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tvitr · 2 years

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Well looky here, I wrote a thing.

... Or just a scene I can see playing out lmao.

General gist: Iono pesters Grusha into appearing on Iono Zone to talk about his snowboarding accident.

Now this is something he really doesn't want to do, but she's persistent and wears him down enough that he finally agrees to do it just to get her off his back. Iono is ecstatic as Grusha almost never does interviews, especially ones related to his accident, and she hypes the ever loving Hell out of it. She promotes it in all her streams, she has a trailer for it made, she reminds everyone of the time and date, like she really hypes it up. This is a rare bare-all interview with legendary Paldean snowboarder Grusha Ibáñez and you do not want to miss it.

The day finally arrives. Iono wastes no time in introducing Grusha to her audience, that he's here to talk about his accident, and-

He cuts her off.

"Wait, which accident did you want me to talk about again?"

Iono is, understandably, a little confused. He continues, "Like, I've been snowboarding for over 20 years now, I've had more than a few accidents in that time."

She's about to tell him she wants him to talk about the accident, y'know, the big one that everyone knows happened but nobody knows the actual details of, when he takes off on some saga about how he was attempting slopestyle for the first time when he was 8 and fell off a grind rail and smashed several teeth out, followed by another one about he broke his wrist racing his sister when they were both 10 (and still won the race, he adds with a smirk). It continues like this for a while, with him just talking about random crashes he's had over the years, never once mentioning the one she and her viewers are waiting for. The most serious one he talks about (or so Iono assumes) was one time he blew his right knee out in training, and had to get surgery, which jeopardised his participation in some major tournament, forcing him to compete wearing a brace. He still came first, he adds with another proud smirk, brandishing a photograph of himself on the podium to boot.

Iono isn't paying much attention to him by this point, instead reading her chat, noting with some alarm that people are leaving, accusing her of clickbaiting her audience, that Grusha is kinda unlikeable and arrogant, or that they thought he would be more interesting than this. They came here for the heartache and tragedy, to hear about such an esteemed athlete cut down in his prime, not to hear him brag about how he won some competition on a busted knee.

She finally interrupts him in the middle of some spil about how he accidentally ran over a wild Greavard out on the slopes and broke his shoulder (the Greavard was fine, he assures her), turning off her camera abruptly and without her usual outro. Grusha is smirking once again by this point. Mission complete.

She asks him what the Hell was all that about, that he knew damn well which accident she wanted him to discuss, and that he basically clickbaited her audience and now they're mad at her. He lets her rant before simply shrugging and telling her that, if he's honest, he doesn't think his big accident is suitable for her channel. He doesn't watch her content regularly, sure, but he's seen her recent uploads, and just doesn't think his accident would look well-suited alongside yesterday's beauty-vlogger-drama mukbang with Tulip, or the day before thats summoning-a-cartoon-character-at-3am video. So, he told her about some less serious accidents he's had over the years. Not his fault her audience didn't like them.

Iono dismisses this, she's had plenty of sob stories on her channel that went down a treat, what makes his so special that it can't be discussed?

She starts listing them off, not noticing at just how much he bristles at her words. Needless to say, having one of the most viscerally unpleasant experiences of his life reduced to just a "sob story", something meant only to be displayed on magazine covers to entice readership, or in video thumbnails to entice clicks, doesn't sit well with him.

He reaches in to the envelope of photos he's brought, rummaging through and eventually pulling one out. He thrusts it in Iono's direction, stopping her monologue dead in its tracks. She doesn't like how abrupt his movement was.

"What's-"

"Just take it."

She does so, tentatively, and very reluctant to look at what she's been handed. Eventually, she glances down at it.

It takes her a moment to realise what she's looking at.

"That's me. The day after the accident."

Iono struggles to process what's in the photo, the number of wires and tubes criss-crossing his body, the oxygen mask covering most of his face, that frankly terrifying looking contraption around his head, his sunken and barely open eyes-

She realises he's talking, about how he thinks the photo might have been taken the day after the accident, but he's not entirely sure. He'd lost track of time, he says, the first few days in hospital passing in a sleepy, painkiller-induced haze. His parents had taken the photo, and though they said it was taken the day after, he suspected those first few uncertain days had been just as much a blur for them as they had been for him.

"You know, you're probably the first person outside of my family who's seen that photo."

That photo, he explains, was taken for use as a possible press photo, but was ultimately never published. According to his parents, they'd wanted to wait until he was actually somewhat conscious and able to choose what photos he wanted to disclose. And, needless to say, he'd never released it. He hadn't released any photos until weeks after the accident, when the halo and drains were removed and he'd started physio, and could actually sit up in bed somewhat. Iono vaguely remembers seeing that photo in the papers at least.

"Bet that would've been good for your stream, eh? Show that off to all your fans."

Iono flinches at his tone. He's mad at her, she can tell that. But there's something else in his voice. Something she doesn't recognise.

She finally pulls her eyes away from the photo and looks over at him, shocked by how much his posture's changed since he handed it to her. His arms are folded tightly, he's bouncing his leg rhythmically against the floor, he's looking straight ahead with a cold, hardened expression. A far cry from the smug asshole who'd been sitting there only a few minutes prior.

And then she realises what she heard in his tone.

"... I'm sorry."

He doesn't react.

"Like, really, I'm... I'm sorry, I shouldn't have made you do this."

Still nothing.

"I-I can tell that this is like, really uncomfortable for you to talk about and I know why you didn't want to do this, I shouldn't have forced you into this, I'm so... so..."

Nothing.

"Please say something."

He wants to say something. He wants to turn to her, to hold her face in his hands and force her to look in his eyes, and tell her more. Tell her that his spine never fully healed, leaving him with chronic pain he'll likely have for the rest of his life. Tell her it's a miracle none of his shattered vertebra managed to damage his spinal cord, or that none of his shattered ribs managed to pierce his heart. That it's a miracle he's still alive, let alone able to walk, that if his body hadn't been found in time, then the internal bleeding would have killed him for sure. Tell her that he wasn't the only casualty in his family that day.

How's that for a "sob story", eh?

But... he doesn't. He doesn't need to. She seems like she's learnt her lesson anyway. It'd just be cruel to rub it in.

"I should probably get going now." He stands, gathering his coat and the envelope of photos, turning to Iono to collect the last photograph.

She's crying.

#might continue this..... might not #see how it goes :^)#pokemon scarlet and violet #pokemon scarvi #gym leader grusha #gym leader iono #grusha #iono #my writing #i do kind of like. have a follow up for this lmao #like with iono realising it's probably Not Okay to clickbait people's personal tragedies like this lmao #i don't ship them but hey if you wanna interpret this as shippy then go for it #gym leaders #Pokémon

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fiendfriend · 1 year

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Thoughts on Kafka’s Metamorphosis (ballet) but if you're looking for something eloquent and well thought out, y'ain't gonna find it in here!

I finally decided to track down the royal ballet’s production of the metamorphosis after spending some time with a friend, mutually hating on that one atrocious Goodreads review of the novel itself. You know the one. Being generally ill and having had it impact my ability to work/”be productive” as well as my relationship with my family and to a certain extent my friends, I care quite a bit about the original text. I bought a copy from Border's in the 8th grade, read the majority of it sitting cross-legged on the floor of the aisle, and begged my dad to “loan me” the $12 to get it. No one really talked to me about this book and probed deeper into my investment in it until I was in a high school remedial English class. (It was jokingly called the burnout convention by students. Our teacher did not enjoy this in the slightest.) I think that was the first time I had a conversation like that with anyone beyond surface-level close reading that they teach you how to do throughout most middle to high school English classes. The kind that people get mad at on the internet. “Sometimes the curtains are just blue!” You know. I liked those activities and thought they were really fun, and wanted to learn how to do them at a more complex (?) level for all of the things I liked. Which, if I talk to you a lot, is probably pretty obvious.

Anyway. The ballet. I wasn't sure what to expect. I’d only seen still images and avoided the trailers and official clips because I wanted to be surprised, but I knew it was going to be visceral, mostly because I don't think it’s possible for the metamorphosis not to be? But I don't really know how to interact with ballet aside from just sitting back and allowing it to happen. No idea where to start with breaking down any of the resulting interpretations or feelings afterward.

The set is split equally into two rooms – Gregor’s bedroom, and the main room of the Samsa apartment. Everything is bright white and gradually becomes dirtied by a dark oil or grease that gradually gets spread around by Gregor himself while he writhes and contorts around alone in his room.

I think what most surprised me, out of everything, was the I guess obfuscation of dialogue. Dialogue isn't exactly a thing in most (all?) ballet, so as far as I know with a half-assed Google search, this is an unconventional decision. My knowledge is limited. I’ve seen The Nutcracker like once, and half of Swan Lake.

Grete, Mr. and Mrs. Samsa, the housecleaner, and the bearded men all speak at one point or another, but it’s completely unintelligible thanks to the backing score. Could be gibberish and I wouldn't know a thing! I enjoy this aspect quite a bit. Gregor Samsa is the protagonist here, and when your family is reacting to your existence with anger, disgust, and fear, I don't think the exact words matter at all. When your father is screaming and throwing apples at you, or the housecleaner is loudly and angrily shouting at you over a mess you cannot in any possible way clean yourself, the message is pretty clear. I keep thinking about it. I’ve been there, where I know for a fact somebody is angry at me in the other room, and they’re shouting or slamming things around, but I can't make out what they’re saying. It’s terrifying. It makes you feel like shit. The muffling of clear dialogue perfectly captures the fear and shame that come with anger and resentment. Grete at first continues to be warm toward Gregor, but she too comes to resent him when he becomes inconvenient. She goes from lying by his closed door and playing music to screaming at him within the span of twenty or so minutes. It’s easier for her to love him when he remains unseen in his room. Her quick turnaround seems to coincide with the three dark figures who appear in Gregor’s room at night. This is an aspect unique to the ballet. After some thought, I think these figures can be representative of the last affectionate tie Gregor had with other humans being in the process of severing. I’m taking the three dark figures to be Gregor’s “chaos”, opposite of the “order” represented by the three bearded men. They mark Gregor as being one of them with additional grease, as excreted by Gregor’s insect body. The room becomes gradually filthier as Gregor is neglected and negativity toward him builds up within the family.

Obviously, the section in which the bearded men appear is condensed quite a bit compared to the novel. The “order” of the bearded men and the main room of the Samsa apartment and the “chaos” of Gregor’s bedroom and Gregor himself meet within the span of one song, more or less, while the family dances with the bearded men. Gregor quickly escapes his room and spreads the dark oil/grease coating his body to the bright white of the kitchen, setting off the outburst from his father. In the novella, the apple becomes lodged in his back. He is still their family. There is no reason why he should not be included, save for the revulsion and resentment of others. He can’t be included, because the only way for his family to enjoy the order of the bearded men is through Gregor’s absence.

I’m not familiar with dance as an art form at all. I fully trust that these professionally trained dancers are aware of the limitations of their bodies. Still, watching Edward Watson contort and writhe is painful at times. His body becomes foreign and upsetting and alien, easily invoking the mental image of a bug stuck on its back by splaying his fingers and toes and twisting his limbs, and it’s perfect. I found myself wincing in sympathy at any particular awkward movement that I know I’d hurt myself attempting. Fittingly, while he hurts to look at, and is covered in the dark grease of his perceived lack of humanity, his eyes are always perfectly visible and perfectly human. I’m so grateful that this was filmed the way it was. I really don’t think I would have come away with the same level of… whatever I feel about it if I hadn’t been able to see his eyes.

There’s much more that’s stuck with me that I can’t exactly detangle this soon after watching, or only after watching it once. I may sit down and spend some more time with it in a little while, maybe a few days. There’s a lot I haven't touched on at all, like the score being filled with things like alarm clocks and train whistles and the way it seamlessly flows from beautiful to minimalistic to terrifying. Until I sort all that out, here are some photos of the production. First row of three by Alastair Muir, second row of three by Tristram Kenton.

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aspiringsophrosyne · 2 years

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Season 2, Episode 1: The Rise of The Chroma Conclave

Before we get started, I would be remiss not to address the passing of Lance Reddick, who provided the voice for Thordak and whose body of work included (but was far from limited to) the Wire, Lost, and Fringe. Most likely, the third season is already recorded, and if so, it will be one of his last projects.

The crew of Critical Role, us critters, and the newbies were even luckier to have him than we knew. Thank you, Lance Reddick, and rest easy.

On to the episode.

No intro again? Well let's get right to it then. Lights are going down, curtains are going up. Let's watch the show.

The Good

I mean....dragons. Dragons. There really isn't much I can say besides that. This whole episode is....dragons.

Dragons

I'd seen some fans call Brimscythe distracting; I never really thought so. But even so, the dragons here have very obviously had an overall. They look even more smoothly integrated into this world, and watching them fly over such a huge and beautiful city as Emon is a thing to behold.

Something interesting about Raishan's breath weapon: it's easier to notice when all four are in action that it contrasts starkly with the other dragons'. Umbrasyl's, Vorugal's, and Thordak's breath weapons are tremendously damaging to structures and buildings, but Raishan's is not. While the boys' breath weapons are very visually, viscerally, and dramatically deadly, Raishan's poison appears deceptively harmless until her victims start bleeding from every orifice. It marks her as much more subtle and insidious than the others, which is true to form.

Hearing lines right out of the campaign in Cree Summer's and Lance Reddick's voices; god damn. We can talk about Cree more later when she gets a more significant moment to herself, but with just what she gets here: she is terrifying. She gets Raishan's gleeful sadism and understated danger (understated compared to her peers, anyway) across perfectly.

Lance Reddick's Thordak is commanding, authoritative, and dismissively confident. He talks, and he expects the insects who hear him to do as he bids without question, and given what he can do, it isn't a surprise. There is no room for doubt or bargaining. Only the promise of certain destruction. Lance played Thordak like a firestorm that can talk; you can't reason or argue with it. You can't stop it. It just is, and it's going to wreck your shit, and only if you're lucky will you live through what it deems to visit upon your houses.

If he did record season 3 already, it's going to be very interesting to watch Thordak's further descent into madness play out. I can't wait.

That acid attack is nightmarish. It already was even back during the stream when we didn't have a visual and it was left to our imagination. Seeing it here, and how excruciatingly it kills so many people of Emon and nearly Percy....it's shiver and shudder-inducing. And it helps set up Umbrasyl for later in the season.

One thing I can't praise enough is the individual designs for the dragons. I never expected them to look that different from each other, but the design team went above and beyond for them. They all look like different species, which fits, given these are supposed to be very different kinds of dragons who are not supposed to work together. Umbrasyl's frog-like throat sack for his acid spew, Raishan's serpentine form and movements, Vorugal's bigger, stockier build with icicle rhino spikes coming out of his face and back....all of it is so, so good.

And Thordak....even from the previews, it was easy to pick out the crystal in his chest and those four curling horns that almost give a crown-like appearance. And even before we see his fire breath, the lamp posts melting in the presence of his body heat is just....it shows how hard it'll be just to get close to him and not burn; what's fighting him going to be like?

And then the actual fire breath weapon.....awe-inspiring. In the original (and we'll see how much this is touched upon going forward) Thordak being imprisoned in the Fire Plane and merging with that crystal physically changed him. It made him bigger and more dangerous than even normal red dragons, and those are pretty bad already. The vents and the horrendously devastating fire breath he unleashes to utterly destroy the palace of Emon are a fabulous way to lean into that; it establishes a distinct power gap between him and the other dragons. However hard they'll be to deal with, he'll be that much harder.

The explosion of blood when Vorugal hits people with his ice breath...that's the best kind of nasty. It's a great way to avoid any ambiguity as to his victims' fate and avoid the Harmless Freezing trope, which Trinket actually fell victim to in the stream.

And that shield over Vorugal's eye was a clever way to portray blindsight. Another lovely example of show-don't-tell.

And that, alongside Grog breaking his axe against Raishan's throat, is another confirmation for the characters and the audience that they're going to need new tricks if they want to fight these guys. Because the ones that took down the Iron Storm are not going to work.

Miscellaneous

Allura and Gilmore get to flex!! We don't have a wizard or sorcerer in the main crew this campaign, so it's nice to see these two show off a little. And Kima even gets in a hit too!

I nearly lost my shit when I realized who decided to show up early. But...if there was ever a time or place that called for the Matron's presence, it would be there and then.

It's exciting to see they're already establishing a low-key rivalry between Keyleth and Raishan. The wind attack that mitigated the latter's breath, and then the flashback to the orbs as the green dragon makes it clear she very much remembers Vox Machina were the slayers of Brimscythe and it's another thing that makes for a pretty good set up.

I appreciated that they addressed whether or not this was Vox Machina's fault and rightfully dismissed it after Percy pointed out what Brimscythe had been up to. During the stream, the characters and some of the players agonized over whether or not they triggered the attack by killing Krieg and/or re-exploring his place right before the dragons attacked. It's just good to see that addressed here.

And yes!! Vasselheim! You guys don't know how much I wanted to see that and how worried I was we might not get to. To say nothing of who and what we might see on Issylra. That was the cherry on top of a hell of a first episode back.

The Bad (or at least not so great)

Because we were going to run into Allura later, I think it would've been better to show she was casting a spell before the rocks hit where she, Kima, the council, and the sovereign's family were. Just some visual flair to show she was trying to cast, even if the audience wouldn't know if it worked in time until later.

By the same token, it could've been made clearer (without Scanlan having to spell it out to the audience) that Raishan was using magic to dispel Scanlan's Foot.

And then there's this:

Gilmore: [...]This could be the end of civilization as we know it.

Scanlan: Yeah, but, come on, civilization's overrated. I say fսck it, let's hit Marquet.

I...am sure this wasn't deliberate, but doesn't this come off as saying Marquet isn't civilization/civilized?

You know, Marquet, the continent Matt made a deliberate effort to model after countries of the middle east like Turkey and Palestine? In order to break a little from the overly anglo influence in high fantasy in general that we can see in a lot of Exandria in particular?

And Scanlan's saying this to the Marquessian man who just saved all their lives and sells them all their stuff?

Oy vey. Badly phrased if nothing else.

Scanlan is also the most immediately and vehemently against even attempting to fight the dragons, and it's not portrayed as an unreasonable point of view....but, well, we'll get into that farther down the road.

After Scanlan suggests booking it, Pike says she thought they stopped running from their problems. Which...is something I'll address next episode. For now, I'll say it caught me by surprise.

I think it could've been hammered home a little harder that what they tried with Brimscythe wasn't going to work with the Conclave. Not just to drive it home for the audience, but because part of the group doesn't know Scanlan's illusion magic wouldn't work, and another part of the group doesn't know going for the throat again won't work. Not until they talk it out together, anyway.

