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sleepyfan-blog · 1 month

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Rotten Hope (1)

Author’s note: Part one of the Typhus x Reader fics. I blame you all for the botflies that have spawned because of this. Next

Tagged: @ms--lobotomy @egrets-not-regrets @the-pure-angel @whorety-k @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan

Warnings: fictional illness, quarantine, bodily fluids, body horror, vomiting, please ask me to tag anything that makes you uncomfortable that I missed

Summary: Illness ravages the sector you’ve been quarantined in. Desperate for help as supplies dwindle, you psychically reach out to a nearby Astartes Librarian, who promises to bring aid.

word count: 2, 677 words

In your centuries of life, you’d seen many things. Glorious heights and dizzying lows… But this creeping, miserable sickness that weakened the bodies and minds of the non-perpetual humans around you was a whole new kind of awful that you’d have been happy to have never seen ever. You’d established yourself on this world as a mid-level rogue trader before the quarantine had gone in place. You were wealthy, yes, but not Very Well Known, as your perpetual nature might attract the attention of the Inquisition, and you’d spent long enough dodging their knives and gang-pressing into their service last century, thank you very much.

You’d funded the research project into trying to combat and cure the horrible illness that started as excessive lethargy and the inability to focus on any one task for more then a handful of minutes. After a week or two of low energy, the person afflicted with this disease would suddenly get a strong burst of energy and the desire to go out and interact with as many people as possible, alongside a minor cough and the occasional but regular sneeze. After a week of increased energy, a terrible fever would strike, alongside a bright red rash that appeared across an afflicted person’s back, neck and shoulders.

The rash was incredibly itchy and, if scratched, oozed puss that was highly contaminated and spread the illness just as quickly as sneezing or coughing directly on another person did. It took another week for the rash to spread fully across an afflicted person’s body, with pustules appearing wherever a person scratched that often burst painfully, before regrowing. Within a month over half of the total population of the world you’d been visiting had caught the illness and were suffering through one of the first three stages of the illness. That was when the planetary governor instated the quarantine, even as the rash spread across her cheeks and faces, enforced by the arbites and the astra militarum in hazmat gear.

The governor had also sent out a shelter in place order, with rations being delivered to the shelters of the living at regular intervals, to further discourage anyone from breaking the stay in place order. Those who did not have permanent housing of their own were put up in hotel rooms for no cost. The medical and medical research staff on world who had not fallen to the illness were working frantically to come up with either a cure or at least a treatment that would delay the onset of further symptoms…

Especially as after the pustules on an afflicted person’s body had burst and reformed over half of their skin, they had to be put in full-body restraints, as otherwise the altered mental state that the sickness-afflicted person went into was both violent and difficult to stop with anything less than using lasgun rounds to each of their joints and melta-flames to prevent the gushing spurts of puss that sprayed from those wounds from covering everything in a ten foot radius in grey, highly infectious bodily fluids that stunk so badly of rot and death that made anyone improperly attired vomit. While in this violent state, if the infected person or people weren’t properly restrained, they tried to infect as many people as they could by forcibly trying to smear the puss into the eyes, mouth, or nose of any uninfected they could reach.

You’d used your contacts made as a Rogue Trader to desperately call for aid in combatting this illness… There was also the fact that, should things continue as they were, within about six months, all of the emergency stores of rations would be depleted, as the ill still needed to be fed, no matter how violent they became. Not that the sick seemed to be able to die of the infection itself - the only fatalities that had happened were due to the arbites having to kill the infected who broke free of their restraints and tried to infect the healthy.

You… You weren’t sure the fact that the sick weren’t able to die of the illness that ravaged their bodies and minds was a good thing, especially as both medical supplies and rations began to run low. You’d contacted your friends and allies you’d made as a rogue trader and found out that the fucking Inquisition had declared the entire system a no-go zone. Oh, the callous bastards were watching as the healthy of this and the other five living worlds scrambled and tried to keep themselves from succumbing to the illness they were trying to research a cure or at least treatments to ease the worst of the symptoms… But they refused to send so much as an unmanned ship of medical or standard rations, much less anything that would truly help the situation.

Bastards!

You did have ways of sending encoded messages to others that the Inquisitors who were heartlessly watching the people of this system suffer and break under the onslaught of this illness couldn’t intercept and stop. While you were still wary of the genetically altered creations of Neoth’s, you were keenly aware that many of the Adeptus Astartes who roamed the stars did try to protect humanity to the best of their abilities and many of them despised the Inquisition and would come to help in order to spite whichever Ordo of the inquisition was withholding aid to this system… Doing so, however, required that you use some of the psychic gifts that you used as sparingly as possible, in order to avoid detection as the powerful psyker you were.

Dodging curious Astartes Librarians was a small price to pay for aid for the mortals suffering in utter agony all around you… Which was why you settled down into a meditative pose, sitting comfortably on your ship, the murmurs of your frightened crew and anxieties a background hum that you needed to ignore in order to reach out psychically. You had been on semi-friendly terms with Neoth before he’d been interred onto the Golden Throne and did your best to guide humanity towards a better future in whatever ways you could… You also had the verifiable command codes that would prove you were a high ranking - if secret - member of the Imperial Hierarchy when you came into contact with an Astartes Librarian.

You began your psychic search for an astartes librarian with caution - aware that the Inquisition had their own psykers and you had no desire to reveal yourself to them if at all possible. Time passed as you searched for the particular blend of determination, training and psycho-indoctrination that marked an Astartes Librarian, your mind wandering further and further from your body.

You could not say how long it took you to find him, but he was a powerful psyker, and held the strict discipline of an Astartes. You lightly tapped on his walls - a silent request to speak, making sure that your pressure against his mind was just enough to be felt, while just as clearly also not being an attack of some kind.

Less than a second passed before his mind focused on you. You could feel the way his mental presence shifted and stretched, grabbing a rough hold on your consciousness, turning you this way and that, buzzing with confusion and curiosity - and a little bit of indignance that a stranger would dare touch his mind in such a way. {WHO ARE YOU? WHY ARE YOU REACHING OUT TO ME?} He eventually sent coherently.

You explain who you are, giving the psychic imperial codes that would prove who you were as well, before explaining {The inquisition refuses to allow any aid to come to the system I am in. A terrible illness has infected over ninety percent of the populations of the system I am in. The remaining healthy people are doing their best to try and find a cure or at least treatments for this disease. I am immune, but that’s because I am a perpetual. The immunity I enjoy is not something I can share with others.}

The Astartes Librarian’s mind surged back and forth, thoughts and emotions swirling together in a chaotic hurricane that you could only catch bits and pieces of, though you were trying not to peer too deeply into his mind - it was rude to do that without permission after all - and tried not to get overwhelmed by the intensity of his presence. {And so you sought me out because?}

{Most Astartes and the Inquisition do not get along for… Many reasons. I sought to call for help from an astartes whose mind I could communicate with. Please… the mortals are suffering terribly, though the illness does not seem to let them die…} You plead, offering up the memories you have of the terrible illness ravaging through the near half-dozen worlds.

The screams of the deeply afflicted as they throw themselves bodily at the healthy. Teeth and puss smearing against glass and plastic face plates. The awful coughing and sneezing. The low medical supplies and even fewer rations and food that was edible. The fact that the disease had mutated and afflicted the livestock and domestic animals, causing further vectors of infection and misery.

{You are a perpetual Rogue Trader, mm? Caught between this illness and the Inquisition, unable to help, unable to flee. Very well. You’re in luck. I am in command of many brothers, and our… Specialty allows us a unique perspective into the nature of illness. We can bring all the aid these mortals needs. But in exchange, you will come with me, without fuss, without fighting. I have never met a perpetual before, except for the Emperor Himself, and I am… Curious.} Teh Atartes rumbles, his mind still wrapped tight around yours.

You sense he has a number of motives he is hiding from you… But you’re also quite certain that he believes that he is telling the truth when he says that he can help the mortals suffering and agonizing in rotting, miserable stasis all around you. {Yes, I promise to go with you and your brothers without fuss after the people here are healed and well taken care of.}

The pleased rumble he makes and the way his mind caresses yours before letting you go back to your own mind makes you shiver and warmth suffuse through you {I look forward to our meeting, perpetual. You will know when I arrive with my brothers. If my younger brothers give you trouble, tell them that Typhus asked you, little Isha, to come to him.}

You’re not sure why his name - and the name Isha - bother you. Warning bells ring faintly in the back of your mind, but you can’t quite place why. That and the desperation to get actual help fuels your relief {I understand. About when do you anticipate on arriving?}

{Again, you’re in luck, lovely flower. I and my brothers should arrive within the next month. Two on the outside, if the Inquisitors at the edges of the system you are in actually prove troublesome.} The astartes promises. Something buzzes beneath the surface of his mind, but you do not press, grateful beyond words for his aid. His mind squeezes around your tightly. His rifling through your memories is a little rough, and catches you off, as he gets from you where you are in the galaxy. {Yes, I will be there soon. The mortals’ torments will soon be at an end. You should return to your body, I can sense your exhaustion.}

You grumble a little to yourself, but he’s not wrong. This kind of extended mental contact with another person over such long distances in space is wearing on you. You withdraw from his mind and tumble back into your own body before exhaustion drags you into sleep.

“My lady! My lady, Lord Angels have arrived, and have been distributing food and medical aid to the sick and injured. They… Their armor is rather terrifying, I’ll admit, but their aid has been nothing but true and good. Their first captain has asked to speak with you, as soon as you are able.” Your second in command called out, between knocking rapidly on the door to your personal quarters, waking you out of the troubled dream that had been tormenting you.

Gilded flames had lapped at your feet, threatening to consume your body as creeping green rot choked your lungs and turned the mortals you’d been working alongside to agonized piles of mush and misery. You mentally shook yourself as you respond “I’ll be out to meet him as soon as I get dressed properly! Tell him I’ll be ready in about fifteen minutes.”

You’re already stumbling out of bed and over to your extensive clothes’ closet. Considering the direness of the situation, you hope that the lord angel would forgive the fact that you’re going to be wearing simple clothes beneath the hazmat suit that while you do not need, you wear anyways when going outside, so as to not bring the disease back and potentially infect the mortal crew around you. You pick out a simple shirt and pants combo, along with sensible lslhoes that will fit inside the boots of the hazmat suit, not bothering with any make-up or jewelry, dressed well enough in under five minutes.

It takes three minutes for your to sprint your way through the ship, everyone else clearing way for you to get to the cargo hold, slugging back a small shot of recaff and breakfast rations handed to you by your SIC just before you get suited up into the hazmat suit (Which takes most of the remaining time you told the first captain you’d need to be ready to see him). Just as you step out of your ship, you ask your loyal and stalwart second in command “Which chapter are they from?” Depending on which chapter they were from, you could have a guess as to what the first captain might want of you.

“They say that they are part of the Death Guard legion, ma’am.” Your second in command revealed, oblivious to the bone-deep panic and horror washing through you. “I don’t recognize their markings or heraldry, but they’ve been an enormous boon so far.”

No! No no no… “Have any of you taken anything that he Death Guard has offered you? No matter how small?” You ask, terror and failure acrid tastes in your mouth. How had you not noticed the taint of chaos in his mind at the time?

“Not yet, as our stores have been fine. Is something wrong, ma’am?” He asks, a worried frown appearing on his face. He can see the fear in your face.

Damn, need to work on your mask, which you quickly put on, radiating confidence “OH… I just… don’t accept anything they give you, if possible. As soon as I start talking to the first captain, take off and activate the warp drive and get as far away from this system as possible. I can… I can guess what they want with me, and as of now, I am resigning my duties as a Rogue Trader. Everything I own, all of my titles, rights and responsibilities I bequeath to you. FLy far, and fly well.”

“W.. What? My lady? I won’t just leave you-” He splutters.

You shake your head angrily and hiss “I was the one who contacted them, believing them to be angels! But they are not! They are demons! They feed on illness and misery, delighting in strive and causing Chaos wherever they go. I have gotten their foul attention and cannot escape, but you and our crew have a chance to escape. Please, take it. I will endure.”

“I… As you command, my lady. I’ll begin preparations to leave now.” Your former second in command acknowledges, bowing his head forward, trembling a little in the fear that you can’t allow yourself to feel as you leave your ship, walking toward your grim fate with your head held high, despite your trembling hands.

#cw illness #cw vomiting #cw bodily fluids #cw pustules #warhammer 40k #my writing #reader insert #perpetual reader #typhus the traveler #death guard

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echoesofwisdomcountdown · 1 year

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89 Days Until Tears of the Kingdom Release. The Trailer Breakdown is here. Sorry Tumblr killed the image quality. This is Part Two, Part One is HERE.

Same Warning Applies: This will be obscenely long. I have spent hours of my life on this and I even went around Hyrule in BOTW to double check things. I have also watched only one reaction/analysis video (Limcube) whose ideas I reference a few times but the rest is all me. Now, I know many of the oddities and differences could easily be explained by saying we time travel into the past but I’m going to approach this for the most part as if we are not time traveling because it's more fun this way. Also, the colors refer to the corresponding arrows/circles on the image above it.

General thoughts: Another picture of a cube man because you can bet your life savings that I’m gonna try and run up this thing's arm. I wanna climb on top of it and recreate some anime scenes. Can’t wait to scuttle up its arms like a particularly annoying mouse and stand on its shoulders going hehe can’t hit me now can you? Can y’all tell I’m hyped for this fucking game. Also, watching Link backflip frame by frame was super cool. Pink: What kind of rusty ass sword are you using Link? Unless it's just crudely made.

General thoughts: So I’ve seen people argue for Demise and others argue for Twilight Princess Ganondorf. Admittedly, that big hole in his chest reminds me of the way TP Link stabs Ganon in the chest at the end of the game. However, I’m of the opinion that this is probably Ganondorf but one that is far closer to being Demise. Ordering his servants to wipe everyone out is big Demise vibes.

General thoughts: The cracked Hyrule crest right in front of the malice consumed castle is kinda a dick move Nintendo. Great shot but a dick move. Hyrule is suffering.

General thoughts: Someone should edit this part with Ganondorf screaming. He’s doing a screech pose or maybe an evil laughter pose. Or maybe an ow my back pose. Whatever, everything is crumbling.

General thoughts: Jumpscare. Seriously, this part was still super creepy even going frame by frame. The eyes look the same as those Calamity eyes which you shot with arrows in BOTW. Maybe Ganondorf’s body is being possessed.

General thoughts: Wow we sure are high up. It’s like looking out an airplane window. Words: Zelda says “But Link, I’m not sure you’ll be able to stop him.” This line really makes me think that we will be dealing with a Ganondorf that’s closer to Demise’s power level. I’m hoping for a tough and epic final fight then. Nintendo, you are basically promising us a harder game so I hope you deliver.

General thoughts: We are over death mountain and man what a view Blue: That cube is freaking taunting me. It’s in so many frames. I wonder if we can climb the outside of it. Red: This really long multi piece vertical island thing is even weirder than the cube. It’s the weirdest island by far in my opinion. Just had a thought about ragdoll physics and hitting every piece on the way down, ouch. Green: Neat that you can see the tower shine from way up here.

General thoughts: And the epic music hits here as Link free falls. The islands in the back sure have some interesting shapes (I literally cannot stop mentioning the islands. I really wanna explore.) Green: Taking the chance to mention these glowing green cylinders. I know we’ve seen them already but what the hell are they for? Also why are the bottom four empty and shorter than the top ones? Are we gonna have to collect eight things or are the top four like charges of power that replenish over time after we use them? Pink: I can’t thank Nintendo enough for the cool hood with gold buttons. Stylish.

General thoughts: Closer look at Link makes me realize that this new outfit is very much a combination of the Champion’s Tunic and the Hylian Tunic. It looks really good.

Red: These threads? ropes? descending from islands. What the heck are they? Are they purely visual or can we climb them or do they serve some other purpose? Maybe they are tying the island to the ground so it doesn’t float away. In that case, can you imagine an island where if the wind blows the ground moves? I mean the Twilight Princess area in the sky had gusts of wind that tried to push you off so maybe Nintendo will re-use that.

Pink: I saw this area and got so excited on call with a friend, lol. I was like I KNOW THIS PLACE as if TOTK isn’t reusing parts of the BOTW map. Yeah, it’s the area near the road to Hateno but on the opposite side of the river, Cliffs of Quince.

Note: I climbed around the Pillars of Levia and Dueling Peaks to compare the area from far away. Then I walked around the Cliffs of Quince (and accidentally triggered a talus fight) and nearby just to do more comparisons. Pink: Hateno Tower should be here but it is, like the others, missing. Green: The new tower thing is not in the same place which means we shouldn’t expect them to be one to one. Blue: This is probably a malice pool but it looks like it’s sinking into the ground. Limcube mentioned that it might be a hole in the ground which you would use to travel to an underground section which is an interesting idea. Would that mean you could enter Death Mountain and go to the center? Anyway, this is, as far as I can tell, on top of Meda Mountain. Yellow: You can just barely make out Dueling Peaks stable. Nice to see the stable system still up and running… probably Red: To me it looks as if the broken guardians in Hateno field are gone. Maybe Zelda and Link had them cleared away in the aftermath of BOTW which would be understandable considering he died there and it’s a potentially dangerous area for wandering travelers. Another option is that Ganon resurrected them to be fully functioning guardian stalkers or brand new guardian enemies but that’s a worse case scenario.

General thoughts: The symbols. Who put them there and what are they for? Every time I see them I’m seized with a burning desire to know. I’m suspecting Zonai involvement. At the very least, they do make for a pretty sight. Blue: Towers but they aren’t glowing. Does that mean these are already activated towers? Green: New enemy camp sitting in water. Looks like they stacked three skulls on top of each other which props to the monsters for that feat. Red: The cube continues to haunt me.

Blue: First thing I noticed was the glowing hand. Link’s new hand seems to only glow when he’s using his new powers. So is this new tracker arrow part of the new powers? I’m struggling to see how it fits together exactly. Do you need to use the new arrow type plus the hand’s power in conjunction? Can you use the hand’s power on other types of arrows? Red: Looks like a cave entrance. I mean it’s practically confirmed at this point that we get to explore both the skies and beneath the ground. Sadly, I think this might rule out exploring underwater but I can still hope. Yellow: Odd rocks again I think. They really seem to be scattered across most of Hyrule.

Note: I found this place in BOTW. Apple trees and all. It’s slightly North of Irch Plain on the map. I fought a Silver Lynel so it wouldn’t bother me while I was comparing. Red: It’s my old friend the cube. Green: The enemy camp is not there in BOTW.

Blue: FUUUUUCK YEAAAAH SHIELD SKATEBOARDING. This is beyond cool and amazing and I can’t wait to travel the rails like this. I wonder if it's going to be like the mine cart game in Skyward Sword and whether or not you’ll need to worry about balance. Pink: Also I’m pretty sure this is Death Mountain but with less death?? I mean the lava seems to be gone which I guess makes sense with the malice but it's still an odd sight. Green: Different odd rock from the past ones. I wonder what this is for and if we can blow it up or break it open. Red: Why’s the man standing there like that? Idk it looks a little funny since I’m so used to bokoblins and lizalfos standing on the lookout platforms, not moblins.

Green: I’m pretty sure these are the pieces of that hovercraft we see later in the trailer. We are probably going to have to build that thing by collecting all the pieces. I wonder if we have to give them to someone to build it for us or will it just automatically assemble once we have all the parts. Pink: Kinda rude that they put a box there. Let Link skateboard down the rails in peace.

Red: Storm tornado. This and the cube haunt me in this trailer way too much. It’s like Vah Medoh in the sky just begging you to check it out. Yellow: The red and blue directional arrows are very interesting and tell me that we can move this mechanism horizontally and vertically. It also looks like motion controls which ugh the motion control puzzles in BOTW were not my favorite. Another interesting thing is that we are using Link’s new arm instead of a Sheikha terminal and that this big green ring kinda reminds me of one of those terminals. The comparison makes sense since Link is moving the structure behind it by manipulating the currently glowing green ring.

General thoughts: Again we are so clearly underground. There’s even stalactites. Green: I’d bet ten bucks there is a Korok hiding under that rock. Red: What are these glowing spots? Pink: This is one hell of a luminous ore deposit. I wonder how much that spot is worth in rupees.

General thoughts: Now this weapon is truly insane. I will be acquiring one as soon as possible because it’s like an ancient Zonai missile launcher. There is also no way that the durability system is taken away because I know that Nintendo will not let us have this forever. There has to be some sorta drawback. Either it needs fuel or it takes a long time to recharge or something. Green: Note that Link’s hand is not glowing so he isn’t using the arm’s power for this weapon. Pink: It looks like a freaking black hole. I will feel so badass with this weapon.

Note: I went into BOTW and launched myself from high places/jumped from different heights just so I could hit the attack button while holding a Royal Claymore and compare the flip and slam down that Link does with this weapon. I broke that Claymore but it was for science. As far as I can tell it's the same animation as what's in the trailer. General thoughts: Since this is the second weapon we’ve seen with some kind of homing aspect (this thing aimed right for the talus’s weak spot) I wonder how that works. Is it related to the lock on function? I mean I know from messing around with instant flurry rushes that you can essentially set a target in BOTW so maybe it has something to do with that.

First thoughts: HYLIA!!?? Either her or some other deity because this shot just makes me think of divinity. Second thoughts: It could be Zelda but is it BOTW Zelda or some past Princess (I’ll explain in a bit.) Obviously, the clothes seem Zonai in nature so maybe it’s someone important in the Zonai tribe.

General thoughts: Hmm, hand holding could mean many things. This could be similar to the Skyward Sword moment when SS Zelda and Link reunite or this could be Hylia lending her power to BOTW Link via the arm. Of course, this could be a memory that Link inherited from a past hero and this is that hero and his Zelda grasping hands and promising to work together to face Ganondorf.

General thoughts: Link looking at his hand while he makes a fist really makes me think he could be emerging from a memory. So that’s why I think the previous shot might be from whoever used to own the hand. Black: Looks like a little gear but with a glowing green button. I like this little detail. Blue: Idk why but this island reminds me of Cara Cara Bazaar. It’s got a funky shape. I love it.

General thoughts: Link’s arm is glowing with what looks like the spirit flames that are around the Champions in BOTW. Makes sense since the arm probably used to belong to someone long dead given that it was stuck holding Ganondorf down under the castle.

General thoughts: First the obvious, the car wheel. I mean it’s already neat that Link can seemingly levitate Zonai tech with his arm but then we are gonna get to use these pieces to build vehicles which is even more exciting. I’m pretty sure this is replacing Magnesis though. We can lift and manipulate Zonai tech instead of metal. Pink: Brand new looking chest. It looks a lot like the other Zonai tech. Blue: There’s usually a Korok here but not this time. Red: This is one of those weird rocks but it’s in a mud pit. They really are everywhere. Green: Again malice pools (same ones as in a previous plateau shot). I wonder just how many places are gonna have malice lying around.

