#more than the sum of our parts

[vroomjohnwatson]

Fic Masterlist

tell no one what you see - james hunt&niki lauda, lavender marriage au, 2k every right thing will find its right place - elio de angelis/nigel mansell, didn't know they were pregnant, 5k feeling like the odd man out - elio de angelis/nigel mansell, t4t, 2k

this night is sparkling (don't you let it go) - andrea de cesaris/bruno giacomelli, friends to lovers, 1k

toaster - john watson, fiber art

i hope the worst isn't over - alain prost/ayrton senna, break up fic, 1k

more than the sum of our parts - ensemble, system fic, 4k

the one less traveled by - james hunt/ronnie peterson, loss fic, 300 (wip) don't you turn like orpheus - elio de angelis/nigel mansell, worldhopping fix-it fic, 8k

someday we'll try to walk upright - alain prost/ayrton senna, coming out, 6k

who told us we'd be rescued - alain prost/ayrton senna, grief/infant loss, 3k

for every stoplight i didn't make - ayrton senna/gerhard berger/nigel mansell, family fluff, 500

you'd have to stop the world just to stop the feeling - elio de angelis/nigel mansell, 1920s lesbians, 1k (wip)

[randomnameless]

Why do we still have in 2024 stupid takes like Rhea created and enforces the crest system?

Bcs Rhea BaD anon.

More seriously,

FE Fodlan is one of one of the most divorced FE verses from its fantasy elements (see : Nabateans being as important as Ignatz's leather shoes) : Tellius has the Laguz existing, Archanea/Ylisse has manaketes hanging around and being a core point in FE Archanea, Elibe has its entire history involving dragons and the best ending finally be about acceptance between the two races, Magvel has zombies, Valentia has terrors and in SoV we have dragons and magic dragon blood, Fates has dragons (and laguz-like!) and even Jugdral have people with magic dragon blood.

(i ranted and ranted and ranted under the cut, so it's a bit long)

Unlike Fodlan, Jugdral's "people with magic dragon blood" are a key element to the story told at large, and it bleeds through the mechanics used to tell that story. FE4 wise, toddler!Seliph has a S rank in swords when Beowulf, even if he trains his entire life, will never achieve A rank in swords. Base!Julia with her holy weapon can smack Loptyr, when max!invested (at least lore wise) Forseti!Ced will never be able to kill him.

It's unfair for Beo and Ced, but that is how the verse works because, in that verse, some people are mc guffins or "the only ones" who are able to do something, or even, straight out, stronger/have more talent than others.

In traditional fantasy settings we have the "same" sort of rules, you have elves who do X and Y, humans won't can't, dwarves who can't either but they can do W, orc who can do J, etc etc.

Even for all of the "deconstruction of the genre!" gimmick ASOIAF has, according to some people, Dany is fire-proof and Jon most likely survives after being assassinated because he is a Stark and can use his doggo as a back up save, both things Edmure Tully will never be able to achieve.

Tolkien has Numenoreans being straight up blessed by the Valar/stronger/longer lived/etc etc than middle-earth humans, on top of also having elves, dwarves and ents.

Ergo : power inbalance is baked in the fantasy genre.

And yet, the writers often manage to tell some version of "the ones who have less power are no less important", like with Tolkien, it's a bunch of hobbits who manage to take down the greatest "evil" of their era, or some message like "having more power/being more important means you are bound to help the ones who have none" thingie.

In Fodlan, the "beings who have more power" than humans are the Nabateans (+ Sothis herself!). Sothis can create life, her daughter - through unknown means - can create artifical beings, one her children can control weather (the one who was turned in a milkshake for Charon!), one of them has monstruous strength (the one turned in a milkshake for Blaiddyd), one of them could communicate with animals (Timotheos iirc - if we assume he was a Nabatean or got his powers from his crest), her granddaughter can set up an AOE to heal what would otherwise be fatal wounds (it's heavily implied this is what Flayn did when she overused her power and went comatose) etc etc.

This is the original power inbalance in Fodlan.

Then some humans "stole" this power from Nabateans, and got a share of it themselves, which is what is later called "crest" : aka, some humans got a part of the super/magic powers that Nabateans originally had and thus, because, for all intents and purposes, "super-humans".

Now, Fodlan discourse started with FE16 being released in 2019, not that long after GoT's ending - which was trash - and in an era where fandom turned from "harmless fun" to "something that looks like activism and earns you point if you manage to use it to express your real life opinions".

In 2019, after Dumb and Dumber tanked GoT and removed most of ASOIAF fantasy parts to deliver "sex that sells" with a moldy plot, some part of the fandom started to conflate and harass people over what they like, and how it, apparently, reflected on their real life opinions ("if you hate this female character it means you hate women!"/"if you think X becoming king is a good ending, you don't value democracy!").

So, we have this fantasy setting with its inherent power inbalance... that quickly became something that is/was unacceptable, because IRL, power inbalance is based on bullshit and something everyone decries - so if your beloved media reflects on what you like IRL, you can't like a setting with an objective power inbalance, even if is justified by magic which doesn't exist irl like shooting eyebeams or some people being more "special than others" who can live up to 1500 years old.

Fodlan's power inbalance, for some parts of the fandom 2019, cannot be justified by traditional fantasy settings so, those settings/fantasy elements are straight out ignored.

Thus the "crests"' magic effects/powers are ignored, and dumbed down to, roughly, what a middle school student would think "nobility" is/was in the Middle Ages/Renaissance.

Jean-François Marie Pierre de Bourbon isn't inherently better at smashing things with a sword than Bob, or at healing than Roger, any "advantage" Jean-François Marie Pierre de Bourbon has over them is, maybe, that he started training earlier.

In Fodlan?

If Jean-François Marie Pierre de Charon has a major Charon crest, he can dance and clap in his hands to summon rain. Bob and Roger, no matter how hard they train, will never be able to do that. Jean-François Marie Pierre de Charon will thus be seen as having higher "value" or being straight up "better" than Bob or Roger, because as long as he is here, your crops will never suffer from drought.

But... we can't have that, because if you confuse fandom and real life opinions and aspirations, you cannot admit that some people in Fodlan are inherently "better" at something, only because of their blood, otherwise, what would it translate to IRL?

This is why, imo, part of the fandom (and the game sure doesn't help! Fodlan is no Jugdral and its gameplay lacks coherence regarding the in-game lore! Remember how Raphael can use a relic and only loses 10HP, when Miklan, plot wise, was turned in a demonic beast?) that loves this take, arguably, reduces crests to a title and family name.

Why should the Bourbon family rule over us, when they're no better than Roger or Bob? Isn't it unfair the Bourbons are still valued nowadays when the only thing to their fame is their name, and not what they are actually doing?

The game plays coy about crests - we know each of them has a specific power - but it never reveals what are those powers (lore wise!) save for 2 of them. So are crests superpowers, or just a family name with a particle, or both? Is the "system" (a friend made a post debunking any idea of "systemic" application of this notion in the three countries) based on bullshit, or on, objective superpowers?

Dimitri tries to tackle the issue, but only around relic usage : the Gautiers are valued if they have a crest because they can use their superweapon to protect the border. But what about valuing House Charon's ability to bring rain and guarantee good harvests? What is the other superpower tied to the crest of Gautier that isn't "use a femur and wreck havoc with it"?

If Marianne's ability to talk to animals is tied to her crest, why isn't it more developed? Instead of having useless shit like talking and befriending horses like a Disney princess, we could have Maurice-blooded people be masters of counter-intelligence, imagine if they can talk to birds/rodents and ask them to scout various areas or spy/ask them what they saw ! Hell, we could have had a situation where in a fog of war map, where Marianne, if, idk, through Billy fed enough animals in the monastery, would have a better field of vision than anyone else, with some blurb/one-line about her relying on the animals around to know and see what is going on! Alas, it wasn't meant to be.

FE16 eludes the question, because the character who "questions" a world centered around "crests" is the marketable asset of the game, and cannot be challenged in any meaningful capacity v- she feels it's unfair that her crest seemingly dictate her life, and only in the gacha game with ery serious writing like the Heavy Plate Corps or Sniddies, does she get a modicum of self-reflection - or at least someone challenging her - where she is told that she could use the superpowers she has to help people instead of blaming the world for getting one.

In a traditional FE setting, where some Lords question why they were born with power/or are in powerful positions, the answer is always that no matter what they were born with (or without in Leif's case!) what is more important is what they decide to do with that power. Elincia never wanted to become Queen? She will still fight and protect Crimea and its people. Marth is the last hope of Altea, even if it means leaving Elice behind. Seliph doesn't want to fight in Thracia anymore or feels like he's a fraud? He can turn tail and return home, while the world around him falls apart. Leif also feels like a fraud because he doesn't have superpowers like his cousin? Does that mean he should turn his thumbs and watch as his people are being caught/enslaved/sacrificed?

In Fodlan you have no reflection like this : Linhardt is, imo, the best example.

Dude hates blood and has a crest (aka magic powers) geared towards healing, you could make a case that for someone who has hematophobia, being a healer is difficult and this would be the reason why he refuses to heal/use his powers to help people around him... but no. Lin's laziness is played for laughs, and his refusal to do anything not related to his topic of interest is never questioned/analysed under the angle of, say, a head nurse who has no crest and laments that she couldn't save everyone who was hurt during an assault, who snaps at him for having the "gift" he has and not using it for the sake of people around him.

"What Lin decides to do with his power?" : Well, nothing.

Instead we have a reflection on his bright mind going to waste if he lazes all day long, culminating in his Supreme support where an Imperial facility is created specifically to cater to his tastes, that will enable him to research crests as much as he wants...

But still, nothing about his innate "healing" power!

In the end, it's no surprise that part of the fandom latched on that "crest = nobility title" because the Fodlan verse refuses to develop anything about its fantasy elements (hell, iirc Nopes swaps "crests" for "blood" and "titles" in its Supreme route ?).

"Sure, but where does Rhea fit in this nonsense?"

Rhea is, in this vision, the ultimate target !

For all of the "I ignore fantasy elements", Rhea is always (in FE16 at least!) turning into a dragon : no matter how hard you want to ignore fantasy, she's here to remind you tht, in this verse, dragons exist.

But most importantly, as Fodlan must be analysed through an IRL lens otherwise modern fandom cannot engage with it, Rhea, by virtue of being the lady in charge of a religious organisation called "Church", is also seen through a lens : Rhea BaD bcs Religion BaD and Catholic Church BaD.

FWIW, thanks to the five years of discourse we had, I learnt more about cultural values and differences existings between, here and the rest of the world - especially a place that is overepresented on fandom spaces - on organised religions especially the catholic church. Of course this bled on fandom takes and analysis, which projected some users' irl bias against the Catholic Church on the fandom organisation and entity that is the Church of Seiros. Combine this with secularism being now weaponised and used to ridicule people in spaces like r/atheism and you have a perfect recipe for "Religion BaD = Catholic Church BaD = fictional organised religion with a catholic flair BaD".

Granted, given how a certain loLcalisation team also originates from this place, it's no surprise that some "creative liberties" they took tried to hammer even more, let it be in the script or the fucking "what is this game about?" page on their website, how this fictional organisation is basically a squenix trope of "evil cult manipulating everything in the shadows and sekritly controlling the world".

Besides, the main heroine of the game (even if that comes with a twist!) opposes this faction (CoS and especially its leader!) and, by the way those games are built, as seen earlier, they cannot disavow her too much, else the entire gut-punch the devs were gunning for (you are betrayed by your beloved character! But unlike what happens in Baten Kaitos, you only are attached to her because she is your avatar's simp) will fall apart. So she must be, somehow, right and not motivated by more personal and heinous reasons, like not accepting "non-humans" to have powers over humans, or thinking the world is not a place for them (this was carefully scrubbed out in Nopes, btw!).

If Supreme Leader, who we are supposed to root for and whom the game ultimately rewards because "reforms" happen in the endings, says that the CoS is the reason why humans value superpowers, she must be right, or at least, not completely wrong???

Which raises the final point on this topic : FE16 came in 2019, which was election year in the US, and we all know that election time in the US means the rest of the world is also affected, even if the rest of the world, well, isn't the US. As I mentionned, the US is over-represented in fandom spaces, and fandom is far from being a safehaven from all the mayhem and passion that always boil during election time and its immediate following.

Coupled with the "my fandom faves define my real life opinions" thingie I already wrote about, and we had an explosive cocktail for bad takes, needless aggressivity, ridiculing people with dissident opinions because they are seen as "wrong", etc etc. And let it be something trendy or not, especially when (young?) people are arguing about "politics" in online spaces, but it always boils down to gross simplification of various complex issues and/or using catchphrases or "shock-value" words to win over whoever is reading/listening.

(et je ne dis pas ça parce que certains de nos politiques font des "immigrés clandestins ou pas" la source de tous les maux, ou le fait que nos députés font la même chose en ce moment, Jonluk et Marine main dans la main, pour paralyser l'Etat afin de pousser Manu à la démission et éviter la case prison pour Marine)

I always thought the "CEO of racism" was a meme, but through Fodlan discourse, I started to wonder if it was something started seriously by someone who really thought that "racism" is caused by one person.

And we finally get to the point : somehow, somewhat, Rhea is supposed to be responsible for people/humans valuing superpowers.

Forget that the same "quest to obtain those superpowers" led to the extermination of her kin, or how the devs themselves explained that people - at least in their setting - always want more power :

As a result, what would happen to humans who gained power... they would want even more power, and find a dragon much stronger to beat in order to collect materials forcefully, in order to make even more powerful weapons... and so that was the cycle that was born. And that was the birth of Fodlan's Ten Elites

Wait, kill that, those superpowers don't exist since the game and the characters (bar Catherine, but I agree with @9thwither here, Cat is one of the most overlooked characters in this fandom!) never talk about them, so they don't exist...

Rhea is thus the reason why people value bloodlines - especially since those bloodlines don't come out with superpowers.

It sounds better and closer to what you could "hear" irl, from someone who's discoursing on the internet to explain "why" some people are more valued than other, it's because of religion and the Pope! It cannot be because of, well, human greed or just the need to have more power (for good or wrong reasons), no.

"But random, the Church most likely promotes a "divine right to rule" doctrine and let the 10 Elites' families rule over their clans in Faerghus thus gain nobility!"

Sure, but everything is moot if you consider this : to make this take viable, we ignore the game and consider that crests are just bloodlines, and not, objective sources of superpowers.

So why are we, discussing about this hypothesis/theory, even arguing about what the game says and/or does?

Bob Blaiddyd can kill a giant lion/wolf with his fists at base level, is it because of a supposed doctrine that people rally and want to be in Bob's graces, or because Bob has the power to protect them all? Karen Charon can summon rain, are people siding with her because Rhea told them to, or because Karen can make crops grow?

In conclusion : why people are still, in 2024, sprouting those takes?

1- Because they refuse to engage with the game and realise that it is a fantasy game belonging to a very specific genre

2- Because fandom opinions reflect on your real life opinions and likes : so they must find a reason to oppose what their perceive as an unacceptable power inbalance otherwise it means that they support the various inequalities that exist IRL

3- Because Religion BaD and bar the "projected takes from transposing feelings about an IRL church on a fantasy one" more and more people tend to prefer an "easy to proceed" solution than think about multi-causal issues and find solutions that might not.

Of course, I can already guess that some people might argue that they don't "refuse to engage with the game" since this take is more a less a condensed version of the Supreme spiel, and as developed above, the game does - willingly - a shit job at demonstrating that her spiel is nonsense (they had to add the "greed" part in an interview released after the game and its only and final DLC!), just like her sockpuppet who supposedly learns how misguided he was in certain routes... only to end with the same ice cream, albeit with a different topping.

However, Dimitri and Sylvain mention how crestless children are disowned in Faerghus... when Dimitri's own uncle is ruling over a domain himself, Ingrid's brothers exist in the background and Gustave is still Baron Dominic's brother, on top of having been the royal master at arms for at least, depending on the route, 3 generations of Faerghan kings.