The characters throw around the word "Ancient" more than a little here. While stream watchers and/or d&d enjoyers in general would know that when it comes to dragons that word is a crap-your-pants-and-run trigger, it means little to the newbies. It would've been better to take a second to explain it at some point.

Nitpicks

I'm a little sad we didn't get some of the things with Gilmore that we got in the stream, but there's time to get into something like that later. So we'll see about that.

On that note....why does Gilmore have a crystal that can teleport to Vox Machina's keep? I mean...I can make a pretty good guess why, but if it's not explicitly stated it can come off as weirdly convenient.

Also, I would've loved if after Grog flicked the rock off the balcony at the end with Scanlan, we heard Vax yell as he's hit from off-screen.

That's the start of Season 2, everybody. Things are about to get really damn crazy, for better or worse.

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kellyvela · 2 years

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“Oddly enough, although I hate having COVID here, the two years of enforced isolation enabled me to get a lot more writing done, because I was doing a lot less traveling and public appearances and speeches and all of that stuff,” the 73-year-old said. “I’m making progress, but I’ve given up on any hope of predicting the end. Every time I do, I don’t make it and everybody gets mad at me, and there’s no sense. It’ll be done when it’s done. Hopefully, COVID won’t kill me, so we won’t have that issue. I do find it a little grisly, people speculating online about what’s going to happen to the rest of the books when I die. I don’t like to speculate about that. I don’t feel close to dying.”

(...)

Vanity Fair: George, how are you? Everybody’s worried about you.

George R.R. Martin: I’m “positive.” Other than being positive, I’m okay. Yeah, I have some symptoms. I have sniffling and I’m sleeping a lot, but yeah, other than that I feel no worse than I’ve felt with many colds in my life. Aside from being quarantined and going a little stir-crazy, I’m good.

Ryan, what’s the backstory on how you and George came to work together on House of the Dragon?

Ryan J. Condal: George very kindly involved me in this project nearly four years ago. It was September of 2018 when I got called up to the major leagues. After that, in the midst, we had this whole pandemic situation that seemed to make time roll back on itself. It just feels bizarre, in a way, after making this thing seemingly inside of a vacuum over in Watford, England, for so long, to suddenly have an audience full of people in a theater [watching] a finished show. There were times that it felt like it would never get finished.

What got some of the bigger reactions at the show’s premiere?

Condal: A lot of people had things to say about the birth of Baelon, Prince Baelon.

[Light spoilers ahead] This is the notorious “heir for a day,” whose stillbirth leads to the succession crisis that consumes the Targaryens.

Martin: That scene is…you don’t want to use the word “enjoyable” for a scene like that, but it’s incredibly powerful. It’s visceral and it’ll rip your heart out and throw it on the floor. It has the kind of impact that the Red Wedding had. It’s a beautifully done scene of something horrible.

The show’s primary characters are the fifth king of Westeros, Viserys I (Paddy Considine), and his daughter, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen (Milly Alcock), who would inherit the throne without question if only she were a man. Something passes between them that is stirring discussion. Can you explain?

Condal: I think the Game of Thrones nerds were very interested and intrigued and compelled by the secret that Viserys tells Rhaenyra, connecting Aegon [the first king of the family and the original Westeros conqueror] with the prophecies that we know about the Long Night and the Others [a.k.a. the White Walkers] and the Night King coming out of the North—and how maybe the Targaryen dynasty was aware of it long before we think they were.

These are prophecies that ultimately played out as the climax of the original series. This show suggests that not only are they known by the Targaryens 200 years before, but they’ve been known for about a century.

Condal: I think they were very intrigued by that. A lot of them said I committed A Song of Ice and Fire heresy, but I did tell them: “That came from George.” I reassured everybody.

What is the significance of these prophecies, George? Unless I’ve missed it, is this something you wrote in one of the books, or is that an invention of the show?

Martin: It’s mentioned here and there—in connection with Prince Rhaegar, for example [the brother of Daenerys, played on Game of Thrones by Wilf Scolding]. I mean, it’s such a sprawling thing now. In the Dunk and Egg stories [about a future king, “Egg,” a.k.a. Aegon V], there’s one of Egg’s brothers who has these prophetic dreams, which of course he can’t handle. He had become a drunkard because they freaked him out. If you go all the way back to Daenys the Dreamer, why did she leave? She saw the Doom of Valyria coming. All of this is part of it, but I’m still two books away from the ending, so I haven’t fully explained it all yet.

[Note: The Doom of Valyria was an Atlantis-like cataclysm that demolished the old world roughly a century before Aegon I, the first king of Westeros. Martin has previously noted that “the Targaryens were the only nobles with dragons who escaped the destruction of Valyria.” Having advance notice of history is one of the keys to their power.]

Is one of the implications of this series that the Targaryens might’ve been better prepared for the doomsday prophecy if not for this Dance of Dragons civil war that decimated their family and stripped them of these powerful beasts?

Martin: I don’t want to give too much away, because some of this is going to be in the later books, but this is 200 years before the events of Game of Thrones. There was no sell-by date on that prophecy. That’s the issue. The Targaryens that know about it are all thinking, Okay, this is going to happen in my lifetime, I have to be prepared! Or, It’s going to happen in my son’s lifetime. Nobody said it’s going to happen 200 years from now. If the Dance of the Dragons had not happened, what would’ve happened to the next generation? What would’ve happened in the generation after that? Yeah, there’s a lot to be unwound there.

Speaking of foreshadowing, we’ve seen the Iron Throne a lot onscreen over the years. In House of the Dragon, it has these additional elements of the jagged swords sticking up all around it. My thought when I saw it was that at some point these will be removed. But I wonder who gets impaled on that before that happens.

Condal: Well, we’ll have to wait and see.

Martin: Yes, that’s completely new. I said long ago that the Iron Throne in Game of Thrones, while it became iconic and has ruled in its own way, is nothing like the Iron Throne that’s described in my books. There have been a dozen different [depictions] of the Iron Throne that’s described in the books, the best of which is by Marc Simonetti, an artist I’ve worked with closely. He’s got a terrific picture of it. I know Ryan and his team wanted to do something close to that, but they can’t do the Simonetti throne because it’s 15 feet high, and you’d need a crane to shoot the king. Maybe you should speak to that, rather than me. They came up with this thing to make it closer to his throne, but still not all the way there.

Condal: Yeah, we went into the series knowing that this was a time of high decadence. We consider this the apex of the Targaryen empire, so we really wanted to communicate this idea of wealth and prosperity and the fact that there had been six years of peace. The Targaryens really were able to develop all the nice things that happened: peacetime, statues and art, and roads and fountains.

I think the original Game of Thrones feels…some of this is due to just, those poor guys had a fifth of the resources that we have now. But thanks to the great success that they earned along the way, we were just given it when we walked in the door. We used that to really make this seem like the previous [show] feels like an empire in decay, the great dynasty has fallen, the Targaryens are gone. They’ve been replaced by Robert Baratheon, who is not known for being a progressive leader who puts coin back into the betterment of the kingdom.

Martin: He’s great fun at a party.

Condal: [Laughs] He is great fun at a party. One of the ways that we wanted to communicate that was by addressing the Iron Throne. I think [original GoT showrunners David Benioff and D.B. Weiss] created this very iconic thing. Just the silhouette of that shape, everybody now knows what it is. It’s as iconic as a lightsaber in Star Wars. What we wanted to do is honor that, but also tell the story of a more decadent time, and also communicate that 200 years has passed. If you look very closely, you’ll see that the original throne is there. It’s just added to and augmented, which suggests that history changes things at some point in the intervening time.

Condal: Back to George’s point about the difference between book illustration art and production reality… we did want to do this really grand thing that the Simonetti painting is very famous for. The problem was, from a production perspective, if you put one actor up that high and everybody else is down below, it’s very hard to be with the king. You’ll always be shooting up his nose or over his shoulder, down at the people. You would have to shout. You wouldn’t get great interaction. We wanted to service grandness, decadence, but in a way that was production-friendly and didn’t have our [cinematographers] tearing their hair out.

In addition to being a time of decadence and relative peace, it’s also the era of dragons. In one of the opening shots, Rhaenyra is flying in on her dragon over King’s Landing and there’s a cutaway shot of people walking on the street down below. None of them even look up. Dragons are so common that no one loses a step. Why was that important to establish?

Condal: That is one of my favorite shots in the opening. I will correct you: One guy looks up.

Oh, he does?

Condal: Very subtly. It’s out at the edge of the frame, with the idea being, yes, dragons are a fact of day-to-day life, but they’re still dragons.

He must be new in town.

Condal: Exactly. Just visiting. He came across the Narrow Sea.

Martin: In King’s Landing, dragons are pretty much an everyday thing. The same would be true in Dragonstone, where a lot of dragons come and go, probably in Driftmark, less so in the surrounding lands. If we had a scene instead in Lannisport, a dragon flying over Casterly Rock, or, as will be in later seasons, dragons in the North in Winterfell, that would get a lot of reaction. They don’t normally come up there. That’s a sensation.

Condal: That’s definitely the world-building I think we need to pay attention to, because it really is specific to King’s Landing. King’s Landing is like living near a military base. If you go down by San Diego, you see all this bizarre aircraft flying overhead, and all the people that aren’t from there are like, “Oh, that’s an Osprey! That’s amazing!” Other people are just like, “Yeah, that happens every day.” I think that’s the thing we were going for.

Certainly, there is a bit of a wink-wink, nudge-nudge. Miguel Sapochnik, who directed the episode, also directed “The Bells,” which was the last time we saw a dragon flying over a King’s Landing street like that. It didn’t end very well for the poor merchants and shopkeepers that were living on that street.

I reread the relevant parts of Fire & Blood, and the death of the baby, the “heir for a day,” is much more violent in the series than it is in the book. Why was that scene important?

Condal: Really, this particular story is Viserys’s story. It’s kicked off by him believing that he’s going to have a new male son after trying for years and years, and stillbirths and miscarriages, and all the hell that [his wife Queen Aemma] has been through as a mother. Finally the answer is going to come. He’s very confident and sure of it. Just like that, mother and son die in childbirth. Suddenly, everything changes and flips the chess table.

Martin: There’s a lot of opportunity for expansion. That’s what we’ll find a lot of in the series. [What] Ryan and his team of writers have been doing great so far is to do an expansion that does not contradict the book. I mean, you can add a lot of things. You can add scenes. You can even add some characters. But you can’t do anything that affects the structure—or otherwise, three or four books later, you’re going to be in trouble.

#grrm #asoiaf #twow #targies show #prophecies #once again targies suck at interpreting prophecies and prophetic dreams

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angry-geese · 3 years

Text

Favourite Worst Nightmare

Secco x Reader and that gross green guy i guess >:(

Warnings: sfw. Mentions of violence and injury but nothing too graphic. A little suggestive towards the end. Gn!Reader

Notes: ehhh idk what this is but I feel like i should apologize for it. Reader ends up running a job for Cioccolata and Secco and survives the encounter

Part Two

There were very few things you hated more than running packages for Unita Speciale.

As a courier, you were one of the more replaceable- albeit necessary- parts of the gangs; the gears that kept the machine of Passione running. To put it lightly, this was never a life you wanted. When you came to Italy you never planned on spending the rest of your days as a half-rate mobster.

Technically, you worked independently. You didn't fall under the jurisdiction of any specific group. It was a fancy way of saying you were on your own. God help you if you accidentally pissed someone off because no one was coming to your rescue. Considering you could be targeted by warring gangs for running packages, you hoped the pay would be decent.

It wasn't.

Italy's underground wasn't how you expected it to be. It was harsh- you knew it'd be like that- but nothing like the mafia movies you watched as a kid. As cheesy as it sounds, they were still people, each with their own stories to tell. Being in your position, you listened. It was safer to play along and make friends than become the enemy of your worst nightmare. Jobs for smaller groups were typically safer but didn't pay enough to survive. Those with more reach- specifically ones closer to the boss- paid better.

From the outside, the building was unassuming. It was once an apartment complex- still is, technically- but only two people live there. Long ago it was designated as a hideout.

You've never spent much time at the place. You weren't often desperate enough to take their jobs. People talked. It's reputation was not unknown to you. You were well aware of the doctor and his... whatever the hell the other guy was. Assistant doesn't feel like the right word, and pet- however fitting- seems a bit dehumanizing. Though maybe it should. You've been warned these two were dangerous.

The sooner you get this over with the better.

You knock in the pattern Passione uses to identify other members. Two-three-two.

A set of unblinking purple eyes stares at you from the crack in the door. Part of you is glad its him who answered the door and not the other one. Your meetings with them have been few, and only in passing. These are not people you want to give the benefit of the doubt. Physically, Secco isn't very imposing. But beneath Oasis is lithe muscle that could drop you in an instant.

You pull the package from you bag, offering it to him.

"What is it?" He asks.

"A parcel." You say.

You know better than to open it, but you'd be lying if you said you weren't tempted to. It's likely money. Which you could use, though they'd notice it missing before you could even leave the city. Someone seemed to want it- evident by the man who attacked you. Clearly you won, but you didn't come out unscathed.

"Let them in." Someone says from the other room. It's faint, but clear.

The hairs on the back of your neck stand.

The room is sparsely furnished, with a single leather couch and coffee table, and blank walls. If you hadn't been told someone lived here, you would think the place was empty. It's sterile, white, and clinical in every sense of the word. At least get some decorations or something. You may be a mafioso, but you at least make your apartment look lived in. They don't seem to take interest in creature comforts the way you do.

The door seems to echo in the room as its shut. You take a few stiff steps forward, stopping just a few feet from the entrance. Its then the other man appears- covered up to his elbows in blood. He has the gall to look rather annoyed.

"You brought a gun," Cioccolata circles you, "cute."

"It's nothing personal, Signore." You say. "I need to defend myself."

"Are you not a stand user?" He asks.

"No."

It feels safer to lie. Maybe he'll go easier on you. Having gained one rather recently- and then never using it- meant you didn't have the best grasp on your abilities.

"Sit," he switches out his gloves for a new pair, "I'll stitch up that wound."

"That's not necessary."

"Consider it payment," he passes the package off to Secco.

Despite everything within you telling you to run, you sit. It's only a stab wound, though you should get it checked out. God forbid it gets infected. Someone like him doesn't do good deeds, but nothing about this strikes you as dubious. Often times people offered you smokes or drinks in return, this isn't too different.

He doesn't numb the wound before stitching it up. It hurts, but not bad enough to say something. Part of you is alright with that- he didn't drug you. That thought is comforting.

Those unblinking eyes stare up at you from your lap. Secco's hand not-so subtly reaches into your bag, pulling out a stash of chocolate you meant to save for later. The two of you lock eyes.

"That's a weird looking dog." You don't really mean to say it out loud.

He sits by your feet, gnawing on the sweets, rubbing up against your leg like a cat. As uneasy as it makes you, you fear his reaction if you ask him to stop. It wouldn't kill you to suffer through a few minutes of this. Pissing him off might.

"Secco seems to like you." Cioccolata mentions.

You're not sure how you feel about that. It doesn't seem quite so innocent.

"Those sutures can come out in a week." He says. "I'm sure you know the drill; don't get them wet, keep them clean, don't tear the wound back open."

You gather your things and leave.

Maybe that job lured you into a false sense of security.

If they wanted you dead, you would be. The reasoning seems sound enough in your head.

You'd go on to run more packages for them.

The pay was decent enough. Nobody else tried to mug you. People in general gave you a wide berth. For the most part, you were left alone. Whether they had something to do with it- or if it was just rumors- you'd never know. You didn't question it. To be the one who looked the mad doctor in the eyes and live was reason enough. Your situation was far from good, but you were a long stretch from being at rock bottom.

It became a routine for you. Your run wasn't long, and it wasn't in a shady part of town either. Get to a pickup point, deliver the package, try not to die. You got comfortable.

Secco opens the door before you can even knock. He seems to have a sixth sense for whenever you're around. He does his usual act of raiding your bag for sweets- of which you make sure to keep a small stash of. It keeps him occupied, and usually far away from you.

You sit while Cioccolata finishes up whatever he's doing in the basement. Don't question it. Those definitely weren't screams. You should know better than to go poking around where you don't belong. Despite growing used to the sterile nature of their apartment, the basement brought up a visceral fear in you.

Secco practically climbs into your lap. Despite not being too imposing physically, he's heavy. You absentmindedly scratch his head while you wait.

"Stay with us," Secco runs his icy hands up your sides, squeezing the fleshy parts of your hips. His grip is strong, and only tightens when you try to squirm away. He grows tired of you struggling, and pulls you up into his arms, heading towards the basement.

#jjba #jjba x reader #jojo part 5 #vento aureo #secco #cioccolata #secco x reader #cioccolata x reader #unita speciale #golden wind #jojo's bizarre adventure

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downwiththemutantnjnjaturtles · 4 years

Text

We Met Within This Screen [chapt. 6]

[Donnie x reader]

sfw, chapter 5 here

Come on, save it, save it, Donnie chanted to himself later that night, at home and tucked away in his room trying to figure out how to neutralize the situation. He paced along his bed back and forth, phone in hand as he wracked his brain thinking about how he'd get her to let it go. He could tell her that she was...overtired? Go the stereotypical route and say it was just her eyes playing tricks on her? Try to play it off as human teenagers messing around on the roof?

She'd gone to bed already. He hated that he couldn't pursue the subject until morning, her morning, but by then, he'd be tired. When she woke, he slept. But he needed to get it resolved as quickly as possible, so he reckoned it was time to pull an all nighter. Luckily, that wasn't anything he wasn't used to.

He figured he'd get the preliminaries out of the way so he could get right to it when she eventually texted back.

"Good morning

I know you're not awake yet but I figured I'd get an early start today.

I want to know, what exactly did you see last night?"

He shut his phone off and set it down on the bed, fingers rubbing his temples. Depending on her answer, this would either be difficult, or near impossible.

The rest of his time was spent just waiting around for her to finally wake up, dodging all his brothers and trying to occupy himself with something. He was fiddling with the radio he kept on the floor next to his bed when his phone notified him of a message. Turning the volume up, some old-school rock played softly. He didn't always keep music on when he worked, which was what he was doing felt like, but something needed to fill the silence. It also made it feel more casual to have the radio on, for both himself and for whoever might stop by his room.

"Good morning to you too

That was...sudden??"

How nice it was to read those words coming from someone who wasn't his family. Not that they said it like that often anyway, but the small gesture hit differently.

"I'm just really curious about what you said you saw."

Curious? Not quite. More like dying to know, and not because he fancied himself some cryptid hunting.

