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mikeymagee · 4 months ago

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Sam Wilson: Double Consciousness

One thing I love about Black superheroes is that they all (in their own ways) celebrate different aspects of the Black experience.

T'challa, in the first Black Panther film represented Afro-futurism and Pan-Africanism.

Shuri, in Wakanda Forever, represented Black grief and the pain of loss.

Luke Cage represented African American pride and resilience

Tyrone from Cloak and Dagger represented the fear of living as a Black person in a white dominated space.

Miles Morales in Into the Spider-Verse, represented the creation of an individual identity (he even uses his graffiti skills to paint his own Spiderman suit). Each hero represented a specific aspect of the Black experience.

But Sam Wilson has always occupied a specific space that (until this moment) had yet to be filled. Sam Wilson, as an African American man, and as an African American Captain America, represents double consciousness.

(Potential Spoilers after the cut)

Double Consciousness, in this context, is a term that was coined by WEB Du Bois in his book The Souls of Black Folk in which he states that:

"It is a peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at one's self through the eyes of others, of measuring one's soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity. One ever feels his two-ness,—an American, a Negro; two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings; two warring ideals in one dark body, whose dogged strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder. The history of the American Negro is the history of this strife – this longing to attain self-conscious manhood, to merge his double self into a better and truer self. In this merging he wishes neither of the older selves to be lost. He does not wish to Africanize America, for America has too much to teach the world and Africa. He wouldn't bleach his Negro blood in a flood of white Americanism, for he knows that Negro blood has a message for the world. He simply wishes to make it possible for a man to be both a Negro and an American without being cursed and spit upon by his fellows, without having the doors of opportunity closed roughly in his face"

In essence, to be a Black American is to be a creature of two warring worlds, and it also means that the Black American must be ever aware at the fact that every move we make is not only going to be used to judge our character, but also the character of every other Black American. And Sam Wilson is aware of that fact.

In both The Falcon and the Winter Soldier, Sam brings up the fact that he knows the world is watching him and hating him simply for being a Black man who represents the United States. When Sam is juxtaposed against Isaiah Bradley, another Black Captain America who the country abandoned, Sam is reminded of how this country has always treated Black men and women.

And, sadly enough, Sam could also be looking at his own future. During Brave New World, Sam is ever honorable, ever compassionate and ever empathetic to everyone around him (even when their actions do not warrant Sam's kindness). Because, once again, Sam is aware that his actions (whether negative or positive) will have a greater impact on more than just himself. And that kind of pressure can lead to bitterness. It can wear a body down.

Sam states:

"Because if I’m not on point, I feel like I’ve let down everyone who is fighting for a seat at that table.”

Isaiah Bradley has always had a rocky relationship with the US, just like all African Americans have, So it makes sense to me that Sam Wilson may also be thinking about Isaiah each time he picks up the shield. When African Americans create something (be it a movie, or a tv show, or a play) that centers on the Black experience, there is an added pressure to overperform to prove the validity of the project and the validity of Black narratives. When The Wiz, a film that was originally going to be seen as "The First Black Classic" bombed in 1978, many Hollywood producers and film historians credited that film's failure as the reason why Black-led franchises are/were seen as box office poison for so long. Even with the success of 2018's Black Panther film, there are still people who're gun shy about centering Black narratives in the mainstream. So, if Sam Wilson were to fail as being Captain America, or if Sam Wilson were to represent himself in a way that is less admirable, it would have an effect on Isaiah's legacy, it would have an effect on Joaquin, it would have an effect on (potentially) Isaiah's grandson.

And even still, during the prison scenes in BNW, when Isaiah is locked away and Sam comes to visit him, Isaiah states:

"The last thing I want is for any of this ugliness to touch you."

Within the MCU Isaiah and Sam's stories are linked. Not just through the fact that Sam brought Isaiah's story out into the light, but also because they are both Black men who have held the mantel of Captain America, and whether they like it or not, their destinies with that legacy are intertwined. One will affect the other. They are each other's keeper.

Sam Wilson, rather through happenstance or fate, is the embodiment of Double Consciousness. Luke Cage, in both his comic book series and his Netflix show, was free to exist as a person outside of the white gaze. He could be angry, sad, fearful, etc, and not have to worry about how his actions would affect the larger community outside of Harlem. Sam Wilson does not have the luxury. So, when Sam is faced with a microaggression (such as being called "Son" by Ross), he is forced to hold his tongue. Sam Wilson is expected to react with kindness and decorum in the midst danger or disrespect, not because he can't fight back, but because he knows how the weight of his actions will affect those who look like him.

And Sam Wilson, a Black man without the soldier serum, is still expected to do everything that Steve Rogers (and to a lesser extent John Walker) do. Sam Wilson must do twice as much work with half as many resources. And if that's not the embodiment of the African American experience, I'm not sure what is. Many African American genres of music were created out of necessity and transferring what knowledge we could salvage onto new instruments. In short, African Americans had to improvise with the tools they were already given and create something new. Jazz and Blues was created because Black slaves were not allowed to use drums, so those rhythmic patterns were transposed onto guitars and horns.

Sam is expected to carry a large amount of physical labor (simply fighting as a human being without the serum clearly takes a toll). But he's also expected to do a lot of emotional labor as well. Through BNW Sam acts more as an ambassador for the US than a soldier. It is canon that in the MCU Sam speaks English, Spanish, Arabic and Japanese and he uses those skills to extend diplomacy to other nations and other people. In BNW, it was Sam who was responsible for deescalating international tensions with Japan, and it was Sam who managed to avoid a war through peaceful negotiation rather than war mongering (as Ross wanted to do). Even during the fight with Red Hulk, Sam had to resort to other means to achieve results (something that Steve or John Walker would've just brute forced their way through). Even while Sam was being shot at in the air, he never lost his cool because (like many African Americans) he is not afforded that privilege. John Walker, in TFATWS is allowed to murder and stain the shield with blood, but no one would ever say that white men like Walker are the problem with America. Yet Sam (and Isaiah) are far too familiar with the fact that a Black man screwing up will result in the judgement of everything that is associated with Blackness and Black people. So, they must find solutions without the use of violence. Sam must be diplomatic when the easier solution would be violence. Sam must be able to communicate with others on their own turf or in their own language during tense situations (like when he spoke Japanese to the fighter pilots).

Sam Wilson does not have the serum, but he does have wings. So, he adapted. Sam Wilson does not have the super strength needed to work the shield the same way Steve does, so Sam adapted and improvised. Just like Jazz music, Sam Wilson turned a perceived fault into a creative strength. He had to use his linguistic skills, his counseling skills, his flight capabilities, psychology and his boundless optimism to do the impossible.

A very hurting thing for Black Americans - to feel that we can't love our enemies. People forget what a great tradition we have as African-Americans in the practice of forgiveness and compassion. And if we neglect that tradition, we suffer.

-Bell Hooks

The fact of the matter remains, Sam Wilson embodies so many aspects of the African American experience, even when he doesn't mean to. Compassion. Improvisation. And the constant idea that this country can choose its better angels. In a way, Sam Wilson occupies a space that Luke Cage, T'challa, Shuri, and even Erik Killmonger cannot. It is a piece of the African American experience that takes a slug in the face and still gets right back up. The Black American tradition of making the impossible a reality through nothing but sheer force of will. Steve Rogers might have been the one to say the words "I can do this all day," but Sam Wilson lives them.

And he comes from a centuries old tradition of people who have been living them.

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vivelegalite · 1 year ago

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dear dead boy detective (especially paynland) enjoyers: have you yet heard of the biggest gift bestowed upon the fandom so far, aka jayden's charles playlist? the one he mentioned in interviews? well, he dropped it on twitter at 19th of may. and man, do i have stuff to say about it.

there's a lot of 80's bangers, for sure, great to get into the mood and character, but some of the choices...

i'm gonna focus on a few of my favourites, songs that made me go insane when i saw them. honorable mentions: - category 1 (so devoted the lines blur): ain't no mountain high enough by marvin gaye and tammi terrell, there is a light that never goes out by the smiths, inkpot gods by the amazing devil - category 2 (family life): family line and summer child by conan gray, seventeen going under by sam fender, matilda by harry styles, father by the front bottoms - category 3 (being queer in the 80s): smalltown boy by bronski beat, boys don't cry by the cure - category 4 (there's no heterosexual explanation for this one): good luck, babe! by chappel roan, yellow by coldplay, fight or flight by conan gray (is this about monty? the cat king? i need answers!), the prophecy by taylor swift, arms tonite by mother mother, sweet by cigarettes after sex, head over heels by tears for fears

this list is by no means complete or comprehensive!

and now, the songs that made me go the craziest: (they're predominantly in charles' pov as it's his playlist)

found heaven by conan gray

the only reason this song made it into the list and not the honorable mentions instead of smalltown boy is that it makes almost the same point, just so much more explicitly. i don't think i have to say much about it, it's a story of a young person griping with their queerness, being forced to leave home, a common theme of the playlist. "you're in love, you found heaven" when he chose edwin over his own afterlife, heavily implied to be heaven, and built his heaven with him on the mortal plane? ouch! (and we see this same notion repeated in another bop from the playlist, heaven is a place on earth by belinda carlisle).

2. like real people do by hozier

"i miss kissing" charles rowland, 202X romantic meaning aside, the verses show a sort of a common understanding the boys have around the manner of their deaths and their lives before it. we already know from the show they don't really talk about it, with edwin not knowing about the severity of the abuse charles suffered. it feels like one of them saying "let the past be past, we're together now, yeah?". but also, jayden: can there ever be a platonic explanation for this? ghosts can't touch, can't feel, so they wish they could just kiss like "real" (alive?) people do?

3. flaws by bastille

not the most romantic song, but i absolutely love how well it fits their dynamic. despite his edwardian brand of repression, edwin truly is the one that's more open about his feelings (recognising of course that in this case, the bar is so low it's in hell. haha, get it). edwin has worn his flaws upon his sleeve, and charles has held them buried - eg. bottling up all of his anger and resentment towards his family and his own death. the song presents a very sweet outlook, in which their flaws are brought up to the surface (for example, charles' outburst against the night nurse in episode 4), but they learn to accept them as they are, an extension of themselves.

4. a pearl by mitski

you know it's gonna get intense if there's a mitski song in the mix.

the song is about a person who finds love in their partner, someone who treats them way better than they've ever been treated - and yet they cannot bring themselves to reciprocate the affection ("it's not that i don't want you, sorry i can't take your touch") despite reciprocating the feelings themselves because of the trauma. charles is known to bottle things up ("you're growing tired of me and all the things i don't talk about"). the person in the song recognises the love the other person holds for them ("you love me so hard and i still can't sleep"), which reminds me of charles' response to edwin's confession. not a "no", but a "maybe, as time passes".

5. fair by the amazing devil

this one made me genuinely gasp when i first delved into the lyrics. it's simply so sweet, such a genuine and domestic portrayal of love. at first i thought it was way too open about being a love song (normal text instead of the subtext i'd be used to) for jayden to choose it with edwin in mind, but... there's no one else it can really be about. it's far too domestic, too "established" to refer to crystal. refers to a relationship that's laster for a longer while.

the narrator in the first verse is a person deeply in love with the other person, someone who loves to make his lover laugh and simply drinks in their presence. the "he" in the song i believe is charles, while the "she" refers to edwin. edwin promises to fight off anyone - or any feelings pulling charles down (we can see this in the first episode: "you ever think... what if death did catch us? she'd force us to go to the afterlife and split up" "i will make sure this never happens."). charles feels left behind by the world (seeing as he clings to crystal at first, refering to her as "someone their age who's still alive") and believes edwin to be so much stronger than he's ever been. i'm not going to break down the song verse by verse, but if you read it yourself while subbing out "he" for charles and "she" for edwin you'll see just how sweet (and... strangely very in character?) the song is.

6. work song by hozier

if the previous song made me gasp when i saw the lyrics, this one made me go "NO WAY" out loud when i saw the title. the first one verse is just pure toothrotting sweetness, but the chorus is what i want to draw attention to:

when my time comes around lay me gently in the cold, dark earth no grave can hold my body down i'll crawl home to her

HELLO? charles, who keeps escaping death and afterlife to be able to stay with edwin? charles, as he literally takes his last breath with edwin right there, choosing to be by his side rather than move on? charles, who keeps choosing him despite night nurse's promises and threats? charles, who literally crawled through hell for him?

verse 2, to me, can be interpreted as referring to when charles died. edwin found him at his worst, and he "woke" up with his presence comforting him. he was shivering due to hypothermia and his injuries. edwin didn't ask him about what happened or pushed him, he simply listened. the lines "i didn't care much how long i lived, but I swear, i thought i dreamed her" are pretty self explanatory.

in verse 3 we still see the same attitude of "damn the afterlife, at least we have each other" as charles portrays througout the series. they're free, and heaven and hell are simply words to him.

7. orpheus by vincent lima

i literally have no words for this one. it fits too well. if you want commentary for this one, just... i don't know, rewatch the staircase scene.

8. francesca by hozier

(cracks knuckles) this is the big one. the album francesca is from, unreal unearth, is based on dante alighieri's divine comedy, a fourteenth century poem about a man venturing into hell, purgatory and eventually heaven. the eponymous francesca is one francesca di rimini, a woman who was politically married off to a man older than her, called giovanni malatesta. francesca didn't love him, and eventually fell deep in love with giovanni's younger brother, paolo. the two carried on with the affair for years, before being murdered by giovanni upon his finding out. francesca and paolo are mentioned in canto v of the first book, inferno, as two souls damned in the second circle of hell, lust. their punishment is to be permanently locked in a hurricane, swept away by the winds the moment they manage to get close enough to touch one another.

as opposed to their portrayal in the poem, the song is from the perspective of paolo, explaining that no matter the punishment, he wouldn't change anything about his life because he got to know, and love, francesca.

the first verse brings to mind the scenes in hell, especially on the staircase ("do you think I'd give up? that this might've shook the love from me? or that I was on the brink? how could you think, darlin', i'd scare so easily?" as an echo of charles' "sorry. no version of this where i didn't come get you"). "my life was a storm since i was born, how could i fear any hurricane?" could relate to charles' tumultuous family life, an assurance that nothing he has to deal with while by edwin's side will faze him given the things he's lived through. no, despite everything he's suffered through, charles wouldn't do anything differently - because his (admittedly shitty) life led him to edwin ("i'd tell them, put me back in"). we already know charles would choose him over heaven, willingly sacrificing his own afterlife to stay with a boy he's known for hours, someone kind enough to keep him company as he drew his final breath. all of it - his father's abuse, his schoolmates' bigotry, the pain of his own death, as well as everything he's gone through since - he'd do it all again, for edwin.

"for all that was said of where we'd end up at the end of it" could be taken as an allusion to the fate the boys would meet at "at the end of it", when they're finally caught by death and separated, or as more of a general "if you sin, you will go to hell when you die" (up to you to decide what the sin itself would be - an interpretation that would work with other songs on the playlist is that one such sin would be same sex attraction). then their hearts ceased, they never knew "peace", nor did they want to find it in death. their deaths were too soon, them being ripped away from life, but even though it would break his heart: charles would ask to do it all again.

the outro, i think, beautifully pulls it all together: heaven is not fit to house a love like theirs.

to wrap it all up:

jayden, what were you cooking in there? what do you know??

#please interact w me please please please i need dbd moots <3 #dbda #dead boy detectives #dead boy detective agency #paynland #payneland #painland #paineland #chedwin #charles rowland #edwin paine #edwin payne #dead boy detectives agency #dead boy detectives analysis #aough jayden your mind #my art #<- my umbrella trashcan tag

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indulgentnine · 5 months ago

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"LET me leave? I'm the one who holds the leashes when it comes to the Vees," she snaps quick, some emotion behind that remark while it hits a tender spot. She was already in trouble so this would only make it worse for sure. That dynamic was in question as of late, but she tried to brush it aside as she started to approach him.

"I come and go as I please," she reiterates further yet how much of that is true she doesn't let slip while pausing just a few feet in front of him now, "So now I'm here. Who's the real bitch now because I had to come out to where you were?"

"Well, well, color me suprised. Barbie really does leave her Dreamhouse now and then. Did they let you leave? Or did you have to sneak out the backway to come see me, ragdoll?"

He also had quite a grin on his face, their last encounter had him laughing so hard he couldn't continue to fight. Now that he knows just how doll-like she really is, it won't be as impactful. Alastor would be ready for whatever she decided to throw at him....her own head included.

#ic: velveteen vanity #alteregozowie #[The nightly fight begins in honor of chewsday.~]#verse [venison barbeque]

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animusrox · 1 year ago

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TOP 10

Past Lives

Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse

How to Blow Up a Pipeline

Poor Things

Oppenheimer

Barbie

BlackBerry

The Holdovers

The Iron Claw

Killers of the Flower Moon

MY LETTERBOXD Grade A 11. The Killer 12. Beau Is Afraid 13. Dream Scenario 14. Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3 15. Godzilla Minus One 16. American Fiction 17. They Cloned Tyrone 18. Evil Dead Rise 19. Eileen 20. The Artifice Girl 21. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Mutant Mayhem 22. Talk to Me 23. Reality 24. Leave the World Behind 25. A Thousand and One 26. Mission: Impossible – Dead Reckoning Part One 27. Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. 28. Theater Camp 29. Carmen 30. Merry Little Batman 31. Priscilla 32. Society of the Snow 33. Infinity Pool 34. Enys Men 35. Sanctuary 36. Rye Lane 37. Skinamarink 38. Monster 39. Anatomy of a Fall 40. Landscape with Invisible Hand 41. Reptile 42. Sisu 43. Pinball: The Man Who Saved the Game 44. No One Will Save You 45. Tetris 46. May December 47. The Zone of Interest 48. V/H/S/85 49. Dumb Money 50. El Conde 51. Arnold 52. Maestro 53. Napoleon 54. 20 Days in Mariupol 55. Influencer 56. The Creator 57. Origin 58. Thanksgiving 59. Next Goal Wins 60. The Boy and the Heron 61. Bottoms 62. Wonka

[Press Keep Reading For The Full Graded List]

Grade B

63. God Is a Bullet 64. No Hard Feelings 65. Joy Ride 66. Fair Play 67. Cocaine Bear 68. NYAD 69. Asteroid City 70. Nowhere 71. The Angry Black Girl and Her Monster 72. Divinity 73. The Equalizer 3 74. The Last Voyage of the Demeter 75. Venus 76. Butcher’s Crossing 77. Somewhere in Queens 78. The Persian Version 79. Boston Strangler 80. Polite Society 81. Miguel Wants to Fight 82. The Color Purple 83. The Royal Hotel 84. Saw X 85. All of Us Strangers 86. Fallen Leaves 87. Ferrari 88. Elemental 89. Peter Pan & Wendy 90. Renfield 91. Cat Person 92. Scream VI 93. The Hunger Games: The Ballad of Songbirds & Snakes 94. BS High 95. Blue Beetle 96. Huesera: The Bone Woman 97. When Evil Lurks 98. Dark Harvest 99. A Good Person 100. Final Cut 101. Knock at the Cabin 102. Quiz Lady 103. Leo 104. Air 105. The Super Mario Bros. Movie 106. Batman: The Doom That Came to Gotham 107. John Wick: Chapter 4 108. Beaten to Death 109. The Wrath of Becky 110. Passages 111. Transformers: Rise of the Beasts 112. Gran Turismo 113. 65 114. Sick 115. Sister Death 116. The Blackening 117. Please Don’t Destroy: The Treasure of Foggy Mountain 118. Flamin’ Hot 119. Nimona 120. Cobweb 121. Totally Killer 122. What’s Love Got to Do with It? 123. Sharper 124. Unseen 125. Dunki 126. Bird Box Barcelona 127. The Marvels 128. Shazam! Fury of the Gods

Grade C

129. Wildflower 130. Freelance 131. M3GAN 132. Strays 133. Sympathy for the Devil 134. Creed III 135. Chevalier 136. The Marsh King’s Daughter 137. A Haunting in Venice 138. The Little Mermaid 139. Silent Night 140. Master Gardener 141. The Flash 142. Fast X 143. The Pope’s Exorcist 144. Saltburn 145. Kandahar 146. Stand 147. Plane 148. Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny 149. Fingernails 150. Quicksand 151. Fool’s Paradise 152. Migration 153. Rustin 154. The Covenant 155. Good Burger 2 156. The Pod Generation 157. Alice, Darling 158. Insidious: The Red Door 159. Missing 160. Shotgun Wedding 161. You Hurt My Feelings 162. The Boogeyman 163. Showing Up 164. Aquaman and the Lost Kingdom 165. Champions 166. Consecration 167. The Nun II 168. Biosphere 169. House Party 170. The Exorcist: Believer 171. Big George Foreman 172. Dungeons & Dragons: Honor Among Thieves 173. Children of the Corn 174. The Beanie Bubble 175. Ant-Man and the Wasp: Quantumania

Grade F

176. Anyone But You 177. Marlowe 178. Paint 179. Extraction 2 180. It Lives Inside 181. Deliver Us 182. Trolls Band Together 183. Finestkind 184. Corner Office 185. Wish 186. Prisoner’s Daughter 187. Pain Hustlers 188. Foe 189. The Mother 190. Old Dads 191. Ghosted 192. Ruby Gillman, Teenage Kraken 193. Haunted Mansion 194. Mafia Mamma 195. Five Nights at Freddy’s 196. The Machine 197. Justice League: Warworld 198. We Have a Ghost 199. What Comes Around 200. Legion of Super-Heroes 201. The Boys in the Boat 202. Attachment 203. Operation Fortune: Ruse de Guerre 204. About My Father 205. You People 206. Meg 2: The Trench 207. Pathaan 208. Rebel Moon - Part One: A Child of Fire 209. Assassin 210. Dalíland 211. Vacation Friends 2

Bottom 10

212. Sound of Freedom 213. Winnie the Pooh: Blood and Honey 214. When You Finish Saving The World 215. Heart of Stone 216. Family Switch 217. Expend4bles 218. Sweetwater 219. Hypnotic 220. 80 for Brady 221. Spinning Gold

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fandom · 2 years ago

Photo

Movies

Hi, Barbie.

Barbie

Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse

Goncharov

Nimona

Glass Onion: A Knives Out Mystery

Red, White, and Royal Blue

Lord of the Rings -3

Black Panther +24

The Addams Family

The Super Mario Bros. Movie -4

Knives Out

Puss In Boots: The Last Wish

Oppenheimer

The Hunger Games

Avatar: The Way of Water

Guardians of the Galaxy

Shrek

The Little Mermaid +15

Scream -1

Top Gun: Maverick -1

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Mutant Mayhem

Everything Everywhere All At Once +7

Saw +14

Twilight -13

Wendell & Wild

Howl's Moving Castle -6

The Hobbit -3

Five Nights at Freddy's

Enola Holmes

My Policeman

Deadpool -8

How to Train Your Dragon +12

Beauty and the Beast +16

Avatar

Scream VI

Bottoms

Mean Girls +6

Megamind -4

Metalocalypse: Army of the Doomstar

Spirited Away -10

The Batman -38

Rogue One: A Star Wars Story

Venom -34

Les Misérables

Encanto -44

Iron Lung

Coraline

The Thing

John Wick

Strange Way of Life

Blue Beetle

Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny

Legally Blonde

Frozen -14

Dungeons & Dragons: Honor Among Thieves

Ghosted

American Psycho -7

Princess Mononoke

Dune -49

The Princess Bride

Teen Wolf: The Movie

Star Wars: Episode III—Revenge of the Sith -21

Pacific Rim

Renfield

Shrek 2

Saw X

The Old Guard -29

Nope -47

Spider-Man: Beyond the Spider-Verse

Night at the Museum

Soul -26

The Mummy

The Nightmare Before Christmas

My Little Pony: Equestria Girls

Hellraiser

The Lost Boys

The Marvels

Emesis Blue

The Shape of Water

The Menu

My Neighbor Totoro

Shazam -40

Sonic the Hedgehog -66

Pirates of the Caribbean -48

The Hunger Games: Catching Fire

Elemental

Lilo & Stitch

Fight Club

The Dark Knight

The Hunger Games: The Ballad of Songbirds & Snakes

The Princess Diaries

The Incredibles

Halloween Ends

The Lorax

10 Things I Hate About You

Heathers

Kung Fu Panda

The Devil Wears Prada

Rise of the Guardians

Birds of Prey

The number in italics indicates how many spots a title moved up or down from the previous year. Bolded titles weren’t on the list last year.

#year in review #movies #tumblr2023

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etherealrin · 4 months ago

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ཐི♡ཋྀ TOKYO'S DARK KNIGHT?

tw: death + violence // fem reader, somewhat follows canon // wc: 1.1k

batman!rin is tokyo city’s very own tortured and brooding crime-fighting vigilante. he lives a double life: a wealthy international football superstar by day, hero operating in the shadows by night.

batman!rin was never too fond of his parents but was close to his brother sae. they’d spend hours in the backyard which sae had convinced their parents to turn into a soccer field, playing around. they were both on school teams together. rin is ten when he’s suddenly orphaned—his entire family murdered—so he’s left alone with no one but his eccentric uncle, a certain ego jinpachi, to look after him. oh, and he inherits the entire itoshi fortune, as well as the family mansion.

batman!rin who only starts liking horror movies and video games after the tragedy. he oddly finds solace in the gore-filled scenes, it fills him with a sense of peace. the weeks directly after the death of his family, rin would find himself battling insomnia; exhausted but unable to sleep. he'd put up some random horror flick and eventually doze off to the sounds of manical laughs and shrill screeches. if the midnight noises had ever bothered his uncle, ego never mentioned it.

batman!rin who, for years after the loss of his brother, wishes he too died that night. the world was too empty without sae, and he couldn’t bring himself to pick up a soccer ball again. why couldn’t it be me and not him? he’d sob to himself—sae had always been the better one; more likeable, and he’d actually had a goal to live by.

it’s uncle ego who convinces batman!rin to take up football again, saying that sae wouldn’t want for his younger brother to end up lukewarm. so rin does, vowing to become the world’s best striker in honor of his elder brother.

batman!rin who isn’t yet batman until he’s fifteen. it’s a dark and foggy night, rin’s just ready to leave football practice and head home. but then he hears the screams and an all too familiar scene flashes through his mind. no, he couldn’t just ignore the fact that somebody was in danger—he wouldn’t let another kid suffer what he had. and so he pulls his hood over his head and rushes to the scene, where an elegantly dressed woman is obviously being assaulted. the assailant is armed with a knife, but rin has a soccer ball. the crook’s head is no match for a dead-on collision with the sturdy ball going at an insane speed, and thus he’s knocked out. rin, face concealed in the ill-lighting, makes sure the lady arrives to her home safely before calling the police to the scene and returning to his own residence.

batman!rin who, on the walk back, spots a lone bat in the sky. as if a sign from the heavens. batman, he thinks. suitable; he’d like to remain alone and anonymous if he were to keep this business up. after all, it would complicate his football career if he were to be found out.

so batman!rin turns to the only person he can—his uncle. and ego doesn't bat an eye, even offering to help him, he was apparently well versed in becoming a “superhero,” not that rin really regarded himself as one. in his eyes, this was just a small form of vengeance and justice for his family. he designs a simple mask covering all but his mouth, and that night, batman is born.

batman!rin who technically drives illegally. a sixteen-year old probably shouldn’t be behind the wheel of a vehicle such as the batmobile, but he refuses to be chauffered around by his uncle, plus it was fun. it’d been over a year since the first evening he saved someone, and batman was now known across tokyo: a masked individual who was shrouded in mystery but undoubtedly good.

rin meets you as batman for the first time after realizing that the joker had planted a bomb in his high school. that maniac was putting hundreds of lives in danger, and curse him for deciding to provoke batman in broad daylight! so maybe rin had disappeared from math class, and everyone assumes he's just cutting. which isn't inaccurate, he's quite literally deciding which wire to cut from the bomb planted on the roof. and he’s almost there, sweet taste of victory on his lips, until the joker himself shows up. all hell breaks loose—everybody is running in different directions, there’s more than one fire across the buildings—and batman!rin is at the center of it all, facing off against the green-haired psychopath.

batman!rin has his nemesis right there, in his grasp, but then he hears you scream. the joker smirks, it’s the obviously meant to be a diversion. of course he’d have some kind of secondary trap planted where a student might’ve tried to escape. its a moral challenge and rin has to make a decision right there; save someone he doesn’t know and let the joker escape, or…?

batman!rin is gone in a flash, leaving the joker to his own devices. the moment you scream again, rin hurriedly follows your voice. he finds you, all but surrounded by a wall of flaming rubble. your hair is dangerously close to being burnt.

“don’t worry. i’ve got you,” he tries to soothe you as he saves you from the ring of fire, carrying you in his arms while shielding you with his own body. his suit was fireproof, after all. he realizes later that he forgot to pitch his voice deeper.

all the while, your stomach is bursting into butterflies because what the hell—batman was holding you! and you can’t help but think that batman’s voice sounds pretty young. somewhat like a teenager’s. in fact, it bears some semblance to the moody boy with dark black bangs, who sits next to you in math. who coincidentally disappeared right when the joker showed up.

if his suit weren’t so thick, batman!rin might’ve been worried that you’d hear his erratic heartbeat. no, he wasn’t flustered by the physical contact, he was just nervous—huge difference! he asks if you’re alright. you reply shakily that you are, but he insists on taking you straight to a hospital in case you went into shock. rin’s staring at you for a bit longer than necessary as he drops you off from the batmobile, he swears he’s just making sure you’re really fine! he doesn't catch how your eyes linger on a soccer ball he'd left somewhere in the backseats of the car, along with miscaellaneous horror comics.

when he drives away, batman!rin realizes that you’re the pretty girl who sits next to him in mathematics, and remembers how you always offer him gum or snacks; a small gesture of care even though you and rin weren’t really friends. you’re a good person, he decides.

somehow, you both have the feeling that this isn’t your last meeting, but rather, it’s the beginning of many more to come. perhaps the gears of fate had selected you to unravel the secrets of tokyo's dark knight.

a/n: @lizbix @ohagiyo @wonubby...enjoy!! thx for the motivation LOL i had a bit too much fun here! lmk if anyone wants a part 2…

ılılılılılılı now playing: consume by chase atlantic, die for me by chase atlantic, too many nights by metro boomin

masterlist!

#batman!rin #i’m losing it bye #DIVIDER MADE BY ME WOW #blue lock #bllk x reader #blue lock x reader #bllk x you #blue lock x you #blue lock rin #itoshi rin #rin x reader #itoshi rin x you #rin x you #bllk rin #rin bllk #rin blue lock #blue lock au #rin #凛 ; rin x reader

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shepcdr · 3 months ago

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SHEPARD MAKES NO EFFORT TO MASK his reactions. ( what's the point, when javik's capabilities render most feigned courtesies completely ineffective? ) not the wrinkling of his nose at the quiet scoff, nor the tightening of his jaw at the frigid confirmation .... though shepard has to admit, despite his wariness, that there's some relief in tossing aside false pretences.

and he's no prothean himself, but it's easier to sense now — without the wild alarm that had flared in him as javik had first snatched him by the arms, and as his memories were drawn out by that firm grasp — that javik's words are spoken with honesty. they do stand against a greater enemy; and, little as shepard cares to admit, these are impossible odds. ( if there was any doubt — any wavering in faith, any crack in his resolve — then shepard only has himself to blame. the very thought tightens his chest with shame.

( yeah. maybe it's time to move on from this. )

he returns javik's gaze, head tilting in quiet curiosity at the brief gleam of something novel in the other man's eyes. some expression shepard can't yet parse. but it's neither hostile nor disingenuous, as far as he can tell, and so he accepts the declaration with a nod.

" speaking of which ... i've never seen a prothean warrior in action. " well, obviously. ( though shepard doesn't say so aloud; given javik's situation, it would just be rubbing salt in the wound. ) liara has always seemed more fascinated with the intellectual, artistic, and technological aspects of prothean culture ... those parts more wondrous and mysterious. not so much the militaristic — not that shepard can remember, anyway.

" i'd like to. if you're not busy. "

even were it not plainly visible, he could feel the human's inner turmoil. the display of restraint was commendable, though. disciplined. that was good, but discipline alone wasn't enough. javik knew that better than most.

[ with any hope. ] conversely, the prothean himself couldn't contain the soft but contemptuous scoff exhaled through his nostrils. [ hope. ] the kindness is that he does not speak his disdain; he hated to rely on something so intangible and cruel.

❝ i only told you what i sense already exists in you. ❞ not my belief. yours. there seemed equal parts conviction to the doubt, but there was doubt all the same. ❝ you know you stand against a greater enemy. that you face impossible odds. ❞ he also felt that shepard had done so before. javik stepped closer, eyes meeting the other's. for a moment, he feels a sense of... deja vu. or was it familiarity? ❝ i will join you in that fight. ❞

#khrysopos #khrysopos — ft. javik #just like old times. \` * file: in character.#verse ›› ˋstand in the ashes of a trillion dead souls; ask the ghosts if honor matters.ˊ 〈 mass effect 3 〉#WEEKS later. finally. i am Not feeling my strongest writing wise this morning but nonetheless...#just like shep to walk up to a freshly defrosted prothean on their second barely friendly convo and say. hey wanna fight

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neurotica-tales · 24 days ago

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The Silent Oath (Yandere Male!Mulan x Reader)

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

In a world where only women go to war, men are expected to stay silent, soft, and small. But Mufan refuses.

When the Empire demands his ailing mother take up arms, Mufan does the unthinkable—he dons her armor, binds his name, and disappears into battle. No one is meant to notice him. But you do.

A commanding officer with steel in your spine and stormlight in your voice. You don’t look at him like he’s weak. And that’s all it takes.

He bleeds for your approval. Fights to be worthy of your eyes. And when he saves the Empress from an ambush no one saw coming, the nation calls him a hero—a man honored in a woman’s world.

But Mufan doesn’t care about medals.

He only cares about you.

Because now you’ve seen him—and Mufan has no intention of letting you look away. Not now. Not ever.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Up Next: Yandere Ariel (Arien) Headcanon (Part 1) (Part 2), Yandere Cinderella (Edric) Headcanon (Part 1) (Part 2), Yandere Snow White (Winter White) Headcanon, Yandere Belle (Beau) Headcanon

To find my main masterlist, click HERE.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Mufan didn’t look at his reflection.

He stood before the polished basin as steam curled around his fingers, the scent of plum blossom oil thick in the air, but he didn’t dare lift his eyes to meet the water’s surface. Not yet. Not until it was time. His mother was humming softly behind him as she pinned the final silk fold of his robe in place, her hands calloused but careful as ever.

“You’ll do fine,” she murmured, adjusting the drape over his shoulder. “You’ve always had such good posture. The matchmaker will notice that.”

He nodded, though his stomach felt like it was full of cold stones. He’d been told all his life that humility was the only armor a son needed, that a good match was his battlefield, and today—he would fight.

Outside, the spring air held a chill. The town was already alive with movement, merchant carts rattling past stone walls, silk banners swaying in the breeze. Every step Mufan took toward the matchmaker’s hall felt heavier than the last. He walked with his hands folded, his gaze respectfully lowered, but he could feel the stares.

“There he goes again.”

“Meiyu’s boy. The one who was rejected last year, wasn’t he?”

“Too strange for his own good.”

The matchmaker’s house loomed at the edge of the market street, its ornate red doors freshly painted, incense already curling from the rooftop brazier. As he stepped inside, the world grew hushed and scented with bitter tea and sandalwood. He bowed low before the dais, keeping his head down as expected.

The matchmaker barely glanced at him.

Her expression soured the moment her eyes landed on him. She circled him slowly, clicking her tongue, fingers twitching against her fan.

“Too tall,” she said at last. “And your hands—what are these, farm hands? No noble woman wants a husband with blisters.”

He said nothing. Just smiled softly, just as he’d practiced.

She asked him questions—sharp ones.

“What would you do if your wife returned late from war?”

“Would you cook if commanded?”

"Will your body be strong enough to give your wife many children?"

"You look delicate—are you sure you can give your wife healthy children? Some men can't even manage that."

He answered each one with poise, with care, with the exact wording his mother drilled into him.

But it didn’t matter.

When he complimented her teacups, she said he was too eager. When he bowed lower than etiquette demanded, she said he was groveling. When he dared to speak clearly, she accused him of arrogance.

The final blow came when she misquoted an imperial poem, and Mufan, gently, politely, offered the correct verse.

The matchmaker stared at him, lips pursed. Then she lifted her teacup and dashed it across his face.

The scalding liquid splashed over his cheek, staining his robe, the scent of bitterness clinging like smoke. The fine silk his mother had spent weeks embroidering was ruined in an instant.

“No woman wants a man who corrects her,” the matchmaker spat. “You’re a disgrace. Leave. Now.”

Mufan didn’t speak. Didn’t cry. He bowed so low his hair brushed the floor, then turned and walked out of the house.

The square outside was still busy. Still loud. And still watching.

He walked quickly, then faster, the tea cooling against his skin like the laughter he heard behind him—quiet but unmistakable.

By the time he reached home, his hands were shaking.

His mother was in the courtyard, trimming the jasmine vines with her cane resting across her lap. Her legs were wrapped in wool, and the silver streaks in her hair were pinned with simple ivory combs. She looked up as he arrived.

She saw the stains. The blotchy paint. The cracked porcelain look in his expression.

She didn’t ask what happened.

She just set the shears aside and took his hand, squeezing it gently in her lap.

“We’ll try again,” she said. “Next time.”

Mufan didn’t answer. Because something inside him felt too raw, too exposed. He hadn’t believed he’d be chosen, but some small part of him had hoped. And that hope, however small, had burned when it died.

It was late afternoon when the gong sounded.

A thunderous, echoing chime rolled over the hills, halting conversation, freezing footsteps, snapping market flags in the wind. The imperial official stood in the square, surrounded by red-armored guards, a scroll unrolled between her gloved hands.

Her voice rang with the force of decree.

“By order of Her Imperial Majesty, every household in the province must send its first-born daughter to serve in the Northern Campaign. Drafting begins tomorrow morning. Refusal to comply is punishable under martial law.”

The words dropped like stones into the crowd.

First-born daughters.

Mufan didn’t look at anyone else. He looked at his mother.

Her eyes were already dimming.

She was a war hero, yes—but that had been twenty years ago. Now her knees cracked when she tried to stand. Her lungs wheezed in the cold. She couldn’t even hold a cup steady anymore. If they forced her to go, she’d be dead before she crossed the pass.

Still, she squared her shoulders.

“I’ll go,” she said softly, more to herself than him. “I’ll go. I must.”

“No,” Mufan replied immediately. “You can’t. You won’t.”

She looks at him with determination. “I can, and I will. For the Hua Family's honor.”

He looked down at his tea-stained robe, the remnants of failed dignity, the silk crushed in his fists. His shame was still fresh—but his purpose? That had never felt clearer.

He didn’t speak again. What could he even say in that moment?

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

That night, the air was cold. The moon hung like a thin sliver of steel above the roof tiles. Mufan moved quietly through the darkened home, lighting incense at the family altar, pressing his forehead to the floor.

He pulled out his cousin’s old armor from a trunk buried beneath linens—soft leather worn from use, light enough for his frame. He fastened the straps one by one, buckling the chestplate last. His reflection in the lacquered mirror was slim, sharp-eyed, and plain. He didn’t need to be beautiful.

He only needed to be mistaken.

He tied his hair in the soldier’s knot reserved for women. Applied soot around his eyes to narrow them. Smoothed balm over his lips to give them a faint sheen. And when he slipped the sword into its scabbard at his waist, it felt heavier than it should have.

He didn’t feel brave.

He felt inevitable.

As he passed the shrine one last time, he paused, knelt, and whispered:

“Forgive me. But I won’t let her die for me. I’ll bring our name honor—even if I have to become someone else to do it.”

His footsteps didn’t echo as he stepped into the night.

He didn’t turn back.

Not even when his mother opened her door and watched his silhouette disappear beneath the silver light.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The journey to the military outpost took nearly a week on foot.

Mufan didn’t speak much to the others he traveled with—first-born daughters from other villages, dressed in ill-fitting armor, most no older than he was. Some wore grim determination on their faces. Others, false bravado. One girl wept quietly at night when she thought no one could hear. No one comforted her. This was not a place for comfort.

And when he finally arrived, the military outpost didn’t feel real at first.

It was too clean. Too ordered. Too silent.

Even with soldiers shouting and drills clattering on stone, it didn’t feel like a place Mufan could exist in. The training grounds were carved into the base of a mountain range, enclosed on three sides by tall cliff faces and fortified with high stone walls. It was an efficient place—designed to build soldiers, not preserve them. He’d arrived just before sunrise with a dozen other recruits, their names called, checked, and recorded like livestock.

He answered to Mulan now.

His voice didn’t shake when he said it. His heart did.

Everything smelled like iron and mud and the cold crackle of early spring. And though there were girls here his age—some nervous, some eager—Mufan didn’t speak to any of them. It was safer to keep quiet. To watch. To stay small, unnoticed, and alive.

The first person he heard speak in a voice that didn’t sound like gravel or spit was Captain Liang.

She was the commanding officer in charge of training. Tall, broad-backed, with hair pulled into a severe braid and a mouth that had forgotten how to smile. Her voice carried like thunder across the field, and she treated every recruit like they were already disappointing her.

Mufan had expected that.

He hadn’t expected you.

You didn’t yell. You didn’t pace the grounds or inspect their posture with a whip in hand like Liang. You stood at a distance instead—arms crossed behind your back, a heavy cloak hanging from your shoulders, the insignia of a high-ranking imperial commander pinned to your collar.

You weren’t there to train anyone. You were above that. You were there to observe.

To evaluate.

To judge.

The moment Mufan saw you, he felt the air change.

You didn’t look like a woman who had anything to prove. You stood with the kind of stillness that comes from absolute control. The others avoided your eyes—maybe out of fear, maybe out of awe—but Mufan found himself watching you out of something else entirely.

Not desire.

Not yet.

Just… fascination.

You were the first person in years who didn’t move like they were performing. You didn’t need to perform. You simply existed, and the world shifted to accommodate you.

To him, you looked like the kind of person he could never be. Strong. Sure. Unapologetically powerful.

And so, at first, he admired you the way one might admire lightning from the safety of a hilltop.

Distant. Untouchable.

Dangerous.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The first days of training broke more than just pride. They broke skin, bone, and spirit.

Captain Liang worked them hard—brutal drills at dawn, sparring until blood slicked their palms, and obstacle courses designed to humiliate. Mufan was smaller than most. Lighter. Weaker. He did his best to stay quiet, to absorb everything without drawing attention. Every muscle in his body screamed by the second day, but he refused to fall behind.

When he stumbled during sword drills, Liang snapped at him.

“Mulan! That’s the third time you’ve let your blade drop. Are you fighting or dancing?!”

He bit his tongue and bowed.

She hated when he hesitated.

She hated him, though she didn’t know why.

He couldn’t blame her.

He only saw you a few times at first.

You never approached the recruits. You simply stood in the shade beneath the awning at the edge of the yard, arms folded, eyes narrowed slightly as you took notes. You never interrupted, never raised your voice. You just watched.

But that was enough.

Every now and then, your gaze passed over him—never lingering, never stopping—but even that momentary flicker made Mufan’s spine straighten.

You weren’t like Liang. You didn’t yell to be heard.

You were quiet power.

Unreachable.

Unyielding.

He never imagined you even noticed him.

Not until the third week.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The sun was cruel that day, bright and sharp against the packed earth. Mufan’s shirt clung to his back with sweat. They were practicing formations, taking turns in one-on-one combat while the rest stood at attention.

His partner was Ren—a broad-shouldered brute of a girl with a sneer that hadn’t left her face since the first day. She didn’t like him. Maybe because he was quiet. Maybe because he never flinched when she teased him.

“Come on,” she jeered as they circled. “Show me your pretty footwork.”

He raised his blade. Kept his guard up. He was fast, but not strong. Not enough to stop the weight of her shoulder when she lunged. She slammed into him hard, knocking him backward. He landed flat in the dirt, wind knocked from his lungs.

Laughter broke out across the formation.

Even Liang snorted.

But then everything stopped.

Because you stepped forward.

The silence was immediate. Even the wind seemed to still.

You didn’t shout. You didn’t scold. You walked—measured and precise—until you stood over him, your boots in the dust beside his ribs.

He blinked up at you.

And then, without a word, you extended a hand.

He stared at it.

He’d been offered hands before. Usually to mock him. Usually by girls who wanted to humiliate him further.

But yours was steady. Detached. Almost… clinical.

He took it.

You pulled him up, then looked him over briefly, like you were sizing him up for a reason he couldn’t guess.

“You need to strengthen your hips,” you said quietly. “Your upper body’s compensating.”

He nodded before he could think. “Yes, Commander.”

Your expression didn’t change.

“You’re not slow,” you said. “Just unstable. Work on that.”

And then you walked away.

That night, he didn’t sleep.

He didn’t even lie down.

He sat by the edge of the training field after lights-out, replaying the moment over and over again.

You hadn’t smiled. You hadn’t praised him.

But you’d seen him.

You’d spoken to him like a soldier—not a liability. Not a burden. Just a soldier.

He didn’t love you. Not then.

But something had shifted.

For the first time, he didn’t feel like he was pretending.

And that feeling—so brief, so terrifyingly real—was something he wanted to feel again.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

From that moment on, he watched you more closely.

Not in the open. Not recklessly. But with intent.

You never spoke to the other recruits. You only observed. Took notes. Held meetings with Liang in private. When you left the field, you disappeared into the officer’s quarters, away from the chaos of the camp.

He started noticing everything. How you wore your gloves tighter on your right hand than your left. The way you tilted your head slightly when analyzing footwork. How you always lingered after sparring drills, even if it meant standing in the heat longer than necessary.

You weren’t cruel.

You weren’t cold.

You were focused.

And slowly, the admiration he’d felt—the kind that kept its distance—began creeping closer. More personal. More present.

He caught himself standing straighter when you passed. Training harder when you were near. Imagining the look on your face if he succeeded. If he rose above the others. If he proved himself.

He wanted to be more than a body in the lineup.

He wanted to be remembered.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

You were kind to everyone.

That was the first thing Mufan noticed—before the way you carried yourself, before the way even Captain Liang addressed you with clipped respect, before your rank or title or insignia meant anything to him. You were kind.

Not soft. Not indulgent.

But you treated people like they mattered.

And that, to someone like him, was shattering.

He’d spent his whole life being measured—by matchmakers, by aunts and elders, by women with sharp tongues and sharper eyes. He’d been told what he could never be. What he wasn’t built for. What his purpose was supposed to be, and how far he’d already fallen short of it.

But you didn’t look at him like that.

When you first spoke to him—just a few words, a passing question, a smile—he didn’t quite know what to do with it.

“Mulan, isn’t it?” “You’ve improved since the first week. That’s not easy under Captain Liang.”

Just that. Nothing extraordinary. But you’d said it with warmth. Like you meant it.

And from that moment on, Mufan began to change.

He didn’t fall in love right away. It didn’t bloom like fire or thunder. It crept.

Like water under stone, slow and silent.

At first, he simply watched. From a distance. You weren’t just a commander to him—you were a different species entirely. Calm. Clear. Purposeful. He admired that about you. Respected you. Respected the fact that your power didn’t make you cruel.

But it was your warmth that undid him.

Because you didn’t need to be kind. You outranked everyone at the outpost, including Liang. You could’ve kept your distance. You could’ve hovered in the cold, removed sphere most high-ranking women stayed in. But you didn’t.

You remembered names. You asked how people were doing. You gave out praise without condescension and criticism without malice.

He hadn’t known people like you existed.

He certainly hadn’t believed someone like you would ever speak to someone like him.

When you stopped beside him after drills one afternoon, Mufan was so stunned he almost dropped his water jug.

You gestured toward the bandage on his wrist. “Looks tight. Want me to re-wrap that for you?”

He blinked. “I… no, it’s alright. Thank you.”

“Alright,” you said, not offended. You smiled at him—gentle, unhurried—and then added, “You're learning quickly. I can tell you practice after hours.”

His heart slammed against his ribs.

“I try to keep up,” he said quietly.

“You’re doing more than keeping up.”

You didn’t say it to flatter him. That’s what made it worse. You meant it.

You saw him.

That night, he sat up in his cot long after lights-out, legs crossed, fingers absently pressing the fabric where your hand had brushed his sleeve.

He hadn’t expected kindness. He hadn’t earned it. And yet you gave it freely, as though it cost nothing.

And that… that terrified him.

Because it made him want things he had no right to want.

He trained harder after that.

Not for recognition. Not for advancement. For you.

For the impossible chance that someday, if he kept improving, kept working, kept bleeding quietly in the dirt with no complaints—someday he might be worthy of standing beside you. Not as a soldier. Not as a subordinate.

But as someone you could look at with the same smile you gave the rest of the world.

It was a stupid hope.

But it was his.

He didn’t let it show. Not even once.

If he felt jealous when you praised another recruit, he buried it.

If someone made you laugh, he turned his face so no one could see his jaw clench.

If a soldier lingered too long in your shadow or tried to impress you with loud bravado, he said nothing.

Because you had the right to choose. And he hadn’t earned anything yet.

So he waited.

And worked.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

It wasn’t hard to hide his obsession. Not when he wore it like devotion.

He became the model recruit—quiet, reliable, never drawing attention. He didn’t try to be charming. Didn’t try to impress. He simply showed up early, trained until his knuckles split, and volunteered for every thankless task no one else wanted.

He never looked at you for too long. He never sought you out.

But when you passed by and gave him a nod, or a few words of encouragement, or—on rare days—an actual smile…

He remembered every detail.

And stored it like a relic in his mind.

The others liked you, of course. That was natural. Some admired your leadership. Others tried to get close for advancement. Some were bold enough to joke with you during meal breaks or call you impressive when they thought you were out of earshot.

Mufan didn’t hate them for it.

They just didn’t understand.

To them, you were a superior officer.

To him, you were something sacred.

A living proof that kindness and power didn’t have to be enemies. That dignity could look like warmth. That maybe—maybe—someone like him, shaped by silence and shame, could become someone worthy of kindness like yours.

And so he didn’t resent the others.

But he did burn quietly with the need to become more than just one face among many.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

He didn’t know when it started. The small rituals.

Touching the corner of his tunic where you’d once brushed against him before every drill. Whispering your name, not aloud, but in thought, when the pain in his arms got too much to bear. Carving quiet patterns into the dirt beside his cot to remember the rhythm of your voice.

None of it was romantic.

Not yet.

It was faith.

The kind a starving man gave to a dream he hadn’t earned.

It took one moment—brief, almost accidental—for that hope to bloom into something dangerous.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

You came to observe sparring again. Liang had the company lined up, and Mufan found himself paired with someone stronger, faster. His blade was knocked aside. He fell. Nothing new. Nothing shameful.

But you stepped forward.

You didn’t scold the other recruit. You didn’t interfere.

You just offered him a hand.

“Up you go,” you said, smiling. “You don’t have to win every round. Just learn from it.”

He took your hand.

And for the first time, he looked directly into your eyes.

Not down. Not away.

And he felt it.

He didn’t just want to be worthy of you.

He needed to be.

That night, he couldn’t sleep.

He didn’t train. He didn’t write. He just sat in silence, clutching a strip of linen torn from the corner of the sleeve you’d touched. He didn’t know what to do with it. He didn’t want to ruin it. It was ridiculous.

But it was yours.

He buried the cloth under his pillow like a prayer.

And he told himself, again, like a vow:

Not yet.

Not until I’ve earned it.

Not until I can protect you, the way you protect others.

Not until you look at me the same way I look at you.

Only then will I show you how much you mean to me.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Snow had begun falling by the time the orders came.

Mufan stood at attention, the hem of his uniform stiff from frost, as Captain Liang paced in front of the assembled unit. Her voice was as flat and cold as the wind.

“We received word that the 8th Legion needs reinforcement at the foot of the Shan Plateau. We leave before sunrise. Eat. Pack light. March fast.”

No one cheered. No one smiled.

This wasn’t a parade.

This was war.

Beside her, you stood silent—arms folded, gaze fixed on the horizon where snow-laced peaks rose into the gray sky. You were there to supervise, not command, but you spoke briefly after the briefing.

“Every step you take from here on out matters. Not just for the Empire—for the soldier beside you. If you fight, fight for each other.”

You didn’t speak long. You didn’t need to. Your words always settled like stone in Mufan’s chest.

He bowed with the others, not daring to meet your gaze.

But in his heart, the words repeated.

I’ll make you proud. I’ll fight for you. Even if I never deserve you.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The march into the mountains lasted four days.

The terrain narrowed as they climbed, and soon the path became a knife-edge winding between cliffs and forest. The snow grew thicker. So did the silence. Only Liang’s barked commands and the crunch of boots broke the cold air.

Mufan said little. He focused on the ache in his legs, the burning in his lungs, the weight of the pack across his shoulders. The others complained. Some coughed. A few cried when they thought no one was listening.

Mufan stayed silent.

He was used to pain.

He welcomed it.

It meant he was still moving. Still earning the right to stand in your shadow.

And every time he caught the faintest glimpse of you—riding ahead of the line, cloak snapping behind you in the wind—it pushed him forward.

I will survive this. I will be better. I’ll be someone you can rely on.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

When they arrived, the entire Legion they were supposed to reinforce had already been obliterated -- broken carts littered the area, wheels splintered, bodies half-buried in snow.

Liang examined the scene with a frown.

You said nothing.

But your hands clenched at your sides.

You ordered a halt. Sent scouts forward. Had fires built and tents pitched in silence.

The recruits muttered among themselves that night.

“Is this what we’re marching into?”

“I can't believe the 8th legion’s all dead.”

“No way we’re ready for this.”

Mufan didn’t speak.

He sat by the fire, sharpening his blade with methodical care, his eyes drifting to your tent every so often.

You’d gone inside hours ago. Your silhouette moved once behind the fabric wall—then went still.

He didn’t need to see you to know how hard you were thinking. He imagined your brow furrowed, your hands folded behind your back as you stared at maps and calculated who might still be alive.

Even in silence, you were still the strongest person in the camp.

He wanted to be that for you.

Not loud. Not bold.

Just reliable.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

They were attacked the next day.

The first arrow came without a sound.

One moment, silence.

The next—

Thunk.

A cry. A body dropped ahead. Blood on the snow.

Liang shouted an order, but it was already too late. Shadows poured from the cliffs above—figures in dark armor, faces wrapped, blades flashing in the pale light. The mountain pass became a trap sprung tight around them.

"AMBUSH! SHIELDS!" Liang’s voice cracked through the air.

Chaos erupted all around them.

Arrows rained down from the ridge. Enemy soldiers charged from the high ground, their war cries echoing through the narrow stone walls. Mufan barely ducked in time to avoid a spear. The soldier beside him screamed as steel split her shoulder.

They were surrounded.

He couldn’t even see the end of the enemy formation—just a tide of bodies flooding down the slope. Dozens. Scores. Hundreds.

And they had no room to retreat.

They’re going to kill us all.

In that moment, Mufan forced himself to move. He blocked a blow from the left, parried another. All around him, Liang’s recruits were breaking formation, falling to panic.

But he didn’t panic.

Because he could still see you—on the far side of the line, sword drawn, eyes fierce. You weren’t screaming. You were issuing orders, holding the flank with impossible calm.

And that sight—

That was enough.

If you were still fighting, then he had to fight too.

He would not let you fall.

Not like this.

The snow shifted beneath his feet. Not from footsteps.

From pressure.

He looked up.

Above the enemy’s flank, a ridge loomed. Heavy snow had gathered in precarious heaps, crusted over with ice but brittle beneath. A single detonation—a blast in the right place—and the whole slope would collapse.

An avalanche.

They would all be buried.

Enemies. Maybe allies too.

But it was the only chance.

Because if he didn’t act, everyone would die anyway.

He moved.

Mufan dropped his shield and ran.

Not toward safety.

Up the slope.

He climbed past skirmishes, ducking arrows, slipping through enemy lines as if possessed. He didn’t call for help. Didn’t wait for approval. He didn’t need either.

He just needed a spark.

His flint. His firebomb. The pouch of powder he’d been saving for emergencies.

He reached the ridge, chest heaving, frost in his lashes. One strike. One throw.

He lit the bomb.

And hurled it into the hollow beneath the snow.

The mountain roared.

A cracking sound split the air—like ice snapping in the jaws of the gods. Then came the thunder—a tidal wave of white swallowing everything below.

The avalanche hit the enemy line like a hammer from heaven.

Mufan turned to run, but the snow was too fast.

It hit him like a storm, ripping the breath from his lungs.

And everything went cold.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

He awoke buried.

Snow in his mouth. His limbs frozen. Light bleeding through the cracks.

He dug.

Blind. Bloody.

Until hands grabbed him.

"Mulan!"

Your voice.

He gasped as air filled his lungs. You knelt beside him, eyes wide with fear and fury.

“You idiot—what were you thinking?”

He couldn’t speak.

But when you touched his face, trembling, he knew you understood.

Because he’d saved you.

And even if he died now, even if everything fell apart tomorrow—

You’d seen him.

Really seen him.

And for a moment, that was enough.

Mufan stared at you for a couple more seconds before eventually losing consciousness.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Mufan stared up at you for just a moment longer, your face the last thing his mind could hold onto—then his world dimmed. His body went limp in your arms, breath shallow, lips tinged blue from the cold.

You didn’t hesitate. You shouted for help, voice cracking in the cold mountain air. Soldiers rushed to you, the avalanche-stilled battlefield groaning beneath them as snow settled over blood and steel. Mufan was passed carefully into waiting arms, and under your command, a makeshift camp was quickly assembled at the mountain’s base.

The survivors of the ambush had no choice but to rest. You couldn’t move forward. Couldn’t go back. Not yet. There were too many wounded. The storm was still coming down. And Mufan—

Mufan was barely alive.

Inside one of the supply tents converted into triage, the medics worked quickly. Armor was stripped. His soaked coat removed. Blood-slicked cloth peeled from his chest. Bandages were prepared—but all motion stopped for a moment when they uncovered him.

Not a single breath was drawn.

But every person in that tent knew what they were seeing.

He was not Hua Mulan.

He was not a woman.

"He’s a man," one of the medics murmured under her breath.

You stood in the doorway. You hadn’t stepped inside yet. But the words carried, clear as a sword drawn in the dark.

Your body stiffened.

He had lied.

The quiet continued only a moment longer before necessity took hold again. The medics worked in silence. His leg was splinted. The deep gash at his side stitched. His ribs were bound tightly with strips of clean linen. They packed warmth around him, kept the fire going. But even with their efforts, his breathing was faint.

You remained outside.

Until dusk.

When the mountain began to go quiet, you finally entered.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

He awoke to shadows and firelight.

Everything ached. His skin felt fevered, the pain in his side a deep, pulsing throb. But when he shifted slightly, he heard the scrape of a stool, and then—

"Don’t move too much."

Your voice.

Soft. Controlled.

Not warm.

He blinked slowly, breath catching as he turned his head. You were sitting beside his cot, cloak draped over your shoulders, your uniform dusted with ash and snow. The look on your face was unreadable.

"I thought you might not wake up."

His lips parted. He wanted to say something clever, something to ease the tension. But his throat burned.

"You saved everyone," you said. "That avalanche... without it, we would have been wiped out."

A flicker of hope rose in his chest.

But it was short-lived.

"They discovered everything while treating you."

Silence.

He looked away.

"So. You know."

"I know you are not who you say you are, Mulan. If that's even your real name. That you lied about being a woman. That you shouldn’t have been here."

The way you said it—not with anger, not with disgust, but with weariness—it cut deeper than anything else.

"My real name is Mufan.. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to lie. Not like this."

"But you did."

"My mother. She was so sick. She was in the last war, making her unable to walk properly without a cane. I couldn’t let them take her. I thought... if I could just last long enough to take her place, to be useful, then maybe..."

"Maybe what? That no one would notice?"

"That you would notice."

Your eyes narrowed.

"What does that mean?"

"At first, I was just trying to not get discovered. To blend in with the crowd... But then, you looked at me like I mattered. You treated me like I was worth something. I kept going because I wanted to be worthy of that. Of you."

You stood, sharply.

"Don’t make this about me."

"But it was about you," he whispered. "It always was."

You ran a hand over your face, frustration thick in your sigh.

"You saved a battalion. You saved me. That’s why you’re not being executed. The generals know the truth now, but the decision has already been made."

"What decision?"

"You’re being discharged. At first light."

"Just like that."

He looked at you with a kind of stunned hollowness.

"So everything I did... doesn’t matter."

"It matters," you said quietly. "But it doesn’t erase the lie."

"And you? Do I mean nothing to you now?"

You didn’t answer.

You only turned away.

"You should rest."

You stepped toward the exit.

"I hope you recover well, Mufan."

"You’re not even going to say goodbye, are you?"

"Goodbye would make it real."

And then you left.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The next morning, a junior officer brought him a discharge scroll.

No one saluted him.

No one escorted him out.

He left limping, bundled in a borrowed cloak with rations tucked under one arm and a splintered walking stick in the other.

You never came.

You didn’t even watch him go.

But he looked back. Once. Toward the mountain. Toward the camp. Toward you.

And something inside him shifted.

You had seen him.

You had touched him.

And still, you cast him aside.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

It had been weeks since Mufan had been discharged.

Weeks since he’d left the makeshift mountain camp with a limp, a bruised heart, and the unbearable weight of your absence.

He should have returned home. He should have resumed a quiet life beside his mother and left the war behind. But Mufan could not quiet his thoughts. Not with the memory of your voice burned into him. Not when the last look you gave him was carved deeper than any blade could reach.

He drifted.

Avoiding cities, sleeping beneath trees, hunting with a stolen knife. Trying not to think about what it meant that even after everything—even after saving the battalion—he had still been dismissed.

Still sent away.

Still unwanted.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Mufan had wandered back toward the mountains without intending to. He told himself it was coincidence. But deep down, he knew the truth. His heart remained tangled in that place—in the memory of your hands cradling his face, your voice breaking as you said goodbye. He couldn't stay in the village, not when every breath he took away from you felt shallow and wrong.

He thought perhaps he could find peace there. That he might come to terms with what had happened. But what he found was something else entirely.

The battlefield was quiet under the early spring sun. Melted snow had turned the ground to mud. Scattered armor lay rusting in the thaw. Crows circled in lazy spirals above.

But something felt wrong.

He walked for an hour through the wreckage before he noticed it: a set of tracks, too recent, heading east toward the cliffs. Then another. And then a makeshift trail—footsteps, dried blood, a half-eaten rabbit carcass.

At first, he thought they were deserters. Survivors from his own battalion.

But when he followed the trail, creeping through the trees, he found them.

Enemy soldiers.

Some of them survived. But how?!

The mountain should have buried them all.

That was what the generals had claimed. That was what the Empress’s heralds had declared. That was what you had been told: the avalanche had crushed the enemy force. The war was supposed to be over, but it clearly wasn't. Not when there were still enemy soldiers around. Just a few feet away from where he was hiding, in fact.

No more than twenty, maybe fewer.

Frostbitten. Half-starved. But alive.

And plotting.

He crouched behind a crag of stone, holding his breath as he listened.

"...Strike the capital during the Empress’s festival..."

"Her security will be ceremonial. She'll be exposed."

"Kill the Empress. Sow chaos. Retreat north before they can recover."

Mufan’s heart stopped.

The war wasn’t over. It had just gone quiet.

He crept away, nearly slipping on loose shale. He didn’t sleep that night. Or the next. He ran. Cutting through old hunter trails and mountain roads until the stone gave way to farmland, then villages, then the marble walls of the capital rising in the distance.

By the time he reached the gates, his boots were falling apart and his limbs shook with exhaustion. He tried to warn a palace guard.

But no one listened.

They laughed him off. A dishonored soldier. A beggar in stolen armor. A man who should have been executed, not celebrated.

He was invisible.

Until he saw you.

in the midst of The Empress’s procession, which had begun.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The city was a sea of crimson and gold. Silk banners danced in the wind. Children laughed and tossed flower petals onto the cobbled streets. Music rang from flutes and drums as nobles rode by on decorated horses.

And there you were.

Mounted beside the Empress’s carriage, dressed in your finest armor, sword gleaming in the light. Calm. Confident. Beautiful.

You hadn’t seen him.

But he saw them.

Three men.

Too clean. Too careful. Faces too sharp. One moved through the musicians, another loitered near the archway, and the third...

Mufan’s breath caught.

The third was already climbing the palace wall.

He shoved his way through the crowd.

"Stop them!" he screamed. "They survived! They’re here!"

People shouted back in anger, thinking him a madman.

So he did the only thing he could.

He leapt onto a festival float, yanked a ceremonial spear from its mount, and hurled it across the square.

It struck the bowman on the wall. The man staggered, missed his shot—and the arrow skidded harmlessly off the Empress's armored carriage.

Panic erupted.

The other two assassins moved.

One lunged at the horses, aiming to drive the procession into chaos. The second drew a blade and rushed the Empress’s carriage.

Mufan tackled him first, driving him into the ground with a roar. The man kicked him off and slashed across Mufan’s shoulder, but Mufan didn’t stop. He grabbed the man’s wrist, twisted, and used the momentum to slam his head into the stone.

The second assassin reached the horses.

You were already moving.

You leapt from your mount, landed on the attacker with surgical precision, and cut him down.

Then you turned—

And saw him.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Your eyes locked with his, just as the square exploded into chaos.

You didn’t have time to process it.

Because Mufan was already moving again.

Blood trailing from his shoulder, vision blurred from the blow to his head, but his body still obeyed. His instincts—trained and sharpened by desperation—screamed one truth: you were in danger.

The crowd scattered. Soldiers shouted orders. But Mufan didn’t hear them. He only saw the blade aimed for your back—drawn by an enemy who had slipped in behind you during the confusion.

"Behind you!" he roared.

You spun just in time to deflect the assassin’s strike. Steel clashed. Sparks flew. You stumbled backward, but Mufan was already there, interposing himself between you and the second assailant.

The man lunged.

Mufan sidestepped, grabbed the attacker’s arm, twisted hard, and slammed his elbow into the man’s throat. The assassin collapsed.

Another figure charged from the left—a curved dagger in hand, aimed for your ribs.

Mufan lunged, intercepting the blade with his forearm. Blood sprayed. He didn’t flinch. He used the momentum to knock the attacker into the side of a marble column. Bones cracked.

More were coming.

Five, maybe six. Remnants of the enemy cell. All charging toward the Empress's carriage.

"They're trying to flank her!" you barked.

You sprinted toward the left side of the plaza. Mufan followed without hesitation.

He didn't ask if you wanted his help. He didn’t need permission.

This was his purpose.

He had bled for you.

He had survived for you.

Now he would kill for you.

The first enemy met your blade. You moved like a force of nature—elegant, relentless. Mufan stayed close, guarding your blind side. Every time you struck, he struck beside you.

One assassin tried to drive a spear into your side.

Mufan threw his weight into the man, both of them hitting the ground hard. The assassin rolled, kicked Mufan in the gut, and lunged again. Mufan caught the spear's shaft mid-thrust, twisted, and used it to drive the man’s head into the cobblestones. Once. Twice.

He didn’t stop until the body went still.

He rose, breathing hard. Sweat and blood stung his eyes.

"Two more!" you shouted.

Mufan turned just in time to block a descending sword with his own—a weapon he had taken from one of the fallen. The impact jarred his bones. He pushed back, pivoted, and slashed across the attacker’s thigh. The man screamed and fell.

The last enemy was charging you now. Fast. Reckless.

You braced—but the blow would land too soon.

Mufan hurled his sword.

It struck the attacker in the side.

Not deep enough to kill. But enough to slow him.

Enough for you to finish it.

You stepped forward and ran your blade through the man’s heart.

He collapsed at your feet.

Silence fell.

The crowd had cleared. Guards poured in, too late. The Empress was safe. The ambush was over.

You turned to Mufan.

Your eyes wide.

Breathless.

Covered in blood—his and yours.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t have to.

Because in that moment, he knew:

You saw him.

Not as a dishonored soldier.

Not as a liar or traitor.

But as the hero of the kingdom. The Empress's savior.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The court never praised men.

Not for courage. Not for loyalty. Certainly not for bloodshed. In the Empire’s long matriarchal history, no man had ever stood on the marble steps of the Grand Hall wearing armor, let alone royal regalia.

Until Mufan.

The tale of the ambush spread like wildfire. Witnesses swore he had leapt through fire. Stared down blades. That he'd shielded the Empress herself with nothing but his bare hands. That he—a dishonored conscript, a man masquerading as a soldier—had saved the Empire.

For once, no one dared to argue.

And the Empress summoned him.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The Great Hall was draped in crimson and gold. Musicians lined the periphery with silent flutes and still drums, waiting.

You stood among the royal guard, expression unreadable.

But your gaze never left him.

Mufan knelt on the stone floor, robes cleaned, wounds still raw beneath his uniform. He didn't wince.

"Mufan," the Empress said. Her voice carried the weight of centuries. "You chose exile. You endured disgrace. You returned not for honor, but to serve."

She descended the dais. Every footstep echoed like a drumbeat.

"You saved my life. And the lives of all within these walls. You defied expectation, and with that defiance, preserved a dynasty."

The ceremonial sword she carried gleamed with dawnlight.

She touched it to his shoulders.

"Rise. As Royal Protector."

Gasps filled the room. Murmurs of disbelief. A man—in this hall—knighted before them all.

Mufan stood slowly.

But his eyes searched for only one thing.

You.

And when he found your face, and you didn’t look away—when your lips parted as if to speak but faltered, caught between shock and awe—his heart sang.

Because for the first time, he was finally something he always wanted to be.

He was finally worthy of you. To stand beside you as an equal.

And more importantly, finally worthy enough to offer himself to you.

And if you accepted him—

He would never let you go.

Not for gods. Not for war. Not for the Empress herself.

Because he had bled to be seen.

And now that you saw him...

You would never unsee him again.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Whoo! That was LONG! I honestly didn't expect it to be as long as it is. Hopefully it didn't bore you!

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Tags: @kanzakls, @zorosasu

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#yandere fairytale #yandere soldier #yandere mulan #disney mulan #genderbend #disney genderbend #mulan x reader

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