In a game where Dorothea can blame the Goddess for fighting in a war her bestie started - without anyone pointing this out - it's obvious this verse has unreliable narrators, but after 5 years and having played all routes in both games + a DLC + a dev interview explaining how and why some humans acquired crests...

Tl;Dr :

Reason 1- is most likely the most prevalent why this take exists anon, "because some people refuse to engage with the game" with the added topping of "save for what Supreme Leader and her sockpuppet say that I can use to demonise the characters I don't like".

[digitalsymbiote]

In our "breaking down the boundaries between selves" Era.

Press your hands against our body, feel the skin separating us dissolve, feel our flesh melt together as our bodies become one.

Press your forehead against ours, feel the pinprick sensation of our thoughts mingling with yours, feel our body maps merge and extend over each other.

Experience the feeling of "you" and "me" becoming "us".

[desolationlesbian]

do you guys remember when there was discourse about how Ruby and Sapphire were in a toxic and unhealthy relationship or something because they were “fused all the time” even though it was very obviously like. A Metaphor

[dontmesswithnoheroin]

I'm so glad we're not normal about bg3 because I desperately need to talk about the fact that, while all the origin characters are tragic in some way, Astarion's fate is so grim no matter the choices you make in the game, which can be compared only to Karlach who is doomed to either die or live as an illithid. We all know if Astarion ascends, he just continues on the path of power hungry violence Cazador set him on. But even if he doesn't, if we choose the "better" option for his personal development, he's doomed to be a vampire spawn forever. He loses the hope to ever feel the sun on his skin again, something he clearly misses so much when he's adventuring with a tadpole in his head. And while other characters get to choose their next steps at the end of the game, he runs off into the shadows. He never gets his full freedom, after a century of torture, sa and literally being mind controlled, his only choices are to either accept the life of a vampire spawn or become the one he hated the most.

In fact, the only time he ever is afforded freedom is those precious few weeks between being abducted by the nautiloid and defeating the Absolute. The time spent with accidental chosen family, treated like his own person, free to roam in the daylight.

I realized it gets to me because life is like this: you get faced with terrors and impossible choices, and all you have to power you is the moments in-between, moments where other people carry the weight on your shoulders with you for no other reason than deeply caring about you. BG3 origin character stories are so great because all of them seek freedom and the price to pay for that freedom is too great. But it becomes less daunting because everyone gets to support each other along the journey.

And I do ugly cry about it.

[thornescalling]

I'm so full of fraywol feelings it's insane

[ziracona]

The Sum of Our Parts

((@tathracyn here you go.))

-

-

The shot hit both of them so hard, they went sixty feet and through the glass side of the next building over before realizing it had happened.

From where she was several blocks south, Catwoman saw the spark of what looked save for color like lightning in the sky, saw pieces of shrapnel scatter, and two forms go through the side of a skyscraper at terrifying speed. Hand on a diamond the size of a grapefruit, and thoroughly wasted here in the wall safe of a woman who never even looked at it, Selina stopped and kept her eyes on the building—out of frank surprise more than anything. It had been a while since she’d seen the Batman take a hit like that.

Well.

Shit. Both bodies cleared the other side of the same building, still moving at speed, and dropped from the far window, just out of her line of sight.

God I hope they hit the next roof, she thought with more worry than she probably needed to ever feel towards Batman. He landed on his feet almost as much as she did.

Taking the jewel, she ran to the far side of the window just the same, getting the widest view possible in the room of the direction the bodies had been flung. There, she thought with relief and a certain pride, as she watched the figure whose silhouette she knew as the Bat’s even this far away, snag the other figure in the air, and grapple a cell tower on top of the building to yank them both the last few feet to the left they needed, before dropping onto the roof at a roll.

What the hell hit him, though? she wondered, turning to look back the way the flash of definitely not real lightning had come, I thought he was fighting Two-Face…?

But no. Two-Face didn’t fly, and whatever was up there was floating, at a kind of mockingly casual pace, and in Batman’s direction.

The hell is that? she wondered, slipping the gem into the bag she had slung over a shoulder, Who in Arkham with that silhouette floats?

-

-

Somewhere to his right, Bruce heard Harvey groan.

That—light? What can have—? His head was still spinning from the hit. Even with the protection the batsuit offered, which was no small thing, the blast itself had felt like a bomb. It had had a pretty high area of effect too, because he’d seen half the roof caving in as he went backwards, and it had hit them with enough force to send them through a building and—

Shit!

Harvey! He—

Struggling to see through the sporadic crackles of light in his vision, Bruce struggled to a knee, half his bodyweight held up by the arm that hurt less. He’s alive at least! I heard him just now but that hit-

Dragging towards the sound, he saw him them, face scrunched up in pain and anger, about six feet away, making it to his own hands and knees. His suit was a little torn up, and there was blood coming from his palms and a leg, but he was miraculously better than expected.

Good, thought Bruce with relief before remembering that right before the flash of light, Two-Face had been trying to kill him.

“Still alive?” he managed, trying to get his second leg under him.

“The hell was that?” replied Two-Face. There had been an unspoken ‘who’ very clear in there, not ‘what’.

They made it up at about the same time, tense and wary and torn up, but not exactly chomping at the bit to go at it again when something had just almost one-shot the both of them, shared a quick ‘don’t try something’ brand glance, and then turned to look back the way they’d come. All there was to see what the pane of glass Bruce had broken on his way out, and smoke past the skyscraper.

“I haven’t seen it before,” replied Batman, switching cowl functions to scan for heat signatures instead. There was one, coming this way, not fast, but definitely it, because it was flying.

“People in this city can’t even wait their own turn,” growled Two-Face, flexing his damaged hands and glancing around for where his tommygun had landed. It had apparently not made the trip with them successfully though, so with an irritated sound, he went for the dual pistols he still had strapped to his chest instead.

Usually Bruce would have been a little bit more concerned about who exactly his opponent was planning to shoot at first, but Harvey was predictable, in a good way. This thing had butted in to an ongoing conflict, struck from complete cover unannounced, and almost sent them both twenty stories to the pavement with a single shot. Two-Face would probably try to shoot at him again later, but, it wouldn’t be until this was over.

“Whatever it was, it’s headed this way,” he informed, drawing a batarang and readying his posture, “and it can fly.”

“Great. Another Gotham special,” said Two-Face, taking in Batman’s stance, and aiming his pistols to align with him and the heat signature he couldn’t track himself. “Whatever it is is going to really regret blowing me off a building.”

That was probably true. Two-Face had a way with revenge, and even without superpowers, he was no joke. Sort of like Batman himself…which was an uncomfortable thought, in the two seconds Bruce let it remain in his head.

The thing rounded the corner of the skyscraper it had sent them flying clean through, and almost before Batman could see it, Two-Face was firing both barrels. The thing raised an arm and some kind of kinetic shield came into existence in front of it, deflecting bullets like it was nothing. Okay. Energy powers of some kind. Something like lightning, and solid enough to shield.

He let his batarang fly, going for a foot, the least likely extremity to be shielded, and it hit—hard enough to get the thing to wince and look at him instead of Two-Face, but it pinged off the armor the thing had on instead of landing.

A flash from its hand sent a bolt of the same energy it had hit them with last time, but they were ready this time, and dove in opposite directions, coming up under the little cover piping and vents on the roof offered, as a smoking crater where they’d been dropped rubble onto the floor below.

It was hard to even tell what this thing was. It was a …vaguely humanoid silhouette. Two legs, two arms, torso, head. Bigger, taller, but not a lot, and so encased head to toe in thick armor, it was hard to tell what shapes were natural, and what was protection. The head was the wrong shape, longer, like a crescent moon viewed from head-on, and there were spikes all along the body, like it was some kind of being made of a shattered chunk of crystal. There was something like wings coming from its back, but Batman could hardly believe anything that shape and bulk provided flight, instead of just decoration—he didn’t believe it, in fact. Mutant? Costume? Alien? Too soon to tell. Powerful, that was for sure. Any with a bone to pick with one of us.

“Batman…” The voice was distorted and projected artificially, like a computer, but smother. Voice distorter, probably. But anyway, that answered that question.

“Attacking from the shadows is a hell of a way to introduce yourself,” called back Batman, stepping up from his cover.

The thing in the air paused and turned to look at him. “You’re one to talk, really.”

Maybe a fair enough point, but Batman glanced at the smoking crater and back up just the same.

“Well, you’ve lived longer than I expected, so I suppose an introduction wouldn’t be rude,” commented the figure from above. It made a sweeping bow in the air. “You may know me as Tachyon, and I’m here for something glorious.”

Batman narrowed his eyes.

“The salvation of the world,” said Tachyon, a smile in its voice, making another grand gesture as it straightened up.

“Which involves incinerating me, how?” said Batman, deadpan.

It had been longer than he expected, and Two-Face hadn’t started shooting again yet. Where is he? Batman didn’t see him. He could turn on the infrared and look, but if he did, that thing might notice and do it too, so.

“Well, I’m afraid I don’t really have time or motivation to tell you the whole story, as fun as a good monologue can be,” replied Tachyon, “Suffice it to say, you’re a sort of…stepping stone.”

Great. One of these.

“See,” said Tachyon, gesturing with an arm as he went, “I’m going to change things. Change…everything. Everyone. I’ve…seen it, Batman. I’ve seen it all. Everything there is to be seen. And I have the keys, to the answers. All that’s left, is to put it in, and turn the lock.”

“I fail to see what that has to do with me,” replied Batman, “Or blowing holes all over my city. That could be viewed as pretty anti-salvation.”

“Yes, I’m sure to you it does,” said Tachyon in the most pitying, patronizing voice Bruce thought he might have ever heard, even with the voice distortion. “And that’s the problem. Take him for example,” added Tachyon, gesturing to where Two-Face had vanished behind cover what must have been two minutes ago now, “Take any of your ‘rouge’s gallery’ criminals. You beat them, and drag them off to Arkham, where incompetent doctors give them treatments that don’t work, and they slide back out that revolving door, and we’re here again, gunshots in the night sky. Really, all you’ve accomplished since your arrival on the scene is…a little…flashy notoriety for the city. It’s not solving anything. In fact, if anything, you’re causing more problems. But do you know what’s worse?” He floated closer, bending forward to look down from twenty feet up. “People here think you’re right. Think you’re good. Well, a majority of them anyway. They think you’re helping this city. But you’re not.”

Judging by proportions, it was entirely possible a human could fit into a suit the shape Tachyon made, as inhuman a silhouette as the thing cut. That was Batman’s guess. Plus, generally, it took a human to monologue in this specific way, especially after noting they were not about to monologue.

“I’m sure you think you’re helping,” said Tachyon pityingly, “But you’re part of the disease. Half these things can’t be helped, and the ones that can be reintegrated to society are never going to get there spoon-fed and seeped in their own engrained toxic behaviors. You think somehow following the system will work, even after decades of it failing. It won’t. People won’t change on their own.”

“You can’t force change,” replied Batman. Where are you, Harvey?

“You can lead a horse to water, Batman,” said Tachyon sympathetically, “and you can make it drink. Actually. If you know how to train it properly. You can make anyone, do anything, if you train it properly. And I have the answers. And you? I’m afraid that’s about all you have time for.”

“You still haven’t said anything that puts killing me in line with your goals,” said Batman more out of slight annoyance at the thing than any need to stall longer.

“No, I suppose I haven’t,” agreed Tachyon, “But I should have hoped it would follow, logically. Surely you can see some of the pieces, Dark Knight.” There was great disdain with the title. In the tone of voice an especially cruel adult might mock a five-year-old pretending to be a dragon. “People think you’re right. And training is fastest with participants who are beginning to see the light. I’m going to cut down on losses, and time, greatly, by making a name for myself, and my path. And what better place to start than the hollow hero and empty ideology of my own hometown?”

Ah. There it was. And a solid lead, if this went past one fight, and there was research to be done.

“So you want to kill me for recognition,” said Batman with his own tinge of disgust.

“I want to make an example, of you and the city, and now I think I will,” said Tachyon.

Batman didn’t actually see the grenade thrown. He heard the gunshot, when Two-Face shot it out of the air to control exactly when and where it would explode, and he knew what it was because he’d seen the trick before, but there was no warning between the word ‘will,’ and the crystalline figure’s side lighting up orange and being slammed with such force it knocked it out of the air and sent it plummeting towards the road below.

Shit-! thought Batman, dashing to the edge of the roof to grapple and catch the thing before it hit pavement and died. It caught itself though, about eight stories down, and hung in the air there.

“I don’t know why you bother talking with those things,” said Two-Face, glancing down from beside him, “Still alive, huh?” he added in mild disappointment but no surprise, “It looked like the armor was too solid for that to do him in.”

He drew his pistol and started shooting at its back, and the thing whipped around to look, and then flew to the side and back up at speed, and Two-Face and Batman stepped back together and readied.

“You!” it hissed in rage, pointing at Two-Face, “You shouldn’t even be here!”

“You showed up to my fight,” retorted Two-Face, unintimidated, emptying his clip in its face.

The translucent energy shield it had used before appeared just in time to deflect the bullets, and it slashed a hand, a beam of the same purple-blue not-lightning streaking from in front of its fingertips and towards Two-Face, who dove to the side and rolled, coming up on a knee with a new clip in his pistol, returning fire. Projectiles weren’t working so well, so Batman ran at it instead while it was distracted. It had landed only about five feet up this time, and he could make that. Through the smoke of its own attack, and the distraction of Two-Face trying to blow its head off, the thing didn’t see him until he was close. Perfect. Using one of the exterior vents as a platform, Batman launched himself at it, sharp knuckles on his gauntlets aimed for the side of its face, and caught it, hard. Its head snapped to the side with a grunt, and he was bringing his other fist down when it turned a palm against his gut and sent him rocketing off the building. It felt like being hit with a missile.

For some stupid reason, as he was plummeting to the street, all he could think was How was there no kickback? He hit me with that much force without being moved back at all? which was really bad, because he needed to be thinking about what to grapple to not to die. Thankfully, there were enough stories between him and pavement for a momentary lapse of judgement, and he slammed the grapple into the side of the building Two-Face was still on top of, close to the top, and started rocketing back up towards it. I can’t tell how bad that hurt me. It hadn’t gone through his suit, but that didn’t make it good. He could feel it. Bruised ribs, maybe. Maybe worse. Not really time to—

The thing above him turned and looked down at him and raised both hands and energy arced from it, in two paths. One for him, one for the grapple. He managed to twist in the air, the left hand shot slicing past so close he could feel the crackle of energy in the air on the skin of his face, but there was nothing he could do about the one shattering the head of his grapple and a tenth of the floor it had been anchored in.

Time slowed for him as he reached the pinnacle of the upward momentum he’d had, and hung for just an instant before gravity had him again and he was going down, still about five stories from the top. He had his other grapple out and aiming, and Tachyon, featureless face fixed on him, shot again. He tucked in limbs to fall faster and angled as hard right as he could, and just barely got himself between both, lefthand grapple finding a high point on the building they’d been blasted through, and rocketing back up towards it, trying to avoid falling debris from the blasts as he went. Tachyon turned with him, bringing his hands together and then making a sweeping gesture outwards, sending a burst of energy the size of a minivan at him. Shit.

He released the grapple to try and fall past it, because there was no way left, right, or up was making it in time, and for an instant he lost visual on Tachyon, the energy between them, and then he was falling past it, and there was another right behind, aimed a little lower, and no way to move in time.

Past it, he could see Tachyon’s upper body, hand drawn back for another shot, and at the same moment, two things happened. Something moving up and left rapidly caught him by the waist and he was jerked to the side of the shot, and towards the building, and Two-Face jumped off the edge of the building and onto Tachyon’s back and started unloading both clips point blank, one in its head, one in its heart.

Then he had lost visual of it, snagged around the left corner of the building by his rescuer, and he looked up to see Catwoman. She had her eyes on the roof, but glanced down for a moment when she felt eyes on her, and gave him a wink behind the gold tinted goggles. “Hey handsome. Just give me a second to stick the landing.”

