a firm embrace, dolling adulation after adulation.

“You’re so strong.”

“I’m glad you’re here.”

And despite everything,

“I’m so happy I was able to meet you. You and ‘Zashi.

“You guys...mean a lot to me.”

Weak, Shouta quivers in your hold; his Adam’s apple bobbed as he floundered helplessly to form an articulate response. His heart swelled with adoration, and he squeezed back just as tightly. Your sweet words were sending him, and having been left without your touch for a spell has him starved for your affections. “Can-” Your head raises at the wobbled utterance, and he connects your forehead with his, just barely able to restrain himself. His pupils are pulsing as he looks into your eyes—dilating back and forth, his gaze downright imploring. “May I kiss you?” An unspoken plea hung from his lips, and his words carried a noticeable tremble, showing just how affected he was. He eyed you with a reverence the likes you’ve never seen. You’re taken aback. Your breath falters, and you know it isn’t a platonic kiss he’s asking for. Anxious, your teeth worry at your bottom lip as you contemplated, those onyx pools track the movement, lingering perhaps a bit too long before his eyes met yours. He swallows thickly, “Please...?” He’s practically begging at this point. And to convey it he took your hand in his, guiding it to his throat where you felt palpitations dance wildly beneath your fingertips, showing you just what you did to him. He looked so vulnerable, so in need.

And he’s heartbroken when you pull away, withdrawing your warmth, and leaving him cold. “Kitten—” Shouta’s voice cracks, it’s a question, a plea, an extension of something that had been boiling beneath the surface, and it’s been a long time coming. He felt as if he’d endured an eternity without your loving-kindness, and after what felt like a lifetime were you finally sweetening back up to him, and bestowing the passion he’d pined for, the affection he and Hizashi panted after. You’d been so distant since they’d brought you home, and his heavy heart was breaking. Were you-were you upset with them?

You aren’t sure you’re comfortable with such an intimate gesture. Most of your days were spent in a domestic daydream, and while it was easy to fall into the illusion, playing house, and palling around, without fail, something always happened to shatter it, reminding you of the reality of your situation. In this case, needing items and being unable to go out and purchase them. Ordinarily, you have no issue with having whatever you required brought to you; you couldn’t say you were choked up over not having to endure crowded stores, and checkout lines that moved slower than molasses, but you preferred to buy those products yourself. It was so demoralizing to have to go up to them, like a child, and bring up your needs. The pair always gave your orders a once over, ensuring you weren’t ‘purchasing anything naughty’ ‘nothing you could get yourself into trouble with’ It felt like you couldn’t do anything without the heroes knowing about it. You probably couldn’t even pass a stool in this house without them knowing about it. And you just—didn’t think it was...healthy to feed into their delusions, you didn’t want them to think you were okay with what they’d done, and you weren’t sure where your relationship stood with them anymore, but like a fool you still had a soft spot for them, they’d long since carved a special spot for themselves in your heart, and because of that, you couldn’t stand watching his break in front of you.

Against your better judgement you cradle his face in your palm, he shivers and is instantly nestling into the soft touch, slumping forward to press himself even closer, singing low in his throat when your lips join, it’s hardly discernible, yet the vibration is unmistakable as he pulls you close, clutching your sides; uncontrolled moans were plucked from him with each candy-coated kiss you awarded. And all too soon were you drawing away to rest your forehead against his.

“Kitten, again.”

“Kiss me again.”

“Please?”

He made no move to initiate, only wishing, hoping, waiting, on you—for your reply. And, a purr rumbled from deep within his chest when you indulged him.

Hizashi bursts into the apartment eager to escape the cold and is greeted by his loving husband, whose hair is tousled, and in an even worse state of disarray than usual, which he finds kinda strange since it certainly hadn’t been that way previous to him leavin’ out. And stranger yet, a small saccharine smile played on the erasure hero’s lips. He looks between the two of you and internally gushes over the pretty picture you both painted; you cuddlin’ up on Shou, mussy hair...

Wait a minute.

Hizashi’s giddy squeal cuts out like a record scratch when he comes across the now empty plate.

“You guys...”

Neither of you even has the decency to look contrite.

“They were good, you’ve really outdone yourself.”

“I get sugar cravings around this time, they were amazing though.”

Compliments were the way to his heart, and was all it took for him to forget his disapproval and become starry-eyed, gasping a cute, “Really?”

“Yeah! You did awesome, Awesomeasaurus!”

“Aww, thank you, suga’pie! Though I gotta feelin’ that wasn’t the only sugar you were smackin’ on.” Mic teased, a knowing grin with too many teeth splitting across his face, and this time you do become abashed as Aizawa grinned right back like a cheshire cat.

They chuckle among themselves as the host with the most lifts you from Shouta’s lap with all the care of a mother tending to her newborn; he swoops in to steal a kiss, amused by the scandalized expression you pull. “Shouta can’t be the only one gettin’ kisses!” He nabs a couple more, stopping only when you tuck to the side to escape the barrage. “If he’s gettin’ kisses, then I’m gettin’ kisses.” He proclaimed, easing you down onto the cushions still warmed from the erasure hero’s body heat.

“Your chariot awaits, Prince of Slumberland.” A pair of keys are dropped into his hand, and his shoulder is bumped affectionately. Hizashi follows Shouta to the door, helping him into his jacket. The latter melts into the hug he’s given, and with a smack to the derrière, he’s sent off. Yamada is halfway across the foyer when he stops, looking as if he’d forgotten something; he spazzes, swinging back around, “WAIT!” He shouts, attracting the attention of Shota who was partially out the door. “Wait, wait, wait, wait,” He jogged up to his lover with a smile, “I forgot my goodbye kiss!” Shota’s face is cradled in his palms as he kisses his hubby on the lips. “You be safe, honey butter biscuit.” The home-room teacher smiles softly, covering Hizashi’s hands with his, “I will. Promise.” The kiss is returned, equally as doting; Aizawa gently removes his lover’s hands, pressing a kiss to the knuckle of each one before returning them. He’s starting out of the door again when another call for him to stop rings out. Shōta turns, wondering what he could possibly want this time. He wants to protest as his spouse lifts you, their darling shouldn’t be manipulated right now, even if she was handled with extreme care. Hizashi makes a short walk of the distance and is already presenting you to him, his husband’s beam is even brighter than before. “Can’t leave out, sugar snap pea!” Shota leans forward, and watches as you elevate your neck for what you thought he had in store; well, he has to keep you on your toes doesn’t he? He administers the endearment lower than anticipated, bestowing you a smooch on the lips as he’d done with Hizashi. He chuckles as you gingerly touch the spot, looking up at him owlishly. Cute. It’s a sentiment Hizashi echoes, although verbally. He adds another to your forehead, leaning over you to kiss the radio star one last goodbye.

—————————————

“Alright! Let’s get some food in ya, ginger spice!” Mic exclaimed, striding into the kitchen. His baby needed some grub and a few good snugs! He sits you on the island and his hands are a whirlwind of motion as he ransacked the cabinets, grabbing all the goodies he could find. And when he turns to face you he’s supporting an armful of mixed munches, an abundant assortment of eats. His neck is folded to house a packet of candy and there’s a bag of chips clenched between his teeth. “Vish should vast ‘til Shou gets home, vwatcha fink?” His goofy appearance and impeded speech is enough to have you cracking up. His smile radiated pride as he passed along the treats, “Can ya hold these for me, Sweet?” Arms full, you’re hoisted up and the radio star throws you a wink, “I already got a snack to carry.”

Upon entering the living area he lowers you, and the array is dumped on the table, it’s surface completely engulfed and no longer visible. It’s laid out like a food fanatic’s fantasy.

“C’mon, lil mama! Come cuddle with me!” Mic dove onto the couch, arms splayed open wide, making grabby motions towards you with his hands, his legs parting in invitation.

———————————

The drone of the television did little to distract you as the blonde had hoped, you were writhing in pain; your cramps had worsened as the night had progressed, increasing in both frequency and intensity, and all he could do was you hold you. Hizashi hugs you to his chest, providing snuggles. It’s unconscious on his part, but he’s squeezing you like a human-sized stress ball. All he can focus on is you, your pain, your misery, how useless he felt.

What does he do?

What could he do?

And as his thoughts begin to spiral he doesn’t even notice his grasp constricting, tightening and tightening until you yelp. The pressure is removed instantaneously.

“Ah! Sorry, songbird. Is your tummy tender?”

You and Mic resume cuddling without further incident, his grip tightens with each pained whimper, but never reaches the same intensity as before, both in an attempt to offer comfort and to assuage his own worry. Seeing his princess in pain was seriously throwing him off his game. And him not being able to do anything about it? He buzzed with nervous energy. His knee bounced anxiously, where the hell was Shō?! Another anguished groan and Hizashi answered with his own anxious whine,

“Do-do ya need anything? Are ya—ya sure you don’t want any pain meds?”

You’d snubbed any offers of pain relievers much to their disappointment and ever growing disquiet.

Okay, he’d admit that it was kind of precious how you always refused to take medication of any kind, the same way a child might, but you wouldn’t even go for the flavored stuff! If you wouldn’t do it for your sake he wished you’d at least do it for his. He wasn’t sure how much more he could take of seeing you like this; with each passing second he grew all the more fretful and evermore fidgety.

To his immense relief you end up asking for a heating pad, they have one surprisingly, hero work comes with its aches and pains! Sure their closest was a mess and Shōta was sure to get on him about it later but it was for their darling! A trashed closet was a small price to pay for their beloved’s comfort. The voice hero was so amped up to finally be of assistance that he nearly ate carpet twice in his haste to get what you’d requested. After very gently maneuvering you, he’d shot off towards their shared bedroom at break-neck speed. A shout of, “Don’t touch that dial!” Thrown over his shoulder.

From your spot on the couch, you heard the sounds of him tearing up the room, exaggerated groans and a victorious crow at his acquirement; and when he’d returned, he presented his prize proudly, like an energetic puppy craving praise. “Who d’ya love cuddle-bug?!” If he had a tail it’d be wagging. “Thanks, snug monster. I really appreciate it...” Your eyelids and tone are weighed heavily from the pain, it left you drowsy, with slowed movements, but you manage to smile up at him, and Hizashi thrills as he’s rewarded with a smooch. He’s tickled pink, and can’t even begin to hide the blush he’s sporting, he doesn’t even try. “Aw, ya know it ain’t no thang! Anything for you, cutie.” You stretch to get your fingers on the pad, eager for relief, however the blonde keeps it out of reach, an unidentifiable emotion twisting his features, his expression an odd mix of stress and desperation, panic flickering in his eyes. “No, let me! ...Lemme help you. Where do you need it?” You’re re-situated on his lap, and he gingerly flattens the pad against your lower abdomen; the soothing heat acted as a balm, loosening your tense muscles; you sigh, leaning into the sensation, covering his hand with yours to urge him closer. “That’s it, mama. Just let me take care of you.” You can’t help the gratified moan that slips past your lips, the warmth doing wonders for you, and Hizashi could see the tension fading from your body. “Feelin’ good?” He’s given a nod in response as you relax into him. The DJ releases a relieved breath of his own, finding solace in your improved condition. His rigid posture slackens. He lays his head atop yours, heaving another weary sigh, his nerves overstrung. “Daddy’s happy to hear it, baby...”

#was originally going to keep this untagged since it was just self-indulgent crap I wrote but maybe it’ll make someone feel better #it isn’t done gotta add the final part #it also will probably receive some edits #but I hope you can enjoy it as much as I did writing it #yandere erasermic x reader #fluff #there’s more to it but you’ve gotta dig through my trash blog to get it I’m too lazy #I don’t know how to tag #let me know if i need to tag this

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redstainedsocks · 4 years

Text

What’s in a name

Warnings: Torture, sensory deprivation, solitary confinement, electrocution/electroshock therapy, punishments, sadistic whumper, institutionalozed whump, memory loss, identity erasure, noncon drugging, drugs that cause memory loss, hallucinations, brutal treatment, brief beating and manhandling, box boy universe, dehumanization, denial of food

Set during Kit’s training period. I originally wrote this for escape!week and the prompt “relapse” but it didn’t seem right for the tone of that week, so I wrote something else for that and decided to post this on it’s own! Thanks especially to @castielamigos-whump-side-blog for being so enthusiastic about seeing more of Kit’s early time, gives me confidence that this is, hopefully, wanted :D.

This one is particularly brutal, so heed the warnings, and if you don’t feel up to reading it I’m happy to give a quick rundown of the content to anyone who DMs me. But as it’s set in the past, nothing particularly plot relevant happens, so it can be skipped altogether.

This is the knock-off version of what WRU would do during training, if anyone is curious. The made up drugs for this universe that alter memory (among other things) still exist, and I’ve made use of them. Thanks and credit to the other writers in the box boy universe--especially @ashintheairlikesnow and @moose-teeth--for giving me lots of context for their procedures so I could learn the process and turn it into this non-WRU method.

Tag List: @haro-whumps, @theycomeinthrees, @whumpthisway, @samanddeaninpanties, @teachunks, @draganies, @pepperonyscience, @whump-it, @castielamigos-whump-side-blog, @untilthepainstarts, @galaxywhump, @kiretto-laorentze, @lonesome--hunter @slaintetowhump @just-a-raccoon-with-wifi

Word Count: 1.9k

He woke up one day and he just knew.

Maybe they’d let him sleep for too long. Maybe he hadn’t been on the right dose of the drugs. Maybe it had been too many days since his last round of the shocks and beatings that forced his mind to retreat into numb obedience.

Whatever the reason he knew, he remembered.

He used to have a name.

He didn't used to spend his days cowering in corners and obeying orders, looking up at the world from his knees, or on his back, or with eyes ringed with bruises. He didn’t used to be scared and exhausted all the time, just hoping to make it through the day without crying in front of a stranger.

He used to be a person.

And if he knew that, he could fight back. He knew the routines, the layouts, which guards were a softer touch. He just needed an opening, and he’d take it.

When the guard came down the row of cells and knocked their baton on the concrete wall dividing his cell from the next, called him pet and told him to get up—he refused. He curled tighter into the corner and balled his fists and ducked his head.

“I said up, trainee.”

“Not my name,” he growled out.

“What was that?”

“I said: that’s not my name, I have a name.”

“Do you now? Want to share with the class?”

He grit his teeth and glared. Just because he wanted to hold on to it and not tell this violently dangerous man, didn’t make it any less true.

The guard grinned.”That’s what I thought.” A radio crackled and the guard spoke into it. “Yeah, we’ve got a back-slider in row 4, yeah, being defiant again.”

A muffled voice spoke back.

“Will do, I’ll wait right here.”

He frowned, leant forward a little. No, this wasn’t right, when he disrespected them they’d come in and give him a beating, right there and then. And he’d decided he wasn’t going to cower, he was going to use it as an opportunity to get the upper hand. Shit, no, shit, he’d played his card too early.

Three more black-glad guards arrived, one man, and a woman. A trainer too, the mean one who had steel toed boots and a grey streak in his hair. They surveyed him and checked the chart hanging by his cell. He watched them all through the chain link as they talked about training methods, the pros and cons of every course of treatment while he got more nervous by the second.

“What is that you want, trainee?” The trainer asked eventually. “What were you hoping to achieve with this outburst? A little one on one time? Hoping to get more food, jonesing for the drugs we put in there? Come on, talk to me pet, what did that pea-sized brain think was going to happen here?”

“Nothing,” he snarled. “I don’t want anything from you, you can’t do this to me, to anyone! I want to… I want to go home, you have to let me leave.” He breathed hard through his nose and tried to quell the quiet voice that told him he didn’t remember where home was, that he had nowhere else to go. That was them talking; there had to be somewhere better than here.

“That doesn’t sound like something a good pet would say. And you’ve been such a good pet lately, you’re ruining your well behaved streak.”

“I’m not your pet, I’m not anybody's pet!”

The trainer smiled and it radiated such calculated hatred that it froze the blood in his veins. “Now we’re getting to the root of it.” The man gestured at him and turned to his colleagues. “He’s starting to think he gets to be a person.”

They all laughed, and he flinched. They sounded like hyenas, jackals, crows… all out for a piece of him, waiting to pick him apart and peck out his innards piece by piece by piece until there was nothing left but empty space.

“Right, okay. This has gone on long enough, throw him in the hole. We’ll see if that destroys these little illusions.”

His defiance wavered and he pitched forward onto his hands and knees as panic surged through him. The gate unlocked and they surrounded him, hands on his shoulders and in his hair, and batons swinging down on his back and legs. He fought, he fought with everything he had.

Like always, like every time before, it wasn’t enough.

“No! No, wait, please, please. Anything else, just, please, anything else.”

Maybe he was a person, but he wasn’t above begging. Not if it got him out of this.The hole was every trainee pet’s worst nightmare. He wouldn’t go there, he wouldn’t. He clawed at the walls, the metal doorframe, wrapped his fingers around the chain link at the front of his cell and clung until the wire fencing cut into his fingers. His blood made it slippery but he wouldn’t let go. One of them brought a baton down on his hands and he wailed. When they threatened to do it again, and break both his forearms, he finally let go.

****

The hole was nothing but a pitch black metal room. A storage container of some sort, or maybe just a large dumpster repurposed for the use. They would throw you in, slam the door shut, and then it was nothing but you and a black so deep you couldn’t see your own hands.

He slammed his body against the walls until his ears rang from the metallic clangs that reverberated around the room. He couldn’t do this again, the last time… he’d gone half mad.

He wouldn’t cry, the fear was too big to cry. It was larger than his tear ducts and it couldn’t get out that way. He couldn’t risk the loss of the moisture in any case. He had two bottles of water to last him for… however long they planned to leave him.

He paced for a while, one hand on the wall to keep himself steady in the dark. Four steps, five steps, four steps, two steps—cross the door—two more steps. Around and around.

The worst thing about the Hole was the conductive metal. It heated up so much during the day that by the afternoon it hurt to touch the walls and floor. It became so overheated that it felt like the air was sizzling, too thick to enter his lungs properly, pressing on his head until he felt like he’d burst. He laid on his back, tried to keep his bare legs and arms off the floor, so the barrier of his shirt and shorts was between him and the metal. The black swam around him in dizzying eddies as he sweltered and sweated.

Sebastian. Seb. Bas. Sebastian Rogers. That’s me, that’s me, that’s who I am. They’re punishing me just for remembering.

The dark and the heat made his angry behaviour seem even more pitiful. He could have just kept his name to himself, and done what they asked, and he wouldn’t be in this mess.

Relapse, they’d called it as they talked to each other. So he just had to get better again and then they’d let him out.

Getting better probably meant forgetting, letting it go. He wouldn’t let it go, he’d just tuck it safely away where no-one else could touch it. He’d just pretend, and they’d let him go back to his cell.

The day passed and he waited in trepidation for the night. For the temperature to drop until the walls felt like ice, instead of fire. In the few hours in between too hot and too cold he drank some water, and chose a corner to piss in, and then curled up and tried to conserve body heat.

There wouldn’t be much chance to sleep except in the dusk and early morning, when it was neither too hot, nor too cold. He tried, but it wouldn’t come, there was a buzzing below his skin that wouldn’t quit.

Probably something in the water.

He did cry then, a few dry-heaving sobs that turned to yelling, and more pounding on the door. The silence and stillness were deafening. He tap-tap-tapped on the floor just to hear something. Tapped the syllables of his name until it started to sound annoying and repetitive and he stopped.

He drummed out random beats and whimpered and groaned as he started to see white and colourful spots appear in the dark. They’d coalesce into other things before long, and he didn’t want to see; he pressed his hands over his eyes so that he wouldn’t.

Two cycles of day and night—blistering heat followed by icy cold— passed before they came for him, and he was delirious and grateful. Ready to lie and say he didn’t want a name at all, they could take it, he wouldn’t fight. He was willing to do whatever it took. But they didn't give him chance. They strapped him down in the treatment room and attached little nodes to his head and his body and forced round after round of shocks through his system. Pumped electricity into his brain and his nerves in concentrated shocks that made him disoriented and forgetful, stole his memory of where he was and why, for long minutes at a time.

After that he realised that they weren’t giving him a choice, they would take his unruly behaviour from him, not offer him the chance to give it up—they would make him good.

They dumped him back in the Hole, with fresh water, two packets of insubstantial food-paste, and the urine cleaned out. Still trembling from the aftershocks he crawled into a corner and clung to his meager rations. The water tasted funny, and he sipped it knowing it would mix with the shocks and do more strange things to his memories.

Mind warped and body aching, he curled up and tried to remember what had got him in so much trouble in the first place. Something about a name…a person with a name that he wasn't supposed to know.

It barely mattered whose it was, he wished he'd never thought of it all.

Sebastian wasn't worth this. Nothing was worth this.

Twice more he went through the same routine—two days—shocks—two days. Memories obliterated until he was empty headed and dizzy and so very, very sorry.

When they finally dragged him limp and mostly unresponsive from the darkness, he waved weakly to the hallucinations that he left behind.

He was better, he would be better. They asked and he grovelled for the chance to prove it. He’d messed up so badly, but he’d do better. His mouth wouldn’t form real words, just mumbles and groans from a parched throat and numb, swollen lips that he’d bitten to keep from screaming in the void of the Hole.

It didn’t seem to bother them that he was incoherent, that he tried was enough. He cried onto their boots, clinging with fingertips to the concrete so he wouldn’t slip away.

He left more than hallucinations in the dark. He left his defiance, his angry stubborn will. He left his identity, buried under hot stale air, where it would never be seen again. Left it to rot in the dark, where it never served him any good. Abandoned his old self, and knew he was better off for it.

He was a pet, would always be, had always been; he was nothing else, remembered nothing else. The darkness up ate his name so thoroughly, so completely, that he never even knew he’d offered it up to be devoured.

#Kit's Story #dehumanization tw #conditioning tw #pet whump #box boy universe #noncon drugging #hallucinations whump #torture tw #solitary confinement whump #institutionalized whump #sensory deprivation #memory loss tw #identity erasure #people as pets #isolated whumpee #multiple whumpers #withholding food #I keep expecting someone to figure out how I came up with his full name and come into my inbox and call me out for being a dork xD #but it hasn't happened yet...

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racefortheironthrone · 5 years

Text

Thoughts on House of X #4

Over the halfway mark!

Look At What They’ve Done Infographic:

Suprisingly for an issue that, in retrospect is the climax of the standard superheroics part of House of X, this issue starts with an infographic, which turns out to be one of the more controversial in HoX/PoX.

Foreshadowing what’s going to come at the end of the issue, the tone is already different from the pseudo-academic objectivity of earlier infographics, although the term “mutant erasure” evokes the activist-inspired, post-cultural turn work of critical race/gender/sexuality studies, which is something of a stepping-stone.

By contrast, describing Wanda Maximoff as both “the pretender” (does this mean “not-really-a-mutant” or “not-really-Magneto’s-daughter” or both?) and as associated with the Avengers is incredibly politically pointed, which speak to a particular kind of mutant nationalist identity that bears a good deal of grievance towards even benevolent human institutions.

Similarly, the term “human-on-mutant violence” is way too evocative of real world debates over racism and police violence to be accidental on the author’s point. It’s a depressing thought, but the 616 probably sees a lot of “what about mutant-on-mutant violence?” derailings, maybe as many as creep up in threads about HoX/Pox here...

So let’s get at the controversy: can Bolivar Trask be blamed for the Genoshan genocide? Contrary to a few voices in the fandom, I would argue strongly for the affirmative. As we see from his initial appearance, Trask created the Sentinels entirely out of racial paranoia/hatred; moreover, Sentinels have no purpose other than A. destroying all mutants and B. subjugating the human race along the way. Cassandra Nova’s actions on Genosha absolutely followed the Trask playbook of both father and son, and indeed relied on Larry Trask’s assistance to carry it out, making it a Trask affair from beginning to end.

On a final meta note, this infographic really speaks to the outsized impact that Morrison’s New X-Men and Bendis’ House of M had on the X-line for the last 15-20 years.

Observation-Analysis-Invocation-Connection:

But before we get to the punching, we get one burst of Hickman’s fascination with singularities and transhumanism, where for the first time we really get an example of how the Krakoan biological approach is going to work, showing us a surprisingly complicated biomachine:

Trinity (who runs the Secondary/External Systems part of Krakoa) uses her technopathy to gather intelligence from human mechanical systems: the Aracibo Arecibo Observatory in Puerto Rico, “re-tasked SETI radio telescopes," both of which are real things, and the “Dyson solar observatory,” which isn’t.

Beast (who runs the Overwatch/Data Analysis part of Krakoa) uses Krakoan biocomputers and his own scientific genius to “extrapolate that data into an actionable forecast,” to deal with the delay caused by the immense distances between Krakoa and Sol’s Forge.

Professor X and Cerebro handle the direct Connection between Krakoa and the away team, while the Cuckoos link Trinity, Beast, Storm into a psychic link with Xavier, which means all of the parts of the system work seamlessly even as Storm handles the Invocation of visually representing Jean Grey’s thoughts.

If you step back and think about it, this is an astonishing technological feat: with minimal reliance on machine technology, Krakoa has established a NASA “KASA Mission Control” that can send data across half a solar system almost(?) instantly.

That’s before we even get to the whole secondary purpose of the system, which is to allow Professor X and the Five to resurrect an up-to-date version of anyone who dies on the mission, which is one hell of a life-rope.

Thematically, we see a really sharp distinction between biological and mechanical transhumanism/singularity: “KASA Mission Control” is described in biological terms, “function[ing] as a singular organism,” and also in religious terms, with “eight of us acting as one” explicitly labelled as “Communion.” And yet...the eight people involved retain their separate personalities and identities and no separate, artificial intelligence is created.

Should We Fear the Worst?

And across five hundred million miles, all Krakoa gets is bad news. Archangel and Husk, the redshirt’s redshirts on this mission, are dead before they do anything; Nightcrawler has some level of “internal injury,” and Wolverine almost had his arm blown off.

Incidentally, page 7 is where something of a problem crops up with Jean Grey’s characterization. As people have noted, Jean Grey starts off in the passive communications role (indeed, she’s even reliant on Monet to do that job) and doesn’t really improve from there. With the added context of her wearing her Silver Age miniskirt costume, it’s all a bit sus, especially if you’ve been reading a much more self-possessed, confident, and all-around more powerful version of Jean Grey in X-Men: Red. For a while, many of us were thinking that Jean is a younger backup, but that seems to have been Jossed by the resurrection ceremony in House of X #5.

Better characterization abounds for the men: following their conversation from the previous issue, Cyclops and Wolverine have different perspectives about the question of whether to continue on with the mission (another key element of the special ops/espionage thriller genre). Cyclops emphasizes pushing on to make Warren and Paige’s sacrifice meaningful, Logan agrees but rather because of the existential stakes of the mission. There’s an interesting parallel there between Xavier and Magneto and means vs. ends.

Following the catastrophe, Nightcrawler successfully inserts the struje team, while “Jean and Monet will stay to maintain our connection with Krakoa;”we know know that part was crucial in more than one way, but it is a continuation of some troubling gender dynamics.

Meanwhile, despite being “technically...just an observer” (and doesn’t that ring of all kinds of Cold War proxy wars), Omega Sentinel takes action to prompt Dr. Gregor into retaliation, similarly playing to the nationalistic theme of “if you don’t, he will have died for nothing.”

Orchis’ retaliation doesn’t go so well, as we see Wolverine carving his way through an AIM securtiy team and Nightcrawler bloodlessly tying up two scientists (note the further emphasis on differing personalities and values; whoever these X-Men might be, they’re not mindless followers) towards popping two of the four constraint collars.

Unfortunately, this is followed up by a couple pages of more Jean Grey being awfully Damselly: yes, she’s holding open the connection, but she’s coded as way more helpless and indecisive than Monet (who gets to go out like a badass defending the shuttle), and the line “I dunno what to say, Marvel Girl. Try harder” really sums it all up. So far, this is reading a lot more like Stan Lee’s Jean Grey (but not Jack Kirby’s) than Chris Claremont’s.

With the tension ratcheting ever-higher, we see Cyclops succeeding at his mission, while Mystique...doesn’t and then gets promptly blown out an airlock. The “habitat” connection and the odd business with her getting “turned around” despite having the plans for the base in her head like everyone else is highly suspicious (it might suggest the use of a Krakoa flower, but no one’s ever suggested what her motivation would be for doing so), but it’ll have to go on the list of plot threads that weren’t resolved in House of X.

In a development that really ought to be troubling to more people, Dr. Gregor throws away whatever moral compunctions she has about waking up a potentially violently insane A.I because “I don’t let them stop us. No matter what,” a potentially existential downside to Omega’s strategy.

Do Whatever It Takes:

Having reached the “darkest moment” in the story diagram, Professor X orders his students to “do whatever it takes” to prevent Mother Mold from coming on line. This prompts Cyclops to give the order to Nightcrawler and Wolverine to jump out into unprotected space to sever the last constraint collar. All in all, we’re following the traditional beats of the special ops/espionage genre pretty closely, down to the team leader’s moral anguish moment.

Appropriately, we then get a quiet moment where Kurt and Logan contemplate whether or what will be “waiting for us on the other side.” Even knowing what we know now about the resurrection system, there’s still a good deal of weight to this moment, because in a way this Kurt and this Logan are going to die and whether they’re the same Kurt and Logan who will be reborn is a matter I’ll take up in Powers of X #5 along with the difficult topic of the philosophy of identity. (I’m going to leave aside the question of them having gone to literal Heaven and Hell in the past, because my Doylist position is that those story threads were probably a bad idea and my Watsonian No Prize is that you can’t remember the afterlife once returned to earth.)

Surprisingly, things get only more metaphysically weird when the two teleport outside and Wolverine starts chopping his way through the last arm. Mother Mold wakes up and immdiately starts talking about Greek mythology. Mother Mold’s interpretation of the Titanomachy is a little choppy (as we might expect from an insane A.I): on the one hand, if humanity are the Olympian gods as the creator of the Sentinels and the mutants are the Titans because of “their spoiled lineage” (this doesn’t quite work, because the Titans preceded the Olympians), then the Sentinels being “Man” makes sense. And as someone who’s written his share of college papers about omniscience/predestination/free will in Greek myth and drama, there’s a plausible anti-theist position whereby human beings might “judge and find you both wanting.” (Although that language is too Book of Daniel for the Greeks.) On the other hand, if the Sentinels are man, them having “stolen your fire” doesn’t work either - humanity was given fire by the Titan Prometheus - unless the argument is that Wolverine is Prometheus because he yeets Mother Mold into the sun?

Regardless, it’s a very ominous note for Mother Mold to go out on, because the consistent anti-human/Olympian tone suggests this insane A.I might hate humans way more than it hates mutants.

With the day seemingly saved, we transition into the Rogue One scenario where Cyclops is murdered by a vengeful Dr. Gregor and Jean is torn apart by Sentinel drones.

As gruesome as all of this is, I think it does play a very important role in explaining a good deal of Charles Xavier’s change of mind with regard to human-mutant harmony and assimilation. While this incident didn’t prompt any of the decisions that he’s made along the way - this mission is happening post-Xavier’s announcement and a day before the U.N vote, making it quite late in the X^1 timeline - I think it does a good job of showing us the kind of thought patterns that have led Xavier to this conclusion. In addition to everything he’s seen from Moira’s past nine lives, which only lend a greater sense of urgency and the fear of inevitability, Xavier himself has experienced the deaths of “our children” over and over again as the founder of the X-Men, and clearly both the direct trauma (keep in mind, he’s hooked into the minds of all of his X-Men as they die) and the pain he feels at humanity’s apathy/atrocity fatigue, goes a long way to explaining why he’ll make the decision that integration and assimilation are no longer viable options.

For all the crap that people sometime sling at Hickman over his use of charts, I will say that the way that “NO MORE” weaponizes them by extra-textually demonstrating the breakdown of the facade of calm objectivity is incredibly effective.

#xmen #xmen meta #house of x #hoxpox

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thesydneyfeminists · 5 years

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Rural Feminisms

After spending a year and a half studying in Sydney, I made a temporary move to New Zealand just last month. Since then, I’ve been living and working on a dairy farm in a rural area of the North Island, New Zealand. My time here has made me pause and rethink my past life experiences. Of the last 8 years of my life, I’ve spent more than half of them living in rural areas. At 18, I started my undergrad degree in a small town in the Blue Ridge Mountains of southwest Virginia, surrounded by dairy and beef farms. The town itself was prosperous, mostly due to tourism and the presence of two wealthy universities. However, the surrounding region was largely working-class and had a higher-than-average percentage of poverty. Although I spent 6 years living in Virginia, I wasn’t directly exposed to life outside my little town. Sure, I complained about the closest city being an hour away, the lack of good radio stations and no diversity of restaurants. But otherwise, I was safely enclosed in my university bubble.

Image Description: Photo of a bright green tractor harvesting wheat. The tractor is in the center of the photo. To the right of the tractor, the wheat has been cut. In front of and to the left of the tractor, the wheat is still long. The sky is bright blue with large, fluffy clouds. A line of trees runs along the horizon in the distance.

As such, I paid little heed to the “townies,” those people who lived and worked around me but might as well have been in a different world. I claimed my parent’s working-class background set me apart from my more affluent classmates. But my feminism was still centered around academia. At my university, I was lucky to have easy access to printed knowledge and heaps of kind, patient people from which to learn. But all that time I carried and, to an extent, still carry harmful, internalized classism and prejudice against people who live in rural areas. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to undermine the very real pain and suffering differently marginalized people experience in many rural parts of the world. In Virginia, I personally struggled with hiding my sexuality due to the prevalence of violent homophobia. And I witnessed the KKK’s vitriolic racism and, specifically, anti-blackness on the campus of my undergraduate university. However, classifying all people who live in rural areas as sexist, racist, homophobic, transphobic, ableist, etc. goes directly against the core causes of intersectional feminism.

In mainstream feminism, women and nonbinary people living in rural areas are largely forgotten or blatantly excluded. As one woman raised in rural California writes, “We’re always portrayed as being a group of exclusively white, mullet-wearing, banjo-playing, lazy, toothless, illiterate, alcoholics and addicts. Casual jokes about inbreeding, incest and bestiality are perpetually being made at our expense, and we’re often depicted as violent, hateful, and dangerous” (https://www.opendemocracy.net/en/transformation/six-things-urban-feminists-should-never-say-to-rural-people/). The truth is far more complex. And, as the above author states, such statements are inherently linked to capitalism, white supremacy and heteropatriarchy. One of the most damaging falsities perpetuated by these stereotypes is only white people live in rural areas. In the States, many rural, Southern areas have high populations of black people due to the lasting impacts of slavery. In Australia, many rural areas are mainly populated by Aboriginal people. Not to mention the countless rural communities around the world in countries where white people are not the majority. Our intersectional feminisms need to more actively listen to and include women and nonbinary people living in rural areas.

Image Description: A photo of an older person of indeterminant ethnicity sitting in front of a stone wall on a set of stone steps. They are holding what appears to be a carved, wooden staff. In front of them is a white sheep with a black head and, in the background, you can see unfocused mountains. The person is wearing a blue and pink flowered, long sleeve shirt, a black dress, black, closed-toed shoes and a floppy black hat with red stripe. Their head is turned slightly to face the camera.

Historical ignorance and erasure of rural women and nonbinary people in mainstream feminism are related to yet still distinct from classism. Even the most Marxist of feminist discourse often centers the urban working-class. Of course, these people are important and should rightfully be included in our feminisms. However, as the people at Rural Feminist highlight, “Rural women face unique difficulties. Finding medical care, escaping domestic violence, and accessing community services are particularly challenging tasks in sparsely populated areas. As economic growth concentrates more and more in urban areas, manufacturing jobs move overseas or become automated, and wealth inequality grows, these problems are exacerbated” (http://ruralfeminist.com/#aboutus). As feminists, it is important to make these distinctions and incorporate the needs of rural women and nonbinary people into the movement’s short- and long-term goals. It is possible to be critical of systemic injustices and acknowledge the relationship between rural living and conservative views without ostracizing all rural women and nonbinary people. Most importantly, we must recognize and listen to rural women and nonbinary people, who have always been doing the hard work of dismantling oppression – just in ways mainstream feminism rarely appreciates.

Image Description: A photo of a pair of hands holding a pile of small purple, red, orange, green and yellow berries. The hands are quite dirty and tough, as though they have been working outside for long hours. They are holding the berries over a large, black bucket filled with the same kind of berries.

In an excellent article on Dolly Parton, Guardian contributor Sarah Smarsh writes at length about working-class feminism and, particularly, rural feminism. She discusses the class privilege inherent in many mainstream forms of activism and suggests feminism must stop privileging “intellectual knowledge” over “experiential knowing.” Smarsh reminds us, “Working-class women might not be fighting for a cause with words, time and money they don’t have, but they possess an unsurpassed wisdom about the way gender works in the world” (https://www.theguardian.com/world/2017/jun/25/feminism-working-class-women-gender-theory-dolly-parton). Smarsh’s point is a crucial one for anyone claiming to be a feminist. Feminism should never require an exhaustive knowledge of academic theory or extensive vocabulary. It should also not reduce women and nonbinary people to their intellectual or physical contributions to “the cause.” For some people living in rural poverty, their mere existence is a form of resistance. So, we must all engage with others whose lived experiences are different from our own to build a more inclusive and expansive community. Rural feminisms must be integral parts of all our personal feminisms if we have any hope of progressing in the fight against patriarchal society.

By: Brittany L.

Sources:

https://www.opendemocracy.net/en/transformation/six-things-urban-feminists-should-never-say-to-rural-people/

http://ruralfeminist.com/

https://www.theatlantic.com/sexes/archive/2013/06/the-particular-struggles-of-rural-women/276803/

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2017/jun/25/feminism-working-class-women-gender-theory-dolly-parton

Disclaimer: The views expressed in this piece do not necessarily reflect the views of the Sydney Feminists. Our Blogger and Tumblr serve as platforms for a diverse array of women to put forth their ideas and explore topics. To learn more about the philosophy behind TSF’s Blogger/ Tumblr, please read our statement here: https://www.sydneyfeminists.org/a

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cairobserver · 7 years

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Bidding Farewell to the Terminally Troubled City

Mohamed Elshahed

“You insist to live in the past and lament,” says Hanan, a dance instructor, to Khaled, the protagonist of In the Last Days of the City. “I want to live in the now,” she continues, “the city is alive.” Khaled wallows in indifference, he feels betrayed by Cairo and he is frustrated as to how to film the city and convey its atmosphere. He is also failing to find a new apartment he can call home. Khaled is disenchanted with Cairo’s condition: its contemporary life uncomfortably, often paradoxically, inhabits the shells of a past modernity.

Max Weber’s 1917 essay “Science as a Vocation” posited disenchantment as the essence of modernity. Many theorists, philosophers and writers in 19th and early 20th century Paris, Vienna and Berlin often lamented the birth of the modern city. These were cities where new notions of the modern self were authored in direct contrast to the status quo. In these European centers congregated colonial wealth manifested in urban and architectural forms and transformed the physical and psychological experiences of the city in unprecedented ways. Architects and urban planners designed structures for power and capital to reside in stone, concrete, glass and steel. Being modern was to dress, behave, inhabit space and walk the streets differently than before. The modern city was alienating because of its new rational logic.

Modern urban forms and practices in Cairo, Beirut and Baghdad took a hybrid route; the old and the new were often integrated in a layered experience of urbanity. New urban plans were implemented in a piecemeal fashion, not following the methods of their imposition in European cities. The religious and secular, the modern and traditional were not situated in dualistic oppositions.

So what does the artistic, literary and philosophical sense of disenchantment with modernity as experienced in the particular urban geographies of Europe tell us about the experience of the modern city in Egypt, the Levant and Iraq?

A century after Weber’s statements, the residents of cities in the old Middle East are experiencing far more violent psychological states than disenchantment. However, this mental state is not a reaction to the making of a new rational urban order, rather the opposite. The undoing of what came to be modern Cairo, Beirut, Damascus and Baghdad by war, corruption, the insatiable real estate market and the everydayness of destruction have left the artists, filmmakers and would be philosophers little choice between death, imprisonment, exile or lamenting in silence. The modernity that created the rational cities of 19th century Europe has irrationally devastated the cities of the old Middle East over the past decades.

In the Last Days of the City, directed by Tamer El Said is a self-referential film. It follows a filmmaker wanting to make a film about Cairo. He wants to capture the noise, the pedestrians, the feelings of place, he doesn’t know if he likes the city or if he hates it, but he is certain about his desire to film it. El Said worked on the film for a decade, its scenes are filmed in his apartment and in the building he frequented where he helped establish Cimatheque, Cairo’s alternative film center. The streets of Cairo’s downtown where El Said spends much of his time are the streets where Khaled, his filmic self, walks, meanders and observes daily life.

This is not a narrative film; the story is subordinated to the atmosphere of Cairo, its colors, sounds, and its multilayered incremental decay. Scenes blur the line between drama and documentary. Screen time is evenly split between actors and anonymous pedestrians and urban characters: a homeless woman, the milk delivery man on a bike, the bread delivery man on a bike, the street vendor, the child selling tissues to drivers waiting at a traffic light, an old woman roaming the streets holding flowers, a man selling newspapers on the sidewalk, a man cleaning windshields of cars at a traffic light, the street sweeper, and numerous policemen clad in black uniforms. By watching the film we involuntarily become flâneurs and voyerists, observing the people who give Cairo its character and who shape its experience. The buildings stand as blurry, ghostly containers and boarders of social life.

“A real city offers its citizens the freedom to be what they want to be,” writes Deyan Sudjic, director of London’s Design Museum. Following this simple requisite, is El Said’s Cairo a real city?

Cairo is not presented on the screen as a physical place but as a state of mind, a mood. In the Last Days of the City captures a frustrated sense of belonging, the helplessness of watching decline with hands tied, the inability to participate in the making and building of the city and its politics. The film depicts the filmmaker’s lack of agency in stopping the banal process of undoing the urbanity associated with the modern city. He is witness to the destruction of the potential Cairo once offered for a certain kind of sociability, political consciousness and cultural production. Two scenes encapsulate this feeling: in one scene Khaled sees a man brutalizing a woman on one of Cairo’s dusty rooftops. His only response is to pick up the camera and observe through his lens. On another occasion Khaled sees undercover police beat a protester as they kidnap him into the back of a police vehicle. He watches helpless.

The frustration and disenchantment felt in Cairo is not about the destruction of the old city to make way for a modern, ordered, sterile one. This is about the destruction of Cairo, Alexandria, Beirut and Baghdad to make way for nothing recognizable as the promised modernity Khaled is familiar with. No creative destruction here, only destruction. The city is turned on its head. A metaphor illustrated on the screen by a lens hanging by a window in Khaled’s apartment where the city spreading into the horizon is reproduced in a miniature, flipped image trapped within the circular boundary of the lens. There is no modernist vision or a new urban horizon that requires the systemic erasure of the city to make it more legible by the modern state or more hospitable to its citizens. There is only the undoing of the partially realized modern city of the recent past, its architecture, its social networks and the anchors necessary to foster belonging.

While watching the film the viewer bears witness to how 21st century aging Arab cities are ridding themselves of their 20th century selves. Cairo is cannibalizing its already dead parts, its districts, buildings and those who live in them. There is no room for romance, and the space for the secular middle class life once possible disappears. Where even a kiss must be concealed behind closed doors. All around are fragments and remnants of another possible way of being urban and middle class, another possible city. Once banal everyday experiences become fantasies. “We loved Beirut more during the war” Khaled’s friend says. “Simple things acquire deep meaning… going to the barber, buying bread.” The ghosts of these unfulfilled and disrupted modernities haunt Khaled and his fellow filmmaker friends from Beirut and Baghdad.

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Sitting on a rooftop overlooking Tahrir Square, Khaled’s Lebanese friend says “Look at this disaster, but it is honest,” referring to the city below. In another scene he says, “Cairo has such images, so many images one after the other, you stop seeing.” The notion that the city overwhelms the senses is repeated in another scene when the sound designer for Khaled’s film sends him a musical sample before which he says, “How can you hear silence in the noise of Cairo?” Throughout the film the image blurs combined with the film’s complicated yet subtle soundtrack present Cairo as fleeting, ephemeral and contingent.

What makes a home? Is it the way light enters a room or kitchen at a certain hour of the day, the colored floor tiles, the routine sound of radio from the neighbors? Is it the textures of the walls and the old windows? Is nostalgia killing Khaled’s ability to inhabit the city of the present as he longs for the city his parents inhabited? Hanan, the dance instructor, is from Alexandria but she left it, she belongs in Cairo where she has a purpose. In an intimate scene filmed in the claustrophobic space of a car interior, Hanan describes “the Alexandria house.” The house will turn to rubble to make way for a mall.

What makes a city? Sudjic offers several answers in his 2016 book The Language of Cities. “There are ways in which cities can start to lose the qualities that make them urban, rather than merely random collections of buildings.” Cities are about vitality and opportunities, when a city loses these potentials its “cityness”, to use Saskia Sassen’s term, is muddled and lost.

Perhaps the most poignant and direct scene of the film, one that delivers an emotional punch coupled with a sense of numbness, is a scene that documents the painstaking demolition of an early twentieth century building. Tall shuttered windows and colorful cement tiles are disassembled piece by piece. Everything is precarious. The demolition men stand on the edge of the building that could fall beneath their feel at any moment. The partially demolished structure is a microcosm of the city it sits in.

In the Last Days of the City quietly delivers a difficult critique of the current state of affairs: Cairo today is an honest reflection of the state of modernity. It has degraded into a collection of buildings inhabited by disconnected situations and ephemeral experiences. By 20th century definitions, Cairo is unbecoming, no longer a city.

In the Last Days of the City is currently playing at select cinemas around the world. The Egyptian censor has yet to permit the screening of the film in Egypt.

#film

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