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bolognamayhem117 · 13 days ago

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WIP WHURSDAY

Thanks for tagging me @fumbling-flower ! Yeah I'm way late responding to this. Had unexpected stressors that kinda put a headstone over writing for a hot minute. I tag @monsterbrush and @ghostkingart because I can't remember who else writes ATM.

This isn't the usual fare on this blog, it's a little crack fic for some extended family of a bunch of D&D characters belonging to @monsterbrush and I. Arlo, Byron and Badulf are theirs, Nameless Child, Thulgethra (A Lich and Stryag), Lady In Dark Robes and Teroth (If he's mentioned) are mine.

My homebrew campaigns have their own eldritch horrors (Stryags) who originally hail from an immaterial plane. Horrific thought colossi that have to be hosted by a flesh form to exist in this plane and reproduce by combining consciousness and leaving one of the parents to host the new thought being in their… Brain. Thoughts. Consciousness. There's an entire process.

Anyway, it's not BG3 related. Sorry. Enjoy I guess?

Titled: Newborn

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The sound woke him with a quake of this entire awful body. The long, miserable groan which abruptly broke apart into sobs. He'd never heard it from so far away before.

Oh no, what happened? Why am I so far away?

Something had his legs. He kicked on reflex, and promptly startled at the blanket falling with a muffled, soft noise.

Why would that be there? Why would I be here?

He pushed himself upright, looking at what was under him. Cushions. A pillow with a damp spot in the middle. Badulf wakes up like this.

Did I…

A sharper sob rose above the others, and the boy half curled on the couch froze to listen.

I shouldn't have left.

The chill of the hardwood floor bit the soft soles of his feet, even through a borrowed pair of socks. He was cold, but didn't think to gather the blanket around his shoulders. He curled his hands under each elbow and crept toward the wall, where the floorboards creaked less. He began his way to Badulf, toward his convalescent quarters.

Damn that Byron man, luring him out with food, asking him too many questions. Making him nod “Yes” or shake his head “No”. Making him LOOK him in the eyes. He didn't like that. That Byron made him fucking miserable just to look at him, and he couldn't figure why besides the fact that he always made Badulf sad as a Bag Of Drowned Cats.

He missed Teroth without warning just as he reached the door. Teroth was always good at looking after them, although he was also “An insufferable prick stuffed up his own arse,” according to Badulf. Teroth said such weird things about bags. He pushed open the door.

Oh, it was so strange. Seeing him from outside.

I'm here. Thulgethra is gone. I can't tell if it hurts. Does it hurt?

Badulf remained on his side, face turned into the sheet as if to hide it, a pillow crushed in his grip, whole body shaking in an irregular rhythm. The tendon in his neck stuck out, pulled taut by the tight grimace which the boy only spied part of. Badulf didn't respond.

Badulf. I'm sorry. Your eyes… I'm sorry.

The boy’s eye and empty socket watered as he looked on, while Badulf still wept. Why? He stood in the middle of the room now, chest aching and face starting to feel full and wet.

He soon couldn't see, his world a watery blur narrated by the cries of the man he lived in and through for so long. To be miserable with Badulf was only natural.

The boy clenched his teeth at the pain in his throat and scrubbed his palms over his face to clear away the tears. Right, he had to talk. They weren't occupying the same mind anymore. The child's head felt huge and empty and he hated it. That realization only squeezed more mess to clean up from his eye and empty socket.

“EUUGH! What’re you doin’ in here?!”

The boy felt all of himself go rigid and hop a step back at the shout, wet eye popped open wide to assess the danger, even though the sound of Badulf's anger was all too familiar. Normal, even, if it was directed at him. He was safe inside, though, now not so much.

I came. Because you're crying. I came to help you, like I'm supposed to? Like I always do.

Badulf glared incredulously, unhinged, exposed teeth cooling in the air. The child wondered if he meant to attack. Teroth had, with some regret, once spoken of how he violently rejected his… Son. The child didn't like the flipping and flopping in his chest at the concept that it was now his turn.

Badulf's rage fell off him like a discarded coat. Confusion replaced his anger and- now sat up, he reached for the eye which had been replaced and the necrotic socket healed.

“What is… That's… The wrong eye.” Badulf grumbled, touching at the periphery of the eye, as if expecting pain the moment rough fingertips and gnarled fingernails touched it.

The boy had the explanation, and had remembered that he needed to speak in order to tell Badulf that- But how would he start? He didn't like the sound of his own voice either. How do you tell someone that you blinded them, then gave them your own eye? And how do you admit that you don't really understand how you did that?

For now, the child stepped closer. Badulf's panicked confusion called him forward.

Badulf had crumpled around his head on his elbow, bold enough to press his palm over the eye and exploring the scalp which had been affected by the black touch of Thulgethra as well, healed. Healthy. Normal.

He shook his head at Badulf, still unsure what to speak and afraid to make a sound.

Badulf jerked when he began to use the eye to look at his surroundings, back to the interloper who'd crept closer.

“What the fuck are you still doing in here?! And who in the hell are you?!”

Once more, the boy took a step back, this time toward the door. Just in case.

“Are you gonna answer me or are ya’ gonna keep standing there lookin’ like a dummy foal?!” Badulf roared, demanding an answer.

The boy swallowed hard and looked at the wall instead of- it was his own eye which looked back at him so angrily, wasn't it. He had no choice, he had to talk.

“I… don't know.”

“You don't know why you're still in here or you don't know who the hell you are?! And don't you dare say you don't know who you are!”

Well, that left nothing to say, didn't it? His sight warped under a layer of tears again. The boy swiped his palms up his face to clear the salted wetness away again, but now backed toward the door. He couldn't leave, but he couldn't be in here if Badulf didn't want him to be.

A moment of anger overwhelmed him, but the choking silence he couldn't overcome kept the outburst internal.

I didn't ask to BE here you asshole!.... And I don't have anywhere to GO. Don't you recognize me? Would you even want me here if you did?

He backed his way out and concealed himself on the other side of the wall. Then sat. Because where else was there to go? Nowhere, for now.

Badulf's reaction to the moment of realization, when the shared conciseness cracked and they became aware that they were separate entities: “How do I get rid of it?”.

It was unclear if that desire had ever changed. They figured out how to exist in his head at the same time, but Badulf's intention to find a way to excise his passenger -him: The Parasite- had been the reason to find Teregetra. If anyone would know how, it was him. After Teroth was killed, it was never brought up again.

Got what he needed, didn't he?

That left the horror of figuring out where to go now. By himself. Dragging the metaphorical umbilical cord behind him. He wasn't sure what he expected. To keep trying to get Badulf to care for himself? Maybe.

He had to leave. He didn't even have shoes.

I made these bodies. Maybe I can make clothes?

He looked at his hands, but they were just warping blurs under his wet face. The sound of men arguing somewhere in the maze of the Arkwright Estate brought the boy to attention, sat straight and neck craned to listen.

“I don't care what you do! Drug it! Remove it from the premises? Kill it! Just Shut. It. Up!”

“It? IT?! He is a child!”

“IT is a neonate thought colossus, squalling for a tit, after ATTACKING the tit. IT DOES NOT BELONG HERE. IT DOESN'T EVEN BELONG ON THIS PLANE. If you insist on sheltering IT then you must keep IT quiet! Or I'll quiet IT for you! Permanently!”

“You will do NO such thing, Arlo. Leave it. I'll sort it. Not a finger.” Byron sounded off like rolling thunder in the distance.

The boy covered his ears and balled himself up tightly. He was frightened, he felt sick, and hopelessly unable to do anything about it.

The floor under him shivered, thunk, thunk, thunk, harsher and more violently until. Something is getting closer. But it stopped, and that's when the child jerked with realization as his eyes snapped open. Big boots.

Far above those boots, the brown eyes which sadden him without explanation set in a severe glower. Lord Byron looked angry.

The boy averted his gaze and prepared himself to be accosted, moved somewhere, or told to do something. Nothing happened, he watched those boots step softly around him as Byron entered Badulf's convalescent room.

There was a sigh, but he couldn't tell if it was from a place of relief of aggravation until Byron spoke. “Badulf,”

Relief.

The child's ears were pulsing and his skin was cold under his layers. He didn't hear much more than a murmured word or two between his shivers until the voices rose.

Now the aggravation.

“One of your crotch goblins was in here.”

“You- does that look like mine?! He's yours… get up, get out of that bloody bed you dumb sonofa bitch!”

There were the sounds of a struggle, a thick palm striking flesh, and the boy began to haul himself to his feet to slink away. There was some innate awareness of his own fragility. Those men were both much bigger. Age as well as size had blessed strength upon them whereas this newly made body was soft, hard to control, and as vulnerable as a dummy foal just as Badulf had described at first look. He wouldn't survive accidentally becoming involved in whatever fight they were about to have.

A gargantuan hand seizing him under the right arm aborted his escape and forced the held breath from his mouth in a dry gasp.

“Turn around, boy!” Byron demanded, not in a shout but obedience still came with a flinch.

Next his jaw was captured and he was made to look at these men. Badulf was forced to lean close because the other enormous hand was a fist clenched in the collar of his long rest garment.

“Whose face is this?! Hm?!” Byron ground out.

Ranulf looked at the wall and tried to just hold still, but was still forced to dance awkwardly on his toes at being caught like this. He couldn't figure out what to do with his hands. They balled themselves up close to the thundering drum in his chest.

Don't hurt me… Please… Don't.

“A Stryag came outta my face.”

“That came out of your face.”

“...shit. how-”

“The study. Now Badulf.”

—ten minutes later—

“Thulgethra-”

“Lich fucked off.”

“...I thought so.”

“Boy of yours sent him packing.”

Badulf looked at him again, then. The eye to eye contact was weighted by hesitation. It was only occasionally that Badulf looked at him directly like this and usually with his lips sagging down at the corners. Byron kept referring to him as Badulf's boy, which the boy thought was- interesting? Odd. Meant something or other.

It felt like: subtext was constantly being spoon fed when he was still inside Badulf, but now cut off from his thoughts and feelings, he lacked the wisdom to interpret certain things said around him. It felt like bits and pieces were missing, and the fog in his independent mind was thick.

He wanted to get closer, but he was on a low ottoman and Badulf on the cushioned bench.

Byron pushed a bowl of nuts across the surface of the table at him. It was a mix, but there were hooked shapes among the whites and browns and golden colors. These are the kind Badulf loved, but they were hard to find and expensive. If they were salted… He took two and the taste spread over his tongue blissfully. Cashews!

The bowl of nuts was barren of cashews much faster than expected. He began to pick about for the roasted peanuts.

“...Hmm.” Byron drew his attention with a noise and lifted a brow. “You like cashews, hm?”

Badulf likes them, but he guessed that meant he liked them too. He nodded after a moment.

“Junior doesn't talk, far as I can tell. Can get a nod out of him once in a while. He listens well enough so I'm pretty sure he understands everything you say to him.” Byron commented.

“He talks. He said… something when he wandered into my room.” Badulf corrected.

“His room too, Badulf. Had another cot dragged in there. Not that he's been in it.”

“How long was I out?”

“Two days. He slept two hours. Mostly sat there staring at you.” the Lord answered Badulf. This was intel exchange.

Badulf grimaced, so the boy, or junior, or whoever he was supposed to be looked away. He hadn't known what else to do but sit and wait for Badulf. Maybe that was wrong? But what else was he to do? Nothing.

“Doesn't need as much sleep?” Badulf asked.

“Don't know. Can't tell. He's in shock.”

“-The fuck makes you so sure? These things are supposed to be gods, what the hell would he be in shock for?” Badulf snapped. He's irritable.

The child found it frustrating that he couldn't feel why Badulf was irritated.

“That's not a god, he's a boy. And I know Because I'm the fucking expert on screwing up with a ten year old.” Byron growled back.

He squirmed. It was different being outside by himself when people were agitated. Exposed, within reach, breakable.

The nice lady in dark robes with unsteady hands stepped in then, holding a smooth slab of polished granite with something that left a savory fragrance as she passed. She helped him with breakfast, and shivered through helping to comb his hair before that.

On the table the slab went. Dark red filleted snacking meats, light yellow cheese cubes, and a curious glob of white with a spreading knife stuck in it. Oh, and a green thing cut in wedges.

Next the decanter. That is dwarven whiskey. Pungent, awful stuff. The boy winced at the mere anticipation of the smell. Byron took the crystal bottle and a pair of short glasses from the lady and she then left… He swore. The door had neither opened or closed as she came and went.

He looked behind himself and about the room to find her, but she was gone as if she'd never been there at all. How. Weird.

“You have no right to lecture me. None.” Badulf rumbled.

“You're my accomplice. Yes I do.” Byron asserted while taking a thick stack of the sliced meats and consuming two at once folded in half.

Badulf took a cube of cheese and inspected it -or pretended to- while he reached a little too casually toward the decanter between him and Byron. The lord deftly slid the crystal full of disturbingly dark fluid out of the others reach.

Byron's glass was poured, then he leveled a stern glare at Badulf and poured only half as much in the second glass.

The child's mouth watered but not in a pleasant way. Nausea twisted in his gut in misplaced anticipation of the taste of the harsh brew, so he looked back to the slab of snacking foods. He took one of the little green wedges and turned it over between his fingers. He liked the color and the fragrance was nice.

“I want answers, Badulf.” Byron grumbled, but somehow gently.

“I don't know what else to tell you that you haven't already seen,”

The men talking faded into the distance in the boy's mind. Biting into the wedge yielded an odd reaction. It felt like everything in his face locked up and tensed against the taste. Sour sour sour sour. His eye and mouth watered.

When he could open his eye once more, he caught sight of Byron's huge hand seizing two of the green wedges. He carelessly tossed one into Badulf's glass, crushed his own against the rim of his glass, then cleaned the flesh from the rind with his teeth in one smooth move.

Maybe, I'm eating it wrong. The boy considered, then tried to imitate the elder across from him. He barely swallowed the fruit flesh. Long before he could open his eye again, he heard unfamiliar laughter booming.

“That's an acquired taste, Boy. Try this instead.” Bryon chortled.

A slice of the snack meats was placed before him, wrapped around a glob of the white stuff. It was savory and soft inside. That tasted somewhat familiar. He soon began rolling up the white glop in the meats himself, only catching bits and pieces of the conversation.

Much like the cashews, the snack meats vanished quickly too.

Lord Byron and Badulf were talking about the How and Why and When. Ranulf only knew about as much as Badulf did so said nothing. Some things weren't intrinsic, so he couldn't speak on how exactly he was created out of Badulf's thoughts and Thulgethra's profane intentions.