She tugged her whip free and cracked it around the leg of the same cell tower he’d used as an anchor earlier, and swung them both up onto the rooftop just in time to see Tachyon summon an immense burst of energy like a shockwave around itself with a shriek, blasting Two-Face back off it. He landed about two feet from them with a curse, a little singed but not much worse for the wear, and double took at the sight of Catwoman.

“There a scheduled event today?” he asked.

“I saw you two from a few blocks away, and it just looked like you were having so much fun,” replied Catwoman with a smile, and then, turning her attention to the seething thing in the air about fifteen feet back, “What is that?”

“Tachyon. Beyond that, and some obvious flaws, anybody’s guess,” replied Batman, straightening up. Well, the ribs aren’t broken at least. Bruised is good.

As it turned, there were dents in its face on the left side, and in its chest, but the bullets didn’t seem to have made it quite through the armor, which at point blank range was almost unbelievable. It must have still hurt though, judging by the absolute fury cascading off the thing facing them. There was so much energy hanging in the air he could feel it standing his hairs on end even from here.

With a shout of rage, it aimed both hands at the three of them together, and they leapt in different directions as a blast with the size, force, and judging by the score it left in the building’s roof, length, of a freight train, tore past them.

Bruce came up on a knee right by the edge of the roof, Catwoman just behind him.

“Jesus. When I came to help you boys, I thought it was going to be Electrocutioner, or Strange with some new freak,” said Catwoman, glancing from one to the other as the smoke cleared.

“What, don’t like picking fights you don’t already know you can’t lose?” asked Two-Face with a grin, reaching into his jacket and snagging a grenade, pulling the pin with his teeth, and chucking it in Tachyon’s direction.

“Yes,” said Catwoman, glancing up and jumping out of the way of another blast from Tachyon, “Some of us like to win.”

Batman let a batarang fly, then rolled out of the way of a blast aimed for him, coming up between the others and sending three more after Tachyon when he came up. The first three deflected harmlessly off the thing’s energy field, but the fourth exploded on impact, encasing the front of the shield in ice, and he heard an angry curse from the thing.

“This is getting us nowhere fast,” said Batman.

“Not exactly great for city infrastructure, either,” added Catwoman, glancing at the maybe 40% of the roof still intact.

“Yeah well if you’ve got a plan get on with it,” said Two-Face, taking a knee behind one of the exterior vents to reload.

“I do-” he had to stop to avoid another shot, snagging Catwoman and diving far left beside Two-Face not because he needed to get her out of the way too, but to get all three of them close enough to talk without being heard.

“Yeah?” said Two-Face, not glancing up. He finished reloading and went up over the vent for a second to return fire, then back down as a blast went over his head.

“By his own admission, he’s not familiar with the city. We can use it,” said Batman.

“Okay. How?” said Catwoman.

“There’s two water-towers in a four block radius. The one off 18th has a million gallons in it.”

“Go on,” said Two-Face, interested for the first time.

“Every time we’ve landed a hit, it’s because he’s only paying attention to one of us,” said Batman, “He wants to kill me? We use it-“

Another of the minivan sized shots came for the three of them, and as one they scattered in opposite directions, Catwoman swinging wide with her whip, and Harvey rolling behind another chunk of roof.

Shit. I should have done this first, thought Bruce, annoyed with himself, grappling to land by Catwoman, and taking an earpiece out of his utility belt.

“Here.”

She took it and gave him a funny look.

“It’s an earpi—” started Bruce.

“—I’m not an idiot,” said Catwoman, “But this isn’t how you’re going to see my pretty face either. Go give one to Harvey and give a girl a little privacy for a second, would you?”

Oh. Right.

He forgot how to think of responses and just gave her an awkward nod, and grappled for where he’d seen Two-Face last, tossing a smoke grenade as he went, and an exploding batarang behind it, aiming below Tachyon. It was flying, so that wouldn’t make him fall, but the shrapnel had a good chance of hitting his feet, and that would at least distract the thing.

“Harvey,” he called, landing and not seeing him.

“Behind you, and not present,” came Two-Face’s voice, and he glanced behind him to see his former friend crouched by an upturned chunk of roof from one of the earlier shots.

“Here,” said Batman, passing him an earpiece, “The odds of us being able to stick close together is basically non-existent.”

Harvey took it and gave it a glance, then put it in. “So, you were saying?”

“Catwoman?” checked Batman.

“Loud and clear,” came her voice from his cowl.

“We move the fight towards 18th,” said Batman, “—Harvey, how many grenades do you have left?”

“Enough to punch a hole in the side of the water tower, if you’re asking what I think,” replied Two-Face.

“Good. We get there, I keep his focus on me. Once he’s in position, blow the side of the tower. Catwoman, I’ve got enough ice pellets I can pass you to freeze him solid inside it.”

“And you?” asked Catwoman.

“I’ll move.”

“Worth a shot,” said Two-Face, taking a couple through the smoke, guessing apparently pretty well, because Bruce could hear the bullets pinging off the thing’s shield.

“Okay. Let’s do it. Meet you at the edge of the roof for the pellets,” came Catwoman’s voice.

Batman tossed a flash grenade, then turned and ran for the far end of the roof, towards 18th street, Two-Face with him. Ahead, he saw Catwoman land on the edge of the roof and look back at them over her shoulder. As he ran, he opened the pouch on his belt with the freeze pellets and took all of them, sliding to a stop by Catwoman and the waiting open bag she was holding out. As he dumped the pellets inside, he noticed an enormous diamond in there too.

“Oh, you want to start something about that now?” asked Catwoman, catching his look. Not giving him time to respond, she jumped off the roof and caught onto a pipe with her whip, swinging up to the next rooftop and running.

He aimed his grapple.

“Uh, you two know I can’t go leaping from rooftop to rooftop, right?” said Two-Face in slight annoyance behind him.

“Yeah,” he said, glancing back and offering an arm, pretty sure neither of them was going to be too happy about this. Two-Face definitely wasn’t, but the helpful sound of Tachyon firing an energy blast their direction quickly changed the subject mentally from anything but ‘let’s get the fuck out of the way of that before we’re vaporized,’ and Two-Face ran to him, Batman snagged him around the waist, and grappled for the next building, hearing the edge of the roof explode behind them.

Not needing to use his arms for any of this, Two-Face twisted around as they swung, and emptied both clips in Tachyon’s direction.

How many of those is he carrying? Way more than two, apparently.

“Running?” called Tachyon’s distorted voice—much more distorted, apparently, by taking a gunfull of bullets to his mask, “How unlike you, Batman.”

Ignoring that, Batman landed on the roof a yard behind Catwoman and ran, neck and neck with Two-Face. Two energy blasts came their way, and he saw Catwoman swing to the side as he and Harvey split, ducking in opposite directions, then course-correcting towards the same corner of the building. As he got close, Batman turned around and sent an exploding batarang towards the thing rapidly gaining on them. Its shield caught the shot, but in the moment of smoke and light, he caught Two-Face again, and jumped, grappling for a building across the street, then again around the edge of the block. Close. He could see the tower up ahead, and Catwoman well on her way towards it on his right.

“Get on a building!” shouted Two-Face.

“Why?” he asked in surprise.

“Because that thing can fly a lot faster than it was before!” he snapped, and Batman looked over his shoulder just in time to see it hurtling towards them at speed, hand outstretched and crackling. No time to maneuver, and too low to reach a roof, he chucked Two-Face at the nearest fire escape, and turned to brace. The thing hit him like missile, digging its fingers into the chestplate of his suit. The claw-like fingers snapped through armor and it bent its arm and flung him, slamming him into the side of the building.

Even with time to brace for impact, it hurt. The brick building gave way around him and for a second he was stuck in it, hanging there, head throbbing. Trying to think as the thing in the air stopped and turned. It opened its hands and flexed.

“On the ropes,” it said proudly, “If you can take it as some consolation at the end, you lasted much longer than I expected. I’ll remember that. You should be very honored.”

It was so…sincere. Whatever this thing was, it really believed every word of that. Which was information he felt like he could find the importance of, if only he could get his mind to focus. He’s going to shoot me. I have to…

It raised its hands towards him, energy sparking, and a whip cracked.

For a brief instant, he saw Catwoman falling past him, and the tip of her whip caught Tachyon around the hands and jerked them towards each other as he unleashed his attack, and then everything in the air was a blinding flash of purple and blue and white and he couldn’t see anything except sparks along his eyes, and there was a horrible sound like an engine exploding. A shockwave of air slammed into him, and he lost vision for a second.

Catwoman. She-

Struggling, he blinked, focusing blurry eyes on the chaos around him. Tachyon was on the ground across the street, in the wreckage of what had been a car. On the ground, he could see a body in black he recognized as Catwoman, and his heart sped up, but as he struggled to get free of the wall, he saw it move, a little unsteady, and stand. Oh she’s okay. Thank god.

What a crazy thing to do. Effective, though.

He had to hand it to her, she was nothing if not that.

Oh shit I hit my head worse than I thought, didn’t I, came the follow-up thought too late as he pulled free of the wall and raised an arm to shoot his grapple and watched his vision go black. It was too late though. He had leaned into the motion too far not to fall, and he blacked out and pitched forward, thinking please wake up before you hit the pavement in some dismally disconnected way. There was a jolt along his left arm he was vaguely aware of, and he felt himself hanging for a few seconds as he fought to wake up. What…?

Blinking hard, his vision came back into focus, and he saw Catwoman below him again. She was running for the side of the building, and climbing a drainpipe, trying to get back to the roof. Across the street, Tachyon, not looking so great himself now, was dragging himself off the ruined sedan, seething. His gauntlets were shattered, cracks running all along the arms, and some of the fingers missing, revealing human hands underneath, and bare bone robotics wrapped around them. So you are human.

He felt himself being lifted then, and looked up to see Two-Face with a death-grip on his left arm, hoisting him towards the fire escape. Ah. That’s why.

As Harvey got him over the railing, he heard Tachyon shouting and glanced down to see it take to the air again, a bit raggedly now.

“RRAAAAH!” it shouted in what appeared to be just frustration, waving its damaged arms at them furiously. “WHY are you helping him!” It shouted at Two-Face, enraged. “You were trying to kill him yourself when I arrived!”

“Just because I want to kill him doesn’t mean I want you to kill him,” replied Two-Face in disgust.

Thanks, I think, thought Bruce.

“Boys, we should maybe get a move-on?” came Catwoman’s voice over coms, “He uhhh, looks pretty mad to me!”

Batman took Two-Face and grappled with him to the roof, and took her suggestion, running towards the end of the block and the waiting water tower up ahead.

“Yeah! Nice shot!” called Two-Face as they ran, “That was fun to watch.”

I’ll bet, thought Bruce, trying to ignore the agony in his ribs as he ran. I should really take Al’s advice and carry pain meds with me—why don’t I do that? Why?

 The buildings were close enough they could both jump them here, so they did, Bruce trying to mask how much landing had hurt by looking over his shoulder at the enemy behind them. He was moving a lot slower now, which was great. Two-Face might have a little too much of a point though—vendetta of some weird kind or not, the thing might be more angry at Catwoman right now than him, so he’d have to think of a way to make absolutely certain to draw all its fire. This thing has a temper though, so that should be easy enough.

They jumped another alley and tore across the roof of the last building on the block, Catwoman ahead of them, taking a running leap to a light post, and from there to a billboard, then launching herself at the building on the far side of the street, slamming into the side wall and digging into it with her claws and starting to climb.

For a second, Batman was confused, and then he saw the whip, wrapped around her waist like always, but missing a sold third now, and scorched at the end. Right. Of course.

He and Two-Face reached the end of the roof side-by-side, and Batman grappled them across the street and onto the waiting roof, landing just as Catwoman swung herself up alongside them.

“Well boys,” she said like that had all been perfectly easy as she straightened up, “Game time?”

Two-Face shot her a grin, and flipped his coin. He seemed pleased by the result and placed it back in his pocket, replacing it with a gun and cracking his neck. “Looks like.”

“Okay. Let’s go,” said Batman, and they split.

Okay. Where do I do this. There were plenty of places close enough to the water tower to work, but he wanted to be low enough to let gravity and the weight of that water cause some damage, and far enough to give Catwoman and Two-Face a little space. And somewhere I can stall. That part might not be so hard. This guy liked to monologue.

Maybe not with that many holes in him though, thought Batman with a grimace, glancing behind himself and taking in the incredible damage to the suit Tachyon was wearing as it banked around the building behind them, and into his line of sight.

Okay then, there. South corner, next building over. Close enough, almost right below, and one of those little bulkheads for a stairwell, which would provide decent cover if talking failed to stall.

Now just to make sure Tachyon came after him.

“Have your pet criminals abandoned you?” called Tachyon, pausing to hover in the air now that it could see him again. Its suit of armor did…not look good. His, suit of armor, at a guess, but it was impossible to be sure. “Or have the rats just scuttered off, waiting in the wings for a good chance to dive on back in from the shadows like cowards again?” They added, glancing around for Catwoman and Two-Face.

“You act like I’ve used some unfair numbers advantage on you,” said Batman, turning to face him, “But neither of them works for me. Two-Face wouldn’t even still be here if you’d only blown me off the side of a building. You think you’re awfully important and powerful, but you’re still picking fights and complaining about it.”

Ah, there we go, he thought with some satisfaction, seeing the immediate change in body-posture and tone in Tachyon.

“It’s not a matter of fairness or fear. They’re mild irritants, which in general I’m not fond of,” said Tachyon icily.

Still hesitating to hit me though. I bet you think this is a trap. Which, it was. So I’m either going to have to get him a whole lot more comfortable, or a whole lot more angry for this to work.

Tachyon raised a palm and a sphere of thick purple-blue energy appeared in the air.

Oh, or not, nevermind.

Bruce leapt back and right, out of the way of the pulse, and returned fire with a batarang, aiming for the exposed skin now on the hands. Tachyon’s shield flickered to life and deflected the shot, but they could see what he’d tried to do, and did not seem pleased by it.

Taking a few steps back towards is goal, Batman flung another two batarangs, then leapt backwards and handsprung to the far edge of the roof, dodging two more blasts from the thing.

“This was supposed to be easier,” said Tachyon with great irritation, to itself though, not him, from the volume.

“Funny how that works,” said Batman, levelling a batarang at it and smiling, “You showed up thinking you’d take one shot from the shadows yourself, and kill me, the symbol of power and justice in Gotham, and here you are getting your ass handed to you by a couple of two-bit criminals who happened to be nearby.”

That did it. Whatever small amount of holding back Tachyon had had went completely out the window, and it shrieked in rage and came after him, firing off blasts from its palms at such an insane rate, there was no way it was even aiming all of them. Batman leapt out of the way and back, then turned and ran, hearing it come after, and zig-zagging from cover to cover, leaping an alley and sliding into position behind the bulkhead just as the side of it exploded in a flash of bright energy.

“You’re laughing, but I’m no joke,” came Tachyon’s voice, drenched with venom, “I am going to change this city, and the world, into what you couldn’t. Into what no one else has the guts, the brains, or the ability to make it. It was only my mistake to think I’d do you the honor of fighting you evenly, like this. You didn’t deserve it.”

That’s one way to take losing badly, thought Batman, readying a smoke grenade. He dashed out of cover and threw it, sliding under a shot from Tachyon, and to the edge of the roof.

“I looked on you as a necessary sacrifice, but I respected what you wished you were doing,” said Tachyon, turning to face him, palms leveled, “So I thought I’d do you the great favor going, since there is no way around you going, without any unnecessary emotional pain.”

What on earth does even he think he’s talking about?

“As much trouble as you’ve caused this world, you do it because you’re mislead. An ego-maniac who thinks he’s the cure the world can’t offer.” There was a strange sensation then, sudden. Not…painful. But. Not…not painful.

