#or even perhaps if you just insist on showing your entire ass on the internet instead you should just not do that and shut up
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i think more people need to learn when to shut up. celebrities in particular but also just people in general.
#i don’t want to get into a fight over this i just think that if you are uneducated on a subject#or even perhaps if you just insist on showing your entire ass on the internet instead you should just not do that and shut up#so people who are more enlightened and smarter than you can discuss it. notice how i am often quiet well that is partially because i am#a little stupid on many subjects and so i would prefer to have people who know what they are talking about#discuss it because they are better equipped to. also i don’t want to show my whole ass if i am uneducated. anyway.#text#my post#mobi
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WHERE THERE IS NO TEMPTATION, THERE IS NO GLORY.
⊱ a santino d'antonio / oc short-fic
pt. iii: tra i due litigante terzo gode ( read on ao3 ) ( masterlist )
words: 3.6k
warnings: mentions of animal death (canon-typical), clown on clown violence.
rating: m/t
notes: putting this little project of mine up on the internet for strangers to see was incredibly nerve-wracking, but i have been so lucky to be received so kindly by folks! thank you to everyone who reads, it really means the absolute most to me.
i don't know if i mentioned this before, but you can find translations for the (google-translated) italian at the bottom of each chapter on my ao3. i know it's a hassle, i'm sorry!! just can't find an easy place to put them here without spoiling what's going on in the chap ʕ •ᴥ•ʔ
thank you as always to my lovely beta @starcrier, my lover my life my shawty my wife; this could not be done at all without you. ♡ and to @belorage, who loves euphie enough to send me the cutest message that managed to kick my ass into gear to get this chapter edited!!
Two days after the engagement party, when Santino has finally made up for his delay and lateness, is when he ruins it all again.
Later, Euphemia will think that he can’t help it—he is destined to be a wrecker, a ruiner, even if it’s for himself. It’s not his fault, not really, she’ll say. Ignoring that he is a perfectly autonomous adult means that she can excuse his thoughtlessness and not call it selfishness.
One of Santi’s men tries to tell her that he’s busy as she strides through the museum, heels clipping the floor with a strict, stark cadence. The smell of the doctor’s office is still stuck in her palette. She feels a wad of anxiety, anticipation, coiling deep in the pit of her stomach, a black stone dropped there to torture her with its heaviness. Santino will be happy, she thinks absently, chewing the inside of her cheek as she moves. He’s always wanted this.
The man is keeping pace with her well enough, despite her long legs and the purpose with which she walks to one of the back rooms of the museum.
“Bella,” he says, reaching to stop her, “per favore, he is in a meeting.”
The words put a sour taste in her mouth. Busy, the man is trying to say, too busy for you, for this, right now.
“Trust me, Gianni,” she replies dryly, “he’ll want to make time for this.”
She takes two steps into the room past the other guards, who don’t bother trying to stop her. The room is marked primarily by a high ceiling, which allows all of the paintings to be hung in it in their varying degrees of size. Euphemia recognizes Santino sitting on the bench first, and then another man that he’s talking to. The man looks like he’s just come off of the streets, his hair dark and the scruff that she can see on the side of his face manicured enough to look like he just hasn’t bothered recently.
It takes Euphemia’s brain a few seconds to register the facial features of the man who turns to look at her over his shoulder. He would be nothing, mean nothing, to her if she didn’t see the way his expression flattened, his gaze sweeping over her—calculating. Measuring. Identifying.
He looks dirty, unshowered, covered in soot, and she thinks back to two nights ago when Santino showed up to their engagement party smelling like fire and gunpowder.
Santino stands abruptly. He might be angry, or perhaps worried; it’s hard to tell the difference with him. But she can’t look at him, anyway, her gaze fixed on the stranger who is not much of a stranger at all, who she knows because of the scary stories. The rest of the world may as well be melting down around her, some sick Van Gogh painting, and she can’t look away.
John Wick has dark eyes. Shark’s eyes, she thinks. Black, soulless. Like the glass eyes on a teddy bear. She feels her stomach lurch as fear washes over her in a slick, wet wave, reminding her that she’s already received one bout of stressful news this afternoon.
He watches her. She’s sure he’s sizing her up—that is what John Wick is made to do—but after a second, he glances to Santino, gauging his reaction. If he thinks she's any kind of a threat, he's not letting it show.
“I told you not to let anyone in,” Santi says angrily to Gianni, helpless behind her—because Gianni would have never dared to grab her arm to stop her, would have never thought it acceptable to handle her like street rabble.
“Santi,” Euphie says, feeling very small and very far away and somewhere that her body isn't, “who is that?”
She knows, but she wants to hear him say it.
He steps around the bench, excusing himself from his conversation with Wick and crossing the space between them to guide her out of the room with his hands on her arms. She lets him, not because she isn’t burning with rage but because if Santino doesn’t show her where to go, Euphemia will just stand there, fear driving icy-hot spears through her chest.
He takes her as far as around the corner of the room, maybe to put as much space between her and John Wick as he can afford, but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. She starts to shrug his hands off of her, and oh, there it is—the shrieking, panging fear, and fury, boiling inside of her. Venomous, indignant. Her mind is a mess of color and noise and she’s vaguely aware that maybe she should be working hard to keep her voice down, but it no longer matters.
A lot of things shouldn’t have happened that did. What’s one more?
“You brought him here?” She can feel her voice bordering on hysteria. “Are you a fucking idiot, Santi? What part of I don’t want John Wick near my life—”
“Euphie, Euphie, Euphie,” Santi says, trying his sweet-talk; condescending, like he’s speaking to a child. “Lower your voice, tesora, and we’ll talk about it.”
Her hand moves of its own accord, a knee-jerk reaction to Santi sweetly telling her to shut up, and she slaps him. Hard. As hard as she can manage. The second her palm connects with the side of his face, and the needles start stinging in her palm, she thinks that she regrets it: but all she can really think about is the pure fear and rage coursing through her body, pummeling adrenaline through her bloodstream until she feels like she’s going to be sick.
And, a little, too, a warmth blooming in her chest: satisfaction.
Santino's head doesn't turn back to her right away. There is a heartbeat of a moment where only silence reigns, where his fingers reach and touch the place her palm had made contact with, like he can't believe she did it. Maybe he can't, but then he'd be a bigger idiot than Euphemia thought.
He turns to face her again and holds up a hand—perhaps to call for a moment of inaction, or to be prepared for a second blow, she’s not sure and she doesn’t care. Santi begins, his voice a low threat, “Do not do anything else you're going to regret, Euphemia.”
Anything else you’re going to regret, he says, as though she will regret having done this.
“Fuck you,” she snaps, her voice rising in volume further yet. The poison reverberates on the high, smooth glass ceiling, bouncing off of the marble walls until it’s all echoing around them. “He knows what I look like, what—what I sound like, he knows my name, Santi, you—”
She's pushing him, hitting his chest; an impatient and weak battering. She wants both to get him away from her as much as possible and keep him close. Santi catches her wrists with bruising force, trapping her and making her look at him.
“Euphemia, basta—if you had waited,” he bites out, “then—”
“I’m pregnant!” The words leave her in a visceral, furious shout, her heart thundering in her chest, her flight or fight demanding one or the other. She rips her wrists from his grip. It feels like her entire body is vibrating. “You fucking idiot—I was late, I just got back from the doctor, and—and you’re not supposed to have him here anyway! You promised me, Santino D’Antonio, you promised me!”
There is a heartbeat of time, of space, where her fiance stares at her like he doesn’t quite think that she’s real. Red blooms on his cheek where her hand made contact and the dark of his pupils has all but swallowed up the beautiful green of his irises. Finally, something seems to kick the gears back into motion, and he plunges on, catching his footing.
“Euphie,” Santi says, reaching for her again, “Euphie, listen to me. John came to me, I didn’t—”
“I don’t need a fucking history lesson, Santino!” Euphemia spits, brushing his hand away from her arm. Blood is rushing through her head, louder and louder, demanding she raise her own volume to be heard over it. “I told you to leave him alone. You insisted, and I thought that was the end of it—you came late to the party that night because of him, isn’t that right? So why is he here, Santi? Why is John Wick near me and my baby?”
Santino stares at her. She can see the flex of his jaw when his teeth clench, trying to maintain what shred of control he has. He swallows, lifting a finger, to indicate one minute, and it takes all of her self-control not to scream at him that he doesn’t get any more minutes. But there is some pleasure in seeing him a little ruffled; to see the way his eyes dart over her face, trying to keep everything collected neatly in his mind, filed away for premium use. She wants to shake him until he is really rattled.
“It may have taken more persuasion than I anticipated,” Santi says finally, at last.
Euphemia makes a sound something like wrecking, like grief, because she knew this was going to happen and he told her it wouldn’t but here they are anyway. It’s a death knell, ringing in her ribcage, in the cavity of her chest. Dead, dead, dead, we’re all fucking dead now, don’t you see it? You, and me, and now our baby, dead like stones.
He continues quickly, over the sound of her agony, “But that doesn’t matter—cara mia, listen to me, it doesn’t matter because now John will do what I ask him to, and we don’t have to worry about anything else. Euphie, Euphie—come here, we'll talk about this.”
She’s going to be sick. The doctor’s words are still rolling around in her head; avoid stress, make sure you sleep and eat well. Can’t be worrying that baby, can we, Miss Volpe? Make sure your fiance does all the work, hm?
“It does matter. It matters the most, Santi, I—I told you to leave him be, I told you, and you said that you would only ask and that would be it—”
She’s grieving, now, lamenting the loss of her happiness, the hysteria taking a melancholic edge in her voice as the sorrow sweeps over her. Santi keeps reaching for her, to try and ground her back to him, and for the first time since she met him she just can’t stand to feel him touching her, saying her name, trying to sweet-talk her. His hands sweep her shoulders, coming up for his thumb to brush the nape of her neck; instinctively, her shoulders scrunch up to disembark them, arms shoving his off of her.
He says, “Tesora, we can talk about this—”
“You did exactly what I asked you not to,” she manages out, taking a step back from him. “I ask you for two things, Santi. Helping my mother, and not putting yourself at war with John Wick. I do not—you should not have asked him at all!”
“Euphie—”
By the time Santino reaches for her again, she’s turning and walking away, her steps unsteady. She’s sure that she’s sweating, or crying, or maybe both or neither and her body is just kicking into overdrive with gut-wrenching sweeps of grief rocking through her body now that she’s got Baba Yaga fifteen feet from her. From her and her baby.
“Euphie!” Santino’s voice echoes down the main hall of the museum, lighter now. Almost like they never argued at all. “We’ll talk when I get home, si? Mi amore?”
Euphemia is certain she’s never heard a sentence more infuriating in her entire life. It sparks something violent in her. It had been dormant, had stepped aside for her mourning, but it catches fire the second Santino says, we’ll talk when I get home.
Incensed, she turns and slides the engagement ring off of her finger, throwing it as hard as she can at him. Gianni had been trailing her, certainly at Santino's behest, and he tries to stop her—but it's too late, the fury inside of her forcing her to move more quickly than Gianni anticipates.
He catches her around the waist and she considers, briefly, the logistics of wrenching Gianni's arm off of her to go and slap Santino again; instead, she watches the expensive engagement ring bounce off of the front of Santino's jacket and clatter on the floor.
The way he tilts his head, as though expecting her to lob it at his face, and the irritated expression that comes over him is almost as good as actually having hit her original target of that pretty face of his.
Then, it’s pure, sheer, furious indignation that crosses Santi’s face, but she has no time to think about what that means for her.
“Fuck you, Santi,” she bites out venomously. “Fuck. You. Don’t fucking bother coming home.”
“Bella,” Gianni says, “we should get you back.”
Euphemia debates slapping Gianni, too, but it would be unfair; in his defense, he did try to keep her out of the room. She turns and marches her way out, the doors slamming shut behind her and the cold air of New York in the fall washing over her. As Gianni speaks on the phone and calls the driver around, she glances up at the sky; gray and soft as wedding silk, it stretches, endless, cut in pieces by the skyscrapers parsing it out.
A fool, she thinks. Santino has always made a fool out of me, and this is no one’s fault but my own.
━━━━━━━━━━━━
Two hours later, Euphemia hears him enter the loft. He lets the door click shut softly behind him, not slamming it, not storming through. She expected no less; Santi so rarely lets the anger really take hold of him, so rarely lets himself scream or yell or throw something. I’m marrying a fucking sociopath, she thinks, but there’s no heat to the thought; only exhaustion, only a tiredness that goes bone-deep
Even now, she still thinks of it as present tense: she’s marrying a sociopath, as though she didn’t try to hit him in the face with the engagement ring he picked out for her just hours ago, as though in the end, she will still be his. She will.
“Are you calmed down?” Santino asks, in the way that only he could manage—condescending, and soft. Euphemia can’t withhold the vicious scoff that rolls out of her the second he talks.
“I told you not to come home,” she replies tartly, “but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You are apparently as deaf as you are stupid.”
“So no, then.”
“What do you want me to say, Santi?” Euphemia demands, looking at him now. She’s got a suitcase out but there’s nothing in it; she can’t bring herself to pack, to think about going back home to Tuscany where her mother is waiting, barely sober because she can only stay sober for about a month at a time before she falls back to her old habits. “Why don’t you invite our friend John Wick up for dinner, hm? I’m sure he’d like that, after you did whatever you did to make him show up here. Perhaps you took a page out of that idiot Iosef’s book and killed his new dog?”
“He owes me,” Santino insists, glossing over her needling, “and I will get what I am owed.”
She has to resist the urge to roll her eyes. “Do you know how fucking stupid you sound?” she asks, incredulous. “If I die before telling you how incredibly, disgustingly stupid you sound when you say that, then I will—”
Santino kisses her. He does it because he knows that she’s not expecting it, and it has its desired effect; she stills, all of the furious energy like bottled lightning capped again. He kisses her softly, with no rage, but she can feel it woven into the sinew of his posture.
She thinks about slapping him again. But he probably knows that, because he grabs her hands, gripping them in his; the pressure is more relaxing than it is infuriating, which almost drives her mad, but it does what Santino always does. It pulls her apart until all that’s left is the hurt, the fear, welling up inside of her like a tidal wave crashing into the shore.
“He’s doing what I asked,” he murmurs. “And then we’ll be done with John Wick. Mia piccola volpe, look at me.”
“No,” she says, trying to sound angry but it comes out an agonized sound; she’s crying before she can stop herself, tears burning the edges of her eyes and a big, wet gasping breath necessary for her to keep going. “No, I don’t want to look at you anymore, Santi—”
“He’s doing what I ask, and then I promise, you and I will be done with John Wick forever.” His voice is urgent and insistent. “The three of us, tesora. Isn’t that right? You weren’t just saying that to get back at me?”
She nods, numbly. They had been careful, because she’d said she wasn’t ready—but mistakes happened. Pills got forgotten. She wishes that she could have lied about it and kept it secret. Maybe he’d be acting differently now if she wasn’t carrying his child; maybe his face would be something else.
“Euphie,” he whispers, taking her face in his hands. “My perfect, gorgeous Euphie—my greatest piece of art.” He kisses her cheeks, her nose, her forehead. “And the one with the most bite, too, even when you are so ungrateful for the things that I do. My face still hurts.”
“Good,” Euphemia manages out, her voice wobbling. “You deserve it. Idiota.”
“Maybe,” Santi replies. He tucks her against his chest and kisses her hair. “I never thought I would piss you off enough to get you to hit me—and you did cause quite a scene in front of Wick.”
“Stop.” Just the sound of that monster’s name makes her stomach churn. “Stress is bad for the baby.”
He laughs, the first real laugh in what feels like days since he’s decided on this path with John Wick. “Fine, I will not mention him again. But know that after this, it will be done. Permanently. Forever. Si? Tell me you understand, Euphie.”
She’s so tired. She’s so tired down into her core, the kind of tired that doesn’t go away with a nap or a cup of coffee. “Si,” she replies, closing her eyes. “Capisco, Santi.”
Somehow, Santi’s words that things will be done “permanently” with John Wick only manage to make her more uneasy.
She can’t remember what exactly carries her through the rest of the evening. She remembers calling her mother to check on her, to ask if she’s keeping up with her meetings. She can’t bring herself to come clean about the surprise pregnancy; it’s early, anyway, and her mother would only stress her out more.
“Sei la mia stella più preziosa,” her mother says. “Ti amo, Effie.”
“Yes, mama,” Euphie sighs, unable to say the words back. “Buona notte.”
She hits the red end call button on the phone screen, setting it face-down on the countertop and leaning her palms against the marble. God, she knows that she’d fucking kill a man for a drag of a cigarette—but she could never. Not now. Not when she has—
The sound of paper on the countertop stirs her from her half-bent position. Santino slides it across to her, setting a pen down next to her hand. It’s their marriage certificate. He’s already signed it, and while she stares at it numbly, he takes her left hand and puts the engagement ring back on her finger, but this time with the diamond wedding band he’d picked out as well.