"That's fair I guess

But don't laugh, ok?"

"I'd never, [y/n]"

"Well

Okay

They were big

But no like not the overweight kinf, not even just 'tall guy' kind of big

kind*

You know?"

Yeah, I aware. I'm 6'8" and have a giant shell on my back.

"They?"

He was hoping she'd only seen one of them. Maybe it would have been easier, but, of course, that wasn't the case.

"I think there were two

Idk it just looked really weird, it was dark but the silhouette from the light made them look bulky, I don't know what it was"

Lips pursed tight, he looked up from his phone, and all of a sudden that music in the background was suffocating. He quickly reached over and shut it off. He needed to be able to divert all of his attention to one thing. Except, even though he should have been spazzing over her spotting them (even if just for a split second), a concern crept up in the back of his mind that made him scoff at himself. The need to know was too great.

His eyes fell on his scaled, three-fingered hand as he typed.

"Did it scare you?"

Perhaps it wasn't what he should have been focusing on. But he was. He knew she hadn't seen much, but what if she quipped that it was frightening, or gross, or…?

"I don't know, Bo

I guess it was kind of freaky

Uh, do you actually believe me? That I saw something?"

"'Freaky?'" he repeated to himself in a whisper, brow ridge furrowed. What was I expecting?

He had to shake himself of whatever was going on in his head at the moment, because there were more pressing matters at hand. Like what he was going to answer her question with. Theoretically, he could go two routes; one, invalidate the experience and try to walk on the line of telling her that it was not real without making her feel crazy. And then probably get mad at him. Or two, go along with it, if he didn't have the heart to do that to her. The answer was already here; he let out a deep sigh. Two, it is.

Nothing could make him want to make her feel that way, even if it meant he'd have to put in a little extra effort in fixing his mistake.

"I wouldn't doubt your judgement, [y/n]."

"Thanks

That makes me feel a lot better

You're a really good guy, Bo :)"

Freezing, he sat and stared at the screen before slowly taking the phone away from his face, lips moving, but no sound coming out. He had no idea what to say; all he could focus on was the fact that the girl he undeniably liked thought he was a good guy. And that, presumably, it meant she might have liked him as well. Big on the "might", he realized as the logical part of his mind took over once again. Regardless, he licked his lips and got to preparing a worthy response. He didn't want to come off as flustered as he felt. Donnie was aware he was not particularly suave—he took solace in the fact that she couldn't see his face or hear his voice. He contemplated on acting a bit more "cool guy" than he actually was, but wanted her to like him for him, not a facade. Which was a major contradiction to all that he had done up to that point, but the least he could do was be the person he was on the inside!

"You there?"

"Sorry, I got distracted…

You really think so?"

"That I think you're a great guy?"

"Well...yes."

"Totally. 100%"

His heart was going, he was stammering to himself, and a new feeling enveloped him. He was no stranger to the different emotions; he'd gotten familiar with many of them. Because though he didn't always show it, he had a lot of feelings. These, he felt most viscerally. But he had to get back on track. If he could push last night's incident under the rug, all would be well. More well than it already was, considering.

"Thank you, [y/n]

To be honest, I've never had a friend like you

So, do you want to talk more about what you saw? I know I'm switching tracks quickly, it's just very….interesting."

It was a jarring and awkward subject change, he knew that, but he desperately wanted to get it out of the way. The sooner, the better.

"I suppose

You seem pretty interested in it"

Maybe she wasn't hanging onto the experience like he'd thought she would. There were so many tales of people seeing inexplicable things and becoming enraptured by the experience that he guessed he should only expect the worst, but it appeared that she was not so obsessed. Crisis averted?

"Not too much, I was just wondering

We can forget about it."

"Oh, I'm not going to forget about it, Bo"

There it is, he thought, not surprised.

After thirty minutes of attempting to throw her off without coming off as suspicious himself, he had to take a breather, reorganize his mind. Only to come back and find that she had to go take care of things, and that she'd talk to him later. He'd done as much fixing as he could; at that point, it was as good as it was going to get. The thought of being looked for by his unknowing friend loomed about in the coming weeks as they did their patrols, when they would pass by her residence, and the times that he snuck off to stop by himself. Sometimes accompanied by Mikey, but he tried to keep it as solitary as possible. Soon, watching her on her balcony from that roof became part of his routine. He vaguely thought sometimes that watching her like that could be considered creepy, but that ship had already sailed.

For the third time in the last month he was there yet again, on the same roof, watching the same balcony, watching the same girl. Sometimes they texted, sometimes they didn't. The times he wasn't talking to her as he sat there were the times he daringly crossed the threshold onto the fire escape. There were only a few instances of that. But did he still feel out of his mind doing so? Yes. The window only looked into part of the living room and kitchen, but he felt scandalous to do it. Most of his time there was spent only with his shell against the wall next to the window, just out of sight. He could always hear her faint but noticeable footsteps coming and could easily vault the railing and climb up or drop down. She couldn't get past his keen hearing unless she knew to tread lightly.

Mikey was with him once again, this time out to look for scrap rather than patrol. He'd been buddied up with his younger brother more often ever since their talk that night in Donnie's room. They only stopped by because they were already out and had a viable excuse.

"Does she know about us? Like, me, Leo, Raph..." rambled Mikey, curious, as he practiced one of his new moves with his skateboard. He kicked up onto the ledge of the roof and skidded before hopping off, tucking the board under his arm. "You guys have been together like, what, two months? And she doesn't even know your name."

Fiddling with the strap reaching around his shoulder, Donnie replied matter-of-factly to hide the embarrassment that was ailing him at the thought, "Okay, for starters, we're not 'together'. And secondly, she hasn't mentioned voice chatting in a while."

"And?" He got back on his board, zooming by Donnie.

"My name? It just hasn't come up," Donnie shrugged.

"Call her, then!" Mikey smiled, still preoccupied with his board and trying out his new tricks. Donnie gave a light scoff and shook his head. His brother passed behind him where he sat leaned against the water tower.

"I don't want to just call her out of nowhere, Mikey, she might be asleep."

He also didn't want his brother there when he did.

"You gotta not be so shy!...oh, look, in the window. Right there. See? She's up," he quipped with a small smirk. The curtain was drawn, but the light had turned on at some point, and they could see her silhouette moving past. Donnie looked over his shoulder to say something but felt a hand slip into his pocket on the other side, stealing his phone right off of him. He was fast, but Mikey was faster in jumping into his board and gliding all the way to the other side of the roof with the fussy turtle hot on his trail.

"Mikey, quit it!" Donnie barked, lunging toward him for the phone.

"You'll thank me later!"

The two wrestled for the phone, Mikey holding it just out of reach as he tried to navigate the screen without dropping it.

"Come on," grunted Donnie as the tussle led them near the edge, where Mikey held it precariously over the alley below. His glasses were jostled off his face when a stray hand bumped them, causing them to fall amongst their feet. Squinting, he partially knelt down and searched for the pair while still looking at his brother and his phone, trying to stretch his arm long enough to snatch it. "Really?" he groaned, "just give me the phone!"

Donnie slung out his staff and used the other end to whack his wrist from underneath just as he pulled away from the edge, losing his grip on the phone. Mikey tried to catch it but it bounced off his hand, going right over the side of the roof and plummeting down into the alley.

Mikey froze. Donnie finally found his glasses.

Laughing nervously, Mikey turned back to him, "Whoops…"

When he didn't immediately find the phone on the ground, Donnie knew what happened. He looked over the edge, and there it was, sitting on the pavement in the alleyway. The building wasn't incredibly tall, but enough to do some major damage. He'd have to switch for one of his spares if he didn't want to deal with a busted-up screen.

"I don't need your 'help', Mikey, so leave it alone next time," Donnie said and gave him a narrow-eyed look, huffing as he leaped down to retrieve it.

Mikey may have been insistent, but he knew then it was time to stop. All he wanted to do was help. For his shy, flakey brother to come out of his shell (no pun intended). Donnie, at that time, had the biggest shot out of all of them for something unique and good. He hadn't yet worked out the logistics of how to bridge the gap between the two, but it was a calling of his to help him along.

Donnie watched for people from behind a corner before creeping out to get the phone, which was face down on the concrete. No doubt cracked to all hell if not completely shattered, though it did have a case.

But as he got closer, he heard a voice. From the phone.

He picked up the phone timidly and shot a glance up at the roof, where Mikey was peeking over the edge in apprehension. Without a word, Donnie activated the taser in his staff, pointing it at his brother and zapping it briefly. He flinched and retreated out of sight.

"Hello?"

"Hello? Bo?" she asked again, tone riddled with confusion. "What was that?"

"Uh, yes—hol—hold on, please," stammered out donnie, flying around the corner and pressing flat against the wall as a group of laughing people passed by the alley. "Just one second," he said nervously. Above him, Mikey was rapidly motioning for him to get up there, eyes wide and body trying to stay low. Baffled, Donnie gestured back at him, mouthing at him to keep his pants on for one more minute while he made his way up.

"Hey, what's going on there?" she inquired, concerned.

A street cat abruptly skittered out from between his legs from the dumpster he stood next to, and he had to stifle a startled yelp. He hopped up onto the nearest fire escape, trying to control his breathing. "Hey, hello…[y/n]," he half-chuckled, distracted by working up the building one-armed as he kept as quiet as possible.

"What was all that? And who's 'Mikey'?"

There was suddenly a shout—Mikey's shout—and his stomach did a jump. He sputtered as fast as he could, "I'm sorry [y/n] but this really isn't a good time, and I mean it really isn't," he pulled himself up onto the roof, and there was Mikey, fending off men clad in black, "so I have to go, but—"

"Don, dude! I need help over here!" cried his brother, sliding out of the way as a sword was jabbed towards him. He countered with a harsh uppercut to the man's chin, sending him stumbling backwards. The blade fell to the concrete with a clank.

"'Don'? Bo, what the hell?! Who is with you? And—"

Donnie jumped into the battle, a mix of nine or ten armed men with swords other weapons, and Mikey trying to stave them off, swinging his chucks with nothing short of reckless abandon. But he still didn't hit himself with them.

Ending the call, he secured the phone in his pocket. He wailed the guy closest to him in the side of the head with the heavy staff, then kicked him in the chest. The man fell to the blow, and Mikey ducked underneath the length of Donnie's weapon just in time as the two came together. Stray bullets flew past them, some colliding with their shells as they spun around for protection.

"How was it?!" Mikey yelled over the clamor, breathless. Donnie sidestepped from the rapid hit he sent towards the human to his left.

"What are you talking about?!" Donnie loudly questioned, flummoxed of what could have been going on in his brain during a fight. "We're kind of in the middle of something here!"

"Your phone call!"

"Yeah, the hell's the talkin' about, Don?" a gruff voice cut through the jumble.

Both of the boys whirled around to see their older brothers there, weapons drawn.

"Oh, right. As soon as I saw those bad guys coming, I let them know," said Mikey casually to Donnie, throwing his fist into the face of the man coming up behind him. "You know, standard biz."

With the rest of the team there, the fight was over twice as fast. Some groaning in pain and some unconscious bodies littering the area, along with their weapons. Leo finished the last one and sheathed his swords, eyes on their tallest brother while Raph kept watch around them. Donnie swallowed as Leo approached him.

"Don, you said you were going out for scrap metal," Leo stated.

In the background, Mikey grabbed his skateboard and was going to try to kickflip over one of the knocked out guys, but Raph yanked the board from him, growling. He checked all of the men to make sure they were down and would stay down.

"We were...just on our way back?" Donnie answered. Nearby, there was a small pile of scrap he'd collected, though definitely not enough to justify being out that long.

"So you stopped at your friend's place?" Leo deadpanned, crossing his arms. "Didn't you think that this could get her in trouble, too? Her apartment's right there, dude!"

Mikey budded in and corrected him, "Ah, we stopped by [y/n]'s. And nah! It's all good."

Donnie's face twitched. "Of course I thought about it! That's why I've only come here three times since, and only thirty minute intervals!" he bit back, throwing his hands up. The rest of his brothers all looked at him and his specificity. "I'm not naive, Leo."

The leader pushed past the both of them, signalling that it was time to leave, and they followed. Not before Donnie got what little metal he had collected and put away his staff, tucking the stuff under his arm. Raph joined alongside Donnie as they ran. "What's with all the secret' stuff, Don? First, ya hide it to begin with, then, ya make out like you were done, and now you get jumped by Foot guys by her place when you shoulda been gettin' scrap!" he said. "How were we supposed to cover for ya if you're lyin' even after we let you off?"

"Technically, I did get some!" Donnie remarked. He held up a piece of the scrap for him to see, and Raph snorted. "But..."

Well, his question would be a little harder to answer.

Next block was the nearest manhole, where each turtle swiftly jumped in, knowing by heart (and years of wandering) most of the sewers and the way back home. In some tunnels was Mikey's telltale graffiti, but it was scattered throughout the place enough to not be a giant arrow to their hideout. In the last portion of the run was the tunnel they always slid down, and once they were actually home, Donnie knew what was coming. Master Splinter was already waiting for them by the time they arrived.

"Uh-oh," Mikey said upon seeing him, sinking behind his brothers. Raph pushed him back up front.

Dropping the scrap in his arms, Donnie squeaked, "That's not good." He quietly cursed how high pitched his voice became when he was nervous.

"Yeah…" Leo cleared his throat, looking down at his hands clasped in front of him. The situation had an awkward tension for everyone in it, save for Raph, who was immune to it by then and Splinter himself. "We took care of the soldiers," he added more seriously. "Got out of there before too much attention was drawn.

"The police may be able to handle them from here, but it will not make a dent in the Shredder's forces," explained Splinter, grave as he paced along the line of brothers. "He owns the city. Until I say so, there will be no venturing to the surface. You are all lucky to be unharmed."

"That ain't it," Raph piped up. "But they'll be bringin' the big guns, next time."

"Oh, I am well aware."

"Um...of which thing?" the nervous turtle questioned, exchanging glances to Raph and then Mikey.

Splinter raised his brows knowingly, and that was all it took for Donnie. The floodgates of his signature anxious chatter opened. He grabbed the edge of Mikey's shell and pulled him over into the spotlight with him, "I met someone over an online game and we started texting after a few weeks, and—and Leo found out and I said I would stop, but we never told you," he gestured toward their brother in blue, who refused to make eye contact, "so I told her that it was through and then Mikey somehow convinced me to go back on it," he sucked in a breath, and Mikey grinned uncomfortably, "and then we started talking again and I don't know why, but I went back there to her apartment building and it was just…stupid."

There was a cumbrous pause. Donnie was stiff as a board, Mikey couldn't look at any one thing too long, Leo stood in his polite but awkward stance, and Raph started to whistle.

As poised as ever, Splinter spoke. "I know."

All four pairs of eyes shot to their father.

"What?"

"Uh..."

"Huh?"

"Wait."

They expressed their collective confusion at the same time, and Splinter chuckled. Donnie wanted nothing more than to be able to retreat into his shell, but that was physically impossible. "Nothing gets past me, especially not you and your nervous habits, Donatello. You are scratching that spot on your neck again, son."

Flinching, Donnie pulled his hand away. He'd be damned; Splinter was right.

But unbeknownst to them, there had been spectator of their fight on the roof that night.

————————————————————————————————

shh do not think too deeply about this my children

a/n: haha plot device go brrrr

i need to finish this cursed fanfiction

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ultrahpfan5blog · 3 years

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Retrospective Review: Casino Royale (2006)

So after thinking about it, I figured that with No Time to Die coming out soon, the Craig Bond era Bond movies deserve a post per film. Casino Royale is the film that got me into Bond. I had seen some of the Brosnan films by then, but they didn't really stick to me much. Perhaps also because I was reasonably young when the Brosnan films came out. But Casino Royale came out during my teen years, where I was starting to get into more dark and gritty movies. To me, this movie and Batman Begins, are cut from the same cloth. Both rebooting characters that had gotten too campy in previous iterations, both brilliant origin stories, and both grounded in reality and gritty. Its no wonder that both version of these characters ended up being my favorite versions. Casino Royale is still easily my favorite Bond film to date.

Truthfully, to me this film is near perfection as an action-thriller. For classic Bond fans who have grown up with the franchise and want specific things like Moneypenny and Q and various gadgets, this film may not be as endearing because it very specifically goes away from being gadget heavy and doesn't give Bond a support staff other than Mathis. I think the most high tech thing in the movie was a portable defibrillator. But this film had me from the very beginning in the black and white sequence and how it showed Bond's two kills to become 007 and how it reimagined the classic opening shot of Bond shooting and the blood red soaking over the screen. I just new we were in for something special from the very beginning. What's amazing is the pacing of this film. This was the longest Bond film since OHMSS at the time. I have watched all prior Bond films and I have felt restless at times while watching them, but not when watching Casino Royale. There is constantly something happening and it keeps you engaged. Not once was I bored in the movie.

The action in the film is absolutely high class. I think its the best Bond action that I have seen. The most classic scene of course is the incredible Parkour chase. Its incredibly exhilarating and major kudos to the guy who did the stunts for the bomb maker. You also get a real understanding of what a brute force this Bond is. While the Bomb maker chooses to jump through the window, Bond will burst through the wall. The Bomb maker will climb construction rods, Bond will just drive a bulldozer and destroy the construction and climb up. When the bomb maker throws the gun at him, Bond just catches it and throws it right back. Little things like that give Bond a personality that is different. But this is only the first great action sequence. There is the Miami airport truck sequence that is also brilliant. You have to love the smug smile on Bond's face when the bomber accidentally blows himself up. There is the staircase fight which is brutal and visceral. Then there is final fight scene in Venice which is emotional and tragic and is the true making of Bond. In between it all, there is the Poker game which is surprisingly entertaining given it takes up quite a chunk of time. There are also some incredibly tense sequences which are laced with humor, like the Bond poisoning scene where Bond almost gets killed and then returns with a classic one liner to leave Le Chiffre dumbfounded. There is the torture scene which is hilarious because of how Bond reacts to the torture and eggs him on in a way. The film never lets up in the action and the thrills.

An enormous part of the success of the film is the casting of Mads Mikkelson as Le Chiffre. I had not known Mads from anywhere before this, but he is immediately compelling and enigmatic. More importantly, rather than just being an all powerful villain to foil, he feels like a human. The tearing blood is a great, sinister gimmick, but you feel like he is on the edge when he loses money in the stock market due to Bond. You feel his desperation in some of the Poker scenes, as well as when the african fighters find him at the hotel, and then when he is torturing Bond to find the location of the money. I am not sure whether I like him more than Bardem's Silva or not, but its telling that the best Bond movies of Craig's era have the best villains. This film put him on the map for me and I loved him as Hannibal, saw him Dr. Strange, and I want see how he does as Grindelwald in the next Fantastic Beasts movie.

However, what elevates this film beyond any prior Bond movie is the casting of Eva Green as Vesper Lynd. She is the best Bond girl ever put to film and the romance between her and Bond is one of the most heartfelt and tragic romances that I have seen. The chemistry between the two actors/characters is electric from their very first scene in the train. The film gives them everything. There are deeply intimate scenes between the two which are not remotely sexual such as the tender shower scene where Bond comforts Vesper after the stairwell fight, many instances of witty repartee, scenes of romance, and then the bitter tragedy of her betrayal and her death. Even her death scene is picturized in a way where you really feel the connection as you can tell that Vesper can't bear to live with what she's done. The film doesn't flinch when showing her drown so it engulfs the audience in the same horror and sadness that Bond is feeling. In general, you experience the same emotions as Bond does as you can't help but fall in love with Vesper and just at the point of happily ever after, it all turns to ash. Its a phenomenal character arc and it also does a great job of establishing how Bond became so cold. Its a fantastic performance from Eva Green, and yet another instance of an actor who put herself on the map in my eyes.

And then there is the man himself. Yet another actor who I knew very little about. At that point everyone thought Craig wasn't good looking enough, not tall enough, not charismatic enough etc... to play Bond. But boy did he just blow expectations away. He is my Bond for sure because his performance is just exceptional in every way. He is built like a tank and is a force of nature, but Craig brings a tender vulnerability, perfectly suited for a young Bond. He looks dapper, is charismatic, is great in the fight scenes, and you genuinely feel he could beat the crap out of people. As I have already mentioned, there are so many touches to his performance that is unique to him. The brutality he brings in the fight scenes, the smirk at the end of the Miami scene, the heartfelt tenderness in the shower scene, the twinkly eyes humor, the rage when he is betrayed, the devastation at Vesper's death, and then the coldness that comes after that. He gets to show a full range, and he delivers every aspect with perfection.

One of the major carryovers from Brosnan era, was Jud Dench as M. And she gets a lot more to do during the Craig era. She is phenomenal as she always is. The dynamic between her and Bond is slightly more stern maternal in the Craig era compared to Brosnan and their interactions are great. Jeffrey Wright brings Felix Leiter back into the fold for the first time since License to Kill and he's a welcome presence as always. Giancarlo Giannini is also pretty great as Mathis and I'm glad he came back in QoS. Jesper Christensen has a quiet presence as Mr. White, who makes recurring appearances in the future.

I feel not enough people give Martin Cambell credit for what he has done. Twice he has launched Bonds successfully. GoldenEye was really good and Casino Royale is just outstanding. I have never paid much attention to the Bond song but the song for Casino Royale is pretty great. Again its telling that the two songs that I remember from Bond movies are from Casino Royale and Skyfall. Anyways, Casino Royale is a near perfect movie, especially for someone who is new to Bond. It really launched Bond into the modern world and got him away from the cold war era type plots. If I had to quibble about something, I would say some of the scenes in the Bahamas are a little slower and maybe 5-10 minutes can be edited down but even those scenes are great character scenes and we get a new origin of the DB5. A 9.5/10 for me.

#casino royale #martin campbell #daniel craig #eva green #mads mikkelsen #jeffrey wright #judi dench #giancarlo giannini #007 #james bond #le chiffre #vesper lynd #felix leiter #mr white #jesper christensen

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rotworld · 3 years

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The Truth in Masquerade

usurpers part 7. previous | next

derek gives in. izsák reaps the rewards.

->derek/oc. explicit; contains d/s dynamics, degradation, biting/blood drinking, descriptions of violence and torture, and the usual derek things.

It takes less than a week for curiosity to eat through Derek’s resolve completely. Izsák speeds things along by bringing up weird shit every chance he gets and then waiting, perfectly poised, for a shift in Derek’s expression. It’s always some off-handed mention when it’s just the two of them. Izsák will help him prepare for another guest appearance at another dreadful party, presenting him with a fresh towel after a shower, tying his tie, and then he’ll sigh in a wistful way and say, “You never have liked these little soirees. It was much easier when Ferenc was here, wasn’t it? He bore the burden of public scrutiny with such ease.”

And what the fuck is Derek supposed to do? Not ask questions? Not think about why Izsák will stare, studying his face expectantly, and then suddenly laugh and mutter, “Pay me no mind, sir.” He tells himself it’s just Izsák being his usual freaky self, but has he always been so strangely in tune with Derek? Did he always stand so close and act so concerned over every little thing? Fussing over him when he bangs his knee on a table, or after a particularly public breakup? It’s fucking weird. Derek tells him it’s weird, and Izsák just smiles peaceably and goes about his business.

Three days after the museum, Izsák is drinking tea at the kitchen table while Derek eats lunch. His father is out with Clarice and the house is blissfully quiet. Derek is texting Emilia, who is hysterical and wants to break up with him again over some new bullshit that Derek can’t remember and doesn’t care to figure out from the vague hints she’s dropping. He’s sure he can talk her into a night out and a quick fuck with the right combination of sweet talking and apology gifts. He wouldn’t bother, but his father chewed him out about how it looks when he brings a new girl to every social function. People notice, his father claimed, and people talk. Derek rolls his eyes just thinking about it. His father keeps a girlfriend for a few months and now he thinks he’s some kind of fucking expert on monogamy.

And then, out of nowhere, Izsák breaks him out of his thoughts. “Are you feeling restless, sir? I had something in mind, if you are interested.”

“Unless it’s something to get Emilia to calm the fuck down, I’m not interested,” Derek says. He only looks up from his phone when he hears the scrape of Izsák’s chair across the table and sees him coming closer. He stands behind Derek, rests a hand on his shoulder, and leans in to peer at the phone screen. His touch, light, weightless, totally innocent, makes Derek burn with desire.

“I see. She’s upset that you have taken other partners.”

Derek rolls his eyes. Of course it’s that. Nobody can keep a goddamn secret anymore. He wonders which one of them couldn’t keep their mouths shut. Regina? Francine? Couldn’t have been Laney, because Laney...

Derek swallows hard at the thought, the memory. Standing here in the kitchen when Emilia called him sobbing, saying her two-faced bitch of a friend was comatose in the hospital. Car accident. She never woke up. Izsák had looked up from organizing his father’s day and watched as Derek took in the news. There was something knowing in his eyes, and Derek remembered suddenly how Izsák had uncorked a vial of chicken blood and flicked it after Laney.

There’s no way. Derek repeated that in his head like a mantra whenever he caught himself starting to believe it. The blood of a black-feathered hen. No fucking way. He looks over his shoulder at Izsák, at the eyes gazing back at him and awaiting—something.

“You got a spell for this?” Derek says. He’s perturbed when Izsák smiles, like he’s delighted to be asked.

“Of course, sir,” he says. He retrieves his tea and strides quickly to the kitchen sink, dumping the rest of it down the drain. Derek watches him pluck the damp bag of herbs out of the cup, shaking the rest of the water out, and setting it on a plate. “You may watch if you’d like,” Izsák says.

“I don’t care,” Derek says. And he shouldn’t. But his gaze is drawn back when he sees Izsák pull a lighter from his pocket and flick it until a little wavering flame appears. It looks like he’s trying to light the tea bag on fire, but it’s too damp to catch. Some foul-smelling smoke sizzles to the ceiling. Izsák whispers something, not in English, and Derek just stares.

That’s when Emilia messages him back after a solid ten minutes of the silent treatment. She says she can’t stay mad at him and asks to meet up later that night. Derek stares at the text in disbelief, then looks up and finds Izsák standing there, watching him. Smiling.

“You may ask me questions, if you have any,” Izsák says. “I wonder if you remember this one.”

“Where exactly am I supposed to remember it from? I’ve never seen that shit before.”

Izsák answers automatically, like he’s been waiting for this. “Csejte, 1578. I performed this spell for you for the first time.”

Derek doesn’t know how to react, so he doesn’t. “You did not.”

“I did,” Izsák insists.

“You fucking didn’t. That doesn’t make sense.” Izsák frowns, opening his mouth to disagree, but Derek gets up, leaves the table, and goes out to the pool to soak his feet and avoid whatever it is that’s happening. Izsák knows better than to pursue him and gives him space, but it’s too late. Derek is thinking about chicken blood. He’s thinking about headless girls encased in ice. Which is weird because he’s never seen that before, but something about the statue at the museum, about the things Izsák said, put a distinct image in his head. He’s hungry. He wants to taste somebody’s blood. He feels himself salivating when he remembers biting Izsák’s neck and he wants to feel skin give beneath his teeth.

“What the fuck,” he mutters to nobody. He kicks at the water until dusk, until his erection is gone and his father comes home with Clarice and Izsák is busy with other things so Derek can avoid his eyes and that look that knows too much.

Four days after the art museum, Derek wakes up and his dick is so hard it hurts. The dream snaps out of place and tries slipping away before he can remember it, but he holds tight to everything that’s left;

A castle. Stained glass windows. Stone archways. The snow-covered courtyard with its frozen women like grotesque, grasping trees. Long corridors and echoing screams. He stood eclipsed by flickering candlelight and writhing shadow, walking barefoot through puddles of blood. There were bodies dangling from the dungeon ceiling, hung from meathooks and impaled in iron cages. Slit throats. Dangling entrails. They wept and moaned above him, and their blood rained on his skin. These were his kills. He hunted them himself, hung them like trophies. He reveled in their pain. Silhouettes played across the walls, human and beastly shapes that grew and warped and twined together in obscene dance. Derek felt these shades watching, but he didn’t fear their gazes. There was no need to perform for them.

And Izsák was there, smiling gently. He wore nothing. He was deathly pale, unmarked as though the blood couldn’t touch him. Derek was possessed by the need to dirty him. He reached desperately, his grasp leaving bruises, dragging Izsák through red rain and filth. He was tainted slowly, a splatter across his shoulder, a rivulet dripping down from his scalp. It fell in heavy clots in his lashes. Derek pressed him against the cold stone wall, his wandering hands smearing abstract shapes over Izsák’s skin, and then he licked it off of him with long, slow drags of his tongue.

It was so fucking stupid. He’d never do that in real life. But just thinking about it gets him even harder. Derek palms himself through silk pajama pants, shivering, leaning back against the headboard. He’d never be so tender and gentle. But in the dream, Izsák looked at him with this passion, this reverence, like Derek was God and that castle dungeon was their private, depraved heaven. It was so vivid. The musk of all that flesh and blood was heady and visceral. He slips his hand beneath the waistband of his clothes. It’s pathetic. Jacking off has never been so disappointing. He can see it when he closes his eyes, dreamlike and hazy; bodies and darkness. Izsák beneath him, his hands framing Derek’s face, his eyes glazed with wanting. He twists his palm around the head of his cock and imagines it’s Izsák doing it, Izsák between his legs and covered in blood.

It’s not the first time he’s fantasized about Izsák, but it was always different before. More impersonal. Izsák’s mouth around his cock. Izsák’s hips moving against his. The way Izsák’s back arches and his muscles all go taut while Derek fucks him raw over his father’s desk. But this is so much more heated and detailed. It’s not just the sensation or the view, it’s how Izsák looks at him, how he talks to him. It’s how he knows Derek in intimate and frightening ways, and doesn’t expect anything more of him.

In the dream, Izsák worshiped him. He got to his knees and the sight of Derek’s body, his apparent desire, the hard cock swollen against his abdomen, seemed to mesmerize him. He looked up at Derek as he pressed a kiss to the head of his cock, drool and precum on his lips. His tongue caressed Derek’s length from base to tip and his hands smoothed along his thighs. He moaned shamelessly, the sound vibrating against Derek’s flesh as he suckled on the sensitive underside. He mumbled something, unwilling to pull away and cease pleasuring Derek for even a moment, but Derek understood somehow. He knew what he was trying to say; I’m yours.

Derek bites his lip so hard it bleeds, desperately fucking his fist. It’s too hot. He has to throw off the sheets and pull his pants down around his thighs but he’s still sweating, his head pounding. He still feels the stagnant dungeon air, the blood drying to his skin. He remembers the way Izsák bobbed his head, the hot slide of his lips and his tongue at the base of Derek’s cock when he started to deepthroat him. Izsák gagged and squirmed but he didn’t pull off, didn’t even try. Derek wasn’t holding him still because he didn’t have to. They didn’t speak to each other, but he understood in that moment the depths of Izsák’s devotion to him. He knew Izsák would do anything for him. Would kill for him. Would give his own blood, his own body, if it would satisfy Derek.

“I’m gonna cum,” he says, panting. Izsák is too hot and wet and perfect around his cock. He thrusts deep, feels his balls slap Izsák’s chin and he grinds against the back of his throat, and Izsák chokes on a moan. His worship becomes even more fervent. His hands grip the back of Derek’s thighs, squeezing his ass, spurring him into more violent movements and keeping them locked together. He wants everything Derek has to give him. He accepts it all, the hunger and brutality, his every whim and desire. When Derek cums down his throat, Izsák gags on it, his hands tightening on Derek’s legs, but he stays. He looks up at Derek through hazy eyes and swallows obediently. He lets Derek soften in his throat, sucking gently as though to milk him of the last of his climax.

Derek lays there, dazed and confused, realizing he’s alone and his sheets are soiled. It takes time to catch his breath. He lies in his own mess, eyes closed. He’s still there, in the castle dungeon. The dreamfog begins to clear. He isn’t standing anymore. He’s reclining, encased in liquid warmth. When he moves his hands, red swirls around them. He licks it off his fingers. It’s hot, metallic, and sickly sweet. It’s so clear, so detailed and real, that Derek is startled to open his eyes to the dark ceiling of his own room again.

Just a dream, he tells himself. His heart is still racing.

Five days after the art museum, Derek’s determination to ignore all the strangeness is shot. Pretending that everything is fine and he isn’t turning into a fucking vampire goes from a chore to a battle of epic proportions against his own body. He’s hungry all the time, his libido is out of control, and he has to bite the inside of his mouth to keep himself from sinking his teeth into anyone else. He takes Emilia out to see a movie and he can’t focus on anything but her neck. The way the light plays across it, the moving shadows, the outline of her muscles every time she swallows or laughs. He imagines himself biting her, his jaw clamping down on her throat like a wild animal. He tells her he has to use the bathroom halfway through and jacks off in a stall fantasizing about tasting her carotid artery.

Asking Izsák is out of the question. His pride won’t allow it. Izsák is already smug as fuck about all of this, sneaking up on Derek constantly and asking very pointed questions about how he’s feeling or whether he’s had enough to drink, all with that fucking smile on his face. He retreats to his room in his father’s house, blessed with a rare moment of privacy, and gets online. The tentative approach doesn’t get him far; a quick online diagnosis gives him two types of cancer. In desperation, he starts trying the things he’s heard Izsák casually mention, names he can’t remember right and places he can’t spell.

Inevitably, he finds her. Frozen in time, she gazes back at him from her lofty position atop a webpage detailing her atrocities. One hand rests daintily upon a faded red tablecloth, the other holding an embroidered handkerchief. She isn’t smiling and there’s a weariness to her regality, a thinly veiled disdain in her eyes. Derek feels that he knows her, that he recognizes that quiet sneer. He’s seen it in the mirror before. A strange, twisting feeling knots up his stomach, and he doesn’t fully understand it, doesn’t know what all of this means, but he knows something has happened to him. Some change has taken root.

He skims the page absently, the words washing over him both exhilarating and deeply familiar. Torture. Mutilation. Bloodbaths. The stories are fantastical, too incredible to be true, and yet there is no shortage of them. Derek searches further, needing to find her, needing to know exactly who she was. Elizabeth, Erzsébet, the Bloody Countess—no matter what she’s called, Derek finds kinship in the morbid details. Born into wealth and excess, thrust into the noble’s spotlight, and utterly disinterested in it all. She was on a quest for timelessness, to escape the mundane world. She performed as Derek does, marrying, attending to her courtly duties, wearing the mask of contented civility, but she also indulged and hunted, relishing in the viciousness of it all. Derek looks at her portrait with newfound emotion, something heavy yet freeing.

He almost isn’t surprised when Izsák speaks as though suddenly materialized behind his chair, “Your father sent me, sir. I am to prepare you for this evening.” Derek turns and examines Izsák, searching for things he hasn’t noticed before, or things he didn’t want to notice. His easy, eager submission. His smile. His eyes that know Derek, know what he wants, what he needs before Derek himself is even aware. Eyes that have seen centuries.

“Which one?” Derek asks.

Izsák tilts his head, silently seeking clarification. He’s smiling very slightly. Did the Blood Countess see this same smile? Did it greet her before grand balls, assuring her of the safety of her secrets? Did it welcome her to the dungeon, her private sanctuary?

“She had accomplices,” Derek says. “Servants who helped her keep things quiet. Some of them were questioned at the trial.” He doesn’t clarify; doesn’t have to. Izsák listens patiently, his smile widening as though this is precisely what he’s been waiting for. How long has he waited? Derek wonders. How much longer was he willing to wait? “There was one man who helped her torture her victims, but the rest were women. One was her old wetnurse, and one was one of her personal servants. The other two were witches or something. Right?” Dorottya and Darvulia. He didn’t bother to learn the rest of the names, but he memorized those. One of them was important. One of them mattered more than all the rest.

Izsák hums thoughtfully. “That is what many people say, yes.”

Derek stands up and hits him. It’s sudden, impulsive, happening so quickly that he doesn’t realize he’s done it until his hand starts to sting. Izsák touches his reddened cheek with soft, uncertain strokes, as though he’s just as surprised. The way he looks at Derek is wrong. Not disdain. Not disappointment. Elation. The joy of a long-awaited reunion.

“Which one are you?” Derek asks.

Just like in the dream, Izsák sinks to his knees before Derek. The movement is slow and graceful, as though he’s done it a thousand times before. He takes one of Derek’s hands in his and holds it as though it’s something precious. “I am the one who did not betray you,” he says, pressing his lips to the back of Derek’s hand. The gesture is gentle and intimate, stirring something violent within him. He wants to hurt Izsák. He wants to dirty him. He wants to thank him for coming back after all this time, saving him from suffocating in his own constant performance, but he only knows how to lie about gratitude, not show it for real.

The one who didn’t betray him. Derek turns the words over in his mind to admire like precious stones. He remembers—did he read it somewhere, or does the knowledge come from somewhere else?—that the countess’ servants were called to stand trial. Each one confessed to the atrocities, the beatings, the bloodletting. The man. The wetnurse. The servant. Even Dorottya broke her vow of silence and servitude to testify against her mistress. They all betrayed her.

All but loyal Darvulia, her devotion unending. She wasn’t there that day. Already dead, some stories say. It doesn’t matter. Derek knows what became of her now. He threads his fingers through Izsák’s hair.

“I don’t get it,” he admits. “I don’t get how it works. But I believe you. I see pictures of her, and I know we’re the same.”

Izsák nuzzles against Derek’s palm like an animal, a pet seeking affection. It’s intoxicating, the power he holds, the total submission Izsák gives him, unchanged by the centuries. It feels right. It makes sense the way a dream does in the midst of it. “I couldn’t save you,” Izsák murmurs. “I was not strong enough then. This time will be different.”

Derek is too caught up in the thick need in Izsák’s voice, the curve of his spine as he leans into Derek’s touch, to understand the words right away. “Save me from what?” he asks, but Izsák is already standing, stepping away from him. Derek isn’t done with him. He yanks him back by the forearm and bites him without warning, leaving the shape of his teeth in his earlobe. “Save. Me. From. What,” Derek growls, each word punctuated with a nip to Izsák’s delicate skin. He bruises so easily.

“From your family,” Izsák gasps. He holds onto Derek, moves against him shamelessly. Derek feels how hard Izsák is and smirks against the fluttering flesh of his throat. He slides his thigh between Izsák’s legs, giving him the privilege of rutting against it. Izsák is so needy, so desperate to serve and explain as he chases his own pleasure, his words coming in breathless pants and whines. “Just as it was before, your own blood plots against you. Your father, he—oh, sir, please!”

Derek can’t pay attention to whatever Izsák is trying to tell him. It doesn’t matter. Nothing is more important right now than getting inside of Izsák and tasting him. “On the bed,” he demands, and Izsák obeys without question. They’re all over each other. Derek savors the roaming worship of Izsák’s hands down his biceps and across his chest. It feels good. It feels right. He can’t get undressed fast enough, still shedding clothes as he nips and licks at Izsák’s tempting neck, and Izsák is so good and obedient, turning his head to give Derek better access. “You really are mine,” Derek says.

“All yours, sir,” Izsák says. Derek has barely touched him and he looks blissed out already, eyes glazed, a delirious smile on his face as though just being in Derek’s presence is the greatest of pleasures. He unbuttons his shirt further, exposing a tantalizing flash of his collarbones and old, faded marks Derek left days ago. “Take me. Drink from me. Do with me whatever pleases you.” Izsák’s nails sink into his shoulders as he pulls himself up enough to whisper against Derek’s ear, “Please, master. I’ve waited for you.”

The final, worn string of Derek’s self-control snaps. He bites into Izsák like he’s meat. He hears skin and tissue give beneath his teeth, splitting, squelching open, tastes the tangy burst of Izsák’s lifeblood on his tongue. He ruts against Izsák’s hard, twitching cock, trapped between their bodies, and Izsák’s head falls back in ecstasy. Derek sucks at the wound and tastes Izsák’s tenderness, the sharp sweetness of him. It’s so good, so right and familiar. Izsák was born for this, born for him. He would never belong to anyone the way he belonged to Derek, would never know anyone as deeply, would never want anyone as wholly. Somehow, arched and gasping, Izsák moves himself, grinds slowly against Derek’s achingly hard cock. He reaches between them and guides Derek to his twitching, anticipating hole. Derek slams inside of his welcoming, tight heat and his eyes roll back in his head. Nothing has ever felt so good.

“You’re mine. My loyal little toy. My cockslut,” Derek hisses, unclamping his jaws from Izsák’s neck just to find a new, fresh spot to taste. Izsák shudders around him, beneath him. His legs open wider. Derek hooks Izsák’s ankles over his shoulders and bends him in half. It’s new, doing it like this. He’s fucked Izsák while looking at him a couple times but never staring like this, never pressed chest to chest and sharing breath. Izsák’s lips are right there and he moves without thinking, swooping in, crushing their mouths together. So soft and tender. His teeth crunch through Izsák’s lower lip and blood gushes into his mouth, heady and intoxicating. “Can’t get enough of you,” he moans into Izsák’s mouth.

Izsák’s nails rake down his back hard enough to draw blood. Derek lets him. It’s better that way, more raw, more wonderful. He pulls back to admire the blood and saliva smeared across Izsák’s lips, dripping down his chin. It feels like the desert in his room, the heat, the intensity, a soft body surrendering beneath him. He slams his cock into Izsák’s helpless body over and over again, relishing the sensations, the sounds, the desperate raggedness of Izsák’s breathing. He crushes Izsák against the bed and this time he kisses him. He should’ve done it earlier. Izsák’s mouth is so hot, so soft and slutty and wanting him. He sucks on Izsák’s tongue as he fucks him into the mattress, hips pistoning, cock drilling into his pliant, shaking body.

Izsák has been wanton and shameless before, but this is more than that. This is devotion, Derek thinks. This is what he’s always deserved. Izsák’s thighs quiver as Derek pounds into him, so hard and fast his own legs are straining but he can’t bring himself to stop. The pleasure is blinding, a liquid heat in the pit of his stomach. He’s kissing Izsák in filthy, hungry ways that he’s never done with any of his girlfriends, licking into him, tangling their tongues together, sucking on the bite he left for every bead of blood that bubbles to the surface. He’s going to cum. He’s going to claim Izsák so thoroughly, so completely, that he’ll never be satisfied by anyone else ever again. He’ll worship Derek’s cock just like this with his whole body. He’ll beg for it. He’ll beg for a chance to suck his dick under the table at dinner parties. He’ll thank Derek when he cums down his throat and swallow every drop.

Izsák is his. He might be Derek’s father’s assistant on paper, he might spread his legs for him sometimes, but he’s Derek’s. He’s been Derek’s across centuries, across continents. He’s come all this way just to get on his knees before Derek, where he belongs. Derek squeezes Izsák’s ass, digs his nails in. This is mine, he thinks. This body, this mind, this entire being. He stops kissing Izsák to nose against the other side of his neck, licking and teasing the unbroken skin.

Derek smirks against Izsák’s hammering pulse. He’s close. He’s going to cum. He fucks Izsák deep, grinds against him, feels his balls roll over Izsák’s smooth skin. “Beg me to bite you,” he purrs.

Izsák clings even more tightly, begs even more sweetly. “Please, give me your bite,” Izsák cries for him. “I need it. I was born to receive it. Please use me, make me yours. I should always belong to you, master.”

Derek cums hard, buried deep inside of Izsák. Everything whites out, sight and sound and understanding consumed by orgasm. There’s a sharp stinging sensation somewhere on his body, a pain that crests with the pleasure, intermingled too tightly to process on its own. Izsák writhes and whimpers through his own orgasm, his own cum splattering across his chest and Derek fills him. It feels like the aftershocks last forever, heat rushing through him, waves and pulses.

Derek is trembling when he pulls out of Izsák, watching Izsák’s hole clench obscenely around emptiness as cum leaks out of him. Neither of them speaks for some time, basking in the completion of it all. Derek feels the world swaying as though he’s riding a metronome, the call of sleep smothering and irresistible. He can’t believe how hard he came. There’s still blood on his mouth and he licks his lips, humming at the taste. He feels someone touch him; Izsák, gentle and reverent. Tracing his muscles. Caressing his chest. He doesn’t cuddle, but when he’s this tired, teetering on the edge of oblivion, he can’t complain.

He wonders if they did this before. If Countess Bathory laid with sweet, loyal Darvulia, cuddled like lovers. Just this once, he thinks, he’ll let Izsák get away with it. For old times’ sake.

—murmurs. Someone calling him. Calling his name. Softly and distantly, then loud. Close. Not Izsák. Not respectful enough.

“Derek. Get up.”

A rustling sound, the scrape of curtains rising. Blinding, burning light assaults Derek’s eyes and he groans, rolling over. God, what time is it? Sleep clings stubbornly to his mind, clouding his thoughts. He’s sore, mostly in his legs and back. Right, it’s coming back to him. He and Izsák fucked last night. Izsák, Darvulia, hundred year old Hungarian witch, whatever. It was some of the best sex of his life. But usually, it’d be Izsák who comes and gets him in the morning, so why is his father here, looming over Derek’s bed and refusing to leave?

“What?” he says, groggy. His father is frowning in that tense, disappointed way that turns Derek’s stomach. He sees it directed at other people mostly, former business partners, overambitious rivals, people who really, really fuck up. Derek’s mouth goes dry. “What?” he says again, struggling to sit up straight. What happened? What did he do? He can’t be mad about Izsák, right, it’s not like they were being subtle. Did he forget something?

Derek looks at the window and fuck, it’s late,he must’ve slept through an event he was supposed to go to or some shit. He rubs his eyes, pushing himself to remember. He thinks, maybe, there was some kind of afternoon social he was supposed to make an appearance at, but the details are foggy. Why is his head pounding like that? It’s like having a hangover. He feels like he slept for decades.

His father paces halfway across the room. Derek follows the movement with his eyes and spots something at the foot of the bed. Is that blood? Dirt? Some kind of ugly stain on the sheets. They really got carried away last night, he thinks, but then he sees an arm.

Just an arm.

Not Izsák’s. He’s not sure why his mind goes there immediately, but it’s not, he knows it isn’t. Izsák doesn’t wear flaking pink nail enamel with glitter. He just knows there’s a severed human arm on his bed and a bunch of stains around it. Definitely dried blood, but there’s dirt, too, like someone dug up a grave, and.

That’s cum. That’s definitely a cum stain. Derek’s eyes slowly trail up to meet his father’s. His father looks down at him and doesn’t say a word. Derek swallows hard and tries to think of something, anything, that he can say. Nothing comes to mind.

“I’ve had concerns,” his father says. Derek can barely hold his gaze. That judgment, that cold scrutiny—he works tirelessly to escape it, to put on the most convincing performance he can. “You don’t know the first thing about discretion. That’s one thing. It’s another that you think I’ll clean up all of your messes for you.”

Derek glances at the arm, sprawled grotesquely over his sheets. “I don’t know what that is,” he says hoarsely. Obviously he knows what it is, but he doesn’t know how it got there.

“I’ve been lenient,” his father goes on, as if Derek never spoke. “Too lenient. I’ve turned a blind eye to most of your deviancy. But this? This crosses the line. I should have listened to Izsák sooner.”

Derek’s blood goes cold in his veins. “What does that mean?” he demands. His father turns his back on him. Derek throws himself out of bed, rushing after him. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means you’re cut off,” his father says. He doesn’t even look at him when he speaks. “I want your things out of here by tonight, but don’t go too far. The police want to speak with you. Something about graverobbing and desecration of a corpse.”

Derek stands there numbly, watching his father walk out and the door slam shut behind him. No. He didn’t do it. He didn’t do any of this. He looks back at the arm hatefully. What the fuck is it doing there, ruining his life? Heat rises to his face, shame, humiliation. Maybe he was getting a little arrogant, brazenly packing his bags for his desert outings, leaving things lying around in plain sight, but it was always so easy to explain away. He’s good at his performance. No one suspected anything. If he’s going to get caught, it’s not going to be for some bullshit he didn’t even do. He wipes angry, helpless tears out of his eyes and storms downstairs. Izsák. He needs to find Izsák.

He runs into other housekeepers who pale and dart out of his way. Derek ignores them. He doesn’t care about any of them, his gaze lingering only if they’re the right height, wearing the right uniform. No sign of Izsák in any of the usual places. No one in the kitchen. Not a soul out by the pool. He scares a gardener when he comes storming through but finds nobody else. His father has retreated elsewhere in the house and Derek finds his office abandoned, paperwork strewn across his desk. Derek sees several financial forms and summaries, land deeds, company assets, stocks and bonds. A copy of his father’s will sits in the corner and Derek’s heart stops.

Under the section for inheritors, his name isn’t listed. Neither are any of his siblings or cousins. Not even Clarice shows up anywhere. But one name does appear, getting absolutely everything his father could possibly leave behind.

Izsák Varga.

There is one moment of silence. A lack of comprehension. Derek reads the name several times before it makes sense. Then comes the storm building, the fire and venom churning inside of him, a tight, clenching pain in his chest. Disbelief. Bitter humor. A hatred so powerful it makes him lightheaded and hot in the face. He goes through the stages of grief in the span of a millisecond, mourning something he didn’t realize he even wanted, and a crazed smile stretches across his face.

Calmly and quietly, he goes upstairs and begins going through his things. He shoves his dresser out of the way and pushes aside a false wall panel concealing a large, musty-smelling duffel bag. He unzips it, checks the contents. Grains of sand trickle from an open compartment. Good. Everything he needs. He’s angry. He can’t remember the last time he was this angry, his hands shaking, his whole body seeming to vibrate with the need to stab and strangle. But there’s an excited edge to it, the sort of anticipation that comes with his vacations.

I’m going to fucking kill him, he thinks. I’m going to make him beg for death.

He’s smiling too big, too honestly. He feels giddy and he can’t hide it. A woman dusting in the hall gives him a wide berth when he passes, plastering herself against the wall. He’s a predator passing, a wolf with better things to do and bigger prey in mind. He licks his lips. His mask fails him. He doesn’t even try to pretend anymore.

#rotpeach writes #usurpers #tpof #derek #izsak #i feel like i should apologize in advance lol brace yourself for this one #i'll do my best not to make you guys wait another year for the followup lmfao

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mugasofer · 3 years

Text

It seems like many, perhaps most, people historically believed in some immanent apocalypse.

Many philosophies claim that the world is passing into a degenerate age of chaos (Ages of Man, Kali Yuga, life-cycle of civilisation), or divine conflict will shortly spill over & destroy the Earth (Ragnorok, Revelations, Zoroastrian Frashokereti), or that the natural forces sustaining us must be transient.

Yet few panic or do anything. What anyone does "do about it" is often symbolic & self-admittedly unlikely to do much.

Maybe humans evolved not to care, to avoid being manipulated?

Many cults make similar claims, and do uproot their lives around them. Even very rarely committing mass suicide or terror attacks etc on occasion. But cults exist that don't make such claims, so it may not be the mechanism they use to control, or at most a minor one. "This is about the fate of the whole world, nothing can be more important than that, so shut up" may work as as a thought terminating cliche, but it doesn't seem to work that strongly, and there are many at least equally effective ones.

Some large scale orgs do exist that seem to take their eschatology "seriously". The Aztecs committed atrocities trying to hold off apocalypse, ISIS trying to cause it. Arguably some Communist or even fascist groups count, depending on your definition of apocalypse.

But even then, one can argue their actions are not radically different from non-apocalypse-motivated ones - e.g. the Aztecs mass-executed less per capita than the UK did at times & some historians view them as more about displaying authority.

I'm thinking about this because of two secular eschatologies - climate apocalypse and the Singularity.

My view on climate change, which as far as I can tell is the scientific consensus, is that it is real and bad but by no means apocalyptic. We're talking incremental increases in storms, droughts, floods etc, all of which are terrible, but none of which remotely threaten human civilisation. E.g. according to the first Google result, the sea is set to rise by 1 decimeter by 2100 in a "high emissions scenario", not to rise by tens or hundreds of meters and consume all coastal nations as I was taught as a child. Some more drastic projections suggest that the sea might rise by as much as two or three meters in the worst case scenario.

It really creeps me out when I hear people who confess to believe that human civilisation, the human species, or even all life on Earth is most likely going to be destroyed soon by climate change. The most recent example, which prompted this post, was the Call of Cthulhu podcast I was listening to casually suggesting that it might be a good idea to summon an Elder God of ice and snow to combat climate change as the "lesser existential risk", perhaps by sacrificing "climate skeptics" to it. It's incredibly jarring for me to realise that the guys I've been listening to casually chatting about RPGs think they live in a world that will shortly be ended by the greed of it's rulers. But this idea is everywhere. Discussions of existential risks from e.g. pandemics inevitably attract people arguing that the real existential risk is climate change. A major anti-global-warming protest movement, Extinction Rebellion, is literally named after the idea that they're fighting against their own extinction. Viral Tumblr posts talk about how the fear of knowing that the world is probably going to be destroyed soon by climate change and fascism is crippling their mental health, and they have no idea how to deal with it because it's all so real.

But it's not. It's not real.

Well, I can't claim that political science is accurate enough for me to definitively say that fascism isn't going to take over, but I can say that climate science is fairly accurate and it predicts that the world is definitely not about to end in fire or in flood.

(There are valid arguments that climate change or other environmental issues might precipitate wars, which could turn apocalyptic due to nuclear weapons; or that we might potentially encounter a black swan event due to our poor understanding of the ecosystem and climate-feedback systems. But these are very different, as they're self-admittedly "just" small risks to the world.)

And I get the impression that a lot of people with more realistic views about climate change deliberately pander to this, deliberately encouraging people to believe that they're going to die because it puts them on the "right side of the issue". The MCU's Loki, for instance, recently casually brought up a "climate apocalypse" in 2050, which many viewers took as meaning the world ending. Technically, the show uses a broad definition of "apocalypse" - Pompeii is given as another example - and it kind of seems like maybe all they meant was natural disasters encouraged by climate change, totally defensible. But I still felt kinda mad about it, that they're deliberately pandering to an idea which they hopefully know is false and which is causing incredible anxiety in people. I remember when Greta Thurnberg was a big deal, I read through her speeches to Extinction Rebellion, and if you parsed them closely it seemed like she actually did have a somewhat realistic understanding of what climate change is. But she would never come out and say it, it was all vague implications of doom, which she was happily giving to a rally called "Extinction Rebellion" filled with speakers who were explicitly stating, not just coyly implying, that this was a fight for humanity's survival against all the great powers of the world.

But maybe there's nothing wrong with that. I despise lying, but as I've been rambling about, this is a very common lie that most people somehow seem unaffected by. Maybe the viral tumblr posts are wrong about the source of their anxiety; maybe it's internal/neurochemical and they world just have picked some other topic to project their anxieties on if this particular apocalypse wasn't available. Maybe this isn't a particularly harmful lie, and it's hypocritical of me to be shocked by those who believe it.

Incidentally, I believe the world is probably going to end within the next fifty years.

Intellectually, I find the arguments that superhuman AI will destroy the world pretty undeniable. Sure, forecasting the path of future technology is inherently unreliable. But the existence of human brains, some of which are quite smart, proves pretty conclusively it's possible to get lumps of matter to think - and human brains are designed to run on the tiny amounts of energy they can get by scavenging plants and the occasional scraps of meat in the wilderness as fuel, with chemical signals that propagate at around the speed of sound (much slower than electronic ones), with only the data they can get from input devices they carry around with them, and which break down irrevocably after a few decades. And while we cannot necessarily extrapolate from the history of progress in both computer hardware and AI, that progress is incredibly impressive, and there's no particular reason to believe it will fortuitously stop right before we manufacture enough rope to hang ourselves.

Right now, at time of writing, we have neural nets that can write basic code, appear to scale linearly in effectiveness with the available hardware with no signs that we're reaching their limit, and have not yet been applied at the current limits of available hardware let alone what will be available in a few years. They absorb information like a sponge at a vastly superhuman speed and scale, allowing them to be trained in days or hours rather than the years or decades humans require. They are already human-level or massively superhuman at many tasks, and are capable of many things I would have confidently told you a few years ago were probably impossible without human-level intelligence, like the crazy shit AI dungeon is capable of. People are actively working on scaling them up so that they can work on and improve the sort of code they are made from. And we have no ability to tell what they're thinking or control them without a ton of trial and error.

If you follow this blog, you're probably familiar with all the above arguments for why we're probably very close to getting clobbered by superhuman AI, and many more, as well as all the standard counter-arguments and the counter-arguments to those counter arguments.

(Note: I do take some comfort in God, but even if my faith were so rock solid that I would cheerfully bet the world on it - which it's not - there's no real reason why our purpose in God's plan couldn't be to destroy ourselves or be destroyed as an object lesson to some other, more important civilization. There's ample precedent.)

Here's the thing: I'm not doing anything about it, unless you count occasionally, casually talking about it with people online. I'm not even donating to help any of the terrifyingly-few people who are trying to do something about it. Part of why I'm not contributing is, frankly, I don't have a clue what to do, nor do I have much confidence in any of the stuff people are currently doing (although I bloody well hope some of it works.)

And yet I don't actually feel that scared.

I feel more of a visceral chill reading about the nuclear close calls that almost destroyed the world in the recent past than thinking about the stuff that has a serious chance of doing so in a few decades. I'm a neurotic mess, and yet what is objectively the most terrifying thing on my radar does not actually seem to contribute to my neurosis.

#x risk cw #futurism #we live in the future #long #rambly late night posting #history #religion

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cdelphiki · 4 years

Text

Bruce was a mere half mile from the warehouse when it exploded.

A half mile.

At ninety miles per hour, he was less than a minute from the warehouse.

A minute.

Never in his life had Bruce felt that panicked.

The warehouse itself was entirely inconsequential. Bruce didn’t care what happened to it. The fewer abandoned warehouses in the world, the better, probably.

His problem was Jason.

He didn’t see Jason.

Anywhere.

He’d told the boy. He’d specifically told him “Stay.”

Stay with Sheila outside and don’t go after Joker.

And Jason said he’d listen.

He’d promised.

So where the fuck was he??

Dread coiled deep in Bruce’s stomach as he stopped in front of the warehouse.

Jason had saved himself from situations like this dozens of times. Bruce, logically, knew that he shouldn’t be panicking like he was, because Jason was Jason. He was competent.

Strong. Resilient. Brilliant. Talented. Incredible.

So many words that boiled down to Bruce shouldn’t be worried.

But something felt off.

There was a voice in his ear. A little niggle.

And it sounded like laughing.

That’s how Bruce found himself digging through the rubble frantically, screaming Jason’s name.

Not even Robin.

But Jason.

At that moment, Bruce didn’t care about anything but finding his son.

He’d give anything to go back twenty minutes and argue with Jason longer. If it meant sparing himself this panic.

This horrible, visceral feeling that he was too late.

That his son was dead.

How could anyone survive that explosion?

“He saved me,” he heard a woman say, from about fifteen feet to his left. Her raspy voice only adding to the dread he felt. “He’s a hero... he...”

“Where is he,” Bruce shouted. He didn’t care if Jason saved the entire world. He just wanted to see him. To know he was okay.

Shelia pointed toward what was once the corner of the warehouse, where a significant amount of rubble had landed.

And the panic only intensified.

Looking back, Bruce couldn’t remember what happened between. One second he was pulling rubble off as fast as he could, the next he was kneeling next to his boy, tears streaming down his face.

Somehow, Clark had gotten there.

Well, obviously he’d flown there, but Bruce couldn’t for the life of him remember if he’d called for Clark or if he’d showed on his own.

It was very possible he’d started shouting his name upon realizing how bad off Jason was.

But now that Jason was uncovered, Bruce knew they were too late.

If it weren’t for the Robin uniform, Bruce wouldn’t have even recognized his son.

“He doesn’t have a pulse,” Bruce mumbled, ripping his glove off in hopes that he just couldn’t feel it, “There’s no- he doesn’t-“

CPR. He had to do CPR.

Less than a minute.

He’d been less than a minute away.

Why couldn’t he have been faster.

But these injuries...

Bruce placed his hands on Jason’s chest, ready to start compressions, when his hand hit something jagged. Something jagged and wet. He pulled back, like it had stung him.

Because, in a way, it had.

“His ribs,” Bruce choked out, trying his best to keep his vision clear and his emotions stable. Even though his best wasn’t good enough, “Clark his ribs.”

There wasn’t a single one intact. Every one was broken. Several in a couple places. Bruce couldn’t do CPR. He’d only be further damaging the heart. The ribs. If Jason weren’t already- if he weren’t-

He had been less than a minute away.

But even if he’d been a minute faster. Even if he’d been five minutes faster. With these injuries…

Jason wouldn’t have survived them anyway.

“Bruce,” Clark said, tugging at his arm, trying to get him to stand and move, “we have to get him to watchtower.”

Watchtower?

Why would they do that? It was too late.

They were too late.

Jason was still warm. Like he were just sleeping, but Bruce knew.

He knew.

Jason was never going to wake up.

They were too late.

It wasn’t until Clark said, “no we aren’t,” did Bruce realize he’d been mumbling, “but we will be if we don’t go now.”

“He’s gone,” Bruce whispered, pulling Jason closer. Clinging to the boy in a way Jason would have never allowed.

“I’m too big for this,” Jason would have mumbled, “stop it old man I’m not a baby.”

Why couldn’t he whine about it? Whine and moan and push Bruce away. Be angry and mad all he wanted. Bruce would give anything to listen to Jason yell at him again.

“Raven is going to meet us there,” Clark said, forcing Bruce to his feet.

Curse him and his super strength.

Bruce blinked, as Clark’s words caught up with him.

“Raven?” he asked, trying to make sense of it.

Why would Clark call Raven about this?

Had the girl even known Jason? There were probably half a dozen people who needed to be told, first.

Bruce didn’t want to do that. He just wanted to sit there and hold his child. And maybe just die with him.

Why had he left Jason alone at all?

“He’s not gone yet,” Clark said, as he pulled Bruce out of the still smoldering pile of rubble, “but we only have a couple more minutes.”

- - -

Bruce was losing it.

The next thing he was aware of was Clark prying Jason out of his arms.

One moment he was on the ground, clutching his dead child. The next he was standing in the watchtower, watching as Clark laid Jason down.

Jason.

Lying on a table in medbay, while Raven started running her hands over Jason’s many injuries.

That was not something Bruce had ever wanted to see.

Neither of his boys belonged in medbay. Neither of them deserved to be hurt.

What could Raven even do? She didn’t have the power to bring people back from the dead, last Bruce checked.

Parents weren’t supposed to outlive their children.

God. He’d only had a few years with Jason.

And his boy, his tiny little boy was lying on the table, unconscious.

No.

Worse than unconscious. He hadn’t had a heartbeat since Bruce found him.

Hadn’t been breathing.

He was too small. Had Jason always been that tiny?

Bruce should have never left him alone. He was too small. Too young. What had he been thinking?

“Let her work,” Clark was saying, from where he’d apparently grabbed onto Bruce, pinning his arms to his side and dragging him away from Jason again, “Bruce you have to let her work.”

“Clark,” he said, a horrible choked off sound. Why was Clark doing this? Why wouldn’t he just let him hold Jason? He just wanted to hold his boy.

Hold his boy and die.

His entire life he thought losing his parents was the worst thing he’d ever go through, but no.

He was wrong.

He was overwhelmingly, completely, and utterly wrong.

Jason was never going to grow up. Bruce would never see-

A blinding light appeared right at Raven’s hand, where she had it hovered directly over Jason’s heart. Raven’s face pinched as she clenched her jaw. After a moment, a low moan turned into a whine, then to a scream.

And Bruce couldn’t breathe.

How could Raven do that if Jason were…

He shook Clark off of him and stumbled forward, barely restraining himself from running his hand through Jason’s hair as he watched. Prayed. Hoped.

And then, once Raven’s pained shouts reached their peak, Jason took a long, sharp, ragged inhale.

Bruce burst like a balloon.

If he hadn’t been crying before, he was now. He couldn’t even find enough of himself to care. After ripping off his cowl, he moved to stand at Jason’s head and knelt over, touching his forehead and gently as he could to Jason’s, his hands on either side of Jason’s face.

His horribly swollen face.

God. Was his skull fractured, too? His nose and cheek clearly were.

Jason started crying, then. Still unconscious. Still completely out of it. But now there enough to cry.

Bruce never in his life thought he’d celebrate hearing his child cry.

“Jason,” he blubbered, running his thumbs in circles at Jason’s temples, hoping that at some level, Jason could feel it. Could hear him, and would know he was there. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

He was saying it more for himself than anything.

“Bruce,” J’onn said, and when had J’onn gotten there? When Bruce looked up, he saw Zatanna, too. Her and Raven both working diligently on Jason’s chest. J’onn looked like he was straining himself, too, with one hand on Jason.

Blocking his pain, probably.

“Come on,” Clark said, motioning for Bruce to step away from Jason, “Walk with me.”

Like hell-

“Bruce, they need access to his head,” Clark explained, tugging at his sleeve, “Once they have his chest cavity fixed, his head is their next priority.”

And that— that—

Bruce was going to be sick. Yep. He was almost completely certain.

Those were words he never wanted to hear.

“Come on,” Clark said, tugging on his arm again, this time succeeding in getting him to take a couple steps toward the door, “You need some air. And maybe some coffee.”

“I can’t leave-“ Bruce tried, but couldn’t get the sentence out. Because looking at Jason, all he could see was the broken. The horribly, terribly disfigured.

Jason… Jason might never recover from this. Even if Raven did get him breathing again. There again. He’d suffered so much damage.

They had to fix his head.

“You are distracting them, Bruce,” Clark said, pulling him toward the door again, “I need you to be Batman for a few minutes. Jason needs you to be Batman right now.”

That was what got him.

So Bruce squared his shoulders and took a breath. He had to get himself together. What the hell was wrong with him, letting it go like that? He had a level head. That was one of his strengths. Why had he lost that?

Bruce nodded once and stepped out of the room, only sparing one final look back at Jason before he let Clark lead him away from the medbay.

He needed to be Batman right now. Bruce could worry about his kid later.

At least, that’s what he wanted his head to do.

Push everything down and be strong.

But…

It was difficult. When his boy had been dead.

Bruce had held-

With a deep breath, Bruce shook his head again and tried to dislodge the thoughts. What was wrong with him. He’d never lost it like that.

He needed to stop thinking.

Stop thinking and get back in control.

The Watchtower was basically one large circle, spinning up in space. Every hall lead to every other hall, and it was possible to keep moving forward and eventually end back up where you started.

That’s what he and Clark did, for the first fifteen minutes they stayed out of Jason’s room. They took a lap around the entire Watchtower.

Neither of them spoke, that entire time, either. They didn’t have to. Bruce knew Clark was the talking type, when things got rough. When he had a bad day. When he needed support.

But Bruce wasn’t like that, and Clark knew that.

It was enough for him, just to have his best friend standing next to him. Knowing he wasn’t alone. And knowing that, since Clark hadn’t rushed them back to Jason’s room, that everything was progressing smoothly back in medbay.

That was probably the only reason Bruce could stand to leave his room.

By the end of their loop, Bruce was feeling much more grounded. His heart rate had finally lowered, and he felt like he could think again.

Jason was going to be okay. He was certain of it.

With Raven and Zatanna there, both doing everything they could in terms of healing, Bruce was confident.

Never in his life did he think he’d be grateful to Clark Kent in the way he was.

“I don’t know what came over me,” Bruce started, stopping before one of the outer windows, just before they reached the entrance for the medbay. He needed to thank Clark. Make sure he knew how grateful Bruce was that he’d kept his head on straight. That’ he’d been thinking clearly enough to know to get Jason up here. To get Raven and Zatanna and Martian Manhunter there.

That he’d even showed up in that God forsaken warehouse in Ethiopia in the first place.

“You don’t have to apologize for that,” Clark said, joining Bruce next to the window to look out onto the Earth with him, “It was a natural reaction.”

“I shouldn’t have let my emotions cloud my judgement,” he said, matter of factly. It was true, after all. He shouldn’t have.

But he did.

If it weren’t for Superman, it would have cost Jason his life.

There was no way Bruce could ever forgive himself of that.

“Bruce,” Clark sighed, “There’s nothing wrong with how you reacted. You love that kid.”

He did, didn’t he? Of course he did. He loved Jason so much it hurt. There was no way he could possibly live his life without that kid.

Not now.

Not after he’d spent the past three years with him. Watching him grow and learn and excel in everything he tried. His smiles and grins and the curls on his head. The way he chewed on his thumbnail while reading.

All his little outbursts, too. His teenage rebellion and attitude. The sass he gave Bruce, sometimes. Even their arguments.

He loved Jason in his entirety.

Without him there, he would have missed everything about him.

Had he ever told Jason that?

“Thanks,” Bruce rasped, then paused to clear his throat before attempting to finish the thought, “For…”

Why were words so fucking hard? Jason would love to hear him say that word. He knew.

“Of course, Bruce,” Clark said anyway, despite Bruce’s inability to finish the thought. Clark wrapped an arm around Bruce’s shoulders, and Bruce was going to allow it… Only because he owed Clark his life. More than his life. Jason was worth so much more than everything Bruce had.

“It’s what friends are for. You would have done the same for me, if it were my boy.”

Yes. He would.

- - -

When Bruce re-entered the medbay, he found Raven working on Jason’s head.

His face looked remarkably better. Without all the swelling, that was. He looked like Jason again. He was recognizable.

Bruce could feel the hand around his heart relax, just a little more.

Zatanna was attempting to remove Jason’s mask, but winced and stopped when Jason whimpered.

The way Bruce’s chest clenched at that.

Perhaps that was why he, without hesitation, fished out the glue relaxer from his belt and handed it to Zatanna.

Ordinarily, he would have been raising hell about anyone daring to take Robin’s mask off him. Without asking, at least. But whatever they needed. Whatever Zatanna or Raven or… or J’onn— what was J’onn doing?— whatever they needed, Bruce would do.

If it was for Jason, he’d do anything.

And actually, he would have removed Jason’s mask himself, but his hands were shaking too badly. And he couldn’t quite trust himself, yet. Not to start crying again. Not to collapse down. Not to freeze up and just stare at his child.

His child. Who was still covered in dirt and blood. Bruises and torn fabric.

Just the sight of that made Bruce want to be sick.

And every time he blinked, he saw Jason’s swollen face. His still, too small, broken body. Feel him. In his arms. Warm, but not breathing. Light, but still limp.

How could this have happened?

J’onn moved to Jason’s head as soon as Raven stepped back. It was a little disconcerting, the way they moved, as if in sync. Raven shifted down to Jason’s arms, and started working on his left wrist, which was hopelessly mangled.

Bruce didn’t want to think about it.

What had even happened to Jason? What had Joker done?

J’onn placed his hands on either side of Jason’s head, then closed his eyes. After a second, his eyes started glowing, and Bruce gawked.

He’d seen Martian Manhunter do that. Many times.

Always while in deep concentration. And always while waging psychic warfare.

While out on missions.

“What is J’onn doing?” he asked, not really sure who he was asking. Not J’onn, obviously. Or Raven, probably. She was no longer reacting to the pain Bruce knew she had to be taking away from Jason, but she was just as lost to them as J’onn was.

Zatanna grimaced as she continued to gently work the mask off Jason’s face. Her stricken look only lasted a second, however, before she put on the a face of indifference Bruce was much more used to. Professional detachment.

If Bruce hadn’t already felt like throwing up, he would have started then, for sure.

“Raven fixed the physical injuries,” she explained, still gently pulling at the last edge of Jason’s mask. She was being overly gentle. Neither of his boys had ever taken a mask off that slowly. But he supposed causing Jason even an ounce more of pain was not something any of them wanted to do.

“But he suffered a great deal of brain damage,” she continued, after a breath, “J’onn is attempting to correct the mental damage.”

Bruce heard was she said.

Obviously.

But after the words “brain damage,” his own head stopped working.

He felt himself losing it again.

Brain damage.

Of course Bruce should have been expecting it.

He’d clearly been hit in the head with something hard.

Several times.

What the fuck had Joker done to him?

Of course that would cause damage.

Not the mention the fact he’d been without oxygen for who knew how long. He’d have to review the cowl footage to figure that out.

He’d have to review the cowl footage anyway… to make up for the gaps in his own memory. To figure out how the hell Clark had gotten there, and how long, exactly, it took to find Jason.

A strong hand caught him as he stumbled backward. The grip on his upper arm the only thing keeping him on his feet.

“Take a breath,” Clark said, once Bruce had regained his feet, “They’re doing everything they can.”

“Yeah,” he exhaled, running a hand over his face. His… uncowled face. How long had that been off?

He needed to keep it together. Jason was alive. There was… was no sense in worrying about… about brain damage.

They were doing everything they could.

What if it wasn’t enough?

Jason whimpered again, making Bruce inhale sharply. He sounded so scared.

Had he been scared? The entire beating?

The whole time Bruce had abandoned him to this entire ordeal?

Bruce… Bruce was never going to forgive himself for this.

And he was never going to let Jason out of his sight again.

Whimpering quickly shifted to outright crying, and Bruce hadn’t been aware it was possible for his heart to break further.

“Shh,” he whispered, only then noticing he’d made his way across the room, and was now standing at Jason’s side, one hand on Jason’s chest. Raven hadn’t fixed his hands yet. He knew touching the hopelessly mangled hands of his son would just hurt him further.

Never in his life had he wanted to hold his child’s hand more than in that moment.

And with J’onn still working on his head, he couldn’t even run his fingers through Jason’s dirty hair. All he could do was pat his chest, so that’s what he did, as he continued to shush him.

“B-br-br-“ Jason mumbled, interspersed between breathless sobs, “bru- b-”

“I’m right here,” he said, tears building in his eyes again as he rubbed circles over Jason’s heart. Right where the bones had been so broken, he couldn’t-

“Dad,” Jason begged, like he wasn’t even aware Bruce was there. He was right there.

“I’m here, Jay. I’m right here. It’s okay, you’re okay.”

“He’s starting to squirm,” Zatanna murmured, and Bruce nodded.

Fidgeting would do nothing but cause Jason more pain. Healing him would be much easier if he was still, too, Bruce was sure.

“Jason, buddy,” he said, pulling one of his gloves off so he could brush his knuckles against Jason’s cheek, “Sweetheart, you need to calm down. You’re okay.”

But, again, Jason didn’t seem to notice. Bruce wasn’t sure if he were even conscious.

He hoped he wasn’t conscious.

Bruce looked around the room to see Clark standing off to the side, arms crossed as he watched Raven work. Zatanna was working on removing one of Jason’s boots, so she could heal his feet, Bruce assumed. And Raven was still working on Jason’s left arm.

No one was really paying him any attention.

Which was good.

It would make it easier…

He closed his eyes as he leaned forward, closer to Jason’s ear, because it was for Jason that he started humming. Low and quiet, as he gently stroked Jason’s cheek.

Nothing in particular. Not at first. Just sounds, for Jason to hear.

But it worked. Jason’s crying quieted. He was still whimpering, but clearly he’d noticed Bruce’s humming.

Jason loved Bruce’s singing. He’d learned that one day, a couple years back, on a road trip. He’d been singing along to the radio, and must have been much louder than he thought he was. Instead of tell him to shut up, Jason had just sat there, listening. Calm and still. Almost content looking.

Considering Jason had been pissed he was being forced to sit in the back seat, rather up front where it was too dangerous for a child of his size, Bruce hadn’t wanted to stop, so he sang along to the next several songs that came up on the classics channel he had on, and by song five, Jason had drifted off to sleep.

It’d been years, now, since that discovery. Bruce had sang to Jason a couple times since, but only when they were alone. Late at night, when Jason was too terrified to sleep. In the cave, after a particularly bad injury. Once. When Jason had the flu and was outright miserable.

They never spoke about it after it happened. Both of them just pretending Bruce didn’t sing Jason to sleep sometimes. But, not for the first time, Bruce so so glad to have the ability.

He would do anything to make Jason more comfortable. To help him along.

To have him alive.

The random melodies shifted to some of his favorite songs, until he found himself actually singing. He tried to ignore all the eyes he could feel on himself and instead focused on how Jason had gone completely still, almost relaxed, as Bruce sang a song that had particularly spoken to him some years ago, when he first heard it.

At the time it’d reminded him of Dick, but every single word was no less applicable toward Jason. He kept his eyes closed as he sang You’ll be in my Heart, as quietly and soothingly as he could.

Jason sighed contentedly in his sleep, allowing everyone around him work.

- - -

Bruce could not honestly say how many hours it took Raven, Zatanna, and J’onn to heal Jason.

The entire ordeal was a gigantic blur to him. Someone had found him a chair, at some point, and that’s where he’d sat for what felt like an eternity, watching Raven and Zatanna take turns working on Jason’s many broken bones.

“…almost every bone in his body,” Zatanna had said.

“…with a crowbar,” J’onn had revealed.

Bruce could barely listen. Barely keep up. All he could think about was Jason’s face. Broken beyond recognition.

But they finally finished healing Jason. He looked perfect, when they were done. Like he were just sleeping, like any other Tuesday. Asleep in his bed, right where he belonged. Just as 15-year-old boys should be. Safe and sound.

Bruce barely had the chance to say “Thank you,” to them before Zatanna was helping Raven out of the room and to her own quarters to rest. Her efforts had drained her.

“Thank You” wouldn’t suffice, anyway.

There weren’t words in the English language to convey how grateful he was to them all. As he twirled one of Jason’s curls around his finger, all he could think about was how he’d almost never been able to look at those curls again.

Much less touch them.

He’d come so close to never hearing his child again. Never holding him. Never talking to him. Reading with him. Playing with him.

Working with him.

Jason had almost died that night.

He had died. For how long, Bruce had no idea.

His son had died.

And now, thanks to Raven and Zatanna and J’onn and Clark…

Thanks to them all. He was back.

Bruce-He had- he couldn’t-

There weren’t words.

Bruce freed his hand from Jason’s curls so he could press his fingers into his eyes. He’d already cried a lot, he was pretty sure. Right in front of everyone. But now that he was back in his right mind, there was really no excuse.

He needed to stop.

Besides, how helpful would it be for Jason, if he woke up and the first thing he saw was Batman crying?

“He’s going to be all right, you know,” Clark said, placing a hand on Bruce’s shoulder.

“But he wasn’t,” Bruce said, and he was almost proud of himself for not sounding completely torn up inside.

Even though he was.

“Yeah, but he is now.”

But he wasn’t.

How much of that was Bruce’s fault?

All of it.

Had he just been faster. Had he not abandoned Jason there in the first place. He knew his son never listened. Why the hell did he trust him this time? This was what Jason did.

Why had he made Jason Robin to begin with…

Maybe that was the real problem here.

Why had he made Jason Robin to begin with.

What made him look a kid, barely 4 feet tall, and think “yes. He should be Robin.”

No. Dumb question.

Bruce knew why.

He’d wanted Jason. Not as Robin, necessarily. But just… Jason.

Jason Todd. The sassy, funny, strong, resourceful, arrogant, confident little kid he’d met. The brilliant street child with a heart of gold who desperately needed help.

All he had wanted to do was help Jason. Take him home and keep him.

And the only way he’d seen to do that was by making Jason Robin. By giving him a job and a purpose and a place.

Maybe he should have just told Jason straight up… Been honest with him and told him he just wanted to adopt him. Because he’d adored him from not even ten seconds into knowing him.

But that would have scared Jason off, he just knew it. Jason had been so skittish.

By making it about Robin, it had been far easier to integrate Jason into the family. To convince him to be adopted.

To make him his son.

That’s all Bruce wanted.

But look where that had gotten them…

Would Jason have faced death, had Bruce just never even met him? Had he just let Jason be? Report him to social services? Get him into a good boarding school?

Maybe. There was no telling.

He could have also just been murdered by the gangs. Starved to death. Kidnapped…

Bruce spent he had no idea how long just sitting there. Clark left after a while, with little more than a pat to his back and Jason’s knee.

How was he going to move past this?

Every time he looked at Jason, all he could see was his injuries.

If there was anything this entire ordeal had taught him, it was that firing Jason had been the right call.

Now he’d just have to find a way to enforce that.

Honestly. Bruce was going to have a hard time going back out, himself. The panic that still gripped at his mind would need to recede, a little, before he could even consider going out. Right now he didn’t want to even leave Jason’s side.

Some ten minutes passed, as Bruce just sat there, focusing on keeping his breathing steady and not thinking about anything. He kept his face buried in his heads, so he wasn’t looking at Jason and thinking. It was enough to just hear his son breathe. Deep and clear. Like nothing had happened. Like he were just asleep, after a long day.

It was comforting.

But that stopped abruptly, when Jason took a deep breath and shifted, a little, on the cot. Bruce looked up at him through his fingers, and saw Jason staring right back at him. With his beautiful blue eyes.

Alert and alive.

“Bruce?” he asked, furrowing his brow as he propped himself up on an elbow, “Are you crying?”

“No,” he said, smiling a little as he sat up and brushed Jason’s curls back, away from his beautiful eyes Bruce never wanted to look away from.

Jason didn’t buy it, even though he should have. Because Bruce wasn’t crying.

Although he kind of felt like doing so. Because so far, Jason seemed fine.

“Have you been crying?” he asked, leveling Bruce a quizzical look when Bruce stood and gently pushed Jason back into a lying position.

“Never mind that, Jay. How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” Jason said, frowning deeply now, “Really stiff, too. Where are we?”

Raven had mentioned something about stiffness. It would wear off, after a few days.

“Watchtower.”

“Why are we…” Jason started, then it seemed to register what Bruce actually said, because his eyes went side and he added, “Really? I’m in space right now?”

Bruce laughed. A little hysterically, maybe, as he set his hand at the top of Jason’s head so he could plant a kiss on his forehead.

He was just so…. Relieved.

Because he was still Jason.

J’onn hadn’t been sure he’d be able to fix the damage, but he was still Jason.

“Stay down,” Bruce said, gently, as he used his hand not combing through Jason’s hair to prevent him from sitting up when he tried, “I’ll let you explore later. Rest, now.”

“What happened, Bruce?” Jason asked, a little suspiciously, “Why are we on Watchtower? Why have you been crying?”

With a sigh, Bruce pulled his chair closer and sat down, then took one of Jason’s hands in his own.

Jason looked down at their hands, then backup at Bruce, with a spark of fear in his eyes. “Bruce?”

Bruce squeezed, then asked, “What do you remember?”

Not much, was Bruce’s hope. J’onn said he took Jason’s memories of the event, claiming Jason didn’t need the trauma associated with it. Not remember would be easier on him, he’d claimed. Bruce hoped he was right.

“I-“ Jason started, looking back down at his hand in Bruce’s, then back up in confusion as he continued, “I got on the plane. To Ethiopia.”

When all Bruce did was nod, Jason continued, “I was going to meet my mother.”

Bruce waited for him to continue, but he didn’t. He just sat there, brow furrowed in concentration as he stared off at the wall behind Bruce.

“Anything else?”

“I don’t know,” Jason admitted, “I don’t even remember landing. Did the plane crash?”

J’onn took more than Bruce thought.

“No, it landed.”

“Why, then,” Jason asked, trailing off as he just stared at Bruce. Waiting for the answers he obviously knew Bruce had.

So Bruce sighed, and explained as plainly as possible, “Joker was there, Shelia wound up being involved with him. It had been a trap.” Perhaps it was a blessing he didn’t remember meeting his mother. He’d been trying to figure out how Joker knew where Jason was, and the only explanation he could come up with was Shelia sold him out. Even after Jason offered to help her, she sold him out.

She had to have. There was no other explanation.

“What?” Jason asked, clearly startled.

Before he could panic over any of that, Bruce quickly said, “But it’s okay. You’re okay.”

“What about my mom?” Jason demanded, trying to sit up again, which Bruce prevented, “Is she okay? What did that bastard do to her?”

Bruce… wasn’t entirely sure. He had no recollection of what happened to Shelia after she said Jason saved her. He barely remembered what happened to himself in those minutes. Clark… Clark was there. He wouldn’t have let a random civilian die.

“She’s alive. She told me you saved her.”

Jason eyed Bruce for a good long second, before he finally nodded, and asked a little shakily, “What- what happened to me?”

Shaking his head, Bruce went back to playing with Jason’s hair as he did, “All that matters is you’re okay, now.”

“Bruce.”

Yeah. He didn’t think he’d get away with that.

Sighing, Bruce sat back up and said, “It- I’m not entirely sure. There was an explosion. I found you- I-“

How was he supposed to tell his fifteen-year-old son he found him dead on arrival?

He wasn’t.

That was not something Jason needed to know. All that mattered was he was fine, now.

“You were pretty hurt, but Raven, Zatanna, and Martian Manhunter fixed you up. Superman is the one who got us up here once I found you.”

Jason nodded, as he absorbed that information. “How did you know I was there?”

Bruce could cry, from the relief that Jason accepted that as explanation enough. “I followed you, Jay. Did you really think I wouldn’t?”

“I-“ Jay started, but faltered. Averted his eyes and sighed. Like…

Like he honestly thought Bruce wouldn’t follow him.

“God, Jason,” he exhaled, squeezing Jason’s hand still in his while he rubbed at his own face with the other, “I love you, so much. You’re my son, I would do anything for you. Please- please don’t do this to me again. I can’t lose you. I can’t.”

“But-,” Jason started, a little tearfully as he did, “But you-“

When he didn’t elaborate, Bruce pressed with, “But what?”

“You fired me.”

“How does that contradict anything I just said,” Bruce asked lightly, shaking his head some. Because of course Bruce fired him. Any sane person would have tried to protect their child the way Bruce had.

Any sane person would have never let their child out there in the first place…

Jason sat up, then, swatting away Bruce’s hand before he could even attempt to keep Jason lying down. “You-you-,” he said, a little desperately, “I thought you didn’t want me anymore.”

“No,” he almost growled, standing so he could pull Jason to his chest. Hug him tightly and squash that horrible, awful thought. “How could you think that? Jay there will never be a day I don’t want you anymore.”

“But-“ Jason started, but Bruce wasn’t going to hear it.

He pushed Jason back, grabbing onto his face with both hands. “I’m serious. I love you, Jason Peter. I fired you because I love you. You’ve been too reckless, lately. Getting hurt too much. I can’t lose you, son. And tonight, tonight-“

“Why didn’t you tell me that,” Jason asked, crying some as he pulled his face out of Bruce’s hands so he could bury it in Bruce’s chest.

Bruce wrapped his arms back around his son and planted a kiss on the top of his head. “Because I’m an idiot,” he said, which got Jason to laugh, a little. But he added, more seriously, “I thought you knew.”

“I can’t stop being Robin.”

“Jason. You almost died, tonight.” You did die, he thought bitterly.

“Can you stop being Batman?” he asked, his head still resting against Bruce’s chest as he did, “I’ll- I’ll do whatever you want. To make it safer. But I can’t quit.”

“Okay,” Bruce sighed. He still had no intention on allowing him back out any time soon.

If ever.

But he was done arguing about it. That was something they could do later. After Bruce had worked through everything. Looked through the footage and figured out what, exactly, happened.

In that moment, all he wanted to do was hold his son. The could worry about everything later.

“Just, get some rest, son,” he said, hugging Jason a little tighter before he reluctantly let go, so Jason could lay back down, “Raven said you need to rest for a while.”

Jason let go of Bruce and slowly lowered himself back onto the cot. After he rolled onto his side, he looked up at Bruce and said, “You’ll stay?”

“Of course,” he said, pulling his chair back so he could sit there again and caress Jason’s hair again, “Always.”

“Were you singing earlier?” Jason mumbled, already closing his eyes.

“Yeah.” He wasn’t sure if he was happy Jason remembered or not.

“Can you sing again?”

“Anything for you,” he whispered, before giving Jason one last kiss on his forehead before he sang his little boy to sleep.

“Anything for you.”

#Jason doesn't die AU #Jason Todd #Bruce Wayne #Batman #Robin #Batfamily #Superman #Clark Kent #fanfiction #hurt/comfort #near death experience #bruce is a panicky mess #6k words #cross posted to ao3 #c writes

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thinknicht · 3 years

Text

Kakashi loses his father and Minato gains a puppy

Kakashi had been mad at his dad for months now – for screwing up that stupid mission, for losing all his awesome reputation because of it, for getting replaced by a ghost. Everybody had said his dad was going to cost them the war, that he was a selfish bastard; everybody had whispered and subtly let Kakashi know just how much of a disappointment his father was.

It was so unfair! Why did he have to make a stupid mistake? He was supposed to be perfect, Konoha’s elite White Fang. Everybody was supposed to love and admire him… it shouldn’t be like this. The Hatake Sakumo he knew and admired was always proud and straight-backed, confident and sure. He wasn’t supposed to make mistakes, to have people hate him so much that they’d treat him and Kakashi both like trash. Kakashi… couldn’t do much. He was just a kid – but he could feel. He’d felt all sorts of things – he had been scared and ashamed and sad at it all – but mostly he’d been furious. He’d been mad at the old ladies gossiping about his dad on the street, at his classmates who’d previously admired him but would now shoot him derisive looks, at their parents who mumbled bad words behind his back, thinking he couldn’t hear – or perhaps not caring. But most of all he was mad at his dad for not defending himself, for not defending him.

Picking up Kakashi from the Academy, he must have heard the whispering parents too, seen the looks Kakashi’s classmates kept shooting at him – but instead of standing proud whilst slinging Kakashi upon his shoulders like he had used to, Sakumo had bowed his head and said nothing. They had walked silently home, side by side – yet it had felt like they were worlds apart. He couldn't stop thinking about how his dad hadn’t met the eyes of those gossiping parents, or even their children. Of what those parents had said and how his dad’s hand had trembled on his back as he’d led Kakashi away.

The dishonoured White Fang. He too, must know the gravity of what he’d done, they whispered. Just look at him, at those eyebags and posture. It seemed like the pathetic scumbag at least recognized what he was. Suits him right, they crowed, for almost costing Konoha the war. It’d be better if that drunk disgrace just ended it already.

The words had hurt – but they couldn't compare to his father's reaction. It had challenged some of Kakashi’s most visceral beliefs about what his dad was like. Day after day, his father would pick him up from the Academy and never defend him, never look anyone in the eyes, like a beat down dog. Then, one day he didn't come. After waiting in the rain for over thirty minutes, Kakashi had realised this. He’d been forgotten, cast aside. No one would come to pick him up. Kakashi had begun walking home alone after that – every day. His father hadn’t mentioned it at dinner. The added responsibility was not as exciting as he’d always pictured it to be.

Some days it had all gotten to be too much and he’d said something rude and frustrated to his dad – but he hadn’t really meant it! He’d just been acting petulant. He’d just wanted things to get better… to go back to how they’d used to be. He’d wanted Sakumo to snap out of the weird dazes he got into lately, maybe even get angry at him and defend himself, even if Kakashi had to take the brunt of his fury. It would have been okay. Kakashi had just wanted him to react – anything at all would have been preferred to the emptiness that constantly seemed to follow him, dull grey eyes unnerving… unfocused… wrong . Kakashi had just wanted things to return to how they used to be.

The winter was cold and harsh, reflecting Kakashi's mood perfectly. Overcast skies and short days were not conductive to good humor, but with the beginnings of spring, Kakashi felt the beginnings of new hope sprout within him. Perhaps, now that everything was brighter and better, his dad would get better too?

He'd been in a good mood all week so much so that he didn't even mind that much when his dad forgot to make breakfast or lunch or shown his face at all. This had happened a few times before, him falling asleep and not waking up for a long time. By dinner Kakashi decided to go look for him, maybe get him to come out to the porch and look at the rabbit den he'd spotted in the garden. And yet dad wasn’t in his room or the living room or the bathroom or the kitchen. After checking everywhere else he could think, he’d gone to the west wing. His father had always avoided it because it contained his mother’s old bedroom, the one both of his parents had used to sleep in before he was born… the one dad never used anymore.

There was a smell in the corridor… unpleasant, disgusting. He had been ignoring it until now, and he kept doing so. Maybe his father had left to the bar or even a mission! Or maybe he’d gone to mom's grave. He should just…

He went back to the kitchen and ate dinner. He brushed his teeth. He put on his pajamas and went to bed. It had been a long time since his father had tucked him in. Normally, Kakashi was responsible in following his bed time, but that night he felt restless. Against his father’s wishes (who was he kidding, nobody would scold him) he flipped on the light again and paged through a scroll – he would look for dad tomorrow, hopefully by then the smell would be gone. But the stench was getting worse and worse and finally he set the scroll aside and propped himself up. There was no way he could keep ignoring it any longer. It had penetrated up his nostrils and into his bloodstream, slinking into the very marrow of his bones. Those of Hatake descent had extremely sharp noses; at this rate sleeping would be impossible.

Resigned to some inminent pain in his nostrils, Kakashi crawled out of his futon and folded it carefully, his stomach pooling with dread. It was unreasonable. He wasn’t a little baby anymore – he was six . It was just a smell. Maybe some dead animal had gotten in, he told himself. He’d throw it out and that was that. And yet every part of him told him to turn around. He didn’t.

Earlier, Kakashi had left his mother’s room out of the search for his father before – perhaps because a part of him had known all along what he would find. Still, the sight of his father’s rigid corpse shocked him down to the very core. It had to be a joke, a trick, a training exercise, he thought wildly, but he didn’t dare step into the room to check. Kakashi was a logical creature even then and he knew that that made little sense – Sakumo hadn’t trained or played with him in months, and he was sensitive about strong smells. No. What he was seeing was exactly as it appeared.

He was dead. Not murdered or assassinated – dead.

The body of his dead father was sprawled upon the blood-splattered floor, flies buzzing around it noisily. A katana gleamed, reflecting the moonlight that streamed in from the window as it protruded from his stomach. Sepukku. The samurai’s suicide ritual.

Kakashi had known something was wrong even before going into his mother’s old room, but nothing could have prepared him for this. His father – dead. The flies, the blood, the smell, the choice he had made – seppuku .

After standing there for maybe minutes or maybe seconds, his recollection of the night’s events got blurry. Kakashi barely remembered running out of the house in still in his pajamas and barefoot, or stepping on glass as he rushed away, away, away. He barely remembered barging into the hokage tower, leaving bloody footprints in his wake and sobbing uncontrollably. He barely remembered explaining much of anything, other than repeating ‘sepukku’, ‘sepukku’, 'sepukku’ like a mantra. The look in the hokage’s eyes said he understood. Someone had sedated him after that.

It had been a month since then. He couldn’t go to sleep at night anymore without seeing Sakumo’s cold body sprawled upon the blood-stained wood whenever he closed his eyes, without smelling that smell . He couldn’t dream anymore, couldn’t get a full night’s sleep. He couldn’t train with Sakumo anymore or count the days until he’d be back from his latest mission. He couldn’t do any of those things – because Sakumo had abandoned him.

The villager’s behavior toward him didn’t improve. In fact, it was as if Sakumo’s death had been kindling thrown into a fire. Where previously people had only whispered about the White Fang’s shameful, pathetic, selfish behavior, now they all talked about it openly. Every gossiping old lady told their neighbor that they’d always known there was something cowardly and dishonourable about that Hatake dog. Drinking himself into a stupor to then commit suicide, and to top it off with his kid at home! It was rumored that the poor boy had found the man in a pool of blood and sake. What a pathetic waste of space he had been!

Kakashi’s mask, until then vehemently hated, had suddenly become a reprieve – he was harder to recognize with it. His training, which had previously been the way in which he connected with Sakumo, the way in which he strove to impress him when he returned from missions, now became the only thing he had left. He trained constantly, both resenting and missing Sakumo in equal measure, his exertions the only outlet. During those moments, when his body and spirit trembled and his eyes misted, he swore to himself that he would never make the same mistake.

Sakumo had died (had killed himself) for breaking the rules. Everybody said so. Kakashi had always known that the rules were important, but a few times he’d felt tempted to question them – like when that frog girl had crossdressed as a boy. He had seen her sometimes afterward, when he’d glanced out of his classroom window, sitting all alone and friendless in the yard outside while her classmates played – and he had known immediately that this was his fault, that his rule-abiding had done that. Before he’d confronted her, she’d had friends, he’d seen it. He hadn’t liked that… somehow it had annoyed him, he didn’t know why. He’d told her sensei about it, just kind of expecting she’d get into trouble for a bit and maybe find him to throw another tadpole at him afterward… but that hadn’t been what had happened. She hadn’t found him to throw tadpoles at him whatsoever, and instead had started looking sullen and withdrawn and sad whenever he saw her from the window. He hadn’t wanted that. He’d just wanted to follow the rules.

A part of him had begun to doubt his decision then. A part of him had felt guilty.

He had thought about breaking the rules other times too, like when a hard test was coming up and he’d been tempted to sneak into the teacher’s room to check the answers – this was practically in a ninja’s job description after all – though he’d settled for studying all night in the end.

He had felt bad, too, about more indirect breaches like getting all riled up when that frog girl called him names. Ninja weren’t supposed to fall for taunts, it was in the shinobi handbook that they show no emotion because talling for taunts lead to mistakes. But he kind of enjoyed the breach in the monotony that the frog girl and her loud bowlcut friend provided. He liked that they weren’t all admiring and brown-nosing around him like all his classmates, and, though he’d never admit it to himself, he liked the stories they came up with too, and when he was bored in class he would sometimes picture the annoyed faces frog girl would make at him when he outsmarted her and snicker. But ninja should live in the present, without distractions or indulgences in childish make-belief games, he realized that now. That girl was a rule-breaker more than anyone else he knew, and if Kakashi had learned something from his father’s death it was this: he would never, ever break a rule again. Any rule.

He stopped going to frog girl and bowlcut’s meadow. At first a part of him missed them. He was all alone, after all – but – he still didn’t go, didn’t want to see their looks of pity – or even worse – disgust. He kept wanting to drop by but then not doing it. He had other things to keep him busy, like being a genin. He was a ninja now.

He wouldn’t make his father’s mistakes in his career, he swore to himself. He’d follow the ninja handbook to a T and then nothing like what Sakumo had gone through would happen to him. He had graduated now and frog girl and bowlcut were just kids . He had better things to do than them now, like training and having endless nightmares.

At night, he couldn’t keep lying to himself. He cried himself to sleep often.

During the day, he kept his mask on and his feelings off, and surely things would get better if he did that. He had been accustomed to living alone from when his father left on missions, but this was different. He was in charge of his dad’s money now and other things like cooking and cleaning and bills and… he felt anxiety just thinking about it. He knew he’d have to pay some kind of bills for electricity and hot water and heat and all that later on, but he didn’t know how or where or when to do it. Money wasn’t an issue, his father had never lacked it, but he still got nervous thinking about what if he suddenly ran out or someone scammed him?

He had spent the first week after That Night with another family – the Sarutobi household – the first week after his dad had died. Then he’d graduated the Academy and the hokage, Sarutobi Hiruzen, had told him that he was welcome to stay with them, though he could become independent now too if he wanted, seeing as he was now a genin – legally an adult. Kakashi had jumped at the chance of being alone. Asuma’s constant invasive presence and probing questions had been stifling, his mom’s mothering unwanted, the pitying looks they all kept shooting at him less than welcome.

“I will return home,” he’d told the hokage immediately. The more Hiruzen had insisted to the contrary, the stronger Kakashi’s determination to be left alone.

Now, he was regretting that decision… he hated living alone, hated the empty spaces and the silent Estate. At this point he'd agree to live with anyone, but his pride kept him from going back to the Sarutobi household. He missed his dad… he missed frog girl and bowlcut but didn’t know how to reach out. He felt so, so alone. He wanted to be independent and strong and rule-abiding, but he wanted a hug too and a good night’s sleep and some excuse to leave this stifling estate where his dad had killed himself, but he couldn’t let himself look weak, he couldn’t , didn’t even know how – and he didn’t know what to do.

He had started going to the central market in Konoha, even though it was very far from the Hatake Estate, which was located at the village’s outskirts. He told himself it was just because the central market was better than the small shop he’d used to frequent, even though he’d never bothered to go there Before.

At the market, he would dawdle and soak in the people and chatter, floating through the lively atmosphere. It made the loneliness starker but also duller. Before, he had loved to have his peace and quiet, but now silences haunted him. Now the noises of people had become a balm. He often just walked around the stalls, peering at the wares and at the people and listened . He didn’t do anything else. A part of him had hoped to maybe run into someone he liked there… but of course he never did. He should have known that none of his classmates or frog girl or bowlcut would be there, of course. If he had really wanted to find them, he knew he could, but somehow he didn’t.

He was shaken out of his musings when the blond man appeared again. Kakashi and the blond man had coincided a few times in the market already. The blonde would often sit on a bench and do nothing in particular, though he’d sometimes bring books to snicker at, or chat up girls and vendors alike when they passed him by. The blonde man had a radiant smile and people seemed to love him, Kakashi had noticed. A part of him wanted to be mad at him for that, for having something he so sorely wanted but didn’t have, not any longer, not after that mission – but he mostly found himself being unable to muster up much resentment.

Sometimes, Kakashi wondered why the blond man would spend so much time at the market, just like him. Was he lonely too? Did his family leave him behind like Kakashi’s father? Despite himself, he’d gotten curious. He had made a habit of going to the market every day and he’d started getting to know the regulars. During his excursions, Kakashi always wore bland clothes and the mask so that he wouldn’t be noticed as much, but he in turn did notice the people, and the blonde man was often there – except sometimes when he left on missions, or so Kakashi assumed. The blonde man was a ninja.

He’d never dared to approach, but today he felt tired… so he sat down on the bench across the blonde to eat an apple he’d bought. He tried to divine what the man was reading, to subtly glance at his book’s cover… but he got caught looking. The blonde gave him a smile, then returned to his book. Kakashi didn’t dare to look again but his heart pounded. A while later, the blonde was cornered by some civilian ladies who wanted his opinion on some of their wares and ushered him away. Finally, Kakashi dared to steal another glance, then stood up and stretched, readying to go back to the estate.

That smile… it had struck him like a punch to the gut. How long since anyone had just… smiled at him? He couldn’t remember the last time. Lately, he was always alone, and when he wasn’t, all he saw in people’s eyes was either disinterest or distaste, depending on whether they recognized him or not. Sometimes there was pity in the case of his father’s former friends like the hokage.

Missions weren’t any better. In fact, he found that he hated the whole thing. Without fail, he always got passed around the genin teams, mostly replacing recently deceased members, and was never liked by the other integrants. He wasn’t sure if it was because they knew his reputation, because he was so much younger (and better, he privately thought) than them, or because he was the replacement of their dead friends. Yes, Kakashi thought. Nobody had smiled at him in a long, long time… He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it until that very moment.

The next day, he sat on the bench across the blonde again… and the day after too. He always noticed when the man was gone on missions and he… it wasn’t like he was stalking him or anything, but the man – Minato, the old ladies called him – would always smile that warm smile at him, and Kakashi… Kakashi cherished it. He mustn't know who he was, that Minato. A part of him feared what would happen if he found out… would he start glaring at Kakashi if he did?

One day, Minato sat down next to him. Kakashi froze and almost bolted… but the blonde just pulled a book out of his pouch and calmly began to thumb through it, like always. He talked to the merchants like always too, and Kakashi slowly relaxed. The week afterward, when Minato returned from what must have been a mission, he sat next to Kakashi again, surprising him once more, but he relaxed quicker than last time.

“Mind if I take one?” Minato asked, peering at him from over his book. “Those oranges look mouth-watering.”

Kakashi startled and looked at Minato suspiciously. “You’re an adult. You shouldn’t be asking kids to give you their oranges.”

The blonde’s lips quirked into that smile again and Kakashi almost forgot he was supposed to be acting pissed-suspicious. “Yeah, but aren’t you one too?” Minato asked with a chuckle. “A legal adult? I’ve heard about you, you’ve made genin, haven’t you?”

Kakashi was startled for two reasons: one – adults never acknowledged he was independent and two – Minato knew who he was! And he still smiled at him?

“I guess you can have an orange,” Kakashi decided, handing it over.

Minato laughed. “Thanks, kiddo. Also, I was going to say that I would pay you back before you interrupted me.” He chuckled. “You’re always here, so I figured I’d treat you next time we meet.”

Next time.

Kakashi’s breath hitched. “S-sure. I mean whatever, it’s just an orange.”

The blonde chuckled. “So you don’t want to get treated, huh? Well, I guess it’s no sweat off my back…”

“That’s not what I said!” Kakashi exclaimed, wide-eyed. He took it back! He wanted to meet with Minato again!

The blonde teen laughed, suddenly reaching out to give him a mighty head ruffle. “Alright, alright. I’ll treat you to some dango then, I think.”

“I don’t like sweets,” Kakashi informed, crossing his arms, but secretly wishing for another head-ruffle.

“You say that now … but have you tried the fried eggplant with honey?” the blonde prodded happily. “Maki-baa makes ones to die for!”

“Eggplant,” Kakashi repeated dubiously, “with honey ? What kind of crazy person would make a sweet out of eggplant ?”

Minato smirked at him. “Just you wait. You’re going to be blown away, Kakashi!”

“H-hey! How do you know my name,” Kakashi muttered. “Stalker.”

The blonde chuckled. “Kid, I’m a master infiltrator. Knowing these things is pretty much my job.”

“Yeah, well you look like a girl,” Kakashi spluttered, embarrassed for some reason. “And way too young.”

“I’ll have you know, I’m nineteen and my looks are great for making people underestimate me, so… peace!”

“You’re weird,” Kakashi declared.

“Ah, wait till you try the eggplant. You’ll join the dark side soon.”

“ Right .”

Somehow, Minato never suddenly decided that Kakashi was a persona non grata. He never avoided him, never stopped being kind. Kakashi found himself missing the blonde intensely when he was gone on missions, though he never admitted to it.

Life continued and things got easier… or maybe he just got used to his situation. He got used to his nightmares, used to the silence, used to the glares. Like all shinobi worth their salt, Kakashi adapted. He stopped getting crawls just from looking at the Hatake estate, though he still avoided the west wing like the plague. He completed D-ranks with ease and watched as other genin got sent out to the field and didn’t come back. He got used to being a replacement for the dead genin too… there were many. Still, a part of him wished he could have his own team, his own sensei. He wanted it so badly… why couldn’t he have what everyone else did? He surmised none of the jonin wanted to get stuck with the little kid, with the White Fang’s spawn. He understood. He still wished though.

Autumn came and went and the days got colder. Less people visited the market now, but Kakashi still went religiously. Despite his pride, he had finally worked up the courage to ask Minato how to deal with taxes and bills… even though he’d hated doing it, because he was afraid Minato would think he was a little kid after all if he asked. But the blonde hadn’t done that. He’d gone into long-winded, excited explanations on book-keeping, tax-paying, old fogies who might try to mess up his taxes so he needed to check everything over carefully, remember that, Kakashi!, and most importantly, what Minato had happily dubbed ‘money-saving ninja skills’. Kakashi had never enjoyed learning about anything more, but maybe that was because it was Minato who was teaching him.

One day, Minato showed him how to fish in order to save money. Another day he invited Kakashi to a training ground and taught him how to season said fish. Then, the week after they went to the woods and they cooked a rabbit. Minato would often give him tips on how to save money whilst doing all of this, though Kakashi privately thought that the blonde wouldn’t really need to follow his own advice since merchants were constantly gifting him their wares or inviting him over. At the beginning, Kakashi had wondered why everyone liked Minato so much, but now he understood. Minato was special… he was… sometimes, Kakashi couldn’t believe that someone like that would bother to give him the time of day. It was... the best thing that had happend to him in a long, long time. Maybe ever.

Over the years, someone had taken up the nasty habit of drawing odd preschooler figures on his window when it was fogged up from the cold, or with crayons and chalk during the summer. Kakashi had been trying to catch the perpetrator ever since they'd begun, thinking that it might have been frog girl or bowl cut, but never managed. When he grumbled about it halfheartedly to Minato one day, the blonde burst out laughing.

“Ah, the henohenomoheji? That was me!”

“What?” repeated Kakashi dubiously. “You’re the person who draws them? But they look like they were made by a preschooler!”

“Ah, I guess it’s a habit, from when my siblings were still… anyway, yeah! I’m not an artist, that’s for sure,” Minato told him sheepishly. “But I wasn’t trying to bother you, I promise. The henohenomoheji were just my way of telling you that I’d returned to the village after a mission, Kakashi. I always stop by your place to sketch a quick one on my way to the tower.”

“Oh.” The tower was on the other side of the village. Kakashi gulped. He felt happy Minato went out of his way like that, he really did, but… a part of him had hoped…

“Kakashi? What’s with that look?” Minato asked softly. “I… didn’t know it would upset you. I’ll stop, I promise.”

“No, don’t,” Kakashi mumbled.

He should have known it hadn’t been those two. Of course they must have thought the same as everyone else, that he was a disgrace and not worth hanging out with. Why had he even expected otherwise? Frog girl and bowlcut had probably forgotten all about him by now. He felt some part of him freeze at that. If they’d forgotten him so easily, he had no reason to expend energy thinking about them either. Firmly, Kakashi pushed the two out of his mind. He would not think about them again.

“Kakashi? Is everything… alright?” Minato’s deep blue eyes were filled with concern and Kakashi felt the coldness that had spread in his gut thaw.

“Yeah, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

Minato nodded slowly. “Well… I have some news that will cheer you up! I applied to be a jonin sensei. How’s that for cool?”

Kakashi frowned. “A… a jonin sensei?” Hope lit up within him. “Does that mean… you’ll…?”

“Yep! You’re my student now, Kakashi! Hope you’re not too put off by this pretty face.”

Kakashi’s lips split into a large grin, his cheeks hurting from the rare action. The mask would cover it, but Minato had never had any issue with reading his expressions before. Smiling brightly, the blond teen lurched forward to give him one of those wild head-ruffle noogies Kakashi adored so much.

“I guess it could be worse,” he muttered, failing rather spectacularly at hiding his excitement.

“Don’t be coy with me, Kakashi! I’m your sensei now and what kind of pupil lies to their sensei!”

“Sh-shut up, Minato… sensei.”

“Awww! And he’s blushing! I need to take a picture!”

“DON’T YOU DARE!”

Note: this is an extract of my story misnomer, hence the frog girl oc, but I figured this chapter pretty much doubled as a Kakashi character stude so here you go! Hope you enjoyed!

(Also, in case it wasn’t obvious from the japanese characters, the image above is not mine.)

#Kakashi #hatake kakashi #sakumo #minato #feels #suicide #writing #fanfiction #team 7 #team minato #character study

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