It…it wasn’t doing anything he could see, but if felt like. Like. …Being pushed out of your own head, a little, or pushed further in. What did…? He… Pressure, like the altitude had risen suddenly, and…

“Or maybe…it’s guilt,” said Tachyon, “That makes you cling to the festering corpse of this rotting ci—”

The water tower exploded behind them.

Bruce flung himself backwards and off the building as fast as he could, tucked in limbs, and launched, then spreading them and using the cape to glide at the last second, and swinging up and wide of the massive downpour of water. It was thunderous. The sound drowned out anything else. He couldn’t even hear the explosion past the water after the first second. The deluge slammed into the building with such force, it completely obscured it from vision as he twisted in the air to look. And then, there was a little faint flash of light, and he saw chemicals bond at speed, and the water turn to ice, so fast it was still in the air when it did. The water clung to the roof of the building like the inside of a jagged snowglobe, a partially translucent picture, or a frozen moment of time. In it, just at the edge of the roof, still in the air, but trapped there now by the solid matter around him, Batman could see Tachyon. Horizontal, knocked down by the force of the water, and trapped near the roof, about ten feet below where he’d been.

We did it, thought Bruce in relief, landing on the next rooftop over and letting out a breath. With it, the pain in his ribs became more real. Ow.

“Nice job,” said Batman into the coms, not sure where exactly the other two had landed.

“Two-bit criminals?” came Harvey’s voice from behind him with distaste.

Ah, there you are.

He glanced behind himself, not sure if they were going to immediately go back to fighting, and hoping Two-Face would at least wait for them to be completely certain that thing wouldn’t find some way out of here.

“I had to get his attention,” he replied.

“Well, it worked,” came Catwoman’s voice, and he heard a clink of metal on metal, and saw her sling herself down from a billboard by the building, and land easily on his other side, “That man certainly likes the sound of his own voice,” she added, glancing at the frozen scene.

Tachyon, for his part, hadn’t moved. They seemed trapped there, well and truly. So I guess I’d better get them out before they suffocate, thought Batman with some (he felt) pretty deserved tiredness.

He stepped over carefully, onto the ice, until he was directly above, and scanned the body.

“All clear?” asked Catwoman curiously, slinging her arms casually over his shoulders and looking down with him.

“Well, he’s alive, and human. Heartrate…surprisingly normal, for being encased in ice, and still conscious for it. No movement, no change. Whatever he’s got his suit made out of, it’s letting him breathe, though, so no rush thawing him out,” said Batman, lowering his palm as the sensors in his fingertips finished their scan.

He stepped back onto the roof, checking data on the screen in his cowl.

“Well, that was a fun little intermission,” said Two-Face, cracking his neck and eyeing Batman.

Ah. Right. He’s being unusually decent about announcing it’s back on. I guess I should be…grateful for that.

God he was tired though. And his ribs and chest hurt. And head. He would have loved to go home and call it a night. Sadly, that wasn’t the job, though. Ever…

He shut off the little data screen on the back of his gauntlet and straightened up, sliding a batarang into his hand and turning to face him.

“Wait, what?” said Catwoman, double-taking, “You two? Are going back to fighting? After that?”

“Yeah, sweetheart, so you might want to move along,” said Two-Face, levelling his gun and not taking his eyes off Batman.

“Wait, are you serious?” she asked, incredulous, looking from one to the other, “Why?”

Batman glanced at her, then back at Two-Face, tensed, throw ready.

“Why?” echoed Two-Face, still not looking at her.

“Yeah,” she said, turning to Batman, “Aren’t you going to let him go?”

Two-Face lost his perfect focus for a second.

Shit, thought Bruce nervously, This could get really bad for me. He kept his scowl and his eyes on Two-Face.

“Stop it—no, I’m serious,” said Catwoman, irritated now, and moving slightly between them, putting hand on Batman’s shoulder, “Come on. He helped you.”

“And,” said Batman flatly, praying she would take the hint and stop.

She did not.

“And?? And he saved your life! You owe him. What, you’re not going to let him walk?”

“Kitty-Cat,” said Two-Face, slightly off his own game at this point, “What are you trying to accomplish here?”

“Come on, what were you even stopping him from doing tonight? Robbing something?” said Catwoman, still on Batman.

Well…

“Oh, come on,” she pressed, “You let me go.”

“Wait, what?” said Two-Face.

God damn it.

“That’s hardly the same thing,” said Batman, irritated and struggling to find a quick way in his head to remedy this situation. I can’t just let him go! With her, it’s different. She doesn’t kill people. She’s never even really hurt someone. But Harvey…

“It’s completely the same thing,” said Catwoman, dedicatedly making everything worse, “He’s a thief; I’m a thief. It’s not like he’s some serial killer like Joker.”

“I am not a thief,” said Two-Face in disbelief, the target of his aggression beginning to swap.

Oh god.

“Well what do you call yourself then?” said Catwoman, not seeming to notice that as she turned to him.

“A crime boss,” said Harvey in the slightly stunted voice of someone who had had no prepared response and just barely managed to produce that answer on demand.

“What, like the Roman?” said Catwoman, “You’re nothing like that.”

This is going to get out of hand almost immediately, thought Bruce in distress.

“Enough!” he tried, cutting off the last syllable of Catwoman’s ‘You’re much more like me than you’re like that’. “It’s different,” he said, looking from one to the other, “He’s different.”

“What, and you can’t let him go, even once?” she asked, eyes getting huge in the very annoyingly effective way she was so good at, “Even after he saved your life?”

He glanced at Harvey, mind running questions he already knew the answer to again, just in case maybe this time there would be some amazing, new, different answer. Arm lowering on its own just an inch as he felt, like always, for just a second like he could see the person he used to know behind those eyes instead of the one who was really there now in front of him.

And then there was a sound of ice cracking.

Bruce turned at the sound, but back to it, he turned too late. Catwoman had looked at Two-Face when he did, and turned at the sound too. Two-Face, who had been already looking towards the ice, moved before the sound.

As he turned, time seemed to slow and Batman saw Tachyon above the ice somehow, not in it, hovering upright, arm leveled, and what looked like a gun in his hand. Which was impossible. He had no belt. No pack. Nothing. Where had it come from? His armor was broken like before, but there was no hole in the ice, no crack, no shrapnel from someone breaking through it. It was like he’d vanished and re-materialized. There was just no way.

The bullet that had been fired before he turned at the sound of ice cracking was already on him when he turned, and it was going to hit the broken dent in the front of his chest armor Tachyon had made with his claws, and then Harvey’s arm slammed into his side, and he fell out of the way of the shot.

Time did not return to normal.

Bruce felt everything slow.

How?

It wasn’t possible. That wasn’t how physics worked. Nothing about how he’d acted had indicated any kind of—displacement power. If he could teleport, why wait until now?

But arguing with reality didn’t stop it. And Harvey went back as the bullet hit him instead.

And Tachyon vanished.

Batman stumbled, and caught himself, staring at the nothing where an enemy had just been, waiting for another attack, and then he heard Harvey hit the ground, and looked. Oh God. Please, please don’t be hurt badly.

Catwoman caught him, just before he’d fallen all the way, and Bruce slid to a knee and found the blood and the torn fabric immediately. It had only hit his forearm, and he felt almost sick with relief at the sight. If he never, ever saw another person he cared about shot in front of him again, it would be too soon.

“Go!” called Catwoman, “I got him!”

He gave a nod and turned and ran for the edge of the roof, switching the cowl to look for heat signatures. Nothing. He tried cold, tried light spectrums, electromagnetics, soundwaves, anything he could think of. But Tachyon was just…gone.

Really gone, he realized, as the faint sound of Catwoman and Two-Face exchanging words registered, and the seconds ticked from one to twelve, and nothing happened.

He looked down at the ice, a strange feeling in his chest. Why did I hear the ice crack, if he teleported?

A part of him thought the thing had just wanted him to turn and look. There was no crack, not anywhere he could see at least. Just a hollow, the size of Tachyon, where his body had been.

…

He turned, and walked back to Harvey, taking a knee and reaching for the arm.

“I’m fine,” said Two-Face in annoyance, pushing himself up to his feet, “barely even winged me.”

“…Why?” asked Bruce, standing with him, and looking from the torn fabric up to his face, “Why would you-”

There had been irritation and hostility ready in whatever answer Two-Face had been about to give, but he didn’t. Instead, he screamed, and snatched the wounded arm with his free one reflexively, stumbling back.

“Harvey?” asked Catwoman in alarm, catching his shoulder and trying to steady him.

Thinking fast, Batman grabbed his arm and sliced through the fabric of the sleeve with a batarang, exposing the bullet hole, and watched in horror as something very clearly moved under the skin. Two-Face cried out again, arm spasming as whatever had been in the bullet dug in deeper under his muscle, and then started crawling up his arm under the skin.

“Cut it out!” he shouted.

Batman grabbed his forearm at the elbow, tight, to block the thing, and sliced into the skin right in the thing’s path. Harvey jerked and gritted his teeth, face sweating, and Catwoman tried to keep him steady. Quick, Batman pulled the top layer of skin back about three inches across, and he could see it. A little purplish robot, small, about the size of a nickel, with hundreds of tiny feet propelling it along. He snatched it with the tips of his gauntlet claws, and ripped it free with intense relief.

And it broke apart in his fingers.

No. Split apart, into something like a hundredtiny versions of itself, the size of seed ticks. They flung themselves from his fingertips and rained down back onto the open wound, burrowing in with a horrific speed and frenzy as they touched flesh, and dispersing, up the arm, in the skin, in the muscles, on the tendons, along the nerves.

Harvey screamed again, falling to a knee as the skin on his upper arm wriggled with the tiny robots that were close to the surface, scuttling beneath the skin towards his shoulder, and his arm started to spasm uncontrollably.

“Do something!” shouted Catwoman desperately.

There was a ripple of movement along the skin on the side of his neck now, and the muscles in it began to twitch; his whole body jerked with it, and he began to choke, and Bruce realized the robots were going to burrow into his brain, and he found the emp in his utility belt as fast as humanly possible and discharged it against Harvey’s neck at maximum charge, frying every electronic in a half mile radius.

Two-Face collapsed forwards and went completely still, and Batman dropped to his knees, arms shaking as he raised the suddenly lifeless head and felt for a pulse at his neck.

My god, Harvey. Please. Please, God, don’t let him be dead.

There was a pulse. Faint. But there.

He met Catwoman’s eyes.

“He’s alive.”

“Oh thank God,” she said like an exhale, looking off at nothing wide-eyed for a second, then back at him. “What the hell was that?”

“What the hell is it,” said Batman, finding adhesive, and using it to secure the emp to Harvey’s neck, still running, “I’m not taking chances on having permanently fried those. Whatever they are, they’re little bits of metal, and they’re still in him.”

“A-At least you got them before they got to his head,” offered Catwoman shakily, and then much more shakily, “You did. Get them before they made it all the way up his neck, didn’t you?”

He didn’t know, so he didn’t answer.

“Christ,” she said, sounding sick.

“Either way, I’m getting them out,” said Batman, rage starting to replace the fear that had been all he could feel until a second ago. Careful, he stooped, and lifted Harvey, and Catwoman let go to let him.

Thinking as fast as he was physically able, Bruce used the button on his gauntlet to remote call the car, really, really glad Al had insisted on all the emp casing on all of his own tech it was possible to get some on once he’d started using the things, and moved to the edge of the roof, watching for the bright flash of blue light announcing its turn down the street.

I can get him to the Batcave, get Al’s help. Run a full scan from the computer, see what we’re dealing with here.

“I’m going with you.”

He hadn’t heard her come up, but when he turned to look, Catwoman was standing beside him on the roof.

She turned her head to meet his gaze, expression determined. “That thing is still out there, and you don’t know what you’re dealing with. He would have fried you twice already tonight, without me.” She hesitated a second then, and glanced down at the street, and when she continued, her tone was different. “Besides. If I don’t know you got those things back out of him, I’m going to have nightmares for the next weeks. …And besides,” she pressed on, tone more casual again, “Diamond Boy is still out there somewhere, and I’d hardly like to think what might happen to me if I take a hit like that without you and an emp to save me.”

She turned her head towards him and tilted it, giving him a smile.

“…Please, let me help,” she said after a moment of his silence, expression never once wavering. Like she already knew he must be going to let her.

Bruce thought.

..There were…plenty of reasons to refuse, the most simple of which was the absolute havoc that woman could wreak on the Batcave and all the tech he had in it, and had the one time he’d taken her before, and the second of which was Alfred, but…

But she’s smart, and she’s observant. She might have seen something I missed, and I’m not taking chances, when someone almost died sixty seconds ago.

If Harvey could still be in trouble, and he could be, and she even might be able to help, and she might…

“Okay,” he said quietly, turning to meet her gaze, and her face brightened with a very proud grin. “But you’re staying blindfolded on the way in, and the way out.”

Expression completely unchanged—even more pleased honestly, if anything, she nodded. It never hurt her case with him that she had to be the single prettiest thing he’d ever seen, he thought to himself, chagrined.

There was the familiar screech of tires, and the batmobile slid to a stop in the street below them. They both looked down at it, then back at each other. She was practically glowing.

“Please, don’t make me regret this,” said Bruce. …Again.

[dreamingpine]

do you think my characters hate me for loving them and hateing them and putting them thru it?

[screampied]

໒꒱ ₊˚ ‘ F★CK ME LIKE U WANT ME ! ’﹒

𐚁̸ sum. how the jjk men fuck—feat. gojo, geto, choso, nanami, toji.

𐚁̸ warnings. fem! reader, size kink, hair pulling, hitting it raw, face sitting, manhandling, impact play, degradation, squírting, faking it, spit, overstim, breeding, choking, mdni.

☆ NANAMI KENTO fucks like he’ll never see you again.

he loathes his dreadfully long work hours more than anything, spending time away from you was like a death sentence to him—all he knew at the end of the day was that he missed you, he missed his wife. the moment he’s buried deep inside you, interlocking his fingers with yours—it feels like pure bliss. “hey,” he’d breathe, and for a moment you feel his weight press against you. he’s hovering, you’re in the classic missionary position. he feels warm, tenderly hot inside. you then instinctively wrap your legs around his waist with your arms slinging around his shoulders. “my love,” he kisses near your neck, starting up a frantic yet sensual pace again. “oh, how i missed you,” and he kisses near your chin. “mwah,” he concludes before you feel his knees spread a bit more wider for a more better base. “keep those eyes up here—i missed my girl,” and he says it again and again until it sounds like a mantra.

“i missed you more.” you’d coo out in a soft voice, the back of your heel gingerly running down his back. your knees open, nanami’s kneeling between your legs and you moan at his sloppy yet erotically risqué thrusts. his sweet rotating rhythm was the icing on the cake.

“oh, honey that’s just impossible,” he’d purr in a honeyed voice, a big hand pressing against your tummy. “tell me one thing though,” he hums, and the more you listen to his voice—the more melodic it sounds to you. “when i press . . here, do you feel me or do you feel our future baby?”

a candied moan runs out your mouth before you cling onto his hips that continue to delve in and out of you. he’s piercing straight into you at full speed, you merely get whiplash from it all.

he was so thick, so hefty…

the stretch made your mind speed run, he knew just the right spots to drive into. your gummy walls clamp down on him tightly, and he bites his lip at the way your loving cunt keeps him continuously hostage. every time, he’s forevermore entangled with nothing but your warmth. bodies on bodies, he liked being on top of you—the shared warmth of his skin brushing against yours, it sends you and him both various amounts of secretive inevitable shivers.

“future baby?” you inhale with a sheepish grin, his body, the way it strenuously rocks against you in such sync makes you fall more and more and love with him. “you want another baby, kento?”