“Santi,” she starts, but he tsks his tongue, quieting her. She’s too tired to be offended.
“Sign the certificate, amore,” he says. “Do not fuss. You’re going to stop throwing this ring at me, yes?”
There are a million reasons not to sign it: but the words that came out of her mouth are, “We don’t have the witnesses or the officiant.”
“Do we need a witness or officiant greater than God himself?” Santino replies. He leans against the counter from the other side, watching her. He is polished, pristine. Any remains of her earlier transgression against him are now completely gone, at least the physical marks. She’s sure that he won’t forget very soon that she raised a hand against him. “Sign it, Euphie, and be my wife.”
She stares at the paper. She feels like she’s melting; her life can’t be real anymore, not when John Wick was, just hours ago, feet away from her, and she’s pregnant, and now Santino is asking her to sign their marriage certificate right now.
The implications fill her with dread. What’s the rush? If nothing’s wrong, if they’ll be done with John Wick, what’s the rush?
“You said that you had nothing before me,” Santino says, breaking her out of her eerie, absent-minded disconnect. He brushes the hair from her face. “You will never have nothing again.”
Euphemia signs the certificate in a haze. It doesn’t feel any different after; she doesn’t feel different and neither does Santino in relation to her, and the realization that they had felt married for a few years now sinks down on her.
Santino rounds the counter to her, taking her face and kissing her; her forehead, her cheeks, her nose, the corner of her mouth and eventually just kissing her. His hand smooths over her stomach, admiring, and he brushes their noses together.
“Perfetto e tutto mio,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible. “Isn’t that right, Euphemia?”
She replies, without thinking, “Si, sono tuo.”
Always, she thinks, always yours, whether I like it or not.
#santino d'antonio/original female character#john wick oc#santino d'antonio/ofc#john wick#spilled ink#c: euphemia volpe#c: santino d'antonio#c: john wick#x: senza tentazioni senza onore#oh yeah baby real good love the SUFFERING#ugh i wish i could convey how much it means to me to have people reading and enjoy this#alas i can only!!!! cry in the tags#thank you everyone <3
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{day 09} vanilla ice cream | tsukki x reader
pairing: tsukishima kei x gn!reader
genre: enemies to lovers, secret pen pal, mutual pining a lil bit?
wc: 1.5k
warnings: sick reader (hangover/cold), mention of drinking, some swearing, tsukki showing human empathy
⍋⋆*❅｡. 25 days of fic-mas mlist .｡❅*⋆⍋
somehow it all reminds me
of doctor jekyll and mister hyde
for right before my eyes,
a man that i despise has turned into a man i like
—vanilla ice cream; she loves me (music by jerry bock, lyrics by sheldon harnick)
the first thing you notice as you wake up is your pounding headache. it’s hard to be surprised at your state after the amount of alcohol you consumed last night - not without good reason, of course. as awful as you’re feeling now, it’s nothing compared to the hell that was last night.
it wasn’t supposed to go like that - it was supposed to be a magical, maybe even romantic evening. you had been looking forward to meeting your mystery friend ever since the two of you started messaging each other online, but you hadn’t expected to develop a full-blown crush on this person without even finding out what they look like.
but the more you got to know their personality, exchanging playlists and talking about your similar tastes in music, the more your messages to each other became fonder, even flirty at times. perhaps it was the level of anonymity that made you both so comfortable talking to each other, but you quickly became each other’s most trusted confidants.
when you started working at the record store, things became a little more stressful as you adjusted to your schedule becoming tighter, having to handle the occasional nasty customer, and dealing with one coworker in particular who must have being rude to you written into his DNA. talking with your anonymous friend is a much-needed escape, a distraction from the mundane, a hidden treasure that only you get to enjoy.
so as you sat waiting in the cafe last night, a rose laid out on the table as you had promised your dear friend, nothing could’ve killed your vibe faster than the aforementioned rude coworker - tsukishima kei - showing up and ruining everything.
you could tell he was only there because you’d insisted on leaving work early to make this date, and he wanted to see if you were lying. he only proved his intentions more when he had the audacity to sit down at your table and make jabs at you for meeting up with someone you met online.
“you’ve been waiting an awful long time haven’t you?” he taunted.
“tsukki, if you don’t leave this table—“
“and you’ve never even met them? this is how people get murdered, you know,” he sneered condescendingly. you almost got thrown out because of how loudly you screamed at him. thankfully you didn’t - although you did seem to strike some nerves with tsukishima, which you felt a bit bad about - but even though you waited at the cafe until closing, nobody showed up, leaving you alone with a single rose and a full bottle of wine.
needless to say, you have every reason to feel like shit this morning. not only are you hungover and heartbroken, having heard nothing but radio silence from your friend, you’re starting to feel lightheaded and stuffy-nosed too. you waste no time calling in sick, burying yourself in your blankets as you try your best to shut out the pounding in your head and the salty tears beginning to sting the backs of your eyelids.
suddenly, a knock at the door jolts you back to reality. “who is it?” you call out weakly.
another knock. you drag yourself out of bed with a quiet groan and go to answer the door, only to be met with a familiar lanky blond.
“what do you want, tsukishima,” you demand dryly, “did you have something you forgot to say last night? if you do say it fast, i don’t feel well today.”
“yeah i know, you called out of work,” he replies ambivalently, “that’s why i’m here.”
“oh, so you’re here to check up on me again, make sure i’m not slacking off?” you taunt him, your temper rising.
“that’s not—“
“you gonna go back to work and tell everyone i’m lying? that i just don’t care about my job?”
“no i’m n—“
“well joke’s on you, four-eyes, ‘cause guess what? i’m not giving you the chance.” you immediately start gathering your belongings, preparing to go to work.
“what?”
“i won’t be that late,” you mumble to yourself, throwing a coat over your arm as you hurriedly grab your keys, “fuck— where the hell is my other shoe??”
“oi,” tsukishima says firmly, “y/n. you need to lie down.”
“fuck off,” you bite back at him.
“no seriously, you look like you have a fever.”
“i don’t care,” you snarl, “help me look for my shoe, i know it’s here somewhere—HEY!!!”
there’s not much you can do but continue screaming at him as tsukishima scoops you up in his scrawny arms - which are evidently way stronger than they look - and carries you to your bed, dumping you unceremoniously on top of the blankets.
“THE FUCK WAS THAT?!?” you shout. he just shrugs.
“what was i supposed to do? you wouldn’t get back in bed.” he says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. arrogant prick. you slump down into your blankets, feeling too depleted to pick a fight anymore.
“i brought you something.”
your head shoots up as a plastic grocery bag lands next to it. opening it up, you find a tub of vanilla ice cream inside. “it’s the best thing to eat when you’re sick,” he states.
“a-ah,” you stutter hesitantly, “thanks.” is tsukishima being… nice to you?
“did that uh… friend of yours ever show up?” he asks cautiously.
“no,” you mutter bitterly, “i waited til closing. guess you were right, meeting some stranger from the internet really was a stupid idea.”
“hm,” he grunts awkwardly, looking away from you.
“i mean,” you continue, “the least they could’ve done was give me some sort of explanation. instead they just fucking ghosted—“
“they didn’t ghost,” tsukishima interjects suddenly, almost defensive. “i mean— it hasn’t even been a day, they’ll probably hit you up later.”
“and how do you know?”
“because—“ he stops short, hesitating for a moment before continuing, “i saw the guy last night. on the way out of the cafe.”
“wait—what??” you exclaim, “you saw them? how do you know??”
“they were supposed to be holding a rose, right? like the one you had?”
“yeah— wait, how do you know about that?”
“it wasn’t hard to figure out. people usually don’t sit at cafes with loose flowers on the table unless it’s something dumb like that.”
“shut up, you wouldn’t know romance if it bit you in the ass,” you snap back, “so he’s a guy? what did he look like? did you talk to him? what did he say?”
“yeah, uh— he asked if i knew you,” tsukishima recounts, “and he wanted me to tell you he’s sorry for bailing, but something else came up.”
“anything else??” the eager glow in your eyes is suffocating as you stare him down, hungry for more details.
“yeah. he— he was kinda ugly.”
“…seriously?” you respond, half unimpressed with his attempt at a joke and half nervous that he isn’t joking at all.
“what, does that matter?” tsukishima replies mockingly, “i thought you liked him for his personality.”
“i do,” you jab, “and you know what, i don’t care what he looks like. and i certainly don’t care about what your salty ass thinks of him. i’m gonna message him right now, actually”
“have fun,” he says dismissively, turning to make his way out before pausing to pull a record from the vinyl collection on your shelf. “you like this album?”
“yeah, duh. it’s been one of my favorites for years.”
“huh. me too,” he replies, “it’s crazy how it stays with me. sometimes i swear i can hear it in my head while i’m asleep.”
“that’s funny,” you say, “my friend does the same thing. he hears it in his sleep.”
“heh. that is funny,” he mutters quietly as he turns to leave.
“tsukki—“ you stop him before he exits, “thanks for today. you’re not as awful as i thought.” a tentative smile graces your lips.
“whatever,” he mutters, quickly turning his face away from yours, “see you at work tomorrow.” as he retreats out the door, he prays you didn’t notice his blushing cheeks.
once tsukishima is out the door, you waste no time crafting a new message to your friend - but you find yourself struggling to piece together sentences as you snack on the ice cream tsukki brought you, the cold sensation easing your aching throat. was that really the same guy who’s been an asshole to you since the day you started working with him?
it’s incredible that the two of you even spent 2 minutes together without being at each other’s throats like usual, and even more so that someone as harsh and bitter as tsukishima would do something as kind as show up at your door with ice cream when you’re sick. he even said something to make you feel better - and it worked.
realizing that you’ve zoned out, you quickly snap your attention back to your message. but as you continue typing, you find your thoughts continually drifting back to the tall, bespectacled blond and his uncharacteristic kindness.
by the time you manage to write what you have to say and hit send, tsukishima is safely out of earshot when the new message pings on his phone.
he smiles and hopes that you figure it out soon, too.
a/n: i hope the ending for this one is clear addsdsdf,,,, i watched the entire roundabout she loves me revival to get inspired for this (and by get inspired i mean remember the plot details of she loves me bc i had only seen it once before lmao) tbh the narrative of this fic actually covers like 3 different songs, bc old musicals are weird and thought it was necessary to make looking for a shoe an entire number. anyways, all I have to offer you today is laura benanti being utter perfection and all of my love <3
taglist: @izagraceee @musicgetsmeoutofbed @azo-musxas @tsumurai @ghostlydiamond135 @animeboysimppp
#haikyuu!!#tsukishima kei#tsukishima kei x reader#tsukki x reader#haikyuu x reader#25 days of ficmas#e writes#.txt
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Inferno: Part 2
Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader
I’m not sure how long I’ll make this... maybe three or four parts?
If you’d like to be added to my Peter Parker, Marvel, or Inferno Taglist, let me know!
You storm into the compound, not even noticing the ground cracking where you stomp your feet, and fling your bag, which is filled entirely with clothes, away from you with so much force that it hits the concrete wall and makes a dent.
“What the hell was that?” your father slams the door shut.
“You know exactly what!” you yell back, pointing a finger at him when he takes an angry step forward. “The boy you spend my entire captivity gushing about—the boy that’s never been to prison, the boy that hasn’t killed anyone yet—you bring him with you to pick me up? Me, your biological child—”
“I wanted you to be friends!” Tony roars. “God forbid I try to put you out of your comfort zone, Y/N! I get that you’re angry, and I’m sorry you were stuck in that awful place for so long but I was fighting the whole time for you to be free!”
“You took me nowhere when I was free!” you scream back, feeling your fists heat when you clench them and your face heat as well. “You bragged about me to nobody because you’re ashamed of me, and don’t admit it! Now you’ve found the perfect straight-A kid and what, you bring him everywhere? I bet he’s gone on vacation with you to Hawaii, right? You even brought him to pick up your delinquent child like you’re showing her off like a prize pony at a show!”
Tony kicks a chair. It skids across the room and into the far wall. “I wasn’t showing you off at all! I wanted to help you adjust after a year of captivity! I didn’t think—”
“You didn’t think about me!” you bellow. “You never have, because I wasn’t something that you got to choose, but you chose precious Peter Parker and that makes him perfect, huh? I bet you take Peter Parker on vacations and talk about him to all your rich friends and you never mention poor charity case Y/N Stark, the criminal vigilante!”
His face red, Tony roars, “Do you want me to talk about you with my friends? What do you want me to talk about, Y/N? ‘Hey, Rhodey, let’s talk about Y/N, whose mother kept her a secret her entire life—’”
“Don’t you dare talk about my mother!” You point a flaming finger at him, not even recognizing the heat. You suppose that’s what happens after a year of numbness. All the emotions come rushing out at once.
“I am not replacing you with Peter Parker, Y/N,” Tony says, softer now, and it makes you even angrier. What right does he have to be quiet when everything inside of you is raging?
“You’re right,” you say sarcastically. “He’s not my replacement. He’s your do-over. Well, have fun with that, Tony,” you spit. “I’ll get my delinquent ass out of your hair. Maybe I’ll go meet up with Cap, won’t that be fun?” It’s an empty threat; Cap doesn’t like you after you’d almost torched his ass for beating up your father in Siberia and you don’t like him that much either. He’d always been too... uppity.
I bet Peter’s uppity, you think derogatorily, and almost feel bad. It’s not Peter’s fault that your father’s an ass.
“Do you want me to talk about you?” Tony asks, a little desperately. “I’ll talk about you right now. Do you want me to use the Instagram you made me? I’ll put it on a story right now.”
“I don’t want anything from you,” you hiss. “I want you to leave me the hell alone. God knows I heard enough talking from you from the past year to last me a lifetime.” You storm out of the room. For some reason your eyes are stinging.
“Do you want me to take you on a trip?” Tony calls after your retreating back. “We can go anywhere, Y/N! Please, come back and we can talk about this!”
That was definitely one of the worse fights you’ve had with your father. He wants so badly to please, but he’s also prideful and stubborn, and so are you. You’re bound to clash heads a few times. And shoving you into a loud, cramped helicopter after about a year of almost solitary confinement didn’t help matters.
You didn’t want to be angry with your father. You wanted so bad to be happy to see him, because you do know that he feels bad that you were locked up and he couldn’t do anything about it. And you do love him. But you haven’t been anything but angry ever since you realized that they were locking you up unfairly. And now that you can’t get in trouble for heating up, there’s no reason to bottle your anger up.
You’re going to catch a few criminals.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You know who Spider-man is. Obviously. You weren’t allowed to log into your own social media accounts, but you weren’t completely cut off from the world. So yes, you’ve heard all about the masked web-slinger, even if he’d only barely emerged before Germany and hadn’t operated in your same area of New York. You’ve seen videos of him doing his thing on the internet. He seems like a cool dude, if a bit naive. He takes churros from old ladies and helps people recover their stolen bicycles. He says hi to people and does backflips to show off to those who ask for it. He seems like an all-around upstanding guy.
You weren’t expecting to see him, although perhaps you should have anticipated that after the initial hordes of fans excited to see that you’ve been released. You’re sure there will be thousands of theories floating around the internet until your father releases the initial statement. Maybe they’ll think you escaped from the prison. Maybe they’ll think you killed all the guards in order to escape. Maybe they think you’re on the run now.
Besides, he seems to operate in the skies, and you prefer to keep your feet on the ground.
Either way, Spider-man stands in front of you now, extending his hand. You reach out to take it back but he recoils and you see why; you’re still glowing with heat.
Your face goes red (with a blush, not heat) as you shake out your hand and then take his firm grip.
“Are you good?”
You take a look around at the various bodies on the ground and shrug. What was sure to be a gruesome scene is still a gruesome scene, but in a different way. The bodies of four men lie on the ground. Spider-man took out two of them with his webs and you took out the other two by shattering one’s kneecap and severely burning the other’s arm after he shot you. You’d already been having a bad day, so who can blame you for grabbing him with a red-hot hand?
“Yeah, I’m fine,” you say briskly. The wound hurt for barely a second before your skin closed around the bullet, as it tends to do. Walking back to the compound will surely be a pain in the ass, and so will doctors cutting you open to fish around in your guts for the metal bullet, but it’s better than bleeding out. You quickly pull your shirt up, exposing unmarred skin. “See?” You tap the tender bump near your hip bone and grit your teeth with pain. The bone must have stopped the bullet. “It’s right there.” If only you’d had enough warning to harden your skin.
“Thank you so much,” the girl you’d saved says breathlessly. She clutches her purse to her chest and, despite what had nearly happened to her, seems no worse for the wear. To the contrary, she looks at you and Spider-man with a near-hero worship. “I can’t believe I just got saved by Inferno and Spider-man.”
“Do you want an escort home?” Spider-man asks, making you blink with surprise. You’d never thought before to walk the people you save home. He really is a nice dude.
The girl shakes her head. “My Uber is here.” She points behind her. “Thank you so much again, though!”
You wave good-bye to her and take a step back, ready to start your trek back to the compound, but the bullet grinds against your bone and you grit your teeth to keep from screaming.
“I’m pretty sure that having a bullet in your skin is not ‘fine’,” Spider-man says gently. “I’ve got a first-aid kit back at my place, if you want—”
“Really, I’m fine,” you wave him off. You’ve had worse. Much, much worse. “It was cool to meet you, though.” You awkwardly dip your head at him. “You’re pretty cool, Spider-man.”
Spider-man snorts.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing, it’s just...” he brings his hand up to his mask and almost looks like he’s going to pull it off. “Well, if you knew who I am under this mask, you wouldn’t say that.” His hand drops back to his side.
You shrug. “Then keep wearing the mask. I doubt I know you, anyway; New York is pretty big. You might know my identity, but I’m not pressed with burning curiosity to know yours.” At least, you hadn’t. If running into Spider-man becomes a regular occurrence, you might become more curious. “Besides, I think I’d still think you pretty cool. You’re a superhero, aren’t you?”
“Look, I really don’t feel cool with you walking home on your leg—”
Your voice has a hard edge when you insist, “I’m fine. Really. But maybe I’ll see you around?” There is a disgusting hopeful note when you ask that, and you curse yourself for sounding desperate.
“Definitely.” Spider-man nods and you’ll be damned if you can’t hear a smile in his voice. He takes a step back and trips over a trash can, landing hard on his ass, and you cover your smile with your hand in order to preserve his dignity. “I—I’ll just—I’m going.” He flips to his feet and waves like a dork at you. You wave back and he jumps onto the side of the building to your right. It takes you aback; seeing his powers on YouTube is very different than seeing them in real life.
When he’s at the top, Spider-man peers over the edge of the building and waves at you a second time, making you realize that you’d been watching him climb. “Are you sure—”
“Bye!”
Inferno Taglist:
@paullrud @eridanuswave @loveissupernatural @moistpotatobear
Peter Parker x Reader Taglist:
@iconicbabesss
Forever Taglist:
@lemirabitur @annymcervantes @queenmissfit @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @iksey @thehyperactiveteen
#peter parker#Peter Benjamin Parker#peter parker fic#peter parker fanfic#peter parker fanfiction#reader insert#peter parker x reader#peter parker x you#reader x peter parker#you x peter parker#tony stark#stark!reader
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bts reaction - a video of the two of you goes viral
A/N: requested by a lovely anon :)
JIN
the two of you were always cooking together at the boys’ dorm so you didn’t think any different when some of the others asked you to make them some dinner
little did the two of you know that jungkook and hobi were conspiring against you by placing a little camera they had borrowed off staff and filming the whole thing
as normal, the two of you found your rhythm in preparing and cooking several meats and vegetables, completely unaware that your every movement was being live-streamed on v-live
as you waited for the hot water on the stove to boil, you snuck over and slid yourself under Jin’s arm so that he was trapping you against the bench
“i can’t see the carrots anymore, honey”
“oh, jinnie, who cares about carrots when your beautiful girlfriend is in front of you”
weirdly enough, just like jin loves complimenting himself, he also loves it when you’re confident about your own looks, and you know how to use that to your advantage
jin smiles sweetly down at you and leans in for a kiss, murmuring against your lips “mmm, you’re right, those boys can make themselves dinner for once, i’m in the mood for a little private eatjin”
just as he begins to start grinding his hips against you, jungkook scrambles into the kitchen, just about slipping in his socks
“hyung stop! stop!”
you watch in bewilderment as he opens a slightly ajar cupboard and pulls out a camera, which was pointing straight at you
“what’s going on?”
jungkook waves at the camera with a little laugh and then looks back up at you “we just wanted to prank you guys, but then you had to go and do...that. eugh, it’s burned onto my retinas now”
you blink in shock but your boyfriend doesn’t seem nearly as surprised. “jin..?”
“i saw the red light beeping when i went to get the chopping board”
“you knEW? and you still were going to-”
jin grins cheekily “i wanted to show off my beautiful girlfriend, is that so wrong?”
you keep a neutral face, but you can’t help but blush. “...fine, but let’s continue this show in private, okay?”
YOONGI
when it came to righting serenades to lovers, rap wasn’t generally the best medium
yoongi knew that, so for a while he had been asking jin in secret to help him improve his singing
he knew his hyung had been through trying to learn everything, and he was a great teacher
now, yoongi sat you down on his lap as he sat at the piano, delicate hands wiping down the keys nervously
he’s set up a little camera in the corner because he wanted to record the audio as a demo to send to namjoon, but he couldn’t track down the voice recorder, so a decent camera was just easier
he can just convert it to an audio file later anyway
you lean back and crane your neck around to watch him, but he pushes you back softly so that you’re eyes aren’t on him
he’s nervous as fuck, okay? he’s way out of his comfort zone here
his voice is quiet and a little wobbly but there’s a genuinity there, and it sounds so beautiful with the piano to accompany it
the lyrics are beautiful, and as you feel yourself fall in love with him more and more, you wish you could see his face right now, but you obediently watch him manipulate the white ivory instead
luckily, or perhaps unluckily, a couple of weeks later namjoon accidentally uploads the video version instead of the mp3 version on the official twitter, and it immediately goes viral
you watch it yourself, melting at the way yoongi’s eyes barely glance at the keys as he sings, fixated on you
the song is messed with a little before the release of the next album, but when he performs it in concert, the whole audience sings with him
after hearing the lyrics and seeing the real love that it stemmed from, army have taken it on board as the official song of their love towards BTS
yoongi is over the moon that people have really connected with his song, but still, the best performance of it he ever gave was that first time, when it was just him, you, and the piano
HOSEOK
you can’t dance
you know this. hobi knows this. the rest of bangtan won’t let you forget it.
but unlike the other members who just laugh at your awkward attempts to mimic their choreo during sound check, hobi wants you to be able to enjoy the thing that he loves so much, so he takes it upon himself to teach you
unfortunately, bighit smell profit like blood in the water, and they decide hobi should start doing it as a hope on the street series
so every second tuesday, like clockwork, army get to enjoy a video of (in your c o r r e c t opinion) the hottest guy on the planet deal with the dancing equivalent of a trainwreck
“honestly, seokie, just give up now. it’s been three months and my dancing still looks like i’m fighting a ghost and losing”
“i told you if you stopped flailing so much and just slowed down your arm movements you’d be much better!”
“didn’t you say i should find something that made me unique?!”
and so the sixth episode of this special edition of hope on the street becomes you and hobi pettily arguing and making zero progress
fans in particular tweet a million times about the moment that hoseok gives up, chases you around the studio and then tackles you and straddles you, forcing your surrender
it’s a very suggestive position, so you kinda can’t blame them, but now the problem is that army won’t shut up about getting more of it
they want you to suffer so that they can see how sexy hoseok looks when he gets angry
because holy fuck is he sexy when he gets angry
episode nine has him slapping you in the ass every time you miss your cue
episode eleven features him manhandling you into position when you insist you’re too tired to dance
maybe one day you’ll improve but for now you’re destined to showcase your lack of ability on an international scale with your unbelievably talented boyfriend
NAMJOON
unfortunately as namjoon’s girlfriend, your viral video moment isn’t as pg
namjoon is a real horndog, so it’s become pretty run of the mill for you two to send pictures back and forth
normally it’s on snapchat so that there’s no trace
but namjoon tells you he wants a video he can keep before he goes on tour, so he asks you to send one on your basic messaging service, that way he can save it to his camera roll
namjoon is doing a fanmeet, and they’re playing a game where one of the members streams their phone to the screen behind them and the fans have to guess who it is
most of the other members use mirroring, where the whole screen shows up exactly as it is on the phone, so namjoon assumes its all or nothing
he does his, and once he’s done instead of turning it off like he thinks he has (because his screen is no longer showing up) he’s just turned it to the setting where only videos stream
the fanmeeting is boring af (no offense army) but maybe it’s just because namjoon is missing you rn
he pulls out his phone to take a sneak peek at the video, making sure volume is down, but then your moans blast through the speakers
yup. namjoon is streaming a video of you getting off to the entire hall
fuck fuckfuckfuckfuckfcufkcufckuckfuk
his heart is beating so hard in his chest and his fingers shake as he desperately tries to mess with the settings and stop the video playing, but by the time he does, the whole room is chaos
fans are screaming and squealing and the members are either crying with laughter or look like they just want the ground to swallow them whole
namjoon is certainly the latter
but he laughs awkwardly, apologizes and tries to change the subject
army feel kinda bad for him and the way his cheeks are bright bright red so they let him move on, but you best believe shaky hand-cam videos of namjoon freaking out while his girlfriend’s sex tape plays on the big screen are going viral for MONTHS
JIMIN
in this case, it’s not a single video, but rather a compilation, that goes viral
we been knew that jimin is a slut for attention but one dedicated army scrounged up clips from all over the internet to put together a twelve minute-long video of all the moments of jimin being a needy boyfriend
there’s an entire three-minute section dedicated to his heart-eyes stare when you’re not watching
there’s a low quality video of you which all fans of bts have seen a million times where jimin straight-up grabs your hand and puts it over his dick behind stage after their comeback show
about a million different instances of him feeling you up as a way for you to stop what you were doing and look at him
and then of course there was a supercut of moments from the various Bangtan Bombs you had featured in where he whines and pouts and wiggles his shoulders when you’re chatting with namjoon and not him
the two of you see the video when you keep getting tagged, and while it just makes jimin even more whiny, you have a good laugh over it
in fact, you take it upon yourself to start tweeting some screenshots of jimin being needy, exposing him yourself
“it’s tiring being the girlfriend of an idol, but it’s even more tiring when it’s jiimin!” you tweet
of course, jimin’s feelings are a liiiittle hurt and you have to make it up to him for weeks
(and don’t think the fans don’t notice how jimin suddenly starts acting like he has the biggest dick in town)
(they’re well aware some shit has gone down every time he comes out from backstage only to have red cheeks and a dopey grin)
TAEHYUNG
this is 100% percent tae’s fault
he thought it would be fucking hilarious to post the drunken voicemail you had left him one night when you were out partying with your girls
to be fair, if it was anyone else but you, you would’ve laughed too
but that’s your voice in bubbling sobs confessing your undying love to him so it is most certainly Not Funny, thank you very much
“...and i hope you get a good sleep because you deserve it and i hope that you know how much i love you because when i look at you it’s like all the stars left the sky and they’re in your eyes and you’re so beautiful and i love you so much and sometimes it hurts me inside because you’re so wonderful and magical and. oh also, did we get milk the other day? we’re almost out of milk i think. anyway i just called to let you know i’m staying over at unnie’s place so don’t wait up. okay i love you. no, you hang up first! oh, you don’t wanna hang up on me because you looooooove me too much! goodniiight baby”
and then a solid 43 seconds of you breathing because you forgot to actually hang up, and eventually the recording stops
army think it’s the cutest thing in the world, and tae does too, but of all the beautiful things you’ve done for him in private he chooses to share the drunk one? just rude
#[your ship name]needmilk is the new trending hashtag, and army literally start bringing milk cartons to fanmeetings, telling tae to give it to you
you have too much milk, and not enough dignity
you tell fans this on twitter and then #toomuchmilk replaces it
next time you get drunk, you are determined not to call tae
JUNGKOOK
of all the things you could do with your time, become anonymous amateur porn-stars probably wasn’t the most productive or advisable
but being an idol had given jungkook both a desire to do something without being recognized as the maknae from BTS, and simultaneously a huge fetish for exhibitionism
he’s a performer, it’s in his blood, so why fuck when you can fuck and have people get off to you? that’s what he figures, so the two of you create an account
you’re obviously extremely careful about not showing your faces, and the current system you have set up is putting down a strip of tape on the bed (or wherever you’re fucking as it most certainly varies) where the edge of camera shot reaches
you keep your heads above that line, and no one can see a thing
you also try to keep out any identifying materials in the shot like clothes you’ve worn in public before, or the many figurines jungkook has lying around
maybe what makes the eventual discovery even worse is how long it takes
nobody finds out for well over a year, so there’s a preeetty hefty backlog of videos
in the end, it’s your own stupid mistake that gives it away
jungkook shoots a v-live shortly after the two of you film a video of you two doing it in his studio
you had cleared out the wall so it was just plain black, and even brought in a chair from a different room so that no one for whatever reason would recognise jungkook’s gaming chair
but he’s so blissed out from you riding him and giving him one of the best orgasms of his life that he makes a rookie mistake
he forgets to take off the blue masking tape that lies in a rough square on the wall
when he returns his studio back to the way it was and goes live, one army who clearly was also a fan of your porn videos notices the tape and mentions it in the comments
soon enough the numbers of the chat peak and fall crazily as fans leave the live to go check the pornsite and your most recent vid, and come back to compare it to his studio
jungkook tries to pretend like he’s not noticing the stream of comments talking about how hot he looks and how good his moans sound, but he realises he never wanted it to be this way
he wanted to keep this and his videos separate, and now he’s made an irreversible mistake
he shuts off the v-live without warning and runs down to namjoon’s room in tears, asking what to do
in the end the issue is resolved by deleting the channel immediately, and very few people actually thought to take anything more than a screenshot, but jungkook knows he won’t be seen as a baby boy maknae ever again
(namjoon also realizes that for the past five months he’s been unwittingly jacking it religiously to jungkook fucking his girlfriend)
(he doesn’t tell jungkook this)
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the first time hastalik ever showed clara a certain amount of kindness beyond words. likely towards the end of his first year aware of her presence in the coven’s compound.
feat: @clara-delaval
Hastalik had been away for two weeks on a mission, his mind exhausted from all that had happened. It was the first one he'd been on that involved being away for more than a few days and he was not coping very well, even eating breakfast with everyone else felt draining, so mid morning he abandoned the rest of the coven and snuck away. His rings knocked on the stone walls as he descended into the room that held the young vampire woman, the closest thing to an escape that he got. Without realising he was warning her of his arrival, subconsciously giving her a chance to prepare for him to walk in, wearing the exact same ensemble he wore daily.
The sound of someone approaching was an unfamiliar curtesy. Clara, by this point, was so used to the door swinging open with an alarming suddenness before she was wrenched out of her bed with an uncaring force no matter how hard she protested. This was why she was waiting in the furthest corner of the room to see what awaited her, nervous eyes poised on the door waiting for whoever might enter. Though he expression didn't give her away, there was a huge sense of relief when only one man materialized in the door frame. She couldn't explain why, but there was a undercurrent of relief when she recognized Hastalik's face. She would hardly call him an ally, but he had been somehow kinder than any other man in the coven.
Hastalik closed the door behind him, looking up and finding Clara at the corner of the room, her red hair falling around her face. For a moment he wondered if vampires needed to wash their hair, Clara always seemed clean and he knew there was no bathroom down here and she couldn't leave the room. "They shouldn't be here anytime soon," Hastalik told her simply. It seemed they drained her less when they'd had a vampire killed that they could obviously use the blood of, she probably had a day or two before they returned to her.
There was a wave of confusion that washed over the vampire when Hastalik didn't immediately make a move for her or speak. The small inkling of security she had felt when she realized it was him vanished when he closed the door, fully restoring the power dynamic to normal. "You're not--... They..." Clara seemed unable to figure out why he had come if he didn't have any use for her blood. "What are you doing here?"
Hastalik had never come down for her blood, he was still not technically privy to that information. He’d found Clara by accident and had only ever come down there to see if she was still alive. He kept waiting for them to kill her but they never did. Hastalik still didn’t understand it. If she was evil they needed to kill her. “You know why I’m here,” he scolded, frowning as he shoved his ringed fingers into his pockets. Though he wasn’t entirely there for that, at least not today. He couldn’t stop thinking of the vampires he’d killed, why had he had to kill them and yet Clara was down here?
She looked appropriately chastised when he scolded her, though she didn't look any less confused. Clara never really knew why he came down. When he did, he just spoke to her, and across all of their interactions she had not yet managed to put together some sort of a motive. With his hands in his pocket, she felt comfortable enough to slowly walk to the edge of the bed and sit there. "Is there something you need to say?" she asked, more or less trying to ask the man if there was something on his mind that had compelled him to come to her at that particular time.
Clara moved and he stepped back, though in the direction of the other side of the room than where he'd come from. So far she'd never hurt him, and had been very insistent that she wouldn't, but Hastalik wasn't afraid she'd hurt him, he was afraid she'd keep convincing him that she wouldn't. "Figured I was gone so long they may have finally killed you," Hastalik responded aggressively, wondering if she had noticed he'd been gone for a solid few weeks. "Wanted to see if they had a new blood bag down here for me to be amused by." His words were half hearted though, not quite as visceral as they had been when he first found her.
Clara noticed when he stepped back in reaction to her movement. She lifted her hands to show him her palms and moved more slowly, but there was a sadness behind her eyes that she couldn't quite shield. "I just want to sit is all," she said in a small voice, lowing her hands when she was seated. Part of her could understand why he was careful, but another part of her felt hurt over it. She still felt more human than vampire, but regardless she felt in most instances here she was treated like a monster. "Would you have been happy if there was?" she asked, looking up at him. Then, with a fake sense of sadness almost meant to tease him, "Are you getting bored of me?" She usually didn't joke with the man, but she noticed that much of the bite had left his voice and it made it feel safer to try and be more casual with him.
Talking with her was hard, vampires tended to spit in his face as he did their's, they'd call him witch names and he'd call them vampire insults back. Clara didn't, even when he called her names she never said any back, which only made things harder for Hastalik. The witch had never enjoyed being mean, or violent, but it was meant to be who he was. He definitely would not have been happy if another person was down there though, not only because for far Clara didn't indicate she deserved to die but because he didn't think he could stand knowing they went through vampires like Kleenex. "You're pretty boring," he said simply, though not exactly her fault when she had basically nothing to do. "I wouldn't have been happy."
Clara's expression flattened to look somewhat annoyed with him when he said she was boring, but then again how much excitement could one stir up in a plain room containing almost nothing. The expression was mostly for show, though. "I wasn't always so boring," she insisted vaguely. She chewed on her bottom lip and looked down at her lap when he said he would not have been happy to see she was gone, but she thought the both of them must know how realistic a possibility it was that some day the coven might become too careless to go too far. "Do you think someday I will be?" she asked quietly, not looking at him. "That I might... die here, and they just... replace me like it is nothing?"
"Probably not," he agreed of her insistence. Hastalik saw what the outside world had when he was on his trips and even he was boring in comparison to them. He didn't have a television, and his internet exposure was non-existent. The closest he got was video games and they were only ones his father allowed for him to play. Books were the same, curated by the coven. When he was on missions he would sometimes sneak them from stores, sometimes watch TV in truck stops, but it wasn't the same. "Maybe," Hastalik said, she was a female and she was certainly the only female he'd ever seen more than once. No doubt she couldn't make it. "If you've been down here as long as you say then maybe one day they'll just bleed you dry on accident, or on purpose because they need it. I've bled vampires before, takes some times but you can do it. Once your bled the only thing that'll bring you back is blood, we're not too keen on giving it." From what he could tell they fed Clara in small glasses of blood sporadically, she always looked beautiful but she never looked strong, least not physically. "You're nothing to us." Us. He didn't like saying he was a part of it but he was, he had to be, this was his family.
"I was never like the others, you know?" she said, a heavy sort of sadness in her voice. "I don't know how long it was after I was changed and someone--one of your brothers I guess--found me." Clara’s jaw became rigid again as her gaze drifted off and she tried not to let her sadness overcome her. "He said he knew what I was, and that I was alone. I just wanted to get back home and see my mother. He said he would help me." Hastalik almost certainly had to know the rest of the story. He said he would help her--and now she was here, had been for years. "If they asked you to collect my blood, could you do that?" she asked, looking at him. She didn't know he had bled some other, unfortunate vampire before. His next statement had her feeling stupid for asking it.
"I don't have any brothers," he answered, supposing she meant in the way he called the coven his family but Hastalik was quite insistent. Maybe they were his family but none of them were his brothers, none of them had come from his mother, goddess that Hastalik perceived her to be. Still her story burnt in his ears, he didn't want to hear what they'd done to get her here, the tricks they'd taught all of the coven members to be used on them. Vampires were emotional, just as they could be vicious they could be easily manipulated. "I would do anything my father asked me to do," Hastalik insisted, eyes looking into hers but falling away. His father frequently bled her and while Hastalik carried a lot of his features his father was never quite as soft. Even when Hastalik had insulted her he had never held the same deadness to his eyes that his father did. "Eventually."
"Oh," Clara said quietly, replaying her own words in her head trying to determine if it was the language she'd gotten wrong as a non-native speaker or if it was more a nuance of how the coven related to each other. "What should you call them then?.” “You haven't always," she responded, her brows knitting together. Perhaps all of the men always wore the same outfits, but ass a vampire there was more than one way to tell if a human was injured or bruised. "He has beaten you before, in anger over disobedience. Your scent, it changes when your body is recovering. It becomes... It, um." She struggled to find a way to describe it. "Your body is working harder so it smells more apparent? More pure?"
"Family but not brothers, they're not my mother's children or my father's, they're other coven members children," he informed her. He didn't like to talk about his mother, an image of her always on his person. He only knew what his father had said of her and it was very little. What would be most obvious to Clara however was that no women ever approached her, or were ever around. Whoever Hastalik's mother was she wasn't here. No doubt it didn't help bruises were pooled areas of blood beneath the skin, he'd never considered she might notice, or might assume it was his father and not the fact he went out and regularly took vampire's in. "My father knows what is best for the coven and for me. I just don't always see it right away," his eyes remained on her. One day he would see why Clara was down here and he would regret his betrayal in these moments, or he hoped as much. "But eventually I do. If he wanted me to bleed you he'd have a reason."
She nodded when he answered the question, but didn't comment further on the way members of the coven referred to one another. When he spoke of his father, Clara's eyes held a shred of empathy, maybe even pity. "Perhaps you see it differently, but not wrong,"she said softly. "He may not always be right either? It is in our nature to make mistakes." She was trying to plant a seed of doubt, though she worried it might just anger Hastalik. "Either way, you do not deserve to be treated cruelly for a wrong action." It worried her that he felt that there would always come a day when his morals aligned with those of his father, especially because he was the only one to ever show her a modicum of empathy. "I'd better not give him a reason then..."
"His words come from experience," but he was faltering in his resolve because Hastalik had never understood why his father wanted him to harm those in the coven. His father had always said that it was practice but if that was true why could he not practice on vampires? Why had he needed to practice his abilities over and over again on younger members within the coven. "Pain helps remember situations, so you won't make mistakes again," Hastalik said but he brushed his nose with his knuckles because he was getting emotional, a trait his father insisted came from his mother, and likely had. "Why wouldn't you want to? I mean, what's worse? Being down here for the rest of your existence or dying? You're a monster anyway, better to die." He wasn't trying to be cruel but genuinely believed what he was saying, because if she was good and vampires were bad, then maybe all she needed was an escape from the life she had.
"Can I tell you something that I want you to think about? A saying that is very important to us back in France?" she asked, nodding toward the other end of the bed and inviting him to sit if he so chose. She didn't recite the saying to him until he gave her permission, worried that she would just prove herself to be pushy or manipulative or whatever horrible thing he wanted to believe she was. "Pain is not the only way," she said quietly. For some, death might seem like the easier way out. But when she had been kidnapped by the coven it was when she was travelling home to visit her sick mother. Clara didn't know if her mother was still alive, but the hope of seeing her one more time was enough to make the suffering worthwhile and keep the hope of escape alive. "I barely lived before I was taken here," she said, shrugged her shoulders slightly. "The years in here would be worth the change of just one more day out in the real world."
Hastalik did not sit, keeping his tall looming figure where it was, though the gesture did stick in his mind, especially looking at the expression on her face as she made it, not commanding but soft. "It's not the only way, but it's our way," he said back quite instantly after before he held his breath a moment. "I'll think on it, but only if you say it in French." Her hope almost snapped Hastalik's resolve, but only almost. It was hard for him, to see such a beautiful face, and to hear her speak with such honesty and innocence all at once. He'd worshipped his mother from the moment he understood he lacked one, and as a byproduct he worshipped women, more so than others in the coven. Each had their own Greecian God they worshipped, Hastalik the only one among them that did his blessings and rituals to women. His father did not approve but his visions were enough to keep his father's displeasure at bay. Mostly he just didn't know what to say to her answer so moved to head for the door. "Perhaps you'll still be here when I return."
Clara wasn't surprised or hurt that Hastalik didn't sit. She chose not to argue with the our way statement he made. If she did, it might be perceived that she was trying to lead him to an alternate conclusion and being manipulative. Instead she nodded, when he requested the phrase in French. "L’habit ne fait pas le moine." she recited. "It means The clothing doesn't make the monk." She simply nodded at his statement, watching him make his exit.
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Day 2 for @shigarakiweek: Teamwork
Summary: Keep your enemies close - and your online friends willing to play the support and healer positions even closer. (AKA: Shigaraki unknowingly took Kaminari under his wing while gaming online when he was fifteen, but neither one of them actually bothered to figure out who the other person was and instead became sorta friends.)
Notes: Although this can very much be read on its own and I might write more for these two dumbasses, technically speaking, this is a prequel to Reconfigure and a spoiler for Chapter 24, although it's not a huge deal of the fic. This is pretty cracky, but I'll be damned if it's not one of the funniest things I've ever imagined. I've got a bunch of ridiculous headcanons. I didn't know it was Shigaraki Week this week until this morning, so when I saw the prompt for today, my brain went into over-drive. Hey, I guess I can knock something off my To Write List now? Also, apologies for not being like a ton of thought into Shigaraki's gamer name, but hey, I did my best in the thirty minutes I wrote this.
- - - - -
ThePalebloodStrider: you up for a few rounds?
TazerBlazer: yeah man i got school tmrw but lol fuck it
ThePaleBloodStrider: you’re an idiot
TazerBlazer: hey my grades aren’t that bad
TazerBlazer: also i’m not the one with the creepy ass s/n :P
ThePalebloodStrider: it has meaning
TazerBlazer: yeah lol ok edgelord
ThePalebloodStrider: god you’re such a kid
TazerBlazer: bruh you been know
TazerBlazer: we gonna do this or what?
Shigaraki peeled his gloves off to rub his temple. He hated wearing gloves when gaming - they totally messed with his dexterity - but Kurogiri said he couldn’t get another controller for two months if he disintegrated another one. His suggestion to wear gloves had been met with a lot of complaints and stomping around on Shigaraki’s part, but in the end, he’d dug a pair of gloves out of his nightstand and jerked them on with even more grumbling.
It wasn’t his fault that controllers were made to be held with all five fingers or that people online were such fucking idiots. Did these assholes even know how to play? They were wasting his goddamn time. Of course, if he stuck with simple RPGs, then maybe he wouldn’t have so many problems, but he had a viciously competitive side that craved destroying actual people instead of just computer NPCs. There was nothing quite like lording a top-ranked position in multiple rounds over others. Even his teammates got frustrated when he was infinitely above them.
He didn’t know why. They should be grateful since they were so pathetic and dumb. He wasn’t insulting them if it was the truth.
Tazer was different. He had been able to tell right off the bat due to his mic and playing style that he was younger than him, but he was infinitely helpful. Shigaraki wasn’t immature enough to not recognize the signs of someone that would be good in a party. There were a few people that were good at playing roles on a team. He was a leader, but a leader wasn’t a leader unless they had a follower. Tazer was chatty as fuck and tended to make impulsive decisions, but he was also reliable and a great team player.
A dumb, annoying, little shit, but happily willing to play the part of a healer and offer support in every campaign and game they played together, so Shigaraki would take it.
As the game loaded, he idly scratched his neck before remembering to Not Do That and then put his glove back on. Today had been frustrating. Okay, so he was sixteen, but he wasn’t a kid. He was fucking sixteen. There was no need to treat him like a child. Why couldn’t Sensei see that? It was like he flip-flopped between forcing Shigaraki to learn incredibly hard and brutal lessons and then acting like Shigaraki wasn’t capable of doing shit. He was ready for some real fucking action, but no, Sensei said that he had to wait. He was still learning.
It was hard to feel like he was being taught when all he felt was trapped. He knew the world wouldn’t actually want him, so he stayed inside. What little communication he did have beyond Kurogiri, Sensei, and a few of the villains that worked under him was online. And it would always stay like that. That little brat Tazer wouldn’t be so friendly with him if he knew what Shigaraki was actually like. The whole attachment was fake, but it paid off. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t-
“Aha! I got the mic to work. I thought I shorted it out.”
Shigaraki readjusted his headset. “Again?”
“Hey, hey, don’t get on me about that. Didn’t you say this is like your tenth controller?”
It was his fifteenth, but luckily Kurogiri didn’t know about at least six of them. He also didn’t know that Shigaraki might pickpocketed a few of the men that came to visit Sensei over the years. If they weren’t going to take care of their personal property, then what did it matter? Yes, he got a personal allowance that he kept very good track of, but he got in trouble for damaging stuff constantly.
And getting in trouble with Kurogiri was one thing, but with Sensei? Displeasing him was...unsettling. It was perhaps the only reason Shigaraki hadn’t argued with him more over things, especially since the fight that left him severely injured. He was recovering, which was why Shigaraki wanted to do more for him, but no, they had to stay quiet for now.
He had to be good - which meant no more destroying stuff in a temper tantrum.
“Whatever,” Shigaraki shot back. “You need to learn how to control your quirk more.”
“I am!” Tazer insisted. “I’m getting real good at it. I mean, my parents get onto me all the time because maybe I fry a few things once in a while, but I can even charge my own stuff now.”
“You’re using all your brain cells to charge up your electronics.”
“Well, you’re using all yours to be an asshat,” Tazer laughed.
Shigaraki furrowed his brow. No, he used his to be smart about shit unlike most people online. Okay, so he was probably an asshole too, but he didn’t need his brain for that. He could be one simply because he was better than most people on here. He liked to come up with strategies and plans, which Tazer dutifully followed for the most part. Young as he was, he liked being helpful, and he liked winning even more. At least he recognized his leadership qualities.
It wasn’t bragging if he knew he was smart. Tazer had been astounded that Shigaraki figured out he had an electricity quirk, but honestly, it was a no-brainer considering his gaming tag. Plus, he always felt like people with electricity quirks had more energy. Maybe that was why Tazer never seemed to have any issues staying up at all hours of the night gaming despite having school the next day.
When their game finally started to load, Shigaraki relaxed. The other team was filled with players holding high ranks. Man, it was going to be good to smash them. Nothing quite like taking down a few egos. Someone could play fifty times more than another player, but timing playing would never beat natural talent or inherent skill. It was why he stuck with Tazer. The kid played using instincts.
“Oh!” Tazer exclaimed excitedly. “Did you see the trailer for that new Godzilla movie?”
“There’s another one?” Shigaraki scoffed. “What’s this one? Thirty?”
“Don’t knock it, bro. It looks awesome! I’ll DM you the link.”
“I’m not gonna watch it.”
Tazer blew a raspberry. “Just watch it!” A notification popped up in the corner of his screen alerting him to a message with half of a YouTube link showing. “You’ll thank me later.”
“I doubt it.” Shigaraki would watch it later, but he might not admit it for a while. Let the kid hang a little. It was good to starve people of immediate validation - made them more patient. At least that was probably what Sensei thought. He could probably stand to work on his patience more, but he was getting better. He hadn’t thrown a fit the last time his connection had lagged while playing.
“E3 is coming up, so you’ve got a site to stream that, right, ‘cause-”
“Hey, kid!” some asshole from the other team named TopAlpha1321 barked. “You gonna ramble the entire game like a dweeb? Shut the hell up!”
“Stop being such a bottom,” Shigaraki snapped before muting the guy. He could see his name light up as he went off, but nothing could be heard.
“Eh? But his name says ‘Top’?” Tazer paused thoughtfully. “What’s a bottom?”
Shigaraki choked and held the mic of his headset to keep from being heard. Oh, shit, he knew that Tazer was a few years younger than him, but sometimes he forgot how much of a gap in information about shit there could be between their ages. Truth be told, he only knew about the term because of listening to chatter while gaming and accidentally stumbling across a very reprehensible site that nearly made him disintegrate his computer, but Tazer was dumb enough to look it up and-
Tazer laughed. “I’m just fucking with you, dude! I know what that is. I’ve got the internet.”
“You’re too young for that,” Shigaraki admonished, half out of shock and half in irritation for being tricked. Tazer might’ve been younger and a dumbass at times, but he could be a clever, little shit too when he wanted to be. It was probably why they worked so well together.
“What are you? My older brother?”
“Shut up and follow me.”
“Copy that, Captain.”
Shigaraki didn’t know why he put up with him. Oh, wait, that’s right - because the kid was quick as shit and always seemed to know when he needed back-up or to be healed. Maybe he wasn’t the best shot and he couldn’t tank for shit, but damn if he wasn’t sharp in that respect. People naturally good at support roles were not to be knocked. After all, a party couldn’t be complete or well-rounded without them. When it was time for him to take over and lead in Sensei’s stead, he’d made sure that he had a good team.
#Shigaraki Tomura#kaminari denki#mha#bnha#shigaraki week#my hero academia#boku no hero academia#crack fic
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rubies and pearls
from that silly indie quote about the sun loving the moon so much that it dies every night to let her shine, i present to you this:
a sort of post-modern philosphical shitshow where neil panicking about the relevance of his existence in our universe is my constant state
this is also p similar to (but obviously not as good as the 180,525 words of) ‘The First Breath’ which is a good (amazing) fic i defs recommend
Neil is a kinda generic term for what he is, but essentially, in the most simplistic, genial terms, he is Neil. Neil Josten, in all his glory.
It’s strange how all the benevolent figures of this particular earthly plane have opped for such simple names. Like Matt, for example. Here he was, providing optimism and celebration to human kind, but he went ahead and named himself Matthew Boyd.
And his love, Danielle Wilds. She was the embodiment of valour. And she insisted to go by Dan.
Renee, Wymack, Allison, Seth, Aaron, Jean, Kevin, Jeremy, Nicky, Abby, Betsy, hell, even Riko. Though he supposed that it was ironic that the Japanese name meant truth, and he was consistently anything but.
There were others, perhaps more unsavory, of whom Neil never tended to mention, and wholistically avoided when he could. They, too, had elicited for general names. Lola, Nathan, Mary. Seriously. Mary.
They were practically what the humans called gods, the lot of them. But like: Also not like gods. Without them, the thing they represented would be obsolete, and humankind would no longer be capable of experiencing it. Some things such as fear (Nathan) and pain (Lola) would be rather beneficial to eradicate, but they fought tooth and nail, not only to exist, but to try and remove those who negated their particular characteristic.
Such as Neil. Neil was the embodiment of eternity, or immortality. Perhaps humans weren’t immortal, but he and his fellow benevolent beings were. He also immortalised memory, and how they (humans) could translate it into permanent forms. Books, scripts, art. More recently, the internet.
So, being that Nathan and Lola drew satisfaction from the cruel shortening of human life, and Neil represented the extension of life, they did not get along.
He clashed with paranoia (Mary) and sadism (Riko): Sometimes he and connection (Jeremy) fell upon disagreements, in that Neil was unable to immortalise humankind and Jeremy watched the relations he inadvertently formed crumble through the permanent separation of death. It wasn’t that Neil had anything against Jeremy. He was just awfully cheery.
Then again, Matt often displayed similar qualities. Neil assumed he was more tolerable, due to the idea of perseverance that accompanied optimism. Neil could respect that.
He respected forgiveness (Wymack) and transformation (Renee). He appreciated valour (Dan) and stubbornness (Allison), and whilst their personalities grated upon Neil, both regret (Seth) and doubt (Aaron) were necessary, too. Both healers, of mind and body (Betsy and Abby), were much needed too, but their disposition to smother Neil with affections was not appreciated.
Neil rarely saw those he enjoyed the company of. His symbol was the moon, and thus night was his territory. It was also the territory of things most evil and threatening, and whilst Neil technically didn’t have to maintain his waking hours in the night (he just simply needed to exist), he tended to anyway.
Perched upon the branch of a pine, he gazed upon the moon and the stars: His moon, and the trillions of stars that represented the other dimensions. He wondered how many of those had a Neil Josten, and if they were gazing upon him in similar fashion.
“Neil,” Called a gentle voice, at the bottom of his tree.
Neil sighed, slipping between the Unreal to appear beside Jean.
It tended to spook those that weren’t used to his disappearing act. As the embodiment of immortality, and thus, basically the reason that all the other representatives existed, he could slip into the Unreal. It was essentially a strange goo that kept all dimensions together. You were not allowed to cross dimensions, or speak to the embodiments of eternity from other dimensions, but it wasn’t illegal to see one another from time to time.
Jean was one of the few who he truly tolerated, and who truly tolerated him. Loneliness and eternity went pretty much hand in hand. Immortality was an isolating experience.
“You have been quite absent for a while.” Jean offered as they walked. It was a trail in the Victorian Alps, at the base of Mount Hotham, in Australia. Australia was not as frequently visited by his fellow beings, in that there were less people in a large space. He frequented Mongolia, Russia and Canada for the same reasons.
Other beings could not slip in and out of space, but time was still a loose thing. Jean could have walked for five minutes and crossed the pacific ocean that lay between California and Melbourne. He also, if he’d wanted to, have taken two hours. It was all relative. Neil wasn’t in charge of it, so he didn’t really care. When you’re immortal, time isn’t really a thing at all.
“I have been busy.” Neil said, like he always said. “A cult attempting necromantics here, wars stealing young lives there, a general disregard for the rules of existence everywhere. I’m always busy, Jean. What is it that you want?”
“Irritable.” Jean decided. “Maybe you need to breathe, for a moment?”
Neil was pent-up, but he was always pent-up. Mary always tried to catch up with him, warning of prophecies and visions and happenings and things that would probably never happen. She wasn’t hard to shake off short-term, but she was impossible to get rid of entirely. Having paranoia chase after him like that wasn’t doing his seemingly eternal headache any favours.
“Maybe you need to get your head out of your ass, and your ass out of California?” Neil offered. “Jeremy’s influencing you more than I thought he would.”
Jean only laughed softly. “You’re insufferable, Neil Josten.”
They walked further in comfortable silence.
“Have you met with your sun yet?”
Neil grimaced. He hated it when the sun was referred to as his. Just because they were complementary to one another did not result in Neil’s ownership of the being that symbolised the sun, or visa versa. Neil had never approached the man - or even asked for his name. He couldn’t imagine what the person that was supposed to oppose every aspect of Neil’s being would be like. Most likely, intolerable. He had heard enough about the man from whispers.
“I do think that it would be beneficial to you.”
“Is that Jeremy, speaking out of your mouth?” Neil grabbed Jean’s chin to pry it open. “Jeremy, are you there? What are you doing here?”
“Neil, stop it.” Jean was amused, but it slid back into his characteristic seriousness. “You cannot isolate yourself like this for much longer.”
“Says the embodiment of loneliness.”
“Yeah, which is why I know there’s an ache within you.” He frowned. “I thought you agreed that Jeremy and I made a logical pair.”
“Yes,” Neil admitted. “But that does not mean I will feel the same about my other half.”
“You’d be surprised.” Jean offered, the vagueness of his tone making Neil irritated. “You’re more alike than not.”
“Fuck off.” He said, decided.
Jean simply smiled, his small, knowing smile. “You’ll see.”
Neil watched as he walked in the opposite direction when they approached a fork in the trail. He merely sighed, and retreated to the sanctity of the tallest tree branch.
The first time Neil sees the man who represents the sun - protection and strength - it is by mistake. He is ambling along a crooked brick path in a small Chinese city by the name of Shijiazhuang as the night began to fade away, with hands in his pockets. He loves the smell of bing and liangmian and the anonymity of the hustle and bustle. He doesn’t have to present himself to humankind if he wishes not to, and in China, it is safer that way. His red curls would draw excessive attention, as would the scars and blue eyes.
It’s why he likes America: He blends in regardless. If only there were less of his kind there.
When he sees the man, he’s standing at the top of the city’s history museum, a grand building with a newly refurbished half. Ironic, really, when considering the age of the artifacts inside.
Neil stands in the middle of the square, surrounded by pigeons as he watches the man. Smoke curls from his fingers, and his hair is illuminated like a halo in the rising sun. Behind him, the moon is sinking into irrelevance, and the stretch of sky between the two spheres is an incredible palette of rich purples and blues, and golden oranges and pinks.
Distantly, Neil knows his moon is nothing compared to the sun. The sun is glorious. The moon is simply - eery.
Neil knows he’s been seen by him by the curious tilt of his head. He vanishes.
The second time is no accident: It is pure frustration.
In the northernmost lands, sometimes there is no night. Neil sees how the humans grow exhausted, how the sun circulates endlessly without fail. Sometimes he thinks it’s selfish.
He tries to bring rest where he can, in the shadows of small homes dark enough to impersonate the night. When it does grow dark, he rewards their endurance with brilliant light shows in the sky.
One evening, he has only an hour before the sun returns. Perhaps his irritation was palpable, because the man is at his side instantly.
He, himself, seems slightly perturbed at his sudden appearance. Neil doesn’t usually summon fellow beings unless it is an urgent matter. He’s the only one who can.
The man simply looks at him. He’s shorter than Neil, with eyelashes blonde like his hair. Snow rests gently upon the curves of his cheeks. It’s ethereal.
“I cannot change the globe’s axis.” Was all he said. “Your frustration is leaking everywhere unnecessarily.”
Then he went to light a cigarette, and Neil stood beside him as they watched the sun rise once more.
The third time was no accident, nor was it by chance: Riko was salivating where he stood towering over him, snarling with anger like a rabid dog. He was the embodiment of sadism and liked to watch mankind suffer, but he didn’t limit himself to just the humans. How he’d found Neil was a mystery, but he’d taken his chance.
Neil thought of Kevin (hubris) and his shattered hand. Kevin said Riko laughed as he’d cowered, and enjoyed snapping each of Kevin’s fingers. He knows what this man is capable of, even if much of his motivation is unprecedented and petty.
“Give Kevin back to me,” Riko demanded. “You have unlawfully taken him from me. Give him back.”
“He is not yours, or mine, to own.” Neil corrected him. He kept himself just beyond arm’s reach, a trick he had learned when he once often interacted with Nathan. “He’s his own being.”
“You fucking prick.” It’s a blur of action, but Neil found himself pinned to a hard concrete surface, his vision spotting with the force that Riko’d smacked his head to the ground.
He couldn’t risk jumping to the Unreal: If he did, his physical contact with Riko might bring him there. That’d be a really bad idea.
So he tried to resist instead, but he was always more inclined to flight rather than fight. He was trapped.
Until;
Riko was suddenly torn from where he was pressing Neil’s body to the ground, restricting all movement and chance to escape. He vanished as soon as he realised he was no longer alone - the coward that he was - and Neil scrambled to his feet in anticipation.
“You’re useless.” The man decided. “All he had to do was poke you and you were practically incapacitated.”
“You took your time.” Neil huffed, brushing himself off. He would rather not admit he’d asked for the man’s assistance - he was meant to represent protection, after all - but he couldn’t have risked it.
“Useless.” He reiterated.
“At least you had warning.” Neil proposed. “You didn’t have to come.”
“If you’re dead, we’re all dead.” He reminded Neil. “Besides, I know you’ve convinced Kevin to stay away from that sadistic fuck. I need someone to help him keep his head above the water.”
“Well.” Neil said awkwardly. He looked out: They were stood in the middle of a lonely Welsh field. There were sheep a few metres away, and it was hard to tell whether or not it was sunset or sunrise. The constant mask of clouds made it impossible to really know. “Thanks?”
The man merely grunted. “Just don’t be stupid next time.”
“Stupid, how?”
From beneath sheaths in the bands on his arms, he withdrew a knife. He chucked it at Neil, who caught it handle first. On one side of the hilt was an engraved sun, and the other a crescent moon. It had to be really old. “If I can’t be there, don’t get yourself killed.”
“So this will be a regular occurance?” Neil teased. “You saving my ass?”
“Make me a deal.” His eyes were like molten gold. “I protect you. You keep Kevin - and the rest of us - alive.”
“You know who I am.” Neil challenged. “You really think you can go against each and all of them who want me under their thumb?”
“I am protection and strength.” He sounded bored. “Of course I can. Besides, it’s not your problem to worry about. You just need to not get on my nerves, because no one’s saving your ass then.”
“I don’t even know your name.” Neil confessed. “How am I supposed to just trust you?”
“ ‘Just as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west,’” He quoted. “I don’t break my promises.”
Neil offered his hand. “Neil.”
The man looked at it momentarily, before clasping it. The agreement was settled. “Andrew.”
Neil wanted to know where the fuck Andrew had found this knife. It bore the craftsmanship of eons ago, the gentle casted ornate carvings, the inset of rubies for the sun and pearls for the moon. Stunning, really. Why he’d give it to Neil was another perplexing question.
He was not fond of the idea of using it. He remembered Nathan’s extended torment, drawing fear from Neil’s every pore in an attempt to control him. The man loved his knives. Over the centuries, weaponry and torture methods had adapted and changed, but knives had always remained.
He was sitting upon the concrete wall that fronted St Ives’ Tate Modern gallery, looking out at the churning ocean. It was dark, and the moon was hidden by the building behind him. The lighthouse upon a cliff to his right shone light out into the endless ocean.
This place would be stunning on a clear summer’s day.
When Jean walked around the corner, he was hurried. He approached Neil by running up the stairs, looking up at Neil where he sat on the concrete wall.
“You’d best allow Andrew to find you.” He suggested. “He’s very irritable, because Kevin is useless and won’t tell him where you are.”
Not many could find him: Another perk of his. He could toggle it on and off. His most recent Riko attack was because he had stayed too long in one place. But if he allowed a certain being to find him, it could be at any time.
Kevin, Jean, Matt and Wymack. Sometimes Dan, Allison, Nicky and Renee. Not often: Jeremy, Alvarez (ignorance) and Laila (innocence).
He rubbed his hands together in the cold, burying them between his knees. “Sure.”
Jean shook his head, and jogged away.
Neil could tell when Andrew arrived, because fingers wound themselves into his hair so that his head could be tugged back. Andrew was straddling the wall, one hand pressed with fingers splayed next to Neil’s thigh, the other holding his head up.
“How the fuck am I meant to protect you if I can’t even find you?” He growled.
“I forgot.” Neil shrugged.
With angered muttering under his breath, he turned to face the ocean.
“Is it prettier in the summer sun?” He asked, curious.
“What business do I have in caring about aesthetics?” He took a drag from his cigarette.
Neil supposed that was fair enough. A moment of tense silence passed. “You don’t need to keep me company.”
“Good.” He hopped off the wall and strode away.
Neil sighed and kept his gaze upon the horizon.
“You have managed to consistently rile up Andrew.” Kevin remarked. “That’s commendable.”
Neil simply arched an eyebrow.
“He doesn’t - can’t - care about anything enough to be angry. Usually.”
“He does not care about me.” Neil corrected him. “He simply is fulfilling his promises.”
Kevin still didn’t get it. “I mean, he’s consistently followed you around for weeks. But as soon as I try to get him more invested in what he’s doing, and his capabilities as, you know, the embodiment of the fucking sun, he ignores me!” He shook his head, bringing a mug to his lips.
Most of his fellow beings made habits of sleeping and eating and drinking, because they too could dream and taste. Neil didn’t see the need to bother.
“Maybe I have his best interests in mind.” He said.
“Oh, yeah?” Kevin shook his head. “Like what?”
Neil wasn’t actually sure. He simply took Kevin’s coffee and sipped on the strange smelling liquid. It tasted worse than it smelled. He made a face and put it back onto the table.
Kevin put his head in his hands. “The day anyone gets through to Andrew is the day the sun collides with the planet.”
“We might still be here, depending on how quickly the humans run themselves into the ground.”
“Wouldn’t count on it.” Kevin muttered, sullenly slurping from his drink.
Neil ignored his moping friend and stared out the diner’s shuttered window instead, watching raindrops slide down the glass pane.
Did Andrew really not care?
When Neil asked him that, he scoffed. “Of course not.”
Neil just looked at him, waiting for an expansion.
“You, of all the others, should know how pointless this all is.” He gestured around himself. Neil liked the angle of his fingers as they held the cigarette: With nonchalance, but also, with fearlessness. “We’re one of trillions. What difference does it make?”
“Scientifically, you’re the most vital aspect to this whole conundrum of living things.” Neil said, quietly. “I don’t understand how the individual on which the weight of the entire world rests couldn’t care less about it. What, is it too much to deal with?”
Andrew looked at him pointedly.
Neil looked back. “I shouldn’t be the one responsible for eternity. The sun is protection, and strength, and gives life. The moon is just some floating rock, reflecting the light you give. It’s practically nothing.” He felt himself curl inwards. “I am nothing. Time, life, purpose. None of it can mean anything to me. I’m just nothing.”
His hand rested on the back of Neil’s next, forcing his head to his knees. He hadn’t even registered the quickening of breath, the lightheadedness. Overwhelmed was not something he could risk. He was being chased after by those who wanted chaos and destruction. He was being yearned after for those who wanted to use him selfishly.
“Now you know why I don’t care about any of it.” He said lowly.
“because I can’t afford to” went unsaid.
It snapped Neil out of his strange spiral.
“You aren’t nothing, Neil.” Andrew said. His strange apathy was oddly comforting. No objectivity could influence the statements he said. “All of this is nothing without you.”
“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” Neil said, weakly.
“Don’t get used to it.” He let go, taking another drag. Neil plucked it out of his hand to take a steady inhale. He liked the way the smoke curled in the air as he breathed out. Andrew did not look impressed.
“I won’t.” Neil leaned closer to slot the cigarette back between the angle of his fingers.
The man scoffed. Together, they watched the sunrise over the limeston structures of Vietnam’s HaLong Bay.
This is nice, Neil thought. He did not dare say it outloud.
this was getting tooooo longggggggg so i thought: two parts?
although it might be nice just to leave it at that. idk.
#mythical au#andreil#all for the game#andrew minyard#neil josten#the foxhole court#if any of this makes sense can i get a hell yea#jem writes
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Lena Luthor x reader (No more masks, I won’t hold back)
Request: "The candy is for the trick or treaters not you, quit eating it all " with lena
a/n: HAPPY HALLOWEEN you wonderful ghouls and pals of mine! Whether you celebrate it or not, have a kickass day, stay safe, and do all the things you want to do, no matter what it is that makes you happy - today and all the days!!! :D
Anyway... how was THAT for an episode that we just watched?? I am STILL reeling about all the Supergirl Ladies content we are having and I have never felt so ALIVE!!!
Here’s a short cute one for y’all though! I freaking LOVE domestic Lena alright!! I swear it is the greatest concept and not only does she deserve this, but we too also Deserve This. Now also imagine Lena having to deal with someone who has approximately zero impulse control?? That’s you this time LMAO. Happy Halloween and happy Tuesday!!
- - - - -
There were only two occasions you ever looked forward to in your life, and since your birthday wasn’t considered a national holiday by the nation yet (how rude of them honestly) you had to settle for the next best thing.
Autumn was your favourite season - you romanticized every single aspect of it that could possibly be cherished to the high heavens and back again. The crunch of leaves on sidewalks under your boots, and leather jacket and sweater weather made you come alive when the rest of nature around you was settling down and shedding.
The colours around you and the anticipation of keeping away indoors to stay warm - it was what kept you going, to say the least.
Even the pumpkin flavoured everything you didn’t bat an eyelash at, and so often some of your friends have expressed their ire of your tendency to go overboard with the festivities.
How could you have helped yourself if it was just simply more fun to act like a suburban housewife and decorate your entire house in Halloween decorations and buy an army’s worth of candy rather than to deny yourself the simple happiness of doing so?
Naysayers be damned, you’ll eat your themed cookies and ensure everything from your house to your car to nearly every single orifice of your body smelled of pumpkin, you’ll eat all your Halloween candy and only regret it for the next few days, and you’ll damn well call anything and everything ‘spoopy’ until the retail industry pries it from your cold, dead hands and forces aisles and aisles of Christmas decorations down your throat.
It was also Lena’s first official Halloween, and much to your friends’ amusement and great exasperation, this very fact seemed to make your excitement reach unprecedented heights.
She’s only been your girlfriend for something just over half of a year, but already you could very well say you knew each other well enough to not be so surprised by each other’s funny quirks.
After you finished work you barrelled right through your front door and darted into the shower the instant that you could, throwing on your favourite obnoxiously bright coloured knit sweater and sneaking six packets of candy into your pocket, for later, obviously.
You promised Lena to bring out all the stops for her first Halloween experience, and you were beyond ecstatic that you got to be the one who did this for her.
You were pondering just how lucky you were to have Lena in your life as you laid out the ready to bake Pillsbury pumpkin and ghost cookies before putting them in the oven.
You’d tried convincing Lena that she didn’t need to leave work too early; Halloween is a late affair anyway.
For her part, she seemed just as excited as you about celebrating, perhaps it was your zealous eagerness that was infectious, but more and more Lena was becoming as taken with the day as you were, and you thought it was absolutely adorable.
Still, her text message to you made it evident she was insistent about coming home early to be with you.
Lena: “I let Jess go home early again... I’ll see you soon :)”
you: “was she just as perplexed as she was the last time you told her to go home early?”
Lena: “It seems as though she’s stopped asking questions and just accepted it.”
you: “seems wise, especially considering what you get up to when you do leave early, I imagine she wouldn’t want to know anyway ;)”
Lena: “And you seem to be wanting to push your buttons tonight, what makes you think you’ll get so lucky?”
you: “you are the light of my life and I am more than lucky to take anything you are so gracious to give me, Ms Luthor”
Lena: “Yeah, yeah, I get it. No need to kiss ass, I’ll see you soon babe ;)”
you: “Love you! Can’t wait <3″
You grinned to yourself as you put the cookies in the oven, marvelling at just how easily it is to smile when it comes to your girlfriend.
With nothing much else left to do, you sit down on your couch and peruse through Netflix’s Halloween selection, wondering if you could convince Lena to watch a horror movie with you.
It’s probably about fifteen minutes later and you’re in the middle of the third episode of Mindhunter when you hear the door open and you turn around to catch the figure of your girlfriend by the threshold.
“Hey babe,” you smile broadly as you take notice of her casual clothes.
“Hi yourself, (Y/N),” she says, walking over to your place on the couch as you lean your head back for her to give you a kiss.
She glances at the TV and squints her eyes suspiciously at you, “you started another episode?”
Your eyes widen and you try to hide your sheepish smirk, “no.”
Lena raises a stern eyebrow and you’re becoming less and less successful at hiding your guilty grin.
“I don’t like it when you lie to me, (Y/N).”
She leans down closer to your lips and you can feel her breath. You move up to kiss her but she dodges the move.
“Uh-uh, tell me the truth,” she says slowly.
You stare up at her again, your head leaning back as you gaze at her chastising look upside down. You smile softly to yourself at the sight of her, the teasing and fondness masked behind a veil of reprimand, and you think you zone out for a little bit in a dopey trance when you hear her click her tongue at you in frustration.
“Don’t do that.”
“What? What did I do?”
“How am I supposed to be angry with you if you keep looking at me like that?”
“Like what?” you ask half curiously.
Lena takes a deep breath and a smile forms on her lips, she shakes her head as she grabs your cheeks and kisses you.
“I can never say no to that face of yours, even if you do try to sneak some TV behind my back.”
“I did not,” you grumble petulantly, watching as her eyebrow arches again when she makes her way to sit beside you. “Entirely.”
“Mhm, right,” she remarks with a fond smirk. “How was your day, darling?” She presses up against you and leans her head on your shoulder.
“It was awesome, everyone dressed up which isn’t really something I’d expected. How about you?”
“It was a day... It’s rather difficult to talk Kara out of an idea once she has one, isn’t it?”
“What did she do now?”
“I believe she and Winn had some bet which she lost, so she walked around the office today in one of those inflatable dinosaur costumes that are always circulating the internet?”
You burst into laughter at the thought and wondered how Winn convinced Kara to walk around in an obnoxious costume for a day when her crime-fighting extracurriculurs were to be considered.
“I don’t really think she considered that she could actually lose,” Lena answers your wordless question.
“Those are always the best bets.”
“So what’s on the agenda today? Are you going to make me watch some ridiculous horror movie so I can snuggle up next to you?” Lena asks conspiratorially.
Despite yourself, you blush at the remark and try to hide your grin.
“I was, actually.”
“You’re so transparent,” Lena says, laughing as she moves in to kiss you.
“Not my fault you’re so irresistible,” you retort with a little pout.
Lena levels her look to you and mumbles against your lips, “you don’t need an excuse to hold me, (Y/N).”
“It’s Halloween anyway, what else could get us into the mood-”
Lena interrupts you as she kisses you, moving so she’s straddling you and pushes you into the couch.
“I know plenty that could get us in the mood,” she comments in a low voice.
She grinds softly into you and you groan, your hands moving to her hips as you chase her lips.
The rustling of something Lena’s disrupted distracts her and she looks down at your leg. She eyes your pocket suspiciously before she snaps her eyes up at you.
“Do you seriously have candy in your pocket?”
“No,” your eyes widen and you make a valiant effort to hide the humour in your lie.
“You’re in a dishonest mood today, aren’t you?”
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it this is my favourite!”
“Darling, I love you, but your sweet tooth is entirely ruining the meaning of ‘assorted candy’. You get to keep whatever is in your pocket for the rest of the night,” she says with a half-serious warning.
“Yes ma’am,” you mutter as you try to tug Lena back towards you.
“Nope,” she says, refusing to let herself be pulled in.
You look at her with your best puppy eyes and make a grand pout, blinking your eyes in utter sadness and deprivation.
“You’re going to burn the cookies. Don’t think you can use me as your excuse for gross negligence,” she remarks with a mischievous smile.
Lena moves back to her seat on the couch and you make a great show of slowly getting up and dragging your feet toward the kitchen, muttering just loud enough so she can hear.
“I guess! I guess I’ll go, I guess! I didn’t want kisses anyway, it’s fine!” you continue until your voice is nothing but a muted lament from the kitchen.
You take the cookies out of the oven, exceedingly impressed by Lena’s timing, no doubt, and you eye the bowl of candy that’s on the kitchen counter next to the tray of cookies.
You move to stick your hand out and you make just the slightest ruffling sound when you hear Lena’s voice calling out to you from the living room.
“The candy is for the trick-or-treaters, not you. Quit eating it all!”
You drop your jaw slightly in surprise and wonder if Lena’s got eyes on the back of her head.
“Hurry up and get back here before we’re interrupted for the remainder of the night and you regret all of your choices.”
You nearly slip in your socks rushing back to Lena, catching that look of amusement that you’ve noticed is becoming a common expression of hers, her eyes crinkled and lips twisted into a subtle smirk as she watches you dive onto the couch beside her.
True to her observation, you’re about half an hour into Friday the 13th Part VI when the beginnings of the never-ending doorbell mark the start of the evening.
You, being the child at heart, are exceedingly impressed by the sheer number of Supergirls you see; pirate Supergirl, zombie Supergirl, you think you see a velociraptor Supergirl to which you were witness to a brief argument of, ‘it’s Halloween I can be whoever I want to be’, and you whispered to the kid your shared affinity for dinosaurs, to which you received a beaming smile.
You can’t help it but you laugh when you see a child dressed in a laughing-crying emoji costume, and it wasn’t long at all before Lena’s become envious of you that she’s joining you at the door.
In between Halloween-goers, you find yourself sat on the stairs and you’re making out with Lena like two teenagers with the house to yourselves before the next doorbell interrupts you, and you always half-heartedly groan at the distraction and Lena dutifully shoves you toward the door.
Once, a solitary scientist shows up at your door, her mother standing a few feet away from her and the small girls looks up at your tall figures.
“Hi, I’m a scientist,” she says, completely opting out of the traditional greeting.
“That’s awesome, you probably need all the energy you can get to save the world, right?” you say as you drop some candy into her bag.
“Yeah, my mom says too much candy isn’t good though.”
“She’s right, my girlfriend is a scientist too, she only eats healthy food.”
The girl looks up at Lena and her eyes widen in wonder.
“You’re a real scientist?”
“I am, aren’t you?”
The girl tilts her head and her eyes widen again in realization. “Yeah.”
Lena grins as the girl happily waves goodbye, skipping to her mother who’s shaking her head in amusement at her daughter.
When it’s later in the evening and the number of trick-or-treaters has dwindled and you’re almost finished your third movie, you interrupt the B-horror movie you and Lena had opted for in favour of light conversation.
“You gonna dress up next season?” you ask as someone on the screen trips over their own feet.
Lena’s head is leaning against your shoulder and she snuggles closer to you under the blanket draped over you two.
“I suppose so, I definitely will when we have kids of our own though.”
You think you feel your heart skip a beat and you hear the low trumpeting of your heart in your ears. You think you’re projecting, totally having misheard Lena and you don’t dare comment on it at all, lest you make everything awkward and more troubled than it ought to be.
Your silence goes entirely noticed, however, and you don’t have to see Lena to know her eyes have shot to the size of golf balls and you can feel her entire body tense beside you.
You keep your eyes stubbornly trained on the TV, trying to steady your breaths but you learn that the mindful attempt of regulating a natural phenomenon is far too much work.
Lena’s uncharacteristically stuttering when she speaks up, “I just- I meant, that if... in the circumstance that could ever be a possibility-”
You move your arm and put a hand on her knee, your other arm bringing her in close and you squeeze reassuringly.
“Kid talk already, eh?”
You feel her indignant blush and you laugh, feeling her sink her head deeper into you if it were even possible.
“I’m sorry, I’m just bugging you,” you amend gently. “You know I love you, right?”
“Yeah,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper as it’s muffled by your clothing.
“So we’ll get there when we get there. And I know I can take on everything with you, and I in fact want to.”
You squeeze her again and feel her wrap her arms around your midsection, you adjust yourself accordingly to let her.
“For what it’s worth, I don’t think I could have a better Halloween partner than you.”
“How charming and thoughtful of you to say,” she says in a teasing lilt, taking her head out of somewhere from under your arm and resting her chin on your shoulder.
You turn your head slightly to look at her, adding an afterthought.
“Or a better partner in general.”
She looks up at you through her lashes, studying the soft look your face has taken when you look at her, and after a long moment she purses her lips for a kiss.
You turn your body to her and smile into her kiss, grinning at the soft exhalation of air she lets out when she melts into your touch.
You tug on her waist to bring her on top of you, Lena falling into your lap easily as you run your hands up and down her back in a soothing motion. Lena moans lowly in your mouth as your hands slip under her shirt, finally touching skin.
She rocks into you softly and your jaw drops a little, Lena’s touch tracing your lip gently before nipping at it.
You think you feel so viscerally shaken when Lena abruptly pulls away, leaving you feeling particularly cold and at a loss of contact.
By the time you figure out what’s going on, she’s already just made it to the bottom of the stairs.
“Hurry up, babe, or you won’t get to see the other costume I have in store for you.”
For the life of you, you think you black out momentarily when you process Lena’s words, and you think in that split second of seeming eternity, you caught a glimpse of your whole life flashing before you.
If there was any indication of eager excitement on your face, Lena most certainly caught it if the wink and sultry eyes she gives you is anything to go by.
You were proud to say you tripped only once bolting up the stairs; that and a handful of other bruises you garnered that night surely ended up being worth your troubles.
#lena luthor x reader#lena luthor#lena luthor imagine#lena luthor fic#katie mcgrath#lena luthor fanfic#katie mcgrath imagine#dating lena luthor#katie mcgrath fic#katie mcgrath fanfic#supercorp#supercorp fic#supercorp fanfic#supercorp fandom#supercorp imagine#supergirl imagine#lena luthor x you#supergirl imagines#lena luthor imagines
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THE GENDER NULLARY
Trigger warning for everything that follows: the coddled, over-sensitive, “triggered” millennial crybaby does not exist. Hold your applause—the COSTMC is an oxymoron because coddling does not sensitize, it scleroses. Have you met these people? They can’t feel an emotion without an audience and a week to rehearse. The performative offense of this group results from high emotional tolerance, not low; sad-rage is heroin to everything else’s Motrin, and no matter how vast the safe space, some kids are gonna hang at the outskirts hoping to score.
Of course, even the phoniest opportunist has a few real triggers—the type that precludes rage because you’re numb in the fetal position. And of course, there are many uncoddled e.g. traumatized people who are genuinely vulnerable to the many, many instances of genuine cruelty and callousness.
Every community with a code of conduct is a safe space to some extent. My lawyer advises no comment on whether safe spaces are good or bad in principle, because it depends: who is being included, who is being excluded, where will they go, and who is enforcing the rules.
My concern is the way these debates are settled. And when the excluded protest against political correctness—that human resources plot to merge all safe spaces under one state capitalist thumb—they ditch culture war bushido and strike at whomever can be hurt the most.
What you have to understand is that the PC debate is a farce. When the public demands a witch for the stake, the NYTimes selects David Brooks,
perhaps the most balding, white, sanctimonious chump at a newspaper full of balding, white, sanctimonious chumps. Here are four critiques; don’t read any of them unless you still find it exciting to watch a strawman burn.
What’s more interesting is that while Brooks criticizes upper-middle-class culture for being “laced with cultural signifiers that are completely illegible unless you happen to have grown up in this class,” his article is nothing but illegible cultural signifiers. Which, duh, he’s writing for the Times. Brooks thus renders himself irrelevant (which was the point): his critics focus on his blunder of political correctness (the high school grad intimidated by a chicken pomodoro) and dismiss him as classist accordingly.
Lesson: Anyone who opposes political correctness from within will lose and be humiliated. Even without the unforced error, Brooks could have been dismissed as rich and white. His archives could have been mined for hypocrisy. Even a charged non sequitur would have crushed his argument: “So it’s no big deal that it’s legal to murder transpeople in all fifty states? No, I’m David Brooks, better focus on political correctness!” Of course, plenty of non-bourgeois oppose PC, but you’ll never hear that point of view in the Times because, yikes—internalized racism.
The result is that the anti-PC viewpoint is only taken seriously when it refuses the framework of PC. I don’t mean “taken seriously” like there is a meaningful debate. But when an internet troll calls you, say, “a fucking spic faggot,” you can’t reply “hah, well that just shows your heteronormative, colonialist assumptions!” without looking like a wimp. You have to reply with equal bile, which smells of hatred, maybe fear. And it’s no fun to be on the receiving end of hatred, but it’s better than being treated—like Mr. Brooks—with contempt.
Trolls, like catcallers, flashers, and school shooters, are men who ran the numbers and found: being hated > being invisible > being humiliated in the official channels. The first two go back to chimps, the third variable is society-dependent, and wowza does ours fuck it up. Men want to become masculine, citation needed, and when society shit-talks the honest path to manhood then it is inevitable that those foolish enough to listen will turn to the black market. And once that’s your game...
This blog is far from politically correct, but I try to mock only the deserving— bureaucrats, demagogues, cowards, and conformists—and for behavior, for the things people can change rather than those they can’t. But people tend to be insecure about the things they can’t change, and it just so happens that in America insecurity is always wound up in sex. Every debate about safe spaces thus devolves into a debate about gender: a catalog of body dysmorphisms, a who’s who of racial castrations, cuckold, bitch, cunt, whore, freak. You’d think everyone would be against this level of discourse, but gun control means one thing on Park Avenue and another thing entirely in Wichita. The law, in its majestic equality, forbids both the popular and unpopular from being unpopular. Calls for PC go nowhere because cruelty is the best weapon some people have.
Idiot [unemployed, probably no friends]: “So you’re sympathizing with racist, misogynist trolls. Wow. Just—I can’t even.” I didn’t say anything about sympathy. I said that a society gets what it pays for. IMHO, most shock-value trolling is both ineffective—it strengthens the case for Big Brother—and morally disgusting. But it’s a symptom, not the disease. Like oxycodone, trolling is recourse for people with nothing better to do, and like The Opioid Epidemic, the hand-wringing has less to do with fixing the problem than with making it so consumers don’t have to look at something ugly.
The content of trolling is thus extremely not the issue, but even so, I’ll take the bait. To accuse someone of failing at gender is the worst sort of punching-down. It’s not just hateful, it’s lazy, it’s bullying the foreign kid to make up for getting your ass beat at home. And it’s dumb. Forget about the moral argument—my critique is that the gender police are not even wrong.
Judith Butler (Gender Trouble), who coined the term “performative gender,” the antecedent to “sexuality is a spectrum,” has reached Antichrist status in some circles and in fact received a personal diss from Pope Benedict XVI. She’s good, and if you wanna throw down you gotta throw down with the best. So: Does Butler write like a pedant getting paid by the syllable? Does she open each topic with a chain of passive-aggressive rhetorical questions? Does she have the worst fanbase this side of Harris and Klebold? Does she have a point?
Hemlock time. How do you define gender? “Gender is a set of behaviors and attributes that correlate with sex.” Okay—what’s sex? “Aren’t you a doctor or something? XY and XX.” I’m flattered by the appeal to authority, but weren’t you the guy complaining when the CDC lowered the normal testosterone range? How do you feel about androgen insensitivity syndrome?
You can deny your eyes and insist that having an SRY gene makes Eden Atwood male, but from a medical perspective Eden is estrogenized, at risk for osteoporosis, and going down in the chart as an F.
“Look, fella, I know a dime-piece when I see one.” So modify your definition: hormone levels, fertility, waist-hip ratio, empathizing over systematizing, long bathroom lines, 10 Things I Hate About You...The first problem is that all of these traits exist on, sorry, a spectrum, from menopausal women to full-figured men. The choice of which traits to include—and where to draw the cut-offs—and if the division is binary or quaternary or nullary—is just like, your opinion, man (woman/they/them). The bigger problem is that now you’re defining sex as gender.
This reduces your original statement to, “Gender is a set of behaviors and attributes that correlate.” Which is true. And as far as stereotypes go, gendered ones ain’t bad, maybe even necessary to function, the guy wearing a V-neck probably does like shaving his pubes. But they are still stereotypes, man-made, imperfect, and punishing to those who do not conform. I’m no cultural relativist, some people suck and deserve cold and swift judgment, but is the presence or absence of armpit hair really the hill you want to die on?
There’s a practical argument to be made against fractalized gender: it’s confusing. With 3^^^3 possible sex-gender-orientation combos, how are kids supposed to know how to grow up? Aren’t imperfect gender roles better than 24-year-old otherkin? I hear you, guy wearing a Harley-Davidson jacket and listening to Mötley Crüe, but Tumblr semantics are a consequence of twenty-teen spirit, not the cause. If we weren’t arguing about the gender binary (and before we were) we’d be arguing about the range of femininity or masculinity; the crusade would be for pixie cuts and stick-and-poke tattoos to be considered as feminine as Brazilian butt lifts. Don’t be fooled by words—do you really want society to have one idealized template per gender? How would that ideal be decided? Majority rule?
There’s a hilarious overlap between the people who get mad about preferred pronouns and those who call for a return to “traditional masculinity.” The idealization of some Hollywood-ified tradition isn’t the problem; if you want to roleplay a fursona, go ahead. No, what’s pathetic is the begging. Rather than be a man, in spite of the system, you demand validation from the system for aspiring to be a man. Being against identity politics is the new identity politics. That’s why right-wing culture warriors are so into the idea of crybaby millennials—it’s comforting to believe that you’re actually strong (since you don’t drink from plastic water bottles) and that anyone getting laid is actually xeno-estrogenized. Even if this was true, obsessing over it, masturbating to it, using it as an excuse for self-pity and inaction—that makes you a _ _ _ _. Four-letters. Multiple choice. Maybe hangman will teach you something.
The foundationalist reasoning of identity politics tends to assume that an identity must first be in place in order for political interests to be elaborated and, subsequently, political action to be taken. (Gender Trouble)
My beliefs are no doubt way south of Ms. Butler’s on the political compass, but we agree about one thing: that ain’t a nice way to go out.
But this is precisely the way in which the laundry-is-a-social-construct movement has failed. I have held off on criticizing them because it’s too easy, when you mock Rachel Dolezal for being “transracial” you get to pretend your own self-image is meaningful, but no, all identities are power poses in front of the bedroom mirror, meaningful only insofar as they help you with the rest of the day. “Well, SCIENCE says that—” You sure you want to play that game? Again, I respect anyone who has the courage to defy their assigned caste. I have no purity objections to a transhumanist society where the tap water runs ecstasy and you can get augmented genitals at Starbucks. I don’t even mind Bushwick. The problem with the mad libs youth isn’t the slew of labels—intersectional, nonbinary, pansexual, curious kinkster, ethically polyamorous, empath, casual baby witch (mostly crystals, auras/energy)—the problem is, what are you going to do with them? And there’s a patriarchy-approved answer: buy shit and beg for validation.
If gender is performative, if identity is not necessary for political action to be taken, if the possibilities are infinite once freed from the bounds of phallogocentrism, then why is it that so many cultural subversives sound exactly the same? You know the stereotype. Bondage. Anxiety. Smoking when drunk. Circlejerks of praise for completing the most basic of tasks. Very, very bad poetry. Expensive fashion draped across waif-like models. Guilty pleasures: junk food, liquor, and problematic TV. Hated roommates. Emoji marxism. Twitter. “today i feel cute enough for a selfie, might delete it later.” “didn’t get out of bed until 2 i’m trash lol” “wow, some casual racism at work today. i’ll just laugh and someday burst because i hate confrontation. but whatever.” I’m not saying these traits describe anyone real, although they might. I’m saying: why is this the stereotype?
Discussion questions: When people type in lower case, what emotion do they hope to convey to the reader? The alt-right often asks if “liking feminine traps” is “gay”—is there anything more heterosexual than wishing you had a weaker male friend to validate your penis? Would trans rights even be an issue if the majority were FtM? How many modern protests can be summarized as “consumers demand product”? Who would win, every chafed masculinist and joyless academic or one flamboyant 19th century playwright? As Oscar Wilde put it: “Everything in the world is about sex, except sex. Sex is about power.”
Choose:
HYPOCRISY’S BAD, BUT YOU’RE WORSE
THE FALSE NEGATIVES
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Women Do Not Want to Be Raped
RATING: Mature
I want to be clear about this week’s rating. The content I’m going to reference is the worst kind of hateful misinformation, and it’s not healthy for… really, anyone to be exposed to. That said, the post itself is only mildly “mature” in content. I want men in particular to read all the way to the end, but for anyone who’s been victimized by men who spew hateful, misogynist rhetoric, this post may not be for you.
I’m going to begin by discussing the man who essentially started the “Red Pill” movement. It would be easy to call folks like Robert Fisher “garbage” or “toxic” or any of those epithets for people we wish we could block from taking up space in our minds. But there’s so much more to this than the quality of person he is. Robert Fisher is a symptom, not a cause. His belief - that women want to be raped or that there’s some magic potion (e.g. the red pill) that would make everyone see that subservience to cis-men is the right and just state of being for humanity - didn’t begin with him. It began ages ago, and for who knows what reason.
Perhaps somewhere in prehistory a dude realized that men couldn’t give birth and insisted on holding women accountable for all of humanity’s flaws to make up for it. It’s likely this jealousy is part of why Abrahamic religions latch onto the Eve story: women suffer childbirth because Eve was foolish and took the apple from the serpent. But let’s be real, here. That’s bullshit. That story was passed down through oral tradition as an allegory for having faith in the design of a creator, and inked into permanence as Eve’s sin (as opposed to Adam’s) to ensure we blame women specifically instead of just the poor schmuck who happened to be tempted first. If it’s an allegory for lacking faith, it shouldn’t matter who sinned. But as it’s clearly a tool for creating subservience, the choice of Eve as the sinner is no mistake.*
Fast forward a few millennia, and we have Return of Kings, The Spearhead (thankfully, now defunct), A Voice For Men (‘cause we’re lacking, apparently), The Red Pill, and a host of other cellar-dwelling sites that cater to our basest fears of inadequacy. If we can’t succeed with women, it’s clearly their fault, and these sites will not only tell us why, but arm us with all the tools we need to win** every internet debate about gender rights. I’m going to tell you right now, they’re wrong.
Shocking, right? Yeah, this isn’t one of those “I see where they’re coming from, but…” types of situations. These guys are wrong. Their hypotheses are flawed, their arguments contradictory, and their evidence not only lacking, but completely fabricated. It requires an advanced course in cognitive dissonance to even comprehend how these guys hold the competing thoughts they do. While I wish to encourage debate, free thought, and compassionate discourse, I will hold no quarter for out-and-out lies, distortions, and self pitying slander of half the human race. The men who run these sites are sad, pathetic men. And here’s what they do.
Men like Paul Elam take their own failings, fears, and inadequacies, align them with those of other men, and package and sell a solution - of sorts. Elam coined his ex’s dislike of him “misandry” and packaged it as an explanation for any time a woman doesn’t do whatever the hell he wants. And that’s easy, right? We take our own failings and blame them on other people as a quick way to feel better about ourselves. But it’s not a permanent one.
As a metaphor: When you want to build a house on an already-developed plot, you don’t just start building on the ruins of the previous structure, do you? Of course not. That’d be a surefire way to collapse your new structure. Elam, Fisher, and the soon-to-be-discussed Roy Den Hollander would tell you otherwise, though. You just blame your neighbors for not care-taking land they didn’t own, build on top of the ruins, and keep piling on junk until there’s the appearance of something stable. This is true both of their paper-thin arguments and their personal lives.
Admitting you’re wrong and seeking to change is the moment when you clear off the junk and fix the foundation. It sucks. Personal growth is hard and sad and disappointing at times, but the long-term result is much more structurally sound. These men sell ideas and prop up their personal lives with garbage, and it shows.
Roy Den Hollander has filed federal lawsuits over such things as NYC “Ladies Nights” and forcing women to register for the draft. He continually has his suits thrown out due to a complete lack of legal footing, and the fact the courts consistently determine he’s basing the suits on his own personal preferences. Elam started A Voice For Men as a way to pile vitriol on top of his own failings, and Fisher started the Red Pill as a way to push his completely fictional agenda for subjugating women.
They preach hate as a salve for self doubt, and for a painfully vocal number of men, it’s quite appealing. This hate is rooted in fear. The fear of being bad, of being “less than,” of not meeting the desires of others. We turn fear around as loathing of those who might reject us. This is a self defense mechanism, and a very poor one, because we just keep heaping that shit on top of an already dysfunctional foundation.
And there's a difference between playing on fears and discussing subject matter that makes people afraid. For example, when CNN, NPR, or Al Jazeera talk about the U.S. President threatening nuclear holocaust on North Korea, that's not "playing on people's fears." Though there are certainly sensationalistic ways to present it, the information itself isn't playing on pre-existing fears. There's a narcissistic, ignorant man with access to the nuclear football. As a human who enjoys existing on this planet, you should be afraid of that.
When I say "playing on fears" in reference to sites like Return of Kings and the others, I'm talking about creating news and sensation out of things you were already afraid of. Everyone is afraid of losing their job. Everyone is afraid of being emasculated and made to be subservient when we haven't given consent to do so. Everyone is afraid of feeling "less than." So, in come these hate sites, knowing you're afraid of those things, and whether your fear is legitimate or not, they already know who to blame. Convenient, isn't it?
Women taking over society isn't real, and it couldn't be even if they wanted to. And here, for the first and only time, are you allowed to compare feminists to Nazis, because if actual fucking Nazis couldn't take over the world, do you really think women or people of color who want the right to vote without being intimidated are going to accomplish what the Third Reich couldn't? And with far fewer firearms? Because, let’s face it, white men own more firearms than anyone else. Supposedly to protect themselves from… something? Trust me. Feminists, LGBTQIA folks, and people of color are not attempting to take over anything except their own peace of mind and personal safety.
Where these sites want you to take stock of all your faults, all your frailties, and all your fears, and lay the blame at women as if it's common sense to do so, I want you to use actual common sense and say, "Yeah, that's ridiculous. A forced takeover of half the planet's population is super unlikely, so I should get back to managing my own damn life."
PURPOSE: Take responsibility for your fears and failings. If you think someone’s going to ‘take something away’ from you, odds are you just fear that and the threat isn’t real. Don’t lash out in search of conflict where there isn’t any. Keep your own house in order. In fact, knock it down and fix the foundation and remember that’s your task to undertake. No one else’s.
Learn to spot bullshit. When you see news, or websites, or resources that identify a specific cause of an issue (a corporation that pollutes a reservoir or a jerk who defrauds investors and takes advantage of sick people) and they have legitimate sources to cover their asses? You can probably trust them, but always keep a watchful eye. When you see links and content that blame entire groups of people (Like FOX news blaming Muslims in general for violence or any of the sites above blaming women for… really anything) don’t just turn it down. Turn it off. Familiarize yourself with bullshit enough to spot it and refuse to give it your time or attention.
Women do not want to be raped, and if you have a friend who starts quoting Robert Fisher, Roy Den Hollander, Paul Elam, or any of their hateful acolytes saying women do want to be raped, call them out. Tell them they’re quoting hate mongers. Tell them they’re seeking to avoid blame for their own feelings of inadequacy. Tell them they’re on a dangerous slope toward true emotional annihilation and alienation. Tell them you smell their bullshit and you won’t stand for it.
Next Up: Misdirected Rage
*I’m aware most established religions and denominations of Christianity in general try to shy away from blaming Eve specifically. If your church is referring to this story as gender neutral, awesome! I understand not all believers are cut from the same cloth. This is about the many denominations and sects of the Abrahamic religions who do choose to subjugate women and use Eve as one of the many reasons why. Also, it’s just an example. Try not to get too hung up on literality.
**Does anyone ever really “win” an internet debate?
#21stcenturymen#red pill#men's rights activism#MRA#bullshit#a voice for men#original sin#EveWasFramed#personal responsibility
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Review: Pokémon Sword and Shield
Pokémon has moved forward several half-assed steps at a time, and that’s not a criticism. The series has existed comfortably in its own bubble and where other games would get lambasted for looking inward, Pokémon has thrived on reiteration and the slow crawl of minor innovations to the template. Pokémon games primarily get compared to other Pokémon games and no one expects the series to change drastically from its rock-solid fundamentals after so many years. Even as people forget weird features like poffins and Pokémon Musicals, they can take solace in the notion that even the jankiest gimmicks all work towards crafting the definitive Pokémon game, whatever that might look like in the future. Well, that future died with the announcement that Sword and Shield would mark the end of the full Pokémon roster and we would all need to leave the old “gotta catch ‘em all” mantra in the past.
I.
Pokémon Sword and Shield is the eighth generation in the mainline series of games and the first to appear on home console. It’s set in the Galar region, a place inspired by the art director’s experiences as a youth growing up in the United Kingdom. Players assume the role of a silent protagonist chasing the dream to become the Pokémon Champion, a lofty goal that is pursued with much more fervor by the player’s rival, a perennial loser named Hop who is also the current champion’s younger brother. In my mind, the player character I created, a young Pokémon trainer named Tomoyo, has lived the entirety of her life stuck in this one-Pokémon Center town knowing nothing more about the world other than what’s filtered down to her through Hop’s experiences in the comforting shade of the champion’s cape. Her growth into a person with her own story to tell spurred me on to leave home but unfortunately Hop won’t be shaken off so easily.
Even as Hop is vaunted as a formidable rival, he crumbles within seconds of any given Pokémon match against the player character and typically loses to other mid-card trainers off-camera. Loser rivals have become a staple of the series ever since Game Freak decided to let players hold type advantage over the rival’s starter Pokémon a few generations ago. For the most part, this hasn’t been a problem as balanced team-building has to grow from the initial Grass-Fire-Water triangle of effectiveness. The purpose of the rival has always been to test the player’s progress against what’s to come, gating off high-level areas until the player proves they’re capable. Hop’s path toward the Gym Challenge Finals is tightly woven with the player’s own journey and while I welcome the idea of a rival/ally having greater involvement in the storyline, Hop simply sucks at Pokémon for the longest time. And here’s the kicker to all this: everyone in Galar sucks at Pokémon.
II.
When people claim that Pokémon is “easy” and offers “zero challenge,” they tend to forget that they come in armed with a huge advantage of prior knowledge of the mechanics. By design, the player is meant to become the Pokémon Champion and there are no alternate routes to some other final destiny. That said, Sword and Shield puts up a considerably weaker fight than its predecessors. You never get the impression that the trainers are trying at all to compete and the Routes between towns are now more than ever a vestige of environment design better suited to the capabilities of the classic Game Boy. Galar’s layout evokes memories of theme parks and my quick, unimpeded dominance of the region made me feel less like a champion and more like an asshole ruining the illusion for the rest of the patrons.
Separate from Galar’s underwhelming Routes, the Wild Area received a lot of buzz when it was first unveiled and to be fair, it’s the most exciting part of the game despite its flaws. The diversity of the wild Pokémon encounters more than makes up for lame trainer battles. It’s never more apparent that certain conventions are dead and gone than when running into high-level final evolutions of Pokémon that have never appeared in the wild before. In the past, wild Pokémon were more of a nuisance than anything, hardly worth the time spent inputting the commands for an easy one-hit knockout. Along with the variety present from field to field, many of Sword and Shield’s wild Pokémon also give juicy experience points, frequently outleveling the trainers present in the immediate area. The delicate level curve of the game is easily broken as a result of meandering through the Wild Area for too long but it’s still a welcome change of pace to decades of grinding trash mobs.
Players that think too hard will look at the Routes, then at the Wild Area, and will then ask themselves why the developers didn’t just design travel around the more gratifying open world environment. The issue is that the Wild Area doesn’t have that Breath of the Wild butteriness to it, perhaps an unfair comparison considering BotW wasn’t connecting to hundreds of other players at all times. Wild Area performance takes a huge blow while online even with the console docked and although chop is reduced if a player disconnects from the internet, that defeats the purpose of the lively community feel of the Wild Area. Given how erratic the Wild Area renders under the strain of weather conditions and online connectivity, I see it more as a fun experiment than the cornerstone of Sword and Shield’s design. It shows that Game Freak is at least attempting to evolve and it’s unfortunate that the shrinking Pokédex became the symbol of change when the Wild Area is the best new idea the studio has had in years.
III.
The region of Galar is dominated by the influence of one benevolent businessman named Chairman Rose who has sculpted the culture of competitive Pokémon battles around Dynamax, a Galar exclusive phenomenon in which Pokémon get really, really big. Stadiums are built on top of “power spots” that allow Pokémon to Dynamax for the entertainment of the crowds, building up matches as a festival occasion on top of being a legitimate sport. As nice as it is to have the gyms back, this aspect of the game hasn’t grown much at all despite how they dress it up.
Even once you catch a whiff of the true nature of Dynamaxing and strange instances of Pokémon going berserk, the game is dismissively patronizing about keeping players focused on their regular journey, with characters insisting that the Gym Challenge is more important than giant Pokémon running amok in the stadiums. This subplot eventually does come to the forefront at the worst possible moment and by this point, solving the crisis that’s about to unfold has zero momentum compared to the Pokémon League. The whole farce regarding the dark omen threatening Galar wraps up as soon as it’s introduced, making me wonder why the game even bothers raising the stakes to some world-ending catastrophe if it’s compressed into a handful of battles.
For all the emphasis placed on Dynamax, the battle feature is one of the more underwhelming gimmicks in a series that’s full of them. The story explains that its use is anchored to locations featuring power spots, isolating it to stadiums and raids in the Wild Area. Despite the showy nature of the effect, it’s never utilized in any meaningful way in battle and it only takes a couple of fights to see the full extent of what the system has to offer. So long as a player can survive three Dynamax moves, the threat of actually wiping out in a Gym Leader match will have more to do with type disadvantages than the power of Dynamax. The max raids against wild Dynamax Pokémon are far more challenging than what you’ll see against trainers and the rewards from the raids are stupid good, so the gimmick isn’t entirely a worthless feature. Still, it doesn’t clear the air of this idea that Dynamax wasn’t worth the trouble.
IV.
Held up to the light at any angle, Sword and Shield is marred with flaws, but I still wouldn’t want to go back to the early generations after experiencing Pokémon on the Switch. The story is an absolute shambles but if your game is to raise, train, and tinker for the perfect critter, Sword and Shield is a considerable step up from the 3DS era’s mature metagame functionality. Untold millions of hours will be saved as a result of cutting out so much of the bullshit regarding stats, natures, and leveling. The interface is clean and responsive, controls can be set to play with a single joy-con, and the decision to give players almost-unlimited access to their Box storage is a lifesaver when it comes to breeding and farming Pokémon eggs. People that approach Pokémon at the surface level will see the same game they’ve been playing for years but the maniacs that put in the time and effort to hunt for shiny Pokémon or train for competitions will be grateful at how much the process has been streamlined.
I finished the main story at about 30 hours with a third of that time spent either going out for detours or idling to prepare coffee. The main game isn’t much longer or shorter than the past couple of Pokémon games but the scarcity of unique things to do after the credits roll is somewhat insulting. “No postgame” is an exaggeration but “minimal postgame” would be hard to argue. I can’t blame people for feeling cheated with the first $60 console Pokémon game having a single post-game quest to capture the box art legendary and no other high-priority content outside of the meta. Going back to pick up missed items and face trainers in rematches isn’t nearly as compelling as uncovering secrets after becoming Champion, especially if you have no interest in playing past catching rare Pokémon. I took myself past the 75-hour mark to complete my Pokédex and as fulfilling as it was for me, I wouldn’t claim that it’s a significantly worthwhile endeavor for the average player. By comparison, Ultra Sun and Ultra Moon had its own post-game quest, an extensive roster of legendaries to hunt down, and yeah, full support of all Pokémon going back to Ruby and Sapphire for GBA. Whatever the reasons might be, Sword and Shield has a very definitive end to its adventure that comes all too soon.
V.
For all the controversy in the lead-up, Sword and Shield ended up being more than a little OK, if not a messy success that could still be better. The future of the series will be challenging as long as Game Freak commits to the idea of rotating Pokémon in and out of the main games, guaranteeing that the next game will have limited compatibility with this generation out of the box. Nintendo and co. took a calculated risk with Sword and Shield and now that the games have sold a verified and very real One Billion copies at retail, they can reasonably infer that they won’t have to bend to the will of a few thousand rowdy fans clamoring for a return to the old ways. They have a healthy base of players comprised of casuals who don’t give a shit about Dexit, newer fans that aren’t too miffed about leaving the 3DS games behind, and folks who just like Pokémon too much to complain too loudly. I found my own enjoyment in Sword and Shield, but I’m also not rushing to post #thankyougamefreak without seeing the shape of Pokémon to come. You don’t have to like it, but odds are you already paid for it.
Pokémon Sword and Shield originally appeared on Ani-Gamers on December 21, 2019 at 6:17 PM.
By: David Estrella
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We think it’s fair to say that we at TopTenz have a man crush on Bruce Lee, and judging by how popular the articles and videos we’ve dedicated to him are, we think that’s a feeling you share. So we reached out to the biggest Bruce Lee fan we had on staff and asked him to write another list of facts about all of the things Bruce Lee accomplished during his short but explosive time on this mortal coil.
#1 Bruce Lee Made a Sidekick More Popular Than a Main Character
While it’s likely you remember Bruce Lee for his roles in Enter the Dragon, Fist of Fury or that one movie where he does a flying kick off of a 30 story building because someone called him gay, Lee’s first major role was that of Kato in the ill-fated Green Hornet series.
As we’ve discussed before , Lee secured the role of Kato in an impressive demonstration of skill that included him showing that he could kick a man in the head while wearing a three piece suit. Lee incorporated his skills as a martial artist into the role of Kato and the character quickly became the most popular aspect of the show, even though he was supposed to be the Green Hornet’s sidekick. While the show only ran for one season, Kato and his lightning fast attacks were sufficiently popular to make Lee a household name.
In fact, Kato was so popular that when the show aired in Hong Kong, locals simply referred to it as “The Kato Show” because as far as they were concerned, Kato was the only reason it was worth watching.
#2 Bruce Lee Made Experts Agree That He Was Unbeatable
When we say something like “Bruce Lee was probably unbeatable in a fight,” you’re going to take that with a huge pinch of salt because we’re obviously biased. However, this isn’t just an opinion touted by Lee’s fans — it’s almost universally agreed that he was the finest fighter to have ever lived.
Just to be clear, we said “fighter,” not “martial artist,” as in experts from numerous fighting disciplines have agreed that Lee would have been able to hold his own against, if not beat, anyone in a fight. For example, Jackie Chan has gone on record as saying that Lee had the fastest punch he’d ever seen, while Chuck Norris responded to the question of who’d win in a fight between him and Lee with “Bruce, of course. Nobody can beat him.”
Numerous boxers have also praised Lee’s skills. Sugar Ray Leonard described him as “second to none” while Joe Lewis described him as the “number one contender” for the title of greatest martial artist of all time. Experts examining Lee’s hand speed have also concluded that if he’d ever been serious about boxing, he could have been more than a match for champions of the sport like Manny Pacquiao.
Amongst fans of combat sports, arguing about who’d win in a fight between two vastly different fighters is incredibly common, so the fact that this many experts on the subject have all agreed that Lee would win against anyone is an achievement on par with making an internet commenter admit they were wrong.
#3 Lee Was a Cha Cha Champion
As proof that there wasn’t anything Bruce Lee couldn’t accomplish if it involved using his feet to kick other people’s asses, allow us to blow your mind by telling you that Bruce Lee was the 1958 Hong Kong Cha Cha Champion.
Lee supposedly only learned to dance as a way of impressing girls who didn’t appreciate the fact he could do two fingered push-ups and jump eight feet into the air, but as he became more invested in his martial arts training he realized that a lot of what he learned dancing could be translated to kicking ass. In particular, Lee was interested in how various dance steps helped him become more agile and balanced on his tiny cat feet.
#4 His Fighting Style and Philosophy Lives On (Through the Power Rangers)
Some would say that a man’s achievements can be measured by what he left behind when he departed the world to go dropkick angels in the face. If we apply that logic to Bruce Lee you can directly attribute him to one of the most awesome aspects of your childhood — the Power Rangers.
Jason David Frank, the guy who played the Green and White Ranger in the original Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers, has said that Bruce Lee is one of his biggest heroes and that he’s incorporated both his fighting style and philosophy into his own particular style of Toso Kune Do. The same can be said for Frank’s Power Rangers co-star Jonny Bosch Yong, who also studied Lee’s personal fighting style of Jeet Kune Do. Speaking of which…
#5 Bruce Lee Invented His Own (Awesome) Martial Art
Jeet Kune Do, henceforth shorted to JKD, is the hybrid martial art Bruce Lee developed when he realized that classical martial arts were too rigid in their structure for modern fighting. Lee studied many different combat forms to create JKD, including boxing, Wing Chun and even fencing, and it consists of what Lee felt were the best aspects of each. The martial art itself focuses on explosive, efficient movements designed to end a fight with as little energy expended as possible. Lee focused on the concept of “non-telegraphed” attacks, punches and kicks that explode from the user’s body with no visible wind-up to catch an opponent off-guard.
In other words, Bruce Lee invented a fighting style that revolves entirely around the idea of spontaneously sprouting fists from your body to punch people in the neck, then had a Power Ranger learn to use it. If that isn’t an achievement, we don’t know what is.
#6 A Black Belt Couldn’t Stop His Punch (When He Knew It Was Coming)
Lee was keen to show off some of the more fantastic things he could do. For example, during a tournament in 1967, Bruce Lee approached a black belt named Vic Moore and asked him if he’d like to take part in a test of skill. Moore agreed and Lee casually explained that he was going to stand several feet back and attempt to punch Moore in the dome. All Moore had to do to win was stop or intercept the punch. Moore was allowed to tell Bruce when he was ready, giving him the absolute best chance possible the block the punch.
Moore agreed to the terms and both he and Lee stood apart from one another for a few moments while Moore composed himself. After psyching himself up Moore nodded to Bruce that he was ready, but before he could move Lee had closed the distance and thrown a punch that stopped an inch from his nose.
Lee did this eight times before Moore was forced to concede that Lee was simply too fast to block, although Lee never heard him because by the time Moore finished talking he was half-way across the room (probably).
#7 He Was Also a Kick-ass Poet and Philosopher
Although poetry and martial arts may seem like they’re diametrically opposed, the two share a surprisingly strong bond. Lee was always keen to strengthen his mind as well as his body, presumably so that he could beat someone with psychic powers if a fight came to that.
Lee was famously a very well-read individual, and he had a vast library on the subject of philosophy and poetry. But Lee didn’t just read — he did what he did in every other aspect of his life and jumped right in. His most famous philosophical gem is probably his “be like water” quote, but that’s far from the only thing Lee wrote. People studying his private notes, letters and writings have discovered that Lee was a remarkably astute individual.
Then there was his poetry. While Lee never published any of his work, his notes revealed him to be a consummate poet who even translated some of his favorite pieces by other poets so he could share them with his loved ones. Aw.
#8 He Never Stopped Moving or Exercising
Whether he was at home or at work, there was never a moment in Bruce Lee’s life that he wasn’t actively improving his body. Eyewitness testimonies liken the actor’s body to “warm marble,” a quote that was reportedly uttered by the wife of one of Lee’s directors after she sheepishly asked to feel his biceps. Others talk about him casually doing one armed pull-ups in-between takes.
Lee’s widow has noted that he would do thousands of sit-ups and push-ups per day, and that she’d sometimes walk in on him watching TV while doing the splits. Lee would occasionally run five miles backwards just to test himself, and would ride 10 miles on an exercise bike while wearing a sauna belt because he felt it would help him develop his core.
While he was training Lee would never stop moving his feet, feinting and doing his signature shuffle even when practicing against boards or pads because he didn’t want to get complacent. And when he trained with other people he insisted that they did so in full pads while constantly trying to resist his attacks and movements, because Bruce Lee did everything the hard way.
#9 Lee Taught the Best Karate Fighters in America How To Fight
After Lee became famous he was inundated with requests for private lessons from celebrities. While Lee was initially hesitant to teach such lessons, the money was too good to ignore and he went on to have a host of celebrity clients.
To his surprise, a number of accomplished martial artists also sought him out and begged for private lessons. Lee was happy to provide such training and many of his students (including Chuck Norris) went on to publicly thank him for his training.
To give you an idea of the pedigree of fighter Bruce had seeking his advice, at one point Lee was training men who had won every major karate championship in the United States. There just isn’t a word to describe how insane that is. That would be like Usain Bolt teaching a cheetah, an antelope and a peregrine falcon how to move faster and then having them all thank him on national TV.
#10 He Changed How Asians Were Viewed in Pop Culture
Perhaps Bruce Lee’s biggest impact on the world is how he fundamentally changed how Asians were portrayed in pop culture. Prior to Lee, Asians in film and television were either bumbling racist stereotypes or absent altogether, something Lee hated and wanted to fix. But after the cancellation of The Green Hornet he was unable to find work, simply because nobody wanted to cast an Asian man as a lead character. If that wasn’t bad enough, Lee learned about the show’s cancellation when an executive named Bill Dozier sent him a note reading “Confucius say, Green Hornet to buzz no more.”
Rather than letting racism get him down, Lee went back to Hong Kong in 1971 and appeared in the films that would catapult him to super-stardom. After the release of Fist of Fury, Lee awesomely wrote to the head of Warner Bros saying “This Chinaman will invade the States, one way or the other.” A year later, Lee was working on the film that would make him a household name, Enter the Dragon, the first “Chinese martial arts film” to ever be produced by a Hollywood studio.
Sadly, Lee died just six days before the film premiered. He never saw the impact it had on the world or on the way Asians were portrayed by the media. But in death Lee had the last laugh against everyone who passed him over because his race, because Enter the Dragon would go on to become one of the most culturally significant movies ever made and Lee himself has been crowned one of the most influential people of the century by Time. Boy, we hope Bill Dozier felt really bad when he read that issue.
Source: TopTenz
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