General thoughts: Tractor car. This thing looks so goofy but also fun at the same time. It’s pretty obviously Zonai tech. Can’t wait to play Deja Vu and drift in Hyrule Field. Pink: This looks like the power source. I wonder if we’ll have to feed it items to fuel up like with the Sheikah motorcycle. Blue: Why is there a giant hole in this mountain structure? I tried to find anything that looked like this in BOTW but came up short. Red: Them rocks again. Can’t wait to find out why they exist though. Black: Another tower spotted but it isn’t glowing. I’m still of the opinion that they only glow with those spotlights before you unlock them.

General thoughts: Not gonna lie I never expected them to give us an air balloon. It makes sense though with the varied island heights and distances. Stamina and the paraglider can only do so much and I don’t think we will have bombs for wind bombs anymore. Blue: This green stuff that’s holding the balloon together is the same stuff that appears to be holding the car together. Maybe it’s Zonai glue or something. Red: So above this is what I’ve decided to call Jenga Tower island. This bit right here is probably connected to the rest of Jenga Tower island. It makes me think of a minigame where you have to fall down the middle perfectly to land at the bottom or the bottom piece has an air current that lets you travel upwards through the middle of Jenga Tower island.

General thoughts: There is a lot happening in this shot. First and most obvious, the glowing green hovercraft. If I didn’t think Nintendo would give us an air balloon I definitely did not expect a hovercraft. I can already tell this is gonna be my favorite vehicle even if it ends up motion controlled. Blue: The Zonai green glue is here too. Kinda reminds me of silly putty for some reason. Orange: These long rope things again. I really can’t think of a purpose for these at the moment besides what I mentioned earlier. Maybe they are just for aesthetics but that would be sorta boring. Wouldn’t it be cool if we could fireman slide down these? Pink: Goddess statue? Temple? It seems important for some reason. Red: The cube may be hiding but I see the darn thing. Black: First the cube and now an orb. I can’t recall seeing this anywhere else in the trailer which really makes me curious about what it is. It’s pretty big.

General thoughts: A beautiful view of the many sky islands. I cannot stress how much seeing all the floating islands visually reminds me that we are getting a new game. Yeah its the same engine as BOTW but the possible changes and alterations are tantalizing. Blue: More malice pools. Although, I do have to say they look quite different from the ones in BOTW. I think these might be more energized. I wonder if they will eat at your hearts far faster than the malice we are used to. Red: I wonder if this large cube structure is made up of the same material as the weird rocks lying around everywhere.

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#part two of trailer breakdown #totk link #botw totk #loz totk #totk #tears of the kingdom #legend of zelda #loz botw2 #botw link #loz link #loz #princess zelda #totk trailer #botw2 #picture #ganondorf

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hardynwa · 1 year

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Skit-maker, Ashmusy reveals Why she rejected N20 Million Naira From A Politician

Nigerian skit-maker and Influencer, Amarachi Amusi alias Ashmusy has revealed why she rejected money from a politician meant for promotional work. Ashmusy said that she got offers of 10 to 20 million naira to make a social media post in favour of a particular candidate vying for office but she declined even though there was temptation. The comedienne said her decision was influenced by the thought that she will be selling her soul and ruining the country for her children, grandchildren and family members by promoting the wrong politician. She also said that she is in support of the Labour Party presidential candidate, Peter Obi, and she hopes that if he wins, he will deliver on his promises. Ashmusy wrote; “Confession- I got offers of 10m to 20m for a (one) political post… (for the other candidate that we don’t want) It was tempting I won’t lie.. But realizing I’m gonna be selling my soul to the devil.. realizing My children, grandchildren, family, Loved ones will be in the country suffering!! Because I made the ST*pid decision to post/vote for the wrong person… I said a BIG NO! hopefully PETER OBI wins on Saturday.. and not just wins, but wins And does his job 100 percent. God take full control this time abeg!!Because in this country, even the rich is suffering, how can I work so much to make money in naira, just for the naira to be dropping like pure water everyday, if you change it to pounds or dollars, you will just cry, please we are all tired, forget God abeg!” Read the full article

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miajolensdevotion · 1 year

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August 22, 2021

Verse: Psalm 119:113-176

Copy God’s word:

113 I hate fickle people, but I love your Instruction. 114 You are my shelter and my shield— I wait for your promise. 115 Get away from me, you evildoers; I want to guard my God's commandments! 116 Sustain me according to your word so I can live! Don't let me be put to shame because of hope. 117 Support me so I can be saved and so I can focus constantly on your statutes. 118 You discard everyone who strays from your statutes because they are dishonest and false. 119 You dispose of all the wicked people on earth like waste— that's why I love your laws. 120 My body shudders because I fear you; I'm in awe of your rules. ayin 121 I've done what is just and right. Don't just hand me over to my oppressors. 122 Guarantee good things for your servant. Please don't let the arrogant oppress me. 123 My eyes are worn out looking for your saving help— looking for your word that will set things right. 124 Act toward your servant according to your faithful love. Teach me your statutes! 125 I'm your servant! Help me understand so I can know your laws. 126 It is time for the LORD to do something! Your Instruction has been broken. 127 But I love your commandments more than gold, even more than pure gold. 128 That's why I walk straight by every single one of your precepts. That's why I hate every false path. pe 129 Your laws are wonderful! That's why I guard them. 130 Access to your words gives light, giving simple folk understanding. 131 I open my mouth up wide, panting, because I long for your commandments. 132 Come back to me and have mercy on me; that's only right for those who love your name. 133 Keep my steps steady by your word; don't let any sin rule me. 134 Redeem me from the people who oppress me so I can keep your precepts. 135 Shine your face on your servant, and teach me your statutes. 136 Rivers of tears stream from my eyes because your Instruction isn't being kept. tsade 137 LORD, you are righteous, and your rules are right. 138 The laws you commanded are righteous, completely trustworthy. 139 Anger consumes me because my enemies have forgotten what you've said. 140 Your word has been tried and tested; your servant loves your word! 141 I'm insignificant and unpopular, but I don't forget your precepts. 142 Your righteousness lasts forever! Your Instruction is true! 143 Stress and strain have caught up with me, but your commandments are my joy! 144 Your laws are righteous forever. Help me understand so I can live! qof 145 I cry out with all my heart: "LORD, answer me so I can guard your statutes!" 146 I cry out to you, "Save me so I can keep your laws!" 147 I meet the predawn light and cry for help. I wait for your promise. 148 My eyes encounter each hour of the night as I think about your word. 149 Listen to my voice, according to your faithful love. LORD, make me live again, according to your justice. 150 The people who love to plot wicked schemes are nearby, but they are so far from your Instruction! 151 But you, LORD, are nearby too, and all your commandments are true. 152 Long ago I learned from your laws that you had established them forever. resh 153 Look at my suffering and deliver me because I haven't forgotten your Instruction. 154 Argue my case and redeem me. Make me live again by your word. 155 Salvation is far from the wicked because they haven't pursued your statutes. 156 You have so much compassion, LORD— make me live again, according to your rules. 157 My oppressors and enemies are many, but I haven't turned away from your laws. 158 I look on the faithless, and I am disgusted because they haven't kept your word. 159 Look at how much I love your precepts. Make me live again, LORD, according to your faithful love! 160 The first thing to know about your word is that it is true and that all your righteous rules last forever. sin and shin 161 Rulers oppress me without cause, but my heart honors what you've said. 162 I'm overjoyed at your word, like someone who finds great treasure. 163 I hate, I absolutely despise, what is false, but I'm in love with your Instruction. 164 I praise you seven times a day for your righteous rules. 165 The people who love your Instruction enjoy peace—and lots of it. There's no stumbling for them! 166 LORD, I wait for your saving help. I do what you've commanded. 167 I keep your laws; I love them so much! 168 I keep your precepts and your laws because all my ways are seen by you. tav 169 Let my cry reach you, LORD; help me understand according to what you've said. 170 Let my request for grace come before you; deliver me according to your promise! 171 Let my lips overflow with praise because you've taught me your statutes. 172 Let my tongue declare your word, because all your commandments are righteous. 173 Let your power help me because I have chosen your precepts. 174 LORD, I long for your saving help! Your Instruction is my joy! 175 Let me live again so I can praise you! Let your rules help me! 176 I've wandered off like a sheep, lost. Find your servant because I haven't forgotten your commandments!

Write your favorite verse:

121 I've done what is just and right. Don't just hand me over to my oppressors. 122 Guarantee good things for your servant. Please don't let the arrogant oppress me. 123 My eyes are worn out looking for your saving help— looking for your word that will set things right. 124 Act toward your servant according to your faithful love. Teach me your statutes! 125 I'm your servant! Help me understand so I can know your laws. 126 It is time for the LORD to do something! Your Instruction has been broken. 127 But I love your commandments more than gold, even more than pure gold. 128 That's why I walk straight by every single one of your precepts. That's why I hate every false path.

Explain verse by verse:

Verses 113-128: Another result of loving God’s word is a hatred of all that is evil and all that hinders the pursuit of good (113-117). God will punish those who deliberately rebel against his word. This is all the more reason why people should fear God and obey him (118-120). In view of his own obedience and God’s promise, the psalmist asks God to save him from those who persecute him and break God’s law (121-124). His enemies despise God’s law, but he delights in it (125-128).

Lesson that you learned from these passages: (summary)

The word of God directs us in our work and way, and a dark place indeed the world would be without it. The commandment is a lamp kept burning with the oil of the Spirit, as a light to direct us in the choice of our way, and the steps we take in that way. The keeping of God's commands here meant, was that of a sinner under a dispensation of mercy, of a believer having part in the covenant of grace. The psalmist is often afflicted; but with longing desires to become more holy, offers up daily prayers for quickening grace. We cannot offer any thing to God, that he will accept but what he is pleased to teach us to do. To have our soul or life continually in our hands, implies constant danger of life; yet he did not forget God's promises nor his precepts. Numberless are the snares laid by the wicked; and happy is that servant of God, whom they have not caused to err from his Master's precepts. Heavenly treasures are a heritage for ever; all the saints accept them as such, therefore they can be content with little of this world. We must look for comfort only in the way of duty, and that duty must be done. A good man, by the grace of God, brings his heart to his work, then it is done well.

What will you do? I will not making long prayers that Christ censurers, but making them for a pretence, which intimates that they are in themselves good and commendable

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atlaslain · 5 years

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@backwaterheroics / in response to: x.

zack fair has grown acclimatised to relying exclusively on himself. the treacherous pits of deepground have wrung the faith from him and assimilated him into their methods of survival: their lifestyle of anticipating the knife in one’s back before an opponent ever decides to place it there. three years of sleeping with one eye open, of waiting on the razor-edge between rage and fear for the next round of experimentation, or drowning in self-hatred whenever they make him fight and he catches sight of the blood crusted under his nails --- three years has taught him pain and solitude like nothing he has ever known. and he has clung to survival anyway, tucking away the decaying glimmer of hope in his chest that this might one day get better. that his friends are still out there. some of them. not all. not many. angeal, gone. genesis, who knows. sephiroth, gone. cloud, aerith. they’re still somewhere, aren’t they? there is light and life and warmth beyond deepground. he may have forgotten the precise airy smell of the flowers and the exact curve of cloud’s smile but they exist. zack gathers up the tatters of who he is and wraps them tight around that hope, like clinging to an anchor in a storm.

salvation comes in the form of weiss the immaculate. indirectly, anyway. his death. he rots under hojo’s influence and together they begin their reign over the world above, lighting the path out of the darkness and tarring it in blood. it is zack’s opportunity. the instant he crawls into the light he turns on his squadron, squashing what flares of guilt twist his stomach as his blade slides between ribs. ( his deepground-issue katana is lighter than the buster sword, not as hefty but far more adept at neatly cleaving skin. it feels strange in his hands, a desolate hunk of metal that isn’t his. ) sustained injuries are disregarded for now, blood wiped briskly from his face as he removes his helmet and tosses it aside. the streets are a mess; gunshots shatter the night and beasts prowl, dragging innocents into the shadows. and then, as fate would have it: a man in a ragged red cloak, faintly familiar. and a young woman --- older now, far older than zack remembers her being, an air of confidence and control about her now. yuffie kisaragi and vincent valentine. it is yuffie who stares at zack as if she’s seen a ghost, yuffie who grabs him as the force of his relief has him swaying on his feet. the first friendly face in years and she’s smacking at his arms, chiding him for vanishing, insisting he prove it’s really him and not some phantom deepground’s summoned up. ( zack reminds her of their treasure-hunting adventures and she gentles, and the world slows. ) he tells them all he knows, and then he succumbs to the loss of consciousness with the fragile hope that vincent will take care of it all. zack fair is exhausted and wounded and finally free. the slow return of reality is painful: he awakens in an unfamiliar bed, in a room he’s never seen before. his heart slams violently against his ribs. throat tight, he casts about for a weapon. he grasps a heavy book from a shelf and decides at least he can brain someone with it if need be. his legs shake beneath him as he ventures to the doorway, pausing to take in the smell of alcohol and food from somewhere below the staircase beyond. a bar? seventh heaven, tifa tells him later, after he’s done hyperventilating and lashing out at her. she avoids his initial smack with the book, hands gentle yet firm on his wrists as she encourages him to look at her, to understand she is not here to hurt him. he is in seventh heaven, in edge. deepground is gone. ( vincent took care of it all. ) zack is safe. it takes him a whole week to entertain the idea. in that time, he rapid-fires questions at tifa: what happened, how long has it been, where is cloud. she answers each carefully --- it’s a long story, three years, away on deliveries right now. you can speak to cloud when he gets back. the dim hope in zack’s chest grows, warily. perhaps this won’t be taken away from him. he doesn’t get to see cloud. he has so much to say, so much it’s whipped up into a frenzy in his head. does cloud not feel the same urgency? he returned, apparently, and left again. “did you... did you tell him i was here?” zack asks tifa, voice cracking. “yes,” she says, and the look in her eyes speaks volumes. she hands zack a rag, urges him to help her clean down her bar. she’s been giving him little tasks, as if she knows he needs to stay busy. “you have to understand, he... he isn’t the same as you probably remember. a lot has happened to him.” and so zack resolves to understand. he pushes his own impatience down, and nurtures the hope that cloud will see him in his own time. ( far more difficult to ignore is the hurt. weren’t they good friends? after everything they went through --- after everything. how can cloud not want to see him? ) two months crawl by. zack works in seventh heaven at first, until the guilt of imposing himself on tifa is too much. he falls into mercenary work then, with a sense of resigned amusement. fighting really is all he’ll ever do. he shops for a new sword, and then another new one when that doesn’t feel right. tifa insists he continue living above the bar, citing the children as reasons he should; they like him, she says. they don’t want him to go. he reads them stories at night and patrols the bar’s vicinity into the early hours. during the day, he spends time with yuffie or works on his new bike or undertakes increasingly dangerous jobs. the fractured feeling in his mind never quite goes away, but he thinks it might ease one day. when cloud returns again, drifting home like a wayward wind, tifa grabs him and makes him see zack. it’s a quick visit. it’s the sensation of something important slipping between one’s fingers: cloud stiff and unresponsive in his arms, eyes dull, as if zack were less than a stranger. like a static shock, it has zack flinching back, numbness tingling at his fingertips. he stands there, as unacknowledged as a specter, while cloud leaves again. he doesn’t think you’re really here, tifa explains. we all thought you were dead. oh. well then. that explains it. that barbed-wire feeling cinched round his heart. it’s the cold understanding that life has moved on without him and he is no longer a part of it. the zack fair everyone knew and remembered died riddled with bullets. but i’m alive, i never left! he wants to scream. the sense of being left behind is dizzying. cloud had moved on and now here zack is, tearing old wounds open. guilt batters him, sudden and strange. he goes to aerith’s church. the flowers are there, yellow as sunshine and pearly-white, suffusing the air with sweetness and life. but aerith is not. she has not been for a long time. the buster sword lays at the head of the pews like a memorial and suddenly it’s all too much. he falls to his knees and chokes on sobs. he stays there for days, murmuring to the flowers as if they might carry his apologies to aerith. eventually, little marlene wallace takes his hand and leads him back to seventh heaven. he follows in a daze and doesn’t notice when he’s led to cloud’s room and told to rest. ( he rests, his heart slowing its frenzied pulse. this feels like safety. ) he is not ready for cloud to return again. he thought he always would be, but the pain of coming to terms with aerith’s death is too fresh and sleep-deprivation has drained him. he is not prepared for more pain; it might shatter him. and yet here cloud is, slipping shadow-quiet into the room and staring with horror-struck eyes. “cloud, please,” zack finds himself whispering, praying. he is not aware of reaching out, but he registers how brittle cloud feels: like his violent shaking might rip him apart. nausea rises in zack’s throat. he is doing this. he is hurting cloud with every touch, poisoning him. “look at me,” he sobs anyway, selfish and unable to relinquish the certainty of cloud’s place in his life. in the end, it’s only more hurt. cloud, pale as a wraith, stumbles away and wails. the sound drives nails into zack’s heart. he gets tifa, because who else would they both rely on to fix their broken souls? the storm breaks, cloud sobs, and zack turns to leave. “i’m sorry, i’m so sorry,” he is vaguely aware of repeating, frantic. “cloud, i’m so sorry.” he should have died on that cliff. he should’ve died before deepground could ruin him, before he could walk back into a life that didn’t want him anymore. “are you giving up that easily?” tifa demands the next morning, as zack shoulders his bag full of meager belongings and tries to give her a hug goodbye. she stares him dead in the eye as he squirms. “you’ve barely tried yet.” zack doesn’t mean to raise his voice but it comes out in a burst: “yes! yes, i am. me being here only hurts him, i’m taking up space in your bar, there’s no place here for me!” it tastes like a lie. there has been a place, carved out just for him. the beginnings of home here with these people. but not if he’s only spreading hurt. “i can’t watch him scream and cry every time he sees me, tifa. i won’t. i’ll --- i’ll come visit. okay?” it’s not okay. he debates saying his farewells to cloud, but recognises it as an awful plan. he leaves his old shinra phone instead, the one he kept as a soldier. it’s fuzzy and barely in working condition these days, but he squirreled it away all these years just for the old pictures in its memory. “give that to him when he feels... better. okay? you have my new number if you need me.” he tells nobody where he’s going because he just doesn’t know anymore. it’s a good thing he’s already accustomed to relying only on himself.

#backwaterheroics #drabble tag #SO I PROMISED YOU PURE SUFFERING AND I HOPE I DELIVERED #long post for ts #it got a little iffy toward the end there bc i wanted!! to add to what you'd done #but i wasn't sure what to add except 'zack's gonna leave now'#and i didnt want it to drag on forever hhhh #if need be i can like. write a follow-up after a lil plotting #● verse 03 [ den of monsters ].

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earnestly-endlessly · 3 years

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ah and I was looking for something like Charles Linda of lost control over his powers and Erik is the only one that can help him

Hi anon. I have got a good list of fics where Charles loses control over his powers and gets help from Erik. I hope you find some fics you enjoy.

Anchor Me – brilliantdreams

Summary: Charles is awake in the kitchen having telepathy troubles when Erik finds him. Cuddling ensues.

Cotton Walls – walrusface

Summary: In large crowds, Charles finds it difficult to control his telepathy. While they're on their recruitment road trip, Erik tries to help.

Aches and Pains – i_know_its_over

Summary: Constantly using his powers gives Charles a debilitating headache.

Idiot Control Now – cygnaut

Summary: Hank screws something up in the lab and everyone's powers increase tenfold. Not knowing how to control them like this, they all try to cope and not kill each other by mistake while Hank tries to find a way to reverse the effects. Charles has a particularly hard time of it.

With Your Kindness – helens78

Summary: Cerebro takes a lot out of Charles; a warm bath complete with washing his hair feels like the least Erik can do, but if it's all he can offer, he will.

Know That It’s True – luninosity

Summary: Using Cerebro gives Charles headaches. Erik is not happy to discover this fact.

Catch me when I fall – isabeau

Summary: Charles overdoes it on Cerebro, and doesn't learn his lesson, but Erik is there for him.

You want blood, and I promised – hllfire

Summary: When Erik kills Shaw with that coin, Charles doesn't come out of it unharmed.

Say Your Fault – seperis

Summary: Charles hasn't spoken in twenty-two days.

Honest Bone and Burning Thought – Black_Betty

Summary: And so sometimes, his mind buzzing away, bright and brilliant and humming with pure expansive energy, Charles speaks without thinking at all. Without censoring himself. Without realizing that his brain has reached out and snatched something that was never his to know, or take…

Don’t Let The Bedbugs Bite – Pillow_Bee

Summary: Charles goes around the mansion that first night he brought the mutants there to tuck them to sleep while trying his best to hold back a bitter childhood memory. Erik has his book confiscated for refusing to go to bed, and he is not happy about it.

Let your anger anchor you (your peace will bring me home) – anthora09

Summary: Charles takes an unnecessary risk and winds up in the infirmary.

Erik is not happy. (His exact words are "I told you so.")

Count to Three – Harleydoll

Summary: Charles is psychologically damaged after experiencing Shaw's death in his own mind.

I can’t leave him – sasha_b

Summary: The plane ride back from Russia.

In the Sky Tonight – luninosity

Summary: Part five of the holiday fic involves Easter, which obviously meant obligatory sex-pollen-trope fic. Recruitment road-trips, mutants with interesting abilities, sex with complicated emotions, protective Erik, boys figuring out that they’re in love.

Veiled Truths – ikeracity

Summary: Erik has dreams of a dark room, of being pushed down into the floor and violated in a way that makes him scream until his throat is raw. But Shaw never, ever touched him like that, so Erik wonders if he somehow repressed memories of Shaw's torture. Either way, he hides the dreams from Charles, intent on suffering through it alone, as he always has.

And then one day, the nightmares come when he's still awake, and he realizes that these aren't his nightmares, they're Charles's. It's Charles projecting in his sleep, and then Erik realizes that they aren't nightmares at all, they're memories from Charles's hidden past.

The Keeper on the Other Side – RyuuzaKochou

Summary: Charles Xavier's long lost step brother is back in town and it...doesn't go well. Charles and Erik find out they are still bonded and still friends from the hospital bed aftermath.

Northern Lights – garrideb

Summary: Erik experiences a frightening new aspect of Charles's telepathy while rescuing him from captivity. But while it might frighten Erik, that doesn't mean he'll run away from Charles.

Five Days – cerebel

Summary: Charles is captured. And then he is rescued.

Come Home to Me – ami_ven

Summary: “Focus on my voice, Charles, on my mind.”

Room and Board – smilebackwards

Summary: "How long had you been banging your head against the wall before I arrived?" Erik asks curiously after the resident nurse has lain Charles down on a cot and given him two ibuprofen to swallow and an icepack to hold against his head. Boarding school AU.

Enervate – tokidokifish

Summary: Charles had an abusive childhood (like in the comics, but worse) and when he finally got away, he repressed everything behind mental walls, to the point he doesn't really remember anything about it. After the events of the movie, his mental state deteriorates, and those walls come down.

In These Shadowed Halls – InkDippedFingertips

Summary: For Charles, the mansion was plagued with nightmares.

Waves Can Sink and Carry – Somnambulist

Summary: After a solo recruiting mission goes horribly wrong, a drugged and disoriented (and VERY cold) Charles shows up on the Xavier mansion doorstep. Erik patches him up as best as he can.

Third time’s the charm – Gerec

Summary: XMA ficlets and missing scenes

I’ll be your haven – inoue6

Summary: After Apocalypse used Charles to deliver his message to the world his powers grew beyond control. When Battle of Cairo was over, Erik helps Charles to cope with his telepathy let loose.

#fic recs #cherik fic recs #cherik #asks #earnestly answers

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neonacity · 3 years

Text

HYACINTHE | CHAPTER 4: JAEMIN X READER

SUMMARY:

Na Jaemin is far from being your typical 20 year old. Instead of slaving through college, he wastes away his hours cracking safes. Weekends that should be spent partying with friends consist of illegal races on good days and small scale bombings on bad ones.

Na Jaemin is far from being average, unless you consider being a member of Seoul’s top organized crime family normal. There is no such thing as a sense of normality and peace in his trainwreck of a life, so when he met a barista who was brave enough to call out his dangerous taste in coffee, he was like a moth to the flame. Everything about her is normal, which means she is forbidden to him, in all sense of the word. So why, then, does he always find himself at the front steps of her shop, breaking all his personal rules even if he wishes he could stay away?

A/N + Disclaimer: this is a side story to Black Daisies, my main mafia fic feat. 0T23. While the plot is based on the main story, this can also be read as a standalone fic. As usual, this is purely a work of fiction and in no way am I implying any member of NCT to behave the way I write them here.

TW: crimes, heists, potential death, mentions of drugs and other illegal activities.

PAIRING: Jaemin x Reader

CHAPTER 1 / CHAPTER 2 / CHAPTER 3 /

FIC TRAILER

MASTERLIST

"Hi. Can I have one iced americano, no sugar, with an espresso shot, please?"

My hands froze and hovered momentarily on the drink I was preparing as I heard a male voice say that from the counter. I didn't turn around to check who it was, but my boss—who is currently helping me man the cafe today—was quick enough to dash the pit-pattering of my chest. He hooked the order slip on the board in front of me and my eyes immediately raised to read the name there.

"One to-go, americano for Youngho."

I sighed internally. Whether it be from relief or disappointment though, I don't really know. A part of me wanted to be in denial of my emotions, but I realized you can only go so far if the person you are trying to fool is just yourself.

It's been almost three months since that night that I last saw Jaemin. I wish I didn't know the exact number of days that passed since then, but I do and I couldn't help it. Every little detail of what happened was still marked fresh in my mind, especially the feeling of hollowness that exploded in my chest when I woke up that morning to see them gone.

If not for the chip on the edge of the table left by Jeno as he tried to hold a half delirious Haechan down that night, I could have easily brushed off everything as a fleeting dream. But it isn't. It is a nightmare, at least in my part.

He really meant it when he said he would leave me alone.

There were no calls, no messages, no visits, nothing. It was like he didn't exist at all, the past year spent with him nothing but an imagined illusion.

We were back to being strangers again, exactly like how he wants to. If you think about it, it's selfless of him to do this, but I hate it. I hate it with everything I have.

Why? Because now I have to live through the feeling that I'm the only one suffering from all of that has happened. I couldn't watch the news anymore without thinking about him. For heaven's sake, I couldn't even get an iced coffee order without freezing like a statue because I remember him. I hate it. I hate every single moment without him, as much as I didn't want to admit it.

I placed the plastic cover over the finished drink with a soft sigh before turning to hand it over to the customer. At least I can still manage to put out my well-practiced, service smile.

"Iced Americano for Youngho," I called out into the receiving area as I slipped a straw on the cup sleeve. A tall man looked up and walked over to me to receive it.

"Thank you for coming to Brick and Beans. I hope you visit us again soon," I said in autopilot, my words so well-rehearsed that I didn't even have to think through while delivering them. The customer smiled at me before giving me a wink.

"I sure will. Thanks for this, sweet cheeks." He turned and left the shop, leaving me slightly confused.

My attention was then called by my boss who had just finished wiping down the counter. The man—who really has been more of a father figure than an employer for me—gave me a warm smile and motioned me over.

"Can we talk? I have something to tell you."

I briefly glanced at the clock. It isn't my break time yet, but the store is empty so I guess it will be fine. I shrugged.

"Sure."

"Grab a cake for you and me while you're at it," he nodded towards the pastry fridge before walking towards the nearest empty table. I wordlessly took two slices of basque cheesecake, his favorite, before following him. The man has a mean sweet tooth and we both know it.

He was silent for a little bit as he took the fork to take a bite of his treat. I waited patiently for him to speak, hands politely folded over my lap.

"I'm going to sell the cafe."

I blinked and stared. I wasn't expecting that at all.

"You're… what?"

He sighed and leaned back against his seat. He looked a little sad over what he just said but he managed to offer me a small smile.

"I'm getting older. You know how much I love this place because I started it with my late wife, but I really can't continue to manage it anymore. My children, unfortunately, do not have any plans of continuing the business. And they've been asking me to retire, too."

I nodded slowly, taking the news bit by bit.

"Do you already have a buyer, ahjussi?"

"I do. It is kind of strange, actually. Someone offered to buy off the franchise at such a perfect time. And for a very good price, too."

That made me smile. I've had this job ever since I started college so it makes me a little sad that it's going to have a new owner, but I really am happy for him. I just hope whoever buys it off takes care of it really well. The old man loves this place to bits.

I felt him take a hold of my hands from across the table. I looked up and was met with a fatherly smile.

"Don't worry. You won't lose your job. The new owners said that they aren't planning to change anything here and I told them that they had to take you with them."

That made me almost want to burst into tears. I squeezed his hand back in return.

"Ahjussi... You didn't have to do that. I can always look for another job." Who am I kidding? I know it will be hard for me to land another sideline especially with all the financial hiccups I am already dealing with so this is really sending me over to the edge of tears.

"Nonsense. You are part of this business. You've done so much for this place so you deserve this. Don't worry, they said yes to my condition."

I gave his hands another squeeze and he answered back with a fatherly pat.

"Thank you…"

"You're welcome. Just promise me, when you become a doctor, you'll give me free checkups, okay?"

"No, I won't. Because you will always be healthy and won't need my help at all," I said with a wrinkle of my nose.

That sent the two of us laughing.

"When will the new owners take over?"

"By the end of the month," my eyes rounded with surprise and he nodded in understanding. "I know, I know. It really happened too fast. I can't turn down the offer though. To be honest it was way beyond what the business is worth."

I sighed. "Well… as long as you are sure about them."

"I am. For now, I'll be here for a bit with you. I just need to enjoy my last days here. So just don't mind your old man, okay?"

I grinned.

"Only if you promise to give me a free cake every day you are here."

He reached out to ruffle my hair.

"Deal."

----

It was a slow day at the cafe so my boss decided to turn down the jazz music that usually floats from the speakers in lieu of the television volume. It was an odd hour in the afternoon and I found myself smiling as I watched him flip the channels over to look for a good show to watch while I dried some mugs. Just then, the overhead bell on the door dinged, welcoming with it a pair of uni-looking kids.

My boss looked over, but I was quick to jump to action instead. "I'll take care of it," I mouthed to him, to which he gave me a smile before turning his attention back to what he was doing.

"Hi. Welcome to Brick and Beans. What can I offer you today?"

"We'll have one dirty chai latte and one irish coffee over ice. Make it to go. "

The couple offered their names and I nodded as I punched their orders on my POS. "Would you like some pastries to go with that?"

"No, that's all."

"Got it, you can wait over there to the side. I'll have your drinks with you shortly," I said with a smile. The girl pulled the boy over into the receiving area to continue their conversation.

"So what I'm saying is, we gotta go. Tonight is going to be epic. The bets will be high for sure. We can get some mean cash if we put it in the right car."

The other gave a soft snort and started drumming his fingers against the wood of the counter. I let their conversation act as white noise while I worked behind the bar.

"I don't know. You're not even sure who is going to be there."

"Jeno is in the line-up. That at least is confirmed."

I dropped the metal scooper I was using on the floor with a resounding clang.

The three others in the room looked over to me as I hurriedly picked it up with shaking hands. I gave all parties a sheepish look before turning on my back to continue what I was doing.

This time, I was full-on listening.

"If Jeno's going to be there, then it is a goner. There's no chance for others. It'll be full-on suicide," the boy said thoughtfully. The girl, however, shrugged in reply.

"They said the others might come, too. You know, to make the run a little bit more balanced," she offered.

"You mean the seven?"

"The Four, at least."

"Oh shit."

"Uh-huh. So I'm telling you, we gotta be there man. If we can't bet then fine, but we have to see it. It’s been ages since they actually went on lane."

I didn't really know how I managed to finish what I was doing, not with how hard my heart was beating in my chest. I'm not sure how many Jeno's there are in this part of town, but I am sure as hell that there is only one who is a member of a seven-piece 'group.'

"Here's your order," I said thinly as I pushed the finished drinks over to them by the counter. The boy offered his card and I took it quickly, all the while thinking of what I should do next. The few seconds of me typing away at the terminal was the longest quarter minute of my life.

"Here's your receipt. Thank you for coming and see us again," I said, my voice a little weaker than usual. The couple gave a quick bow before turning to leave, drinks in hand.

There are two ways this could go. I could let them out of that door and have my only possible chance of getting in contact with any of the boys leave with them. Or I could call after them and…

I whipped around to call out to my boss, my figure already halfway out from the bar.

"Ahjussi, I'll be back in five minutes, sorry. I promise I'll be quick!"

He had barely looked up when I started running out the door.

-----

"Excuse me!"

The duo looked back at me, then at each other in confusion as I tried my best to hurry up to them without landing on my face. God, why do they walk so fast? They were just a few seconds ahead when they left the shop! Thankfully, they stopped at my call, giving me a chance to skid before them as I tried to catch my breath.

"Um… Is there a problem? We paid, right?" The boy asked me with an odd look. I waved my hand before finally trying to answer.

"Yes. I uh—"

Well, I obviously didn't plan this out clearly. How do I say this now without sounding like a lunatic?

"I heard your conversation earlier. You were talking about Jeno."

The pair exchanged glances again, this time tinged with suspicion. It was the girl who answered this time.

"Yes, we were. What about it?"

"I… I just want—to maybe know where he is? You were talking about tonight's—"

"The drag race?"

I stopped for half a heartbeat before nodding.

"Yeah. The race. I wanted to come, too, but I don't really know the address."

The boy cocked his brow at me in blatant suspicion. It took all of me to pull out all the basics I learned from drama class back in high school to remain calm before his withering glare.

"You know Jeno but don't know the address? That doesn't make any sense," he said as he crossed his arms over his chest. "If you've been in one before you should have been included in the text blast."

Oh shit.

I could feel my palms growing cold from nervousness. Still, I tried pushing on.

"W-well, I was invited before by one of them. But then things fell apart and I started not getting any of the...texts anymore," I said, not having the slightest idea of what I am saying myself. What's ironic though was that what I just blurted out was sort of a half-truth, too.

Apparently—and miraculously—it also made sense by the look of understanding that dawned on their faces.

"I see…" the girl trailed off. She cleared her throat and looked at her friend before glancing at me again.

"Look, I can give you the address, but promise me that you never got it from me when someone asks, okay?" She asked. The boy looked at her incredulously.

"Are you crazy? She was already shadow banned!"

She shushed him and waved her hand off to shut him up. "Look, this is a girl thing. Don't mess with it. Just go ahead to the car, I'll take care of it."

He scoffed but stalked off towards the direction of the parking lot.

She turned towards me again and pulled her phone from the pocket of her leather jacket. I watched as she unlocked the screen before showing it to me.

"Do you have your phone with ya? Here, take a photo of this address."

I swear I could almost kiss her. I scrambled to get my phone from my back pocket and didn't waste another second to take a snap of her screen.

"Thank you so much."

She nodded in understanding before locking her phone again and shoving it into her pocket. "Hey, a girl's gotta stand up for another. Who was it? Was it Haechan?"

"Um…"

She didn't wait for me to finish.

"Really, whoever it is among them, I can't really blame you. They're all cute, but they do need to be taken down a notch when it comes to girls. Those boys," she tsked. "Dangerous."

Oh…

Oh. She thought I was an ex-fling who wanted to teach one of them a lesson by crashing the race. I let that sink in before a frown settled on my features.

Well, aren't you one? The devil on my shoulder cackled at me sardonically.

"Glad to have helped though. But remember, you didn't get it from me, okay?"

With a wink, she strutted off, leaving me staring at her retreating form.

----

I told myself I simply wanted to see him again.

I reminded myself that for the hundredth time tonight as I parked my car on a free space by a gravel road, my eyes roaming the darkness beyond. The place looked deserted, and I had to do one last check if I really put in the right coordinates on my map before finally turning off my engine. The road beyond was wide but uncemented and to its left is a half unfinished building with metal banisters reaching out to the sky like skeletal arms. I swallowed. Every little thing about the space beyond screams danger.

Which probably means I am in the right place.

I reached out to zip up my jacket and pulled the hoodie over my head before getting out of my car. My sneakers crunched on the gravel as I made my way towards a low wall circling the building beyond.

Just try and take a look. You don't have to talk to him. You can keep your distance.

I repeated that in my head again and again as I approached what I assume to be the entrance. A part of me still wants to berate myself for doing this but I am too far gone to try and play the denial game again. I want, no, I need to see Jaemin's world.

The moment I passed through a crack on the wall, it felt like I stepped into a different world. It opened up into an even wider area, the shadows of a multi-lane road behind the abandoned building beyond. Milling around is a throng of people, some smoking, others sipping on red cups on their hands. Some cars were parked against the wall I just passed, their headlights on with music booming out of their rolled down windows.

I tried to swallow the lump on my throat as I looked around. Already, I felt out of place in the crowd, but I steeled myself to push on, my hands digging deeper into the pockets of my jacket.

"Hey."

I looked up to see a boy around my age wave at me. He was also holding a red cup and what looked like a bundle of paper. My eyes widened as that came into focus when he got closer.

Money.

Wads and wads of cash.

"You put your bets already?" He asked as he stuffed the bills into a small belt bag hidden beneath his oversized shirt. He pulled his phone out then, unlocked the screen, and looked at me, waiting for an answer.

"Uh…"

He gave me an odd look.

"Who are you betting on?" He asked again.

I gave the first name I could only think of.

"Ja-Jaemin," I stuttered.

That earned me a low whistle from him as he typed away at his phone, probably to record my choice of 'player.' "I don't know, man. Dude seems pretty out of it lately, but whatever floats your boat." He stuck out his hand to me then, and it took me a few seconds to realize what he was asking for.

"Oh," I scrambled to grab my purse. I was in the middle of pulling my card from my wallet when I saw his face. Slowly, I put it back to reach out for bills instead.

"Cash only."

I sheepishly handed him the last few hundreds I have. He took them, expertly flipping through each bill to count them off.

"First time, eh?"

I nodded.

I watched as he slipped the money into his already overflowing belt bag, thinking that he would leave after that. Instead he nudged his head towards the direction of the building and motioned me along.

"Come on then. At least try and get a good look at your first race."

I blinked in confusion but ran after him as he started walking away.

We stopped at the front row of the half ring of people that had already gathered in front of the abandoned rafters. Just then, a huge spotlight shone over the road behind it, driving everyone to erupt in cheers. Parked in a single line at the foot of the road are five cars, headlights opening one by one.

"Jaemin's the yellow one," the boy nodded towards the one occupying the third lane. I stared. I know next to nothing about cars, but I know enough to be sure that none of the ones in front of me now are something you can buy from your run-of-the-mill auto dealer. Lowered, with shining reams, and a low motor hum that reverberated to where I was standing, I could only briefly compute in my head how much each of those customized rides must have cost.

I heard the boy beside me snort amusedly. "Your first race and you get to see this. I'm telling you, this happens once in a blue moon," he said with a smirk. I didn't say anything, my gaze never leaving the yellow car.

Slowly though, I noticed the crowd's noise die down dramatically the same time that a petite form walked out from the building. The woman stopped in the middle of the road and raised her hand into the night sky, a small pistol in her grasp.

Everyone has gone so quiet now that you could almost hear a needle dropping. Just then, the resounding bang of a gunshot pierced the air. Few other large spotlights turned on simultaneously, revealing the snaking road ahead that was disguised under the darkness earlier. I gasped. The roaring sound of engines blared beyond and with a new uproar from the crowd, the cars were speeding ahead, leaving trails of light in their wake.

My heart was beating so hard against my chest as I tried my best to follow the speeding cars ahead. I was only able to comprehend the real expanse of the road the moment each ride took over its lanes—the place looked more like an abandoned air dock field more than anything else. I was barely aware of my nails digging on the palms of my hands as my eyes switched from Jaemin’s car and the others, particularly on the deep red one that he was currently toe in toe with. The space between the two were a hair’s breadth away and I could almost swear their sides would collide any second.

That went on until a curve on the road appeared. It was the last turn before the finish line and the crowd turned wilder as the nose of each car tried its best to take the lead. I didn’t even realize that I was holding my breath until the last second when the yellow one took over the inner space of the road before swerving successfully ahead.

Everyone around me erupted in cheers. I gave my own gasp, hands covering my lips before joining the rest.

Jaemin’s yellow lambo parked on the finish line, the rest of the race participants trailing behind. I watched as his door opened, revealing his beautiful wide grin and tousled hair. He was glowing, cheeks flushed from the adrenaline. I was so caught up in the image that I barely noticed Jeno appearing from the red car, followed by Renjun, Mark, and Haechan from the other rides.

I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I watched with a smile as they huddled over Jaemin, playfully pushing and cajoling him for his win. They looked happy, carefree.

But it seems like they aren’t the only ones who were out there in the road. My gaze moved back to Jaemin's car when I saw his passenger seat open. As if in slow motion, a girl got out of it, wearing the same wide smile the others have. The group hooted at her as she joined their huddle.

That’s when I felt as if time has stopped.

The smile on my face slowly faded as I watched Jaemin wrap his arms around her before pulling her into a tight hug.

---

A/N: Hey guys! This is going to be the second to the last chapter of Jaemin’s side story! I originally wanted to finish it in one go, but I thought it would be nice to release the epilogue on Nana’s birthday! So yes, that’ll be out on the 13th, lol. Thank you so much to those who have continued reading this side fic! <3

Chapter 5 (END)

Taglist: @negincho, @springdaybreaks,

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fandom-blackhole · 3 years

Note

Okay you have no idea how excited I was to see that you're open for requests! I love your Mando stories so could I please request my big boi Paz? I'd love to witness you do magic with prompts : 14 (bodyguard AU) and either 49 (fake marriage)/63 (mistaken for couple)/80 (green-eyed epiphany) *can you tell I couldn't decide* *I'm a Libra* *I do apologize*

Im honored that you love my mando fics and that you got excited about me opening requests 🥺💕Also, as a Sagittarius sun and moon, I relate on not being able to make decisions 😔, but I have a great idea for:

14. Bodyguard AU

63. Mistaken for Couple

80. Green-Eyed Epiphany

Pairing: Paz Vizsla x GN!Reader

Words: roughly 2k, woops

Send me some AUs/Tropes??

Note: So I just wanted to start this off with what I'm thinking about this mash-up, like whats going on and the situation. A little backstory/world building, if you will. So, im seeing this as after the tribe on Nervarro scatters after the fight with Grogu, Din, and the Stormtroopers. Paz is by himself and in need of work for credits, to both support himself and save up for when/if he is reunited with his tribe he can help rebuild and contribute. That leads him to a small midrim planet that is pretty divided. You are the head of the government, but there is a group of people who keep trying to kill you and harm your supporters because they want the "true ruler" to be in your place. Said "ruler" is part of a bloodline of radical tyrants that had been controlling the planet until around the same time the empire fell, their downfall resulting from being too involved with the empire. SO, the head of your defense team brings in Paz to protect you, because not only is he a big scary dude covered in big weaponry and armor, but also because you keep insisting that all the soldiers and guards should be protecting the people not you, so bringing in Paz was his little loophole. Now on to the story!

You were not happy with this arrangement, and you had told the head of your guard just as much. You didn't need a protector, it only showed your rivals that you were scared of what they were capable of, that they had the possibility to win this war they were waging. The man- the mandalorian that had been hired was unfazed by your indifference towards him, always just trailing silently behind you look just as menacing as mandalorians were said to be. It was easy to tell that he knew his way around a variety of weapons, it was easy to tell that he had been through battles and suffered their consequences. And it was easy to tell that this job seemed to be a bit boring for him. He didn't have any excitement, most days the mandalorian was stuck following you throughout the capital building, attending meetings that he could care less about, standing guard to your study as you paced around in thought. Nothing much happened, but as time went on and the war worsened and the threat of your rivals loomed over your head you started to notice that the mandalorian would do little things that shaved a little of your stress away, or would brighten you day if only a little. Little treats would show up on your desk, or cups of teas or caf just the way you liked them, walks through the garden would result in a vase of flowers- handpicked and cut with a sharp knife at an angle, delicately- placed in your room. The first time you broke down in front of him, the stress of loosing nearly an entire village not far from where you were to the grievous ways of your enemies broke you to the point of sobbing hysterically and the mandalorian surprised you with his gentleness, as he softly grabbed your arms and made you look up at him, his blue helmet staring down at you as he said, "You will get past this...you...you are a good leader, you care for your people more than yourself, and in the end, that is what will have you coming out on top."

After that night, something changed between the two of you. Instead of following behind you silently, you started walking beside the mandalorian, in meetings instead of letting him stand silently behind you, you started asking his opinions on the battles or if he had any suggestions to help combat. The two of you got closer, and you weren't sure when, but eventually you found yourself calling the mandalorian a friend, and you liked to believe he thought of you as one as well, he at least trusted you enough that he told you his name, which you only used in the private of your quarters or study during your late night talks. When you started to show signs of the stress becoming too much, or that you were nearing another breakdown, he would gently lead you away from whatever you had been doing. More times than not he lead you to the gardens and sat you down as he would tell you stories of his childhood or of his people and culture. One evening, he went as far as to set up a little spot for you to relax and eat a little snack with tea, to give you time away from everything, to give you a break from holding your home on your shoulders. It had been nice, and it helped you clear your thoughts, the gesture had you smiling fully for the first time in months, and it was one that was not quick to fade. As thanks, you had asked Paz what you could do, to which he only replied, "Seeing you smile is enough." So you did, you smiled at him and gently reached out and placed a kiss on the cheek of his helmet.

The smile Paz had gifted you stayed for a few days, your people noticed the happiness and it it seemed to affect all of them, each person growing their own little smiles. Melancholy still hung in the air, but you felt like you had the energy and will power to deal with it now. But as all good things must end, this happiness was ripped from you, when the head of your guard rushed into a meeting with the delegates of the planet, his face was crumpled in worry and he whispered apologies as he reluctantly handed over a letter addressed to you. Your heart pounding, you opened the letter only to freeze at the sight of a photo taken of the moment that had only radiated happiness until now, staring down you only saw yourself pressed close to Paz’s form with lips pressed against his helmet. The moment now felt tainted, and you felt sick to your stomach, the happiness that was shown in the picture gone, only replaced with pure terror. Glancing at the man stood before you, he took the picture and flipped it before handing it back with a somber look. On the back, in deep red ink and scratchy handwriting read:

Now, do you really think courting a mandalorian is going to protect you from your death by my hands? Ill make sure to kill him in front of you so you have to watch as he falls.

Yours loving,

The True King

You hadn't even realized you were shaking, nor breathing heavily, until a gloved had reached into very and took the note away from you. You watched as Paz looked the note over before passing it back to your head guard. He told him something, but you could not hear as your eyes started ringing. Gently Paz helped you stand, before leading you away from the meeting. You didn't care where he was taking you, at that moment you couldn't think straight, couldn't get past the thought of, how did they get so close to take a photo without anyone noticing?

After the letter had been delivered Paz took care to never leave your side, he became more overbearing and involved with planning your schedule. No longer were you allowed in the gardens, or outside for that matter, for the time being, Paz only really allowed you to go to your quarters, your study, and the meeting room. You didn't fight him, too tired from the lasting conflicts and worry over what would happen next. A month went by, and everything quieted, the attacks stopped, and it almost felt like your enemy had gone into hiding. You didn't relax though, the note still whispering in the back of your head. Paz found himself often sleeping in the chair beside your bed, after too many nights of having been awoken to you yelling out his name and finding you rushing to his room to reassure yourself that he was safe.

Then it happened. You knew the quiet was only leading to something, but you weren't prepared to be a woke in the middle of the night to Paz scream to you. It had been the first night you had been able to fall asleep and stay asleep without nightmares of Paz’s death, but you were only thrown into a different nightmare as your eyes few open and you saw Paz fighting off an attacker. You yelled for you to run, and as you hesitated he only growled your name and told you to go, so with a heavy heart you did, you ran. All around the capital you could seem fires burning and hear your guards fighting with silhouettes your tired eyes could not make out in the low light of night. You did not know where to go, only letting your feet carry you, only stopping when you were out of breath. Looking around, you found yourself in the garden, feet from where you gave Paz the soft kiss, the memory still churning out a small amount of happiness, but quickly turned sour once more when the grinning face of the man you loathed most in the world stood from the bench hidden in the shadows.

"My dear, I was hoping you'd come here. I know you are especially fond of the gardens, most certainly this area."

"What do you want Alun? Why wouldn't you stop this fighting? People, my people, our people are suffering!"

He scoffed and turned to look at the city burning around you both. "The people deserve what they are getting for forgetting their true leaders. And you for forgetting what you once were."

"Stop this. You are doing nothing but destroying the planet!"

Alun turned to look at you, small smile curling onto his hate filled face. Slowly he reached out and placed the rose he had picked behind your ear, the thorns pricking your skin, one digging in enough to make a drop of blood run down your ear.

"When I have control again, and we are again together, things will go back to the way they were. I promise you, love. You just need to stop fighting me."

Disgust formed on your face as you stepped back, "We may have been engaged before you fell, but I never loved you. I was forced into that position by you and your father, and I do not regret being apart of how he and you fell from grace. I will never stop fighting you."

"Oh, but I love you, and I will have you, my love."

"Not if I have any say," a voice growled from behind you. Whipping around, relief flooded you at the sight of Paz marching towards where you stood. He was covered in blood from fighting, but seemed like he was uninjured himself much to your relief. But he seemed angry, livid almost as he pushed you behind him, standing toe-to-toe with Alun. "If you want them, you will have to get through me, and I will not stop fighting until my dying breath for them," Paz’s words settled into your chest, warmth flowing through you as the next few second moved in slow motion. Paz reached out, before Alun even had a chance to grab for his weapon. Paz lifted him like a rag doll to his height, making direct eye contact, before growling out, "because I love them, and you will never have them."

And with that said, Paz simply slammed his forehead into Alun's forcefully knocking him unconscious, then carelessly dropping him to the ground where he laid unmoving buise already forming on his forehead. Paz then turned to you and reached for you, but you simply flung yourself onto him. "You're okay, i was so worried, I didn't want to leave you, I was so scared that something would happen and that Id...."

"That you'd, what cyare," Paz whispered as he held you close, arms wrapped around you as if he'd let go and you'd disappear. Looking up and into his helmet's visor you were quiet for a moment, before speaking up softly, "I love you too... I thought I'd never get to tell you that I loved you."

Gently, Paz pressed his forehead against your own, before whispering, "You don't have to worry. I'll always be around to protect you. And," a teasing note coming out in his voice making you smile, "You can tell me how much you love me anytime you want. As long as you don't have anymore previous fiancés out there professing their love to you. I don't think I could hold back from ripping off their heads like I did just now."

Giggling you shook your head, "No more love professions, I promise. Only yours matter."

Everything Tags: @mysticalgalaxysalad @phoenixhalliwell @moodsare @perpetual-fangirl900 @night-snows00 @dumbass-simp-for-fredweasley @stargazingthenightaway @meabravo @just-here-for-the-moment @masteracewindu @litakino

Paz Tags: @bunny-fairy @elinedjarin @shellyc9 @blackmarketmummy @djarin-junk

Join the Taglists

#anon thots #au tropes asks #paz vizsla x reader #paz x reader #paz x gn!reader #14. Bodyguard AU #63. Mistaken for Couple #80. Green-Eyed Epiphany #i hope you liked this!!#i liked the idea but i feel like i kind of just threw it together hap hazardly :/

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fictionissocialinquiry · 4 years

Text

FISI’s Favourite Zutara Fics

A lil late for ZFAW’s Saturday prompt, sorry about that! Haven’t had any internet over the weekend. But better late than never!

I’m not gonna lie… a lot of these are angsty af. But I promise you they’re not gratuitous angst! They’re well written, beautiful stories that will make you feel like a better person for having read them. These are my favourite all time fics, ones I’ve read more than once and will continue to read (even though I’m taking a week break from fandom and fic).

Multi-Chaptered Fics

The Sparrowkeet Series by audreyii_fic

To be honest, this story’s summary doesn’t do it justice so I ain’t including it. Originally a one shot, Sparrowkeet is headcanon for me now. Move over canon, this is where it’s at. Audreyii_fic’s characterisation, world building, and writing is exquisite. It’s incredible. She manages to channel the same fun and whimsical energy from the show while allowing the characters to grow and develop to places I wish they had actually been taken.

This one is a fandom Must Read and one I return to regularly.

Clothe Me in Seasons, Dress Me in Snow by sadladybug

It is not the memorial she deserves, nor the one she would want. But it can't be helped. He owns no property in the other nations, and he needed to keep her close. Closer than she was in life, anyway.

Zuko's reflections on a life lived and a life that could have been.

This is one of the best written fics I’ve ever read. It’s tragic and deep and will hurt you in all the tender places but you would be doing yourself a favour if you read this. There’s a real bittersweet feeling to it and the love between them is just… urg, visceral.

Lovable by LadyCharity

Zuko knew that he could not save Azula. He could only try to forgive her. Fittingly enough, those two were one in the same.

I love stories that make Zutara their centerpiece but every now but then a story like this comes along. A story where their relationship builds almost incidentally because the plot and character development straight up hijack your emotions. I got so invested in this story. Zuko is amazingly well characterised and his complicated thoughts and feelings around his father and Azula are incredibly well written!

One Shots

Lunar Ephemerality by @formerlygoldilocks (goldilocks23)

After multiple failed attempts on his life and years of self-set expectations, Fire Lord Zuko is a shell of the man he used to be. But Katara won't turn her back on those who need her.

I really didn’t expect this to hit as hard as it did. This straight up snuck up on me, fly-kicked my feelings, and by the end I had written an 800 word comment that was too big for AO3 and I had to contact the author directly to send it to her. Awkward. I couldn’t help myself. The side to Katara we see here is so good, her empathy and love for her friends are one of the things I love seeing most in AtLA fanfic. I’m a sucker for Zuko having complete breakdowns and having to piece himself back together too. So sue me. I like it when they suffer a lil bit. The writing is absurdly good and I will be keeping an eye out for any new stories by goldilocks23!

31 Minutes by @ifyouwereamelodymeg

It's quite astounding, really, how quickly she's learned to translate him. They've spent a grand total of zero time together outside of training, and he's hardly big on chat so she knows next to nothing about his life.

But she knows him, probably better than she knows anyone at the moment – with every tap of his fingers, every crook of his lips, every turn in his voice, he just...

He makes sense to her. It's weird.

I’m a sucker for fic writers playing with style to make the story pop and boyo does this fic deliver. This is one of the rare times that I’ve been dumbstruck at the end of a story— I just couldn’t accept the ending. Because I’m a sucker for pain, (and this story will bring The Pain) I loved it. The ease of Zuko and Katara’s growing relationship in this bowls you over, it’s absolutely beautiful and you find yourself nodding along emphatically when Zuko calls himself an idiot for waiting… “Life’s short, kids, live each moment as though it could be your last,” says this fic as it pulls my heart out and dropkicks it off a cliff.

i count to five (and life passes by) by @markedmage

Five heartbeats.

I still haven’t forgiven Mage for this one. I think it’s the best thing she’s written to date! I mean, tragic and painful and heart-rending but holy shit is it powerful <3

The Lake of the Dismal Swamp by @thewhiitelotus

Spook af. Spook (horror) is real hard to do well but thewhiitelotus is coming for your goosebumps and those shivers down your spine. She has a way of balancing beautiful, evocative imagery with action (in this and other stories of her) that just keeps you reading!

Calloused by @rideboldlyride

Iroh hadn’t been able to watch. The pure horror of a man - a father- burning their child for a slight infraction... He couldn’t do anything to stop it, but he will stop his brother from destroying entirely the kind boy he knew Zuko could be.

This is a painfully underappreciated fic for how great the characterisation is. I know we in the zutara fandom tend to not read stories that aren’t Zuko/Katara centric as often but do yourself the favour of reading this (or listening to it: RideBoldlyRide has done us the gift of recording a podfic for this and it’s stupidly *good*). This story is Iroh confronting Ozai just after he burns Zuko’s face and it kicks.

four days and three nights by @hinaoyamas (lettersfromnowhere)

Zuko discovers firsthand that nothing is more fleeting than happiness, or more enduring than memory.

Do you like reading stories with a distant, omniscient narrator? The kind that read like a myth from the ancient world? Welp, hit the hyperlink, friend, cause this one’s for you. Not only is the writing exquisite but the characterisation and painful inevitability of the plot is grade A.

For the Fire Nation by tullyblue12

He falls in love with her for his country before he falls in love with her for himself. A Zuko/Katara AU that explores how love and duty aren’t always mutually exclusive.

There are about 40,000 exquisite lines in this story but here is just one of my favourites: “He falls in love with her for his country first. That’s what his people never understand.” This fic says a lot with so few words, which is something I really look up to! In 2,800 words, tullyblue12 does what some 100,000k fics cant: They make you feel.

Guide Me Home by Rashaka

To sleep, perchance to dream. Katara and Zuko find a friendship they never expected in a place that seemed impossible.

This is a one shot I will forever wish for a continuation of. The setup is just… so juicy. There’s a real sorrowful innocence to this story that the unique short, dialogue only scenes really punch home. I know some people don’t like dialogue only fics but when done well like in this one, it leaves you with the impression of something deeper than a 1,185 word fic has any right to!

Other Favourites!

Hopeless by tullyblue12 — Kids grow up fast when a cruel world awaits them. In times of hopelessness, Katara and Zuko grow together. In times of separation, they hope to see each other again.

Speechless by goldilocks23 — Zuko has a medical condition. Or: Zuko speaks in haiku at inappropriate times.

Don’t Follow Me Down by eleventy7 — Katara is the dread queen of the underworld, ruler of the dead, destined to reign her cold kingdom alone. Until a sun god catches her eye. A Hades/Persephone retelling with incredible writing.

I Don't Speak Meow Language by @botherkupo (Boogum) — In which Zuko adopts a cat and Katara just wonders what spirits she pissed off to deserve this fate.

I have the privilege of being friends with some of these authors (they know who they are) and am in near daily awe and gratitude for the works of free fiction they provide us, the fandom. And not just any old stories: Guys... Really good ones!! Can I ask that if you go check out these fics, can you just drop a kudos or a comment their way? If you’re feeling shy just copy and paste this into the comments box anonymously: “WOW! Loved this! Thank you so much for writing it!”

I know it would mean the world to this talented bunch <3

#ZFAW #Fic Rec #favourite zutara fanfics of all time #zutara #atla

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elizabeethan · 3 years

Text

Never Nothing- Extra # 2

Another little extra for one of my favorite series!! Soft domestic fluff meets angst... There will be a follow up to this one, eventually.

For @the-darkdragonfly who wanted this to be a 12 part series… we’re halfway there baby

Rated T, mostly for language

~4300 words

Get added to my tag list (I keep one for everything!)

Read on Ao3

Read the rest of the series

Read my other stuff

~~~~

“Stop it.”

“I’m only trying--”

“No, stop it.”

“My love, if you’d just--”

“I don’t want to!”

“--you may find that you feel better.”

“I won’t. I will never feel better, ever, for as long as I live. I will feel exactly this horrible every second for the rest of my miserable life.”

Killian sighs softly, smiling at her despite how much it pisses her off and running his hand through her hair. “I’m sorry you’re feeling so uncomfortable.”

“Having a baby in August is not a good plan.”

“No,” he agrees. “I’m sure you must be feeling rather miserable.”

She nods, pouting. “Extremely miserable.”

He softly kisses the tip of her nose, taking out the sunscreen he’s been begging her to wear and squirting some into his hands. “Now, just imagine how hot you’d be if we were still in Phoenix.”

“Shut up,” she grumbles, leaning forward just enough for him to get her back.

“You’re the one who suggested we come to the beach.”

She glares up at him, her lips pressed into a tight line and her brows covering her eyes almost completely. “You’re on thin ice.”

“I think you’ll find there’s no ice this time of year, my darling. It’s very hot out; it would melt.”

He can’t blame her for being miserable. At 37 weeks pregnant in late July, she can’t seem to ever get comfortable. Her back hurts her endlessly, her hips are sore, she’s been suffering with horrible heartburn, and the mood swings are difficult to keep up with.

He wouldn’t have it any other way, though.

“Why don’t we get into the water? A bit of buoyancy is sure to help your back.”

She sighs in defeat and says, “I’ll probably just get sea sick. Or eaten by a shark. Or stung by a jellyfish.”

He kisses her nose once more and takes her hand, hoisting her off of the chaise lounge and placing his palm on the small of her back where he knows she’s sore. “I’ll fight off the sharks and the jellyfish, my love.”

“Promise?” she asks as she waddles towards the shore with him.

“Of course.”

She squeals as she tries to get into the chilly water, but once they’re in and she’s used to the cold, she relaxes a bit. His heart flutters when she leans back against his chest, letting him bear her weight as he runs his hand along her bump and presses a kiss to her shoulder.

Feeling her pressed against him makes the blood rush through his veins, and he’s glad for the cold water keeping any obvious signs of his arousal at bay. He’s always found her unbelievably sexy, but seeing her in her yellow bikini, her bump on full display, is enough for him to have almost kept her home today.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she grumbles, her voice barely audible over the sounds of the waves. “And no, we’re not doing it in the ocean.”

“I would perish at the thought of sullying your purity on a public beach, love.”

“Purity,” she scoffs. “I’m knocked up at 22. Nothing pure about it.”

He kisses her neck, then her cheek, and holds her close to himself, his bare wrist pressed to the side of her belly and his hand holding it tenderly. “We've talked about this, love,” he murmurs against her skin. “How this child has come to be is not important. What’s important is how fiercely the two of us love him.”

“I know,” she agrees softly, dropping her head to his shoulder and sighing as she lets herself relax further into his hold and into the gentle current of the sea. “I just wish… sometimes I just wish you were his dad.”

He sways the two of them together gently, letting the waves carry them, and reminds her, “I fully intend to be. Biology isn’t really a factor here, my love.”

She hums happily as she lets him support every ounce of her, effectively floating just below the surface with him holding her up. “I just feel… I love this baby more than anything. I don’t regret having him, I just kind of wish you'd been the one to knock me up.”

“Me too,” he laughs, “but it’s alright, because this child will be as much my son as any that I sire.”

“I love you. Sorry I’m a bitch.”

“You’re the furthest thing from it, darling. I’ll not hear you talking about yourself in such a way.”

She hums again and shrugs. “I could probably chill out a bit. I’ve been pretty snappy.”

“Well, you’re nine months pregnant.”

“Maybe I’ll keep being bitchy after the baby’s born.”

“I hope so. I like you when you’re fired up.”

She lies in his arms for a while, content to float almost weightlessly in the water as the pressure of the babe she carries is finally relieved. He feels the lad kicking about beneath the water, likely entranced by the dancing waves, and chuckles softly each time he gets a strike to his palm.

“What would you like for dinner, my love?” he asks after a long silence falls between them.

“Chinese food,” she answers immediately.

“That’s a nice dream. What do you actually want, Miss High Blood Pressure?”

“Baaaabe,” she groans, tossing her head back against his shoulder again and gripping his forearms. “I don’t want grilled chicken.”

“You don’t have to have grilled chicken. We can stop for fish.”

“The baby wants lo mein.”

“He can have some after he’s born and his mother isn’t at risk for preeclampsia.”

She grumbles some more, her words incoherent and inaudible over the sound of the water lapping around them. “Chicken,” she finally concedes. “But only if you make that sauce you made last week.”

With a snort, he asks, “you mean the one with the bacon in it?”

“That’s the one.”

“Alright, love. Let’s get you out of the water before you give birth to a raisin.”

“You’ve gotta work on your dad jokes.”

~~~~

The days seem to be getting longer and longer, time refusing to pass at a normal pace as she lives in constant torture and betrayal of her own body. She loves being pregnant, honestly, but it’s becoming a bit tiring. The baby she’s hauling around is heavy, and her back is killing her. Killian’s being very wary of her slightly elevated blood pressure when all she wants is Chinese food and chicken nuggets. Her mom still remembers her days as a perinatal nurse and won’t stop accidentally scaring her when she talks about what she’s seen during labor.

Killian’s looking forward to the delivery, and she tries not to let that piss her off. Of course, she’s more than elated to see him so excited for their child to be born, and she’s so lucky to have a partner who will be there for her throughout the whole thing. But each time he tries to show her something he’s read in a book, or a breathing exercise they can try together during contractions, she wants to chuck something at him. After all, she doesn’t believe that he’s truly ready for what her body will be doing in just a few short weeks.

“During a contraction, I can try to massage your lower back if you’re standing. How does that sound?”

“Standing?” she asks doubtfully. “I can barely stand during cramps.”

“Don’t let him fool you; the massages don’t help,” Granny says ominously while she places her plate before her. While he’s been very strict about her diet, Killian can’t keep her from getting her French toast from Granny’s on Sunday mornings.

“And did you have a walking epidural when you delivered in the Enchanted Forest, Granny?” he asks, his tone sarcastic.

She rolls her eyes as she places his eggs in front of him.

Taking a deep breath with her eyes squeezed shut, Emma places her hand on the top of her bump as a zip of hot pain rushes up her chest and into her throat. Killian’s silent and still as he watches her, holding his fork above his plate as his brows furrow while she waits for it to pass. Once the pain subsides, he asks, “alright?”

“Heartburn,” she breathes. He pushes her glass of water towards her encouragingly as she breathes steadily. “Damn.”

“It won’t be long, love.”

“Yeah, he better make an appearance soon. I wanna meet him so bad, and I wouldn’t mind if the indigestion went away.”

“Morning,” Ruby says happily as she refills Killian’s mug, much to Emma’s jealous vexation.

“Morning Ruby. What’s the report for this week?” he asks, happily going along with her perception of herself as the town crier.

“Not much, but there’s someone new in town. Can you believe that? The dwarves are doing some research to find out if that means we can leave.”

“Well, that will certainly be interesting,” he agrees, giving Emma a happy smile. They haven’t even bothered to attempt to leave themselves, although it’s suspected that they can.

“And everyone is excited to have a newcomer.”

“I’m sure he must be a really interesting character, what with him wanting to come to Storybrooke.”

Emma snorts, digging into her breakfast once her least favorite pregnancy symptom subsides completely.

“I haven’t met him, but I’ve heard he is kind of an ass.”

Moments later, her parents bustle into the diner and greet her with a broad smile as they approach them. “Hi honey!” her mom says happily.

“Morning,” she smiles.

“How are you feeling?” she asks as she and David scoot the two of them down in their booths. “How’s my sweet little grandson?”

Mary Margaret places a gentle hand over Emma’s bump and she stiffens just a bit. It always feels weird to have anyone but Killian put their hands on her belly. “Okay. He keeps flopping around and giving me heartburn.”

She hums in understanding, patting her belly. “Have you heard about someone new being in town?”

“We were just briefed by Ruby,” Killian answers.

“Well, I met him very briefly. He’s handsome and very charming.”

“I don’t think Emma or Hook care much about that, Snow,” David says, and Emma nods.

“Well, I heard he’s coming here for breakfast today. Isn’t that exciting? You two won’t be the newcomers anymore.”

Emma laughs and nods through another bite. “I guess that’s true.”

They continue to chat through their meal, David talking about his job as an animal control officer. Apparently, they’re thinking about adopting a dog he’d rescued a week ago, and Emma’s only seen him beam like this a few times in the short time she’s known him. Things are good, the French toast isn’t giving her heartburn, she thinks she’s going to have a good day.

Until the bell above the door rings.

And he walks in.

She takes in a gasping breath, her eyes bugging out of her head as she swings her head away from the door. “Alright?” Killian asks her softly, leaning over the table and taking her hand.

She shakes her head and feels his body go rigid with panic. If they weren’t trapped in the booth by her parents, she would grab his hand and run out the back door of the diner to escape him.

“Heartburn?” Killian asks softly, not yet alerting her parents of her sudden shift in mood. “Braxton Hicks? Contractions?!”

“No,” she croaks.

“What is it, angel? Talk to me.”

She chances a look towards the door and sees him talking with Ruby, probably flirting with her shamelessly. Then, she looks back at Killian and whispers, “Neal.”

He raises a brow in thought and then she watches as the pieces of the puzzle click into place. He nods once, looking towards the door and grimacing. Ruby starts to guide Neal towards a table and Mary Margaret gives him a friendly, excited wave before Emma can stop her. She wants to put her head through the table; maybe he won’t see her if she does that.

The only saving grace is the fact that she can spread her legs out and tuck her bump under the table. The last thing she wants right now is for him to find out that he fertilized the egg that became her son.

“Mary Margaret, right? Hi,” he greets casually. “And this must be your husband, and--”

He’s staring, but not at her. He’s gaping at Killian.

“What the… Hook?”

Killian looks as baffled as Emma must, and he gives her a look of confusion that tells her he has no idea what’s going on. Only, when he looks at her, so does Neal.

“Emma?!”

“You two know each other?”

“Oh my god,” she grumbles, dropping her head to her folded arms on the table. She’d pushed her plate away, unable to eat anything more as the stress of her sperm donor making an appearance in her life eats away at her.

“Darling, perhaps we should--” Before he can continue, she kicks him under the table, not wishing to let Neal know anything personal about her, especially the fact that she and Killian are together and that she’s expecting a baby in a few weeks.

“Darling? Are you two, like, dating or something?”

“Emma and Ho-- Killian live together,” her mother supplies, and Emma rolls her eyes.

“Huh,” Neal says in response. “You sure do move on fast.”

“Mate, that’s not--”

“I’m not your mate, pirate.”

Killian chuckles awkwardly and asks, “do we know each other?”

Neal looks like he’s ready to snap, perhaps jump across the table and strangle Killian at his cocky response, but he’s interrupted by the door opening again and Mr. Gold entering the diner. “Bae,” he calls, not yet taking notice of what he’s doing or who he’s talking to. “What are you doing?”

“Bae,” Killian breathes, staring up at Neal and Mr. Gold in astonishment. “You… you’re Neal?”

“What is going on?” Emma asks through gritted teeth, wanting nothing more than to escape. The position she’s put herself in in order to hide her bump is horribly uncomfortable on her back (and she probably looks ridiculous), and all she wants to do now is go home and sit on her new couch.

“What’s going on is your boyfriend is a piece of shit,” Neal spits at her. “You sure know how to pick ‘em.”

“What, like I picked you? Lot of good that did me, what with the police, and the court hearings, and the community service, and the--”

“Honey… This is Neal? I thought your name was Bae.”

“It was,” Neal grumbles back, turning towards his father and then back to Emma. “You told your parents about me?”

“Well, she kind of had to,” David responds condescendingly. “What with the--”

“Dad. Please stop.”

“The what?”

“Son, let’s go enjoy our breakfast and leave the family drama for later.”

The baby starts wiggling just as another bout of heartburn curses her, and she hisses, pushing her fist against her chest and leaning forward even more until she’s in an awkward position. “Honey, you need some tums. I told you, they’re safe for the ba--”

“I’m fine,” she seethes, swallowing and breathing deeply through the feeling of lava crawling up her throat. She wants to leave so badly, but the moment she moves to stand, her pregnancy will become more than obvious.

“Family drama,” Neal laughs. “That’s rich, isn’t it, Hook? First my mom and now my girlfriend?”

Emma glares up at him, practicing her mom-look. “Go away,” she insists.

He scoffs and says, “Ems, come on. Let's get you out of here.”

“Excuse me?”

“Bae is Neal?” Killian asks through continued astonishment, looking down at his hand with his mouth agape, his brows furrowed.

“Stop calling me that,” Neal snaps. “You lost your right to talk to me when you killed my mother and sold me to Pan.”

Emma knows this isn’t true; Killian told her the story about the Crocodile murdering his first love in front of him. He told her about how he found her son years later and wanted to raise him as his own. She just had no idea that her son was… Neal. Evidently, Killian didn’t either.

“Neal, go away. Leave us alone like you left me to rot.”

“I did that for your own good. You had to break the curse.”

“Right,” she scoffs. She wants nothing more than to rub in his face the fact that he abandoned her, homeless and poor and pregnant, but she holds in her anger. Truthfully, Neal leaving was one of the better things to have happened to her. It gave her Killian and their baby. It brought her to her family. It helped her find out who she is.

Those facts don't make his betrayal sting any less, though.

“Killian, maybe you should take Emma home,” her mother suggests through the haze of anger and confusion surrounding the table. He looks up at Snow, his jaw still dropped towards the floor and his eyes swimming with the guilt of his past, and nods.

“Aye,” he agrees, shaking his head and taking Emma’s hands. “Come, love. Let’s sail away.”

She wants nothing more than to agree, to nod and smile at him, taking his hands and letting him lead her out of the diner, but Neal remains firmly planted outside of their booth. If she stands now, she’ll reveal herself. She looks at Killian meaningfully with wide eyes, then glances down towards her belly and up in Neal’s direction.

He understands effortlessly and turns towards Neal, asking, “do you mind, mate? We’d like to head out.”

Neal rolls his eyes and concedes, stepping away from their booth and towards his father, and Mary Margaret and David stand to give them a path out of their seats. They're almost home free-- she can see the light at the end of the diner-- Killian leading the way and effectively hiding the evidence of her pregnancy. Or so she thinks.

Just as Killian’s hand reaches the door, about to push it open and gain their sweet escape, Ruby cuts them off with an excited greeting to Emma, reaching to give her a hug as she usually does and asking, “how’s my favorite little nephew doing? What is it now; three weeks to go?”

Emma freezes, eyes wide and face pale as Killian’s back goes stiff in front of her. The diner is silent, the early breakfast rush long over, and she knows Neal heard her. It’s confirmed when she hears the scratch of the chair against the floor as he stands and calls, “what, so he knocked you up, too? What a stand-up guy.”

The blood in her veins chills at his statements. Her jaw starts hurting with how forcefully she’s clenching it. She watches Killian turn around and fears that he’s going to confront Neal with the truth. In reality, though, he turns and looks only at her, taking her hands in his easily despite the fact that one is missing, courtesy of her ex’s father. “It’s alright,” he whispers, showing her just how much he understands her. Showing her that he can tell exactly what she’s thinking; can read the fear in her eyes at the thought of Neal finding out that this child is technically a part of him. “We can go,” he tells her.

She can’t help but to spin around, half turning to face Neal with tearfilled eyes, looking at him just once so that she can remind herself of the mistakes she’s made in her past. So that she can compare the despair he brought her with the joy that Killian brings so effortlessly. But it’s a mistake. She watches as his face falls, seemingly seeing just how pregnant she really is.

“Is that… are you…” He looks up at the ceiling, flexing his fingers as if counting on them. Counting the months since they were last together. Realizing it’s been almost nine months since their last encounter. Taking in just how large her bump is. “Emma…?”

She should just turn around and leave, or ignore him; refuse to give attention to his thoughts so that she doesn't spur them on. But instead, she lets out a choked sob and buries her face in her hands as her tears flow freely.

Killian’s hand is on her back immediately, running soothing circles along her skin as he moves to stand in front of her and blocks her view of the rest of the world, consuming her with only his ocean-blue eyes. “It’s alright,” he whispers again.

“Did she say three weeks left? Is that…”

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, and although Neal’s voice cuts through the air between them like a knife, all she sees is Killian.

“I wanna go home,” she cries softly, clinging to his hand and hook.

“We will,” he promises.

“Emma, is that my kid?”

She can’t respond. All she can do is tilt her body slightly so that she’s looking past Killian’s right into Neal’s eyes, showing him the truth in her own. She can’t tell him with words that he fathered a child with her, but she knows that the look on her face is enough confirmation when his own pales and he drops back down in his chair.

He only stays there for a second before forcefully standing again, the chair colliding with the floor. Gold begs, “Bae,” reaching his hand towards his son, and Neal violently rips away from his father.

“Don’t!” He shouts. “Fuck.”

Before anyone can say anything, Neal is stalking towards Emma and Killian, and she almost feels nervous for a second, until he brushes past the two of them and slams his way out the door.

~~~~

Her lip trembles as he shuts the door, and she spins into his arms the second he locks it, bursting into tears easily. “He’s gonna take him,” she cries.

“Emma, no. That isn’t going to happen, love.”

She sobs some more, gripping his shirt with white knuckles, nodding into his neck and pulling him as close to herself as she possibly can with the bump between them. “He is.”

“You saw his face when he found out, darling. He has no interest. He’s already running.”

“Everything was so perfect. Now it’s ruined.”

“Nothing is ruined, my love,” he argues. “What makes you even say that?”

She shudders in his arms, whimpering pathetically as the hormones take over and the fear of losing her child consumes her. “I wanted--” she chokes. “I wanted you to be his dad.”

When he pulls away from her, forcing her face from his neck, she cries out again, pained at the thought that she’s losing him, too. “Angel,” he murmurs softly, soothingly. “I am his dad. Perhaps the lad will simply be lucky enough to have two.”

The violence behind her choked breathing is palpable between the two of them, showing him just how distraught she truly is as she asks, “you mean-- you mean you’re not leaving?”

“You silly thing,” he breathes through a gentle laugh, pressing their foreheads together. “Do you really believe that that fool coming into our lives will sway me? I love you. Both of you.”

Her bottom lip trembles again as his hand slides along the side of her belly, the baby kicking against his palm in greeting. The fact that he didn’t stir when faced with his biological father doesn’t get past her as he wiggles against his dad lovingly. She lets out one last soft, whimpering sob and sniffles before saying, “I love you. We both love you.”

He kisses her gently despite the tears and snot, making her laugh lightly. “Bae knows what it is to have an absent father, love. I’m… I’m truly shocked to know that the boy who lived on my ship all those years ago has done this to you. But I do believe that, now that he knows, he’ll do what he can to support you and the little lad. I believe he’ll do the right thing.”

“Maybe I don’t want him to,” she pouts.

He smiles, cupping her cheek, and says, “that’s valid. And I know you're scared. But we’ll just have to sort out what’s best for the little one.”

With a heaving sigh, she drops her forehead to his chest and shuts her eyes. “Right now, what’s best for the little one is a nap.”

“It’s only 10:30,” he jests, but despite his argument, he places his hand on the small of her back and guides her towards their bedroom. “Need a snack?”

“More French toast.”

“No. An apple.”

“Never mind,” she grumbles, pouting as she collapses on the bed and holds up her feet until he starts pulling her sandals off. He shakes his head as he laughs lightly, running his thumb over her swollen feet and kissing her cankles. “Killian?” she whispers quietly.

“Aye, love?” he asks, almost as softly as he crawls up towards her and helps her lean back onto the bed.

She grunts unattractively as her swollen body flops like a fish across the mattress, drawing a soft smile from his lips. “I’m scared,” she whispers when his front wraps around her back.

“Aye, love. I know.” His hand slides across her giant bump, the baby kicking him gently, and kisses just behind her ear. “But you’re going to be fantastic. You’re so strong, and smart, and capable of anything you set your mind to.”

“Then why can’t I just magic him out of here?”

“Bae?” he asks with a surprised laugh.

“Yeah, I’ve been trying since we got home.”

“You are a silly thing. And I love you very much.”

With a contented hum, she pulls him closer to her despite the heat. “I love you, but let me sleep now.”

“As you wish, my angel.”

~~~~

@courtorderedcake @kmomof4 @stahlop @klynn-stormz @laschatzi @emelizabeth88 @lfh1226-linda @kday426 @elisethewritingbeast @timeless-love-story @captain-emmajones @gingerpolyglot @ebcaver @ilovemesomekillianjones @teamhook @superchocovian @itsfabianadocarmo @tiganasummertree @gingerchangeling @jrob64�� @onceratheart18 @xhookswenchx @winterbaby89 @swampmedusa @ultraluckycatnd @dancingnancyy @love-with-you-i-have-everything @shireness-says @snowbellewells @hollyethecurious @ouatpost @daxx04 @the-darkdragonfly @donteattheappleshook @therooksshiningknight @eeteeaytay @xsajx @itsfridaysomewhere @alexa-fangirl-forever @jonesfandomfanatic @wefoundloveunderthelight @qualitycoffeethings @rapunzelsghosts @spaceconveyor @badcats-andmice @batana54 @sailtoafarawayland @deckerstarblanche @zaharadessert @xarandomdreamx

#Never Nothing #extra #captain swan #captain swan fanfic #cs ff #never nothing ff #cs fluff #cs angst

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shyuwe · 3 years

Note

How are we feeling about titans s3's jason after that last episode (lazarus)?

Oh man I'm so glad someone asked me about this!! I've been trying my hardest to not convert into a Titans blog, but since there was an ask...

The episode was everything that it said it would be and it delivered in putting perspective to the motive behind Jason's actions. Of course, I don't think he'll be fully redeemed anytime soon (I'm hoping that they drag his time as a villain out a bit actually! we're desperately in need of more crime lord Jason haha), and that's probably what the showrunners were going for. Not a full redemption, but an explanation as to why and how he's become so twisted. It's showing justification without justifying him, you know? I have mixed feelings about it, which I'll go into later, but there was something I thought the show got right.

I absolutely loved how the show portrayed Bruce and Jason in this episode, probably more than how the comics do it haha. They're both incredibly stubborn and broken men who have no idea how to talk to each other. You can always sympathize with both of their perspectives (Bruce desperately trying to keep his son from danger, and Jason only seeing it as betrayal due to his past). It never antagonizes either, and yet we know that they're both in the wrong.

I do feel a bit cheated though, knowing it was Scarecrow who gave Jason the hood. Of course I know why they did this since "ohh he went pit mad ahha..." does not at ALL excuse what he did and having someone as criminally insane as Crane basically groom him is a much more plausible plotline. Still, there's just something compelling about Jason putting on the hood to avenge himself! In Titans, there's just no vengeance or betrayal behind that mask, no "why did you choose him over me"s.

Lazarus was a great episode if you wanted to understand the why behind Titans Red Hood, but a terrible one if you wanted something more concrete to base his crimes in. It wasn't at all like in Arkham Knight, where there was a clear reason to why Jason took the path he did. Personally, I'm still torn on which side I'm on. It's really hard for me to look at Jason objectively (for obvious reasons) so of course I'm not 100% satisfied with how it turned out. I love villain Jason a lot and the original UTRH is my favourite interpretation of him to date, but I do think that in order to write him like that, you need more than just a "why".

Bringing up Arkham Knight again, I loved him in that of course there's a clear reason for his turn, but there's more than that--there's a sharp vengeance and sense of retribution that somehow makes us root for him, you know? It's the same for comics Jason. I wanted to see the Knight kill Bruce, I wanted Red Hood to shoot the Joker because they goddamn deserved it after all the pain they went through! Titans Jason on the other hand falls a bit short. He's suffered just as much as the other two, but his cause, his drive is just so damn ambiguous! He has the "why" but...why wage this war in the first place? Is Scarecrow the only reason Jason has to doing any of this? So yes, I have mixed feelings about this episode. Honestly I'm starting to think that the episode delivered it's promise and I was the one who wanted more from it haha.

In the end, I don't think I'll ever prefer this version of his character to his comic counterpart, but that was a given from the beginning really. It's a great adaptation, but its just that; an adaptation. Nothing will ever come close to the pure joy I got from reading UTRH for the first time.

#vinny's todd talks

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midnightmoonkiss · 4 years

Text

Painful Stings & Sweet Apologies

Yandere! Izuku Midoriya X Fem! Reader

Summary: Rage fueled by failure, Izuku finds comfort in a bar, only to come home to a broken promise and a furious darling. He didn’t mean for this to happen.

WARNINGS!: blood, violence, alcohol (Izuku under the influence)

Category: Angst, one-sided fluff

Word Count: 9k+

A/N: This is my first yandere fic! I’m nervous as hell, I have no idea if I got this right lol. Though I did spend months perfecting it to the best of my abilities! Hope you enjoy~

Just To Clarify:

You’re both adults

It’s Friday

It’s cold and rainy (naturally--)

Izuku’s bedroom has a walk in closet and a bathroom

the kitchen is off-limits

THIS IS A YANDERE FIC!

Izuku is an obsessive yandere~

Cold, burning liquid rushed down the male’s throat as he gulped at the drink within the short glass.

Whiskey, or more specifically - a Jack Daniels, the honey-brown alcohol that delivered a bitter slap to all those who drank its refreshing nectar.

It wasn’t his usual drink, and certainly not one he’d ever guzzle like a parched beast.

Hell, who in their right mind would do that? Even with a single sip, it left your chest burning with its heat.

But desperate times call for desperate measures, right?

Or, more of, self-loathing times call for a quick, one-way ticket to Forget-Me Ville and Cringe Island.

The bar he sat at was lively, filled with drunken laughter and slurred speeches of men and women who have been out for far too long.

But it was Friday night, so who cared?

A rainy, cold, sucky, depressing Friday night, one of which his friends tried to make a bit better by taking the pissed off, green-haired hero out for drinks.

They certainly hadn’t expected Izuku, an innocent little guy who couldn’t handle his liquor for shit, to shoot down an entire glass of whiskey.

At first, he ordered a simple beer - a starter drink if you will.

It didn’t take but ten minutes for him to gulp that glass down, and he was onto his next drink - a sangria wine cooler. His typical drink. He always was more of a fruity guy, after all, preferring the sweet tang over the bitter bite.

But as the night raged on, and so did his inner turmoil, he kept ordering stronger and stronger drinks, until he got to the whiskey. You could say he lost his sense of reason a while ago.

He was still seething with rage, not as much as before but the mixture of anger and frustration swirled hotly with the alcohol pumping through his veins and sitting in his belly.

You could say it was keeping him warm in this lifeless atmosphere.

For the first time in what felt like forever, he didn’t think of you, his precious little darling. He could barely think straight, mind occupied with too many thoughts to be able to understand any of them. It was all a garbled mess, one he chose to ignore.

Was that a good or a bad thing? He’d find out later.

But for now?

He needed another drink.

In the beginning, this Friday seemed like it was going to be one of the best he’ll ever have.

For months this pro hero has been working alongside detectives with catching a murderous villain known by the name “Ghoul.”

They were sick and twisted, their motives unknown, their trail hard to tract.

He had only one encounter with them, but he was too late to catch them.

That’s the day he was brought in to help aid the case.

But, that day haunted him for weeks. He knew that if he had arrived at the bloody scene sooner, he could have captured that cannibalistic fuck, brought justice to those who had already died by their mangy hands.. and prevented the deaths that would ensue after.

He’d known horrible villains before, but this one was different. Their teeth were sharp, blood permanently stained their clothes, and they gave off a wolfish vibe. Yes, a hunter. One who tore flesh from human bones and munched on it until someone screamed in terror for help.

For months he helped gather intel, piece puzzle pieces together, aid with location predictions and stakeout missions, until finally - they found that bastard.

It was more of a hunch than anything really, that Ghoul would show up to that site.

Ghoul, while hard to track, left a pattern in their wake. They avoided certain areas, thrived where the poor were at their weakest. The murders always seemed to happen at the exact same time behind run-down fast-food restaurants.

It was unclear if the sicko liked a hearty human meal with their victims own stomachs filled with greasy, fattening food, or if it was just convenient to them, either way - the perp was too damn sloppy.

To regular ol’ police personnel, the murders would just always happen there, behind restaurants.

But after Deku’s team began tracking where each and every murder occurred, it was quite easy to tell they were drawing, funnily enough, a circle around the city’s map.

It was stupid, childish, and downright idiotic, but damn if that didn’t lead the team to find the cold-blooded killer.

Adrenaline and pure hatred for the villain fueled Deku’s onslaught of attacks, each seemingly more powerful and less calculated. His mind was muddled.

He was filled with rage, finally being able to see the shitty excuse of a human again, but it affected his movements. He was being hasty, careless, not his usual calculated self.

And that’s what brought him his demise.

His shoulder was harshly bitten, razor-sharp teeth tearing through the fabric of his suit and shredding up the skin on his shoulder. Their quirk pumped through his blood instantly, making him collapse onto his knees, paralyzed. He hissed in pain as the sickeningly warm liquid flowed down his arm, unable to stop himself from face planting onto the dirty gravel of the alleyway.

He had lost, and Ghoul got away.

He still remembers it, after all, it was only hours ago that it happened.

The sun had long since set, the crescent moon hung high in the sky as her stars shimmered around her. His wound was stitched up and healed by doctors, leaving only a bitter scar to remind him of his failure.

He failed not only himself but those who counted on him.

God, he sucked.

And so, he ordered another drink.

He wanted to forget. He didn’t want to feel the failure sting at his fragile heart anymore.

It was too much to take.

What type of hero let the villain get away, knowing full well that they would kill again?

They couldn’t track Ghoul’s trail anymore, for the circle had been completed - and they were left with nothing with the numbing feeling of brutal loss.

Hours blurred together as his mind went hazy. His speech slurred together, dull, green eyes unfocused and mouth blabbering out nonsense to his friends that he couldn’t even really hear. It just- came out.

Soon enough, he was being dragged out of the bar by his annoyingly sober friends.

The night had gotten colder since they first entered the warm bar, rain pelted down like freezing bullets flying from a machine gun. A dirty old awning kept them dry as they stood still at the front of the bars entrance, the loud music bouncing off the walls inside echoed down the empty streets.

Heavy streams of salty rainwater poured off the edge of the awning, splattering down into a mud puddle that emptied into the sewer grate below.

Who doesnt love the musty stench of rain on asphalt?

Hell, the smell itself, combined with the strong yet savory scent of the Korean barbeque joint across the street was enough to make him nauseous. He had drank far too much, and his stomach was suffering the consequences. He should have eaten more before drinking. How foolish.

“It’s pretty late, you should head home.” Reasoned his best friend, Todoroki, puffs of condensation leaving his mouth as the warm breath met cold air, pressing a freezing hand to the back of the freckled boy's sweaty neck to jolt his drowsy, drunken self into a more alert state. Nothing but time could sober you up, but damn if that hand didn’t help slap some energy into him.

“Yeaahh, ye-yeahhh.. I gooht you Todooroe.” God, he sounded like someone high on anesthesia after being awoken from a surgery - which he definitely would be able to compare this experience to. Being a hero meant at least a few surgeries a year. Comes with the job.

Plus, this wasn’t the first time he’s been drunk.

He sure as hell hated the aftermath, but some nights it felt as if the hot burn of alcohol was the only thing that could keep him sane.

This was just one of those nights - or perhaps it was multiple nights slammed into one from just how stupidly drunk he was. The world was blurred, and Izuku doubted he could even walk straight at this point.

The half and half hero waved down a stray taxi, street water splashing up onto the sidewalk as the yellow vehicle came to a screeching halt.

“Get home safe.” Todoroki sighed out his nose at seeing his friends out-of-it state, helping the giddy and jelly-like hero into the back seat.

Izuku pouted, grabby hands clinging onto his friend's shirt in protest.

With a half-hearted chuckle, Todoroki pried himself free from his grip, handing the cab driver more than enough yen to get the drunk boy home.

He gave the taxi driver an address, and soon the car was rolling off down the street, Izukus flushed face pressed against the cold, fogging glass and staring with eyes full of tears at his friend.

Though, it seemed as if he had forgotten a promise he made to someone very important to him. Someone who he devoted his entire life to.

Someone who he risked everything for.

You.

His princess who had been locked in a small, dark room all day, wrists tightly cuffed to loose chains on the wall. The only light provided was a rusty oil lamp Izuku had gotten at a yard sale one day. The flame was dull, and left the room covered in shadows.

The tile below was as cold as it had been since the morning when Izuku had forcefully chained you there for misbehaving the night before.

You had deserved this punishment for disobeying him.

That’s what he tried to convince, anyway.

He was only trying to keep you safe! He hated punishing you, hated the way you thrashed and screamed at him in protest - that only meant he had to be rougher with you. You had broken into the most dangerous room in the apartment, afterall.

The kitchen.

There were far too many harmful objects in there!

Knives that could slice your delicate skin to shreds, forks that could jab into your body, hot stoves that could leave you with a nasty burn, and canned food stored too high up on the shelf that could fall and hit your head.. It was for your protection that the kitchen was off-limits to you!

Plus, Izuku, your oh-so kind and sweet boyfriend, had no problem with cooking you meals to eat together. In fact, he loved it!

He felt accomplished whenever you'd hum in approval at his cooking, or even turned on if that slutty mouth of yours just so happened to moan around your utensil.

Those were the nights dinner was forgotten.

But you had been foolish, entering the kitchen for a midnight snack whilst Izuku was out on patrol. Your sneaky little self thought you were clever, leaving no trace of your betrayal.

Until you were awoken hours later by a green glow, blood running cold as a pair of murderous neon eyes stared into yours.

It had to be one of the scariest sights to date.

His pupils were shrunk, green electricity buzzing around his large body. He hovered over your trembling body, a wrapper in between his two gloved fingers.

He was so close, your noses brushed together.

You swore he could see into your soul, as well as see the fear in your (E/C) eyes.

“What is this, (Y/N)?” He had asked innocently, hurt coating his words.

“I-” you wanted to make an excuse, protest, say it wasn’t yours, but every single letter died on your tongue as his face pressed closer, a sadistic smile overtaking his features.

“You didn’t.. You didn’t go into the kitchen, did you?”

His hot, minty breath blew all over your face as he spoke, and you shriveled back in fear as insanity crossed his expression in that way you were far too familiar with.

The giggles bubbled in his throat as he tried to fight logic with delusion, “It wasn’t you, right? Someone broke in, didn’t they? You wouldn’t break my trust, would you?”

His voice was cracking, fingers digging into the flesh of the bed beneath you as his eye began to twitch.

He stared down at you, curly green hair brushing against the sides of your face, waiting far too long for an answer he would never get. His bottom lip wobbled, feat tears welling up in his eyes and falling onto your pale cheeks as his body shook with anger and sadness.

He was already stressed about the following mornings mission, and to come home to his princess betraying his trust was not something he enjoyed.

And so, you were punished.

But he had promised you wouldnt be locked in there for long, he knew how you feared the dark. He had conditioned you to fear it, after all. It was his greatest accomplishment.

You were always so willing to cuddle into him when the lights were off.

A few hours turned into nearly an entire day, the only indication you had of this was past experiences, skin around your wrists rubbed raw from the metal cuffs, and the unusual sting of your ass and bare legs burning from the freezing tile beneath you.

That was the least of your worries, though.

Worst of all - the flame, which was holding you together and keeping you from crying out for help to those who might hear you in this soundproof room, which would no doubt get you a harsher punishment, was about to die out.

That flame, albeit small, was your only hope of surviving this.

Izuku was typically a very reliable person, it was strange for him to not keep his word to you. He devoted his being to you, worshipped the ground you regrettably walked upon, why would he break his own promise?

The thought of being trapped in the dark, the echo of your chains taunting your delirious mind had you close to tears. You didn’t want to be alone here anymore.

You watched in horror as the flame got smaller and smaller, tears now rolling down your cheeks as you pleaded under your breath for it to last longer.

The air vents around you provided enough oxygen for it to survive, but that damn oil..

Where was he?!

Suddenly, the door to his apartment flew open, giggles seeping through the house and teasing your ears.

Then, there was no more light.

A screech tore from your throat, a desperate call of his name as you thrashed around, tears pouring from your eyes.

You felt as if you couldnt breathe as your head whipped around the space, desperate for more air and light as your lungs seemed to scream.

You couldnt feel the cold chill of the floor anymore, body numb as adrenaline pumped through your veins.

What was in the dark?

How big was this space again?

Rather, how small was it?

What was that noise?

Did something just touch you?

There was wind, there was wind, no. A cold chill?

Oh god what was that-

Loud, clumsy footsteps made their way closer and closer to the locked metal door. You sobbed as your heard the jingle of keys, metal scraping against metal as he fumbled with inserting them into the lock.

Until finally, you were basked in the honey-dew glow of the bedroom.

You fought to control your breathing as he dropped to his knees, taking far too long for your liking to get the cuffs off.

But at least now you know why he took so god damn long.

You could smell the putrid miasma of alcohol wafting off him the moment he stepped into the darkroom, tainted with the salty effluvium of rainwater as it dripped onto your skin from his damp, messy hair.

Rage bubbled inside you as he giggled once more at your tear-stained cheeks, “D-did yoou miss mee?” He slurred, a giddy smile on his face as the stale stench of what he had been drinking all night circled around your head like a rotten wreath.

Instead of answering, like you knew you should have, you turned your head towards the door, soaking in the light you were previously deprived of. Even if it was just a mere minute.

At your silence, his smile quickly turned into a frown. Big, forestry green eyes welled up with sadness, bottom lip trembling, “(Y-Y/N)?” He couldnt help but reach out, scarred fingers wishing to wipe away those stray tears from your face.

You missed him.

That’s why you were crying, surely.

He wanted to comfort you, say that he was there now and that you could both cuddle until twinkling dawn.

You weren’t alone anymore.

He was all you needed, and he was right beside you.

He’ll always be there for you, and you’ll always be there for him.

Because you love each other.

“D-Don’t cry-”

His cold hand was smacked away, and his usually sturdy body was shoved back so that you could scramble out of the freezing closet.

You needed space.

More room to breath.

To be on flooring that didnt feel like ice cutting into your flesh.

Hell, you were sure the skin that had the unholy misfortune of touching the floor were burned red at this point from how long you had to sit there.

Not to mention your poor wrists, you couldnt even bear the sight of them being so raw. You were pretty sure they would bleed if you even touched them. Your body was screaming in pain, stomach growing for food, mouth parched from not being given water so that you wouldnt make a mess on the floor.

You were weak, shaking, and afraid.

That bastard had the gall to say not to cry, to look concerned when he knew damn well how much you absolutely despised the dark.

At first it was a childish fear, but the moment he snatched you from your regular life, that fear became a reality. There were countless nights you’d be punished by being left alone in the dark.

He didnt want to hurt you, no, and he never has, but damn if he hasnt conditioned you to be afraid.

Storms were the worst.

What was once a peaceful white noise turned into a terrifying nightmare once the moon rose in the sky.

There were times you were locked in that closet during violent storms, screaming and begging to be let out.

Sometimes you were, other times you werent as lucky.

Though it was only raining right now, each pitter-patter of the droplets against the window or balcony made hairs on your neck stand up. The sound was previously muted in the closet, but now it was hitting you like a freight train on a track that never seemed to end.

You heard him scramble to his feet as you wiped your tears away, the creak of the floorboards as he stumbled towards you.

A subtle bang made you jump, his foot no doubt hitting the chest at the end of your bed. Everso the clumsy one, even in an illuminated room.

Suddenly, he was right behind you, arms wrapping tightly around your middle as his head dropped to your shoulder, nuzzling his cheek against your neck.

Perhaps it would have been pleasant, comforting, even, if he wasnt soaked to the bone. The cold water from his dark grey, long-sleeved sweater was now seeping into your own thin clothes, freezing wet hair sending shivers down your spine and it presses against your heated, sensitive skin. Some drops even went down your back, ripping a gasp from you.

This wasnt comforting at all.

This was suffocating.

You squirmed in his grasp, desperate to get the hell away from him.

You were already pissed, and him wrapping around you and squeezing you tight like a snake to its prey was the cherry on top of your disastrous sundae.

With a grunt, you used the rest of what little strength you had left to rip yourself free from his ‘hug,’ nearly tripping on your own two feet as you rushed away from him.

He pouted at you as you shoved yourself into a corner of the room, finding comfort in being able to see all around you, no surprise attacks from behind, only what was in front of you.

Your breath was heavy as you glared at him, nostrils flaring and jaw clenching.

Truly, you had some nerve.

But it was hard to help it.

He broke a promise.

He never does that, and yet in your time of need- he wasn’t there for you.

For once.

He knew damn well you were locked up, scared shitless, expecting him to return home in a few short hours, yet here he is - looking absolutely clueless as to why you were suddenly so angry at him.

Tears streamed down his drunkenly flushed cheeks, hurt by how you shoved him away again.

All he wanted to do was snuggle you, his body exhausted yet numbed by the alcohol still burning in his tummy.

“Where..” you started, voice low, scratchy, and dripping with venom that reached deaf ears. “Where have you been!”

Just as he was about to open that mouth of his, no doubt about babble nearly incoherently - form logical excuses with evidence to back him up, say he lost track of time which you know damn well he never did, you shut him up.

You hated dealing with him when he was drunk, hell - you hated dealing with his obsessive ass most days.

But drunk? Drunk he got worse. He was clingy, more emotional, and worst of all? He didn’t have a filter.

He always managed to hide those more sinister desires under that sweet mask of his - until alcohol brought it out.

God, the smell of it made you sick to your stomach, but luckily you didn't have any food to throw up.

No thanks to him.

“What the fuck, Midoriya?!” You leered at him, noticing quickly the way his eyes darkened in that way they always did when you referred to him by his family name - the name he hated being called by you of all people.

“I’ve been trapped in that room all goddamn day! You said it’d be a few hours? What the hell happened to that! Look at the fucking time! Nine hours! Nine hours I’ve been stuck in my own personal hell! I can’t feel my fucking legs because of you!”

“I-” he attempted to start, the firm grip he had on his sanity quickly loosening with every shout you threw at him.

You cut him off, again, pent up rage now overtaking your sense of reason and fear, “What the hell happened?! You know what! I don’t even care! Not only did you,” You pointed a trembling finger at his stilled body, “break a promise! Something you swore you would never fucking do, you also had the nerve at laugh at me as I was trembling in fear!”

You looked like a mess, body shaking and bent over itself, one arm clutched around your waist as if to hold yourself together as that accusing finger stayed trained on him. Your hair was messy, frizzy, soaked with sweat and oily as hell from being denied a shower. Your clothes, thin and girly - much to your utter distaste, but to his satisfaction - now damp thanks to his carelessness.

All of this was because of him.

It always was.

Every single thing that went wrong in your life always seemed to be because of him nowadays.

You couldnt believe you let yourself fall for that misleading smile all those years ago, only to end up like this.

A mouse in a lions den.

But hell if that would stop you from squeaking your heart out till his razor-sharp claws ultimately caged you back in.

“Do you see my wrists?!” with a strangled sob, you held up both of your arms to show him the mess he already knew was his fault, “look at them! They hurt so fucking much because you left me in those disgusting handcuffs! This is all your fault!”

Your knees were wobbling so bad you swore your legs would give out at any second, but you’d be damned if you didnt hold your ground to this lunatic.

True, some days he was nice, normal, even. But days like these, or days much worse, you were reminded of just who he really was.

A monster was stretching it. He never intentionally tried to hurt you, your friends, or even your family.

No, he just stole you from your apartment in the dead of night, convinced the reason you were crying was because of the thunderstorm and not because some psycho snatched you from your window like some sort of 1970’s movie trope. That night he cradled your thrashing body to his hard chest with his strong arms, cooing at you and whispering sweet nothings into your ear as you begged to be let go. You were just scared of the storm~ He would keep you safe~ He is the number one hero, afterall~

That was all utter bullshit, straight from the beginning.

And even now he was still wrapped in the delusion that you loved him as much as he loved you.

A fated pair.

Please.

But you still held on to the pathetic hope that one day he’d snap out of it, return to the Izuku you knew from the beginning and not the person who now stood a few feet in front of you, staring with cold, emotionless eyes.

“I’m sorry.” he says impassively, face as blank as a new canvas - unreadable and dangerous in every way imaginable. It was hard not to feel as if he was just waiting to strike, already calculating his next moves like he always seemed to do. It was far easier to deal with an angry Izuku than one where you couldn’t read his already complex emotions, thoughts, anything. He was the definition of expressive, and it truly took a fuckin bullet to the back of his head for him to be like this.

So clearly, you hit a nerve.

Wonderful.

“Oh?” Despite knowing the implications of the situation you found yourself in, it was impossible not to laugh at such a pathetic fucking apology.

Knowing him, he probably was sorry, deep down inside. You knew he didn’t like seeing you hurt, especially if it was because of his doing, and yet- you pressed on.

Pent up anger was a nasty thing to deal with, especially since it’s been brewing inside you for so long.

“Are you now? You don’t fucking seem sorry! If you were really sorry, you wouldnt have done it! But look where we are! You’re such a fucking-!”

“Shut up.” he growls out borderline maliciously, stumbling slightly as he turns to walk out the door. He was clearly fed up, his strong hands clenched into threatening fists, but so were you. Even if you were undeniably frightened to confront him, you wouldn't let that stop you from pushing yourself off the wall - your safe space - and wobbling after him.

“Look at you! You can’t even walk right! How drunk are you, huh? Washing away your feelings again, are you? What about my feelings! Huh?!”

You were pushing it.

You really were.

The entire house felt it, the air chillingly still as Izuku had to grind his teeth together so as to not lash out at you.

He didn’t want to.

That was the last thing he wanted to do, but all that stress and self-hatred previously washed away was coming back up to the burning surface that cages his discretion.

Heavy breaths blew out his nostrils as he made his way to the living room, desperate for you to get the hint from his hunched over body that he wanted you to fuck off.

Yeah, he messed up, deep down he knew he did but currently his mind was far too clogged to even begin to comprehend it.

You were like an annoying mosquito, your words morphing into a persistent buzz.

He was ignoring you, and that made you livid.

He always ignored you when your problems were deemed irrelevant, or when he found you were being far too vexatious.

He always did this, always.

You were trapped in a cell with some asshole who didn't even want to listen to you.

Obviously, you had enough.

Typically you’d back off, go fume in another room or punch the wall till the skin around your knuckles tore open and dripped blood everywhere, making him snap out of whatever state he was in just to suffocate you in his toxic love.

Oh how life proved to be full of surprises.

A low growl of your own slithered passed your teeth, eyes practically burning red as if you prayed you had a quirk that could do something against him.

“You’re a selfish bastard! You fucking piss-poor excuse of a hero-!”

SLAP!

A shrill scream tore from your raw throat, the echo of skin burning against skin dizzying you as you were thrown back onto the floor.

Boiling hot tears streamed down your face as you sobbed out of pure fear, body shaking uncontrollably and you shuffled backward, desperate to get yourself as far away from him as you could currently manage.

It had all happened so fast, you didn't even have time to register it as it occurred.

One moment his hands were gripping the back of the couch with such strength you could see his knuckles turn a ghostly white, and the next, crackling, neon-green lightning surrounded his body, illuminating the dim apartment in a slimy glow. Before you even had a chance to register just what happened, he whipped his head around, his eyes, typically blown wide with sickening love and sparkling under delusional illusions, were narrowed and glowing in a way that sent shivers of immense regret down your spine. His arm whipped back with his hand, the very hand that delivered a painfully paralyzing slap.

He always spoke with his hands, and you just happened to be too close to him at that moment.

The reddended skin of your cheek burned, and you swore you could feel more than just tears streaming down it.

You were stuck shaking on the floor, imaginary bile rising in your throat, and all you could do was stare at him with wide, bloodshot and terrified eyes.

He had never laid a hand on you like that before, you didnt know what to think.

He always promised to do you no intentional harm, to never lay a finger on you with intentions of making you cry out in pain.

He had never acted so feral and out of line before.

It.. it scared you in a way you never felt before.

The gap between you grew, you really were just a mouse trembling in a lion's den.

“P-princess-” he shakily called out, voice weak and uneven, quirk diminishing into thin air like it never was there in the first place.

His own eyes were wide and filled with immense regret, tears already pouring down his flushed, freckled face.

He took one step forward, and you scrambled back, hand coming up to touch at your cheek, shock making you feel faint at the sight of blood coating your trembling fingertips.

You felt sick once again, empty stomach feeling as if it was collapsing in on itself to push even the tiniest bit of nonexistent food out.

You didnt know what to do.

Choking on your own sobs, you tried desperately to shuffle away from him, but he only came closer.

You cried out the moment he dove at you, your hands clasped together tightening against your chest as if to hold yourself together as this bear of a man wraps his arms cold, soaked arms protectively around you, his large shoulders violently shaking as he buried his snotty, tear stained face deep into your unruly tresses.

The stench of alcohol burned your nostrils, edging you on to try and push his heavy chest away. You tried, but you failed miserably, resulting in his arms pulling you even closer to his sweaty and damp body. It was disgusting.

“L-let go of me!” you wailed, your own tears stinging your eyes as your vision blurred and you could no longer tell just what you were staring blindly at, the dimness of the living-room paired with the suffocating embrace of your captor swallowing you whole.

You couldnt take it.

You could barely breathe at this point.

“p-p-ple .. plea-s-se..!” your cries intertwined with his own desperate ones as he babbled nearly incoherently on about how sorry he was, how he never meant to do something so horrible.

“I’m not a monster!” he howled out, desperate words seeping with ululation.

He was desperately trying to convince himself of that.

He wasn’t talking to you at all.

He was talking to himself.

He wasn’t a monster.

He’s not like him.

He’s not like that piece of filth.

No, he’s so much better.

He’s a good man.

No, no, he’s not a monster.

He’s your hero.

He could never purposely harm you.

No.

It was an accident.

An accident.

You’d understand.

He knew you would!

You always understood him.

You were like two peas in a pod!

You forgave him, surely.

Yes.

Yes!

You did the moment he hugged you, the moment he started comforting you.

He was a good man.

How could you not forgive him?

He loved you so, so, so much.

You knew that-

You knew he would never do such a thing.

His breathing was even, eyes wide and straining as he stared at the floor, a crooked smile on his face as he repeated the words over and over again in his twisted mind.

He never met to hurt you.

No.

He didnt.

“Plea-” you tried once more, biting your wobbling lip as he squeezed you even tighter.

“No, no, no, no, no, no..” he heaved out, hand coming up to gently pet your oily hair as if to calm you. His head shook back and forth in your hair, “It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m so sorry, honey.”

There was nothing you could do.

You were stuck alone in a mouse trap, the cold, metallic bar snapped down on top of your frail neck.

There was no escape.

There never was.

His form of ��love’ far too strong for you to even attempt to.

And so, you gave up.

Just like you always did.

There was no point in resisting him.

Sticky blood trickles down your raw cheek, dripping down onto the chilled bare skin of his neck, still cold from the damp clothes he wore, instantly catching his wondering attention.

“You.. you’re bleeding?” he whispered guiltily, already feeling a new wave of salty tears building up in the corner of his eyes.

His large left hand trailed up the skin of your neck, idly collecting the thin trail of red liquid onto his fingertips and smearing a path up to your jawline, stopping the moment your shivering form flinched.

He frowned at the red mark taking up half your beautifully innocent face, a small cut resting in the middle of it where no doubt the ring he foolishly wore as an accessory swiped.

Guilt made his stomach churn, the familiar burn of acid rising in his throat.

A deep inhale, and he swallowed it down, arm still wrapped around you, languidly rubbing your back as he stared with nothing short of pity at your wrecked state.

Your lips wobbled, holding in a reply as you force yourself to look into the vast abyss of darkness that was the hallway of your apartment instead of his orbs gleaming with concern.

Concern.

Concern for something he caused.

At least he had a heart, but you were still scared shitless and wanted nothing more than to run away. You were still fighting to regulate your breathing.

His thumb suddenly pressed against the slap mark, ripping a yelp from your throat as your head flung back to avoid any more contact. It was then that you noticed a pounding headache echoing inside your skull, yet another reason to aid in the water running down your face. Pain consumed your body, and you wanted nothing more than to escape this shell you were trapped in.

Openly chewing on his lip, both of his arms went back around you, cradling your delicate form to his chest.

Without a word, he stood up, practically forcing you to have to wrap your bare legs around his waist to keep yourself steady, something you were trained to do by him. He loved it when your legs were around his waist whenever he picked you up.

It became a regrettable second nature.

Heavy foot steps brought you back to your bedroom, and then into the bathroom connected to it.

Your fears crept up your spine at the pitch black room you were forced into, remembering how you were in a similar position just a few minutes ago.

When would this cycle end?

Ah.

It wouldnt, would it?

You were set delicately down atop the cold marble counter as if you were a fragile piece of glass, which, in many ways, you were. The tears had at least stopped, but your body continuously shook like a chihuahua, your breathing still hard to control as fumbled around mindlessly with your fingers to serve as a distraction.

He flipped the light on, momentarily blinding your sensitive gaze with its bright light.

Sniffing, you wiped at your nose, watching as he walked about the bathroom, grabbing a wash cloth just to run it under cool water. The rain was still heavily pouring just outside the wall mixed with the loud splatters of the stream against the white sink. It would have been calming had cold water not splashed up onto your bare thighs, making goosebumps prickle along your skin. Your thighs were nearly numb at this point.

After ringing most of the water out, he held it up to your cheek, staring at you.

Taking the cue, you hesitantly took the cool, wet cloth from his grasp and gingerly pressed it to the swelling skin on your face. You hiss out in pain, dry sobs wracking your body at the stinging pain and the fact that he was still far too close for you to currently handle.

The pain on your cheek paired with the numbing cold was a good distraction.

You chewed on your lip as you squeezed your eyes shut, freehand gripping tightly at the hem of your shirt as you listen to him fumble around in the cabinet hanging over to the left.

You jumped the moment you felt his larger fingers ghost over the ones holding the cloth to your cheek, cautious (E/C) eyes opening ever so slightly as you looked over at him.

You couldnt help but feel idiotic as you suddenly felt flustered at the intense gaze he was giving you, eyes now gleaming viridescent in the white light of the bathroom almost staring right into your soul.

It was like he was reading you, pulling words off your own frail pages just so he could recite them to you.

He did this often.

Keeping silent, staring for long periods of times as he tried out scenarios in his head of the words he was going to say.

It gave you chills, but yet, it made you feel like you were the center of his drifting attention.

The sun his planets revolve tirelessly around, repeating the same cycles like a record forever skipping on repeat.

In these moments, though, he became an enigma.

Not exactly something your fragile state of mind entirely needed right now.

You shivered when his palm came to cup your soft jawline, thumb absentmindedly tracing over your parted lips.

His mouth opened, ready to say something, but he stayed quiet.

Mouth shutting, he leaned forward, tentatively bringing you into another hug.

“I’m sorry.” he repeated, the words nearly as quiet as your stilled breath, but you had nothing to say to it. And he knew it.

He was used to you staying silent.

He would prefer it most of the time.

So he could sink into his fantasies, the deluded fantasies that you loved him wholeheartedly, that you chose to stay silent as to not hurt his feelings, and always forgave him no matter what.

That you would forever and always be his.

He wouldnt give you the choice not to be.

He wouldnt let you leave when you’re his favorite person in the whole wide world.

The only one he needed.

And he was the only one you needed.

Yes.

Of course.

You didn’t need anyone else but him.

And he didn’t need anyone else but you.

So what if a few more people died because of his mistake, he would capture Ghoul eventually. Regardless, he would always come home to you.

Always.

And that’s all he needed.

He chucked against your neck, having buried it in the crook as his mind slipped through his shaky fingertips.

The Big Bad Wolf and his Little Red Riding Hood.

God how he loved the comparison.

Perhaps he was addicted.

Addicted to you.

Even now, as he inhaled your sugary sweet, natural scent stained with the metallic smell of dried blood.

Pulling back, he gazed into your hesitant eyes, delicately resting his forehead against yours.

His hair, now dry and no longer dripping with salty rain, tickled your skin, making you involuntarily take in a deep breath.

Closing his eyes once more, he soaks in the moment of your warm body in his frigid embrace, nothing else mattered to him.

Just you.

Only you.

“L-let me see your cheek,” he asks softly, words not as wobbly as before, afraid that if he spoke too loudly in such a thin atmosphere, everything would shatter abruptly like glass.

Your body moved on instinct as if you were used to doing as he asked immediately no matter what, pulling the cool cloth away from your burning cheek.

Resisting the urge to sniffle and flinch away, you allow him to rewet the cloth, holding still as he dabs lightly at the small wound.

“I know it hurts,” he breathes out, “shh, shh, it’s okay.” it was always so strange how his voice still managed to calm your nerves even after all you’ve been through.

Deep down, you knew he was still that loving and energetic boy you met back at that coffee shop.

If only you knew how sinister and twisted he could really be.

Perhaps.. perhaps you wouldn’t be in such a situation now.

But there was never any point in pondering the what-ifs.

All you could do was fight your mind from seeking normalities in such a relationship as this, if you could even call it that.

You wouldn’t succumb to his desires like you always did.

You wouldnt lose yourself.

No.

You couldn’t let that happen.

Or was it too late already?

You hissed when you felt the stinging seer of rubbing alcohol dotted onto your cut, cleaning the wound.

“It’s okay.” he repeats, cooing to you with a reassuring smile that should have made you feel sick all over again.

You let him apply antibiotic ointment and a small cheek bandage, his hands shaky yet careful. You could say he has experience in applying bandages.

It was uncomfortable as it sat on your raw skin, but it’s not like you were going to go and rip it off. That would feel like ripping off a wax strip on a sunburn.

Humming, he gingerly wipes away the dried blood on your neck with the same washcloth, not minding how blood-stained the innocently white fabric became.

Next came your still aching wrists. There wasn’t much he could do for your legs, but at least he had roll-on bandages on standby.

Turning the cold tap on, he lets you run them under cool water before gently dabbing the stray droplets away, careful not to press too hard.

He really needed to invest in softer handcuffs, it’s just- those were the only ones he had, and he didn’t use them often. Besides, it never got this bad before. But that wasn’t a good excuse.

He’d have to order some online tomorrow..

Applying more ointment around the area, the kind that offers instant relief, he wraps your smaller wrists up as best he could, cringing himself whenever you’d flinch.

He’d make it up to you.. Pancakes in the morning, perhaps?

Izuku then begins to sluggishly put away everything he brought out of the cabinet, tossing what needed to be tossed into the trashcan.

He was slow, almost as if he was trying to keep his balance, which he no doubt was.

Standing in front of you once again, he wrapped his arms around you, whispering “up” in your ear.

It was something he would always say when he wanted you to wrap your arms and legs around him so he could carry you like a baby.

But who were you to refuse?

It wasn’t as if he couldnt pick you up without your limbs wrapped around him, it was more for your comfort rather than his convenience.

So, tentatively, you wrapped your still shaking arms around his neck, doing the same with your legs around his bent waist.

“Good girl.” he praised as he began walking back into the bedroom, stopping just at your side of the bed to place you down at the edge.

Numbly, you let him remove your rain-soaked clothes from all the hugging, sitting on the bed in just your panties as you watched him toss the clothes in the hamper by the door

It wasn’t the first time he insisted on treating you like a child who needed help changing, but at least you didn’t have to walk.

It was hard to remember if it was a good or a bad thing that you didn’t care about being nude in front of him anymore, not even bothering to hide your chest as he came back over with a fresh set of clothes - the strawberry patterned pajamas he always seemed to adore you wearing.

You always looked so innocent in them. The shirt is far too large for your frame, the sleeves hanging off your hands and the large v-neck exposing your collar bones and parts of your shoulders. The bottoms were the regular run of the mill pajama pants, soft as cotton and comfy as hell.

The top truly was the part of the look that tied it all together.

He couldn’t help but smile as your arms immediately raised as he pulled the shirt out of the pile, making quick work of slipping it over your cute head and helping your arms into the sleeves.

He liked to take care of you.

You needed him to, after all.

You were his innocent, helpless little darling, after all.

Pulling your pants up, he guided your body down into a resting position, dragging the thick, grey, and black patterned comforter over your stilled body.

Such a good girl.

He tucks loose strands of messy (H/C) hair that fell across your face behind your ear, being mindful of the wound.

He stares at it for a moment, his expression holding that of worry and regret.

Pushing off the bed, he stumbles his way to the kitchen in the dark, having turned off the light as he went, the layout of the apartment burned to memory so he could easily avoid furniture.

In the kitchen, he opened the freezer and grabbed an ice pack, one he would commonly use on his own sore muscles and bruises. It hurt his heart knowing he was the reason you had to use it for the first time.

After wrapping it in some paper towels, he trudges his way back into the dark bedroom, eyes wracking over your balled up form, covers bunched over you like a shell.

“Put this on your cheek..” he whispered, placing the pack just in front of your face.

He would love to be the one to hold it to your cheek, but his mind was still hazy, and his words were still slurred. Events could sure as hell sober you up a bit, but damn did that nausea always come back crashing in through the brittle window full force when you’d least expect it.

Rummaging through the drawers once more, he picked up some of his own fresh clothes and made his way into the bathroom again.

All he wants is to sleep, but he also didnt want you to smell dried sweat and rain on his being throughout the night.

He knew you missed him, him and his warmth, you always did, right? No question about it. You must be longing for him even now.

Wanting him to hold and comfort you just like always.

Numbed adrenaline pumped in his veins as he stepped into the shower, letting the warm water wash away his filth and regrets.

God, it felt so good to be able to somewhere warm for once.

The entire night he’s felt nothing but cold.

Not even the fire in his belly or the breath stolen from his lungs could’ve warmed him up.

He was mad at himself. Mad that he lost control and hurt the one thing that mattered the most to him.

Mad that he let himself get disgustingly drunk.

Mad that he walked in the rain like a dumbass just to soak your clothes and make you feel as cold as him.

But at the moment, too many thoughts were flying in his mind for him to properly think, no, he couldnt really even say he was thinking at all.

He was just letting the water splatter on the back of his neck, forehead resting on the cold shower tiles and he watched as water swirled down the drain like a whirlpool. His hair stuck to his cheeks like glue, but he couldn’t find himself caring.

Absentmindedly, his fingers brush across the fresh scar on his broad shoulder.

He swore the longer he stood there, watching the clear flow of water, the looser his grip on himself became.

He couldnt really say he felt anything at all anymore.

When did he lose himself?

Was he ever even really found?

Ah.

With you.

You were the missing piece in his complicated and skull biting puzzle, the one who made him whole and lit up his dull life. You were the reason he felt things anymore, you were the reason he still managed to get up and save people with a clear conscious.

You always had such a positive impact on his life, and he knew he had just as good a one on yours.

A wobbly smile tore his flushed face in two, you both really did need eachother.

He was so happy to have you in his life.

Knowing you’d never leave him.

Turning the boiling hot water off, he stepped out, the plushness of the bath-mat embracing his wet feet as water continued to pour down his nude body.

It felt, it felt so hot suddenly.

His breath came out in exaggerated pants, hands sweeping his hair from his face as the burn of bile rose in his throat.

Lunging for the toilet, he emptied his stomach into the glistening white bowl.

Gasping for air, Izuku whipped his mouth on the back of his hand, still trying to catch his breath as he fumbled to flush.

God, he needed to sit down.

Shakily turning the bathroom faucet on, he washed his hand, making quick work of brushing his teeth before lazily drying himself off.

Ignoring the other clothes he brought in, the toned hero simply pulled on a pair of black boxers before walking out of the bathroom.

Green eyes immediately looked at your form, just to see the soft rise and fall of your chest as you soundly slept, the ice pack sitting comfortably on your cheek.

You looked so adorable.

You always did.

Smiling once more, he walked over to the bed, pulling back the sheets just to slide his larger, warm body in and next to your own.

He sighs blissfully the moment he tugs you into his embrace, relishing in the feeling of your soft body against him.

Removing the icepack from your cheek, not wanting you to awake to a cheek burning from the cold, he places it on the nightstand before snuggling closer to you.

You always fit so perfectly in his big arms.

You were meant to be by his side.

And you loved it, didn’t you?

Eventually, he fell asleep, soft snores echoing around the quiet room filled with the downpour of rain still pouring down outside the large glass windows,

But you were still wide awake.

It was hard to remember the last time you got a good night’s rest, especially when the room was spine-chillingly dark..

Hard to remember what life was like before you even met your own personal nightmare.

You were used to the exhaustion, the dark circles kissing at the skin under your eyes becoming normal the day you were brought here.

Oh, how foolish you were.

You should have locked your window that fateful night.

But heroes are quite stealthy, aren’t they?

Was this even reality at this point? Or all just a figment of your imagination, protecting you from the true horrors before your very eyes.

Either answer wasnt one you wanted.

But you never had a choice.

Tears slipping from your eyes like they always seemed to do, you stared longingly off into the distance, the warmth pressed against your back pulling you further into your own bubbling madness.

All it took was a signal thought for this to all become normal.

For the pain to wash away with your tears.

‘Maybe this is ok.’

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oscopelabs · 3 years

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‘America’s Not a Country, It’s Just a Business’: On Andrew Dominik’s ‘Killing Them Softly’ By Roxana Hadadi

“Shitsville.” That’s the name Killing Them Softly director Andrew Dominik gave to the film’s nameless town, in which low-level criminals, ambitious mid-tier gangsters, nihilistic assassins, and the mob’s professional managerial class engage in warfare of the most savage kind. Onscreen, other states are mentioned (New York, Maryland, Florida), and the film itself was filmed in post-Hurricane Katrina New Orleans, though some of the characters speak with Boston accents that are pulled from the source material, George V. Higgins’s novel Cogan’s Trade. But Dominik, by shifting Higgins’s narrative 30 or so years into the future and situating it specifically during the 2008 Presidential election, refuses to limit this story to one place. His frustrations with America as an institution that works for some and not all are broad and borderless, and so Shitsville serves as a stand-in for all the places not pretty enough for gentrifying developers to turn into income-generating properties, for all the cities whose industrial booms are decades in the past, and for all the communities forgotten by the idea of progress._ Killing Them Softly_ is a movie about the American dream as an unbeatable addiction, the kind of thing that invigorates and poisons you both, and that story isn’t just about one place. That’s everywhere in America, and nearly a decade after the release of Dominik’s film, that bitter bleakness still has grim resonance.

In November 2012, though, when Killing Them Softly was originally released, Dominik’s gangster picture-cum-pointed criticism of then-President Barack Obama’s vision of an America united in the same neoliberal goals received reviews that were decidedly mixed, tipping toward negative. (Audiences, meanwhile, stayed away, with Killing Them Softly opening at No. 7 with $7 million, one of the worst box office weekends of Brad Pitt’s entire career at that time.) Obama’s first term had been won on a tide of hope, optimism, and “better angels of our nature” solidarity, and he had just defeated Mitt Romney for another four years in the White House when Killing Them Softly hit theaters on Nov. 30. Cogan’s Trade had no political components, and no connections between the thieving and killing promulgated by these criminals and the country at large. Killing Them Softly, meanwhile, took every opportunity it could to chip away at the idea that a better life awaits us all if we just buy into the idea of American exceptionalism and pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps ingenuity. A fair amount of reviews didn’t hold back their loathing toward this approach. A.O. Scott with the New York Times dismissed Dominik’s frame as “a clumsy device, a feint toward significance that nothing else in the movie earns … the movie is more concerned with conjuring an aura of meaningfulness than with actually meaning anything.” Many critics lambasted Dominik’s nihilism: For Deadspin, Will Leitch called it a “crutch, and an awfully flimsy one,” while Richard Roeper thought the film collapsed under the “crushing weight” of Dominik’s philosophy. It was the beginning of Obama’s second term, and people still thought things might get better.

But Dominik’s film—like another that came out a few years earlier, Adam McKay’s 2010 political comedy The Other Guys—has maintained a crystalline kind of ideological purity, and perhaps gained a certain prescience. Its idea that America is less a bastion of betterment than a collection of corporate interests, and the simmering anger Brad Pitt’s Jackie Cogan captures in the film’s final moments, are increasingly difficult to brush off given the past decade or so in American life. This is not to say that Obama’s second term was a failure, but that it was defined over and over again by the limitations of top-down reform. Ceaseless Republican obstruction, widespread economic instability, and unapologetic police brutality marred the encouraging tenor of Obama’s presidency. Donald Trump’s subsequent four years in office were spent stacking the federal judiciary with young, conservative judges sympathetic toward his pro-big-business, fuck-the-little-guy approach, and his primary legislative triumph was a tax bill that will steadily hurt working-class people year after year.

The election of Obama’s vice president Joe Biden, and the Democratic Party securing control of the U.S. Senate, were enough for a brief sigh of relief in November 2020. The $1.9 trillion stimulus bill passed in March 2021 does a lot of good in extending (albeit lessened) unemployment benefits, providing a child credit to qualifying families, and funneling further COVID-19 support to school districts after a year of the coronavirus pandemic. But Republicans? They all voted no to helping the Americans they represent. Stimulus checks to the middle-class voters who voted Biden into office? Decreased for some, totally cut off for others, because of Biden’s appeasement to the centrists in his party. $15 minimum wage? Struck down, by both Republicans and Democrats. In how many more ways can those politicians who are meant to serve us indicate that they have little interest in doing anything of the kind?

Modern American politics, then, can be seen as quite a performative endeavor, and an exercise in passing blame. Who caused the economic collapse of 2008? Some bad actors, who the government bailed out. Who suffered the most as a result? Everyday Americans, many of whom have never recovered. Killing Them Softly mimics this dynamic, and emphasizes the gulf between the oppressors and the oppressed. The nameless elites of the mob, sending a middle manager to oversee their dirty work. The poker-game organizer, who must be brutally punished for a mistake made years before. The felons let down by the criminal justice system, who turn again to crime for a lack of other options. The hitman who brushes off all questions of morality, and whose primary concern is getting adequately paid for his work. Money, money, money. “This country is fucked, I’m telling ya. There’s a plague coming,” Jackie Cogan says to the Driver who delivers the mob’s by-committee rulings as to who Jackie should intimidate, threaten, and kill so their coffers can start getting filled again. Perhaps the plague is already here.

“Total fucking economic collapse.”

In terms of pure gumption, you have to applaud Dominik for taking aim at some of the biggest myths America likes to tell about itself. After analyzing the dueling natures of fame and infamy through the lens of American outlaw mystique in The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford, Dominik thought bigger, taking on the entire American dream itself in Killing Them Softly. From the film’s very first second, Dominik doesn’t hold back, equating an easy path of forward progress with literal trash. Discordant tones and the film’s stark, white-on-black title cards interrupt Presidential hopeful Barack Obama’s speech about “the American promise,” slicing apart Obama’s words and his crowd’s responding cheers as felon Frankie (Scoot McNairy), in the all-American outfit of a denim jacket and jeans, cuts through what looks like a shut-down factory, debris and garbage blowing around him. Obama’s assurances sound very encouraging indeed: “Each of us has the freedom to make of our own lives what we will.” But when Frankie—surrounded by trash, cigarette dangling from his mouth, and eyes squinting shut against the wind—walks under dueling billboards of Obama, with the word “CHANGE” in all-caps, and Republican opponent John McCain, paired with the phrase “KEEPING AMERICA STRONG,” a better future doesn’t exactly seem possible. Frankie looks too downtrodden, too weary of all the emptiness around him, for that.

Dominik and cinematographer Greig Fraser spoke to American Cinematographer magazine in October 2012 about shooting in post-Hurricane Katrina New Orleans: “We were aiming for something generic, a little town between New Orleans, Boston and D.C. that we called Shitsville. We wanted the place to look like it’s on the down-and-down, on the way out. We wanted viewers to feel just how smelly and grimy and horrible it was, but at the same time, we didn’t want to alienate them visually.” They were successful: Every location has a rundown quality, from the empty lot in which Frankie waits for friend and partner-in-crime Russell (Ben Mendelsohn)—a concrete expanse decorated with a couple of wooden chairs, as if people with nowhere else to go use this as a gathering spot—to the dingy laundromat backroom where Frankie and Russell meet with criminal mastermind Johnny “Squirrel” Amato (Vincent Curatola), who enlists them to rob a mafia game night run by Markie Trattman (Ray Liotta), to the restaurant kitchen where the game is run, all sickly fluorescent lights, cracked tile, and makeshift tables. Holding up a game like this, from which the cash left on the tables flows upward into the mob’s pockets, is dangerous indeed. But years before, Markie himself engineered a robbery of the game, and although that transgression was forgiven because of how well-liked Markie is in this institution, it would be easy to lay the blame on him again. And that’s exactly what Squirrel, Frankie, and Russell plan to do.

The “Why?” for such a risk isn’t that hard to figure out. Squirrel sees an opportunity to make off with other people’s money, he knows that any accusatory fingers will point elsewhere first, and he wants to act on it before some other aspiring baddie does. (Ahem, sound like the 2008 mortgage crisis to you?) Frankie, tired of the crappy jobs his probation officer keeps suggesting—jobs that require both long hours and a long commute, when Frankie can’t even afford a car (“Why the fuck do they think I need a job in the first place? Fucking assholes”)—is drawn in by desperation borne from a lack of options. If he doesn’t come into some kind of money soon, “I’m gonna have to go back and knock on the gate and say, ‘Let me back in, I can’t think of nothing and it’s starting to get cold,’” Frankie admits. And Australian immigrant and heroin addict Russell is nursing his own version of the American dream: He’s going to steal a bunch of purebred dogs, drive them down to Florida to sell for thousands of dollars, buy an ounce of heroin once he has $7,000 in hand, and then step on the heroin enough to become a dealer. It’s only a few moves from where he is to where he wants to be, he figures, and this card-game heist can help him get there.

In softly lit rooms, where the men in the frame are in focus and their surroundings and backgrounds are slightly blown out, slightly blurred, or slightly fuzzy (“Creaminess is something you feel you can enter into, like a bath; you want to be absorbed and encompassed by it” Fraser told American Cinematographer of his approach), garish deals are made, and then somehow pulled off with a sobering combination of ineptitude and ugliness. Russell buys yellow dishwashing gloves for himself and Frankie to wear during the holdup, and they look absurd—but the pistol-whipping Russell doles out to Markie still hurts like hell, no matter what accessories he’s wearing. Dominik gives this holdup the paranoia and claustrophobia it requires, revolving his camera around the barely-holding-it-together Frankie and cutting every so often to the enraged players, their eyes glancing up to look at Frankie’s face, their hands twitching toward their guns. But in the end, nobody moves. When Frankie and Russell add insult to injury by picking the players’ pockets (“It’s only money,” they say, as if this entire ordeal isn’t exclusively about wanting other people’s money), nobody fights back. Nobody dies. Frankie and Russell make off with thousands of dollars in two suitcases, while Markie is left bamboozled—and afraid—by what just happened. And the players? They’ll get their revenge eventually. You can count on that.

So it goes that Dominik smash cuts us from the elated and triumphant Russell and Frankie driving away from the heist in their stolen 1971 Buick Riviera, its headlights interrupting the inky-black night, to the inside of Jackie Cogan’s 1967 Oldsmobile Toronado, with Johnny Cash’s “The Man Comes Around” providing an evocative accompaniment. “There’s a man going around taking names/And he decides who to free, and who to blame/Everybody won’t be treated all the same,” Cash sings in that unmistakably gravelly voice, and that’s exactly what Jackie does. Called in by the mob to capture who robbed the game so that gambling can begin again, Jackie meets with an unnamed character, referred to only as the Driver (Richard Jenkins), who serves as the mob’s representative in these sorts of matters. Unlike the other criminals in this film—Frankie, with his tousled hair and sheepish face; Russell, with his constant sweatiness and dog-funk smell; Jackie, in his tailored three-piece suits and slicked-back hair; Markie, with those uncannily blue eyes and his matching slate sportscoat—the Driver looks like a square.

He is, like the men who replace Mike Milligan in the second season of Fargo, a kind of accountant, a man with an office and a secretary. “The past can no more become the future than the future can become the past,” Milligan had said, and for all the backward-looking details of Killing Them Softly—American cars from the 1960s and 1970s, that whole masculine code-of-honor thing that Frankie and Russell break by ripping off Markie’s game, the post-industrial economic slump that brings to mind the American recession of 1973 to 1975—the Driver is very much an arm of a new kind of organized crime. He keeps his hands clean, and he delivers what the ruling-by-committee organized criminals decide, and he’s fussy about Jackie smoking cigarettes in his car, and he’s so bland as to be utterly forgettable. And he has the power, as authorized by his higher-ups, to approve Jackie putting pressure on Markie for more information about the robbery. It doesn’t matter that neither Jackie nor the mob thinks Markie actually did it. What matters more is that “People are losing money. They don’t like to lose money,” and so Jackie can do whatever he needs. Dominik gives him this primacy through a beautiful shot of Jackie’s reflection in the car window, his aviators a glinting interruption to the gray concrete overpass under which the Driver’s car is parked, to the smoke billowing out from faraway stacks, and to the overall gloominess of the day.

“We regret having to take these actions. Today’s actions are not what we ever wanted to do, but today’s actions are what we must do to restore confidence to our financial system,” we hear Treasury Secretary Henry Paulson say on the radio in the Driver’s car, and his October 14, 2008, remarks are about the Emergency Economic Stabilization Act of 2008—the government bailout of banks and other financial institutions that cost taxpayers $700 billion. (Remember Will Ferrell’s deadpan delivery in The Other Guys of “From everything I’ve heard, you guys [at the Securities and Exchange Commission] are the best at these types of investigations. Outside of Enron and AIG, and Bernie Madoff, WorldCom, Bear Stearns, Lehman Brothers ...”) Yet the appeasing sentiment of Paulson’s words applies to Jackie, too, and to the beating he orders for Markie—a man he suspects did nothing wrong, at least not this time. But debts must be settled. Heads must roll. “Whoever is unjust, let him be unjust still/Whoever is righteous, let him be righteous still/Whoever is filthy, let him be filthy still,” Cash sang, and Jackie is all those men, and he’ll collect the stolen golden crowns as best he can. For a price, of course. Always for a price.

“I like to kill them softly, from a distance, not close enough for feelings. Don’t like feelings. Don’t want to think about them.”

In “Bad Dreams,” the penultimate episode of the second season of The Wire, International Brotherhood of Stevedores union representative Frank Sobotka (Chris Bauer), having seen his brothers in arms made immaterial by the lack of work at the Baltimore ports and the collapse of their industry, learns that his years of bribing politicians to vote for expanded funding for the longshoremen isn’t going to pay off. He is furious, and he is exhausted. “We used to make shit in this country, build shit. Now we just put our hand in the next guy’s pocket,” he says with the fatigue of a man who knows his time has run out, and you can draw a direct line from Bauer’s beleaguered delivery of those lines to Liotta’s aghast reaction to the horrendous beating he receives from Jackie’s henchmen. Sobotka in The Wire had no idea how he got to that helpless place, and neither does Markie in Killing Them Softly—he made a mistake, but that was years ago. Everyone forgave him. Didn’t they?

The vicious assault leveled upon Markie is a harrowing, horrifying sequence that is also unnervingly beautiful, and made all the more awful as a result of that visual splendor. In the pouring rain, Markie is held captive by the two men, who deliver bruising body shots, break his noise, batter his body against the car, and kick in his ribs. “You see fight scenes a lot in movies, but you don’t see people systematically beating somebody else. The idea was just to make it really, really, really ugly,” Dominik told the New York Times in November 2012, and sound mixer Leslie Shatz and cinematographer Fraser also contributed to this unforgettable scene. Shatz used the sound of a squeegee across a windshield to accentuate Markie’s increasingly destroyed body slumping against the car, and also incorporated flash bulbs going off as punches were thrown, adding a kind of lingering effect to the scene’s soundscape. And although the scene looks like it’s shot in slow motion, Fraser explained to American Cinematographer that the combination of an overhead softbox and dozens of background lights helped build that layered effect in which Liotta is fully illuminated while the dark night around him remains impenetrable. Every drop of rain and every splatter of blood stands out on Markie’s face as he confesses ignorance regarding the robbery and begs for mercy from Jackie’s men, but Markie has already been marked for death. When the time comes, Jackie will shoot him in the head in another exquisitely detailed, shot-in-ultrahigh-speed scene that bounces back and forth between the initial act of violence and its ensuing destruction. The cartridges flying out of Jackie’s gun, and the bullets destroying Markie’s window, and then his brain. Markie’s car, now no longer in his control, rolling forward into an intersection where it’s hit not just once, but twice, by oncoming cars. The crunching sound of Markie’s head against his windshield, and the vision of that glass splintering from the impact of his flung body, are impossible to shake.

“Cause and effect,” Dominik seems to be telling us, and Killing Them Softly follows Jackie as he cleans up the mess Squirrel, Frankie, and Russell have made. After he enlists another hitman, Mickey (a fantastically whoozy James Gandolfini, who carries his bulk like the armor of a samurai searching for a new master), whose constant boozing, whoring, and laziness shock Jackie after years of successful work together, and who refuses to do the killing for which Jackie secured him a $15,000 payday, Jackie realizes he’ll need to do this all himself. He’ll need to gather the intel that fingers Frankie, Russell, and Squirrel. He’ll need to set up a police sting to entrap Russell on his purchased ounce of heroin, violating the terms of his probation, and he’ll need to set up another police sting to entrap Mickey for getting in a fight with a prostitute, violating the terms of his probation. For Jackie, a career criminal for whom ethical questions have long since evaporated, Russell’s and Frankie’s sloppiness in terms of bragging about their score is a source of disgust. “I guess these guys, they just want to go to jail. They probably feel at home there,” he muses, and he’s then exasperated by the Driver’s trepidation regarding the brutality of his methods. Did the Driver’s bosses want the job done or not? “We aim to please,” Jackie smirks, and that shark smile is the sign of a predator getting ready to feast.

Things progress rapidly then: Jackie tracks Frankie down to the bar where he hangs out, and sneers at Frankie’s reticence to turn on Squirrel. “They’re real nice guys,” he says mockingly to Frankie of the criminal underworld of which they’re a part, brushing off Frankie’s defense that Squirrel “didn’t mean it.” “That’s got nothing to do with it. Nothing at all,” Jackie replies, and that’s the kind of distance that keeps Jackie in this job. Sure, the vast majority of us aren’t murderers. But as a question of scale, aren’t all of us as workers compromised in some way? Employees of companies, institutions, or billionaires that, say, pollute the environment, or underpay their staff, or shirk labor laws, or rake in unheard-of profits during an international pandemic? Or a government that spreads imperialism through allegedly righteous military action (referenced in Killing Them Softly, as news coverage of the economic crisis mentions the reckless rapidity with which President George W. Bush invaded Afghanistan and Iraq after Sept. 11, 2001), or that can’t quite figure out how to house the nation’s homeless into the millions of vacant homes sitting empty around the country, or that refuses, over and over again, to raise the minimum wage workers are paid so that they have enough financial security to live decent lives?

Perhaps you bristle at this comparison to Jackie Cogan, a man who has no qualms blowing apart Squirrel with a shotgun at close range, or unloading a revolver into Frankie after spending an evening driving around with him. But the guiding American principle when it comes to work is that you do a job and you get paid: It’s a very simple contract, and both sides need to operate in good faith to fulfill it. Salaried employees, hourly workers, freelancers, contractors, day laborers, the underemployed—all operate under the assumption that they’ll be compensated, and all live with the fear that they won’t. Jackie knows this, as evidenced by his loathing toward compatriot Kenny (Slaine) when the man tries to pocket the tip Jackie left for his diner waitress. “For fuck’s sake,” Jackie says in response to Kenny’s attempted theft, and you can sense that if Jackie could kill him in that moment, he would. In this way, Jackie is rigidly conservative, and strictly old-school. Someone else’s money isn’t yours to take; it’s your responsibility to earn, and your employer’s responsibility to pay. Jackie cleaned up the mob’s mess, and the gambling tables opened again because of his work, and his labor resulted in their continued profits. And Jackie wants what he’s owed.

“Don’t make me laugh. ‘We’re one people.’”

We hear two main voices of authority urging calm throughout Killing Them Softly. Then-President Bush: “I understand your worries and your frustration. … We’re in the midst of a serious financial crisis, and the federal government is responding with decisive action.” Presidential hopeful Obama: “There’s only the road we’re traveling on as Americans.” Paulson speaks on the Emergency Economic Stabilization Act, and various news commentators chime in, too: “There needs to be consequences, and there needs to be major change.” Radio commentary and C-SPAN coverage combine into a sort of secondary accompaniment to Marc Streitenfeld’s score, which incorporates lyrically germane Big Band standards like “Life Is Just a Bowl of Cherries” (“You work, you save, you worry so/But you can’t take your dough”) and “It’s Only a Paper Moon” (“It's a Barnum and Bailey world/Just as phony as it can be”). All of these are Dominik’s additions to Cogan’s Trade, which is a slim, 19-chapter book without any political angle, and this frame is what met so much resistance from contemporaneous reviews.

But what Dominik accomplishes with this approach is twofold. First, a reminder of the ceaseless tension and all-encompassing anxiety of that time, which would spill into the Occupy Wall Street movement, coalesce support around politicians like Bernie Sanders and Elizabeth Warren, and fuel growing national interest in policies like universal health care and universal basic income. For anyone who struggled during that time—as I did, a college graduate entering the 2009 job market after the journalism industry was already beginning its still-continuing freefall—Killing Them Softly captures the free-floating anger so many of us felt at politicians bailing out corporations rather than people. Perhaps in 2012, only weeks after the re-election of Obama and with the potential that his second term could deliver on some of his campaign promises (closing Guantanamo Bay, maybe, or passing significant gun control reform, maybe), this cinematic scolding felt like medicine. But nearly a decade later, with neither of these legislative successes in hand, and with the wins for America’s workers so few and far between—still a $7.25 federal minimum wage, still no federal paid maternity and family leave act, still the refusal by many states to let their government employees unionize—if you don’t feel demoralized by how often the successes of the Democratic Party are stifled by the party’s own moderates or thoroughly curtailed by saboteur Republicans, maybe you’re not paying attention.

More acutely, then, the mutinous spirit of Killing Them Softly accomplishes something similar to what 1990’s Pump Up the Volume did: It allows one to say, with no irony whatsoever, “Do you ever get the feeling everything in America is completely fucked up?” The disparities of the financial system, and the yawning gap between the rich and the poor. The utter lack of accountability toward those who were supposed to protect us, and didn’t. And the sense that we’re always being a little bit cheated by a ruling class who, like Sobotka observed on The Wire, is always putting their hand in our pocket. Consider Killing Them Softly’s quietest moment, in which Frankie realizes that he’s a hunted man, and that the people from whom he stole would never let him live. Dominik frames McNairy tight, his expression a flickering mixture of plaintive yearning and melancholic regret, as he quietly says, “It’s just shit, you know? The world is just shit. We’re all just on our own.” A day or so later, McNairy’s Frankie will be lying on a medical examiner’s table, his head partially collapsed from a bullet to the brain, an identification tag looped around his pinky toe. And the men who ordered his death want to underpay the man who carried it out for them. Isn’t that the shit?

That leads us, then, to the film’s angriest moment, and to a scene that stands alongside the climaxes of so many other post-recession films: Chris Pine’s Toby Howard paying off the predatory bank that swindled his mother with its own stolen money in Hell or High Water, Lakeith Stanfield’s Cash Green and his fellow Equisapiens storming billionaire Steve Lift’s (Armie Hammer’s) mansion in Sorry to Bother You, Viola Davis’s Veronica Rawlings shooting her cheating husband and keeping the heist take for herself and her female comrades in Widows. So far in Killing Them Softly, Pitt has played Jackie with a certain level of remove. A man’s got to have a code, and his is fairly simple: Don’t get involved emotionally with the assignment. Pitt’s Jackie is susceptible to flashes of irritation, though, that manifest as a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and as an octave-lower growl that belies his impatience: with the Driver, for not understanding how Markie’s reputation has doomed him; with Mickey, for his procrastination and his slovenliness; with Kenny, for stealing a hardworking woman’s tip; with Frankie, when he tries to distract Jackie from killing Squirrel. Jackie is a professional, and he is intolerant of people failing to work at his level, and Pitt plays the man as tiptoeing along a knife’s edge. Remember Daniel Craig’s “’Cause it’s all so fucking hysterical” line delivery in Road to Perdition? Pitt’s whole performance is that: a hybrid offering of bemusement, smugness, and ferocity that suggests a man who’s seen it all, and hasn’t been impressed by much.

In the final minutes of Killing Them Softly, Obama has won his historic first term in the White House, and Pitt’s Jackie strides through a red haze of celebratory fireworks as he walks to meet the Driver at a bar to retrieve payment. An American flag hangs in this dive, and the TV broadcasts Obama’s victory speech, delivered in Chicago to a crowd of more than 240,000. “Crime stories, to some extent, always felt like the capitalist ideal in motion,” Dominik told the New York Times. “Because it’s the one genre where it’s perfectly acceptable for the characters to be motivated solely by money.” And so it goes that Jackie feels no guilt for the men he’s killed, or the men he’s sent away. Nor does he feel any empathy or kinship with the newly elected Obama, whose messages of unity and community he finds amusingly irrelevant. The life Jackie lives is one defined by how little people value each other, and how quick they are to attack one another if that means more opportunity—and more money—for them. Thomas Hobbes said that a life without social structure and political representation would be “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short,” and perhaps that’s exactly what Jackie’s is. Unlike the character in Cogan’s Trade, Dominik’s Jackie has no wife and no personal life. But he’s surviving this way with his eyes wide open, and he will not be undervalued.

The contrast between Obama’s speech about “the enduring power of our ideas—democracy, liberty, opportunity, and unyielding hope”—and Jackie’s realization that the mob is trying to underpay him for the three men he assassinated at their behest makes for a kind of nauseating, thrilling coda. He’s owed $45,000, and the envelope the Driver paid him only has $30,000 in it. Obama’s audience chanting “Yes, we can,” the English translation of the United Farm Workers of America’s slogan and the activist César Chávez’s iconic “Sí, se puede” catchphrase, adds an ironic edge to the argument between the Driver and Jackie about the value of his labor. Whatever the Driver can use to try and shrug off Jackie’s advocacy for himself, he will. Jackie’s killings were too messy. Jackie is asking for more than the mob’s usual enforcer, Dillon (Sam Shepard), who would have done a better job. Jackie is ignoring that the mob is limited to “Recession prices”—they’re suffering, so that suffering has to trickle down to someone. Jackie made the deal with Mickey for $15,000 per head, and the mob isn’t beholden to pay Jackie what they agreed to pay Mickey.

On and on, excuse after excuse, until one finally pushes Jackie over the edge: “This business is a business of relationships,” the Driver says, which is one step away from the “We’re all family here” line that so many abusive companies use to manipulate their cowed employees. And so when Jackie goes coolly feral in his response, dropping knowledge not only about the artifice of the racist Thomas Jefferson as a Founding Father but underscoring the idea that America has always been, and will always be, a capitalist enterprise first, the moment slaps all the harder for all the ways we know we’ve been let down by feckless bureaucrats like the Driver, who do only as they’re told; by faceless corporate overlords like the mob, issuing orders to Jackie from on high; and by a broader country that seems like it couldn’t care less about us. “I’m living in America, and in America, you’re on your own … Now fucking pay me” serves as a kind of clarion call, an expression of vehemence and resentment, and a direct line into the kind of anger that still festers among those continuously left behind—still living in Shitstown, still trying to make a better life for themselves, and still asking for a little more respect from their fellow Americans. For all of Killing Them Softly’s ugliness, for all its nihilism, and for all its commentary on how our country’s ruthless individualism has turned chasing the American dream into a crippling addiction we all share, that demand for dignity remains distressingly relevant. Maybe it’s time to listen.

#killing them softly #andrew dominik #andrew dominik film #brad pitt #Jackie Cogan #james gandolfini #richard jenkins #ray liotta #scoot mcnairy #ben mendelsohn #american cinematographer #financial crisis 2008 #independent film #beastie boys #oscilloscope laboratories #film writing #musings

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maxwell-grant · 3 years

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Downfall of a Dark Avenger Part 1: El Sombra

Having finished reading Al Ewing’s El Sombra trilogy and having had enough time to digest it, I’d like to talk about the trajectory of it’s titular protagonist, the character and series’s relationship with it’s influences. Relating to The Shadow and Zorro and general pulp archetypes, and also the way it incorporates Astro Boy’s Pluto into the mix. My interest in Pluto’s imagery led to me reading Naoki Urasawa’s Pluto, and I will go into the correlation between all of these seemingly random sources coming together.

But before we can talk about what El Sombra becomes, we must talk about what he is, and where he starts.

The very first chapter of El Sombra is dedicated to establishing the happy scenery of the village of Pasito, as a big wedding is drawing the entire town together, eager to see one of it’s greatest heroes marry his sweetheart. We get a great description of said hero Heraclio...and then the reveal that the character we’re gonna be following for the rest of the story is not Heraclio, but instead his loser brother Djego, a morose, slow-witted poet largely considered a joke by the village, currently being rejected and beaten by the love of his life, which is just about the 2nd worst thing that happens to him that day, followed by winged Nazis storming the village, murdering scores of men, women and children, killing Djego’s brother as he watches helplessly, and then said brother cursing Djego with his dying breath as Djego just barely escapes into the desert, with nothing but a sword and a wedding sash in hand. Djego is probably the last man in the village anyone could have possibly expected to become a hero (which may be part of why he ended the way he did).

Cut to 9 years later, Pasito has been transformed into a mechanized nightmare, a clockwork city of endless toiling and suffering ruled by Nazis, freely enacting their every dark whim on it’s population, revealed to be little more than just a large-scale experiment conducted by the Nazis to increase workforce enough to match Britain’s. After two agonizing chapters with little more than Nazi atrocities to occupy our time, we get our first look at the intrepid hero, Djego. And how does El Sombra introduce himself? Through laughter.

The laughter. Rich and strong, echoing around the square, freezing the milling workers in their tracks. An awful laugh - a terrible laugh of hope and joy and strength! A sound that had not been heard in the clockwork-town for nine years.

as the sound of laughter echoed across the town, the men shuddered and glanced at each other briefly, as though hearing the first sounds of an approaching storm.

The smile on the creature's face was powerful and confident and utterly unafraid. To Alexis, it seemed like the smile the devil might have in the deepest pits of Hell.

For the most part, El Sombra is heavily modeled after Zorro. He’s got Zorro’s swashbuckling fighting style, wields primarily a sword, his main outfit is styled partially after Douglas Fairbanks’s costume, he can be quite friendly and charming and peppers an “amigo” at every sentence. His name is the same as Diego’s minus one letter, his main enemies specifically consist of tyrants who rule over his town, and his mission of vengeance gradually turns him into a rebellious, inspirational figure for the city he strives to liberate. El Sombra is Zorro vs Nazis and it delivers on that.

But nothing is ever quite as it seems in this trilogy, and the first installment of El Sombra goes to great lenghts to establish that El Sombra is a long, long way from being the pure and heroic fantasy that Zorro embodies. He doesn’t live in a world where problems can be solved with guile, luck, good swordplay and a good smile. He doesn’t live in a world where he can show up, humble imperialists and get the people behind him. He lives in a world where the only recourse available to him, to even stand a chance, was nine years of an extended fugue state trip through the desert, ingesting hallucinogens, having his soul shattered and then repaired into something much, much darker. And it’s in those moments that we start to see why exactly his name is El Sombra.

There was something in his voice as cold and unyielding as a gravestone.

"Djego is dead, Father Santiago. He was useless and stupid and pathetic. And he died and left good flesh behind. So I took his place." The eyes behind the mask met Santiago's then, and the priest breathed in sharply. There was nothing of Djego in them. There was nothing human in them.

Something bigger had lodged there, something stronger and faster than a man, something with a laugh that could shake mountains and a spirit like hot iron and fire. Something better.

"I am his shadow. El Sombra."

Atop of his inhuman speed and agility and skill at combat and murder, Djego repeteadly demonstrates skills and traits that, not only did he not have prior, but he couldn’t have picked simply in his desert sojourn. He knows how to apply advanced first aid, he speaks German, in Gods of Manhattan he is able to get the drop on Blood-Spider with a textbook Shadow hypnotic trick, and for all of those, the only explanation he gives is a shrug and “I picked it up somewhere”. Djego had the same trip to the unknown that defined The Shadow and so many other pulp heroes, except Ewing never provides any explanation for El Sombra’s advanced skills other than what the character says. Because there is no explanation. El Sombra is bigger than that.

El Sombra has to be, because a mere man with training and skills and strength and inspirational heroism isn’t going to cut it against what he’s up to. His brother had all of those things, and he died in the first chapter. Like The Shadow, El Sombra has warped himself to address calamity upon mankind, and morphed into something bigger and darker than just another vigilante.

In that moment, El Sombra knew himself to be no longer a man. He was, instead, what the ticking clock had made of him. He was a monster.

In fact, with the devil imagery Ewing grants upon El Sombra at points, and the reocurring “itch in the back of the skull” prelude to crucial moments, you can pinpoint exactly the points where El Sombra’s character traits would later manifest in Immortal Hulk, with Ewing’s reinvention of the Hulk plumbing the darkest possible alternatives for said character by digging into the greater horror roots of the character. This will be more relevant when we get to Pluto though.

But to put it plainly, Djego may be Zorro in every aspect at his surface. He may desperately strive to be Zorro, and it may be his Zorro traits that allow him to truly save Pasito. But Djego is not Zorro. He is El Sombra, as illustrated most in the following sequence. The moment where he pulls the most Shadow-esque destruction of a Nazi ever since The Shadow convinced a Nazi general to gut himself with his own sword.

The chained man began to laugh. Softly at first, then louder, the sound rolling through the quiet, cold room like the skeletons of winter leaves in a chill and bitter wind. It was not a laugh of joy, or of hope, or of strength, or of anything associated with sunlight and clean air. It was a laugh that belonged in these dank and fetid conditions, a snide chuckle, a sneering, contemptuous snicker. A laugh like a thousand beetles marching across a sheet of glass.

It was a sound that would have been sickeningly familiar to anyone who had once been a guest of the Palace Of Beautiful Thoughts. The old man started back, looking at the features of his chained captive, breathing in sharply as the handsome face of the terrorist became foreign and strange, warped by the noise emanating from it. He recognised the sound too, recognised the dry, hollow chuckle. And it chilled him.

The chained man turned his head, as though on aged bones, and smiled, a dry and sinister grin. And then he spoke. And the voice that came from his throat did not belong to El Sombra at all.

The chained man spoke with Master Minus' voice.

The chained man's smile froze him in his tracks. It promised terrible cruelty, a mephistophilean love of manipulation, and the eyes sparkled with fire from the depths of Hell itself. The old man sucked in another breath scented with sickly yellow and looked desperately away, to find himself staring once again at the mirror, at the face that was surely not his own...

The old man, who suddenly felt neither old nor a man, raised his hands, fingertips touching the aged, wrinkled face with the unfamiliar eyes. Could he fool himself that his fingertips travelled across soft, worn flesh, lined with years of service? Or was he feeling sterile plastic, soft, loose latex? He shuddered, the motion travelling up his spine, his hands shivering and twitching as he tugged ...

"Take off the mask."

... and the old, wrinkled, false face was torn away, coming off in long strips, pulled away bit by bit to reveal another face underneath. His eyes were wide, unblinking, unable to close as he stared at the face underneath, the face that had been there all the time.

Behind him, the thin beetle-voice spoke once more.

And this is what it said:

"APRIL FOOL! Quién es el hombre? Quién es el hombre? I'm the hombre! I'm the hombre! Now all I need are some pants."

El Sombra grinned down from the vertical rack at Master Minus, slumped on his knees in front of the blood spattered mirror, staring without eyelids at the remains of his face. He had succeeded in tearing all of the flesh from it, and all that remained were a few scraps of muscle clinging to a crimson, bloodstained skull, with two grotesque eyeballs gazing mercilessly at their own reflection. El Sombra smiled and did the voice, again while he made another attempt to work his left hand free of the shackle that held it in place.

"Creatures of the night... what music... they make... I vant to suck your blooood... yeah, you keep looking, amigo. Intense shame boosted by mind-warping drugs, hey? That's very original, I wouldn't know what that's like at all... ah, these bastard cuffs!" He was babbling, a result of the endorphin rush from the intense pain and the thrill of victory.

The yellow mist coursing through his veins - the mist Master Minus relied on so heavily - had been counterbalanced by the Trichocereus Validus already in his system, the desert cactus that had destroyed and rebuilt his mind. But while El Sombra was in a stronger position than the torturer realised, Master Minus was weaker than he knew, far too used to the easy victories the mist brought him, not realising that his own exposure to it made him ripe for psychological attack. The old man had spent years claiming that he was immune to the yellow mist, but nobody had ever been in a position to test that claim - until now.

In the end, El Sombra is able to drive the Nazis out of Pasito, and he’s succeded in ultimately inspiring the population to rally against them, eventually winning not because of said darkness granting him power, but by turning said darkness into a tool of good. The true victories of El Sombra are not in the violence, but in selfless heroism, in actions big and small. And in the end, He’s given even the opportunity of a happy ending, to settle down in the town he’s wanted so long to rescue. And if this were the story of Djego, the poet turned hero of his hometown, that’s where it would end.

But this is not Djego’s story. It’s the story of a man who’s destroyed himself to be rebuilt as an avenging force of nature. Someone who’s subsumed as much of his humanity as he could, who now can see and done things much beyond the scope of ordinary man, and now must pay the price of said terrible gifts. Who will pay much, much bigger prices for them in the future. It’s the story of El Sombra, and it’s only just begun:

It was too bad about Djego. El Sombra regretted little, but he regretted denying Djego that one small chance at happiness. But it couldn't be helped.

Until Adolf Hitler was dead, El Sombra could never rest

The man walked west, towards the sinking sun.

#replies tag #pulp heroes #al ewing #el sombra #the shadow

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