“i want a whole family with you,” he murmurs in a quavering breath, leaning up close to you to nip a few sugared kisses near the corner of your neck. glacé, a perfect word to describe your taste—in nanami’s eyes, you were the sweetest treat anyone could get their hands upon. to him, you never failed to taste so appetizing, he loves more than anything to softly run his tongue near the very inner parts of your neck. he gives it a few concise sucks, meanwhile he’s still got you right where he wants you. his cock’s idly jackhammering in and out of you and you’re holding him close with the most harmonic sounds leaving the back of your throat. “you’re such a good mommy. whenever this tummy’s all round ‘n plump, it’s so pretty,” and he brings another kiss near your lips. “you’re pretty, my love.”

the very back of your heel continues to skim down his back. nanami’s muscles tense a bit from your touch and he steadies his pace for a bit.

“let’s m-make another baby then,” you stammer, his cologne scent making you a bit dizzy. he always smelled so good, his fragrant was so loud, forever reaching your nostrils the more he’s getting himself closer and closer. nanami loves the feeling of your touch, the way your hands grab onto him—pulling him closer so he can be more thorough with his deep deep strokes. he adores it.

more importantly, he adores you.

he’s panting heavily, a few strands of sweat beads race down the corners of his forehead before he kisses you once more. after a lengthy amorous kiss, he departs with a cute flushed expression and you moan. “you’re always such a good daddy too, kento.”

“. . . oh, i try to be the best for my gorgeous wife, after all.”

nanami’s words dripped with tenderness and warmth. as the bed creaks, creating a mere harmony within itself—he feels himself coming close, he knows it. blond strands of his begin to stick and glue to his forehead from the sweat that already coats his skin. “m-my love,” he suddenly says, and his grip on your hand tightens, still intertwining his fingers with yours. “i’m gonna give you so much—sooo much,” and he kisses the top of your forehead. “you’re gonna look even more stunning once you’re done being f-filled.”

“k—kento.” you’d whine, feeling his heavy base thwack against you consistently. you could tell by the sheer hits against your cunt, he was full of incoming ropes of seed.

his breathing becomes heavy and as his kegals flex and flex. a few long extended amounts of seconds pass before he finally finishes. his tip radiates with a feeling of hotness, and once he starts to flood the inside of your pussy with strings of his load—he lets off a cute strained moan himself. “f-fuck,” he’d huff out in a short breath, and even his swears were cute. nanami’s hooded eyes stare at you, and he leans against your chest, still plugging you up. feeling his cum trickle into you furthermore, nanami then slithers a hand down your tummy. “oh, m—my gorgeous girl. now we wait.”

☆ GOJO fucks like it’s the end of the world.

“yeah so angel, we’re gonna like die in five days.”

“what?”

“i read this article earlier—the world’s ending ‘n i also just so happened to stumble across this position i wanted to try on ya.”

“……”

with gojo, it’s always abruptly unforeseen moments such as these. he’s so unserious, if unserious was a person—it’d be satoru gojo.

yet, that’s all it took because it doesn’t take long before you’re literally being stretched out to the very fullest. with your legs thrown up in the air, just dangling and dangling over your shoulders like an earring, you’re whimpering your head off.

“o-oh my god, s—satoruuuu,” you’d babble out, and he’s got you in a full nelson. in the flesh, this position was practically known for having someone feel everything. each nerve, each pulse, you felt it all.

with a clouded mind and a stuffed cunt, you felt like you’re residing in cloud nine. your mouth was just stupidly hung open—you were sure a few strands of your spit were about to run past you’re lips and you whine. “you’re so d-deep, ‘s good, more.”

he’s laid back all lazy like, manspread with you all on top of him. gojo feels his thighs ache a bit from the rough repetitive slams your cunt makes against him before he groans huskily. “s-shittt,” and his arms lock around your neck. the sounds your cunt makes in retaliation were so lewd. soaked and oh so sopping wet.

you were dripping profusely, drenching his lap with nothing but your pool of sweet arousal. “clampin’ all on me, such a nasty g—girl.”

each time your pussy flings down against his lap over and over, it sends multiple shockwaves all throughout your body—so many shockwaves. you’re hot and bothered, he brings a hand down to grab near your right tit, giving it a soft firm squeeze.

“so cute. how deep do you feel me, angel? grab my hand ‘n show me. i wanna know where my girl feels the most stuffed.”

hesitatingly, you grab onto his wrist leading it towards the very lower part of your tummy—he hums a sweet tune, nearly having you in a headlock before you mewl out.

“feel you here, ‘toru,” and you feel your knees sink. he’s so deep, the stretch has your mouth salivating before you gasp. the pointed tip of his cock prods near your clit, causing you to shudder within his hold. “s—satoru, fuck, f-fuckkk.” you’d whine out, and your voice pitches just a bit more. your entire body feels warm, it’s rising temperature the more he’s got your cunt buried to the hilt with his thick cock. a few specks of white hair that coats near his base tickles and titillates against your ass each time you mercilessly plop back down. the air’s growing heavy and stuffy. you can barely even process that a familiar feeling was concurrently arising.

“upsie fuckin’ daisey,” he groans, lifting you up just a bit more. he was so strong, well considering he technically is considered to be the strongest. the strongest in bed for sure—gojo’s got his legs parted, and he’s just dumping such mean inches in and out of your cunt. you swallow him up within your walls every time. his stallion-like stamina was purely out of this world, not showing an ounce of fatigue. “so w-hot ‘n cozy inside f’me, gonna make me cum quick, angel.”

his voice was starting to get a bit trembly and whiny.

breathing patterns irregular and picking up—he was close. although, your release ends up coming straight away, so abruptly quick to where you don’t even get a moment to breathe. it literally takes your breath away—it’s so quick you have to blink thrice.

your body, its first initial response was to vigorously shake upon impact. you gush out, and you hear yourself squelch—surprised that that even came out of you before you slump way back against gojo’s bare chest. he pauses, holding your hips in place before with a sigh, he snickers a cocky, “hm, did you just . . squirt on me, baby?”

alas, there’s no reply—cute.

so much volume came out, it felt incredible. the pressure makes you whimper out louder while still being laid back against him with his twitching cock hidden inside your pussy. he stood still, and yet you still felt the pure stretch mend your walls in place. gojo’s hand slowly reaches down between your legs before feeling near your now sopping wet cunt.

“well shit, you messy girl. you really did squirt on me huh,” and he sounds more playful than usual. gojo finally puts your legs down and then he lifts you up once more, making you rest against him. pressing a wet kiss near the corner of your neck, he whispers, a lengthy finger gradually inserting between your folds. with a hushed whisper, he murmurs, “now that i know you’re a little super soaker, do that for me again, yeah? let’s play with that little squirt velocity of yours for just a bit.”

☆ TOJI fucks like he hates you.

when toji fucks, he fucks.

toji’s mean—an asshole, practically the human embodiment of the seven-lettered word. sure, he loves you. but at this particular moment, it’s like he hates your guts. ironic, considering he was actually deep in them, stirring them up in such a rough spiteful way.

“arch the fuck over more. even i can do better than that, girl,” he indignantly grouses, a hand grips a good handful of your hair whilst he’s just rudely pounding into you. he could arch better than you? truth be told, as you’re moaning your head off while being pounded full of his thick inches from behind, you giggle. toji spanks you, his palm kissing against your ass and you bite your lip from the after-effect of the sting. “giggle giggle ass girl. the fuck is so funny,” and he deepens his thrusts—a gasp lets out from the back of your throat once he smushes his weight against you.

prone bone, one of his favorites.

if toji really wanted to, he’d lean up so close and do his most treasured move—simply putting a foot near the back of your neck. it was so lewd, you’d moan whenever you feel the very back of his sock run against your neck. such a lazy way, a foot pressed against the back of your head while he’s just gifting you with mean thrusts while you’re on all fours. “uh huh. yeah, ‘s what the fuck i thought.”

“you’re the one saying you can a—arch better than me,” you whine, your voice was shaky but he could tell you were holding back laughter. you were playing with fire, especially at a lewd moment like this. he’s deep inside, the tip of his angry cock mashing against each and every corner of your cunt before you’re about to burst. “if you can arch better than me then prove i—”

“. . . listen here bitch,” toji grumbles, feeling his eye twitch.

he tugs just a bit harder on your hair. your back arch was simply immaculate. sitting upright, your palms sat against the sheets of the bed, bawling them up before you felt his free hand grip your waist steadfastly. toji leans right up to your ear before muttering in a low raspy voice. “you know, babygirl. sure do got a lot of talk for someone who struggles to take me every damn time.”

he’s got you there, you swallow before feeling a brief sharp pivot of his hips.

everything was just downright filthy. his strokes had you gasping for air practically—meticulously, he makes sure to hit every spot. his aim was thorough and precise, making sure to hit everywhere like the insides of your cunt was his target. your pussy incessantly clenches every few seconds and it makes him groan. the necklace chain that wraps around his neck tickles your back, the way it runs against your skin makes you metaphorically fold. the material of it skims down your tense muscles and you think you’re so close you could taste your sweet release on the very tips of your tastebuds.

“c—cum, ‘m gonna cum, toji.” you suddenly whimper, feeling the brusque twitch of your right thigh. with your teeth shattering, he continues to maintain a firm grip—this time, his hand placement lowers towards your neck. it gives him a good amount of leverage before he tilts his hips forward. once he does that, he thrashes his angry plump cockhead against your folds and the whine you choke out was immaculate. “f-fuck, cumming.”

toji pauses—something wasn’t right, he knew your body and how it responded to him.

the silence was straight-up deadly. your heart races while he’s still inside, you feel him twitch whilst he’s still buried deep into you and it feels so raw. “oh, girl i know the fuck you didn’t,” he grits, and he pulls out almost immediately. literally the definition of a sassy man—you could hear the bitter annoyance lingering on his tone before he flips you over, making you stare right into his dark viridescent colored eyes. “faking orgasms today yeah? you’re on a roll today.”

“i— i didn’t fake it.” you pout, not fond of the way you were suddenly empty from him pulling straight out. you wanted to be full, but you also wanted to act like a bit of a brat. “it was real.”

“sure,” he rasps, and he suddenly gets up—you’re confused, actually quite close to your finish despite you faking it the first initial time and he casually just reaches for the remote, switching the tv on. “while ya work on making y’erself finish, i’m gonna catch up on shameless.”

“are you serious?” you pant, and he very much is. he’s getting all comfy underneath the silk sheets, lazily throwing his feet up before the dim ‘who’s watching’ prompt for netflix appears. he scrolls on his assigned name which was displayed of ‘old dirty bastard with a few racks.’

“dead serious. heh, now shut up, princess. fiona ‘n lip are speaking.”

☆ CHOSO fucks like it’s the last time.

it’s an ongoing thing for him.

he loves you more than life itself—so for him to have you straddling him, taking in every inch of your gorgeous figure, he had to give you at least one more orgasm. it was the least he could do.

“i love you.” he says, and he repeats it again and again.

once choso says those words—he never hesitates, not even once. with the way your hips rotate, he’s already about to lose all sorts of composure. big rough hands of his grip and attach near your waist to help slam you up and down his pulsating cock. “i— i love you. i love the way you always m-make me feel.”

“i love you too,” you’d say in a short breath, a snatching wind nearly takes your breath away as you feel yourself clench and tighten against him. “babyyy,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders. “you can touch me more, it’s okay.”

his lip quivers. with a needy look in his eyes, he cutely releases a surprised sigh of relief. “o-oh, thank you. i was gonna ask but i didn’t know if you’d want me to.”

“choso, you’re literally inside of me and you’re shy to ask to touch me?” you tease, sneaking a kiss near the corner of his lips.

a tint of sheer embarrassment rises to his face before he sheepishly smiles, softly running his fingertips against your hips. “oh yeah. r-right,” and you start to rotate your hips even further. your impactful rhythm has him weak, the grinding that you’re doing also has him in an utter chokehold. choso’s speechless—he’s more of a whiner than you, he tries to even suppress his moans by biting his lip but it’s to no use. you’re leaning forward, sliding your hands down his chiseled chest before he whimpers. “you’re so sexy when you touch me,” and then he cutely gasps. “ah, sexy—i mean, breathtaking.”

“you’re adorable,” you titter, and he feels the warmth of your own chest pressing all up against him. he really was though, he’s very gentle with his touch—the way his fingers wander, choso’s heart races a mile a minute. as he’s still massaging your gummy walls with the lengthy size of his cock, he sighs himself. “close, baby?”

he nods, literally melting from your touch.

choso feels abnormally warm—he only wants more of you, he can’t help but inch his face towards you before bringing you into an idyllically deep kiss. it’s passionate, a few poking out strands that ran down his face pricks against your skin and you moan right into his mouth. as you’re rocking into him at such a pace, he touches more. you do the same, a finger trailing down his v-line, his pecs, everywhere. further and further.

“. . . you touching me—” he breaks away, glossy lips starting to stain with his gleaming saliva. he looks so pretty, his dark eyelids start to lower and he whimpers once his cock sits still. you’re practically doing all the work like this, grinding back and forth while he lies back. “you touchin’ me, ‘s gonna make me cum, princess. i— i feel so hot when you touch me.”

“you’re always hot when i do anything,” you tease, sneaking another kiss near the edge of his mouth. choso’s breathing heavier than usual before he feels himself start to pulse—his dick twitches inside and you hear him gasp once he squeezes your hips forward. he’s about to fill you up, he even gives you a glossy eyed stare, pursing his lips as if he’s merely asking permission and with a stroke of a thumb near his lips, you murmur. “it’s okay, give it to me, baby. fill me up.”

he whines, mentally preparing himself before choso feels his thighs tighten. your cunt’s gripping down against him so tight, his jaw clenches. stingy, you had him in an entire hold.

“f— fuckkk, ‘s so much coming. you’re gonna milk me like you always do, princess,” and with his eyes shut, he’s hugging your body against him solidly before seconds later, he cums. it comes out in spurts— such sweltering stringy ropes, he’s taken aback and his moans against your ear only makes you more aroused. you could listen to choso whine into your ear all day, he’s shaking underneath you and he obviously needs a moment. his black hair was all ruffled and messy before he’s still feeling himself emit filthy amounts of seed into your cunt. “s—so good,” he groans, and for a second, his voice gets a bit raspy. “baby,” he swallows, feeling himself burn up—you straddling him like this, frail arms wrap around his shoulders whilst giving him the most sly stare. he felt like he was gonna explode, you were even more warm and toasty inside now that he’s stuffed you full. “marry me,” he suddenly says. “marry me, princess.”

“i’m already your wife, silly,” you tease, he’s still pumping you full of his never-ending amounts of hot cum. you kiss near the twitching right side of his lip before purring. “too worn out to remember?”

he moans, giving your ass a needy squeeze before he throws his head back. “let’s marry again, and again, and again then. s—so i can fill you up like this all the time. i— i want you, i love you,” and then he reaches between your thighs to feel against your cunt, skimming his fingertips against his own strings of cum that painted the inner entrance of your pussy. “i love her just as much,” and then he gasps. “oh … baby, you didn’t even finish.”

☆ GETO fucks like he hasn’t eaten all day.

“less talking, more sitting on my face,” is all he says with the most lust-driven gaze.

a good way for geto to rewind from a long day is to simply be between your plush thighs. it’s his favorite pastime, hell—probably his only pastime.

you’re barely hovering over his mouth by this point—sheeny glossy lips ready to slurp you dry before he hums, a few slender fingers of yours brushing against your hips before you speak, “only if you let me pull on your hair again.”

“ah, you know you can always do that. i keep it extra long just for you, baby.”

your heart swoons—you slowly sit down, positioning your pussy against his mouth, making sure he has a bit of room to breathe before geto gradually creates one single lick against your folds. sopping, you were already soaked and his moist tongue only made matters ten times worse.

“f-fuck,” you’d moan, keeping all eyes on his the entire time. irises of yours dilate immediately the moment you watch geto start to kiss all near the crevices of your shaky legs—only to then suck his lips against your swollen needy clit. he grunts, already feeling a tent creep up in his sweats. your hips move on its own, starting to slowly grind against his face.

back and forth, back and forth…

it was so hypnotic.

you were so hypnotic.