The glitter of something to The right caught the boy’s eye. Right, something shining. The desire to turn and see was not new, but turning to look automatically was. He never got to choose what was looked at when he was tucked away safe in Badulf's skull. He felt dumbstruck for a moment where he was, automatically faced toward the pot plant by the window to see a spider trapezing between two fan shaped leaves on glittering lines of silk. Round and round she went, delicately manipulating the threads… His eyelid began to disagree with him as he watched, it slid heavily over his eye.

#creative writing #not bg3 #d&d #ttrpg #keep your hands off my stuff Hasbro #tag game

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no-where-new-hero · 1 year ago

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The Problem of Ianto Myrrddin

So. I said the characterization of A Study in Drowning was patchy and problematic, and it would take too long to complain about Effy (not to mention it would come across sounding whiny and ableist), so I won't. I'll stick with what I know, which is Byronic heroes, and complain instead about Ianto.

Unfortunately, I do have to shit on Effy a little bit first. She receives her lucky prize of getting to design the house almost instantaneously and gets an invitation to stay there while she plans by the son (Ianto) of the guy who is her literary hero. This is the equivalent of me getting to like ,,, build and decorate the Disappointed House for Stuart MacDonald or another of LMM's descendants. I would be beside myself with excitement. I would fangirl. I wouldn't believe my luck. This isn't some kind of anonymous recognition, this is personal recognition by the son of the most influential person in my life.

When she meets Ianto, though, it's all very...predictable according to what we've been learning about the story world: Men Lecherous. Men Not to Be Trusted. Men Weird. Ianto's just another man behaving exactly the way we’re told men always behave. I think he's supposed to be a Byronic hero, but even there, the trope isn't really leaned into: no questions about his handsomeness, no dog, not really even any personal secrets. He's just wet and makes overtures to Effy the way every other man has. There's nothing distinct about him or his oddness of personality.

So that's why it comes as a huge surprise when later in the novel, Effy almost starts feeling kinship for him. This, by the way, isn't based on any conversation they have or rapport they might have grown, because they haven't HAD any real conversation aside from his creepy flirtation to her, which of course wouldn't endear her, because why would it? But we’re supposed to believe he could be a sympathetic figure, and so therefore we get a random ass line like this:

We've never seen a single hint of Ianto being genial, lighthearted, or hopeful. He isn't charming because chatting up women isn't supposed to be charming in this world. He has no sense of humor. He doesn't seem to love his father, or his father's legacy, or his father's house, or his mother who is being kept as the madwoman in the attic, and thus doesn't seem to care about the future of any of them. We later learn he's bound to the house, but his desperation for Effy to build him a new one never seems to come from any sense of home or belonging. I know that at the end the whole architectural project is just kind of a ruse, but that’s from the Fairy King’s point of view. What is Ianto’s point of view?

The whole possession twist ending falls flat because we never get any dynamism in his character. Are we supposed to feel sorry for him? Or no, because he’s just another man? Are we supposed to even think of him as a real character, or just the vessel of evil? It’s all just kind of. Bleh.

And it’s even more annoying because coming into this novel I was SO PREPARED for him to be the most interesting one of the cast.

#a study in drowning #tagging this finally #let’s see if the firing squad comes after me for disliking this book #immortal poets society

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dumbsmoothie · 8 months ago

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"Hello there, Duchess!"

Truth be told, Eir still hadn't become quite used to being addressed as such. It was possible that she never would. Even so, the impish tone that had dripped from the formal title had allowed her to discern who the speaker was before even laying eyes on him. There had only been one person who had referred to her as 'future Duchess' whenever he had been in a playful mood–which had been quite often. "I bet you've been dying to say that, huh?" she cheekily commented as she turned to greet the latest party guest to arrive.

Gav had been grinning from ear to ear as he came to a halt. A laugh escaped him as he admitted, "Maybe." He then proceeded to feign a troubled sigh while placing his hands on his hips. "Now I have to think of a new nickname." The act soon ended. From the way that his eye scanned the area, Eir could hazard a guess as to what he had been searching for.

"Oh, I see how it is," Eir stated as she withheld a giggle. Folding her arms across her chest, she concluded, "You actually came over here to see my baby instead of me." Of all the men who had resided in the Hideaway, Gav may have been the only one to dote on infants more than Clive.

As if the accusation had wounded him, Gav stumbled backward with a hand clutched at his heart. "Can't it be both?" he questioned with performative melancholy.

Eir couldn't help but laugh. "Well, you'll have to go and find him yourself," she informed him with a playful wave of her hand. "Joshua had him, then Uncle Byron wanted to hold him, and shortly after that, Clive wandered off with him." Considering the fact that Jill had been sharing the tales of their travels with her at the time, Eir knew that Clive hadn't done so with the intention of bringing his nephew over to see his wife. "I figure he'll magically find his way back to me when he's hungry." More often than not, that was always the case.

"I suppose that means he's in good hands then, wherever he is," Gav responded with a laugh. Suddenly, he straightened his posture as if he were a soldier standing to attention. "But never fear, Duchess! Good ol' Gav will find 'im for you!" A grin accompanied the goofy salute of a few fingers before he promptly turned heel to carry out his self-appointed mission.

A couple rounds of casual conversation later, Eir's small break of sitting outside on the grass with Torgal was interrupted by the increasingly noticeable, discontent grumbling of an infant who happened to be on a short fuse to wailing.

"I fear he may be growing hungry," Terence explained as he approached with the baby swaddled in his arms. Walking alongside him was the sweet girl who had almost been dispatched by Joshua's overly cautious attendant so long ago--which Eir would casually remind Jote of as a means to tease her.

While Eir climbed to her feet, Kihel added with a giggle, "Pri--I mean, Dion thought he had started crying simply because he held him."

The smile on Terence's face widened before he bit his lip slightly to hide his amusement. Despite it being a matter of unfortunate timing, his Prince must have suffered temporary distress when confronted with what had been assumed to be rejection. "Yes, he was quite... panicked." Dion may have prevailed against Ultima, but a crying baby had bested him in the end.

"Oh no!" Eir laughed as she accepted her son into her arms. Shifting her attention to the infant that had been temporarily soothed by the sound of her voice, she playfully stated, "I guess we know who will be the first to hold you once you're content again, huh?"

#One's Duty.txt #Short Story

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chroniclesof15 · 9 days ago

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Okay, serious question: What are your opinions about the other versions of yourself? I mean, you’re pretty unique -- but do you actually like your other selves? 🤔

Oh, you want to know about them, do you? My other selves, the ones that came before me. Well, buckle up! Here’s my take on each of them -- just a little glimpse of what it’s like being all of me, one quirky incarnation after another. Ready? Let's go.

"Original Me": A grumpy old man with a heart of gold – honestly, he was a bit of a stiff, but he got the job done.

"Recorder Guy": A bundle of chaotic energy – brilliant, but with that mad scientist vibe that would give anyone a headache.

"The Velvet Dandy": A dashing figure with a penchant for heroics – quite the suave one, always ready to save the day with style.

"The Scarf Master": A bit eccentric, a lot of brilliance – wise and witty, but never afraid to stir things up a bit.

"Celery Stick": A thoughtful, caring soul – always searching for peace, sometimes a little too trusting for his own good.

"Technicolor Dreamcoat": Over the top and unapologetic – never met a challenge he couldn’t tackle, even if he had to be a bit loud about it.

"Schemer Extraordinaire": Cool, collected, and calculating – always playing the long game, but with a mysterious depth that kept everyone guessing.

"Byron Wannabe": Gentle, but with a fire that’s always burning – loved deeply and fought fiercely, always looking for ways to heal, even in the darkest moments.

"The One Who Broke the Promise": Never wanted to be a soldier – but still carried that burden with a heavy heart, always questioning the cost of war.

"Leather Jacket Me": A broken soul, but a hero through and through – full of heart and anger, fighting for what’s right after so much loss.

"Sandshoes": A bundle of joy, sadness, and mischief – never afraid to be the clown, but still haunted by the weight of the universe.

"The Fez Fanatic": A bit mad, but full of heart – always trying to save everyone, even when it tore him apart.

"The Grumpy Scotsman": Prickly and sarcastic, but oh so wise – never afraid to speak his mind, always the moral compass in a world gone mad.

"Rainbow Stripes": A bright, enthusiastic spirit with a never-ending drive to fix things – full of hope, even when the universe kept throwing curveballs.

And then there’s me, still figuring it all out but making sure to hold onto the best parts of each of them while learning from their mistakes.

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rondo-of-blog · 2 years ago

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Change Alone is Neutral

Today I watched Street Fighter: The Movie. The live-action one, where Ming-Na Wen is Chun-Li and Guile is French.

For the uninitiated, Street Fighter: The Movie bears a surface-level resemblance to its namesake (or, the sequel to its namesake, rather) but diverges dramatically in various ways. Balrog's a good guy, Chun-Li's a journalist, and Zangief's... still a good guy, but he's VERY confused & susceptible to propaganda - relatable, amirite?

Now, when movies based on video games get talked about, the prevailing narrative is that they would be just peachy were it not for how many pesky CHANGES get made in the process of adapting the source material.

The primary audience for a video game adaptation ought to be the fans of the source material, after all, right? No Street Fighter fans went to theaters to see Street Fighter: The Movie in hopes of seeing, I dunno, Ryu entering into a found-family with his small-town cop bestie.

That all makes some amount of sense, but the truth isn't as simple as "is change good or bad?" That's yet another binary contrived to make sense of a chaotic world that defies description at its most beautiful.

No - to get to the heart of this, we're gonna have to take what I think I'll call a "step into the grey." Leave black-and-white behind and focus on what's in between it all.

So Street Fighter: The Movie is different. So what?

For one, it means we have an hour and 42 minutes of Balrog getting the heroic turn he's not gotten in the games in his 30+ years of character history. What they did to poor Grand L. Bush's hair in the film aside, I'd call everything in his depiction in the film a step up.

Gone are the constantly bugged-out eyes, gone is the characterization that (in the words of the Street Fighter fan wiki) paints him as a "greedy American boxer who loves booze, gambling and women." In the film he's a consistently-sympathetic figure who the audience is meant to root for, along with Chun-Li and E. Honda.

Now, is there anything wrong with Balrog being a villain in the actual Street Fighter games?... Not on its own but, in lieu of opening that can of beans, I'll just say it was refreshing to see him portrayed so positively.

The film setting itself apart from the games also means that the face of the damn series, Ryu, gets sidelined in favor of Jean-Claude Van Damme's Guile.

Now, am I gonna sit here and say I didn't enjoy Guile in the film? Of course not - he gets some of the best lines in the film and has an absolutely-magnetic presence on-camera, and Van Damme does an excellent job with the material.

... However.

Guile has never mattered like Ryu has mattered in Street Fighter. Ryu is the one on the covers, front-and-center, and would it have killed the film to let the big Hollywood name actor take the role of a memorable side-character (à la Ben Kenobi) while a fresher face - in this case, Byron Mann - takes the lead? I don't think so!

Just look at the 1995 Mortal Kombat movie! I hear it did pretty good doing pretty much that!

Does every movie need to be the same, then? Obviously not, and Street Fighter: The Movie would inevitably have been very different if Ryu took on a more central role. Could it have been closer to the games? Perhaps. Would that have made it better? Were the writers on the film even equipped to write a good movie centered around Ryu?

All questions I will happily shrug in response to, because I wasn't there and I can't know about things that never happened.

That's just two examples of where the film made changes to the source material as it adapted it into a movie, anyway. One positive and one negative, at least as I've presented them so far. But, getting back to the grey, let's take another look at both.

Balrog's heroic turn is nice and all, but it's not automatically good on its own. Its execution is what truly makes it great. Conversely, while I dislike the principle of him being sidelined, Ryu is still a lovable character in the film - even as he and Ken are randomly con men.

This is all very basic stuff, I realize. "Thing isn't bad on its own, it can be good if it's good" isn't exactly setting the world on fire for philosophizing. It's good to talk about this stuff anyway, I think, since it can be so easy to forget the simple things sometimes.

As far as change goes, has something I like ever changed to be something I didn't like? Of course! Several times!

When people get bogged down in rigid binaries though, which I see happening often, it can be a pretty awful scene. Conservatism is founded on a resistance to change, flatly painting any change taking place as straying from a grand old path - or 'GOP,' if you dig acronyms... and enemies of basically everything good in the world.

When something changes, that can be an opportunity to take a look at what you liked about it before so you can figure out why you don't like it now. Did it change, or did you change? If it changed into something you don't like, does that make it worse or just different? All questions that can lead to a better understanding of what you love.

I don't ask that you love every change that comes your way, all I ask is that we not flatten the conversation. Real-life exists on more than two dimensions and, while 2D can be fun for video games, I like it better this way. :)

#step into the grey #street fighter the movie

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ghcstlyhearts · 1 year ago

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CHARACTER BASICS

Full Name: Weston Alexander Porter

Nickname: West, Wes, Westie

Age: 24

Gender: Demi Man

Pronouns: He & They

Ethnicity: Kamilaroi

Nationality: Australian

Education: High school, though he's taught himself a few things

Occupation: Creator of Pigeon

Hometown: Byron Bay, New South Wales

Current location: Moonlit Creek

Species: Lycanthrope - bitten around a year ago by an unknown wolf

Written Aesthetics: Trembling hands, bitten nails, mischievous grins & nervous laughter.

trigger warnings: drugs

CHARACTER APPEARANCE

Face Claim: Thomas Weatherall

Height: 5'8"

Hair Colour: Black

Eye Colour: Dark Brown

Dominant Hand: Ambidextrous

Distinguishing Features: Bite mark on his left hip, claw scars on his right shoulder, plus various little scars littering torso & legs, a small scar on the top of his lip on the right, left ear piercing.

SUPERNATURAL EXTRAS

Abilities: heightened strength, speed, agility, and reflexes, enhanced senses, accelerated healing, shapeshifting ( though he hasn't got the hang of this entirely ), enhanced endurance & tracking abilities.

Have you always been aware of your abilities?: No, I only got them when I was bitten a year ago.

Favorite Magical Items: He’s unsure if it’s actually magical, but he wears a small clear quartz charm on a chain. It was given to him years ago, by a friend, for “protection” and he hasn’t taken it off since.

What supernatural creature is your character most scared of?: Literally all of them, having not known of supernatural creatures before he got bitten, he has little knowledge of them and finds them pretty terrifying.

Who or what would they die for? Anyone he cares about, he would die for his friends, his father figure - he’s an extremely loyal friend who will go to the ends of the earth for anyone.

Does your character fight or flee? Flee, he hates the idea of hurting anyone and avoids violence if he can help it.

PERSONALITY

Positive Traits: Warm-hearted, Intuitive & Loyal.

Negative Traits: Nervous, Scatter-brained & Naïve.

Neutral Traits: Competitive, Intense & Sarcastic.

Goals/desires: His true desire in life is to find a family and settle down with someone he loves, though part of him believes he’ll never achieve it. Mostly though, he just wants to be happy.

Fears: Being alone, hurting someone, failure, letting people down, loud noises.

Hobbies: Hacking, gaming, anything to do with computers or tech. He also loves to cook.

Habits: Biting his nails, chewing on his lower lip, smoking weed, drumming his fingers against a surface, messing up his hair, cooking far too much food when he’s stressed.

CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT Q’S

QUESTION ONE: were you born on the island, if so, what kind of curiosities do you have about the world beyond? if you weren’t, what do you miss about the world outside veritas isles? “I wasn’t, though I’m not sure I actually miss the outside world. I didn’t really have a lot going for me over there, maybe some of the technology?”

QUESTION TWO: what is your favorite part about the island? “Honestly, I’m not sure yet, I rather like exploring the different places. The diner is pretty good but this island is a lot bigger than I’d thought it would be.”

QUESTION THREE: if your character is supernatural, do they fear humans? if human, do they fear the supernatural? “Supernaturals scare me a lot more than humans, after all one did bite me and leave me alone.”

QUESTION FOUR: share a fun headcanon or fact about your character! this doesn’t have to be long, just something to introduce us to your character! While he’ll often do odd jobs for cash, including hacking gigs, Wes’ main focus is the social media site he created solely for the island. He called it Pigeon, after joking to someone if he had to contact them through carrier pigeon when they mentioned they didn’t have social media on the island. He mostly did it for a laugh, and didn’t expect it to actually get popular.

ADDITIONAL INFORMATION BIO | PLAYLIST | PINTEREST

WANTED CONNECTIONS

Father Figure / Mentor - They found him left abanoned the night after the full moon, having been bitten and reluctantly took him in, but has grown ( somewhat reluctantly ) fond of him over the year.

Sire - The wolf that bit him, it would have been a year ago, and they would have been somewhere in the outside world.

Childhood Best Friend - They'd be 24, probably Australian & I'm thinking a witch. They adored Weston, wanting to protect him from harm. When they moved away, they gave Weston a charm necklace for protection. It's what saved his life the night of the wolf attack. They've not seen each other since they were young, though, and he was unaware they were a witch.

Foster Family - He was in foster care for eighteen years, if anyone is from the outside world & Australia, they could have been in foster care with him.

Friends - He's pretty sociable, and I imagine he's found several friends whilst coming to the island.

Close friends - Since meeting them, they're as thick as thieves, despite only knowing each other a short time.

Packs ?? - He's a lone wolf right now, so perhaps they're trying to recruit him??

#about; weston porter.#task; weston porter.#vih.task01 #vih.intro

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revisitingstoneybrook · 2 years ago

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#9 The Ghost at Dawn’s House: Chapter 13

Dawn thinks she’s figured out what’s going on in the secret passage! Though I’m sure you have too, this was easier to solve than a Cam Jansen mystery.

Also, the triplets are assholes to Nicky. Again.

Dawn decides to freak herself out again by exploring the passage, after she nearly made Mary Anne wet her pants in fear by bringing her inside. Great Dog Tales, the book that they found last time, is gone. The ghost must have gotten offended by Mary Anne and Dawn freaking out over it. In its place is a crust of bread. Forget a spectral Mallory; if the ghost is sneaking food and reading questionable literature, it sounds like a spectral Claudia!

She also finds another key, shoved into a crack at the bottom of the steps. Dawn leaves it be, just in case Jared the ghost gets mad and haunts her with floating images of raw steak. And that rainy night, she hears moaning in the passage, so Little Miss I Love Ghost Stories sleeps downstairs again.

Two days later, she gets to test her theory about the ghost when she goes to babysit the Pikes. Mrs. Pike is taking the girls for haircuts, including Claire - Dawn says her hair hasn't been the same since Vanessa and Margo doused her with that shampoo. I'm imagining it as really shiny and greasy. So the stage is set!

Lucky Dawn - Mallory is babysitting with her. So the triplets let Nicky play basketball with them - with the three of them against him. Nicky doesn't care since he's riding the high of being able to play with his brothers.

For lunch, what do you know...Mrs. Pike didn't get around to feeding the Pike Army. Geez, Mrs. Pike - even the Duggars got tater tot casserole on time and they have twice as many kids! What's your excuse? So the girls get food court stuff at the mall and for the boys, Mallory gets an Idea (don't tell Kristy, even though Mallory isn't a member of the BSC yet). She suggests they give the boys a smorgasbord for lunch. Dump everything out of the fridge and let them fend for themselves. And it cleans out the fridge, so Mrs. Pike can forget to refill it before that big blizzard that's on the way. That’s another book on the way here.

And what would a BSC book be without a mispronunciation of something? Nicky calls it a “schmurgerbeard” and promptly gets called stupid by Jordan. That’s something that irritated me about the BSC books, especially near the end, where there was a ton of it. Someone mispronouncing a word and someone else responding with, “Don't you mean ______, a [definition of word]?” Thank you for the vocabulary lesson, AMM and ghosties.

So the boys make a big mess of things, Adam's glopping mayo on bread, Byron is eating peanut butter out of the jar with his hand. And I guess along with the Pikes’ whole “We don't have rules, unless your name is Mallory!” thing, they also don't have table manners. Jordan runs to the stove and says he wants fried bologna. In addition to the 10-year-old reincarnation of Elvis here, Adam wants a fried egg and Byron wants fried peanut butter and jelly.

Nicky says he wants fried barf.

Dawn cooks fried bologna for Adam and Jordan (while dry-heaving, I'm assuming) and fried peanut butter and jelly for Byron. All throughout lunch, the triplets harass Nicky, including telling him to point to his head and say Mark Twain's initials. Dawn, being a member of the BSC, which means they shall never discipline children, gives them a weak, “Ok stop.” Instead of, “Stop picking on your brother or else I'm throwing away your fried shit and I'm telling your mom when she comes home.”

Ok, I underestimated Dawn. Adam pulls Nicky's chair out from under him and the triplets crack up. Nicky, clearly upset, runs off. Hmm, I wonder where. Dawn finally gets off her ass and does some babysitting and since this is Dawn and she's never angry, the triplets shut up right away. Dawn says she's telling Mrs. Pike how asshole-ish they were to Nicky, despite them whining for her not to tell. What a bunch of little shits.

Dawn runs off to find Nicky, leaving Mallory in charge, and orders the boys to clean the kitchen. Please. When an older sibling is in charge, that means shit. Dawn's going to come back and find the kitchen an even bigger mess and Mallory spinning in the dryer with her training bra tied to her head. Dawn also says she feels bad about yelling at the triplets. Uh, they were treating their younger brother like garbage and you feel bad for yelling at them? You know, being in charge of kids means BEING ASSERTIVE! Sure enough, Dawn runs right to her house and into the barn. Hey, look! The bale of hay is moved aside and the trap door's open! Our fearless babysitter grabs a flashlight from the kitchen and jumps down the ladder into the secret passage.

First thing she hears is heavy breathing. Dawn thinks Jared's in there with her and considers calling Mary Anne, among other people. Ok, if there's a ghost in there, what good is calling Mary Anne? She'd turn into a ghost herself. Or cry. Or both. She also considers calling the cops but stops herself because she has to solve this mystery, dammit!

Weighing over her clues and concluding that someone must have been using the passage since the floor is hard-packed, Dawn starts calling out for Nicky again when she hears footsteps.

Oooh, a cliffhanger!

#babysitters club #bsc #dawn schafer #the ghost at dawn's house #snark

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marryinred · 1 month ago

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Lydia almost protested Betelgeuse’s request that she and Ginger not go into town, but the words died on her tongue when she took note of how very bothered he sounded. She turned to give him all of her attention then, taking the paper from him to study the article. A new shop opening up downtown? Lydia couldn’t see where there would be any harm in that, it was always exciting to get new businesses in the Netherworld.

At his mentioning of their shared past, Lydia blinked and turned her focus to the face of the woman in the photo, this Delores. Her eyes were dark and cold, and her lips were pressed into what seemed like a knowing smirk. The newspaper photo quality wasn’t the best, but what stood out to Lydia the most was the gruesome stitches or staples that seemed to be holding the woman’s cracked face and neck in place, as if she were a broken doll haphazardly put back together.

While she remembered some of her time as Isobel, a 14th century witch, the memories for Lydia were somewhat fragmented. Most of the memories came to her in dreams, echoes of the sweet moments she spent with Betelgeuse; then Byron. Occasionally, nightmares would creep in, and she could feel the dread and the fear as the black death crept in and swallowed up their village.

Lydia shook her head in response to his question, her eyes still focused on the photo. “No, I don’t think I recogn–” her voice was cut off as she immediately shut her eyes, her brows knitting together as she dropped the newspaper to the ground. She leaned forward, bracing a hand against the kitchen table to steady herself. A sharp, stabbing pain in her skull brought tears to her tightly closed eyes. Behind her eyelids, a vision came in a hurried rush–

Gasping for breath, feeling the life leaving her body as she writhed in the dirt. The stench of filth and decay surrounded her, the darkness crushing in. The only light was the crackling fire of distant torches. Out of the corner of her eye, the figure of an elegantly dressed woman approached. Her features were concealed by a mask; that of a bird with a long, curved beak. The traditional garb worn by the physicians tending to those dying of the plague.

The woman removed her mask to reveal a cruel, mocking smile–the woman in the photo, this Delores– bent at the knee, kneeling down to grasp Isobel’s left wrist and lift her arm from the dirt. Lydia felt herself try to yell, to scream out NO, but her voice wouldn’t work, and Delores rose to her feet, letting out a wicked laugh. In the dim light, Lydia could see the glint of silver and crimson in the woman’s hand. A ring.

The ring Betelgeuse had slipped onto Lydia’s finger during their would-be wedding; the ring she wore every moment and never removed.

Her vision was fading fast, her breaths labored and heavy. She was dying.

Delores slid the band onto the ring finger of her left hand and grinned wickedly to herself, looking down at Isobel as if she were an afterthought, a pest to be done away with. Leaning down over her once more, she whispered to the dying woman. She spoke in Italian, but Lydia understood it perfectly.

“Betelgeuse is mine.”

Lydia’s eyes snapped open and she inhaled sharply, feeling as if all of the oxygen had been sucked out of her lungs. She felt Betelgeuse help her stumble into a chair, her feet unsteady. She leaned her head into her hands for a moment, forcing her breathing under control. After what felt like an eternity, she brought her dark eyes up to meet his, her face gone even more pale than usual. Her voice was quiet and frightened when she finally spoke.

“I remember her."

Roadhouse Redux

Continued from here

Slivers of early morning light had begun to filter in through the curtains of Betelgeuse’s bedroom windows when Lydia’s eyelids fluttered open. Slowly rolling over, she smiled sleepily when she caught sight of her ghostly husband. She took a moment to admire his profile in the early morning light, something in her chest warming at the sight of him in such domestic comfort. The most feared poltergeist in all of the Netherworld and here he was, propped up in his bed reading a book, a pair of spectacles resting at the bridge of his nose.

“Morning,” Lydia said quietly and smiled, propping her head up with her hand. Her hair was a wild tangle of inky black tresses around her head. “Guess all the excitement from yesterday must have worn me out. Last thing I remember, I was jotting down some ideas for the new Roadhouse.” Sitting up to lean against the gravestone headboard, she reached up to try and finger-comb her hair. “Are we going to head over there again today? See how much we can get done? I’m so excited to see it all come together.”

#rp #thefreelancebioexorcist

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sickness-health-all-that-shit · 3 years ago

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Why me?

(originally written as part of this prompt challenge)

They’re in bed together, catching their breath, spent and satisfied after their second round of the night as fiancés.

Fucking fiancés.

Mickey still can’t believe that’s what they are now. And pretty soon they’re going to be husbands. Fucking surreal, when Mickey thinks about everything they’ve been through to have this even as a remote possibility. Just goddamn wild.

Mickey turns his head to look at Ian. He’s still panting heavily, much like Mickey, and has a dopey smile painted on his face. Mickey loves that smile. He wants to make Ian grin like that for the rest of his life.

He tries to fight the urge to rock the boat, to potentially ruin their night of celebration and happiness. But at the same time, he’s got to know. He has to know if Ian is okay, if he’s completely, one hundred percent positive about doing this.

He bites his lip, goes for lightness to start with. “So, what made you finally stop bein’ a pussy and pop the fuckin’ question, huh?” He smirks at Ian, air exiting between his teeth in small puffs as he’s still regaining his breath.

Ian looks at him and frowns, turning contemplative. “I dunno. Heard that prick Byron talking shit about you, and I just… missed you. Wanted you back so bad. For all the reasons he was listing off as negatives about you. Figured staying hung up on not wanting to get married was pretty fucking stupid at that point.” He shrugs.

It’s Mickey’s turn to frown. “You proposed just ‘cause you wanted me back? Not ‘cause you wanna get married?”

Ian’s eyes widen a little. “No, I… I do wanna get married. Like I said, felt a little stupid that I got so hung up on it. Yeah, marriage is fucking scary to me, for various reasons, but. It’s you. Course I wanna do this with you.”

Mickey’s expression softens at that. He still has to press, though. “That mean you’re sure about this? Not gonna have you ditchin’ me at the fuckin’ altar again?” He says it like a joke, though it didn’t feel fucking funny while it was happening. It felt like one of the worst moments in his life, like being ripped open and thrown to the dogs.

Ian looks a little panicked again. “No, Mick, I–I’m so fucking sorry about that. I just–needed a little time. A little perspective, I guess. It all happened so fast at the courthouse, and I got overwhelmed. Wanted to do it right, couldn’t stand the thought of fucking it up. But I don’t wanna spend another day without you, Mick. I want to be with you forever. Officially.”

Mickey smiles softly. Ian’s words are doing wonders to put his mind at ease. He just needed to make sure Ian’s in this, all in, same as he is. He feels much better now.

“I want you to know,” Ian continues, seemingly taking the opportunity to unload more off his mind. “It was never about you. My doubts, I mean. It was always about me not being enough, ruining our chance at making it work.”

Mickey nods. “You still having those doubts?” He bites his bottom lip, a bit worried once again.

Ian chews on the inside of his cheek, his eyes fixed in front of him. “Probably always gonna be worried on some level that I’m gonna fuck my life up somehow. Our life.” He smiles a small smile. “The diagnosis really messed with my brain like that.”

Mickey nods again. He finds himself not really knowing what to say. He knows this is something Ian has to work on by himself, ultimately, though he’s always going to be by his side to help him through it as much as he can.

Ian’s not done talking, it seems. “I just keep thinking… Why me?”

“Why you what?”

“Why did you choose me?”

Mickey snorts. “Didn’t fucking choose you, Ian. You fell into my lap all those years ago and after that I fell in love. Simple as that.”

“But you kept choosing me, again and again. You could have walked away, you could have found someone better.” Ian’s voice is beginning to sound broken, though it’s clear he’s trying to keep himself together. Mickey hates that he even thinks about it like that.

“Ian, look at me. There is no one better for me.”

Ian sniffs a little, looking unconvinced.

Mickey looks deep into his eyes, lifts his chin with a finger as he speaks. “You said the other night that I haven’t dated anyone else. Alright, that’s true. But I’ve met plenty of fuckers in my life. Before and after knowing you. And I think I’m a pretty good judge of character. Had to be, the way I grew up.”

He takes a moment to shake off unpleasant memories of his upbringing in order to keep going.

“Trust me, there ain’t no one better for me out there. You get me in a way no one else does, you make me feel loved, you make me wanna be a better person. You make me laugh, you make me wanna strangle you and you make me wanna imagine a future for myself.” He pauses to smile, then turns serious again.

“You’re my best damn chance at happiness. That’s why I fought for you, that’s why I chose you. You’re my whole fucking world, Ian.”

Ian’s eyes are big and red by now, a couple of stray tears making their way down his cheeks, where Mickey catches them and wipes them away. He smiles. “Does that answer your fucking question, snotty?”

Ian laughs a little through his tears. “Yeah…” He wipes at his eyes. “You’re pretty good with words, you know.”

Mickey snorts. “You looked about ready to launch into a damn speech yourself when you proposed earlier, if I hadn’t stopped you.”

“Why did you stop me?” Ian asks softly.

“Wanted to get to the kissin’ and celebratin’ quicker, obviously.” He smirks. “I got where you were going with it, anyway.”

Ian frowns a little, looking determined. “Well. As soon as I’m not so snotty and emotionally fucked up, you’re getting your damn speech, Mister. I’m gonna make you cry like a little bitch too, with the sheer power of my words. You’ll see.”

Mickey just laughs in his face, at the ridiculousness of his fiancé’s words. Not that he actually doubts Ian would make him cry too, given the chance to get all sappy and sentimental with him.

“Yeah, alright, tough guy.” He kisses Ian between his eyebrows. “What say you we get some fucking sleep now? Been a long-ass day.”

“Yeah,” Ian says, though a yawn. “That’s an excellent idea.” He kisses Mickey on the lips, sweetly, as they get into position to spoon. “Night, Mick. Love you.”

Mickey grins, his eyes already shut, as he pulls his fiancé closer. “Night, Ian. Love you, too.”

---

thanks to @shameless-notashamed for reading this over!

#ian x mickey #gallavich #gallavich fic #shameless fanfiction #tumblr fic #my fics #light angst #feelings #communication #fluff

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90stvshowgoth · 4 years ago

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— BREAKING & ENTERING

—ch.1 —ch.2

summary: dabi is on the run from the cops when you just happened to leave your window open.

tags: drunk sex, creampie, overstimulation, dubcon but not really,

wc: 6729

a/n: this is my first dabi fanfic so i’m worried i might’ve made him a bit too ooc but tbh i don’t care. soft dabi is what i want and soft dabi is what i will get. huge thanks by the way to @a-monsters-love who beta read this story and made it a lot less sucky!

my requests are open by the way!

What woke you wasn’t the explosions or the screams, but the sirens. The mechanical moans echoed through the streets of Musutafu, and that sound pulled you up out of bed, looking out your window in a bleary state of half-asleep fear.

‘What was going on?’ Goosebumps ran up your arms as you peered out your alleyway view window, overlooking the fire escape to the siren that had recently been installed in your neighborhood a few months back. You rubbed the sleep from your eyes as you tried to recall when the Pro Hero Association had brought it, and that same chill sank to your bones as you remembered just what they were for.

A villain had attacked the prefecture. A dangerous one.

You tried to calm your breathing, slowly walking backwards from the window to think rationally about the situation.

‘There’s no reason for somebody to attack a random apartment building, they’re off fighting heroes,’ The reasonable side of your brain said.

Despite that the siren was still wailing across town and it began to set you on edge. You certainly weren’t falling back asleep any time soon. If you couldn’t go back to bed you thought you’d might as well make some tea to calm your frigid nerves. You smiled when you saw your well-loved cardigan hanging next to the door and hugged it close, otherwise wearing nothing but your bra and leggings.

When you stepped into the main room you breathed in the warm scent of the candle that you’d accidentally left burning. Cursing yourself for your lack of fire safety, you shrugged and used the wick to light your path to the counter. After filling up the kettle under the sink you left it under the lit stove to boil, taking a moment to admire how the burner’s low flames were almost purely blue.

From here you could see the small television beside the couch and with a press of a button it came to life before you. The harsh glare made your eyes wince before they adjusted to the unfriendly light.

You were drawn to the red index near the corner that blinked the words ‘breaking news.’ This made your sleep-addled brain finally connect the dots between the sirens and the reporter. The screen cut to a newsman outside of what used to be a ten-story building when all that remained was a smoking husk. Hesitantly, you increased the volume to hear what happened.

“—before fleeing the scene. We have reports that say the hero fighting him was put into critical condition following the attack, and is currently being taken to the hospital. A video was taken by a nearby woman who sent it to the authorities. We believe this clip to be of the suspects,” the journalist paused, and a low-quality film began to play. Whoever was recording had badly shaking hands so It was difficult to make out. Your eyes widened at the sight of the building you walked by every day for work, the Shishido hero agency, razed by a torrent of blue wildfire.

Escaping from the crumbling building were four or so figures, too far away to see with any accuracy, but each had an unmistakeable silhouette. The League of Villains.

They were something of a modern socratic dialogue. Whenever someone brought up their name or the hero killer Stain’s it was always just to be a contrarian towards whoever was on the opposing side. Fanatical opinions would spark heated arguments online but you tried to keep your thoughts to yourself.

Although, if you’d have to pick a side, you would choose the League’s. After Stain’s video had spread through Japan you dug deeper into the shady histories of some of the Commission’s most well-respected heroes. Whatever standard you held those pros to crumbled into dust under miles of ‘collateral damage,’ and omitted crimes that were swept under the rug by police. So when the faces of the league went up on the screen you couldn’t help but smile at their victory.

The whistle of the kettle pulled you from the television. You rushed to take it off the stove before it could get any louder, and routinely began to fix the tea just the way you like it. You hummed, smiling as the first sip of the warm brew spread down your body, fending off the cold.

You threw the remote onto the couch that sat across from the small kitchen. Moving back to your bedroom and getting cozy with the tea, you reveled in the way that the mug loosened the frozen joints of your fingers. But before you could relax and block out the sirens with some music, you noticed another chill rush through the small room. Groaning over-dramatically, you set the tea down to retrieve another blanket from your pile; but your eyes widened when you tracked down the source of the cold.

Your window was open.

That caught you off guard. You were absolutely sure you closed it before bed knowing how low the temperatures would drop, though with growing panic you noticed how you specifically don’t remember locking it. There’s only two ways it could’ve been open now. Either you simply misremembered earlier that night and forgot to close it...

Or someone else broke in.

The tea’s warmth was long forgotten as you reached shaking hands to close the window. But before you could slide the panel shut a calloused hand clawed itself around your mouth so you couldn’t scream.

Fear gripped your lungs as you struggled to breathe, thrashing desperately against the second arm your assailant had snaked over your waist to keep you still. Your leg banged painfully on the side of the windowsill as you struggled but it didn’t deter you from opening your mouth wide enough to bite down on the attacker’s hand.

“Fuck!” He cursed when your teeth drew blood around his thumb and practically threw you to the ground. As you were about to use your newfound freedom to scream for help, the man lunged towards you with one outstretched hand.

His flesh was suddenly engulfed in a hissing blue fire and you winced at the wave of heat that flared so close to your face. From here you could easily make out the assailant’s features from the illuminating glow of his flames.

He had deep scars circled under his eyes using what looked like piercings to hold the tattered skin together. His lips quirked after realizing he’d caught you for good, making his charred skin pull against the metal in his cheekbones. Panic hadn’t altered your memory, you knew exactly who was standing over you. Dabi of the League of Villains.

Before either of you could make another move someone banged on the front door. You turned to look towards the sound but the heat close to your reddening throat kept you from doing anything stupid.

“Ma’am this is the police, open the door.” You and Dabi stared at each other from the implications and you could already see a plan forming behind his eyes.

He leaned far too close, keeping his lit hand still hovering over your neck as he whispered his words into your ear, “Listen to me nice and close, doll,” you couldn’t bring yourself to breathe underneath the searing tension. “You’re gonna answer that door. You’re gonna smile and say that nobody’s home. And if you give away fuckin’ anything,” Dabi’s flames somehow stoked themselves, the heat so intense that your teardrops evaporated before they could leave your eyes, “I’ll set your hair on fire first. So you can feel your brain cooking.” He spoke with a dripping malice that made your blood run cold despite the flames creeping up his arm. You nodded, too terrified to form words as he pushed forward; telling you to get up.

The brief walk from your bedroom to the front door had never felt so long. Your legs felt like the static emanating from the television, all shaky and unstable. Once your hands curled around the handle you decided not to spare a glance back.

‘What do I do?’ You didn’t want to die, at least not by immolation of all things, so you’d have to play along. You cupped your feverish face in your hands and took an unsteady breath. ‘As long as I can fool these cops, I’ll be fine. I can do this,’ At least, you hoped.

Opening the door caused the hallway’s lights to flood through your darkened doorway. Once your eyes flinched with discomfort you saw the unmistakeable uniforms of two police officers, both middle-aged and looking much more disinterested than you would’ve thought.

“Is there a problem?” You could lie smoothly enough but your voice was still feeble from Dabi’s strain on your neck.

The one who had called out earlier answered your question, “A member of the League of Villains was seen climbing in through a window to this apartment building, but the witness didn’t remember exactly which floor or room. Is anyone else with you?”

You feigned confusion, going so far with the act as to tilt your head slightly to the side. “No, I’m sure I’m alone, sir.”

At that moment a painfully loud squeak echoed from your bedroom and your eyes widened at the audible gap in your story. There was a loose floorboard right beside your bookshelf that creaked under even the slightest weight. You’ve learned to avoid it over time but Dabi had no idea.

That bored expression on the cop’s face shifted and you scrambled to come up with a explanation. “I thought you said you lived alone?”

An idea popped straight from your brain to your mouth, “My cat! His name is—“ you thought of the old, lovable house-cat your family had kept while growing up, “Byron. He like to get into my plants.”

“...Alright then, Ma’am, just keep yourself safe.” It seemed to just barely convince them.

You almost couldn’t fight back the elation as you waved off the oblivious pair, heeding their words by locking the door behind them in a rush. Pressing your back against the wood, you tried to settle the adrenaline pounding through your chest. Unfortunately as soon as you started to calm down, Dabi strode from the bedroom with a curious look in his eyes.

“Not bad, lady. Didn’t think you’d give it your all like that,” he must’ve kicked himself for making that noise and thought you would’ve used it as a way to give him up, “especially for a villain like me.”

The tension in the air had noticeably lessened, and you started to think you had a good shot at surviving the night. “I mean, I didn’t want them to find you either.”

Dabi paced around the living room, turning on one of your floor lights in his path towards the couch, “And why’s that?” He asked, flopping unceremoniously onto the secondhand loveseat.

Sure, you were still half pissed at the guy for breaking into your apartment and threatening to kill you, but it was clear that everything he did wasn’t personal. He just needed to escape from the police, but since they were gone what would happen now?

“Because...” you wanted to find the right words to convince him, “because I hate heroes too.”

Under the dim glow of the lamp you caught a glimpse of a half-handsome smile from that answer. Now that there was none of the malice from before you could appreciate just what he looked like under the warm lighting. Especially his eyes, which turned out to be a truly stunning shade of blue.

He kicked his feet onto your coffee table and patted the seat next to him. You’d have to deal with whatever dirt or soot he’d tracked inside tomorrow morning, but for now you found yourself accepting his invitation.

“Lucky me, huh?” Dabi asked rhetorically, and you found yourself almost smiling back at him. The couch was still cold underneath you but you painfully realized that Dabi was emanating heat like a goddamn generator.

‘It must’ve been from his quirk.’ you thought bitterly, shivering despite yourself.

Dabi drew a pack of Newports from his coat pocket and slid a cigarette out with his teeth. Instead of using a lighter a thin blue flame ignited on his index finger. He held it to the tip and drew in a deep lungful of smoke.

“So, what’s your deal, anyways? You got a thing for villains or something?” He wondered out-loud, teasing another blush onto your face as you shook your head.

“No, I just— I mean not like that,” From the look on his grafted face you could tell he wasn’t convinced. “The Hero Commission is corrupt, I agree with the league on that at least. Stain’s video kinda affected me, you know?”

Another small grin graced his lips and a small part of you decided that you wanted to see that expression more often, “What’s your name, doll?”

The question put you at ease; When he repeated it back, rolling the syllables over his tongue, you couldn’t wait to hear him say it again. Wordlessly, he extended his hand towards you, offering the lit cigarette between his fingers. When you took it all you could focus on was how warm his hands felt against yours for those brief seconds.

Wisps of smoke danced in the air as you inhaled, coughing a bit after the dry tang started to sting the back of your mouth. He smirked at your reaction before taking the cheap cigar from your fingertips.

Dabi saw the remote you left laying on the couch and mindlessly turned on the TV across from you. The news station was once again playing, this time an interview with one of the heroes who fought at the scene. This hero in particular was an older man with a receding hairline and an honestly ridiculous outfit that looked somewhere between a scuba diver and a 70s golden-age comic book character.

Beside you, Dabi groaned at the sight of him, “This fuckin’ guy...”

“Were you the one that fought him?” He nodded without breaking his attention from the screen.

“His quirk was such a pain to deal with. He controlled all the oxygen in the room— made it hard to set his ass on fire.”

There were a surprising lack of injuries on Dabi as far as you could see, aside from a few scrapes alongside the bruised scars that crawled below his loose shirt. You couldn’t help but wonder how far down they went, but quickly turned your attention back to the screen to ignore those ideas. The hero he fought looked far worse for wear, skin marred with fresh burns that singed holes into the costume; His legs shaking similarly to how yours were just fifteen minutes ago. Dabi seemed to have that effect on people.

Before you could ask him how he’d won his fight he was off the couch and walking towards the kitchen. He casually searched through your apartment with a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips.

You sighed, a bit annoyed at how he helped himself to your fridge, “Dabi, if you’d tell me what you’re looking for I could show you.”

“Nah, already found what I wanted.” He dug open one of the drawers and smirked as he pulled a chill bottle of wine from the fridge.

Dabi tracked down two nearby glasses and a corkscrew before returning to your side and started to twist the metal tip into the pliant seal. It pulled loose with a soft pop and he filled each of your cups with the cherry wine you had been saving for a special occasion.

As you raised the rim to your lips and breathed in the fermented smell you paused. Were you really about to drink wine with a villain? A wanted criminal who broke into your apartment? His hand had been around your throat as he whispered about how he would burn you alive less than half an hour ago. There had to be something wrong with you to even consider it. Beside you he nearly emptied half the glass in his first sip before going back to enjoying his cigarette and you found your resolve crumbling at his lazy half-smile. Making possibly one of the dumbest mistakes of your life, you followed his lead and took a long swig from the bittersweet drink, intent on letting the alcohol relax your nerves.

The effects were slow to come, it was only wine after all, but as the night carried on and the two of you kept drinking you started to notice the effects taking hold. At the very least, conversation between you flowed easily, trading questions about each other that never grew too inquisitive. He didn’t try to pry too deeply, he didn’t even ask for your last name, and you were sure to never bring up his scars. You talked for what must’ve been hours, and as the bottle emptied, the space between the two of you grew smaller.

Dabi could handle his alcohol, but you couldn’t, clearly. To be fair, he was tipsy, but the way you unashamedly leaned your head on his shoulder when you grew tired was anything but sober.

“So, doll, got a boyfriend or something?” He asked, testing the waters. You leaned up and sighed at the question.

“No, nothin’ like that... I haven’t had the time.” You tipped your glass back but the wine never reached your lips. You groaned at the sight of the empty cup and leaned up to grab the bottle from the table. Unfortunately, Dabi’s hand held onto yours before you could reach the vice; You felt him pull you back towards the couch by your wrist until you lost your balance, falling back against his shoulder. If he minded he didn’t show it as his arm rested around your hip.

“I think you’ve had enough for tonight,” The condescending tone in his voice was annoying but it wasn’t enough to make you move from his comfortable grasp.

You scoffed, messing with your hair to avoid looking at his face, “God, who are you, my dad?”

A shit-eating grin stretched across his face, “Oh, so you’re into that Daddy shit, huh?”

The comment took you so off-guard that you broke into a fit of giggles that did nothing to temper the blush returning to your face. Dabi loved how much of an effect he had on you; the simplest words turning you into a flustered mess.

“Nah, not my thing-“ ‘Unless you’re into it,’ You barely kept yourself from saying that second part out loud. From this angle Dabi had the perfect view of your tits pressing against his chest and he stared shamelessly. You barely noticed, too focused on how warm he was while holding you close to his side. It almost looked like something a boyfriend would do, but you knew better.

It was a strange feeling, to be so under Dabi’s influence. Every lingering touch, every heated stare... It was driving you crazy. And he knew it. He was toying with you and you couldn’t believe how much you loved it.

Your thoughts were interrupted by a chill running down your spine, only realizing that you were so caught up in your time spent with Dabi that you forgot to close the very window he had snuck through. As the night carried on it somehow got colder and you cursed the thin cardigan you found yourself wearing that did nothing to shield away the biting air.

“You cold, doll?” Dabi was surprisingly perceptive, noticing the trail of goosebumps that ran down your arms. Although, perhaps it was the sensation of his hand trailing over your skin that caused it rather than the wind.

Nodding hesitantly, he wasted no time in wrapping his hands around your waist, pulling you onto his lap. You couldn’t have held back the relieved sigh that left your lips if you tried. Because when Dabi wrapped his arms around your back, pulling you to his chest, it felt like heaven to your frigid bones.

As you curled into the embrace he couldn’t ignore how you felt on top of him. The pressure of your ass sitting on his dick drove him crazy, and it took damn near everything in him to not push you down face first and take you then and there.

“Dabi, you feel amazing,” His eyes widened, your slurred words almost making him lightheaded, “so warm...” You trailed your hands up and threaded them through his coarse dark hair. The faintest of groans left his lips as you got comfortable and accidentally dragged yourself down the front of his jeans.

All at once he took hold of the skin of your thighs, stopping you from moving and damn near shaking with effort to keep still. “Doll... cause’ you’re drunk, I’ll ask you this one time—“

“—Please, Dabi,” You didn’t budge under his bruising grasp or struggle like before, instead holding eye-contact, resolve heavy in your voice, “I want this- want you so bad,” It was enough for him, and he didn’t hold back.

He was ravenous when he finally pressed his lips to yours, leaving you tongue-tied and moaning into his mouth. The alcohol only added fuel to your desire, easing the tension on your clit by grinding against him. He broke the kiss in a choked gasp, his hands cupping you around your ass and fondling you through the thin material. When he stood up from the couch gravity somehow felt heavier, but it must’ve been from the wine. His hands still held you by your thighs and while he backed the both of you towards the bedroom his lips never left yours, even when he went to rip your cardigan off your shoulders, leaving it behind along with his coat, you in only your bra and leggings.

The loud bang from Dabi kicking the door open startling a squeak out of you and he chuckled into the kiss, running a stapled hand through your bedhead and pulling hard enough to make you keen into his touch. Rather unceremoniously he threw you onto the bed, briefly disorientating before you could make out Dabi’s alluring figure ridding himself of his clothes. Once he pulled over his shirt you saw his maimed chest covered in taught muscles and scars. As he broke your gaze to turn his attention to his jeans, fumbling with the cheap zipper, you couldn’t help from crawling towards him slowly on your knees before whispering, “No—“ He looked up from his trance, wondering if you’d changed your mind before you quickly perished the thought by pulling him towards you by the loops on his jeans. He raised an eyebrow at your show but didn’t make a move to interrupt the adorable way you took care of him.

So you began, looking into his eyes as you kissed down his deformed chest. It seemed a miracle he was even standing before you, with haphazard staples barely holding him together. You couldn’t resist giving the seams of his wounds special attention, pressing light kisses to the metal as you made your way down.

You unhooked his jeans easily, eagerly reaching to feel him through his boxers. His nails dug into your scalp when you finally eased his shorts off, breaking your eyes away to look between his legs and—

You couldn’t’ve stopped the needy moan from your lips if you tried, too attracted and nervous about the shiny bridges of metal through his dick. “Fuck, Dabi...” he had the most cat-that-ate-the-canary grin on his face as he watched you salivate over him.

“What’s wrong, baby? Never had a guy with piercings before?” You didn’t even hear him, instead responding with a dazed shake of your head; far too tipsy on the sight of him towering over you, reddened head leaking against his stomach.

He pretended to come to a decision, “Guess I’ll have to take my time with you before fucking that cute pussy,” his words sent heat straight to your core, slick pooling in your ruined panties, “but then why am I the only one naked? You’re gonna make me embarrassed you know.” The amused look on his face put you at ease and you laughed a bit at the idea.

“You? You’re the most shameless person I’ve ever met.” The smile he brought out was enough to ease the nerves that came with being so vulnerable to a man like Dabi.

The foe-offended look on his face wasn’t any less ironic, “You wound me, doll,” when his attention fell back to your clothes he didn’t hesitate to snake his hand below your arched back and unclasp your bra. Before you could think of covering yourself he’d already raised your arms up and thrown the lace material into some corner of your room.

He was on you in an instant, biting and sucking on the plush skin of your tits with abandon, enjoying every small tremor it brought from your shaking lips. To him your body was a blank canvas just begging for him to bruise, and he would take his sweet time carving teeth marks into your chest.

But while he had his fun you had yours, running your hand along his collarbones and carefully worrying the stapled hem of skin. You weren’t sure how the stitches would hold up otherwise. But before you could worry about it too much you felt him pull away, a deep hickey left in his wake.

“You don’t have to be gentle with them,” he looked up at you with an unexpected sincerity.

With that there was nothing to hold you back from dragging your nails down his chest, the villain groaning as you felt his solid stomach beneath you. From a distance he looked like a patched rag-doll that was barely holding itself together but up close the wiry muscles that clung to his calloused body couldn’t be ignored. Dabi practically hissed when he felt your soft fingers wrap around his cock, only spurring you on further. The piercings weren’t as rigid as they appeared but they were scalding to the touch.

His breathing stuttered around you as you picked up your pace, the heat of his breath pulsing on your cheek as you took in every sinful expression on his face. He cried out, squeezing his eyes shut at the pleasure. You stared unabashedly, taking note of how peaceful he looked above you. Like for the first time that night his body wasn’t wrought with chronic pain.

When you pulled your hand away his eyes shot open. “I didn’t tell you to fuckin’ stop.” He sounded pissed but before you could lose confidence you shifted your weight to the side, locking your arms together behind his to roll him over, leaving you on top.

“I wanna make you feel good, Dabi,” Thankfully he seemed to be curious as to what you had planned, letting you stay on top for now. You crawled down his body until you reached his painful hard-on. Wrapping your hand back around him you gave him the most doe eyed gaze you could manage before taking him into your mouth.

“God, that’s fuckin’ good,” He cradled your head and set his own pace, not too rough but far from gentle as you fought the urge to cough. The metal of his piercings were hot against your tongue, the heat unlike any other experience you’ve had before. Wrapping your tongue around him you intentionally hummed, the keening moan it brought from him more than worth the burn. Tears crowded near your eyelashes as he chased his own pleasure, breaking his gaze to crane his head back in ecstasy. His neck bobbed with the effort and the sight made you almost proud.

It was over far too soon and once he pulled away you almost missed the weight of him in your mouth. “I’m gonna fucking ruin you, hear me?” His words made you all too aware of how badly you needed him, but he continued to run his mouth as he pushed you up the sheets and took his place back on top of you, “Gonna fill you so good, babydoll,” He caged you beneath him and you whined at the feeling of his slick cock heavy against your thighs.

His hand cupped your jaw, forcing you to look at him. “Tell me, which do you want?” His blue eyes looked black in the feint light, staring at you with such an amused intensity that you didn’t even register what he said.

“What?”

Dabi tucked a strand of hair behind your ear before leaning closer and whispering, “My mouth? Or my fingers?”

You normally wouldn’t have been able to look him in the eye after he said that but liquid courage still ran through your veins and you leaned forward until you could nestle into the crook of his neck.

“Your fingers, Dabi,” You groaned as you felt his grip around your jawline move until his left hand curled around your neck and his right tore off your leggings before slipping below the waistband of your underwear. As soon as he touched you his eyes widened, a feral glint in his eyes.

“Fuck— Doll, you’re so fucking wet,” He squeezed your neck experimentally and the rush of endorphins sent to your head felt divine. It wasn’t to be outdone when you felt him circle your clit with his thumb, rushing into such a fast pace from the get-go. The onslaught of pleasure made a scratchy cry slip from under the grip of his hand. Wrapping your hands around his shoulders, you were almost thankful for the immovable grip around your neck. It served almost like an anchor to ground you underneath him.

He pulled a startled squeak from your throat when his two fingers pushed their way inside. It barely hurt, but the maddening feeling of his long fingers curling and stretching your walls was one you wouldn’t forget. Dabi shushed your eager cries with an endless stream of filth whispered into your ear, “Can’t wait to fuck my cum into you, dollface. You want that? You gonna be my good fucking slut?” He was downright mean as he took his time stringing you like a bow. “You wanna feel me drip out of you like a street whore?”

“Yes, Dabi, I’ll be good, I promise just please—” You were too far gone at that point, grabbing fist fulls of dark hair to yank him to your mouth, the kiss muffling his groan from you pulling on your hair. His index finger curled so slightly into you, the pace on your clit turning soft once he added his third finger. The sound he brought out of you was somewhere between a dying choke and euphoric moan, each sensation coaxing you into his touch. Feeling him move so easily within you was almost enough to bring you over, your whimpers increasing against his lips, only for all of it to be taken away.

Dabi left you grasping around nothing when he took his hands away, no doubt enjoying the desperate way you tried to rock yourself back onto him. Only when you did, you were met with something far bigger than his fingers.

“Come on...” When he called you by your name it brought you back to earth for a minute, “I want you to beg for me,” looking to see his heavy length pressed against you as he rubbed the glistening tip onto your clit. “You’re gonna beg for a villain to fuck you,” The promise of pleasure was so enticing that it was worth lying to the cops, worth risking your safety, and enough to toss your pride out the open window.

Grabbing him by his hair, you forced him to look at you. “Dabi, please, I need you... Need you in me ‘til you cum,” desperation and lust coated every sinful word you said, but Dabi wasn’t satisfied. “I wanna be good for you, Dabi, want you to fuck me, fill me up, ple-“ your words were cut off by the intense stretch of your walls trying to take him in. You’d never screamed someone’s name so loudly before in your life.

“Oh, fuck-! Shit... your pussy’s so fuckin’ tight,” As each inch sunk deeper you couldn’t speak or even breathe.

He wasn’t wasting any time, mercifully toying with your clit as he filled you. The air felt thin in your bedroom, like you were hundreds of feet from the ground, drawing short, shallow gasps beneath him.

“Da-bi!” His hips ground slowly against yours and you were suddenly thankful for his prepping, unable to come to grips with just how full you felt.

An overwhelmed laugh fell from his burnt lips as he slowly pulled himself from your dripping sex, “What’sa matter, babe? Can’t take it?”

The pout on your face only made him grin, the childish indignity adorable to him. But his teasing was starting to push you to your limits. He might’ve been a powerful villain and you a civilian, but it didn’t mean he had to treat you like glass. Hooking your legs around his waist you forced him forward. Dabi’s eyes shot open and both of you choked at the sharp friction. Any trace of playfulness died then and there, his knuckles turning white from the grip on your hips.

He kept your legs tight around him as he surged forward, your mouth caught open in a daze. You weren’t sure what his piercings would’ve felt like inside of you but god, was it good. The metal spokes impressed into your body with fervor, constantly dragging against your sensitive walls.

Tomorrow you might say that the wine was what drove you so crazy for him, but you knew you’d be lying to yourself. He was by far the most intoxicating libation you’d ever tried. The sound of skin against skin was almost deafening, only broken by the dulcet groans from the man above you and the siren that still echoed outside your widow like white noise. In the back of your mind you wondered if they were still searching for him.

Dabi leaned his head into the crook of your neck, revisiting the marks he’d already made. His teeth bit down your chest all the while abusing your aching clit. It was all too much. You couldn’t help clawing at his broad shoulders, leaving inflamed tracks in your wake. When your nails made contact with the scorched seam on his back Dabi moaned, the loud whine in his voice got you to realize something crucial. The motherfucker got off on pain.

His touch turned ravenous after that, pulling you tight against him until there wasn’t any space between your bodies. The rough texture of his skin-graphs and the blistering heat of their staples pushing against your breasts just made his brutal pace feel more intense.

Your voice was higher pitched than you’d ever thought you could manage, squeaking out small moans with every quick pulse of his hips. Your ankles were sore and locked together— he couldn’t have pulled out if he tried. The legs that were still wrapped around him twitched involuntarily as you felt the string inside your core about to snap.

“Fa.. fuck, Da—bi I’m—“ you stuttered against him, crying into his shoulder when you felt his pelvis grinding so perfectly onto your clit while he railed you, screaming his name one more time as he pulled you overboard, being sure to scratch at his back as you thrashed futilely against him.

All at once his teeth were buried into your throat, digging in so hard that you mistook his spit for blood; his bite only sharpening the orgasm that sent waves of heat coursing through you. Against your dented skin he groaned and cursed, his voice coarse but dripping with pleasure as he cursed expletives onto your shining skin. The wetness of your climax dripped down your legs, making him somehow push faster against you, but despite the blinding orgasm he’d thrown you into he couldn’t stop until he’d finished and the overstimulation burned white hot through your entire body. Just as the drive of his cock bordered on painful, Dabi shoved you down onto him, stilling above you and choking on a groan.

Twitching inside your cashmere walls you felt the warm rush of his cum paint your insides as his hips jerked into yours. His heart beat wildly against his chest— you could feel it over yours, his eyes still glazed with pleasure. Dabi was sure to pull out slowly, through the dim glow of your room he could see his cum seep out of your glistening pussy, and he couldn’t help but push his fingers inside you one last time. He might’ve liked pain, but he was an asshole who enjoyed the uncomfortable keen it brought from your trembling lips.

Thin moonlight shone through your window, illuminating the maze of blemishes that razed against his alabaster skin. It might’ve been because of the bleary tears that still half-clung to your eyelashes, but above you, with a winded smile on his torn-up face, he looked half a corpse and half a god.

“Still with me, baby?” He noticed your staring, teasing you by waving his hand in front of your face.

You felt almost high, all drowsy symptoms included, only responding to his question with a feint grin. The wine and the rough sex both made you exhausted in more ways than one, but before you could complain Dabi had shifted his weight off the bed.

“Nooo...” Admittedly you felt a little childish but you couldn’t help but pout as he grabbed his briefs and went to leave your bedroom.

Through the open doorway he’d said, “Just getting a towel, stay put.”

His absence gave you a second to think, staring up at the ceiling with a thousand opposing thoughts bidding for your attention. You just slept with a villain— a murderer. You might side with what he stands for but Dabi was still dangerous. He could’ve killed you tonight, after all. And yet, the only thing you could wonder was what was taking him so long.

Soon he returned wearing his boxers, carrying a heavy towel that he ran under the sink with warm water and took to cleaning the dribbling mess between your thighs. You cooed at his touch, the afterglow of your orgasm cleaned away until Dabi read the alarm clock on your bedside table. 4am.

“You know I can’t stay, right?” He asked bluntly, and you nodded, trying not to let the disappointment show too badly on your face.

“Villain stuff, huh?” You shrugged, curling up into your pillow. Dabi had to continue hunting down the rest of his shed clothes while he mumbled some kind of agreement.

He flashed you a grin while he zipped up his tattered jeans, “Doesn’t mean I won’t break in some other time, doll.” Relief spread through your fingertips once he said that, the weight disappearing from your shoulders.

Your content smile followed him as he threw that thick coat around his shoulders, walking up to your bedside and leaning low. You grinned, leaning forward and trying to catch him for one more kiss, only to be interrupted by the sound of something below you.

Looking down, you saw Dabi slapping a handful of crumpled bills on your end-table, that smug grin from earlier evident on his face. Without bidding you some kind of goodbye kiss he made his way to the open window, sparing you a glance before saying, “Buy some plan B, alright?”

You hadn’t even thought of it, grinning and waving him off as he swung himself onto the fire escape. The sounds of metal clanging against his boots faded away into the distant echoes of the city, and you brought your hand to your throat. Softly you traced the deep blemish his teeth had left behind, your smile turning giddy as you thought about his promise of another visit, but unfortunately the wine was still simmering through you and without Dabi to keep you awake your eyelids started to feel heavy.

Under your plush covers, you continued to cup your hand over the mark he left as you faded off into sleep, the siren that still echoed through the streets acting almost like a lullaby.

#dabi x reader #dabi x reader smut #smut #my hero academia #mha #dabi #touya todoroki #ao3 repost #touya x reader #mha headcanons #lov x reader

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imperiuswrecked · 2 years ago

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As a Namor entrepreneur, you may not like this question so I apologize, but how do you see Namors ending? I know he’s got lots of years to live but to see him in Conquered Shores older right next to the statue of his younger self, it made me feel a little sad lol. Do you think they will give him a happy ending? Do you see him finding a new love, perhaps have some kids? I feel bad for Namor because now that atlantis is rising he spent his younger years fighting surface dwellers so much to the point he built relationships with some and now they’re suffering and we can tell Namor feels somewhat sad too seeing them like that even tho he finally got atlantis where he wanted it to be at and if the dwellers were to come back it would just end up as back then (them mistreating the ocean and his people) it really hits the line of being from two worlds but belonging to none vibes all around which is kinda sad, regardless of all the struggles atlantis went through Namor never gave up on his people while the dwellers right now want to just disappear and die. The roles are reversed and it showed me how strong Namor is, he is/was such a great king

No worries, if I don't like or can't answer a question then I won't. It really depends on my free time to determine how fast I get replies out so even if you send something in, it might take me a bit to get to it.

I don't know what Cantwell has in store for Namor's ending in Namor: Conquered Shores, but I feel it will be satisfactory, not every ending has to be happy for it to be a good ending imo, sometimes sad ones makes the most sense/impact on the story.

While I would love to see Namor happy, even being a dad, and retire; I personally don't see that as ever happening for him simply because Namor is a tragic Byronic character, he isn't meant to have a happy ending, or for anything to go right for him. He's meant to be tormented and alone and dealing with the weight of his past. Doomed to walk the line between two worlds and never fully belonging to either. Which I love because when he does get moments of happiness it's so wonderful. But I'm fine with sad stuff because I love sadness, and angst.

Namor really is a GREAT character, and I'm so so so glad people are finally seeing that. By great character I don't mean Namor is perfect, he is very flawed, but his character is so interesting and just when you think you have him figured out there is another layer to him. Namor's compassion is never buried too deep in his salty heart, and all it takes is a chance for it to shine through and I love this series already because Cantwell isn't just giving us a Namor angry with the world as he is in his past/youth, he's giving us a side of Namor that rarely gets focused on in comics, he's showing us the quieter/introspective side of Namor and all he really wants is peace between his worlds and for his people to thrive.

The Defenders (1972) #53

It's just so interesting how everything is reversed because for the first time you do see the humans suffering how the Atlanteans suffered because of them, how their ocean homes were destroyed and unfit to live in, but because no one ever sided with the Atlantean POV it was never explored in such a way, like the amount of times "Atlantis is destroyed" in the comics is ridiculous.

I hope the rest of the series is great too.

#namor #namor the sub mariner #conquered shores #atlanteans #imp answers

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atlafan · 3 years ago

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Juvenile and Family Law, is it something that a kid dreams of practicing? No, not really. Is that where the big bucks are if you’re not interested in taxes and wills? Yes, it is. College is expensive, and so is law school; gotta pay it off somehow. It takes a while to build your clientele, a lot of it is word of mouth. You work your way up, and slowly but surely, build a good reputation for yourself. And if you’re lucky, you’ll make partner.

Harry Styles is good at his job, and is on the brink of making partner at his firm. Gallagher, Hilson & Associates Family Law is a great place to work. Isaiah Gallagher and Maria Hilson are two incredible lawyers, and the other associates Harry works with aren’t too bad either. He doesn’t always love working nearly sixty hours a week, and some of the cases he handles have caused him to see the bottom of one too many bottles, but other than that, he’s happy.

Family Law means working all kinds of cases. Custody, spousal support, paternity, and divorce. All of those cases are messy, rarely are they clean cut. Harry happens to specialize in divorce, which in turn can lead to all of the other things listed above. What’s worse is that a lot of his clients will often flirt with him, so he’s started to wear a fake wedding band to ward off any and all inappropriate behavior. It doesn’t happen every time, but it was often enough that he decided to find a way to just avoid the unwanted attention.

Due to how many hours he works a week, Harry’s social life is a little lackluster. By the time he gets home work, all he wants to do is kick his shoes off, plop down on the couch with some greasy Chinese food, and catch up on some television. He lives in a nice enough building in the city. His apartment has one bedroom, and one and half baths. On Friday nights, he’ll go out with some of the other associates for a drink, so he gets a bitof social time in. He’s not lonely, he actually quite enjoys the quiet and solitude. He’s got a cat, Gerry, short for Geraldine that he takes care of. He has what he needs, and he’s perfectly content.

Whenever he dates, people always want to talk about his work. The last thing Harry wants to talk about after a long day at work, is more work. So, he sticks to meaningless hookups, and his own hand, when he needs that type of release.

He doesn’t have too much to complain about. He’s thirty, and massively successful. Some of his friends still live at home while working retail jobs, not that he’s judging. He was twenty-six when he moved out, and he’s grateful his parents let him stay rent free so he could save up for his own place. He doesn’t like to compare himself to others, but it makes him feel good to know he’s all set. He works hard, yes, but it’s all worth it.

With how quiet his personal life is, it’s hard to imagine Harry being a shark in the courtroom, but he is. He’s a master in the art of persuasion and rhetoric. Having been a communication major in his undergrad career, and all. He knows how to read a room, and how to read people. The jury is just an audience waiting to watch a live performance. His theater minor also comes in handy here. Being a lawyer is an act, a role he plays. He knows how to play the part when it’s in a large courtroom, or when it’s just a small meeting in a conference room to divide up assets. It’s not always easy, but he makes it look that way. Harry typically wins most of his cases, and when it’s something small, he’s usually able to get his client the majority of what they asked for. Every customer leaves happy.

These skills can’t all be taught and learned. Some people are born with natural talent, skills they learn to hone in on and perfect. It’s a craft that Harry has worked on for years. Again, he’s only thirty, but because he has such precision and talent, it makes him the hot commodity. The office is constantly getting calls for him. It’s why they want him to become the next partner. Having his name on the plaque as you enter would surely put people at ease. Isaiah and Maria saw potential in Harry from the beginning, and they feel lucky that he’s one of their associates.

There other very qualified associates as well, like Niall – who specializes in custody cases – he’s well on his way up. There’s Candice – who specializes in prenuptial agreements – she got into the lawyer game a little later in life, but she’s as sharp as a whip, and shouldn’t be underestimated. And lastly, there’s Byron – who specializes in paternity cases – he thinks he’s going to be the next partner because he’s a bit full of himself.

Harry and Niall are the closest in age, so they hang out more often. They both really like baseball, and will go to a game or two during the season. Candice is the surrogate mother figure. She has no children of her own, she’s the fun aunt to her nieces and nephews, but she feels oddly maternal towards Harry and Niall. The boys often call her “Ma”, instead of her actual name, and she loves it. She looks out for them, and there when they need someone to listen. She’s fifty-seven, and enjoys baking in her free time. She often brings the boys homemade muffins on Monday mornings, and they adore her for it.

Byron…well…Byron is a forty-year-old womanizer who totally clashes with Harry. Does Harry have one-night stands? Yes. Does he ever lie to his partners? No. Byron enjoys playing the game in all facets, and Harry never takes part in it. Needless to say, Harry hates when he has to partner with him on a case, and avoids it when he can.

Isaiah and Maria each have their own executive assistant, or para: Michele and Kyla. They’re both in their late twenties, and rocking it. Harry only interacts with them over email. He, Candice, Niall, and Byron all share the same administrator: Ronnie. Ronnie is twenty-six, friendly, and organized. She doesn’t have time to help everyone on their briefs, but that’s what interns are for, and there’s an abundance of them circling throughout the office.

Harry has a nice office. Plenty of natural light from the windows, he has a desk riser so he can stand up periodically, and he even has his own mini fridge. (He’s often paranoid about people taking his Bubbly, so he just brought in his own fridge.) He’s got a decent enough view of the city; he likes it best at night when the twinkling lights come through. It reminds him of how lucky he is to be where he is in life. He knows he’s more fortunate than others, so he tries to be grateful. He gives back when he’s able, donate to different scholarship funds and whatnot.

Harry is a good man.

On a particularly cloudy morning, Ronnie lets Harry know his 10AM consult has arrived. He didn’t know much about his new potential client, but he was always willing to hear someone out. He stands up from his desk, and waits for the woman to enter.

In walks a young woman wearing an expensive, red pantsuit, black heels, and a dark red lipstick. She gives a soft smile to Ronnie before she closes the door. Harry walks over to her, extending his hand.

“Hi, I’m Harry.”

“Mira.” She shakes his hand.

“Please, have a seat.” He gestures to the two seats on the other side of his desk and they both sit. “What brings you to my office today?”

“I heard you’re a pretty good divorce lawyer, and I need a divorce.”

“Is your spouse aware that you’re seeking counsel?”

“No.” She shakes her head and swallows. “I…I’d be putting myself in danger if he knew I wanted to leave him.”

“What kind of danger? If he’s physically abusive, then you need to- “

“He doesn’t put his hands on me like that. It’s…I don’t love him, and I never have. I was essentially…I was sold to him; it was an arranged marriage. I thought maybe I could learn to like him, to love him, but it’s been three years, and I can’t stand him. I need legal help.”

“What do you mean you were sold to him? Were you a child bride? Were you sex trafficked?”

“No.” She chews on her bottom lip. “He made a deal with my father. Thomas got me in exchange for…something. I can’t get into what exactly with you just yet.”

“Does he think you’re happy?”

“Yes.” She nods. “Well, for the most part. I do my thing, and he does his. His job keeps him pretty busy, and I often pretend to be asleep when he gets home. He doesn’t satisfy my needs, so to speak, and I’ve given up on trying. I want to be freed from him.” She pulls out a packet of paper from her purse, and gives it to Harry. “That’s a copy of the contract he and my father signed when they made the deal. I’m not great with legal jargon. I thought maybe if you decide to take me on you could look that over and tell me if there’s any way, I can get out of this.”

“Are you over eighteen?”

“Yes, well over.”

“And were you over eighteen when you were married?”

“Yes.”

“Then how could your father barter you?”

“Where I come from…it can just be like that. The goods we get in exchange for my hand outweighed my happiness.”

“I’m so sorry.” Harry frowns. “My services aren’t exactly cheap.”

“I wouldn’t expect them to be. I can pay top dollar, if that’s what you require. I have money of my own.”

“Alright.” Harry sets the packet of papers onto his desk. “I’ll take a look at that soon, and give you a call.”

“Does that mean you’re taking me on?”

“I hate to see such a nice person be so unhappy.” Harry frowns. “I got into this business to help people, so I’ll help you, Mira.”

“Oh, thank you so much.” She smiles. “There are going to be some things in that contract that may shock you, so please don’t hesitate to call me directly with your questions.” She takes out a business card from her purse. “There’s all of my contact information. If anyone other than myself contacts you regarding all of this, don’t say a word.”

“Don’t worry, I’m good at keeping things confidential.”

“I heard you’re a very trustworthy attorney.” She nods, and stands to her feet. Harry does the same. “Thank you for taking the time to listen.” She extends her hand, and he takes it to shake.

“Of course, it’s what I’m here for.” He smiles and opens the door. He watches her leave, maybe for a little too long.

[DARK SIDED, COMING TO PATREON ON SATURDAY, OCTOBER 2ND @ 8AM EST] [Ask]

#dark sided #teaser #harry styles #harry styles au #harry styles imagine #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfic #harry styles x oc #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #harry styles angst #sub!Harry #lawyer!Harry

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thecarnivorousmuffinmeta · 3 years ago

Note

During the books Edward seems very sure that he would still love Bella even as she grew older. If she hadn't been a teenager during the books but older (20,30,...,80,90) do you think he would have still tricked himself into thinking he was in love or would he have eaten her immediately?

Ah, anon, you have hit the nail on the Edward head. But first, a brief dive into the mind of Edward Cullen. God help us.

Edward Does Not Love Bella

He believes he loves her, must believe, so, because to admit otherwise would be to become aware of exactly what he is. Which is not good. However, he doesn't love her, he doesn't even know her. He is in love with a fantasy he has painstakingly crafted for himself, where he can be the Byronic hero, while also luxuriating in that sweet scent.

But it was never love.

Notably, at first, he finds her plain and uninteresting. After he smells her, she becomes the source of obsession as well as his fury, as he blames her for his humiliation and ruining his life.

When Alice first suggests he's in love, he balks, then he jumps on it. Because if he's in love, then it's all okay. He's not obsessing over this girl, lusting after her scent, he's in love! Oh woe, he's in love with a human, how awfully tragic. He embraces this new word for his feelings with open arms.

For there is no other recourse for him.

And now, with that, back to your questions.

The Improbable Timeline Where Bella Ages

This wasn't going to happen in canon. By New Moon, Bella is on the Volturi radar, the timespan for her to remain human shortened from the rest of her natural life down to a matter of months. Bella never had the luxury of being able to hit twenty-five.

Of course, Edward's not admitting that, but it doesn't change the fact that it's moot point.

Edward would desperately convince himself he's still in love with Bella as she ages. This is the man he wants to be, someone who will love his significant other no matter what. And it... oddly works out, in horrifying ways.

I imagine as she gets old enough he starts treating her as a sort of mother figure, just as weird and obsessive, maybe still with all the cuddling, but any hint of sexuality fades from the equation.

Regardless, even if Edward's not into it he'll convince himself he is. Because ultimately she still smells delicious and he'll never let that high go, and if he's not interested in her as she ages...

Then his love wasn't very pure, was it?

Edward Meets a Significantly Older Bella

He eats her.

Either Bella's too old for him mentally if not physically, and as a result does not play her role. Or Bella's old enough such that the pretext of him wanting her romantically would not occur to him/he could not be convinced of it by Alice.

As a result, he would eventually eat her. Probably sooner rather than later. She was delicious. Om nom nom.

#twilight #twilight meta #twilight headcanon #twilight renaissance #twilight shipping #bella swan #edward cullen #anti edward cullen #edward/bella #anti edward/bella #meta #headcanon #opinion

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thecaffeinebookwarrior · 4 years ago

Text

The Importance of Antiheroes

By Brooksie C. Fontaine (me) and Sara R. McKearney

Few tropes are as ubiquitous as that of the hero. He takes the form of Superman, ethically and non-lethally thwarting Lex Luthor. Of Luke Skywalker, gazing wistfully at twin suns and waiting for his adventure to begin. In pre-Eastwood era films, a white Stetson made the law-abiding hero easily distinguishable from his black-hatted antagonists. He is Harry Potter, Jon Snow, T’Challa, Simba. He is of many incarnations, he is virtually inescapable, and he serves a necessary function: he reminds us of what we can achieve, and that regardless of circumstance, we can choose to be good. We need our heroes, and always will.

But equally vital to the life-blood of any culture is his more nebulous and difficult to define counterpart: the antihero. Whereas the hero is defined, more or less, by his morality and exceptionalism, the antihero doesn’t cleanly meet these criteria. Where the hero tends to be confident and self-assured, the antihero may have justifiable insecurities. While the hero has faith in the goodness of humanity, the anthero knows from experience how vile humans can be. While the hero typically respects and adheres to authority figures and social norms, the antihero may rail against them for any number of reasons. While the hero always embraces good and rejects evil, the antihero may do either. And though the hero might always be buff, physically capable, and mentally astute, the antihero may be average or below. The antihero scoffs at the obligation to be perfect, and our culture's demand for martyrdom. And somehow, he is at least as timeless and enduring as his sparklingly heroic peers.

Which begs the question: where did the antihero come from, and why do we need him?

The Birth of the Anti-Hero:

It is worth noting that many of the oldest and most enduring heroes would now be considered antiheroes. The Greek Heracles was driven to madness, murdered his family, and upon recovering had to complete a series of tasks to atone for his actions. Theseus, son of Poseidon and slayer of the Minotaur, straight-up abandoned the woman who helped him do it. And we all know what happened to Oedipus, whose life was so messed up he got a complex named after him.

And this isn’t just limited to Ancient Greece: before he became a god, the Mesoamerican Quetzalcoatl committed suicide after drunkenly sleeping with his sister. The Mesopotamian Gilgamesh – arguably the first hero in literature – began his journey as a slovenly, hedonistic tyrant. Shakespearian heroes were denoted with an equal number of gifts and flaws – the cunning but paranoid Hamlet, the honorable but gullible Othello, the humble but power-hungry MacBeth – which were just as likely to lead to their downfall as to their apotheosis.

There’s probably a definitive cause for our current definition of hero as someone who’s squeaky clean: censorship. With the birth of television and film as we know it, it was, for a time, illegal to depict criminals as protagonists, and law enforcement as antagonists. The perceived morality of mainstream cinema was also strictly monitored, limiting what could be portrayed. Bonnie and Clyde, The Good the Bad and the Ugly, Scarface, The Godfather, Goodfellas, and countless other cinematic staples prove that such policies did not endure, but these censorship laws divorced us, culturally, from the moral complexity of our most resonant heroes.

Perhaps because of the nature of the medium, literature arguably has never been as infatuated with moral purity as its early cinematic and T.V. counterparts. From the Byronic male love interests of the Bronte sisters, to “Doctor” Frankenstein (that little college dropout never got a PhD), to Dorian Grey, to Anna Karenina, to Scarlett O’Hara, to Holden Caulfield, literature seems to thrive on morally and emotionally complex individuals and situations. Superman punching a villain and saving Lois Lane is compelling television, but doesn’t make for a particularly thought-provoking read.

It is also worth noting, however, that what we now consider to be universal moral standards were once met with controversy: Superman’s story and real name – Kal El – are distinctly Jewish, in which his doomed parents were forced to send him to an uncertain future in a foreign culture. Captain America punching Nazis now seems like a no-brainer, but at the time it was not a popular opinion, and earned his Jewish creators a great deal of controversy. So in a manner of speaking, some of the most morally upstanding heroes are also antiheroes, in that they defied society’s rules.

This brings us to our concluding point: that anti-heroes can be morally good. The complex and sometimes tragic heroes of old, and today’s antiheroes, are not necessarily immoral, but must often make difficult choices, compromises, and sacrifices. They are flawed, fallible, and can sometimes lead to their own downfall. But sometimes, they triumph, and we can cheer them for it. This is what makes their stories so powerful, so relatable, and so necessary to the fabric of our culture. So without further ado, let’s have a look at some of pop-culture’s most interesting antiheroes, and what makes them so damn compelling.

Note: For the purposes of this essay, we will only be looking at male antiheroes. Because the hero’s journey is traditionally so male-oriented, different standards of subversiveness, morality, and heroism apply to female protagonists, and the antiheroine deserves an article all her own.

Antiheroes show us the negative effects of systematic inequalities (and what they can do to gifted people.)

As demonstrated by: Tommy Shelby from Peaky Blinders.

Why he could be a hero: He’s incredibly charismatic, intelligent, and courageous. He deeply cares for his loved ones, has a strict code of honor, reacts violently to the mistreatment of innocents, and demonstrates surprisingly high levels of empathy.

Why he’s an antihero: He also happens to be a ruthless, incredibly violent crime lord who regularly slashes out his enemies’ eyes.

What he can teach us: From the moment Tommy Shelby makes his entrance, it becomes apparent that Peaky Blinders will not unfold like the archetypical crime drama. Evocative of the outlaw mythos of the Old West, Tommy rides across a smoky, industrialized landscape. He is immaculately dressed, bareback, on a magnificent black horse. A rogue element, his presence carries immediate power, causing pedestrians to hurriedly clear a path. You get the sense that he does not conform to this time or era, nor does he abide by the rules of society.

The ONLY acceptable way to introduce a protagonist.

Set in the decades between World War I and II, Peaky Blinders differentiates itself from its peers, not just because of its distinctive, almost Shakespearian style of storytelling, powerful visual style, and use of contemporary music, but also in the manner in which it shows that society provokes the very criminality it attempts to vanquish. Moreover, it dedicates time to demonstrating why this form of criminality is sometimes the only option for success in an unfair system. When the law wants to keep you relegated to the station in which you were born, success almost inevitably means breaking the rules. Tommy is considered one of the most influential characters of the decade because of the manner in which he embodies this phenomenon, and the reason why antiheroes pervade folklore across the decades.

Peaky Blinders engenders a unique level of empathy within its first episodes, in which we are not just immersed in the glamour of the gangster lifestyle, but we understand the background that provoked it. Tommy, who grew up impoverished and discriminated against due to his “didicoy” Romany background, volunteered to fight for his country, and went to war as a highly intelligent, empathetic young man. He returned with the knowledge that the country he had served had essentially used him and others like him as canon fodder, with no regard for their lives, well-being, or future. Such veterans were often looked down upon or disregarded by a society eager to forget the war. Having served as a tunneler – regarded to be the worst possible position in a war already beset by unprecedented brutality – Tommy’s constant proximity to death not only destroyed his faith in authority, but also his fear of mortality. This absence of fear and deference, coupled with his incredible intelligence, ambition, ruthlessness, and strategic abilities, makes him a dangerous weapon, now pointed at the very society that constructed him to begin with.

It is also difficult to critique Tommy’s criminality, when we take into account that society would have completely stifled him if he had abided by its rules. As someone of Romany heritage, he was raised in abject poverty, and never would have been admitted into situations of higher social class. Even at his most powerful, we see the disdain his colleagues have at being obligated to treat him as an equal. In one particularly powerful scene, he begins shoveling horse manure, explaining that, “I’m reminding myself of what I’d be if I wasn’t who I am.” If he hadn’t left behind society’s rules, his brilliant mind would be occupied only with cleaning stables.

However, the necessity of criminality isn’t depicted as positive: it is one of the greatest tragedies of the narrative that society does not naturally reward the most intelligent or gifted, but instead rewards those born into positions of unjust privilege, and those who are willing to break the rules with intelligence and ruthlessness. Each year, the trauma of killing, nearly being killed, and losing loved ones makes Tommy’s PTSD increasingly worse, to the point at which he regularly contemplates suicide. Cillian Murphy has remarked that Tommy gets little enjoyment out of his wealth and power, doing what he does only for his family and “because he can.” Steven Knight cites the philosophy of Francis Bacon as a driving force behind Tommy’s psychology: “Since it’s all so meaningless, we might as well be extraordinary.”

This is further complicated when it becomes apparent that the upper class he’s worked so arduously to join is not only ruthlessly exclusionary, but also more corrupt than he’s ever been. There are no easy answers, no easy to pinpoint sources of societal or personal issues, no easy divisibility of positive and negative. This duality is something embraced by the narrative, and embodied by its protagonist. An intriguingly androgynous figure, Tommy emulated the strength and tenacity of the women in his life, particularly his mother; however, he also internalized her application of violence, even laughing about how she used to beat him with a frying pan. His family is his greatest source of strength and his greatest weakness, often exploited by his enemies who realize they cannot fall back on his fear of mortality. He feels emotions more strongly than the other characters, and ironically must numb himself to the world around him in order to cope with it.

However, all hope is not lost. Creator Steven Knight has stated that his hope is ultimately to redeem Tommy, so by the show’s end he is “a good man doing good things.” There are already whispers of what this may look like: as an MP, Tommy cares for Birmingham and its citizens far more than any “legitimate” politicians, meeting with them personally to ensure their needs are met; as of last season, he attempted a Sinatra-style assassination of a rising fascist simply because it was the right thing to do. “Goodness” is an option in the world of Peaky Blinders; the only question is what form it will take on a landscape plagued by corruption at every turn.

Regardless of what form his “redemption” might take, it’s negligible that Tommy will ever meet all the criteria of an archetypal hero as we understand it today. He is far more evocative of the heroes of Ancient Greece, of the Old West, of the Golden Age of Piracy, of Feudal Japan – ferocious, magnitudinous figures who move and make the earth turn with them, who navigate the ever-changing landscapes of society and refuse to abide by its rules, simultaneously destructive and life-affirming. And that’s what makes him so damn compelling.

Who needs traditional morality, when you look this damn good?

Other examples:

Alfie Solomons from Peaky Blinders. Tommy’s friend and sometimes mortal enemy, the two develop an intriguing, almost romantic connection due to their shared experiences of oppression and powerful intellects. Steven Knight has referred to Alfie as “the only person Tommy can really talk to,” possibly because he is Tommy’s only intellectual equal, resulting in a strange form of spiritual matrimony between the two.

Omar Little from The Wire, an oftentimes tender and compassionate man who cares deeply for his loved ones, and does his best to promote morality and idealism in a society which offers him few viable methods of doing so. He may rob drug dealers at gunpoint, but he also refuses to harm innocents, dislikes swearing, and views his actions as a method of decreasing crime in the area.

Chiron from Moonlight, a sensitive and empathetic young man who became a drug dealer because society had provided him with virtually no other options for self-sustenance. The same could be said for Chiron’s mentor and father figure, Juan, a kind and nurturing man who is also a drug dealer.

To a lesser extent, Tony from The Sopranos, and other fictional Italian American gangsters. The Sopranos often negotiates the roots of mob culture as a response to inequalities, while also holding its characters accountable for their actions by pointing out that Tony and his ilk are now rich and privileged and face little systematic discrimination.

Walter White from Breaking Bad – an underpaid, chronically disrespected teacher who has to work two jobs and still can’t afford to pay for medical treatment. More on him on the next page.

Antiheroes show us how we can be the villains.

As demonstrated by: Walter White from Breaking Bad.

Why he could be a hero: He’s a brilliant, underappreciated chemist whose work contributed to the winning of a Nobel Prize. He’s also forging his own path in the face of incredible adversity, and attempting to provide for his family in the event of his death.

Why he’s an antihero: In his pre-meth days, Walt failed to meet the exceptionalism associated with heroes, as a moral but socially passive underachiever living an unremarkable life. At the end of his transformation, he is exceptional at what he does, but has completely lost his moral standards.

What he can teach us: G.K. Chesterton wrote, “Fairy tales do not tell children that the dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children the dragons can be killed.” Following this analogy, it is equally important that our stories show us we, ourselves, can be the dragon. Or the villain, to be more specific, because being a dragon sounds strangely awesome.

Walter White of Breaking Bad is a paragon of antiheroism for a reason: he subverts almost every traditional aspect of heroism. From the opening shots of Walt careening along in an RV, clad in tighty whities and a gas mask, we recognize that he is neither physically capable, nor competent in the manner we’ve come to expect from our heroes. He is not especially conventionally attractive, nor are women particularly drawn to him. He does not excel at his career or garner respect. As the series progresses, Walt does develop the competence, confidence, courage, and resilience we expect of heroes, but he is no longer the moral protagonist: he is self-motivated, vindictive, and callous. And somehow, he still remains identifiable, which is integral to his efficacy.

But let us return to the beginning of the series, and talk about how, exactly, Walt subverts our expectations from the get-go. Walt is the epitome of an everyman: he’s fifty years old, middle class, passive, and worried about identifiable problems – his health, his bills, his physically disabled son, and his unborn baby. Whereas Tommy Shelby’s angelic looks, courage, and intellect subvert our preconceptions about what a criminal can be, Walt’s initial unremarkability subverts our preconceptions about who can be a criminal. The hook of the series is the idea that a man so chronically average could make and distribute meth.

Just because an audience is hooked by a concept, however, does not mean that they’ll necessarily continue watching. Breaking Bad could have easily veered into ludicrosity, if it weren’t for another important factor: character. Walt is immediately and intensely relatable, and he somehow retains our empathy for the entirety of the series, even at his least forgivable.

When we first meet Walt, his talents are underappreciated, he’s overqualified for his menial jobs, chronically disrespected by everyone around him, underpaid, and trapped in a joyless, passionless life in which the highlight of his day is a halfhearted handjob from his distracted wife. And to top it all off? He has terminal lung cancer. Happy birthday, Walt.

We root for him for the same reason we root for Dumbo, Rudolph, Harry Potter: he’s an underdog. The odds are stacked against him, and we want to see him triumph. Which is why it’s cathartic, for us and for Walt, when he finally finds a profession in which he can excel – even if that profession is the ability to manufacture incredibly high-quality meth. His former student Jesse Pinkman – a character so interesting that there’s a genuine risk he’ll hijack this essay – appreciates his skill, and this early appreciation is what makes his relationship with Jesse feel so much more genuine than Walt’s relationship with his family, even as their dynamic becomes increasingly unhealthy and Walt uses Jesse to bolster his meth business and his ego. This deeply dysfunctional but heartfelt father-son connection is Walt’s tether to humanity as he becomes increasingly inhumane, while also demonstrating his descent from morality. It has been pointed out that one can gauge how far-gone Walt is from his moral ideals by how much Jesse is suffering.

But to return to the initial point, it is imperative that we first empathize with Walt in order to adequately understand his descent. Aside from the fact that almost all characters are more interesting if the audience can or wants to empathize with them, Walt’s relatability makes it easy to understand our own potential for toxic and destructive behaviors. We are the protagonist of our own story, but we aren’t necessarily its hero.

Similarly, we understand how easily we can justify destructive actions, and how quickly reasonable feelings of anger and injustice swerve into self-indulgent vindication and entitlement. Walt claims to be cooking meth to provide for his family, and this may be partially true; but he also denies financial help from his rich friends out of spite, and admits later to his wife Skylar that he primarily did it for himself because he was good at it and “it made (him) feel alive.”

This also forces us to examine our preconceptions, and essentially do Walt’s introspections for him: whereas Peaky Blinders emphasize the fact that Tommy and his family would never have been able to achieve prosperity by obeying society’s laws, Walt feels jilted out of success he was promised by a meritocratic system that doesn’t currently exist. He has essentially achieved our current understanding of the American dream – a house with a pool, a beautiful wife and family, an honest job – but it left him unable to provide for his wife and children or even pay for his cancer treatment. He’s also unhappy and alienated from his passions and fellow human beings. With this in mind, it’s understandable – if absurd – that the only way he can attain genuine happiness and excel is through becoming a meth cook. In this way, Breaking Bad is both a scathing critique of our current society, and a haunting reminder that there’s not as much standing between ourselves and villainy as we might like to believe.

So are we all slaves to this system of entitlement and resentment, of shattered and unfulfilling dreams? No, because Breaking Bad provides us with an intriguing and vital counterpoint: Jesse Pinkman. Whereas Walt was bolstered with promises that he was gifted and had a bright future ahead of him, Jesse was assured by every authority figure in his life that he would never amount to anything. However, Jesse proves himself skilled at what he’s passionate about: art, carpentry, and of course, cooking meth. Whereas Walt perpetually rationalizes and shirks responsibility, Jesse compulsively takes responsibility, even for things that weren’t his fault. Whereas Walt found it increasingly acceptable to endanger or harm bystanders, Jesse continuously worked to protect innocents – especially children – from getting hurt. Though Jesse suffered immensely throughout the course of the show – and the subsequent movie, El Camino – the creators say that he successfully made it to Alaska and started a carpentry business. Some theorists have supposed that Jesse might be a Jesus allegory – a carpenter who suffers for the sins of others. Regardless of whether this is true, it is interesting, and amusing to imagine Jesus using the word “bitch” so often. Though he didn’t get the instant gratification of immediate success that Walt got, he was able to carve (no pun intended – carpentry, you know) a place for himself in the world.

Jesse isn’t a perfect person, but he reminds us that improving ourselves and creating a better life is an option, even if Walt’s rise to power was more initially thrilling. So take heart: there’s a bit of Heisenberg in all of us, but there’s also a bit of Jesse Pinkman.

The savior we all need, but don’t deserve.

Other examples:

Bojack from Bojack Horseman. Like Walt, the audience can’t help but empathize with Bojack, understand his decision-making, and even see ourselves in him. However, the narrative ruthlessly demonstrates the consequences of his actions, and shows us how negatively his selfishness and self-destructive qualities impact others.

Again, Tony Soprano. Tony, even at his very worst, is easy to like and empathize with. Despite his position as a mafia Godfather, he’s unfailingly human. Which makes the destruction caused by his actions all the more resonant.

Antiheroes emphasize the absurdity of contemporary culture (and how we must operate in it.)

As demonstrated by: Marty Byrde from Ozark.

Why he could be a hero: He’s a loving father who ultimately just wants to provide for and ensure the safety of his family. He’s also fiercely intelligent, with excellent negotiative, interpersonal, and strategic skills that allows him to talk his way out of almost any situation without the use of violence.

Why he’s an antihero: He launders money for a ruthless drug cartel, and has no issue dipping his toes into various illegal activities.

Why he’s compelling: Marty is an antihero of the modern era. He has a remarkable ability to talk his way into or out of any situation, and he’s also a master of using a pre-constructed system of rules and privileges to his benefit.

In the very first episode, he goes from literally selling the American Dream, to avoiding murder at the hands of a ruthless drug cartel by planning to launder money for them in the titular Ozarks. Despite his long history of dabbling in illegality, Marty has no firearms – a questionable choice for someone on the run from violent drug kingpins, but a testament to his ability to rely on his oratory skills and nothing else. He doesn’t hesitate to engage an apparently violent group of hillbillies to request the return of his stolen cash, because he knows he can talk them into giving it back to him. The only time he engages other characters in physical violence, he immediately gets pummeled, because physical altercation has never been his form of currency. Not that he’s subjected to physical violence particularly often, either: Marty is a master of the corporate landscape, which makes him a master of the criminal landscape. He is brilliant at avoiding the consequences of his actions.

It’s easy to like and admire Marty for his cleverness, for being able to escape from apparently impermeable situations with words as his only weapon. He’s got a reassuring, dad-ly sort of charisma that immediately endears the viewer, and offers respite from the seemingly endless threats coming from every direction. He unquestionably loves his family, including his adulterous wife. As such, it’s easy to forget that Marty is being exploited by the same system that exploits all of us: crony capitalism. The polar opposite of meritocratic capitalism – in which success is based on hard work, ingenuity, and, hence the name, merit – crony capitalism benefits only the conglomerates that plague the global landscape like cancerous warts, siphoning money off of workers and natural capital, keeping them indentured with basic necessities and the idle promise of success.

Marty isn’t benefiting from his hard work in the Ozarks. Everything he makes goes right back to the drug cartel who continuously threatens the life of him and his family. He is rewarded for his efforts with a picturesque house, a boat, and the appearance of success, but he is not allowed to keep the fruits of his labor. Marty may be an expert at navigating the corporate and criminal landscape, but it still exploits him. In this manner, Marty embodies both the American business, the American worker, and a sort of inversion of the American dream.

In this same manner, Marty, the other characters, and even the Ozarks themselves embody the modern dissonance between appearance and reality. Marty’s family looks like something you’d respect to see on a Christmas card from your DILF-y, successful coworker, but it’s bubbling with dysfunctionality. His wife is cheating on him with a much-older man, and instead of confronting her about it, he first hired a private investigator and then spent weeks rewatching the footage, paralyzed with options and debating what to do. The problem somewhat solves itself when his wife’s lover is unceremoniously murdered by the cartel, and Wendy and Marty are driven into a sort of matrimonial business partnership motivated by the shared interest of protecting their children, but this also further demonstrates how corporate even their family dealings have become. His children, though precocious, are forced to contend with age-inappropriate levels of responsibility and the trauma of sudden relocation, juxtaposed with a childhood of complete privilege up until this point.

Conversely, the shadow of the Byrde family is arguably the Langmores. Precocious teenagers Ruth and Wyatt can initially be shrugged off as local hillbillies and budding con-artists, but much like the Shelby family of the Peaky Blinders, they prove to be extremely intelligent individuals suffering beneath a society that doesn’t care about their stifled potential. Systemic poverty is a bushfire that spreads from one generation to the next, stoked by the prejudices of authority figures and abusive parental figures who refuse to embrace change out of a misguided sense of class-loyalty.

Almost every other character we meet eventually inverts our expectations of them: from the folksy, salt-of-the-earth farmers who grow poppies for opium and murder more remorselessly than the cartel itself, to the cookie-cutter FBI agent whose behavior becomes increasingly volatile and chaotic, to the heroin-filled Bibles handed out by an unknowing preacher, to the secrets hidden by the lake itself, every detail conveys corruption hidden behind a postcard-pretty picture of tranquility and success.

Marty’s awareness of this illusion, and what lurks behind it, is perhaps the greatest subversion of all. Marty knows that the world of appearance and the world of reality coexist, and he was blessed with a natural talent for navigating within the two. Like Walter White, Marty makes us question our assumptions about who a criminal can be – despite the fact that many successful, attractive, middle-aged family men launder money and juggle criminal activities, it’s still jarring to witness, which tells us something about how image informs our understanding of reality. Socially privileged, white-collar criminals simply have more control over how they’re portrayed than an inner-city gang, or impoverished teenagers. However, unlike Walt, Marty’s criminal activities are not any kind of middle-aged catharsis: they’re a way of life, firmly ingrained in the corporate landscape. They were present long before he arrived on the scene, and he knows it. He just has to navigate them.

Just like our shining, messianic heroes can teach us about truth, justice, and the American way, so too does each antihero have something to teach us: they teach us that society doesn’t reward those who follow its instructions, nor does it often provide an avenue of morality. Even if you live a life devoid of apparent sin, every privilege is paid for by someone else’s sacrifice. But the best antiheroes are not beacons of nihilism – they show us the beauty that can emerge from even the ugliest of situations. Peaky Blinders is, at its core, a love story between Tommy Shelby and the family he crawled out of his grave for, just as Breaking Bad is ultimately a deeply dysfunctional tale of a father figure and son. Ozark, like its predecessors, is about family – the only authenticity in a society that operates on deception, illusion, and corruption. They teach us that even in the worst times and situations, love can compel us, redeem us, bind us closer together. Only then can we face the dragons of life, and feel just a bit more heroic.

Other examples:

Don Draper from Mad Men. A similarly Shakespearian figure for the modern era, Don is a man who appears to have everything – perfect looks, a beautiful wife and children, a prestigious job. He could have stepped out of an ad for the American Dream. And yet, he feels disconnected from his life, isolated from others by the very societal rules he, as a member of the ad agency, helps to propagate. It helps that he’s literally leading a borrowed life, inherited from the stolen identity of his deceased fellow soldier, and was actually an impoverished, illegitimate farmboy whose childhood abuse permanently damaged his ability to form relationships. The Hopper-esque alienation evoked by the world of Mad Men really deserves an essay all it’s own, and his wife Betty �� whose Stepford-level mask of cheerful subservience hides seething unhappiness and unfulfilled potential – is a particularly intriguing figure to explore. Maybe in my next essay, on the importance of the antiheroine.

#my writing tips #writing tips #tommy shelby #peaky blinders #walter white #breaking bad #jesse pinkman #bojack horseman #don draper #writing advice #antihero #the types of antiheroes #long post for ts

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