“mhm,” he grunts hoarsely, cupping his mouth near the very top part of your slit — he’s savoring your sweetened taste entirely, lapping the flat of his tongue everywhere. your entrance dampens his chin already and he sneers, licking near the corners of his mouth. such a sloppy man, his tongue then swiftly runs against your hood before it starts to flick and jerk at a much more rapid speed. “move those—hips, ride my fuckin’ face ‘n pull on my hair, pretty girl.”

he’s eating you out so good you’re already feeling a sudden rush shoot through you. you follow what he says exactly, creating a decent rhythm with your hips—he’s so pretty like this too, black lashes half open or just about closed.

geto was already pussy-drunk, that much was to tell. “o-okay, suguuu,” you’d whimper, and you grabbed an ample amount of his tangled strands, giving him a brief hard yank. he always gets hard once you tug on his hair, his head briefly forwards further into your cunt and he chuckles—warm breath fanning against your clit. “right there, sugu. s-spit on it.”

“anything for the princess,” he says between sharp breaths. you’re slowly rocking your hips against his face—feeling the soft tip of his nose brush up and down repeatedly against your dripping entrance before he departs just to spit right on your pussy. he brings a hand to smear it all between your folds, all the while a tongue slides against his own lips and oh he’s hungry. hungry for you. “damn. she just gets more sloppier every fuckin’ time. should be a crime to be this soaked, baby.”

and you whimper, watching with glossy eyes as he laps up his saliva—coating your slick entrance with a plethora of chaste kisses shortly afterward.

it's lustrous, so shiny.

geto makes sure to study your body if its entirety. the way your breathing dramatically picks up and the harder and sloppier your thrusts against his mouth becomes. you’re coming close and he’s much well aware, “yeah,” he utters, and it’s in the mere form of a question. “already, hm? you gonna make a mess on me so i can clean you right back up?”

“y— yes,” you moan, the tugging on his hair only getting rougher. pant after pant escapes through your lips before he starts to playfully nibble right on your clit. a finger of his slowly inserts into you and you clench around it, feeling a few steady pulses before that’s right when you gasp. ultimately, you end up finishing after a few minutes—so much so, that your eyes were all hazy, rolling to the very backs of your are and you whimper loudly, still grinding against his face.

“. . . ooooh,” he hums, a right hand of his that tucks behind you, giving your ass a concise squeeze. once he sits back up again, geto peers into you with a sly amused gaze before giving your cunt one more kiss. “now give me one more, ‘m still not satisfied with my meal, sweetheart.”

[fozmeadows]

there is no ethical consumption under capitalism

Years ago now, I remember seeing the rape prevention advice so frequently given to young women - things like dressing sensibly, not going out late, never being alone, always watching your drink - reframed as meaning, essentially, "make sure he rapes the other girl." This struck a powerful chord with me, because it cuts right to the heart of the matter: that telling someone how to lower their own chances of victimhood doesn't stop perpetrators from existing. Instead, it treats the existence of perpetrators as a foregone conclusion, such that the only thing anyone can do is try, by their own actions, to be a less appealing or more difficult victim.

And the thing is, ever since the assassination of United Healthcare CEO Brian Thompson, I've kept on thinking about how, in this day and age, CEOs of big companies often have an equal or greater impact on the day to day lives of regular people than our elected officials, and yet we have almost no legal way to redress any grievances against them - even when their actions, as in the case of Thompson's stewardship of UHC, arguably see them perpetrating manslaughter at scale through tactics like claims denial. That this is a real, recurring thing that happens makes the American healthcare insurance industry a particularly pernicious example, but it's far from being the only one. Because the original premise of the free market - the idea that we effectively "vote" for or against businesses with our dollars, thereby causing them to sink or swim on their individual merits - is utterly broken, and has been for decades, assuming it was ever true at all. In this age of megacorporations and global supply chains, the vast majority of people are dependent on corporations for necessities such as gas, electricity, internet access, water, food, housing and medical care, which means the consumer base is, to all intents and purposes, a captive market. We might not have to buy a specific brand, but we have to buy a brand, and as businesses are constantly competing with one another to bring in profits, not just for the company and its workers, but for C-suites and shareholders - profits that increasingly come at the expense of workers and consumers alike - the greediest, most inhumane corporations set the financial yardstick against which all others are then, of necessity, measured. Which means that, while businesses are not obliged to be greedy and inhumane in order to exist, overwhelmingly, they become greedy and humane in order to compete, because capitalism encourages it, and because there are precious few legal restrictions to stop them from doing so. At the same time, a handful of megacorporations own so many market-dominating brands that, without both significant personal wealth and the time and resources to find viable alternatives, it's all but impossible to avoid them, while the ubiquity of the global supply chain means that, even if you can keep track of which company owns which brand, it's much, much harder to establish which suppliers provide the components that are used in the products bearing their labels. Consider, for instance, how many mainstream American brands are functionally run on sweatshop labour in other parts of the world: places where these big corporations have outsourced their workforce to skirt the already minimal labour and wage protections they'd be obliged to adhere to in the US, all to produce (say) electronics whose elevated sticker price passes a profit on to the company, but without resulting in higher wages for either the sweatshop workers overseas or the American employees selling the products in branded US stores.

When basically every major electronics corporation is engaged in similar business practices, there is no "vote" our money can bring that causes the industry itself to be better regulated - and as wealthy, powerful lobbyists from these industries continue to pay exorbitant sums of money to politicians to keep government regulation at a minimum, even our actual votes can do little to effect any sort of change. But even in those rare instances where new regulations are passed, for multinational corporations, laws passed in one country overwhelmingly don't prevent them from acting abusively overseas, exploiting more desperate populations and cash-poor governments to the same greedy, inhumane ends. And where the ultimate legal penalty for proven transgressions is, more often than not, a fine - which is to say, a fee; which is to say, an amount which, while astronomical by the standards of regular people, still frequently costs the company less than the profits earned through their unethical practices, and which is paid from corporate coffers rather than the bank accounts of the CEOs who made the decisions - big corporations are, in essence, free to act as badly as they can afford to; which is to say, very. Contrary to the promise of the free market, therefore, we as consumers cannot meaningfully "vote" with our dollars in a way that causes "good" businesses to rise to the top, because everything is too interconnected. Our choices under global capitalism are meaningless, because there is no other system we can financially support that stands in opposition to it, and while there are still small businesses and companies who try to operate ethically, both their comparative smallness and their interdependent reliance on the global supply chain means that, even if we feel better about our choices, we're not exerting any meaningful pressure on the system we're trying to change. Which means that, under the free market, trying to be an ethical consumer is functionally equivalent to a young woman dressing modestly, not going out alone and minding her drink at parties in order to avoid being raped. We're not preventing corporate predation or sending a message to corporate predators: we're just making sure they screw other worker, the other consumer, the other guy.

All of which is to say: while I'd prefer not to live in a world where shooting someone dead in the street is considered a valid means of redressing grievances, what the murder of Brian Thompson has shown is that, if you provide no meaningful recourse for justice against abusive, exploitative members of the 1%, then violence done to those people will have the feel of justice, because it fills the void left by the lack of consequences for their actions. It's the same reason why people had little sympathy for the jackass OceanGate CEO who killed himself in his imploding sub, or anyone whose yacht has been attacked by orcas - it's just intensified here, because where the OceanGate CEO was felled by hubris and the yachts were random casualties, whoever killed Thomspon did so deliberately, because of what he did. It was direct action against a man whose policies very arguably constituted manslaughter at scale; a crime which ought to be a crime, but which has, to date, been permitted under the law. And if the law wouldn't stop him, can anyone be surprised that someone might act outside the law in retaliation - or that regular people would cheer for them when they did?

[vroomjohnwatson]

more than the sum of our parts | ensemble, system fic, 4k

A collection of plural/system aus focusing on various classic F1 drivers.

[catmask]

Just a random question but what are your thoughts on having multiple fursonas? I have a few and I keep on switching between them even though I want to narrow them down more but I like them too much to do that if that makes sense...

oh i have multiple fursonas i think its cool. i know i made a timeline that made it seem like my old design of willow was 'retired' but thats not at all the case

critter is my 'mascot' self and an expression of the parts of myself i like. id also say its an expression of joy and the things that i liked/wanted to be as a kid. so because of that a lot of the art of it is colorful, and focuses on nature/food/motion

whereas willow is the more 'real' or 'true' version of my sona. like, they are essentially 1 to 1 with me and because of that i use them to express more serious subject matters and internal troubles, like bad relationships, addiction, body troubles etc

thats why art of willow ends up looking more like this ^

and art of critter ends up looking like this ^

you can have more than one because ultimately i think its impossible to sum entire people up into a single 'character', i think the idea of a character can never be as vast as a human being actually is.

throughout our lives i think we live as many different 'characters', but none of them are any less true than the other

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Prime’s enshittified advertising

Prime's gonna add more ads. They brought in ads in January, and people didn't cancel their Prime subscriptions, so Amazon figures that they can make Prime even worse and make more money:

https://arstechnica.com/gadgets/2024/10/amazon-prime-video-is-getting-more-ads-next-year/

The cruelty isn't the point. Money is the point. Every ad that Amazon shows you shifts value away from you – your time, your attention – to the company's shareholders.

That's the crux of enshittification. Companies don't enshittify – making their once-useful products monotonically worse – because it amuses them to erode the quality of their offerings. They enshittify them because their products are zero-sum: the things that make them valuable to you (watching videos without ads) make things less valuable to them (because they can't monetize your attention).

This isn't new. The internet has always been dominated by intermediaries – platforms – because there are lots more people who want to use the internet than are capable of building the internet. There's more people who want to write blogs than can make a blogging app. There's more people who want to play and listen to music than can host a music streaming service. There's more people who want to write and read ebooks than want to operate an ebook store or sell an ebooks reader.

Despite all the early internet rhetoric about the glories of disintermediation, intermediaries are good, actually:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/06/12/direct-the-problem-of-middlemen/

The problem isn't with intermediaries per se. The problem arises when intermediaries grow so powerful that they usurp the relationship between the parties they connect. The problem with Uber isn't the use of mobile phones to tell taxis that you're standing on a street somewhere and would like a cab, please. The problem is rampant worker misclassification, regulatory arbitrage, starvation wages, and price-gouging:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/29/geometry-hates-uber/#toronto-the-gullible

There's no problem with publishers, distributors, retailers, printers, and all the other parts of the bookselling ecosystem. While there are a few, rare authors who are capable of performing all of these functions – basically gnawing their books out of whole logs with their teeth – most writers can't, and even the ones who can, don't want to:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/19/crad-kilodney-was-an-outlier/#intermediation

When early internet boosters spoke of disintermediation, what they mostly meant was that it would be harder for intermediaries to capture those relationships – between sellers and buyers, creators and audiences, workers and customers. As Rebecca Giblin and I wrote in our 2022 book Chokepoint Capitalism, intermediaries in every sector rely on chokepoints, narrows where they can erect tollbooths:

https://chokepointcapitalism.com/

When chokepoints exist, they multiply up and down the supply chain. In the golden age of physical, recorded music, you had several chokepoints that reinforced one another. Limited radio airwaves gave radio stations power over record labels, who had to secretly, illegally bid for prime airspace ("payola"). Retail consolidation – the growth of big record chains – drove consolidation in the distributors who sold to the chains, and the more concentrated distributors became, the more they could squeeze retailers, which drove even more consolidation in record stores. The bigger a label was, the more power it had to shove back against the muscle of the stores and the distributors (and the pressing plants, etc). Consolidation in labels also drove consolidation in talent agencies, whose large client rosters gave them power to resist the squeeze from the labels. Consolidation in venues drives consolidation in ticketing and promotion – and vice-versa.

But there's two parties to this supply chain who can't consolidate: musicians and their fans. With limits on "sectoral bargaining" (where unions can represent workers against all the companies in a sector), musicians' unions were limited in their power against key parts of the supply chain, so the creative workers who made the music were easy pickings for labels, talent reps, promoters, ticketers, venues, retailers, etc. Music fans are diffused and dispersed, and organized fan clubs were usually run by the labels, who weren't about to allow those clubs to be used against the labels.

This is a perfect case-study in the problems of powerful intermediaries, who move from facilitator to parasite, paying workers less while degrading their products, and then charge customers more for those enshittified products.

The excitement about "disintermediation" wasn't so much about eliminating intermediaries as it was about disciplining them. If there were lots of ways to market a product or service, sell it, collect payment for it, and deliver it, then the natural inclination of intermediaries to turn predator would be curbed by the difficulty of corralling their prey into chokepoints.

Now that we're a quarter century on from the Napster Wars, we can see how that worked out. Decades of failure to enforce antitrust law allowed a few companies to effectively capture the internet, buying out rivals who were willing to sell, and bankrupting those who wouldn't with illegal tactics like predatory pricing (think of Uber losing $31 billion by subsidizing $0.41 out of every dollar they charged for taxi rides for more than a decade).

The market power that platforms gained through consolidation translated into political power. When a few companies dominate a sector, they're able to come to agreement on common strategies for dealing with their regulators, and they've got plenty of excess profits to spend on those strategies. First and foremost, platforms used their power to get more power, lobbying for even less antitrust enforcement. Additionally, platforms mobilized gigantic sums to secure the right to screw customers (for example, by making binding arbitration clauses in terms of service enforceable) and workers (think of the $225m Uber and Lyft spent on California's Prop 22, which formalized their worker misclassification swindle).

So big platforms were able to insulate themselves from the risk of competition ("five giant websites, filled with screenshots of the other four" – Tom Eastman), and from regulation. They were also able to expand and mobilize IP law to prevent anyone from breaking their chokepoints or undoing the abuses that these enabled. This is a good place to get specific about how Prime Video works.

There's two ways to get Prime videos: over an app, or in your browser. Both of these streams are encrypted, and that's really important here, because of a law – Section 1201 of the 1998 Digital Millennium Copyright Act – which makes it really illegal to break this kind of encryption (commonly called "Digital Rights Management" or "DRM"). Practically speaking, that means that if a company encrypts its videos, no one is allowed to do anything to those videos, even things that are legal, without the company's permission, because doing all those legal things requires breaking the DRM, and breaking the DRM is a felony (five years in prison, $500k fine, for a first offense).

Copyright law actually gives subscribers to services like Prime a lot of rights, and it empowers businesses that offer tools to exercise those rights. Back in 1976, Sony rolled out the Betamax, the first major home video recorder. After an eight-year court battle, the Supreme Court weighed in on VCRs and ruled that it was legal for all of us to record videos at home, both to watch them later, and to build a library of our favorite shows. They also ruled that it was legal for Sony – and by that time, every other electronics company – to make VHS systems, even if those systems could be used in ways that violated copyright because they were "capable of sustaining a substantial non-infringing use" (letting you tape shows off your TV).

Now, this was more than a decade before the DMCA – and its prohibition on breaking DRM – passed, but even after the DMCA came into effect, there was a lot of media that didn't have DRM, so a new generation of tech companies were able to make tools that were "capable of sustaining a substantial non-infringing use" and that didn't have to break any DRM to do it.

Think of the Ipod and Itunes, which, together, were sold as a way to rip CDs (which weren't encrypted), and play them back from both your desktop computer and a wildly successful pocket-sized portable device. Itunes even let you stream from one computer to another. The record industry hated this, but they couldn't do anything about it, thanks to the Supreme Court's Betamax ruling.

Indeed, they eventually swallowed their bile and started selling their products through the Itunes Music Store. These tracks had DRM and were thus permanently locked to Apple's ecosystem, and Apple immediately used that power to squeeze the labels, who decided they didn't like DRM after all, and licensed all those same tracks to Amazon's DRM-free MP3 store, whose slogan was "DRM: Don't Restrict Me":

https://memex.craphound.com/2008/02/01/amazons-anti-drm-tee/

Apple played a funny double role here. In marketing Itunes/Ipods ("Rip, Mix, Burn"), they were the world's biggest cheerleaders for all the things you were allowed to do with copyrighted works, even when the copyright holder objected. But with the Itunes Music Store and its mandatory DRM, the company was also one of the world's biggest cheerleaders for wrapping copyrighted works in a thin skin of IP that would allow copyright holders to shut down products like the Ipod and Itunes.

Microsoft, predictably enough, focused on the "lock everything to our platform" strategy. Then-CEO Steve Ballmer went on record calling every Ipod owner a "thief" and arguing that every record company should wrap music in Microsoft's Zune DRM, which would allow them to restrict anything they didn't like, even if copyright allowed it (and would also give Microsoft the same abusive leverage over labels that they famously exercised over Windows software companies):

https://web.archive.org/web/20050113051129/http://management.silicon.com/itpro/0,39024675,39124642,00.htm

In the end, Amazon's approach won. Apple dropped DRM, and Microsoft retired the Zune and shut down its DRM servers, screwing anyone who'd ever bought a Zune track by rendering that music permanently unplayable.

Around the same time as all this was going on, another company was making history by making uses of copyrighted works that the law allowed, but which the copyright holders hated. That company was Tivo, who products did for personal video recorders (PVRs) what Apple's Ipod did for digital portable music players. With a Tivo, you could record any show over cable (which was too expensive and complicated to encrypt) and terrestrial broadcast (which is illegal to encrypt, since those are the public's airwaves, on loan to the TV stations).

That meant that you could record any show, and keep it forever. What's more, you could very easily skip through ads (and rival players quickly emerged that did automatic ad-skipping). All of this was legal, but of course the cable companies and broadcasters hated it. Like Ballmer, TV execs called Tivo owners "thieves."

But Tivo didn't usher in the ad-supported TV apocalypse that furious, spittle-flecked industry reps insisted it would. Rather, it disciplined the TV and cable operators. Tivo owners actually sought out ads that were funny and well-made enough to go viral. Meanwhile, every time the industry decided to increase the amount of advertising in a show, they also increased the likelihood that their viewers would seek out a Tivo, or worse, one of those auto-ad-skipping PVRs.

Given all the stink that TV execs raised over PVRs, you'd think that these represented a novel threat. But in fact, the TV industry's appetite for ads had been disciplined by viewers' access to new technology since 1956, when the first TV remotes appeared on the market (executives declared that anyone who changed the channel during an ad-break was a thief). Then came the mute button. Then the wireless remote. Meanwhile, a common VCR use-case – raised in the Supreme Court case – was fast-forwarding ads.

At each stage, TV adapted. Ads in TV shows represented a kind of offer: "Will you watch this many of these ads in return for a free TV show?" And the remote, the mute button, the wireless remote, the VCR, the PVR, and the ad-skipping PVR all represented a counter-offer. As economists would put it, the ability of viewers to make these counteroffers "shifted the equilibrium." If viewers had no defensive technology, they might tolerate more ads, but once they were able to enforce their preferences with technology, the industry couldn't enshittify its product to the liminal cusp of "so many ads that the viewer is right on the brink of turning off the TV (but not quite)."

This is the same equilibrium-shifting dynamic that we see on the open web, where more than 50% of users have installed an ad-blocker. The industry says, "Will you allow this many 'sign up to our mailing list' interrupters, pop ups, pop unders, autoplaying videos and other stuff that users hate but shareholders benefit from" and the ad-blocker makes a counteroffer: "How about 'nah?'":

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/07/adblocking-how-about-nah

TV remotes, PVRs and ad-blockers are all examples of "adversarial interoperability" – a new product that plugs into an existing one, extending or modifying its functions without permission from (or even over the objections of) the original manufacturer:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/10/adversarial-interoperability

Adversarial interop creates a powerful disciplining force on platform owners. Once a user grows so frustrated with a product's enshittification that they research, seek out, acquire and learn to use an adversarial interop tool, it's really game over. The printer owner who figures out where to get third-party ink is gone forever. Every time a company like HP raises its prices, they have to account for the number of customers who will finally figure out how to use generic ink and never, ever send another cent to HP.

This is where DMCA 1201 comes into play. Once a product is skinned with DRM, its manufacturers gain the right to prevent you from doing legal things, and can use the public's courts and law-enforcement apparatus to punish you for trying. Take HP: as soon as they started adding DRM to their cartridges, they gained the legal power to shut down companies that cloned, refilled or remanufactured their cartridges, and started raising the price of ink – which today sits at more than $10,000/gallon:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/30/life-finds-a-way/#ink-stained-wretches

Using third party ink in your printer isn't illegal (it's your printer, right?). But making third party ink for your printer becomes illegal once you have to break DRM to do so, and so HP gets to transform tinted water into literally the most expensive fluid on Earth. The ink you use to print your kid's homework costs more than vintage Veuve Cliquot or sperm from a Kentucky Derby-winning thoroughbred.

Adversarial interoperability is a powerful tool for shifting the equilibrium between producers, intermediaries and buyers. DRM is an even more powerful way of wrenching that equilibrium back towards the intermediary, reducing the share that buyers and sellers are able to eke out of the transaction.

Prime Video, of course, is delivered via an app, which means it has DRM. That means that subscribers don't get to exercise the rights afforded to them by copyright – only the rights that Amazon permits them to have. There's no Tivo for Prime, because it would have to break the DRM to record the shows you stream from Prime. That allows Prime to pull all kinds of shady shit. For example, every year around this time, Amazon pulls popular Christmas movies from its free-to-watch tier and moves them into pay-per-view, only restoring them in the spring:

https://www.reddit.com/r/vudu/comments/1bpzanx/looks_like_amazon_removed_the_free_titles_from/

And of course, Prime sticks ads in its videos. You can't skip these ads – not because it's technically challenging to make a 30-second advance button for a video stream, and doing so wouldn't violate anyone's copyright – but because Amazon doesn't permit you to do so, and the fact that the video is wrapped in DRM makes it a felony to even try.

This means that Amazon gets to seek a different equilibrium than TV companies have had to accept since 1956 and the invention of the TV remote. Amazon doesn't have to limit the quantity, volume, and invasiveness of its ads to "less the amount that would drive our subscribers to install and use an ad-skipping plugin." Instead, they can shoot for the much more lucrative equilibrium of "so obnoxious that the viewer is almost ready to cancel their subscription (but not quite)."

That's pretty much exactly how Kelly Day, the Amazon exec in charge of Prime Video, put it to the Financial Times: they're increasing the number of ads because "we haven’t really seen a groundswell of people churning out or cancelling":

https://www.ft.com/content/f8112991-820c-4e09-bcf4-23b5e0f190a5

At this point, attentive readers might be asking themselves, "Doesn't Amazon have to worry about Prime viewers who watch in their browsers?" After all browsers are built on open standards, and anyone can make one, so there should be browsers that can auto-skip Prime ads, right?

Wrong, alas. Back in 2017, the W3C – the organization that makes the most important browser standards – caved to pressure from the entertainment industry and the largest browser companies and created "Encrypted Media Extensions" (EME), a "standard" for video DRM that blocks all adversarial interoperability:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2017/09/open-letter-w3c-director-ceo-team-and-membership

This had the almost immediate effect of making it impossible to create an independent browser without licensing proprietary tech from Google – now a convicted monopolist! – who won't give you a license if you implement recording, ad-skipping, or any other legal (but dispreferred) feature:

https://blog.samuelmaddock.com/posts/the-end-of-indie-web-browsers/

This means that for Amazon, there's no way to shift value away from the platform to you. The company has locked you in, and has locked out anyone who might offer you a better deal. Companies that know you are technologically defenseless are endlessly inventive in finding ways to make things worse for you to make things better for them. Take Youtube, another DRM-video-serving platform that has jacked up the number of ads you have to sit through in order to watch a video – even as they slash payments to performers. They've got a new move: they're gonna start showing you ads while your video is paused:

https://www.usatoday.com/story/money/2024/09/20/youtube-pause-ads-rollout/75306204007/

That is the kind of fuckery you only come up with when your victory condition is "a service that's almost so bad our customers quit (but not quite)."

In Amazon's case, the math is even worse. After all, Youtube may have near-total market dominance over a certain segment of the video market, but Prime Video is bundled with Prime Delivery, which the vast majority of US households subscribe to. You have to give up a lot to cancel your Prime subscription – especially since Amazon's predatory pricing devastated the rest of the retail sector:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/28/enshittification/#relentless-payola

Amazon's founding principle was "customer obsession." Ex-Amazoners tell me that this was more than an empty platitude: arguments over product design were won or lost based on whether they could satisfy the "customer obsession" litmus test. Now, everyone falls short of their ideals, but sticking to your ideals isn't merely a matter of internal discipline, of willpower. Living up to your ideals is a matter of external discipline, too. When Amazon no longer had to contend with competitors or regulators, when it was able to use DRM to control its customers and use the law to prevent them from using its products in legal ways, it lost those external sources of discipline.

Amazon suppliers have long complained of the company's high-handed treatment of the vendors who supplied it with goods. Its workers have complained bitterly and loudly about the dangerous and oppressive conditions in its warehouses and delivery vans. But Amazon's customers have consistently given Amazon high marks on quality and trustworthiness.

The reason Amazon treated its workers and suppliers badly and its customers well wasn't that it liked customers and hated workers and suppliers. Amazon was engaged in a cold-blooded calculus: it understood that treating customers well would give it control over those customers, and that this would translate market power to retain suppliers even as it ripped them off and screwed them over.

But now, Amazon has clearly concluded that it no longer needs to keep customers happy in order to retain them. Instead, it's shooting for "keeping customers so angry that they're almost ready to take their business elsewhere (but not quite)." You see this in the steady decline of Amazon product search, which preferences the products that pay the biggest bribes for search placement over the best matches:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/06/attention-rents/#consumer-welfare-queens

And you see it in the steady enshittification of Prime Video. Amazon's character never changed. The company always had a predatory side. But now that monopoly and IP law have insulated it from consequences for its actions, there's no longer any reason to keep the predator in check.

Tor Books as just published two new, free LITTLE BROTHER stories: VIGILANT, about creepy surveillance in distance education; and SPILL, about oil pipelines and indigenous landback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/03/mother-may-i/#minmax

[felassan]

David Gaider on Fenris, under a cut for length:

"Fenris. Now, DA2 is a story all on its own but I'm not going to go there other than to sum it up as "we had just over a year and a half to make this". It's why I only wrote one follower, Fenris, and although it'll make his fans mad: I probably shouldn't have. Let me explain. The way we'd approach making the followers is brainstorming a list of concepts covering first the array of gameplay classes (and sub-classes) and then making sure they each have some skin in the game when it came to the story's conflicts - ideally having characters on both sides of the major ones. Why? You can't make a player care about the world, but you can make them care about characters who care about the world. It's the easiest way to provide hooks into a conflict, outside of it knocking on the player's door. Heck, it's probably better than that. Players will burn the world for approval. After that, we'd decide things like romances/sexuality. Then the writers would pick who they'd write. I always let my writers pick first. I figured they do their best work when it's something they're inspired to write... and they got so few chances at ownership, I wanted to give it whenever I could It's why I (reluctantly) let Patrick wrest Cole from my grasp in DAI, a character I'd created in Asunder. It's also why I let Jennifer take Anders in DA2, who I'd started in Awakening. In this instance, it meant I was left with the angry elven warrior character who nobody else appeared to want."

"It should have been my first clue that something was up. The second was how the artists had zero clue what to do with him. The art concepts were all over the place - from mages to crows to... well, even weirder. No matter how hard I tried to explain the idea, the artists simply didn't seem to get it Does this mean he was a bad character? Not exactly. Just an idea that probably deserved some re-examining. You can tell when an idea has a certain spark, and part of that is being easy to communicate. Sadly, there wasn't time for any re-examining even if it'd occurred to me. And it didn't, not yet. If it had, if I had time, maybe I'd have re-booted him as a templar. Someone pro-templar rather than anti-mage, who could give a personal hook into Meredith and give the templars some badly-needed humanity. But this falls into the shoulda-woulda-coulda category. I had a follower to write. Quickly. I struggled, at first. It was hard to get away from "Fenris hates everything, all the time". It felt very one-note, and I didn't know where to take him. My third clue, I guess. I also wasn't sure if I was the right person to write a former slave. I did know that couldn't be the center of his story. I did know trauma, however. How it can eat you up. How the hate and resentment is like drinking poison and hoping the other person dies. How it can infect your relationships. Fenris's trauma isn't my trauma, obviously, but here I dipped into a more personal part of myself than I'd ever done before."

"It gave me the center of his story I was missing, but wow was it uncomfortable. In a good way, maybe. I likely wouldn't have, if I hadn't been so desperate. In a way, I think DA2 had some of our best writing *because* of the timeline. It was raw, with little time to sand down the interesting parts. I wouldn't have done the "Fenris doesn't talk to you for three years" thing if I'd known we were going to cut all the reactivity initially planned for the time jumps. When that call was made, I campaigned to cut the jumps to a year, but there was no time for the revisions it'd need. So, um. Awkward. I used to get asked where the name came from, and I... don't remember? Obviously it's derived from Fenrir, but I don't recall why we picked that. Someone pointed at Fenris the Feared from Joe Abercrombie's books... and I did read them, so maybe the name lodged in my head? Wouldn't be the first time. Casting Fenris turned out to be easy. He was the first time I requested a specific VA and got him. (The other times were Merrill and then Solas, my two "I want these specific Welsh actors, please".) Why? OK, if you must know, I'd played a bit of Final Fantasy XII. I heard Balthier. "Yes, that." 😅 And Gideon Emery was a delight, as it turned out. Consummate professional, and that lovely gravel in his voice... good god. Bite the knuckles. There was a struggle to find the voice at the outset where I did my best not to say "just pls do Balthier" but he found Fenris on his own and it was amazing. Overall, Fenris turned out better than he had any right to, considering the rocky start. He had a lot of soul, a vulnerability forged by pain that struck a chord with a lot of players, and I'm glad. Do I regret anything? Probably having him live in a corpse-filled mansion that would never update. That's a hindsight thing, though, as again the cut to reactivity over the time jumps came late. Outside of that, maybe letting the player give him back to Danarius? Poor shock value and a waste of resources because almost nobody took the option. Good evil options are ones that are tempting to take. And the lyrium tattoos. Interesting concept, but they're probably why you'll never see Fenris in a future DA. He requires a custom body, and the tattoos make that expensive. It's why I put Fenris in my 4th DA novel - the cancelled one. Don't fret, though. He died in it, so this way he lives on. 😉"

[source thread]

User: "Wait wait how does he die in [the cancelled novel]??" David Gaider: "Gloriously, after taking up a cause he didn't believe in at first but then made his own, one that allowed him to rediscover what it meant to be elven." [source] David Gaider: "I’m not sorry about the novel cancellation. I’m the one who cancelled it. I am kinda sad we couldn’t make it work, though. Considering it was after I left the DA team, it would have been my final DA hurrah." [source] David Gaider: "From my perspective, it was kind of "well if you're never going to use him again, let me at least give him a proper send off" and the story required a glorious death... but I get that's not the story his biggest fans would want (which is Hawke + Fenris 4ever), so it's just as well." [source]

User: "You all did some incredible work with such a tight deadline" David Gaider: "I'm of the opinion that even if we'd had only another six months to bake, DA2 would be remembered as a classic and not either a flawed gem or underbaked sequel, depending on who you ask." [source]

David Gaider: "Just to clarify the "they're probably why you'll never see Fenris" thing, as it's spawned commentary: 1. It's the reasoning as was explained to me back then. 2. Obviously, if Bio *really* wanted to, they'd find a way around it. But it was a complication that meant he couldn't be included casually." [source]

[cupidkenji]

Doctor, Doctor, please listen!

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Chubby!Fem!reader Cw; Tension (I tried), cursing, the smallest physical description of reader in the last portion (just mentions their stomach going over their pants), reader has scars from previous cases, rivals to lovers?, lmk if i'm missing smth Summary: 3 times you called him doctor, 3 times he wonders why. Disclaimer: Reader is always written with a chubby/bigger person in mind but I don't really ever describe their bodies that much cause it's x READER and every body has a different body <3 WC: 3,596 I am literally so obsessed with criminal minds somebody save my soul OBLIVOUS IDIOTS WHO WANT EACH OTHER MY BELOVED. Title from mad hatter by Melanie Martinez don't even @ me for that

1.

“...she will be an important part of making your team function quicker. We fought hard to get her here. I ask that you all treat her with respect and not make me intervene.” 

Strauss finished her introductory spiel with a familiar “mom-glare” towards the team, walking away once she finished her speech. Unfortunately, her departure left you standing alone in front of the most intimidating man you’ve ever seen and four of his team members. You had been practically still until now. You hated the pressure of everyone’s eyes on you, causing a general freeze response to the stress of a new team. Fawn, you thought, the newest addition to the fight or flight categories and also the lovely thing forcing you to practically disassociate in front of your new boss and co-workers. 

“Welcome, Dr. L/N. We’ve heard good things. I’m Aaron Hotchner, I supervise the team.” He was leaning on the table before he stepped forward to shake your hand as he spoke. “This is Emily Prentiss, Jenifer Jareau, Derek Morgan, and Doctor Spencer Reid.” He pointed towards the corresponding people as he spoke of them. “Agent Rossi is away right now, and you’ll meet our T.I. later…she’s been excited.” If you hadn’t been good at your job, you’re sure you would have missed the way his lips turned up slightly at the edges when mentioning the woman. He didn’t seem so scary anymore, more like a father of the team. You’d been expecting a drill sergeant - your last team leader could have given a bull a run for it’s money with how much aggression that guy had. You welcomed the rush of excitement you felt at the discovery, mentally shaking off the stiffness you were carrying. 

“I’m happy to be here, sir. I’ve heard good things about the team, too. Your boss seems to think highly of your capabilities.” You addressed the room as you spoke. Public speaking was a skill you were still trying to master, so you practiced whenever you could. 

Your statement earned a chuckle from the table. Nobody bothered to explain the reason. You figured it was too much history to sum up on the spot. Your eyes wanted to linger on Reid. He seemed so young, and you wondered if he’d been told that his entire career - lord knows you had too. A fellow doctor. You assumed he was a bit of a stickler about the title, as even his boss kept it tacked onto his name when introducing him. You’d originally hoped to find some comfort in the man, on the surface he seemed a lot like you. He was probably too smart for his own good as well. Given the way he was staring at you, though, you felt the realization sink in that the man had no intention of welcoming you. 

“Why exactly do we need another profiler?” His voice held no malice as he spoke in the direction of his boss. There was more curiosity in his voice than anything, however you did pick up on the sense of superiority that sat just beneath the surface of his words. You guessed that’s how he behaved generally - as though he was superior. Still, your head tilted slightly to the side at the question. 

Damn. Tough crowd. 

You saw the intake of breath in Hotchner as he prepared to defend your place here but you spoke before he could start. “While I am a profiler, sir, first and foremost I am a psychiatrist - a doctor. As I’m sure you heard from Strauss, the board is unhappy with your recent efficiency rates and would also like to aid your team in dealing with mental health crises. I’ve spent my entire life studying the effects and conditions of the mentally diseased brain. I’ll be able to tell you the most efficient and effective way of interacting with these individuals, along with more accurately predicting their actions and methodology. I’m an agent, I took the same oath everyone here did but I was brought here for my expertise.” You were on a bit of a tangent, you knew that, but something about the smug feel of the man forced an emergence of competitiveness. He looked at you so indifferent, and you couldn’t help the tiny sparks of anger lighting beneath your skin. You kept a friendly disposition towards the man - you were a professional, after all, not a teenager - but you sensed a rivalry sprouting it’s roots.

The others at the table suppressed their smiles or looked down to hide it. Nobody had ever challenged Spencer like that. They could all feel he was a tad bit territorial. He was the guy people went to when they needed to know something. He was the Doctor of the group. They didn’t think he would take too kindly to another one encroaching his land. They saw the way he was tense, even more so after you responded. It was a riveting sight, though. The lot of them saw Spencer as a younger brother, and him meeting his match was something they were all so excited to see.

“Play nice, pretty boy.” Derek muttered to him, Spencer was slightly slouched in his chair now, not losing sight of you. Derek followed suit, turning his attention towards you. “We’re glad to have you, Doctor. We’ve spoken about an addition like you before, I’m glad to see the higher ups finally listened. I look forward to working with you - excuse me.” He left once his phone rang. 

The others took his exit as an excuse for their own, everyone giving you a warm welcome as they left. You reciprocated happily, telling everyone they could just call you by your first name, never having been one for titles. ‘There’s one difference.’ You thought, even your internal dialogue was bitter. Aside from him, there was a warmth here that you had been desperate to find in your last team. If you had to work passive aggressively with one uptight man in exchange for a team like this - you were going to take that deal. 

He refused to leave it seemed. He just sat looking inquisitively at the table, occasionally extending his stare to look at you before returning. How did you two end up alone in this room?

“Are you gonna have a problem with me, Doctor?” You shifted slightly on your feet. A notoriously nervous sign, one he definitely picked up on.

He stared again. It was his mind that kept him rooted in his seat. You were fucking alluring. He’d never met someone so like himself in his line of work. He was being a dick and he knew it but it seemed to be instinctual - some type of precaution, maybe. He didn’t know why you were being so respectful. Doctor. God, he didn’t know if the title had ever sounded so good being directed at him. His frustration only rose as he thought on the issue more. He wasn’t welcoming, it would be so easy to drop the formality, something he knew you knew would get on his nerves. But you didn’t. It didn’t seem like a question of dignity. You didn’t seem like the type to refuse a little pettiness - he sure wasn’t the type either. A thought stirred, an unsafe one he wanted to squash immediately but one he also couldn’t help but lean into. Did you want a power imbalance?

“No.” He stood abruptly, obviously still focused on the thoughts in his head. “Welcome to the team.” He addressed you one last time and then walked out of the room.

You followed shortly after, ready to make home on your couch and be done with being the newbie for the day. Your stress would follow you home, though, as the last thing you heard before you left the building was “Oh my god they’re perfect for each other.”

2.

The first few weeks were always the hardest. This was something you knew and were prepared for but it did nothing to calm your nerves. You’d been on countless missions having worked this job for a while now, but this was an entirely new dynamic to learn. You were an outsider for the first time in four years and it was scary. This case was shaping up to be a rough one, too. A man was having delusions telling him to kill. An extremely rare manifestation of his Schizophrenia, only elevated by the newly acquired aspect of him being an insomniac. 

Spencer hadn’t ceased being headstrong in cases either. Every time you wanted to help he made it his mission to overcompensate in order to snuff you out. On the contrary, he’d warmed up to you a little. It wasn’t major, he barely held any positive feelings toward you, but barely was better than not at all, so you coped. You two had managed a couple small talk conversations outside the battle of one-upping that you were currently losing. You absolutely hated it, but you liked him. You liked him a lot, actually. You don’t know when in the past few days that anger morphed into fondness but it had shifted hard. The casual dominance he exuded drew you in like a porchlight lures a moth. You doubted the opposite proved true for him, and that stung. You came to enjoy the banter, the competition, even if you were always playing the losing hand. It was the only way to get his undivided attention and the feeling of his eyes on you started to follow you home. 

You thought a lot about how you could get the relationship to pivot into something better. You didn’t want to be the girl he bickered with at work. You didn’t know what it was you wanted but you knew that your current fate sounded horrid. He was an ass, though, and he did not make it easy to admit those feelings. Every time he undermined you, you grew more attached and also more angry at yourself for doing so. It was because he’s so much like you, you thought. You knew from the way he interacted with his team that he wasn’t a cold guy, didn’t hold malice towards people for no reason. He needs time. He needs to know you, and God how badly you wanted to know him. 

You had sustained good relations with everyone the past few weeks you’ve been here. Meeting Garcia and Rossi had been a treat - both of them being delightful company. You’d heard them whispering about you and Spencer when they thought you weren’t around. The whole team seems to think that you’re basically fated to be together. It was unnerving how comforting that thought was to you. You hoped they were right. 

Spencer hoped they were right too. He’d heard the same whispers you had, chastising the team when he got the chance as if he didn’t think about you every moment he could. His eyes seemed to naturally land on you if you were around. He watched you walk around the bureau more and more lately, enjoying the gained confidence in your step as you cemented your place in the team. The sway of your hips or the swing of your arms. You mesmerized him no matter what you did. One time he got so caught up in his thoughts of you that Prentiss had to check he wasn’t having a silent panic attack. He clung to his sense of resentment, tried so hard to remind himself of the feelings he had when he first met you - you were beautiful, of course you were - but you were on claimed land and he was anything but eager for you to make home on it. That had faded fast, seeing how kind you were, scrambling to help and earn respect from everyone. The only reason he kept up the act of  “man who wants you gone” was so that he could keep talking to you. Spencer was a genius but he didn’t know how to handle someone like you. He’d been interested in girls before, hell he’d had girlfriends before but it had never felt like this in such little time. Such intense infatuation was crippling for someone who’s brain worked in patterns - this was new ground for him. 

“Everybody suit up. We have Foster’s location and we need to move quickly. He’s going after the source of his rage and we don’t have time to spare.” Hotch came down the stairs two at a time, spurring the team into action. 

“This man is highly dangerous but also highly deluded. The cases I’ve read similar to this say it’s best to speak gently. He’s sick but he can be reasoned with.” Spencer pulls from his memory as he sets his ‘FBI’ vest into place on his chest. 

“No, not this time. This man is too severe, his mind is too far gone. If these hallucinations of his are strong enough for him to touch them it’ll be extremely easy for him to rearrange or imagine your words differently. You need to be loud, direct, and assertive. Speak as little as possible. The quieter you are, the easier it will be for him to change what you’re saying in his head.” You also spoke while putting your vest on. You didn’t carry a weapon - a personal vow of yours, as you were more than classified to - so there were no holsters to fill. The contradictions between the two doctors of the team made everyone hesitate even though they lacked the time to do so.

Spencer looked at you, slightly out of breath from working so quickly. “You’re questioning my memory?” 

“I’m not questioning your memory, Doctor. I’m questioning your sources. There’s a higher risk level if we do what you’re suggesting. Let me do my job.” You made the final adjustments to your attire as you finished speaking. You returned his eye contact for just a beat too long, letting the others rush out of the building while you stood your ground, the two of you begrudgingly following after them a moment later.

You had been assigned a different car than him for the ride over. ‘Thank God’ was the only thing you could think when you saw him heading to the other SUV. After another confrontation - another public one, at that - you weren’t sure you could handle being pressed leg to leg with him in the backseat. Your words were a looping record in his head as he rode towards Foster. They were about to attempt a hostage negotiation with a man seeing people who weren’t there but all he could think about was that fucking word you refused to drop. 

I’m not questioning your memory, Doctor

You had to be doing this on purpose, he thought. He originally believed this had started because you knew stripping him of his beloved title would cause irritation. Now he suspected you knew how badly he wanted his name in your mouth and this was your way of torturing him. ‘It’s working.’ He thought. God was it working. He agreed with his team, you were perfect for him. You had knowledge to match his, kept him on his toes. One time the start of a ramble slipped through his “I don’t like you” façade and he felt his heart speed up at the genuine interest that roused in your eyes. You wanted to know him and he was an idiot for all the shit he was doing. 

He wasn’t surprised when your strategy worked and Ben Foster was taken into custody. You were the one to talk him down, and if you hadn’t already been accepted to the team, he knew then and there that they needed you. You were flawless. He knew you’d been doing this as long as he had and it showed. He pleaded with himself to stay focused, zeroed in on the weight of the gun in his hand to save face. His mind never left you, though, much like his eyes. This was the expertise you spoke of - no wonder they fought hard to get you here. 

“You were excellent in there.” It was just the two of you now. Even in the dull, flashing police lights, you were breathtaking. “Good job.” He said. Then he walked away because he was on the brink of kissing you and didn’t feel like breaking about 18 workplace rules while at the scene of a crime. You wouldn’t have been complaining if he did.

3.

Every time something like this happened it was difficult to remind yourself that not carrying a weapon was a choice you made willingly. You were currently sitting in the back of an open ambulance, about to be hoisted onto a stretcher and driven to the ER for stitches. You’ve been with the BAU for almost 3 months now and have miraculously managed to avoid injury in that time. This had been one of the easier cases. No chases or clues to follow, just a sick man who left a fairly obvious paper trail. You were the speaker on almost all cases. You were in charge of de-escalating a situation, making sure the bomb didn’t blow. You’ve never carried a weapon, always preferring to take the wounds of a job over using a gun to back up your words. You were a psychiatrist, you wanted to make people better, not vilify them. It worked, usually. People did tend to trust you more when you were unarmed. This time, though, it got you stabbed.

It wasn’t a bad injury, the blood had already stopped and was mildly dry by the time Spencer was joining you. Just one more scar to your collection. It was to the side of your quad, missing any artery by miles and just serving as a pain source at this point. A little numbing and some stitches and you’d be right as rain is what the doctor in the ambulance had said. 

“What happened?” He spoke softly to you. There wasn’t a rivalry between you two, not really. The banter hadn’t stopped, but it changed. It was playful and actually fun now. The both of you weren’t obsessed with outdoing the other anymore. Some casual boastfulness and a budding friendship is where you were at with him currently. 

“I got stabbed.”

“Jesus Christ, Y/N.”

He exhaled like he couldn’t comprehend the stupidity of your answer. You laughed at that. One enjoyable pastime you’d picked up in the past month was trying to bewilder him. The EMT said he needed to check the rest of your body for injury despite your protest of such a procedure. It was typical and you knew that, but you held onto the fear of your own body that middle school gave you. There was a man you liked here, and the thought of him seeing the bit of stomach that hung outside the waistline of your pants scared you more than you thought it would. You forced yourself to be rational in spite of this. It was Spencer, you wanted to be seen by him. 

“Holy shit.”

You chuckled at that. You forgot that maybe a warning was in order for the amount of scars that littered your stomach.

“Probably should have told you about those.” There were dozens. You amassed a countless amount of scars over the course of your job. Stab wounds, bullet grazes, burn marks. Unsubs, as much as you tried to empathize, were often violent at the end of the day and usually lashed out before they could be helped. 

He was staring - well, gazing more like. Not like someone stares at a car accident on the freeway but instead how someone stares at the moon - awe. He was in awe of you. Your strength, your courage, the fact that you went through all these individual events and still chose not to arm yourself. Some of these were in places that could have been fatal, and he thanked whatever entity may be listening that you persevered, begged them to continue that streak. He crashed hard into the desire to touch you, to run his hands over what little of your past he could see. He wondered if you would let him. If you’d fit into his palms the way he thought you would - if that was something you even wanted. The EMT was gone by now, having moved to the passenger seat for the ride to the hospital. 

“Could I - " He hesitated for a moment, this was definitely the wrong question to ask. “Can I touch you?”

Your eyes glazed over slightly. Jesus. You felt your lips part a little.

“You want to?” Genuine surprise. You didn’t think you looked particularly desirable in your current state. He wanted to touch your fucking scars. Who does he think he is?

“Please.” He was looking at you in a way you hadn’t seen before. His eyes were glazed over too. You held his eyes as you nodded. The heat was so stifling that you laughed just a little at the tension.

“Fucking hell, Spence.”

Blood shot to his ears when you said his name. It had been well worth the wait to hear you say it like that - breathy and confused and so fucking pretty that he wondered how he ever lived before you said it. 

“Will you tell me about them?” He was breathy too, but he wouldn’t have you here, not like this. He just needed to feel you. 

“I’ll tell you anything you want, Doc.”

His hands were warm. It wouldn’t be the last time you felt them.

[wine-dark-soup]

ough ough waaaaugh...

WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE