#not out of some moral principle but just out of practicality

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

*

[the-lazy-cat-bakes-souffles]

The scene where Jackie hauls Shauna away from Van inside the burning plane wreckage is one of the most under-discussed relative to its impact, and gives us so much insight into the characters and wider themes of Yellowjackets.

In some respects, it was the first act of violence in the wilderness. Now, by violence I don’t mean something done with the intent to harm. Jackie was placed in an extremely stressful adrenaline-fuelled situation where she had to make a choice with seconds to spare. Practically speaking, it was also a logical choice: the fire was rapidly encroaching and there was every chance that freeing Van in time was impossible, so Shauna would be fruitlessly throwing her life away. After all, the rear of the plane does explode soon after they get out.

But that doesn’t change the fact that it was callous and violent in its impact. It was Jackie, in that moment of intense danger, choosing to leave Van to burn alive - and actively prevent her from receiving help - because there was a chance that she might lose Shauna too. “For the record, I was trying to save you.” True character is revealed under pressure, and this scene is the show’s way of signalling to the audience what Jackie values most, the thing that will cause her to abandon all other principles: Shauna.

This is enforced by her later saving Van from the plane propellor: it’s an act of atonement, but also a way to convey the hierarchy of Jackie’s priorities. She loves her teammates and would trade her life for theirs without hesitation, but she would trade any of their lives for Shauna’s if it came to it (it also speaks to how little Jackie values her own life and is further evidence of her suicidal ideation).

One of the things that strikes me most about the scene is how similar it is to when Javi drowns in the second season. In both cases, Van and Javi are in severe environmental peril and desperately cry out for help. Shauna and Nat respectively attempt to save them at great personal risk, but they’re pulled away by Jackie and Misty, who have determined that it’s better to sacrifice one if it means saving the other.

While the contexts are different, the theme is the same: “It chooses.” And ‘It’ is all of them. ‘It’ is all of us. When driven to the brink and placed in the most dire of extremes, any person, no matter how virtuous, can behave in base ways. It’s always baffled me that Jackie is often framed as an exception to this by the fandom when we’re presented with such a clear example through her character on day one, long before anyone had descended into savagery. I’ve no doubt that if she’d survived and mended her relationship with Shauna she would have gone to great lengths to keep her (and the baby) alive, even if it meant compromising her strongly held morals.

In spite of everything, Van did escape the wreckage, which means that she could have been saved. And she was left with deep trauma that lingers into the third season. However much we might be able to justify Jackie’s decision, it still came at Van’s expense. This isn’t to say that I think Jackie is deep down a cruel or violent person; she’s patently not, quite the opposite. But it’s compelling to explore what moves someone to act in ways counter to their nature, their moral pressure points, and how they account for their actions. It does a disservice to Jackie to downplay her complexities and flaws, just as it does a disservice to Shauna to regard her as an inherently sadistic person when her first instinct was to risk her life to help.

Then there’s how the scene informs Van’s character. Van is an optimist who is moulded by hardship into a pragmatist, and these two forces are constantly battling within her. Being left on the plane establishes this conflict: from her perspective, her life was easily discarded by someone she trusted. Van is confronted with the harshest of truths: that her survival is not guaranteed, nor is the support of her peers. It’s something hard fought for, and something she must fight for herself.

Her relationship with Tai mirrors the codependent bond of Jackie and Shauna. Their devotion to each other leads them to sentence Ben to death despite both holding doubts over his guilt. They rig the cards to protect each other from being chosen for the hunt, in doing so condemning someone else. Van comes to understand something of what drove Jackie to do what she did, because above all else, she cannot lose the person she holds most dear.

Once any real chance of rescue is out the window, Van fully internalises this survivalist mindset. She holds onto faith and narrativises their situation to imbue it all with some sort of meaning. But it’s ultimately a coping mechanism, a way to deal with the horror she knows they can’t escape. This is why the moment a glimmer of hope reappears in the form of the scientists, she sheds it. She doesn’t truly want it, she never did. Her final act is a culmination of that; she can’t find it in herself to kill for her own gain. ‘It’ chooses, and Van chose. As did Melissa.

What are we willing to do to survive? To protect ourselves and those we love? What are we willing to lose? How much of ourselves can we give up before the cost becomes too great? These are some of the thematic questions Yellowjackets poses, and this short scene is a fascinating microcosm of that.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

They were warned

Picks and Shovels is a new, standalone technothriller starring Marty Hench, my two-fisted, hard-fighting, tech-scam-busting forensic accountant. You can pre-order it on my latest Kickstarter, which features a brilliant audiobook read by Wil Wheaton.

Truth is provisional! Sometimes, the things we understand to be true about the world change, and stuff we've "always done" has to change, too. There comes a day when the evidence against using radium suppositories is overwhelming, and then you really must dig that radium out of your colon and safely dispose of it:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/19/just-stop-putting-that-up-your-ass/#harm-reduction

So it's natural and right that in the world, there will be people who want to revisit the received wisdom and best practices for how we live our lives, regulate our economy, and organize our society. But not a license to simply throw out the systems we rely on. Sure, maybe they're outdated or unnecessary, but maybe not. That's where "Chesterton's Fence" comes in:

Let us say, for the sake of simplicity, a fence or gate erected across a road. The more modern type of reformer goes gaily up to it and says, "I don't see the use of this; let us clear it away." To which the more intelligent type of reformer will do well to answer: "If you don't see the use of it, I certainly won't let you clear it away. Go away and think. Then, when you can come back and tell me that you do see the use of it, I may allow you to destroy it."

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/G._K._Chesterton#Chesterton's_fence

In other words, it's not enough to say, "This principle gets in the way of something I want to do, so let's throw it out because I'm pretty sure the inconvenience I'm experiencing is worse than the consequences of doing away with this principle." You need to have a theory of how you will prevent the harms the principle protects us from once you tear it down. That theory can be "the harms are imaginary" so it doesn't matter. Like, if you get rid of all the measures that defend us from hexes placed by evil witches, it's OK to say, "This is safe because evil witches aren't real and neither are hexes."

But you'd better be sure! After all, some preventative measures work so well that no living person has experienced the harms they guard us against. It's easy to mistake these for imaginary or exaggerated. Think of the antivaxers who are ideologically committed to a world in which human beings do not have a shared destiny, meaning that no one has a moral claim over the choices you make. Motivated reasoning lets those people rationalize their way into imagining that measles – a deadly and ferociously contagious disease that was a scourge for millennia until we all but extinguished it – was no big deal:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Measles:_A_Dangerous_Illness

There's nothing wrong with asking whether longstanding health measures need to be carried on, or whether they can be sunset. But antivaxers' sloppy, reckless reasoning about contagious disease is inexcusable. They were warned, repeatedly, about the mass death and widespread lifelong disability that would follow from their pursuit of an ideological commitment to living as though their decisions have no effect on others. They pressed ahead anyway, inventing ever-more fanciful reasons why health is a purely private matter, and why "public health" was either a myth or a Communist conspiracy:

https://www.conspirituality.net/episodes/brief-vinay-prasad-pick-me-campaign

When RFK Jr kills your kids with measles or permanently disables them with polio, he doesn't get to say "I was just inquiring as to the efficacy of a longstanding measure, as is right and proper." He was told why the vaccine fence was there, and he came up with objectively very stupid reasons why that didn't matter, and then he killed your kids. He was warned.

Fuck that guy.

Or take Bill Clinton. From 1933 until 1999, American banks were regulated under the Glass-Steagall Act, which "structurally separated" them. Under structural separation, a "retail bank" – the bank that holds your savings and mortgage and provides you with a checkbook – could not be "investment bank." That meant it couldn't own or invest in businesses that competed with the businesses its depositors and borrowers ran. It couldn't get into other lines of business, either, like insurance underwriting.

Glass-Steagall was a fence that stood between retail banks and the casino economy. It was there for a fucking great reason: the failure to structurally separate banks allowed them to act like casinos, inflating a giant market bubble that popped on Black Friday in October 1929, kicking off the Great Depression. Congress built the structural separation fence to keep banks from doing it again.

In the 1990s, Bill Clinton agitated for getting rid of Glass-Steagall. He argued that new economic controls would allow the government to prevent another giant bubble and crash. This time, the banks would behave themselves. After all, hadn't they demonstrated their prudence for seven decades?

In fact, they hadn't. Every time banks figured out how to slip out of regulatory constraints they inflated another huge bubble, leading to another massive crash that made the rich obscenely richer and destroyed ordinary savers' lives. Clinton took office just as one of these finance-sector bombs – the S&L Crisis – was detonating. Clinton had no basis – apart from wishful thinking – to believe that deregulating banks would lead to anything but another gigantic crash.

But Clinton let his self interest – in presiding over a sugar-high economic expansion driven by deregulation – overrule his prudence (about the crash that would follow). Sure enough, in the last months of Clinton's presidency, the stock market imploded with the March 2000 dot-bomb. And because Congress learned nothing from the dot-com crash and declined to restore the Glass-Steagall fence, the crash led to another bubble, this time in subprime mortgages, and then, inevitably, we suffered the Great Financial Crisis.

Look: there's no virtue in having bank regulations for the sake of having them. It is conceptually possible for bank regulations to be useless or even harmful. There's nothing wrong with investigating whether the 70-year old Glass-Steagall Act was still needed in 1999. But Clinton was provided with a mountain of evidence about why Glass-Steagall was the only thing standing between Americans and economic chaos, including the evidence of the S&L Crisis, which was still underway when he took office, and he ignored all of them. If you lost everything – your home, your savings, your pension – in the dot-bomb or the Great Financial Crisis, Bill Clinton is to blame. He was warned. he ignored the warnings.

Fuck that guy.

No, seriously, fuck Bill Clinton. Deregulating banks wasn't Clinton's only passion. He also wanted to ban working cryptography. The cornerstone of Clinton's tech policy was the "Clipper Chip," a backdoored encryption chip that, by law, every technology was supposed to use. If Clipper had gone into effect, then cops, spooks, and anyone who could suborn, bribe, or trick a cop or a spook could break into any computer, server, mobile device, or embedded system in America.

When Clinton was told – over and over, in small, easy-to-understand words – that there was no way to make a security system that only worked when "bad guys" tried to break into it, but collapsed immediately if a "good guy" wanted to bypass it. We explained to him – oh, how we explained to him! – that working encryption would be all that stood between your pacemaker's firmware and a malicious update that killed you where you stood; all that stood between your antilock brakes' firmware and a malicious update that sent you careening off a cliff; all that stood between businesses and corporate espionage, all that stood between America and foreign state adversaries wanting to learn its secrets.

In response, Clinton said the same thing that all of his successors in the Crypto Wars have said: NERD HARDER! Just figure it out. Cops need to look at bad guys' phones, so you need to figure out how to make encryption that keeps teenagers safe from sextortionists, but melts away the second a cop tries to unlock a suspect's phone. Take Malcolm Turnbull, the former Australian Prime Minister. When he was told that the laws of mathematics dictated that it was impossible to build selectively effective encryption of the sort he was demanding, he replied, "The laws of mathematics are very commendable but the only law that applies in Australia is the law of Australia":

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2017/07/australian-pm-calls-end-end-encryption-ban-says-laws-mathematics-dont-apply-down

Fuck that guy. Fuck Bill Clinton. Fuck a succession of UK Prime Ministers who have repeatedly attempted to ban working encryption. Fuck 'em all. The stakes here are obscenely high. They have been warned, and all they say in response is "NERD HARDER!"

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/05/theyre-still-trying-to-ban-cryptography/

Now, of course, "crypto means cryptography," but the other crypto – cryptocurrency – deserves a look-in here. Cryptocurrency proponents advocate for a system of deregulated money creation, AKA "wildcat currencies." They say, variously, that central banks are no longer needed; or that we never needed central banks to regulate the money supply. Let's take away that fence. Why not? It's not fit for purpose today, and maybe it never was.

Why do we have central banks? The Fed – which is far from a perfect institution and could use substantial reform or even replacement – was created because the age of wildcat currencies was a nightmare. Wildcat currencies created wild economic swings, massive booms and even bigger busts. Wildcat currencies are the reason that abandoned haunted mansions feature so heavily in the American imagination: American towns and cities were dotted with giant mansions built by financiers who'd grown rich as bubbles expanded, then lost it all after the crash.

Prudent management of the money supply didn't end those booms and busts, but it substantially dampened them, ending the so-called "business cycle" that once terrorized Americans, destroying their towns and livelihoods and wiping out their savings.

It shouldn't surprise us that a new wildcat money sector, flogging "decentralized" cryptocurrencies (that they are nevertheless weirdly anxious to swap for your gross, boring old "fiat" money) has created a series of massive booms and busts, with insiders getting richer and richer, and retail investors losing everything.

If there was ever any doubt about whether wildcat currencies could be made safe by putting them on a blockchain, it is gone. Wildcat currencies are as dangerous today as they were in the 18th and 19th century – only moreso, since this new bad paper relies on the endless consumption of whole rainforests' worth of carbon, endangering not just our economy, but also the habitability of the planet Earth.

And nevertheless, the Trump administration is promising a new crypto golden age (or, ahem, a Gilded Age). And there are plenty of Democrats who continue to throw in with the rotten, corrupt crypto industry, which flushed billions into the 2024 election to bring Trump to office. The result is absolutely going to be more massive bubbles and life-destroying implosions. Fuck those guys. They were warned, and they did it anyway.

Speaking of the climate emergency: greetings from smoky Los Angeles! My city's on fire. This was not an unforeseeable disaster. Malibu is the most on-fire place in the world:

https://longreads.com/2018/12/04/the-case-for-letting-malibu-burn/

Since 1919, the region has been managed on the basis of "total fire suppression." This policy continued long after science showed that this creates "fire debt" in the form of accumulated fuel. The longer you go between fires, the hotter and more destructive those fires become, and the relationship is nonlinear. A 50-year fire isn't 250% more intense than a 20-year fire: it's 50,000% more intense.

Despite this, California has invested peanuts in regular controlled burns, which has created biennial uncontrolled burns – wildfires that cost thousands of times more than any controlled burn.

Speaking of underinvestment: PG&E has spent decades extracting dividends for its investors and bonuses for its execs, while engaging in near-total neglect of maintenance of its high-voltage transmission lines. Even with normal winds, these lines routinely fall down and start blazes.

But we don't have normal winds. The climate emergency has been steadily worsening for decades. LA is just the latest place to be on fire, or under water, or under ice, or baking in wet bulb temperatures. Last week in southern California, we were warned to expect gusts of 120mph.

They were warned. #ExxonKnew: in the early 1970s, Exxon's own scientists warned them that fossil fuel consumption would kick off climate change so drastic that it would endanger human civilzation. Exxon responded by burying the reports and investing in climate denial:

https://exxonknew.org/

They were warned! Warned about fire debt. Warned about transmission lines. Warned about climate change. And specific, named people, who individually had the power to heed these warnings and stave off disaster, ignored the warnings. They didn't make honest mistakes, either: they ignored the warnings because doing so made them extraordinarily, disgustingly rich. They used this money to create dynastic fortunes, and have created entire lineages of ultra-wealthy princelings in $900,000 watches who owe it all to our suffering and impending dooml

Fuck those guys. Fuck 'em all.

We've had so many missed opportunities, chances to make good policy or at least not make bad policy. The enshitternet didn't happen on its own. It was the foreseeable result of choices – again, choices made by named individuals who became very wealthy by ignoring the warnings all around them.

Let's go back to Bill Clinton, because more than anyone else, Clinton presided over some terrible technology regulations. In 1998, Clinton signed the Digital Millennium Copyright Act, a bill championed by Barney Frank (fuck that guy, too). Under Section 1201 of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act, it's a felony, punishable by a five year prison sentence, and a $500,000 fine, to tamper with a "digital lock."

That means that if HP uses a digital lock to prevent you from using third-party ink, it's a literal crime to bypass that lock. Which is why HP ink now costs $10,000/gallon, and why you print your shopping lists with colored water that costs more, ounce for ounce, than the sperm of a Kentucky Derby winner:

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

Clinton was warned that DMCA 1201 would soon metastasize into every kind of device – not just the games consoles and DVD players where it was first used, but medical implants, tractors, cars, home appliances – anything you could put a microchip into (Jay Freeman calls this "felony contempt of business-model"):

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/24/rent-to-pwn/#kitt-is-a-demon

He ignored those warnings and signed the DMCA anyway (fuck that guy). Then, under Bush (fuck that guy), the US Trade Representative went all around the world demanding that America's trading partners adopt versions of this law (fuck that guy). In 2001, the European Parliament capitulated, enacting the EU Copyright Directive, whose Article 6 is a copy-paste of DMCA 1201 (fuck all those people).

Fast forward 20 years, and boy is there a lot of shit with microchips that can be boobytrapped with rent-extracting logic bombs that are illegal to research, describe, or disable.

Like choo-choo trains.

Last year, the Polish hacking group Dragon Sector was contacted by a public sector train company whose Newag trains kept going out of service. The operator suspected that Newag had boobytrapped the trains to punish the train company for getting its maintenance from a third-party contractor. When Dragon Sector investigated, they discovered that Newag had indeed riddled the trains' firmware with boobytraps. Trains that were taken to locations known to have third-party maintenance workshops were immediately bricked (hilariously, this bomb would detonate if trains just passed through stations near to these workshops, which is why another train company had to remove all the GPSes from its trains – they kept slamming to a halt when they approached a station near a third-party workshop). But Newag's logic bombs would brick trains for all kinds of reasons – merely keeping a train stationary for too many days would result in its being bricked. Installing a third-party component in a locomotive would also trigger a bomb, bricking the train.

In their talk at last year's Chaos Communications Congress, the Dragon Sector folks describe how they have been legally terrorized by Newag, which has repeatedly sued them for violating its "intellectual property" by revealing its sleazy, corrupt business practices. They also note that Newag continues to sell lots of trains in Poland, despite the widespread knowledge of its dirty business model, because public train operators are bound by procurement rules, and as long as Newag is the cheapest bidder, they get the contract:

https://media.ccc.de/v/38c3-we-ve-not-been-trained-for-this-life-after-the-newag-drm-disclosure

The laws that let Newag make millions off a nakedly corrupt enterprise – and put the individuals who blew the whistle on it at risk of losing everything – were passed by Members of the European Parliament who were warned that this would happen, and they ignored those warnings, and now it's happening. Fuck those people, every one of 'em.

It's not just European parliamentarians who ignored warnings and did the bidding of the US Trade Representative, enacting laws that banned tampering with digital locks. In 2010, two Canadian Conservative Party ministers in the Stephen Harper government brought forward similar legislation. These ministers, Tony Clement (now a disgraced sex-pest and PPE grifter) and James Moore (today, a sleazeball white-shoe corporate lawyer), held a consultation on this proposal.

6, 138 people wrote in to say, "Don't do this, it will be hugely destructive." 54 respondents wrote in support of it. Clement and Moore threw out the 6,138 opposing comments. Moore explained why: these were the "babyish" responses of "radical extremists." The law passed in 2012.

Last year, the Canadian Parliament passed bills guaranteeing Canadians the Right to Repair and the right to interoperability. But Canadians can't act on either of these laws, because they would have to tamper with a digital lock to do so, and that's illegal, thanks to Tony Clement and James Moore. Who were warned. And who ignored those warnings. Fuck those guys:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/11/15/radical-extremists/#sex-pest

Back in the 1990s, Bill Clinton had a ton of proposals for regulating the internet, but nowhere among those proposals will you find a consumer privacy law. The last time an American president signed a consumer privacy law was 1988, when Reagan signed the Video Privacy Protection Act and ensured that Americans would never have to worry that video-store clerks where telling the newspapers what VHS cassettes they took home.

In the years since, Congress has enacted exactly zero consumer privacy laws. None. This has allowed the out-of-control, unregulated data broker sector to metastasize into a cancer on the American people. This is an industry that fuels stalkers, discriminatory financial and hiring algorithms, and an ad-tech sector that lets advertisers target categories like "teenagers with depression," "seniors with dementia" and "armed service personnel with gambling addictions."

When the people cry out for privacy protections, Congress – and the surveillance industry shills that fund them – say we don't need a privacy law. The market will solve this problem. People are selling their privacy willingly, and it would be an "undue interference in the market" if we took away your "freedom to contract" by barring companies from spying on you after you clicked the "I agree" button.

These people have been repeatedly warned about the severe dangers to the American public – as workers, as citizens, as community members, and as consumers – from the national privacy free-for-all, and have done nothing. Fuck them, every one:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/06/privacy-first/#but-not-just-privacy

Now, even a stopped clock is right twice a day, and not every one of Bill Clinton's internet policies was terrible. He had exactly one great policy, and, ironically, that's the one there's the most energy for dismantling. That policy is Section 230 of the Communications Decency Act (a law that was otherwise such a dumpster fire that the courts struck it down). Chances are, you have been systematically misled about the history, use, and language of Section 230, which is wild, because it's exactly 26 words long and fits in a single tweet:

No provider or user of an interactive computer service shall be treated as the publisher or speaker of any information provided by another information content provider.

Section 230 was passed because when companies were held liable for their users' speech, they "solved" this problem by just blocking every controversial thing a user said. Without Section 230, there would be no Black Lives Matter, no #MeToo – no online spaces where the powerful were held to account. Meanwhile, rich and powerful people would continue to enjoy online platforms where they and their bootlickers could pump out the most grotesque nonsense imaginable, either because they owned those platforms (ahem, Twitter and Truth Social) or because rich and powerful people can afford the professional advice needed to navigate the content-moderation bureaucracies of large systems.

We know exactly what the internet looks like when platforms are civilly liable for their users' speech: it's an internet where marginalized and powerless people are silenced, and where the people who've got a boot on their throats are the only voices you can hear:

https://www.techdirt.com/2020/06/23/hello-youve-been-referred-here-because-youre-wrong-about-section-230-communications-decency-act/

The evidence for this isn't limited to the era of AOL and Prodigy. In 2018, Trump signed SESTA/FOSTA, a law that held platforms liable for "sex trafficking." Advocates for this law – like Ashton Kutcher, who campaigns against sexual assault unless it involves one of his friends, in which case he petitions the judge for leniency – were warned that it would be used to shut down all consensual sex work online, making sex workers's lives much more dangerous. This warnings were immediately borne out, and they have been repeatedly borne out every month since. Killing CDA 230 for sex work brought back pimping, exposed sex workers to grave threats to their personal safety, and made them much poorer:

https://decriminalizesex.work/advocacy/sesta-fosta/what-is-sesta-fosta/

It also pushed sex trafficking and other nonconsensual sex into privateforums that are much harder for law enforcement to monitor and intervene in, making it that much harder to catch sex traffickers:

https://cdt.org/insights/its-all-downsides-hybrid-fosta-sesta-hinders-law-enforcement-hurts-victims-and-speakers/

This is exactly what SESTA/FOSTA's advocates were warned of. They were warned. They did it anyway. Fuck those people.

Maybe you have a theory about how platforms can be held civilly liable for their users' speech without harming marginalized people in exactly the way that SESTA/FOSTA, it had better amount to more than "platforms are evil monopolists and CDA 230 makes their lives easier." Yes, they're evil monopolists. Yes, 230 makes their lives easier. But without 230, small forums – private message boards, Mastodon servers, Bluesky, etc – couldn't possibly operate.

There's a reason Mark Zuckerberg wants to kill CDA 230, and it's not because he wants to send Facebook to the digital graveyard. Zuck knows that FB can operate in a post-230 world by automating the deletion of all controversial speech, and he knows that small services that might "disrupt" Facebook's hegemony would be immediately extinguished by eliminating 230:

https://www.nbcnews.com/tech/tech-news/zuckerberg-calls-changes-techs-section-230-protections-rcna486

It's depressing to see so many comrades in the fight against Big Tech getting suckered into carrying water for Zuck, demanding the eradication of CDA 230. Please, I beg you: look at the evidence for what happens when you remove that fence. Heed the warnings. Don't be like Bill Clinton, or California fire suppression officials, or James Moore and Tony Clement, or the European Parliament, or the US Trade Rep, or cryptocurrency freaks, or Malcolm Turnbull.

Or Ashton fucking Kutcher.

Because, you know, fuck those guys.

Check out my Kickstarter to pre-order copies of my next novel, Picks and Shovels!

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/2025/01/13/wanting-it-badly/#is-not-enough

[astra-ravana]

The Necessity Of Baneful Witchcraft

Baneful magick refers to any spellwork intended to harm, manipulate, or obstruct a target, whether for justice, retribution, or personal defense. While some witches avoid it due to ethical concerns or spiritual beliefs, others see it as a natural and necessary aspect of the craft. Baneful magick has existed in various cultures for centuries, from the hexes of European cunning folk to the protective bindings of African diasporic traditions. It is neither inherently good nor evil; rather, its morality depends on intent, consequences, and perspective.

There are several schools of thought regarding baneful magick. Practitioners who follow the Wiccan Rede (“An it harm none, do what ye will”) generally avoid baneful magick, believing in karmic consequences or the Threefold Law, which states that any energy sent out returns threefold. Some witches believe baneful magick is justified when used to restore balance, enforce justice, or protect the vulnerable. In these traditions, curses and hexes are seen as rightful retribution rather than malicious acts. Many practitioners see magick as a tool, neither good nor bad. They believe in personal responsibility, understanding that every action carries consequences, but do not impose rigid moral codes on their spellwork.

Examples of Baneful Magick

• Binding Spells – Used to restrict an individual’s actions, preventing them from causing harm.

• Reversal Spells – Sending negative energy or a curse back to its sender.

• Curses & Hexes – Magick designed to inflict misfortune, pain, or long-term suffering.

• Jinxes – Short-term spells that cause minor inconveniences or bad luck.

• Poppet Magick – Using a doll or effigy to influence or harm a target.

• Gazes – Using a method such as the Evil Eye or overlooking to curse with the eyes.

Why is it Needed?

The necessity of baneful magick in witchcraft is a topic of debate among practitioners, but those who advocate for it argue that it serves several essential functions within a balanced magical practice. Here are some key reasons why baneful magick is considered necessary by some witches:

• Protection and Self-Defense: Baneful magick is often used as a form of spiritual, energetic, or even physical protection. Many practitioners believe that not all threats can be dealt with through passive means, and sometimes, direct action is necessary to deter harm or prevent further attacks. This can include curses, bindings, and hexes against those who pose a danger.

• Justice and Retribution: Some witches view baneful magick as a means of enforcing justice when mundane methods fail. If someone has committed harm without consequence, certain magical traditions believe that spells can be used to balance the scales, ensuring that the wrongdoer faces the repercussions of their actions.

• Maintaining Balance: Witchcraft, like nature, operates on the principle of balance—both creation and destruction. Baneful magick is seen as part of the natural cycle, ensuring that energies remain in harmony rather than allowing unchecked positivity to enable harm. Just as nature has predators to maintain ecosystems, some believe magick must include baneful aspects to keep equilibrium.

• Empowerment and Boundaries: Engaging in baneful magick can be an assertion of personal power and boundaries. It allows practitioners to reclaim control over their lives, particularly when they have been wronged or oppressed. It can serve as a psychological and magical declaration of sovereignty.

• Shadow Work and Personal Growth: Baneful magick forces practitioners to confront their own darkness, ethics, and the consequences of their actions. It requires deep self-awareness, ensuring that spells are cast with full knowledge of their impact. Many believe that working with darker aspects of magick leads to a more complete and mature understanding of power and responsibility.

• Dealing with Persistent Negative Forces: Some believe that certain entities, people, or energies simply will not respond to healing or banishing techniques. In such cases, baneful magick may be seen as the only viable solution for neutralizing a persistent threat or malevolent force.

While baneful magick is not necessary for every practitioner, those who incorporate it into their craft see it as a tool—one that, like any tool, should be used responsibly, ethically, and with careful consideration of its consequences. Just like nature, magick is neither black or white, it just is. As a witch, it is your right to use your magick to defend yourself, and then some.

[ssa-dado]

23 - Ethics

Aaron Hotchner x fem!bau!reader Genre: fluff, slow burn (though at this point, the ragù has been simmering so long it's practically ready to serve), hurt/comfort, miiiiiild angst Summary: Hotch somehow finds himself standing in the middle of a winter night, wearing a short-sleeved polo, all because you called (read: expertly manipulated) him into joining the team at the bar. He hadn’t wanted to come. And yet, between the past few weeks of damning evidence he’d been collecting against himself and the undeniable proof unfolding right in front of him, he’s just cracked the hardest case of the last ten years: his true feelings for you. Warnings: alcohol consumption, some cuss words here and there, mentions of what happens in 3x19 and case talk involving SA, Hotch steals a bite of your cheesecake Word Count: 16.6k Dado's Corner: This is the first part of the Act Two finale (yayyyy), the second part will be up in a few hours, as soon as I finish editing (and hunt down some S3 Hotch pics/gifs for the thumbnail - help a girl out if you’ve got any I can use in sequence like these two). Some details aren’t meant to be overlooked… and the same ones remain unresolved. Never trust an unfinished case

masterlist

In Stoic philosophy, ethics (ethikē) examines the principles of virtuous living, focusing on how individuals can align their actions and character with reason and nature, ultimately achieving a harmonious life.

For the Stoics, the pursuit of virtue was essential, emphasizing self-discipline, moral integrity, and the cultivation of wisdom to navigate life’s challenges.

The Stoics believed that apatheia - freedom from destructive emotions - was central to living virtuously. By cultivating rational detachment and understanding the nature of desires and fears, individuals could transcend emotional turmoil and align their inner state with the rational divine order (logos).

It was all your fault.

His fault, technically, for now being stuck in DC’s late-night traffic at 11 PM, singing - more like yelling - along to a mishmash CD he’d burned himself: everything from The Beatles to random musical soundtracks, and - he fully blamed the divorce for this one last addition - Taylor Swift.

But the rest? That blame fell squarely on you.

You, who’d managed to yank him out of his solitary cocoon with a single phone call - wielding the same authority he’d use to haul you out of your pajamas for a case at ungodly hours, except your urgent mission revolved around meeting the rest of the team at a bar.

“Come on, Aaron,” you’d insisted over the phone, timing impeccable as always - right after he’d swapped his work slacks for his own pajama pants. “You haven’t left your house in two weeks, it’s not healthy. The only social contact you’re getting is from serial killers and uncooperative detectives.”

And, apparently, a nagging life coach he didn’t remember hiring.

“Don’t forget Strauss,” he’d muttered, unbuttoning his shirt.

“Worse than psychopaths,” you’d quipped. “Do it for my peace of mind, please?” you’d added, with a note of genuine concern creeping in.

He was grateful this was all happening over the phone - you couldn’t enhance your request with those devastating puppy eyes he could imagine far too clearly.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair as he leaned back against the couch. “I’m fine. Really. Maybe next time.”

“Exact same words you told me last Friday,” you shot back without missing a beat. “Aaron, please, I’m on my knees here.”

He really did not want to picture it... too late.

“I’m already in my pajamas,” he replied cheeks blushed, hoping you’d give up - only for you to burst his eardrum with a deafening “OH!” that made him freeze.

“Rossi just texted me he’s coming too,” you pressed on, clearly not letting this go. “You have to be there. Derek is ovulating and will be glued to the dance floor. That leaves Rossi alone with Spencer. With alcohol. Aaron, alcohol. You don’t want Rossi to quit again do you?”

“Alright, alright, I get it,” he caved, already twisting the shower knobs. “I’ll be there.”

“You’re the best,” you cooed. “I’m texting you the address now. And, of course, the first round’s on me - my apology for so heartlessly interrupting your thrilling evening of pajamas and solitude.”

“Oh, you’re spoiling me,” he replied dryly, though the small smile tugging at his lips betrayed him - not that it had anything to do with you, of course. “Bye, see you soon.”

“See you!” you chirped brightly, and just before the call ended, you added with a playful, heartfelt, “I love you, bye!”

He told himself the reason his heart skipped - not one, but two beats - was because the shower water was still running, and the bill would be astronomical if he didn’t get in soon.

Yet, it still took him a minute to step into the shower and another ten to wipe the ridiculous, boyish smile off his face.

Details. Minuscule, insignificant details.

As insignificant as the fact that, even though he’d wanted nothing more than to stay in, he ended up taking his sweet time getting ready, using a little less gel in his hair and swapping out his usual zip-up for a black polo that fit just a little too well. Short-sleeved too.

And now, here he was, stuck in traffic - less than usual, but still traffic - drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, singing his heart out to a soundtrack from a musical.

Not 70s rock. Not The Beatles.

Loud enough to rattle the windows, his voice carrying the tune with no regard for key or pitch.

For once, he didn’t care. Not about his hair, ruined by the head-bobbing, or his volume, which would mortify him in any other context. He was too caught up in the rare freedom of it all, the raw, unfiltered honesty of being alone in his car.

And by the time Aaron stepped into the bar, the scene was exactly as he’d expected - or, more accurately, exactly as you’d described it during your excruciatingly persuasive phone call.

On his left, Penelope and Emily were swaying to the music, drinks in hand, throwing occasional glances at Derek, who was - using your precise words - ovulating on the dancefloor. Aaron could barely make him out through the crowd of women gathered around him.

But his eyes didn’t linger there.

They found you quickly - though apparently, it took you even less time to spot him because you were already standing up from your seat and waving with a smile so warm it made the crowded bar feel a little less suffocating.

From the moment he saw you, Aaron couldn’t decide whether to be grateful you’d dragged him out of bed or curse you for subjecting him to the sight of you in that dress - without so much as a warning.

It seemed to conspire with the dim bar lights, luring his gaze far too easily to every curve it chose to flaunt or hide just enough to drive him mad.

He told himself he was just trying to figure out the color - that was the only reason his eyes lingered, surely, to where the hem flirted with the middle of your thigh, hovering just close enough to tempt but never quite touching because, unlike his thoughts, your dress had boundaries.

Or why he felt a flicker of embarrassment - no, mortification - when his gaze, against every ounce of his better judgment, dropped to the necklace you always wore.

Somehow, today, it looked… different. Distracting. Suddenly worthy of deep, thorough analysis.

And by deep, he meant he’d probably memorized the exact number of loops in the chain, the way they caught the light, the faint sway against your skin… not that he was staring.

It wasn’t the faint curve of your collarbone the chain rested against that caught his attention.

Definitely not.

And it wasn’t the faintest suggestion of cleavage beneath it that made his mouth go dry.

Absolutely not.

No, clearly, this was about something else. Something important. Pressing. Like… the chain itself. Yeah. It was just a nice chain. Very symmetrical. Perfect craftsmanship, really.

At least, that’s what he told himself, and maybe it was time to move on. His mind should’ve been occupied with something else, anything else. Like… murder investigations. Team dynamics. Bureau politics. You know, actual priorities.

Except, wait. The color of your dress.

Right. That.

He hadn’t quite cracked it yet. What a coincidence. Probably worth another look.

Maybe two.

By the time he reached the booth where you sat with Spencer and Rossi, he was proud - no, smug - to say that he could, with almost scientific certainty, declare that the dress was black. Definitely black.

Just to confirm it wasn’t some tricky, dark navy blue, he stole another glance.

Maybe two, again.

...Nope. Black. Absolutely, positively black.

“Grazie a Dio, Aaron, you’re here!” Rossi groaned the moment Aaron reached the table, grabbing his face with both hands like a long-lost relative and planting two theatrical kisses on his cheeks, Italian style.

Aaron barely flinched, turning toward you instead. He didn’t even think about it, his eyes just started seeking yours like a reflex, searching for the one person who could make the absurdity of this greeting feel even remotely bearable.

And there you were.

Your eyes met his before he could even fully look, as though you’d been waiting for it.

The twitch of your lips, the teasing sympathy in your smile, was all it took to push him to the brink of laughter.

He caught himself, barely. It wasn’t supposed to be this funny, but somehow, it was.

Rossi patted Aaron’s shoulder, as if testing whether he was truly there to save him or just another hallucination brought on by sheer desperation. “If I hear one more random fact from this drunk kid,” Rossi said, gesturing toward Spencer, who was slumped in the booth, cheeks flushed and waving sloppily in Aaron’s direction, “I’m going to throw myself in the fryer.”

“Are you alright, Reid?” he asked cautiously as he slid into the seat next to yours. You shifted slightly to make room, your knee brushing his in a way he tried very hard not to notice.

“Alright?!” Spencer giggled, eyes wide with unrestrained glee. “Phenomenal!”

Then, without missing a beat, he turned to Rossi, leaning in with an exaggerated wobble. “Ooooooooooh, Rossi, speaking of drinking - did you know that the concept of 'drinking to get drunk' is a uniquely modern phenomenon? In Ancient Greece - hic - they diluted their wine with water. If you drank it undiluted, you were considered barbaric. So technically - hic - we’re all barbarians right now. Except for you, Hotch! You…you just arrived.”

Aaron stared, his lips pressing into a flat line to suppress a laugh. Phenomenal. Sure, that’s one word for it.

“How many drinks did he have?” Aaron asked, glancing sideways as he felt your arm brush his.

“Technically one,” you replied with a pitying smile that somehow made his chest feel both lighter and tighter at the same time.

Aaron raised a skeptical eyebrow. “That’s impossible. How did-”

You cut him off, leaning in closer, resting your elbow lightly on his shoulder, your breath brushing his ear as you spoke. “He just wanted to loosen up a bit… Derek told him his mission tonight was to ‘find him some.’”

You paused to take a look at his reaction, pulling back just slightly, which made him instinctively turn toward you.

He hadn’t realized how little space you’d left until your noses touched… fuck.

“…And he got nervous,” you continued back in his ear, as though the proximity hadn’t left you as flustered as it had him. “So he ordered the cocktail that, according to his ‘scientific and cultural data,’ had the least amount of alcohol.”

Aaron turned his head just enough to speak, the movement brushing his nose against yours again. “Well, he’s more than just loose.” The corner of his mouth twitched into the faintest smirk, though his pulse was anything but steady.

He half-expected you to pull away now, to laugh and break whatever spell was weaving between you. But you didn’t. If anything, you seemed just as still, as if you hadn’t noticed - or didn’t mind - how close you were.

“Let’s just say the bartender was very generous with the vodka,” you said softly, your hand patting his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Except it wasn’t.

Your touch burned in a way that felt entirely unfair.

“So, uh… here we are.” You said, finally pulling back from him.

Your eyes met, holding for just a moment longer than necessary, the bar suddenly so quiet he swore he could hear his pupils dilate. “Don’t worry, he ate all of mine and Rossi’s fries. He’ll hopefully sober up soon.”

“Did you know, Hotch,” Spencer slurred, his voice brimming with childlike enthusiasm, “that your brain processes alcohol at an average rate of one standard drink per hour? But genetics, age, and body mass - hic - can totally change that. You might process it slower because you’re, uh…” He squinted, his face scrunching in concentration. “Old.”

The look Aaron shot him was enough to make even a tipsy genius backtrack immediately. Spencer immediately flailed into damage control, his hands waving erratically. “Older! Older…er!” he stammered, his voice pitching higher in panic. “Like, statistically, your metabolism is probably, um, slowing down a tiny bit. Nothing drastic! Just, you know, the natural process of… life.”

Sure, ‘popular…lar’.

Aaron arched an eyebrow. “Fascinating, Reid. Anything else you’d like to analyze?”

Spencer, who barely understood sarcasm when sober, let alone in his current state, widened his eyes, thinking Aaron had actually prompted him to elaborate for once. “You know… there’s this thing called nonverbal communication. It’s like… 60-65% of all human communication. And yooooou’re… you’re doing a lot of it right now, Hotch.”

Aaron froze, his brow furrowing. “What are you talking about, Reid?”

Spencer tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly as he leaned forward. “With the professor! It’s fascinating!” he insisted, now fully in observation mode. “The eye contact! Did you know prolonged eye contact – hic - increases oxytocin levels? That – by the way – it’s also called the cuddle hormone. It’s sooooo cool. Your brain could actually be tricked into thinking you’re falling in lo-”

“Spencer,” you interrupted, your voice pitched higher than usual, “I think it’s time for more fries. Want to come with me?”

Before he could even reply, you grabbed Spencer’s arm and practically hauled him out of the booth, your pace hurried enough to suggest you weren’t about to take no for an answer. As you reached the edge of the table, you glanced over your shoulder, your eyes landing on Aaron. “Aaron, want a beer too?”

“Yes, thanks,” Aaron replied automatically, already beginning to rise from his seat.

But you stopped him with a light press of your hand to his shoulder, the touch so casual, so natural, that it sent his brain skidding into a corner. “No, no,” you said quickly, “you stay here. You and Rossi can… talk about that sport where 22 grown men chase a ball around for 90 minutes.”

...Soccer?!

Aaron didn’t want to be left alone with Rossi.

By the way the older man was already giving him that look - the one that made him feel both exposed and deeply irritated - it was obvious Rossi had no intention of letting him off easy. It didn’t help that you were still standing there, waiting for him to respond while his thoughts were stuck looping around the fact that your hand had just been on his shoulder.

“Soccer?” Aaron asked finally, arching a brow in an attempt at nonchalance.

“Yes, that,” you said, flashing a quick smile before turning toward the bar. As you walked away, dragging a wobbly Spencer under your arm, you threw a mischievous glance over your shoulder at Rossi. “I heard someone’s favorite team didn’t qualify for the Champions League semifinals.”

And just like that, you were gone.

Rossi shook his head, swirling the last of his bourbon with a smirk. “Cheeky.”

The best. How someone like you even existed, Aaron had no idea. And how lucky he was - unreasonably, undeservedly lucky - to share the same earth, the same air, the same fleeting moments as you.

“She’s relentless,” Aaron replied, his tone carefully neutral, though by the smitten look he had on his face he certainly wasn’t fooling anyone - not Rossi, but hopefully still himself.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Rossi quipped. “Relentless suits her. Works on you, clearly.”

He started stroking the side of his index finger with his thumb - an unconscious habit he was positive Rossi had already clocked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means she’s the only one who could drag you out of the house tonight, and we both know it,” Rossi said, tapping his fingers lightly on the edge of his glass.

Amazing. Subtlety, as usual, was nowhere on Rossi’s game plan.

Aaron shot him a warning look, but Rossi, as always, pressed on. “The rest of us have been trying to get you to come out for weeks, and you’ve shot us down every time. But her?” He nodded toward the bar, where you were now laughing at something Spencer said - or, God help him, did. “One phone call, and here you are.”

Aaron clenched his jaw. He’d shut you down before. Several times, in fact… and every single time, he’d felt guilty about it. He’d almost called you back afterward, too – almost though.

“She caught me at the right time,” he said finally, his tone flat, though his thumb hadn’t stopped brushing against his index finger. He kept his focus on the fake wood grain of the table, pretending it was infinitely more interesting than Rossi’s smug expression.

Right time. Sure. That’s what it was. A half-truth was still technically a truth.

And yet, before he could stop himself, his gaze lifted toward the crowd, scanning the bar until he found what he was looking for… not you. Definitely not you.

He was just… checking if Derek had started one of his signature dance moves yet. That was it. Because it wasn’t a night out until Derek was doing the spin or the body roll. Just keeping tabs on his team. Responsible leadership and all that.

With the very corner of his eye, maybe, he caught a glimpse of you at the bar. Pure coincidence. A side effect of good peripheral vision.

Rossi snorted beside him. Aaron didn’t need to look to know the man had caught him mid-definitely-not-checking-on-you “Sure kid,” Rossi said, his tone dripping with disbelief. “Did she also catch you at the right time when you casually decided that tonight was the night to show off those biceps you’ve been hiding under your button-downs all winter.”

Aaron shook his head, exhaling sharply. “You’re reading too much into this.”

“Am I?” Rossi countered, his grin softening into something closer to understanding. “Or are you just trying too hard to pretend you don’t feel anything for her?”

Aaron didn’t respond, just tensed, jaw tightening as he reached for his glass of water - the one you had left for him before he even got here, because you knew his throat tended to go dry after car rides. Weren’t you just the most thoughtful person on the planet?

He took a slow sip, pointedly avoiding Rossi’s gaze.

“How long are you planning to keep this up?” Rossi continued, his voice gentler now, though still laced with exasperation. “It’s already been ten years, Aaron.”

Oh, fantastic.

Ten years.

Thanks for the reminder, Dave.

Of course, he knew. He’d been planning to ask you to dinner to mark the milestone, even going so far as to dial your number - only to chicken out halfway through because, heaven forbid, you might think it was something more.

Actually, scratch that - he wasn’t just afraid you’d think it was something more; he was terrified you’d reject the idea that it could be something more and vanish from his life entirely. Because, you know, losing ten years of friendship over one misstep made perfect sense.

So here he was: milestone uncelebrated, phone call abandoned, still trying to think of a way to commemorate the occasion without it coming off as a grand romantic gesture.

Devious? Maybe.

Necessary? Absolutely.

Likely to end in disaster? Well, that was the theme of the decade, wasn’t it?!

Aaron froze for half a second, his grip tightening on the glass. “It hasn’t been a decade.”

Rossi arched an eyebrow. “Oh, no? She walked into the BAU ten years ago. Sat down at that desk right in front of yours. And you’ve been looking at her the exact same way ever since.”

“That’s not true,” Aaron said quietly, though even he could hear the lack of conviction in his voice.

Rossi leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his tone softening further. “Aaron, you might be fooling the others, but not me. So, what is it? Why are you holding back?”

Aaron sighed, setting the glass down. “Because it’s complicated, Dave. You know that. She’s… she deserves better than this. Better than me.”

Forty-two - just old enough for the years to start showing. A single father who barely saw his son once a week. Divorced. Obsessed with his job. Exhausted. Guarded. Haunted. Broken. Your boss.

Rossi hummed, sitting back again. “And you think ignoring how you feel is what’s best for her?”

Aaron didn’t answer, his gaze fixed on the table - locked in, really, to the point where he was actively analyzing the artificial wood grain, bitter.

Years of progress in manufacturing, and they still couldn’t make it look real… oh. Rossi was staring at him.

“I get it,” Rossi said after a moment, his tone softer now. “You’ve been through hell, and I know you don’t want to risk losing her if you take the big step. But the way I see it, you’re already losing her - piece by piece - every time you convince yourself to keep quiet.”

Aaron’s shoulders stiffened, his jaw tightening as his fingers curled tighter around his glass.

“Don’t overthink it, kid. Just… stop fighting it.” Rossi added, his voice almost gentle. “Before you let another ten years slip by. And maybe think about telling her the truth about what happened two weeks ago.”

Aaron’s eyes snapped back to Rossi, his posture stiffening instantly. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, come on,” Rossi said, feigning exasperation. “You don’t think I know about the Rocher interrogation? The trip up to Riverhead to pick her up? Whatever that was?”

Aaron’s jaw tightened, his mind flashing back to the moment—standing in your doorway, the look of confusion and sleep still etched into your features.

“She told you about that?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

“She didn’t need to,” Rossi replied. “I saw the way you were when you got back. The way you looked at her. Like you’d been reminded all over again why you feel the way you do.” He leaned forward, his gaze sharp but not unkind. “So, what happened?”

Aaron hesitated, his throat tightening. “Nothing happened.”

Exibit A: Gregory Rocher ☆ ★

You loved your job.

Maybe if you kept repeating that to yourself, the phrase would eventually trick your brain into ignoring the fact that your phone was ringing before sunrise - on your day off, no less.

“What do you want?” you grumbled, your voice still thick with sleep, raspy enough that you secretly hoped Hotch might mistake you for someone else and end the call.

“I need you.” His voice was steady, firm, and yet his choice of words couldn’t have been more… devious.

Anyways, you loved your job.

You loved how it gave you a hero’s excuse to avoid your mom’s bland Christmas dinner, complete with undercooked turkey and her interrogation about why you’d dropped the engagement to “one of her most brilliant students.” A student who, coincidentally, had also been the most pompous ass you’d ever met.

But you didn’t love being summoned at four in the morning.

“At four in the morning?” you shot back, your inhibitions still fast asleep, leaving your attitude free to roam - hopefully not too much, or he’d start comparing you to Rossi. “I’m in Riverside, Hotch. It’s going to take-”

Six hours.

It was going to take six hours to get to Washington, assuming the traffic gods were merciful and you magically developed the ability to teleport into clothes instead of the mismatched pajamas you were currently wearing.

“I’m coming to get you,” he cut in, his voice sharp and decisive. “You have one hour.”

You had never been more awake in your life.

He didn’t tell you why it would only take him an hour - because he wasn’t driving from D.C. That would’ve meant he left at 11 PM, and surely Aaron Hotchner had better things to do with his evening at that specific time.

No, he wasn’t in Washington. He was driving from New York. Specifically, Long Island City. Kate’s apartment.

Not that he’d ever tell you that. Heaven forbid you learn he was starting to see someone after the divorce. It wasn’t like it mattered or it was a big deal - according to him, anyway.

Instead, you were treated to updates about Jack’s latest obsession with olives - because that, of course, was vital information. Why? Because Jack’s father lived in constant fear he’d choke on one.

“What? Did you even sleep? What time did you even get out of your apa-”

Ten minutes ago, but of course, he wasn’t about to admit that. Still, you weren’t wrong - he hadn’t slept.

“I’ll wait for you outside your door,” he said briskly, his voice as clipped as ever. “Be quick.” And just like that, he hung up.

You loved your job.

You loved that your boss was such a gentleman to pick you up himself, unprompted, at four in the morning - truly, the epitome of chivalry.

You’d have to thank him for his thoughtfulness by offering him one of your mom’s infamous homemade Christmas cookies, knowing full well they could double as blunt-force weapons. The image of him trying to bite into one, only to realize he’d underestimated the hardness scale of baked goods, was enough to make the early wake-up call almost worth it.

He needed you? Well, you needed to see the look on his face when reality - and your mother’s culinary prowess - hit him square in the teeth.

You loved that he didn’t even bother to tell you what this was about. Instead, you were stuck in the passenger seat of his car, trapped in the limbo of the unknown for the next hour, trying to decipher if whatever he “needed” from you would require leaving an apologetic note for your mother.

Not that you cared what she thought - though her constant jabs at your career choices were getting painfully unoriginal. At the very least, you’d be giving her some fresh material to work with.

Instead, Hotch figured that shoving the file of one of the country’s most prolific serial killers into your lap would save him from enduring your commentary on the sheer absurdity of the situation.

The situation being, of course, that he’d let himself take advice from your nosy, wise-beyond-her-years neighbor Mrs. Lee. And maybe, she was right. Maybe there was something wrong with him.

Because it wasn’t just the big things, it was the smallest things that sent him spiraling. Like how his heart raced every time you walked into the bullpen, the way he couldn’t stop himself from stealing glances, or - God help him - the fact that he caught himself smiling like an idiot just because you’d shown up wearing a brand-new shirt.

It wasn’t rational.

It wasn’t like him to feel this way, to lose focus over something so mundane, to feel his chest tighten when you were around as if the very air you breathed was somehow different from everyone else’s. He was better than this.

He had to be.

It wasn’t because of feelings.

Of course not.

That would be ridiculous.

It wasn’t because he’d look for you in every room, or because he felt lighter when your laugh broke through the tension of yet another exhausting day. No, it wasn’t that.

It was something simpler, more primal, more explainable. Something like the fact that it had been far too long since anyone had touched him - not a handshake, not a brush on the shoulder, not anything. That’s what it was.

It wasn’t that he was unraveling because it was you. No, it was the absence of human contact.

The way it made every small gesture you threw his way feel magnified a hundredfold, leaving him raw and exposed.

It was about sex. Plain and simple.

That’s why he’d started cancelling on the team’s weekend plans. Not because he was rotting away in solitude, staring at the four walls of his house. No, it was because he’d started spending those mornings in someone else’s bed.

Kate. Quiet, predictable, uncomplicated Kate.

It was funny how, when he woke up in her bed, the ceilings always looked the same. For a brief moment, his mind would trick him, letting him believe he was back in his old house and Haley was still sleeping on his chest.

But some mornings, his mind played crueler tricks. Some mornings, it made him think it was your ceiling. That it was you shifting closer to him in the sheets, your arm brushing his as you searched for warmth.

Of course, it wasn’t you.

It could never be you.

Kate barely talked, and when she did, it was only about the job. That was fine. They didn’t need to talk. They didn’t have the time, and, frankly, they didn’t have the desire. They had better things to do.

And it worked.

It worked because now he didn’t unravel when your hands brushed his. He didn’t falter when you and he sat far too close at yet another precinct, staring at yet another case board. He didn’t catch himself lingering when he leaned over you, his arm brushing against your legs as he reached for the markers on your side of the table.

It worked because he could tell himself none of it mattered anymore. At least, that’s what he kept trying to convince himself.

Because if it wasn’t just about touch, if it wasn’t just the absence of connection, if it was something deeper, something more dangerous - then it would destroy him. And he couldn’t let that happen. Not again. Not with you.

“I assume you brought coffee,” you teased, rubbing your hands together for warmth as you slid into the passenger seat.

Without a word, Hotch reached into the cupholder and handed you a steaming cup, his fingers brushing yours briefly.

“Oh, you truly are the love of my life,” you joked, taking a noisy sip. It was perfect - exactly how you liked it, without even have to tell him.

Hotch instead stayed silent, focusing on the road ahead, more intense than usual.

Why did your words ache and swell in him at the same time? They were a joke - of course, they were a joke. You hadn’t meant anything by them.

But the quiet of the early morning, the faint glow of the first rays of sunlight spilling over the horizon… it amplified everything.

That it was just the two of you.

Alone in his car.

You were clearly dressed for work, but the early hour lent the kind of casualness that felt almost disarming. Like this wasn’t a job, but a road trip. No one else on the road, the occasional twinkle of Christmas lights still flickering from the houses you passed.

You broke into the infamous tin of cookies, offering him one like it was some peace treaty. He took it reluctantly and discovered that, when drowned in coffee, they were… tolerable. Barely.

It was warm, but not the warmth of coffee. Not the air conditioning humming in the car. Definitely not the double layers of undershirts he was wearing.

It was you.

You were a kind of warmth he didn’t know how to define. It was in the way your eyes lit up as you gazed out the window at the familiar landscapes of your childhood, pointing out places he hadn’t thought twice about. To him, they were just small-town markers: a gas station here, a church there, but you narrated them with the same enthusiasm his son had when describing his favorite superheroes.

Would you have been this close if he’d met you before? Like… when you were six?

Oh. Right.

He’d been eighteen then - one of the top students at GWU, buried under a mountain of coursework and juggling internships. Those days felt like a lifetime ago, nothing more than a distant blur. The only tangible reminder of that chapter was an old t-shirt he hadn’t laid eyes on in years.

And you? At six, you were probably busy mastering your third language – because everyone on this Earth knows 3 languages fluently at that age - and putting everyone else in your class to shame. Basically what you still did nowadays. Especially with Morgan.

Twelve years of age difference. Yeah.

On second thought, this whole scenario was horrifying. He’d have been a stressed-out college freshman, and you’d have been… what? Some tiny, smug, baby genius correcting his grammar with crayon-stained fingers?

Absolutely not. Forget he even thought about it.

And so he reached behind his seat, pulling out the file. The reason - the only reason - you were in the passenger seat beside him. Not because he needed an excuse to spend time with you. Definitely not.

Gregory Rocher.

This wasn’t a road trip. This wasn’t casual. This was work.

Your fingers hesitated before flipping the file open. “What’s this about?” you asked.

“Rocher claims there are more bodies,” Hotch said, his voice steady, but slightly tense. “He’s asking for a meeting.”

Rocher wasn’t just prolific - he was vile. His victims - women, all of them - had been strangled, violated, and discarded like garbage. Classic misogynist.

Unsurprisingly, you remembered the case as if you’d been there yourself. Hotch had made sure of that. It was one of the first unsubs he’d caught without you, and clearly, he hadn’t been handling it well.

The letters he’d sent about it read less like updates and more like a full-blown PhD thesis, packed with so many details you half-expected an appendix and a bibliography. It had been his way of coping, drowning you in enough information to make it feel like you were right there with him.

Sweet, when you first received them.

Almost sweet, looking back now.

My dearest, philosopher,

I miss you. Though I’m told this is a natural side effect of tolerating someone for so long, I can’t say I approve.

My new partner snores. Loudly. I’m fairly certain the sound violates several Geneva Conventions, but HR disagrees. He also insists on “bonding” over lunch, which I suspect is a euphemism for wasting my time.

It’s strange solving cases without you. This one - a nightmare of strangulations and discarded lives - had me up for nights. If you’d been here, I might have slept more. Or less. Let’s be honest, knowing us, probably less. But at least you’d have been there with some infuriating insight, turning the whole thing into a metaphor for humanity’s collective failings. You’d have annoyed me. And, somehow, made it better.

I hope Europe is treating you well. It better be extraordinary, or I’ll have to take issue with an entire continent. Write back soon, if only to remind me there’s someone out there who can still hold an intelligent conversation. Until then, I’ll just keep surviving this... barely.

Take care of yourself. I mean it.

Yours,

Aaron.

And if at the time, the sentence for Rocher was life without parole, recently, the courts had upgraded it to the death penalty. That change sparked all kinds of debates - within the team, the system, everywhere. Rocher didn’t care, though. He never cared.

He’d been taunting the justice system since the day they locked him up, and now, with his execution looming, he was claiming there were more victims. His final power play.

What always stuck with you, though - what made your skin crawl - was how he didn’t flinch when they handed down the death sentence. Not a twitch, not even in his eyes, no tremble in his hands, not even a flicker in his gaze. He gave no one the satisfaction of seeing a monster come undone.

You’d called that apatheia.

The Stoics had this concept, this ideal state of being, where you freed yourself from destructive emotions - excessive anger, fear, grief, or pleasure. Apatheia wasn’t about feeling nothing, but about staying so unshaken by success or failure, by fortune or tragedy, that you became untouchable.

That was Rocher. Or at least, that was the face he wore - unbothered, calm.

It was twisted, wasn’t it? The same man who had committed his murders in explosions of emotion, drowning in irrationality, now stood there in coldness.

And yet, maybe that was what had made him so dangerous - even in death, even at the mercy of a system he couldn’t control, he had still tried to grab the reins, to steer the narrative.

Requesting that interview? That had been his final-

Wait was that…

“Why’d you stop?” Hotch’s voice broke through the quiet of the car, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror before he turned his head slightly, glancing at you over his shoulder.

“I-” You faltered, your thoughts scattering as you noticed the faint curve of his lips. “You were smiling.”

“Was I? Really?” His brows lifted slightly, genuinely surprised.

His hands tightened just a fraction on the wheel, barely noticeable - just like the subtle flush creeping up his neck, blooming beneath the collar of his shirt.

That man was so ridiculously easy to fluster, which would’ve been endlessly entertaining if he didn’t immediately cut your fun short by pivoting to “important matters.” Suddenly, it was all about interrogation tactics and the riveting nuances of Rocher’s profile.

As if you hadn’t already skimmed the backstory a dozen times while he nitpicked through mock-interrogation scenarios like this was some FBI debate club. Really, your boss truly did suck.

Because by the time he’d finished dissecting every possible angle, there were still two hours left to endure… now what Unit Chief?!

“How’s your mother?” Hotch asked suddenly, his voice so soft it almost sounded like he was apologizing for bringing it up.

“Oh, she’s fine,” you said, waving a hand dismissively. “In less than five minutes after I got there, we’d already hit the classics: worrying about my job, reminiscing about my failed engagement, and of course, lecturing me about how I don’t visit often enough. Because, you know, even when she’s not working, she’s still a professor.”

Hotch’s lips twitched, a near-smile that quickly faded. You’d told him about her before - how she was relentless, how she’d shaped you into the person you were today, constantly pushing you to know more, achieve more. And in the end, it worked, true.

On the surface, you always joked about it, like it was no big deal – even now. But he knew better. He knew what you meant when you said things like that – that if you ever stepped outside her carefully crafted expectations, you weren’t enough for her.

And while you’d perfected the art of shrugging off her comments, throwing back one of your usual biting remarks to dismantle her criticisms, he was sure it wasn’t that simple. He’d seen the way they lingered, even if you didn’t realize it yourself… you wouldn’t bring it up if it didn’t sting not even a little, right?

Or maybe that was just him being overly perceptive. Or worse - overprotective.

Him? Overprotective about you? No. He was just… looking out for you.

Like an older sibling would. A sibling who, admittedly, sometimes let his imagination wander into places it shouldn’t.

“Of course… I’m guessing you handled it with your usual grace,” he said dryly, already bracing himself for whatever sharp response you had locked and loaded. When it came to the things that came out of your mouth, “grace” was often a loose interpretation at best.

“By ‘grace’ - do you mean biting my tongue to avoid commenting on the absolutely astounding leap she made from talking about biologically cultivated vegetables to my ‘biological clock’? Then yes, Aaron. Loads of grace.”

Hotch let out a huff of air, something caught between a sigh and a laugh, shaking his head. “Why does she still press you like that?”

After all, you were in your thirties, with more degrees and certifications than he had fingers on one hand. You were financially independent, had built a career that people admired, and, honestly, you were the most incredible woman he’d ever met.

One of the most. You were a great friend. An invaluable colleague. An efficient subordinate. Subordinate.

Because he was your boss. And you were off-lim-

“I think she’s just bored,” you continued, glancing out the window at the passing scenery. “She’s semi-retired, her favorite golden boy student turned out to be a disaster, and I’m not exactly giving her grandkids to micromanage. So, she channels all that leftover energy into reminding me, repeatedly, of my poor life choices.”

“They’re anything but poor choices,” he said firmly. “Do you know how many agents I walked through the BAU last month because of a certain professor who inspired them so much they decided this was a career worth pursuing?”

You blinked, caught off guard. Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you turned your gaze out the window, shrugging in an effort to downplay his words. “Could’ve been anyone. Not necessarily me.”

"After the fifth one in a row quoted Plato at me when I asked them why they wanted to be a profiler, I’m positive they got that from you." He countered.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You’re just trying to cheer me up because you had the nerve to call me at 4 a.m. to help you interview a psychopath.”

“If that were true, I’d have said something much more flattering," he said, too offhandedly, like it wasn’t even something he had to think about.

You arched a brow, your lips curving into a smirk. “Such as?”

He shot you a brief glance, raising an eyebrow, having already profiled your blatant attempt at fishing for compliments. "Nice try, s-"

He bit his lip just in time.

“Oh, come on,” you pressed. “This is a safe space, it’s just the two of us. You can let it out.”

"You really think I’m going to fall for that?" He shook his head, praying to every deity ever worshiped by mankind that you weren’t referring to what had been seconds away from slipping past his lips.

“Fall for what?” you asked, all wide-eyed innocence. “My charm?”

Hotch chuckled, his eyes still focused on the road ahead, even though his fingers were tapping idly against the steering wheel. “Much more than your charm.”

Much more?

Weird.

Very weird.

And it wasn’t the only thing off about him that day. It got progressively more odd, more noticeable, especially when you were both sitting across from Gregory Rocher.

He had personally requested to speak with Hotch, insisting he would only cooperate with him. That wasn’t surprising. What was surprising - at least to Hotch - was that the moment you both stepped into the room, it was you Rocher greeted first.

“Oh, that’s the teacher?” he said sheepishly.

Before you could react, before you could even fully register the recognition in his tone, Hotch was already stepping in front of you, his arm coming up instinctively, shielding you.

“It’s professor,” he corrected, his voice flat and deadly. “Sit back down.”

And Rocher obeyed.

But his wording stuck with you, even as Hotch launched into the preliminary questions. Teacher - not agent, not even professor. Strange.

You didn’t have time to dwell on it. Rocher wasn’t going to give up the location of the extra body without a performance, dragging you both into whatever twisted fantasy he had planned - a game of control. No surprise there. You had prepared for this. Over-prepared, maybe. If only Hotch were sticking to the damn script.

Because the moment Rocher’s focus landed on you - his gaze drifting back to you more than once, even while Hotch was speaking - the Unit Chief shifted. He started talking more, cutting in faster, interrupting where he normally wouldn’t.

And Rocher noticed.

“How is it like to work with someone like him?” he asked you, slipping the question in the middle of detailing location specifics, as if he wasn’t aware of what he was doing.

Hotch barely let you breathe before biting back, “Don’t waste our time, Rocher.”

“See?” Rocher grinned. “Isn’t he way too controlling?”

Funny, coming from a man who strangled twenty-seven women with his bare hands.

You exhaled slowly, refusing to take the bait. “Where’s the body?”

But Rocher was enjoying himself now, stretching out as much time as he could, his focus was more on how the two of you were conducting the interrogation rather than the questions themselves. “She’s completely different from you, Agent Hotchner,” he mused, again, completely ignoring your question. “How does it work between you?”

“It’s none of your business,” Hotch said, his voice sharper now, edged with something harder. “Answer her question.”

Rocher ignored him, gaze still locked onto you. “Do you know what they say about opposites, Professor?”

For the sake of-

You tilted your head slightly, unimpressed. “There are completely contradicting interpretations throughout history and culture. You might want to be more specific.”

At that, Hotch turned his head sharply toward you, his posture tightening.

Rocher noticed. He grinned wider, feeding off the shift in energy.

“Oh, look,” he cooed, mockingly delighted. “The protector is mad that you’re engaging with me.” His eyes flicked back to Hotch, studying him. “Why don’t you scold her, Agent Hotchner? Bring her out of here, discipline her for misbehaving with her superior.”

“Really?” You sighed, unimpressed. “Are you also going to suggest he strangle me? Like you did with the other twenty-seven women?”

Rocher’s grin didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened.

“Oh, that’s hard, Professor,” he taunted, voice sing-song. “Considering he can’t even look you in the eye since you came back from Europe.”

Hotch’s entire body went rigid.

Rocher leaned in slightly, head tilting as if savoring the reaction. “Tell me,” he murmured, watching Hotch carefully, testing him, “Did he have to take an issue with an entire continent to be like this now?”

You froze. Choice of words – again - familiar.

Something at the back of your mind was screaming at you, urging you to put the pieces together, but Hotch was already moving.

“This ends here,” he said, voice flat, final. He rose from the chair, his hand pressing lightly against your back, signaling you to get up.

You didn’t move.

You were still hardly staring at Rocher, still listening, still piecing something together, something that wasn’t just a power play. Rocher exhaled, amused, shaking his head as his gaze flicked back to Hotch.

“She’s smarter than you,” he commented lazily.

Hotch barely reacted, but you heard it. The way Hotch said your name again - soft, almost pleading. You felt it. Soft... and hard? Opposites-

You turned back to Rocher. “What were you saying about opposites?”

His eyes glinted, gleeful. “What do people say about opposites?” he prompted.

Clearly, all those hours spent studying philosophy had been leading up to this - a discount fortune cookie moment with a serial killer. Truly, a proud academic achievement.

“Opposites attract,” you answered, immediately regretting it - because, fantastic, now you sounded like one of those corny motivational quotes slapped onto a coffee mug, probably collecting dust in your mother's kitchen cabinet.

Hotch called your name again, firmer this time, but even he hesitated when Rocher’s grin turned knowing. “Do you believe that, Y/N?”

Speechless.

Hotch stiffened.

His voice dropped, threatening. “You don’t get to call her that.”

Rocher chuckled. “Jealous you’re not the only one who can?”

His hand slammed down on the metal table, the crack of impact ricocheting off the walls and straight into your ears. Rising from his chair, he leaned over the table, his frame so massive that it cast a shadow over Rocher.

"Shut up."

Goosebumps.

Hotch was one of those people whose voice didn’t need to be loud to be lethal.

But this time, it was.

For the first time since you’d met him, you heard him raise his voice too.

Although Rocher was still smiling.

Hotch stared him down for a few seconds, the lights in the room only making his face look harsher - his eyes darkened, accentuating the bags beneath them and the sharp line of his brow bone.

His nostrils flared, his mouth slightly parted, and then he said, “I don’t play games, Rocher. You collaborate, or you go back to rot. Now.”

“Funny, Agent Hotchner. I am cooperating. You’re the one getting all worked up.” Rocher’s tone was infuriatingly smug, but then his gaze slid back to you. “One of you is actually listening. The other is too emotional to see what’s right in front of him.”

You knew you’d hit rock bottom when, against all logic, you actually felt a flicker of pity for a serial killer - because he had just made the monumental mistake of calling Hotch emotional.

Without even a second thought. Without realizing what that meant.

What Hotch would do with that.

What Hotch would do to him.

No - you were terrified. And, somewhere deep inside, maybe even slightly tur-

“You’re stalling,” Hotch bit out, still leaned over the table.

“Oh, come on. I can’t spoon-feed two grown adults.” Rocher lifted his hands. “I already gave her something 'vital' - let’s just say that.” His smirk sharpened as his eyes flicked back to Hotch. “But at least she’s trying. You? You’re absolutely blind.”

Did it mean you were getting closer?

A flicker of something cold crawled up your spine. Opposites. A push and pull. You and-

The realization crashed into Hotch first, though. “There are two bodies.”

Rocher’s smile widened.

Oh, fuck him.

You and Hotch reached the same inevitable conclusion. Duality. Equilibrium.

The fundamental nature of opposition. Nothing exists in isolation - light is meaningless without darkness, fire without ice, predator without prey.

That’s why Rocher had been so fixated on it.

Why he had pushed you so relentlessly.

Why he had asked you - again and again - to define opposites.

Because one cannot exist without the other.

Because contrast is the foundation of meaning.

Because the presence of one demanded the existence of its counterpart.

Which meant-

Your throat tightened. “A woman… and a man.”

Rocher’s grin split open like something rotten. “Surprise.”

Surprise his ass.

The blood in your veins turned to ice. This wasn’t just different. This wasn’t just a twist.

This was a complete deviation of his M.O.

Rocher killed for sexual gratification. That was his entire pattern, his entire psychological makeup. He had a very clear type, a very clear need - and men weren’t part of it.

So, why?

You shot Hotch a look, and he was already thinking the same thing.

“Need a moment alone?” Rocher grinned.

Before you could respond, Hotch grabbed you by the wrist - completely unnecessary, honestly - and pulled you out of the room.

“Why the change in M.O.?” you asked at the exact moment he said, “Are you okay?” His hand settled on your shoulder - gentle, steady, ever so caring, apparently.

You blinked. “I’m fine, Aaron. You’re the one I’m worried about.”

Because, honestly? The image of him completely losing control out there was still playing on a loop in the back of your mind.

But for some reason, he didn’t answer.

Instead, he exhaled sharply, shaking his head, back to business. “It doesn’t make sense. He has a very specific victim type - all single women in their thirties. He finds them, seduces them…”

“Lures them to dates,” you continued, your voice quieter now, like saying it aloud made it heavier. “He needs control so badly he violates them before and after they’re dead. Strangulation - it’s not just about the kill, it’s about feeling the life leave their bodies. He wants to experience everything.”

Hotch’s expression hardened, his voice dropping to a murmur. “A serial rapist doesn’t just become an omnivore.”

“No… and we’re also assuming he used strangulation on both victims,” you pointed out. “For all we know, he could have changed his method.”

Hotch nodded along, already processing it. “He must have focused more on the woman. Maybe the man was a casual vic-”

“Philosooopheeer.” Rocher’s voice rang out from the monitor in a sing-song tone.

Your breath caught.

What the hell?

And yet - despite the weight pressing down on your chest, despite the sudden static in your mind - his name still slipped past your lips.

Barely a whisper. Barely a breath. But it was there.

“Aaron-”

Rocher’s voice hummed through the speakers again. “Philosopher, the opposites.”

Your pulse pounded against your ribs.

Loud. Drowning everything else.

“Aaron-”

Softer this time. Shaky. Uncertain.

Then - warmth.

The solid, steady warmth of his hand on the curve of your back.

“You’re the only one who calls me that.” You swallowed hard, not even glancing at him, eyes locked onto the monitor. “How does he know?”

Hotch’s fingers curled just slightly against your back. “Don’t let this affect you,” he murmured.

But even he wasn’t unaffected.

Even he wasn’t untouched.

Because now, beneath the steady mask, he felt guilty of bringing you there with him in the first place.

At this point, Rossi made a mental note to reward himself with that indoor pool he’d been dreaming about - because if he managed to get even one step forward with Aaron Hotchner, Denial Incarnate, he deserved a damn medal.

“It’s crazy. They’ve been grid-searching an entire forest for a week, and still - no bodies,” Rossi declared, shaking his head.

“I fear it’s only going to get worse now that Rocher’s dead,” Aaron said, voice low. “Everyone’s starting to believe it was his last move to buy himself more time.”

“To feel in control one last time,” Rossi mused.

He caught how it took a second too long for Aaron to respond. “I guess so…”

Except, judging by the way Aaron was suddenly hyper-focused on Rossi’s hair - definitely not admiring its painstakingly maintained perfection, which, by the way, was an absolute waste tonight, considering he’d already lost the woman he’d been eyeing for the past five minutes thanks to all this foolery - Rossi figured something else was going on.

And sure enough, when Aaron parted his mouth, Rossi was pretty damn sure it wasn’t to ask about the elite hair-gelling techniques he’d been mastering since the '70s.

No, it was because, right behind him, at the bar, a man - a male specimen - was currently eyeing you and Spencer.

Rossi sighed, barely hiding his smirk.. “You’re an ass-clown, Aaron.”

Just a clown in a short sleeved polo and jeans, watching a circus only he cared about.

“Can I pay for what that lovely lady and her magic broomstick ordered?” a voice drawled behind you, oozing with the kind of misplaced confidence that could only belong to someone deeply unburdened by self-awareness.

Spencer froze mid-sentence.

You turned around, only to be met by a tall, dark-haired guy, probably around your age. Objectively good-looking, sure - too bad he’d skipped cologne and decided to marinate in eau de fragile masculinity before stepping out tonight. A bold choice. Didn’t suit him. Didn’t suit anyone, really.

“Damn, the front view’s even better,” he smirked, his gaze shamelessly scanning you from head to toe. Funny how his ‘scanner’ seemed to jam conveniently at your cleavage, lingering just a second too long - one second away from you deciding to poke his eyes out yourself.

You crossed your arms, leveling him with a look that should’ve sent him scurrying back to whatever hole he crawled out of. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that if you just tell me how much it was.”

He chuckled, leaning a little too far into your personal space. “Oh, don’t be like that, sweetheart. Just letting you know what I see. And what I see…” His gaze dipped again, lower this time, his lips curving into a grin that made your skin crawl. “…yeah, worth every penny.”

You set your jaw, your voice firm. “The bill.”

The human dumpster tilted his head, his smirk widening, clearly enjoying your discomfort. “Aw, come on. Don’t be so cold. What’s a pretty little thing like you doing with him anyway?” He gestured lazily toward Spencer behind you, who was watching the exchange with wide, nervous eyes. “Bambi doesn’t even know how to treat you right.”

Spencer opened his mouth, his face reddening as he tried to stammer out a response. “Well, actually, the concept of ‘leagues’ in relationships is a social construct based on arbitrary perceptions of-”

…attractiveness and compatibility. In fact, research suggests that successful relationships are more strongly correlated with shared values and emotional intelligence than with surface-level traits… if only he’d let him finish.

“That’s enough,” you snapped, your hand twitching toward the pint of beer next to you - the one that was supposed to be Aaron’s.

Not that he’d technically mind if you repurposed it as a blunt-force weapon, but a small, rational voice in the back of your mind reminded you that he’d probably prefer it stayed in the glass rather than all over this idiot’s face.

Probably. Maybe. Jury was still out.

“Oh sweetheart don’t talk to me like that, I think of something a whole lot better to put in that mouth of yours.” He leaned in closer, his breath heavy with whatever cheap whiskey courage he’d choked down earlier.

He was dead.

“Get out of my face before I find something to shove into yours,” you snapped, your voice icy, “like my fist.”

And honestly, you weren’t just threatening.

You were ready.

Hand cocked, trajectory planned, already envisioning the satisfying sound of his ego shattering like glass.

But before you could even lift said fist, Spencer, sweet, wonderful Spencer, decided this was his moment to intervene, bless him. He probably thought he was saving this guy from imminent destruction, or maybe just delusional a warning might actually work to make him shut his mouth.

“Sir, I think you should-” Spencer started, his voice trembling slightly.

“Stay out of it, Einstein,” the man snapped, dismissing him with a lazy wave. “I’m just messing around. Though, I gotta say…” His voice dropped lower, his gaze doing yet another thorough inspection of everything except your face. “I kinda like it when you’re fiery.”

Oh, he was really begging for it now. Just as you were about to test out the self-defense moves Derek had been teaching you - already savoring the thought of your fist making satisfying contact with his smug face - you heard it.

A steady, deliberate rhythm approaching, marked by the kind of authority that sent most people scattering before they even knew why.

“Apologize,” came the voice from behind you.

Aaron. And you didn’t have to turn around to confirm it. You’d know that voice anywhere - overprotective party pooper.

The man scoffed, trying to laugh it off, but there was a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. “Hey, man, I was just joking around-”

“No, you weren’t.” Aaron cut him off. “It was predatory.”

The man probably just learnt a new word judging by the look on his face. “What the fuck do you mean, buddy?”

“That you’re pathetic.” Aaron said, giving him one of his best stares. “That because your mother never bothered to hang your drawings on the fridge when you were a kid, you’ve spent your entire life demanding validation from people who want nothing to do with you - just like her. Pathetic. And predatory.”

Damn, brutal - judging by the way the guy flinched, Aaron had nailed every single assumption. Truly, the best profiler you knew. “What the fuck are you? A shrink? You don’t know me, man!”

Aaron didn’t flinch. “I don’t?” he said coolly, tilting his head slightly. “I know you’re addicted to porn because it’s easier for you to objectify women than to accept that no one can stand to be around you in for more than five minutes. The only people who tolerate you are the three equally repressed guys you met at the gym - guys as shallow as you are.”

And speaking of porn, that was officially the hottest thing you’d ever heard come out of Aaron Hotchner’s mouth. It ranked right up there with “We can take the rest of the weekend off” and “You’re right.”

And he even kept going “You’re the reason the average IQ in this country keeps dropping. And guess what-”

Oh, my God. Say more things. Call him shallow again. Please.

“What you just said constitutes sexual harassment under federal law.” Aaron turned slightly to Spencer, who straightened immediately, as if on cue. “Reid, would you mind explaining the legal repercussions for this kind of crime?”

Spencer despite being still a bit dizzy, started. “Suuure. Under Title VII of the Civil Rights Act and most state laws, sexual harassment is a punishable offense, particularly when the behavior is hostile or unwanted - like in this case.” He made sure to raise his finger at that, just to be clear of course. “Penalties can include fines reaching thousands of dollars, and in some cases, jail time, especially for repeated offenses or behavior involving threats.”

“And rest assured, I will personally ensure you face the maximum penalties,” Aaron said, his voice smooth and deadly. “Every aggravating factor: your persistence after being told to stop, your blatant disregard for boundaries.”

Oh, wow.

Hot.

Even hotter because you knew how meticulous Aaron was about getting every detail perfect.

You shouldn’t have been thinking it - not now, not here - but damn. His tone. His precision. The sheer, undeniable power behind every syllable.

Impossible not to notice. Impossible not to feel.

You could practically see it: in his office late at night, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, meticulously piecing everything together. File after file laid out in perfect order, his jaw tight, his brow furrowed. He’d pause only to sip his coffee, the tension in his frame so palpable it made your stomach flip just imagining it.

And no, you really shouldn’t be sexualizing your best-friend-that-also-happened-to-be-your-boss-haha-so-funny in the light of day.

Or night.

Or ever.

Anyways - whenever Aaron spoke like that, it was objectively impossible to ignore how magnetic he was. You could try to deny it, lie to yourself, pretend you were above it.

But deep down? He could get it.

Anytime.

Your respect, of course.

“Now, here’s what’s going to happen.” he said, his voice cold and commanding, “You’re going to look her in the eye and you’re going to apologize. Then, you’re going to walk out that door and disappear. Because if I ever hear your name in connection with behavior like this again, I will ruin you. And trust me - I’m very thorough. Do I make myself clear?”

The man nodded hurriedly, his head bobbing like a puppet on strings. “I-I’m sorry,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible.

Aaron’s gaze hardened. “Louder.”

“I’m sorry!” the man practically shouted, his voice cracking under the pressure.

“That’s a start, but you owe him an apology too.” You nodded toward Spencer, who had been standing slightly behind you, watching the exchange with wide eyes.

The man blinked, his head snapping toward Spencer. “I-I didn’t-”

“Oh, but you did,” you interrupted, your tone calm but firm. “You insulted him, called him names, and dismissed him like his voice didn’t matter. That’s harassment too, in case you didn’t realize.”

The man hesitated, looking like he’d rather crawl under the nearest table than follow through. Aaron shifted slightly beside you, crossing his arms. “I don’t think she was asking.”

The man’s face flushed with a mix of anger and humiliation, but he turned to Spencer, his shoulders sagging. “I’m sorry,” he said, though the words still sounded like they burned his tongue on the way out.

Spencer nodded, then, with a dramatic flick of his wrist, popped a fry into his mouth. “Aww, thank you,” he said, voice dripping with exaggerated politeness. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we were having a perfectly pleasant evening before you decided to ruin it.”

The man and his fragile masculinity didn’t need any further encouragement. Still, Aaron’s eyes stayed on him until the bar’s entry door slammed shut behind him. Without even turning, he extended his fist toward Spencer. “Thanks for the backup, Reid.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he bumped it awkwardly with his own, the exchange so stiff and adorable that it was officially the cutest thing you’d ever seen.

“Are you both alright?” Aaron asked, his eyes lingering on you just a second longer than necessary.

Spencer, still gripping his fries like a lifeline, blinked up at Aaron with wide eyes. “I think I’m sober now,” he said matter-of-factly, shoving another fry into his mouth like it was a medical prescription for trauma.

“Leave it to you to use fried food as a coping mechanism,” you teased, though couldn’t help but laugh.

“Well, it’s scientifically proven that carbohydrates can temporarily reduce stress,” he replied, ever the scholar. “And given the situation, I think this is a perfectly rational response.”

Aaron’s lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smile as he looked at Spencer. “Whatever works,” he said, his tone quieter now.

Without thinking, you rested your hand lightly on Aaron’s shoulder. “Thank you,” you said softly, your eyes meeting his. “For everything.”

Aaron started to respond, but you barely caught it. Something along the lines of apologizing for stepping in when you could have handled it yourself - but he’d done it anyway because, apparently, you were about three seconds away from punching the guy.

You nodded along, but the words barely registered because your mind was already spiraling.

Don’t do it.

Don’t say it.

You’re going to make it awkward.

Yes, he’s your best friend, but also your boss.

Your very capable, very professional, very in-control boss. And when he went all out like that – damn - it was so ridiculously hot that you wanted to - NO. STOP IT.

Too late - you cleared your throat. “We’re off duty, right?” you asked, your voice more casual than it had any right to be.

Aaron blinked, slightly thrown, but nodded anyway. “Yes… why?”

You hesitated for a split second, your better judgment screaming at you to back out, but you ignored it, throwing caution straight into the wind. “Is it awkward if I say out loud that what you just did was extremely hot?”

You immediately regretted your word choice.

You should have said “said” instead of “did.”

You absolutely should have said “said.”

Aaron blinked – again - his lips parting slightly… probably because you hadn’t reached for some obscure 18th-century adjective like you usually did. Maybe because - oh.

His cheeks were turning pink.

Aaron Hotchner was blushing.

“That depends,” he said smoothly - too smoothly for someone whose face was actively betraying him - “how ‘hot’ are we talking?”

Oh. Oh.

He reused your stupid adjective. On purpose. Just to shove it back in your face.

Classic Hotchner.

And there it was again - that casual, teasing push and pull.

The ephemeral flirting that was supposed to be a joke. The kind that had been happening a little too often lately.

You grinned, leaning in slightly, lowering your voice to a whisper, playing the game. “You don’t want to know.”

“If you say so,” he replied, and made it worse by flashing you his dimples.

You opened your mouth, ready to fire back with something clever - or, at the very least, something that sounded clever in your head, but all of a sudden-

“OOOOOOH! Teach, Hotch!” Spencer’s voice sliced through the tension like a buzzer going off at the worst possible time. “Did you know that the term ‘hot’ as an expression of attractiveness has roots in medieval metaphors? They often associated passion with heat, and by the 19th century, it evolved into a colloquial term for desirability.”

Aaron cleared his throat, sitting back slightly, though the faint blush on his cheeks lingered. “Thank you, Reid”.

Spencer nodded earnestly. “Well, I figured since you were discussing the term, it was relevant.” He popped another fry into his mouth, clearly pleased with his contribution.

Aaron turned to you, his lips twitching again. “Educational and perfectly timed.”

A joke, as usual, a much more felt in your chest kind of joke.

“Right,” you replied, fighting back a laugh. “Nothing like a bit of etymology to really set the mood.”

Spencer blinked, tilting his head. “Set the mood for what?”

And that’s when it all started going downhill.

Because by the time you got back to the booth, Rossi had already vanished - true to form - leaving behind nothing but an empty glass, a generous tab for someone else to pick up, and the faintest whiff of cologne that somehow still managed to reek of wealth and desperation.

The entire team, instead, apparently driven to madness by the frustration of the past week, had decided to collectively ovulate.

You barely had time to sit down before Derek swooped in, snatching Spencer by the collar of his shirt.

“C’mon, Pretty Boy, found the one for you,” he announced, dragging a very confused - but at least mildly more sober - Reid toward some unsuspecting woman who, by some miracle, actually seemed to enjoy his rapid-fire tangents about quantum mechanics.

Oh, how you loved women in STEM.

“Good luck, Pretty Boy!” Derek called over his shoulder, already abandoning Reid in favor of sweeping his babygirl onto the dance floor. Penelope had been waiting all of five seconds before declaring, “Finally! Our song!” and yanking Morgan into a routine that was absolutely choreographed.

No way it wasn’t.

Emily, to her credit, lingered just long enough to trade a few snarky remarks with you and steal a sip of your drink before the woman she’d been eyeing all night finally gathered the courage to summon her over.

“Go get her,” you encouraged her, raising your glass in mock cheers.

“Don’t wait up,” Emily quipped, slipping out of her seat, but before she could take two steps, Aaron chimed in, his tone entirely too dry.

“Work at 8 a.m. tomorrow,” he reminded her.

Emily stopped mid-stride to roll her eyes before, for some reason, winking at you. “Yes, Sir,” she mocked, before sauntering off - uncharacteristically giddy.

And just like that, it was you and Aaron, sitting in a room thick with mating hormones. Not exactly ideal.

You’d survived through worse, at least. And still had nightmares of what happened a week ago.

Exibit B: Charcoal Grey ☆ ★

Never in your life had you been so thoroughly out-lawyered as the day you went to witness Hotch’s testimony in the trial of Brian Matloff - the unsub who’d awakened from a coma that had kept him blissfully unconscious since 2004. Now, armed with focal retrograde amnesia, the man claimed he didn’t remember committing the crimes. Convenient.

And because of that, along with a healthy dose of masochistic curiosity to see Lawyer Hotch in his natural habitat, you found yourself sitting next to Spencer in the courtroom, breathing the same oxygen as not one, not two, but three lawyers.

First, the defense attorney, who would inevitably deploy every slimy lawyer trick in the book to defend a man who killed innocent girls.

You could already feel your blood pressure rising just imagining how he’d try to mess with Hotch’s head, distorting the truth under the guise of legal gymnastics. All perfectly sanctioned by the law, of course, which made it even more infuriating.

Then there was Cece Hillenbrand, the prosecutor.

She’d just called Hotch to testify, and honestly, it went so well the jury looked about two seconds away from throwing roses at her feet. Too bad she was still a lawyer, and your opinion of lawyers hovered somewhere between mild distrust and praying for the meteor.

The blonde bob didn’t help either at all – for some reasons it felt way too reminiscent of Haley. Maybe that’s why Hotch was looking at her with what you could only describe as way too much eagerness, which she’d obviously mistaken as her golden ticket to his ride. Literally. That kind of ride.

You could also pretty much tell she was smitten.

Not that you could blame her.

Objectively speaking, Hotch was perfect.

Tall. Dark hair with those infuriatingly handsome streaks of gray that somehow made him look even more distinguished. That one single white eyelash on his left eye that was unfairly cute. Long eyelashes. The adorable crease in his brow whenever he was focused. A side profile Michelangelo would’ve killed to sculpt. That deep, warm voice capable of commanding a courtroom into instant silence. Veiny forearms. Big hands. Hairy hands.

And… other intimate physical details that you were definitely not going to let your brain linger on right now.

Oh, and yes – smart, of course. Brilliant, actually.

So perfect it almost made you want to warn her off. About how You’d been fooled by those kind, relentless hazel eyes yourself. But then again, she was a lawyer. And lawyers didn’t deserve such precious life-saving advice.

Or maybe it was because you simply did not have the guts to tell a complete stranger something like that without sounding like an absolute creep.

Over a man, of all things.

Worst of all possible fates.

And to complete the dreaded lawyer triumvirate - last but certainly not least - there was Hotch. Aaron. Lawyer.

If you started unpacking your thoughts on that man, you’d probably end up writing a book longer than War and Peace. Though one recent chapter might be titled: “How the numbers didn’t add up.”

Why, exactly, did he insist on dragging you to Virginia with Spencer and himself for this trial?

You hadn’t worked the original case back in 2004, and you definitely didn’t have any legal expertise to speak of. And yet, here you were.

But hey, whatever the Unit Chief wanted, the Unit Chief got, right?

Maybe it was because of the PhD you shared with Spencer in psychology - though if tactical strategy was the goal, the smarter choice would have been to leave you back in Quantico, far away from the courtroom circus.

Not that you were making the calls here. Clearly, this was all part of Hotch’s master plan to make you suffer among a sea of insufferable lawyers. Brilliant move, really.

“Now, my client ran from the police, A behavior that you called” the defence attorney stated as he looked into the file on the table “’A strong indicator of his guilt.’”

“Yes, that's correct.” Hotch confirmed.

Why was he even always so proper…

“Were you aware that he had an outstanding warrant at the time of his arrest?” the defense attorney asked, striding toward the testimony stand where Hotch sat, calm and composed.

“Yes. I believe it was for an automobile accident, a hit and run,” Hotch responded.

“So isn’t it possible that Mr. Matloff fled, not because he was guilty of murder, but because of this other warrant?” the attorney pressed.

You almost wanted to stand up and applaud the sheer stupidity of the question. Really, it took a special kind of talent to ask something that idiotic.

Unfortunately, Hotch couldn’t call him out for it - officially, anyway. “There were eight law enforcement officers in bulletproof vests. I doubt any reasonable person would assume-”

“A yes or no answer will do,” the attorney interrupted, smugly cutting him off mid-sentence.

“Fuck him,” you muttered under your breath, bristling as Hotch was forced to answer, “Yes, it’s possible.”

Beside you, Spencer turned, his eyes wide with shock. “Language!” he whispered harshly.

“I just can’t stand when rhetoric is used to distort the obvious,” you muttered defensively.

“They didn’t seem to bother you much earlier when it was Lawyer Hillenbrand using it,” he pointed out, voice barely audible but definitely smirking for reasons you were ignoring on principle.

“Because she’s supposed to be on our side,” you shot back. “I’m morally obligated to support this lawyer madness when it benefits us.”

“Are you sure it’s not about the fact that he interrupted Hotch?” Spencer pointed out quietly.

Well. Yes, of course… but it wasn’t just that, was it?

How could you be this mad over an arrogant idiot cutting someone off mid-sentence? Must be something more. Must be all these lawyers overcomplicating something so simple.

…As if you could talk.

“Are you sure it’s not cumulative frustration?” you shot back with a smirk.

Spencer tilted his head, considering. “Statistically, it could be both.”

You barely suppressed a laugh, biting the inside of your cheek as you turned your attention back to the stand.

Hotch, as always, remained calm and collected - but you still caught it. That faintest twitch in his jaw. The only visible sign of frustration as the attorney continued talking down on the very thing that had shaped all of your lives.

The very thing that was the reason why a ring was missing from Hotch’s hand.

The reason Spencer barely got to see his mom.

The reason you were alive today - and also why your life was constantly at risk. Opposites.

But sure. Let’s frame behavioral analysis as a pseudo-science. Let’s ignore the countless lives it had saved, the crimes it had prevented, the killers it had caught, just so this smug bastard could spin a cheap courtroom trick, already sensing the “If the FBI has gotten profiles wrong before, how can they be trusted now?” incoming from a mile away.

Oh, truly. Suck it.

But what really burned was the fact that to make this argument, he was standing there undermining Hotch’s credibility in a room full of people.

Hotch - who was the best profiler you knew. Bias or not, that was just a fact.

And now, you had to sit here, behave decently, and watch this clown parade his bullshit like it meant something.

“Having been wrong on those cases, isn’t it possible that you were wrong about Brian Matloff?” he attorney pressed on, undeterred.

“No,” Hotch replied simply.

“The fact is,” the attorney continued anyways, “behavioral analysis is really just intellectual guesswork. You probably couldn’t tell me the color of my socks with any greater accuracy than a carnival psychic.”

Hotch shot him a look that could have frozen water, and it almost made you laugh. Fuck him. Fuck him. Fuck him, you thought, seething internally.

Oh, how you wished you were a carnival psychic right now. They always had crystal balls, and one of those would be just perfect to shove right up-

“Charcoal gray,” Hotch said.

You couldn’t help but smile. It didn’t even matter if he was right or not; it was so Hotch – that determination to prove he was right, no matter what. And of course, he had to do it with that understated sass.

God, you loved that about him.

The attorney, however, wasn’t as charmed. He spun on his heel and raised the hem of his pants, exposing his socks to the jury. “Well, look at that,” he said smugly. “He got one right.”

Hotch barely blinked.

“You match them to the color of your suit to appear taller. You also wear lifts and have had the soles of your shoes replaced. One might think you're frugal, but in fact, you're having financial difficulties. You wear a fake Rolex because you pawned your real one to pay your debts. My guess is to a bookie.” His tone was calm, measured - but the glint in his eyes told an entirely different story.

And God help you, you couldn’t look away.

This was the Hotch you first met.

The man who never held back when proving a point, who used logic and intellect as a weapon without ever raising his voice. Who didn’t need theatrics, just cold, undeniable facts to dismantle someone completely.

It was a pity, really - how he let others do most of the talking these days. How he stepped in only to make the big decisions, rarely taking the floor himself. You'd almost forgotten this side of him.

The side that made him who he was.

And watching him now - fully in his element, effortlessly dismantling someone with nothing but facts and razor-sharp precision - it was intoxicating.

And there was no point in even trying to deny it.

The attorney bristled, his face reddening. “I took this case pro bono. I am… one of the most successful criminal attorneys in the state,” he shot back defensively.

You nearly rolled your eyes.

Amateur mistake.

If there was one thing you’d learned in nearly a decade of bickering with Hotch, it was that the second wave always hit harder than the first.

And, predictably, it did.

“Your vice is horses,” Hotch continued, unbothered. “Your BlackBerry’s been buzzing on the table every 20 minutes, which happens to be the average time between posts from Colonial Downs. You’re getting race results. And every time you do, it affects your mood in court. And you’re not having a very good day.”

“That’s because you pick horses the same way you practice law,” Hotch concluded after a brief pause, his voice dropping ever so slightly. “By always taking the long shot.”

Next to you, Spencer whispered in awe, “Wow, that was so-”

Hot. Panties dro-

“Fascinating,” you cut in quickly, glancing at Spencer as he gave you a curious look.

The attorney, meanwhile, looked like he’d been sucker-punched. He opened his mouth, floundering for a response, but Hotch wasn’t done.

“If I’m not mistaken,” Hotch said, his gaze calm but piercing, “the results from the fifth race should be coming through any minute.”

Right on cue, the BlackBerry on the attorney’s table buzzed loudly, the sound slicing through the silence in the courtroom.

“Why don’t you tell us if your luck has changed?” Hotch asked smoothly, and for a moment, your heart skipped a beat.

Because that – that - was your move.

He had picked up your habit—the one he teased you about constantly - of ending arguments with a question.

It was something that had been ingrained in you for years, thanks to an almost obsessive love of Socratic gnoseology - the idea that knowledge is not something you hold, but something you uncover through dialogue.

And your personal interpretation of it in which truth exists in the space between two minds, constantly shifting, constantly evolving.

So when a conversation ended, it didn’t really end - because there was always a question left hanging in the air, an invitation for the next step in the process.

And you did it all the time.

"That’s not how psychopathy works," Hotch had told you once, after you’d suggested a suspect might be forcing himself into emotional relationships as a way of imitating normalcy. "True psychopaths don’t feel the need to mimic emotions that serve no function for them."

"But if the imitation itself brings him a sense of control, doesn’t it serve a function?" you had countered, arching an eyebrow at him.

Hotch had opened his mouth, closed it again, then just shook his head.

"You always do that," he had muttered.

"Do what?" you’d replied

"Leave the conversation open-ended." He’d observed, looking into your eyes

“I do?” you’d replied, leaving him inhaling through his nose to avoid the urge to… do something about it… take the matter in his own hands.

Or there was that time on the jet, after a particularly difficult case.

You’d been sitting across from him, still dissecting the nuances of the unsub’s psychology, pulling apart the threads like you could unravel the truth if you just tugged hard enough.

"He killed because he needed to prove his own autonomy," you mused, more to yourself than to him.

"Or he killed because he was incapable of existing outside the parameters of control," Hotch countered, leaning back slightly, arms crossed, ever the counterweight to your theorizing.

You nodded, thoughtful, then tilted your head at him.

"But if control is a construct, then what does that say about our ability to assign guilt? Can you truly be responsible for something if the very foundation of your actions was never yours to begin with?"

The second the words left your mouth, Hotch exhaled sharply through his nose, then scrubbed a hand down his face.

"You know what it feels like talking to you sometimes?" he muttered, shaking his head.

You raised an eyebrow. "Do enlighten me."

He let out a long-suffering sigh. "Like I can physically feel your fingers poking around inside my brain."

A slow grin spread across your face. "Did I rub the spot that itches?"

The look he gave you could’ve scorched metal. "No."

His glare was so Hotchner™ that it sent you completely over the edge. You laughed – loudly - and the unexpected force of it was enough to make Derek, who was sitting across the aisle, rip off his headphones with a frown. "Did - did Bossman just make a joke?"

Hotch turned to him with the exact same withering stare, as if that alone was enough to erase the last minute from existence. Which only made you laugh harder.

You wiped a tear from your eye, struggling to breathe. "He’s hilarious, isn’t he?" you managed between gasps, leaning back into your seat, while Hotch sat there looking like he was seriously considering whether the seat next to Rossi was available - and if relocating mid-flight was a viable option.

And yet -

Here he was now.

Doing the exact thing he’d always scolded you for.

Ending with a question.

Leaving it open-ended.

Again - like truth itself was something that couldn’t be pinned down - something that lived in the dialogue between two forces rather than in any single answer.

Like the moment you were sure you’d found it, it had already shifted into something else.

And much to your utter surprise - Hotch was looking directly at you as he said it. Was it acknowledgement?

Or maybe he’d finally started to see what you’d always known.

The best arguments never really ended, they just evolved.

Much like this cross-examination.

“Your honor, this is-” the attorney began, his voice strained.

“What do you want me to do?” the judge interrupted, giving him a stern look. “Either show us your Blackberry or cut him loose, counselor.”

The attorney swallowed hard, his confidence now thoroughly shattered. “Nothing further,” he muttered, retreating to his seat.

“Wise decision,” the judge said dryly. “Court will be adjourned until 9 a.m. tomorrow.” The gavel came down with a sharp crack, signaling the end of the session.

As the room began to empty, you stole another glance at Hotch, who was helping Cece Hillenbrand to gather their notes, completely unbothered by the absolute public execution he’d just performed. If you weren’t careful, you were going to need a good excuse for why you couldn’t stop smiling.

When the case finally wrapped, a few days later, you, Hotch, and Spencer were busy putting files back into the box for the drive home when Cece made her way over, phone in hand.

“It’s over,” she announced, a satisfied smile on her face. “Matloff’s pleading out.”

“Congratulations,” Hotch said, his tone polite but neutral, as she stepped closer - closer specifically to him, as if the rest of the room – ergo, you and the Doctor - didn’t exist.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” she added, voice warm, eyes locked on Hotch like he was the only person in the room.

Which was fascinating, considering you and Spencer were also standing right there.

Not that she seemed to notice - because apparently, furniture didn’t get acknowledged. You shot Spencer a side-eye just to confirm he was catching this absolutely shameless display.

He was.

"First round’s on me," she added, flashing an even wider smile, completely ignoring the fact that -unbelievably you and Spencer had also worked on the profile. But sure. All Hotch.

He barely held back a laugh, suddenly finding a very unnecessary interest in the files in front of him.

Meanwhile, Hotch didn’t miss a beat. "No, we’ll take a rain check. We’ve got a long drive," he said casually, already reaching for the evidence box. "Maybe another time."

A long drive?

Sure. If you considered three hours and forty minutes long.

You’d done worse on less sleep. Honestly, if Hotch wasn’t so insistent on driving all the time like it was some kind of sacred duty, you could’ve shaved at least forty minutes off that easily. And if he got tired, he knew you’d switch - just like you always did.

No. This wasn’t about the drive. Definitely not.

And the realization made your heart feel just a little lighter.

The moment Hillenbrand was out of earshot, Hotch turned back to you and Spencer with the nonchalance of a man who definitely hadn’t just sidestepped the most obvious invitation to spend the night with a woman who, by all accounts, was exactly his type.

"Where are we staying for dinner?" he asked, tone all business.

You raised an eyebrow. "Here?" You gave him a look that, if translated, would read: Are you serious?

"If it gets late, I can drive on the way back so you can rest," Hotch said, so earnestly matter-of-fact it was almost convincing—almost.

Either he completely missed your point, or he was choosing to ignore it.

Thankfully, Spencer wasn’t one to let things slide.

"Didn’t you just implicitly tell Mrs. Hillenbrand you couldn’t stay up late?" he asked, brows furrowed in genuine confusion.

You bit back a laugh, leaning casually against the table. "Yeah, Hotch," you echoed, tilting your head toward him with exaggerated innocence. "I thought we had a long drive ahead of us? Wouldn’t want to keep you up past your bedtime."

Hotch shot you and Spencer one of his looks, the desired effect unfortunately ruined by a twitch of his lips. “I figured you’d want a real meal before we hit the road”

Before you could throw another quip his way, Hotch lifted the evidence box and reached the door first, holding it open for you and Spencer. As you stepped through, you felt it - his hand, settling lightly at the small of your back, guiding you forward.

Brief. Fleeting. But it sent a shiver down your spine you tried to brush off the best you could.

It wasn’t the first time he’d done it – all of these overly-polite, instinctive gestures like that seemed second nature to him - but lately? It had been happening a lot more.

"Thanks, Hotch," you said, not sure whether you were thanking him for the touch or for the fact that chivalry just seemed to effortlessly exist within him - either way, you didn’t dare look at him.

"Of course," he replied.

Weird.

Again.

Still - not as weird as when he seemed to completely break character at the diner later that night.

It had started off normal enough - ordering, small talk, Spencer rattling off statistics about late-night dining habits until Hotch shot him a look that had him switching to stirring his coffee instead.

And then? Then Hotch had stolen a piece of your dessert.

Just casually reached over with his fork, sliced off a bite of your cheesecake like it belonged to him, and popped it into his mouth before you even had time to register what had happened.

"What the-" you stared at him, utterly scandalized.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look remotely guilty. Just set his fork down neatly and said, "To celebrate the victory."

You blinked. "That was my celebration."

"You were taking too long," he said, so matter-of-fact you almost choked.

Spencer, across the table, looked back and forth between the two of you like he was watching an alien encounter.

And then, as if that wasn’t enough, Hotch leaned back in his seat, sipping his coffee, and went off on a full tangent about his time in law school.

As if you hadn’t had enough of lawyers in the past few days because of him.

As if he hadn’t just stolen your damn dessert.

And yet - you let him talk.

Because there was something almost soft about it, the way his voice dipped slightly as he recounted late nights, textbooks, memorizing case law until his head ached. He wasn’t bragging - just reminiscing. Something about the way he spoke made it feel less like he was listing facts and more like he was inviting you into a part of his life that he rarely, if ever, shared.

And then, just as you were starting to enjoy it-

"You know," Spencer interjected, "technically, eating from someone else’s plate without permission is a form of food aggression, commonly observed in pack animals."

Hotch didn’t waste a second. "If you want a bite too, Reid, you can just ask the Professor."

Spencer went bright red.

You grinned, rolling your eyes. "Sure," you said easily, nudging your plate an inch closer. "And while you’re at it, go ahead - take another bite yourself. Since we’re apparently just ignoring the rules of polite society now."

Hotch met your gaze, unreadable for a moment. Then—without breaking eye contact—he reached forward with his fork, deliberately sliced off another bite of your cheesecake, and ate it.

Slowly.

Your jaw dropped.

You gasped, scandalized. "Aaron."

He barely blinked. "It’s a very good cake."

Your outrage. Your absolute disbelief. You weren’t sure whether you wanted to fight him or-

No. Fighting. Definitely fighting.

"So uncivilized…," you muttered.

You had never hated a man more in your life. He would pay for this. Someday.

"Well," you said finally letting out a nervous laugh, acknowledging the obviously abandoned booth empty except for you, Aaron, and was that… yes. Emily’s scarf. "Looks like it’s just the two of us."

Aaron smirked, looking straight into your eyes. "So it seems."

And of course you had to smile back, trying to keep things casual despite the very real, very undeniable fact that his gaze lingered just a second too long. Or maybe two – or three.

Must have been the beer - even though you knew far too well it would take a lot more than a few drinks to knock Aaron Hotchner into nonsense.

Especially when the silence that followed felt… weird.

Not uncomfortable, just strange enough to make you want to do something about it - something you’d been itching to do all night but hadn’t been able to, because apparently, you had to unpaidly babysit Spencer and entertain Rossi until the very man sitting across from you finally graced everyone with his presence.

"So…" You exhaled, tilting your head toward the dance floor. "Are we just going to rot in this booth all night, watching everyone else have fun?"

Aaron shook his head, already defensive. "I don’t rot."

"Oh, forgive me," you said." Incorrect wording choice, my dearest sir. Are we to simply remain here, languishing in solitude, whilst the rest of our merry company partakes in revelry and joyous abandon?"

Although, judging from the look he gave you, despite the linguistic accuracy, he wasn’t really fond of your impeccable sense of humor.

You sighed and gestured toward the dance floor, further solidifying your case. And - just in time to really drive your point home - even Spencer was now being dragged into the chaos in real-time. The Unit Chief truly could not rely on semantics this time.

A phenomenon so shocking that Aaron actually sat up slightly, his mouth opening as if to intervene, even before you could ask, "I don’t dance," he said.

You scoffed. "Liar."

Because oh, you would never forget the day you first found out that him, of all people, was actually a very good dancer.

Which was exactly why you should have known better.

If only you had been thinking with your brain instead of getting distracted by the way his biceps and veiny forearms flexed when he leaned his elbows on the table, you might have realized what he was actually saying:

"I don’t dance… with you."

Not tonight.

Not when he was still, every once in a while, subtly checking to see if your dress had somehow shifted a shade darker shade of navy blue - or if it was still black.

So thorough, Aaron. Really.

And so, instead of admitting any of that, he just huffed, reaching for another excuse. "They don’t play old songs for old people like me."

An impressive effort - really. Especially considering the Rihanna song currently blasting in the background.

Even more impressive? The fact that this exact song - the one he had just written off as not for his demographic - was one of many he had been singing at full volume in the car on the way to the bar.

And he had felt so relieved that you’d never come to know that particular detail. Which made it all the sweeter when, instead of humoring him, you simply-

Stood up.

No teasing. No cat and mouse. Just turned on your heel and disappeared into the sea of sweaty, dancing bodies.

That…

That wasn’t the plan. Or, at least, it was supposed to be his win.

Except now, he was the one sitting there.

Alone.

In that rotting booth.

Watching the dance floor.

Watching for you.

Catching glimpses of you as people moved, blocking and unblocking you like a shifting tide.

And he hated it. Truly.

So when, inevitably, a song old enough to be considered "an old song for old people like him" - despite being a timeless disco classic and released eleven years after he was born (but hey, that’s the oldest a bar DJ could get) - started playing through the speakers…

He knew his fate was sealed.

Dancing Queen. How ironic. This must have been the national holiday of "let’s all make fun of Aaron Hotchner."

And so, because his earlier conditions had been rendered completely inefficient, you were back at the booth within seconds, ready to claim your hostage.

Quite literally the happiest hostage.

"I do not dance," he tried again, but it was already too late, you were grinning, already tugging him up by the arm.

"Come on," you insisted, already swaying, already singing - "’Cause you can dance, you can jiiiiiiiive…’"

You linked your arm through his, looping it like something straight out of a Regency-era ball, because if the man was so insistent on playing up his age tonight, then he might as well fully commit, embracing some proper old-fashioned social etiquette while you were at it.

He half-protested, half-laughed - despite himself - as you dragged him toward the dance floor.

On the outside? He looked like a dried prune.

Scowling.

Trying desperately to suppress every ridiculous flutter in his stomach as you danced right next to him - casually grabbing his shoulders, sliding your hand along his biceps, anything, really, just to let him loosen up.

And, most importantly, since you were a rancorous little thing, to embarrass him.

So, carefree, you pointed straight at him during the chorus, belting out, "Dancing Queen, young and sweet, only seventeen!"

…Really?

Aaron faltered, frowning. "I’m forty-two."

And somehow, that tiny moment of confusion cracked his defenses.

He laughed.

And just like that, you had him - always had him, if he were honest.

It’s just that this moment - maybe in its genuineness, in the memories that pulled him back - was making it so much harder to fight.

Because just like now, you had dragged him onto the dance floor nine years ago, on that ridiculous night when you had somehow convinced him to dance to that choreographed routine of "It’s All Coming Back to Me Now."

Again, how ironic, because now- as he danced with you, nowhere near as gracefully as that night, but laughing anyway, belting out off-key lyrics with you, twirling you just for the joke-

It was all coming back to him.

No need to fight the fall anymore.

You were both undeniably off-key, the dance moves were questionable at best, and there were far too many exaggerated hand gestures and mock performances happening between the two of you.

But for once, he wasn’t overthinking.

Wasn’t pulling away.

Wasn’t bracing himself against the idea of enjoying something just because.

Because, just like he could be himself alone in his car, singing off-tune with the windows rolled up, so could he be himself with you.

No fear, no hesitation. Just this. Falling for someone in a way that wasn’t grand or poetic.

Not a bunch of doves trained to spell your name in the sky.

Not a dramatic sunrise over a canyon shaped like a heart.

Not a sweeping declaration in the middle of a rainstorm.

Not the kind of love that finds its pleasure after pain.

Just a bar, a stupid song and you.

He was yours.

But would you be his?

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @hayleym1234 ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mxblobby ; @oxforce ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softestqueeen ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24

I MIIIIGHT HAVE FORGOTTEN SOME NEW TAG SORRRYYYYY I'M DUMBBBBB, tell me if I did AAAAAA SORRYYYY

[transgenderer]

It's weird to me when people conceive of effective altruism as "utilitarian". Like. Obviously at a certain level of detail it becomes pretty utilitarian but the details are actually not very essential to either the theory or the practice. It's not specifically utilitarian to think it's morally better to give 10 children a potentially life saving malaria net than one child a toy, or whatever. It's just normal moral principles, it's the reason if you're handing out cookies you don't give 10 to one child and none to the others. There's not necessarily a calculational principle at play, just...budgeting. The same logic you use when operating under a limited budget ever, that for a fixed amount of money, some options are better than others

[brucewaynehater101]

Emperor Obi Wan Tim Kenobi has a different crown from each planet that is under his control, there are historians and fashion designers trying to figure out a singular imperial crown for Tim to wear everywhere in the empire instead of changing his shiny hat all the time in an attempt to be considerate and also because before Tim they were all trying to kill one another for the glory of their respective tyrants and a single crown for the united empire seems like a nice peace symbol. Prior to the C4 interfering, there was definitely a near genocide and all the planets are coexisting peacefully but that's mostly because they're all a little scared of one another and still healing from all the harm they inflicted on one another.

The problem with the singular imperial crown is that more planets keep joining and bring their own shiny hat for the emperor which makes the historians and fashion designers start all over again since it wouldn't be fair for the peace symbol/imperial crown to not include the newbies.

Any time one of the planets has rumblings of a rebellion wanting to overthrow the emperor because he's "soft" and making noise about returning to the bloodshed of the "good old days" they get very quietly nipped in the bud before their emperor gets any idea they existed. Tim has become a good luck charm and symbol of peace in the empire and they don't want to scare him off.

The lack of rebellions and general acceptance of his rule is, however, actually making Tim more paranoid rather than more comfortable. After all, he's used to Earth.

Earth is fucked, so I don't blame Tim at all. I wonder if Tim is scared that these planets are trying to hide their horrible history (as some powerful nations on Earth try to do with their actions).

Imma call Tim's hero name as Patron for this AU (feel free to hc a different one). Anyways, Patron is trying to find out what shit his newly acquired planets have done in the past, what sort of shit they may or may not be hiding, why absolutely no one is against his rule, and why there's been no rebellion. It's practically unheard of (especially on a human standard where some people disagree seemingly on principle) that there would be no dissent.

Is Tim helping them? Yes. Was he given the power instead of him taking it? Yes. Yet, there's also the fact that he's human. He (at the beginning) has no information on the culture, values, morals, traditions, etc. He doesn't know what's important to them. How can he thus lead them?

(Slight debate on the "lead" portion since he seems to be guiding them to self-sustainability rather than control them)

But you are absolutely correct that the zero dissent would freak Tim out. It should.

The idea about the crowns is adorable, though. I've got a somewhat simple idea for them, though. What if he had an elegant and simple design of some type of metal twisted on his head? Then, as decorations, little spheres of each planet is added. Whatever the planet looks like, it's added to the crown when Tim gains it. Just miniature planets that can easily be added or taken away based on how his empire changes over time.

It sadly doesn't have as strong of a tie as incorporating the essence of the planet into his crown, but it does allow each planet to be proudly displayed.

[sophie-frm-mars]

Why do you think it is that breadtube seems to be relatively silent on the topic of currently active revolutionary leftist groups like the EZLN, YPG/J, KCK, CNT-FAI and others? Is it simply safer to focus on theory, and on struggles that have already become history? Is it a byproduct of a lot of these groups existing outside of the anglosphere?

There are a lot of reasons for this, but the biggest is always money. This already sounds really cynical but it is true

When it is your job to be an entertaining online leftist there are lots of places where if you were simply following your principles only, you would drive away a lot of financial support. I know people who make leftist content who have rent, mortgages, kids, and the best money is in being generally fun and inoffensively progressive without pushing too far into things that make people uncomfortable.

When I made Conspiracy on the Left I pointed out it was a general weakness of the mainstream online left that they're all in the imperial core and don't really talk at all about how imperialism works. In the time since then, people have shifted to talk about it, just because of a general shift in group consciousness, but there's plenty of stuff that people would feel fine to talk about in the abstract in a theory video, like abolition, political violence, drug use, sex work, but if it came to grappling more directly with these things in their real lives, encouraging their audiences to take action on these points or explaining in more practical terms what the ins and outs of these things are, people whose incomes are dependent on their audiences get squeamish. Sex work is a good example. A lot of the messaging around sex work that the online left gives and receives is "support sex workers, the Nordic model isn't enough, decrim now" which leaves people who like to spend a lot of money on things online not feeling morally judged, but if you were to explain fully the totalizing power dynamic between sex workers and their clients, people would correctly intuit that "supporting sex workers" does not mean "hiring sex workers" and then people who are hiring sex workers would not want to support the political content creator saying that. It's a Thorny topic, right? You should pay for your porn if you can, but if rather than buying clips that means giving a bunch of money to a cam worker, so much so that they're dependent on you, you might think the whole time that you're doing the right thing but step into that same totalizing power dynamic without realizing it. Even for people who don't stream, everyone in the industry knows that most online SWers have some amount of small several-time purchasers and several "whales" who make it possible to actually pay your rent. So espousing the moral position, which is that sex work is work but like all work it is exploitative, that we must fight FOR sex workers but AGAINST the sex industry, could get you in trouble with some of the people who like your content enough to keep your YouTube channel afloat.

Similarly, there was a "breadtuber" in the last year, more on the liberal end of things, who is friends with a liberal Zionist, who made content about Palestine, got chided for it and made more content talking through the "nuances" of the genocide. What a nightmare.

Then on top of all this there's the way that, for want of a better term "money whitens" as Fanon says. Money gets you in rooms with people who have money. Money gets you used to having things that money can get you. So very very insidiously, money has an effect of giving people the political positions of the ruling class. And I'm not talking about poor people getting big YouTube bucks and changing their tune, I'm saying that a lot of the online left went to private schools or came from money and they have really good politics CONSIDERING their backgrounds, but it's completely invisible to them how fucked and how supportive of the status quo their positions are because that's just how insidious class interests are. When I got into YouTube I was a university dropout on benefits (welfare) and I figured it would be the same for other online leftists, and I was absolutely shocked as I got to know others and found out how relatively rare my situation was.

Then there's ToS. Kirachats, one of the other hosts of Red Planet, got her twitch channel (and whole income) evaporated instantaneously by a ban for discussing the history of Hamas because Twitch said she was "promoting terrorism". This is the kind of thing people are scared of. It can turn your whole world upside down

So when you mention the EZLN, the YPG/J, the KCK, I'm sure every leftist content creator has heard of the zapatistas and the kurds, but from their perspective (and remember their perspective is mostly white, reasonably comfortable, imperial core usually anarchists who don't have IRL organizing experience) it seems really risky to talk about in multiple ways PLUS not a topic they're already familiar with so would require a lot of research to have anything worth saying and they don't know how many of their audience would even care.

It's grim out there folks, this is why I do what I do and Red Planet does what it does. to be perfectly frank I've spent the last like 4 years trying to get people in that space to grow a spine

[yermes]

The worlds in the shitter, we are reclaiming our magic 🍷

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Pick a meme

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Disclaimer: please take what I say with a grain of salt and not as the gospel. I just want to share some ideas of practicing and giving advice using the medium as often as I can with school, work, and my own personal studies and practice. But I am working on sharing my notes soon so that will be exciting! Liking and sharing does a lot 🥰

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Socials: My Socials **☾**

My written blog+ tumblr+ tarot /bookstagram

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The cards

VIII of Cups ☕️

Well, time for some good old fashioned escapism?! Why do we read, pray, play video games, watch television, or live any of the other pleasures of life when the world has taken a turn? To escape. Its okay to turn off the news and to light the candles at 300am to summon demons for fun realistically, is it worst than whats happening now? (im joking) we are going through an era of overwhelming disappointment, we feel abandonment as the wealth gap grows and the people in power show their little care of the working class. Magic has always been a tool of the working class because divine principle values not of worldly possessions only that of the will to pursue higher knowledge. It is more likely for a camel to pass through an eye of the needle that a wealthy person reach heaven. The divine has no place for those who would sacrifice human goodness for material gains and so much material gains it subjects the people around them to misery. Magic for you is a tool for when we have nothing else we can rise in our own way.

Queen of Swords ☀️

This is forreal a new hot girl era. Like what most modern esoterica would state, apathy in the working is a virtue for when you lust for results you only manifest more lust for results. We must not wish for we can only take, we are building out independence as magicians and as people. Its the era to grow using our perception and criticism of the world around us, for a magician any act is to change, to make. When we realize the world around us has not changed the world has shifted far from progress so we must excite change ourselves, we must create the world and environment we can hope to live in. Being critical, learning of the world around you adds to your magic. Magic and science hold hands in a marriage they only add to each other and never take away. Be fair, learn, put in the effort to understand yourself, your skills, your own personal morals and values and be the change you were hoping for.

Queen of pents 🌙

What is the divine feminine? The divine feminine is dual, both a dark and commanding energy but it could also be nurturing. While we cannot reject the darker more divine aspects of the divine feminine and we embrace all parts as one I believe you should explore more nurturing aspects. Its important to note, that the divine feminine nurtures but never coddles. Lock in pookie, build your base, build your coin, save everything you can and build every skill you possibly can. We only add to ourselves we never take away. We comfort ourselves in our failures and successes. Welcome shadow work into your life to progress, do rituals to keep your intentions in check. Be aware of whats best for you and your current action at the moment, we are in the business of bettering ourselves for we can’t help anyone if we cannot help ourselves.

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Extras:

Story/vent:

School starts next week

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[thislovintime]

Photo by Nurit Wilde.

“When they shot them down at Kent State, that was the end of the flower-power era. That was it. You throw your flowers and rocks at us, man, and we’ll just pull the guns on you. Essentially, the revolution, which was sort of tolerated as long as it wasn’t a significant material threat, was not tolerated anymore. And everybody went ‘Ooops’ and scurried for cover and licked their wounds. They became isolated — which was the point of it all. 'Togetherness isn’t going to get it’ was the moral they tried to lay on us, because the less togetherness there is, the more room there is for exploitation. Kent State was an attempt. Let’s try this and see what happens. And what happened was the shooting and vast inflation and a swing to the right — the moral majority. The whole thing was inherent in the situation. A certain amount of loosening up, a certain amount of extra leisure, and people are going to try to improve their lot instead of just barely hanging on. If you had a little extra you’re going to try to make everything better. And if you see that your own happiness, or the lack of it, is tied in with the sadness of your neighbor, you’re going to start feeling communal. And that’s going to expand until the crunch comes. As long as people are educated to believe that isolated self-interest is the only way to go, when the crunch comes they’ll withdraw from each other. And only now, in the faintest glimmerings, do I see any sense that people are realizing that togetherness and flower power alone won’t get it. It’s got to be togetherness, flower power, plus a willingness to do something pretty stern from time to time. If you’re not willing to behave sternly, people who won’t stop short of stern behavior are going to keep on going. It’s taken a while for that message to sink in.” - Peter Tork, interviewed by Bruce Pollock for When The Music Mattered (1984) “Those of us who were truly interested in liberty, fraternity and equality, however, knew we were onto something good and real.  What had been called democracy was, and to some extent still is, a pretext for wrapping the will of the greedy and aggressive in a mantle of public acquiescence. Now, the business of wresting power away from those who make a specialty of wielding it will be a long and protracted struggle, with a lot of setbacks along the way.  The outlines of the new style of governance are only dimly perceivable, and won’t become clear for a long time to come.  In the meantime, our job is to practice the principles of fairness and service to the extent possible.  One thing is clear: there is a much higher joy in service than there is in acquisition of wealth.  (Remember that it isn’t money that’s the root of all evil, it’s the love of money.)  Hanging together in brother - and sisterhood is so happy-making you want to sing right out loud. Yeah, I feel the same about those ideas as I did then…in case you couldn’t tell. heheheh, Peter” - Ask Peter Tork, 2008 “I was baptized a socialist. My faith is in a community.” - Peter Tork, Visalia Times Delta, October 29, 2010 (Revisiting these quotes again, too, for anyone else in need of a reminder.)

[pendwelling]

hi I had a question about a section of chapter 221 in twsb

When discussing the island of pleasure (where the admiral Emma corleone is) (not too sure about the accuracy of the names from mtl),

they talk about how things like polyandry polygamy are allowed there, and how they allow morally wrong things under the principle of free love.

most importantly, they say that monogamy is deeply rooted among continental people.

however, the history of Riester as a continental nation has the taking of multiple life partners with the practice of the Emperor taking a religious and a political partner.

anyway, I am confused as to why characters we generally align with morally (duhem) refer to things like polygamy (which also implies (i think?) a disapproval within Riester of polyamory as a whole) as morally incorrect with the blatant queer undertones of the main characters, as well as among side characters.

is the author trying to highlight the religious nature of Riester and the specific and at times contradictory nature of their religion or possibly religion in general? Marriage within religion (especially Christianity) is seen primarily a unity of people in god’s eyes. We saw yeseo officiate(?) someone taking a religious partner (I believe, it was a while back) and it was similar in nature, with asking for approval from the god of this world itself to be religious partners, with it giving them the thumbs up or down with the ceremony.

the largest difference with these two is that wasnt romantic in nature. So are the rules that as long as the partners aren’t romantic in nature, then the political/religious partnership is acceptable, and romantic marriage is only acceptable among two people? If these are true, what about her majesty for example? I genuinely cannot tell you whether her, Aurelie, and alexandre were all romantically or platonically involved, which think was on purpose on the author’s part. I believe that only alexandre and frederique were married, but once alexandre died, Aurelie became Cedric’s godmother, but was she as involved as a parental unit in Cedric’s life before alexandre died? Were the three of them raising him together his whole life, or was it mainly frederique and Alexandre until he died and aurelie became more present in Cedric’s life

idk man, is author trying to point out the potential conflict of the mcs’ mix of a queer platonic and (i think?) romantic relationship, especially among the judgemental nobles?

you don’t have to answer all the questions posed here btw!!

I know you probably can’t answer every question here (especially the ones about the authors motivation) I am just curious as to what your thoughts are about this as you are an expert with twsb lore/character, if you don’t feel like answering at all that’s also totally fine lmao okay I’ll stop yapping now

"You don't have to answer all the questions posed here" WHO DO YOU THINK I AM do not underestimate the sheer depths of my insanity over this novel (/J /LHHHH)

(On a more serious note now—) haha I will for sure do my best!!!!! You actually raise some very very interesting questions and that made me quite excited to think about because there are actually quite a bit of different factors to take into account here 👀 (intersectionality, if you will). Thank you for sending your question in 🙇‍♀️ I'll do my best to answer!

I would also like to preface this by warning you (and anyone else who might be reading) that my answer will at times require that I use context from way further into the novel, thus might spoil certain revelations and big mysteries (particularly regarding the nature of QPB and TWSB's religion!!!) In other words,

BIG SPOILER WARNING!! (200+, JUST THE ENTIRE NOVEL AND EVEN ENDING)

I'm not sure if you would have rathered a more spoiler-free answer, so I apologize in advance 😭 Apologies as well for any typos that might possible arise. This took a while to write LMAO

(With that said, we should first start with the world's religion!!!)

The Church of God is a religion practiced mainly in the Divine Kingdom of Venetiaan and the Riester Empire (though more so in the former rather than the latter). A huge aspect of this religion is how it sort of influences the behaviours of its believers, particularly around the main belief that if one lives their life in an interesting/exciting enough way and endures hardships, they will one day obtain the gaze/adoration of God, which is something that the beings of this word (at least, the ones who believe or fear God) will yearn for until the day they die [295]. A sort of greeting that believers even use is actually: "May the Lord be pleased with your life ('주신께서 당신의 생애에 기뻐하시기를.')" Later on as you read, it becomes increasingly obvious that the entity that is "God" would refer to either the author themselves, or the readers (in some ways, it is both). But in the larger case, the one the people of QPB yearn for the attention of actually that of the readers, thus, YOUR gaze—or rather, the ones who would be the target audience for a Romance-Fantasy genre story like "I Quit my Job, then I Became the Princess Bride" (QPB), (and then later on, "When the Third Wheel Strikes Back").

This is where it gets kinda(?) meta. Knowing that QPB is an All-Ages, G-Rated, non-explicit novel targeted primarily toward teenage girls and young women (think, Jung Eunseo), it's only natural that a country outside of the premise of QPB (Corleone) would be free from any expectations of said God(s), and thus, will act outside of the "genre". Therefore, what's being highlighted in an understated way is that a country like the Empire of Riester where the main cast of QPB primarily act will be constricted by the conventions of an R-15/G-Rated RoFan genre—but a place like Corleone can break free from the genre and be a full-on R-19+ and more explicit than it wants.

People openly show intimacy out in the open, gamble and play games on the streets, are more promiscuous(or maybe sexually liberated is the more correct term?) and freely flirt, casually dress sensually, and commit "crimes in the name of free love"—and crimes here refer to how, with Corleone being so open with how they regard love, their going-about with relationships and marriage is different, and could lead to people, say, as they put in 220: "kidnapped, proposed to, or forced into a (arranged) marriage" etc. Though notably, these extreme worries were directed towards Yeseo, whom no one in the party at that time believed would be able to fend off the love-enthusiastic people of Corleone (they pretty much indirectly call Yeseo somewhat of a doormat/someone who innocence/inexperience could easily get him roped into trouble... 😭). And on a grander scale beyond just the main characters, this all somehow manages to be played in a somewhat comedic light haha—even though Corleone is outside of God's gaze, it still has to stick to the overall more lighthearted genre in some way, right? If not QPB's, then TWSB's wkkwkkw (this surrealism/idealism, in some way, also has some meta merit to it, too, actually.)

So while Corleone's atmosphere may seem like a harsh and rowdy place, the culture there is just... how to say. Very enthusiastic and extreme about the idea of "romance". In a sense, it's almost as if, though this is a "land abandoned by God", the importance they place on the theatrics of Romance is interesting when considering how the original setting was a Romance story itself (though a different genre of one). I think I should also highlight how this arc takes influences from the Commedia dell'arte, whose conventional plotlines included themes of sex, love, jealousy, etc (amongst others). As such, the theatrics of Corleone—inspired by elements of Italian culture (like how Riester and Venetiaan have French and Dutch influences respectively)—maybe aren't that surprising. Looking back on the Italian Renaissance, we can note the abundance of works with increasing interest in lewd subjects, attributed in some way to the emerging secularization at the time. Boccaccio’s "The Decameron" is notably a rather anti-clerical, at times erotic, and witty work about different stories involving Love, and in the context of its time (following the emergence of the Black Death in Florence) would therefore be a document of an emerging worldview: a desire to be liberated from the control of the Church and eager to explore the world on its own terms (though, it did get banned by the Church for a while for its explicit nature LMAO)(but recirculated after being revised since it was so popular). Other Italian/Tuscan poets at the time were also finding enjoyment in writing funny, satirical, or even downright insulting poems, many of which also took on sensual subject matter, some more explicit than others. ((Just noticed I'm going on a tangent wkfhjdkd sorry for bringing up what I learnt in my Italian Renaissance class out of the blue haha, but I find that it is interestingly relevant to the portrayal of the Principality of Corleone and its theatrics/sensuality.))

SO CORLEONE. Italian Renaissance, Commedia dell'arte. Romance, Sensuality. Comedy, Theatre. Satire, Anti-clericalism... anti-clericalism within this context can refer to Corleone's rejection from God's gaze. The "genre" and "rating" Corleone is presenting is not what She wishes to see, thus, is "morally incorrect" in QPB's original worldview because it doesnt align with the larger genre expectations.

Anyhow, I had to reread this arc and some others, and from what I can remember and what I've seen in this reread, I don't think Marquis François Duhem ever calls out polygamy as a whole, specifically, for being "morally incorrect"—I'm more so inclined to believe they are referring to the blatant absence of TPO (haha), and the over-the-top actions and behaviours that the freedom and enthusiasm for romance sometimes lead to, but even more specifically, the carefree and spontaneous treatment around love and marriage. I don't believe sensuality is necessarily and solely portrayed in a completely negative/puritanical/critical light in this series (there are different ways sexuality is portrayed throughout the series with different sets of characters), but in this case, I believe it might come off as a bit critical because François is directly affected by personal circumstance: after all, in this same arc, when Admiral Emma Corleone was propositioning for François (and later on Jesse) to become "partners", was not exactly doing so for pure-hearted and genuine romantic reasons, but with the underlying tone and intent of the Admiral bedding them for certain gains, and nothing more. François, of course, doesn't exactly appreciate this kind of attention from the Admiral and is openly guarded while around her, evidently not receptive to the idea of becoming her second spouse (after kicking out the rest—which speaks to how lightly she treated those relations in the first place), and thus kind of projects an additional layer of negativity to this. (And I'm assuming you might? have already read further ahead by now, but François does have some genuine reasons to feel put off by Emma, particularly because of their history, and Emma's implied interest in François stemming from the despair he wore back when the Duhems' parents passed away. I think it's understandable that one would feel apprehensive towards someone who is one-sidedly attracted to your misery haha...)

Of course, outside of these specific circumstances, that isn't to say that people don't frown upon having more than one legal spouse (in Venetiaan, this is especially the case, but Riester too), but there are just multiple different factors involved. I think it's very fair to compare it to real-life Christian morality/belief of one-spouse-only, but of course, those who aren't fervently religious and/or are more open-minded will regard polyamory/gamy in a more welcoming light. In particular, we've seen characters before who've expressed outright opposition to the idea of their spouse having another lover, but this is of course different from polygamy—in Prince Consort Werner, Queen Christanne, and Priest Michael's case, it was not a balanced relationship between three people, but an individual cheating on their legal spouse with someone whom she actually loves (their relationship is quite complicated, but we won't be getting into that now haha, but point is—)

The act of cheating and having more than one lovers is seen as bad, without a doubt, but curiously enough, the people of the Divine Kingdom of Venetiaan actually show quite a positive reaction towards the Queen's relationship with the commoner priest Michael. "The Romance of a Century", I believe it was called, and despite this Leary being a case of infidelity that resulted in a child, why isn't the Queen's infidelity seen as completely negative? Well, it can absolutely go back to religion. Despite Venetiaan being the most religious country in the story, it seems very receptive to their Queen's story, and yet simultaneously it is this very religious fervour that makes it so. After all, the child born from the Queen's extramarital relation was born with golden blond hair and purple eyes symbolic of the Lord's love and divinity, therefore the existence of this child itself can be taken as a blessing from God, Herself.

So, is cheating bad? Yes. We've seen this before with Duke Sarnez who was once caught by his own daughter and her friends while he was intimate with an Imperial attendant in an office. Yet, we also see it with Queen Christanne towards her own legal spouse, but the reaction is different, because of the "blessings from God".

So, is having multiple consenting lovers in an equal-levelled relationship, bad? No. The story does point out that the ruler of Corleone, Lorenzo Corleone, has multiple concubines, but he isn't portrayed in a negative light, either. In fact, he is actually portrayed as a typical person—"an old gentleman" [665] he is actually described as. Courteous and rather kind, both to Yeseo and other known characters such as Aurélie, and actually becomes a great supporting character during the later war. Him having multiple legal wives isn't symbolic of him being a morally bad character, nor do Riesterian character treat him poorly for his cultural differences or marital affairs, either, and it is just that—cultural differences.

So is polygamy/polyamory wrong? No, but, the cultural differences and reservations about marriage/love between different countries will illicit different reactions depending on whom you ask.

Anyway, I hope I'm getting across my thoughts properly haha bc I think I'm sounding like a convoluted mess, but I'd also like to note that there have also canonically been conversations about queer relationships in the story itself—particularly between Princess Cornelisse and her would-be religious partner Isle Roosegaarde, whom Cornelisse promised to make her consort when they're older [670]. In this conversation, Isle remarks that she can't possibly be made Cornelisse's consort because they are both girls, but Cornelisse casually retorts that not even the Royal Family has such conservative and outdated views (which I think is kind of hilarious in retrospect, because it implies in a way that Werner, despite being a horrible person, at the very least doesn't discriminate on people's sexuality to the point where his own daughter is educated with this same view)(of course, unless you're Jesse, which means that everything about you is worthy of Werner's ire LMAO). BUT ANYHOW, point is, historically it seems that more conservative/traditional values have existed at some point, but the current reality is notably much more open-minded. It is fair to say that Monogamy and Polygamy co-existing in Corleone but not in Riester or Venetiaan might have something to do with each country's respective histories, as well as how strongly each nation respectively believes in the main religion (and how it would influence their beliefs). And when you take into account the context of whom the God of this religion is, we can also assume that the typical young QPB RoFan reader would not want an explicit environment where the people (characters) you love would be existing in a setting reminiscent of gritty, sensual harem genre (there is even MORE meta to be said about this, and that involves the "Creator" (writer) or the world, and their intent toward the Gods (readers), but just know that an adult theme is definitely out of the question when it comes to what appropriate subject matter to the target audience, or more specifically, a certain target reader 👀)

Anyway, I bring up historical conservatism and the more-progressive/liberal nature of the TWSB universe because the idea of polyamory in Riester actually, in a funny way, is kind of? accepted...? it really, really just depends on context.

For example, there have been quite a few occasions, actually, of either friends of Cédric, Yeseo, and Christelle (CYC) or the general public themselves, alluding to or actively believing that the three of them are in a romantic relationship. One of these people was actually Marquis François Duhem himself, and he's funnily enough supposedly quite aware of the rumours floating around their relationship and at some point reaches a conclusion along the lines of "wow!!! so the rumours are true, you three really are like that—!" [468] (hahaha I do not think that he has any strong averse opinions on polyamory at all (Emma Corleone bugging him to be her next husband being a whole different case)). And earlier on in the story, we've even seen gossip tabloids who've placed immense interest on CYC's relationship, though this can of course either be interpreted in romantic or platonic lenses haha. Oh, and another notable person who even outright called CYC "lovers" was Jibril Diop, Cédric's 2nd cousin and a later addition to the main cast (more specifically, while talking with Yeseo, Jibril refers to Cédric and Christelle as Yeseo's lovers and asks him if he broke up with them since it's rare to find Yeseo all alone haha) [465]! But either way, it seems the opinion on having multiple lovers depends on a variety of different factors, from personal opinion, to religious beliefs, country, etc etc. Jibril Diop himself is actually someone whose character aligns more with Corleone's values and interests rather than Riester, since he's very free-spirited and loves dating and flirting and hates stuffy clothing, and is well-known in the Riesterian Beau Monde for his social affairs and activities in the different salons in the capital. He's even reportedly dated multiple people at once before, though it's unknown if these were open relationships or otherwise, so I can't really tell you any more than that haha. (If you haven't met him in the story yet, please anticipate his arrival. He's such a great character, I adore him greatly. He's sooooo fun as a new addition to the main cast hehe)

Anyhow, I'm sorry if I haven't given any clear-cut answers so far but rest assured!! It gets even more complicated!!!!!! 🙌🙌

SO!!! Knowing that different countries, cultures, and people regard Monogamy and Polygamy different, where does the Riesterian custom of having a Religious and Political Companion come into play? Well, in the first place, the tradition of choosing these two partners is solely a Riesterian custom, one that is also reserved for the Imperial Family (and collateral lines). A POLITICAL COMPANION to help the Imperial ruler politically, financially, or in any other diplomatic/transactional needs, (typically with a renowned noble family, or even a wealthy and affluent merchant family); and then a RELIGIOUS COMPANION to help guide the future ruler spiritually, an emotional and religious guide. Neither of the two roles are necessarily romantic, and the position as Political Companion does not require love—it is a political match first and foremost, though rulers such as Frédérique and her mother before her, Céline, were lucky in that they were able to marry people who they loved. The marriage is merely a formality so that the ruler could have an adequate spouse who fits all the requirements needed to support the ruler and fulfill the duties required of by a consort. Love is not a requirement, but it is still a legal marriage, thus a degree of respect for the arrangement is still expected.

So, what does that make a Religious Companion?

Religious Companionship via Covenant/Holy Contract Ceremony is special in that it requires the two individuals involved to swear their souls together and have them joined for eternity. This connection is beyond romantic or platonic love—in fact, a lot of the sentiments between the Master of the Covenant and the Patron Saint is very queerplatonic. It is metaphysical, it is something integral to the people involved, it is something only they alone can truly understand. It is hard not to regard the sharing of one's soul with another as not being romantic, as the very nature of the Holy Contract is intimate and requires, in the first place, a deep trust in the other person.

I believe the in-universe romance novel by Benjamin Giradin, "Reason, Emotion, and Divinity" (as the title is translated by the official webtoon team), displays a common trope regarding the complex arrangement of the main character (Heathcliff) who is caught up in a conflict between his Political (Jane) and Religious (Catherine) Companions [78]. It is noteworthy that, although Heathcliff is in a physical marriage to Jane, he is in a spiritual/mental marriage with Catherine and is the one whom his heart lays with. We can see, here, that this is an example of a relationship that is not equally "polygamous"—there is a lack of sincerity on one party's part towards the other, and the "spiritual marriage" is seen in a negative light as it is not fulfilling the role it should be. It's a very dramatic circumstance however and of course, is only one (fictional) example of the extent of the depths that a Religious Companionship might lead to, but we can take another example, too—this time, one from Riester's very history, told to us in Chapter 195:

Basically (recapping for anyone reading who might not know), roughly a thousand years prior to the current timeline, Empress Arianne Riester proposed that the Cardinal Phillipe (who had been her ally in unifying the fractured Empire following Venetiaan departure) become her second companion. Knowing that Arianne was already married at this point and was also not romantically in love with Philippe, the Cardinal rejected her, unwilling to take on a role similar to that of a concubine. But despite this rejection, Philippe did harbour unrequited love for Arianne, and gave in to her sincere proposal, though not without requirements. Philippe gave her tulips and said that even if they were not legally tied to each other, he was still and would still always be her ally, and the Empress wished for his formal companionship that strongly, then it would only be so if the Lord blessed their union and affirmed that it would be okay. The blessing later came in the form of the blossoming of never-before tulips. Since purple was a deeply religious symbol and tulips of that colour had never existed beforehand on the continent, the people took this as a religious sign, thus, a blessing from the Lord Herself. Thus, the two joined together and their union was the start of the tradition of the Religious Companionship in the Riester Empire for generations to come.

Interestingly, it is noted that every single Religious Companion of every Imperial Riesterian ruler to come after Arianne and Philippe, all died single [256]. In a sense, this is truly a marriage no different than a political one, and perhaps even deeper than that. While Philippe genuinely loved Arianne (one-sidedly), not all Religious Companionships are explicitly romantic, either. But again, it is undeniable that the Patron Saint in the Holy Contract is the one who holds the most power—if they do not sincerely wish to form a Covenant, it would not happen. So naturally, all Religious Companions feel strongly about their respective Master of the Covenant, and this intimacy could absolutely stem from love, or result in love.

SO, what can we make of Empress Frédérique's relationship with her Political Companion Alexandre, and her Religious Companion Aurélie?

Just like how the different examples of Political and Religious Companionship that we've seen above are different, Frédérique, Alexandre, and Aurélie (FAA) are also unique in their own way. Frédérique and Aurélie's relationship was the first to form, with Frédérique being the first to "fall for" Aurélie for the clarity of her ether and her sincerity in her tasks as an Imperial Priest. They were childhood friends following this and naturally grew very close, but the one who Frédérique later explicitly romantically falls for was Alexandre Blanquer (notably, she fell for him at first sight, similarly to how she did with Aurélie in the confessional hahaha. Frédérique is really the type of person who knows what she likes and strives to obtain them). FAA are truly special because all three of them managed to form very strong connections, not just with Frédérique, but between Aurélie and Alexandre, as well.

Frédérique and Aurélie note on numerous occasions how much Cédric's growing relationships remind them so much of their own childhoods and younger years back when Alexandre was alive, and it is very clear that they all loved each other. Perhaps this might not be the clear response you'd like from me? but I do not think it matters whether or not their relationship was romantic, sexual, or platonic.

Just the fact that they loved each other immensely, to the point of Aurélie even almost sacrificing her own life if it meant she could trade it for Alexandre's (which ultimately failed, though deteriorated her eye in the process, which is why she wears a monocle) [600]. Aurélie and Alexandre were not physically married, nor did they share souls and emotions like how Frédérique and Aurélie did, but despite this all, they managed to form deeply intertwined bonds despite at surface-level glance Frédérique being the "only link" between them. From the very start, they were all together a 3-person parental unit for Cédric the moment he was born, and Aurélie, though not his blood parent, was pretty much his second mom right from the get-go (in the official webtoon translation, he calls her "Aunt Aurélie") and naturally had been made the godmother since his parents are pretty much her partners, too. They were so close that Cédric's conception dream was actually dreamt by Aurélie—prior to his birth, she dreamt of being visited by a sun who came into her bedroom, before falling asleep together. It was reportedly a very cute dream, and I think it's very indicative of how close these three were for Aurélie to be the one to have the conception dream instead of Cédric's own parents. From the very very very start, they had always co-parented and cared for Cédric, and would have done anything for him. Their relationship is untraditional for the typical two-parent family unit, but they were true in this together right from the start, from every step of the way. During his childhood, Cédric was only awake for very short hours of the day, but whenever he was, Aurélie, without fail, always came and visited him in the mornings to read him stories, just because he liked it, and Frédérique and Alexandre would also join them for whatever small moment of family time they could get, when Cédric wasn't sleeping [600]. They raised, cared for, and loved this boy greatly, you cannot distinguish a difference in their love on the basis of whether they're Cédric's parents or not. They love him because he's their precious child, and that is that.

I like what you mentioned about how you were unable to figure out if their relationship was romantic or platonic, and how you said it was perhaps intentional on the author's part. Sookym never mentions queerplatonicism at all in their work, but the queercoding of this universe by mere virtue of the existence of all the implications brought forth by the lore and magic system itself allows for very queerplatonic/queercoded messages to saturate the work in its entirety—all due to the very nature of TWSB alone. I think QPR is the best way to describe Religious Companionship, and all the other very special and metaphysical bonds that appear between several characters throughout the entire novel. In FAA's case, it is clear that Frédérique loved Alexandre very dearly, and that their marriage was not even a necessarily political one (they practically eloped without the permission of Alexandre's family, and the Blanquers also disowned him when he went through with the marriage, so there was hardly any political gain there, other than Alexandre hinself being a 9th-Grade Mage), but it is EQUALLY CLEAR that Frédérique loves Aurélie, too. You will understand as you continue reading, but there are some incredibly intimate moments between these two that are both emotional AND physical.

The biggest example that comes immediately to mind is right after Frédérique and Aurélie had to be separated for a long time during the Riester-Venetiaan war, upon reuniting, the two of them immediately spent the night together, and the morning after has Frédérique hugging Aurélie around the waist while in bed [850], and the scene is played completely naturally, as if this is a routine that isn't unusual for them and that has probably happened before. Of course, this happened because being apart for too long is literally physically painful for Frédérique, so being physically close to Aurélie and receiving her ether in the most direct way possible would remedy that, but in the first place, if they were not incredibly close, the physical nature of their relationship would not be as crazily intimate—to the point of sharing a bed and being in semi-states of undress, and physically touchy with each other in a scene epitomizing domesticity. They love each other and that's that. They are literal soulmates and partners, and we don't need to know anymore. The love they have for each other is something only they themselves would understand, and the love they had for Alexandre is something that also belongs to them.

With all these different presentations of love, affection, and queerplatonicism between different characters, I do not think there is actually much conflict that CYC themselves would face in becoming partners. Everyone in Riester and in other nations as well understand that the bond that Empress Frédérique and Cardinal Aurélie is integral and important, and there is never any criticism there on Frédérique's intimacy with Aurélie, even when it is well known that Frédérique wildly loved Alexandre. The only issue, in fact, that arises about CYC's potential partnership, was Yeseo (as Jesse), being from Venetiaan, and then later on, was mostly internal doubt and dilemma from Yeseo himself. Outside forces never disapprove of the three of them having any sort of relationship, and whatever criticism they ever face is not because of any romantic conflict or say gender bias (like I said before, homophobia doesn't exist in the widespread view, and if it does, it happened in the past as is now seen as stupid WKJJJK), but because of the requirements that the position of Political Companion and Religious Companion require, respectively. But Christelle Rambouillet and Jung Yeseo are probably the only ones that can fit the requirements of these two symbolic and physical positions the best, with Christelle, even after discarding the ducal Sarnez name, obtaining military achievements and notable contributions to the Empire and becoming the "Star of the Navy", and her incredibly positive public image and reputation as a national hero within the Empire will undoubtedly dissuade any criticisms of her worthiness of being a Political Companion. Yeseo, meanwhile, (again, sorry if you didn't want all these spoilers in this reply 😭) is the renowned Palace Lord of Juliette, the Marquis of Sérénité, an Incarnation of God and an Angel of the Lord, and is His Holiness the Pope, himself.

Yeseo and Christelle become some of THE most accomplished people in the Empire, and anyone who tries to push their sons or daughters into the symbolic roles of Religious and Political Companions for the Crown Prince of the Great Riester Empire, will have to compete with these two reputational behemoths hahaha. At the start of the story, the conflict between CYC's potential Companionship has always been political, with the question of who could possibly fit these roles the best and aid Cédric, once he inherits the throne. Politics and schematics have always been the question here, and you could even say that emotions have very little to do with this decision—in fact, we've seen before that Cédric would have gone with anyone Frédérique and Aurélie would have chosen for him, since that's what it means to be a Crown Prince and fulfill his duties. Of course, that isn't to say that FredAu would want Cédric miserable, but it is clear that politics always take precedence, unless extraordinary circumstances arise enough to the point of being able to discard traditional political moves.

Initially, Christelle de Sarnez was the best candidate for Cédric Political Companion because not only was the Sarnez Family a (now formerly) reputable family and strong supporter of the Empress, but the marriage would also bring with it the Blessing of the Azure Ocean, which Cédric had needed at the time. Of course, this initial setting falls flat, but Ham Ga-in, as Christelle Rambouillet, later makes an enormous name for herself and becomes even more renown that she would have been as a "Duke's daughter".

As for Jesse Venetiaan, while his ether was the more noble and pure, and his divine power was incredibly notable, his biggest flaw in the eyes of Riester-Venetiaan politics was that Jesse was a foreigner from the opposing country. This flaw, however, is immediately rectified once Jung Yeseo separates from the identity of Jesse Venetiaan (and there's a LOT more context, but it'll take way too long to explain) and becomes the "Moon of the Empire", rather than that of the Divine Kingdom. Once it is made known that Yeseo's allegiances and loyalty are clearly with Riester, the political doubt, implications, and hesitation on him being Cédric's potential Religious Partner naturally fades, all most if not all Riesterians are extremely enthusiastic about their potential union (in fact, many characters are often surprised that they haven't already officialized it, or haven't done it earlier LMAO).

In short, it's always politics, politics, politics. Riesterian nobles ultimately don't place much importance about whether or not CYC are romantic, platonic, queerplatonic—what matters in their eyes is always POLITICS and if the candidates for the future Emperor's Companions will be fitting of the roles they will have to play. CYC's own feelings are their own and whether or not they, in this Companionship, become romantic or platonic, or remain heavily queerplatonically coded, is their own personal affairs, so long as each of them are able to accomplish their respective duties. Of course, there will always be an interest in the nature of their relationship because gossip and curiosity in any country is unavoidable, especially when it concerns such important people like CYC, but the nature of it, in a political lenses, has little to do with whether or not they are fitting as partners. I personally believe that in any way one can spin it, CYC will still be the perfect pairing regardless, and Cédric choosing candidates that do not understand the depths of his soul is unfathomable to me—Yeseo and Christelle are, quite literally, the only ones (in a meta sense, as well). And on the topic of politics, the question of heirs will also naturally follow, and I am very!!! glad to say that this question gets very masterfully solved by the author haha! I am very content with it and it's a bit humorously in retrospect how it happens, but ultimately was a very smart move that allows for this question to be resolved (without having any of the MCs contradict whatever we might think of them!) and allows for readers to naturally conclude whatever outcome they prefer best after the main story ends! (But if you or anyone reading this is interested in knowing more about the Heir Question, feel free to refer to this post where I go into depth about it!)

Anyway, this response has really gone on for a....... very very long time. It took me a while write this out and make sure I got all my facts right LMAO, but I hope I was able to answer, even if only in some way, your questions and help your curiosity!!! 🥹😭🙌🙌

[artbyblastweave]

As a game mechanic, Karma was disadvantageous because it injected obtrusive level of awareness of authorial intent into every situation that raised or lowered your Karma (and in doing so frequently demonstrated deranged moral reasoning in how the points are allocated.) In New Vegas specifically, though, I found Karma advantageous in conjunction with the reputation system, because it tracks your character’s long-term behavior on an axis that the reputation system isn’t measuring. “Principled Person Despised by Authority” and “Omnimalevolent Weasel with A Great Eye For PR” are both well-worn archetypes that a dual Karma/Reputation system is able to model to some extent. It also provides another fun axis on which to engage with your companions- Boone leaves you if you piss off the NCR, Veronica leaves if you piss off the Brotherhood, but Cass leaves if you're just generally, generically a shithead- which is an incomplete venn diagram with those other two, and the contrast can serve as an interesting characterization vehicle IMO.

There are ways in which the affinity system in Fallout 4 was a step forward, primarily in how it lanced the obtrusive authorial judgements and more-or-less coherently tied it into the values of whichever companion you're currently travelling with. It also smoothly got around one failure mode of New Vegas- the incredibly specific, poorly telegraphed and thus frequently inorganic sequence in which you had to bring followers to places in order to trigger their affinity points. However, I've always had the vibe that the intended dynamic for Fallout 4 was that you'd pick and stick with a companion that would mesh with your intended playstyle- but I get the impression that what happens in practice is that players instead alter their playstyle for as long as it takes to juice up each companion's affinity meter, which can result in some pretty wild behavioral swings that you have to put some legwork into justifying from a roleplay perspective. And this compounds with the fact that the game isn't really tracking much else about who you are as a person. Your special stats are way less rigid. Nuanced faction reputation is out the window because factions themselves are sort of sidelined as a relevant mechanic outside the big four, and with the big four it's kinda all-or-nothing as to whether you're in their good books. Side quests tend to be fairly siloed in their impact, and Karma's gone. My decision to open fire on a population center, or lack thereof, feels more acknowledged in New Vegas than in 4. I guess If I were made Fallout Czar I'd probably do a tripartite system- Companion Affinity AND the New Vegas 4x4 faction reputation system AND some re-implementation of Karma, or some analogous system of tracking in which direction you break when asked to make a decision. Deontological vs. Utilitarian. Authoritarian vs Libertarian. Practical vs. Sadistic. Track everything. Break out the quadrants. Make the engine weep blood

[thatscarletflycatcher]

There's something that has been gnawing at me since I saw some comments on the look-how-they-massacred-them poll for Daniel Sousa -with which I didn't want to engage then and there because I really didn't want to pick up a fight with another Daniel fan, there's few enough of us, but also because the argument was very difficult to articulate.

It is difficult to explain how Daniel Sousa is screwed over by Endgame without making it look like either "he deserved Peggy as a prize" or "he was the perfect prize for Peggy", because it all begins by understanding the experience of WWII and the building of the morale of WWII. Something that Markus and McFeely seemed to perfectly understand in Agent Carter, which inclines me to believe it was specific insistence of the Russos, whose concept of narrative and storytelling is at the level of a belligerent and not very bright 4 year old, that gave us that mindblowingly stupid "happy ending" for Cap and Peggy. Or maybe Markus and McFeely are just arcane creatures, at times intelligent and at times really dumb. Anyways.

Point is that both CATFA and Agent Carter understand that for these characters, fighting WWII is a matter of "each doing their bit", of, as Steve put it in The Avengers, to lay on the barbed wire so the one that comes after you can pass on. And in the process of doing that, you have great loses and suffer great grief. The price of war is immense, and for these people the price of war is the price of freedom (yes, that celebrated Steve speech from CATWS is also sharing in that same spirit. It's kind of impressive how until that awful mess of Endgame, the perspective of Steve as a character from movie to movie is one that addresses how some 1940s things are outdated, but how many others are still relevant and inspiring. It is a surprisingly nuanced take on History, that of course the Russo "Cap is an outdated relic that belongs in the past and should stay there" brothers don't seem to have what's needed to grasp).

In that context, the most coherent tone for Steggy is tragedy. Because that is what happened to many, many, many people during the war. You meet, you fall in love fast, because there is no time. And then suddenly the other is gone, never to come back. And all the promises of youth and life and future the other person represented, are gone with them. People who lived through 2020-2022 have some idea of what it is like for projects, opportunities, and years of your life to just vanish. Now you make that five years, eight months, and to mention "just" the British, 1 out every 100 people live in 1939, dead, and over 350.000 permanently disabled. If you were 20 in 1939, your life would be practically on hold till you were 26. It's a whole lot of grief, and an intense grief, that you don't solve the way you solve a random missing connection in a romcom like Serendipity or The Lake House. Doing so is cheapening and bastardizing the grief and trauma of a whole generation of people in different countries.

So, Agent Carter. Here we have a story focused on a group of people, spies, who, in different fronts and with different outcomes, made it through the war and are now facing this new world they are living in, and all the grief of their respective losses. The focus of the story is Peggy, a woman who, like many others, was allowed a wide range of action during the war, and is now subconsiously perceived as a threat by many of her male coworkers. It's a desperate bid to "go back to the way things were before", and her presence is a constant reminder that they can't.

Sousa occupies a very similar position to Peggy's: he's also a reminder that the war happened and that there is no way back, no magic solution, no pretending. And that's why both are ignored, and displaced, and why both struggle to prove themselves in a subconscious way while living by the continued principle that they are doing their bit. That is their lifeline that keeps them sane and working all throughout s1 of Agent Carter.

That's what we mean when we say Peggy and Sousa are equals, and that Sousa is contented with letting her have the spot; not because he's her inferior or her dependant, but because he's her equal -in intelligence, in ideals, in resourcefulness, in loyalty, but also in their relative positions in the power ladder- and does not feel threatened by her because of it.

(It is in this context, btw, that Peggy's rebuke of Daniel's "rescue" of her in the first episode must be understood. Because she was once treated like any other officer/agent of her same rank, she has knee jerk reactions to both being demeaned and being protected. It's also an important theme of that beginning of the series that Peggy needs to learn to let her friends in, and that she needs their help, and that that doesn't make her too weak to protect and defend them.)

But also, in another way, when we talk about Sousa becoming Peggy's husband, it has to do with the sentiment Krezminsky expresses in the series:

The ship of Steggy had sailed and was gone forever since the moment Steve became the legend in the ice and Peggy "Cap's Girl", this embodiment of the ridiculous damsel in distress we hear in the radio drama that plays on one of the episodes: Peggy fell in love with Steve when he was a scrawny, sickly lad, because she loved the man he was inside, but now forever for the world she is just another superficial, weak girl lusting after the handsome godlike rescuer, the picture of the eugenic dream of the übermensch. In Daniel Peggy loves and finds all the same things she found and loved in Steve, but in a different light, because Sousa is a different person, with a different life story, plus something else: they have both gone through war and its loss and grief, and come to the other side in need of rebuilding and finding new meaning in life and hope for the future.

In a world where the Dark, Tall and Handsome Hero of the Six Pack, Alpha Dominance and Endless Stamina reigns supreme, Sousa as a love interest is a remarkable and -sadly- bold statement about the things that truly matter in finding one's life partner.

So I think here is a reasonable point to start talking about Sousa in Agents of SHIELD. Because here's where someone would rationally say "well, but you see, there he's also chosen as a love interest!", and the reasons why context in AoS changes everything are multiple, so let's go there.

But before that, let me make clear that I do wholeheartedly believe the writers of AoS meant to honor Sousa, and sincerely tried to do their best with what they were given. That doesn't change what the end product ended up doing and saying about him.

Like Peggy is the main character of Agent Carter, so Daisy is the main character of Agents of SHIELD. As much as you can say all the team characters are important and get the focus, Daisy is the one which the narrative insists on making the focal point, as the arcs of several seasons hinge on her, and we are expected to sympathize with her first and foremost in any situation in which she is personally involved. But unlike Peggy, Daisy is a superpowered individual. She's more like Steve than Peggy; she's practically a demigod. She is capable of ripping Earth apart with just her hands. Where Peggy and Sousa were equals in the power ladder in-universe, in AoS the distance between Daisy and Sousa is abysmal. That imbalance is the first thing that leads to Sousa being put in the position of Daisy's Boy. The fact that he ends up in space with Daisy's last minute sister who is ALSO an inhuman does not help things.

As a side note, there's something to be said about futuristic prosthetics in AoS and how they interesect with disability. But I'd rather not get into it because it is a thorny subject and I don't feel qualified to speak of it.

In a different way, Daniel being Peggy's love interest in Agent Carter is balanced out by his having a life of his own and many interactions with other characters throughout the series. He pursues his own lines of investigation, he conducts interrogations of his own, he comes up with plans, he teams up with Krezminsky and with Thompson and in s2 he has downright made a life for himself as chief in California with a fiancé and all. There is a clear sense that he exists as a character outside of pining for Peggy.

In AoS, the opposite happens. Part of it is owed to the writers writing themselves into a corner: to take Sousa out of his timeline, they have to do it in such a way that his disappearance is inconspicuous, which means killing him. They do it the best way they can think of, honoring his alertness and intelligence, by making him realize HYDRA is infiltrated in SHIELD decades before anyone else does. But as a consequence, Sousa becomes the man out of time: there's no future for him, because he has died, and unlike Steve, he's not being brought back because he himself is required. They just save him because they take pity on him and the tragedy of his life. So he has no mission and no significant previous connection with anyone on the team. One of the concrete things in which this is evidenced the most is with the switch from being addressed as chief Sousa to Agent Sousa. He was chief, but between that SHIELD and this SHIELD there's not such a connection by which he can claim that title. There's no subordinates to manage. So he's sort of default-called agent without really being a proper agent.

So the writers choose the fish-out-of-water concept for him. Which is far fetched. This guy lived through wwii in a high spy setting where intelligence has knowledge of powerful interstellar aliens. He's most definitely not bewildered by phone cameras, guys. He would quickly adapt... if, again, you know, he was brought back for a mission. But the reality is that from a Doylist POV, he was brought in to be Daisy's love interest, and the only thing he can offer to her, in this huge power imbalance I have pointed out, is chivalrous manners and quaint WWII style references like when he tells her "Agent Johnson, we are going home"; both can be very charming to a modern woman, but they are things that highlight the cultural and psychological distances that separate them, and make it glaringly obvious that they have barely anything in common.

The series tries desperately to give them common ground in the time-loop episode, with this idea that Daisy is like Peggy because she sacrifices herself for others and to protect others all the time. Which is laughable because, again, in Daisy's condition of beloved main character that embodies the tortured, quasi byronic heroine that we understand to be the hallmark of about one half of the contemporary superhero type, the narrative and the characters in it bend all sorts of ways to accommodate her, not the other way around. Peggy's type is different because it is rooted in that WWII morale/frame I was talking about at the beginning of the post.

As a consequence of all of this, Sousa barely interacts with anyone that isn't Daisy (he has of personal scenes, what? one or two with Coulson, the scene where Jemma gives him a new prosthetic, and then he's given an idea to give to Mac in the finale. I don't remember any other non-Daisy ones), has no unique role to fulfill in the mission (specially because so much of the plan is entwined in Fitz and Jemma's rescue plan that was NOT counting with Sousa) and no personal goal to achieve, which weakens his standing as a character outside the romance plot, and when it comes to the romance plot, he has nothing in common with Daisy, and he brings nothing to the partnership other than... narratively forced love, and chivalrousness.

In the end, Daniel, who was a character and a person of relevance in Agent Carter, is nerfed and turned into a prop for the rushed happily ever after of the main character of AoS. And that, in my books, is being screwed over. That's what makes his becoming Peggy's husband and building a life and a future with her a much better and more preferable outcome for Daniel; he gets to build a life of meaning by his own significant work and significant connections, in his own time and place, with a wife who is his equal and with other people that have lived through the same collective experiences of trauma and grief he did.

[ambiguouspuzuma]

I was talking a while ago about how characters with a strict moral code are always bailed out by the plot. Give them an ethical dilemma, and they'll say 'there has to be another way'... and there always is. Give them a situation where their hands are tied, they'll say 'there's always a choice', and what do you know?

Reality bends to give them the perfect get-out. They manage to solve the Trolley Problem without having to choose. A third way always arrives in the nick of time. They get to keep their whiter-than-white hero status, but still manage to save the day. Practical results, without ever having to compromise on their sacred principles.

For the writer, it's a good way to preserve their protagonist's heroic reputation. The moment they have to get their hands dirty they'll have readers who disagree with their decisions, and that dispels the myth. It might be necessary, if you do want this sort of white knight character to continue. But it does make them a little one-dimensional.

I was having the opposite conversation about A Song of Ice and Fire more recently. One of the ways in which it diverts from much of classic fantasy is that it forces characters to make those decisions. It doesn't let them duck the difficult choices, and then always makes them stay and live with the consequences. That creates a murkier world, but it lets you explore and develop a far more interesting cast.

A common way in which this trope appears is in a hero who refuses to kill. The Batman won't kill the Joker, and hundreds of people die every time he lets him live. But that's an example of how this can be explored in an interesting way: let him face the consequences of each choice, and decide whether to stick to his principles or bend them. Most stories aren't so brave as to include the second part.

As a related complaint, I recently read two novels where our hero is well aware that the antagonists want them dead, but does nothing about it. They survive multiple murder attempts by the skin of their teeth, and only then act - and are thus vindicated in taking the high road and not acting pre-emptively to take down their nemesis. But they could so easily have died, and in that case evil would have triumphed! Many others would have been worse off as a result!

It seems to be a common approach. The hero is able to show that they're the better person, not turning to violence to crush their enemies, and still wins because they're able to catch their opponent in the act. They get both principle and practice. But not allowing them to even act in self-defence is a ridiculous standard of purity, and their negligence or willingness to gamble with such an important outcome should also be criticised.

Perhaps I'm too radicalised by the whole 'in the game of thrones, you win or you die' sequence, but it feels like a grounded story should show such stubborn commitment to ideals as having some sort of consequence. I'm not saying every character needs to be a brutal pragmatist, and it's a valid ethical approach, but you have to show the pros and cons - weigh up what might happen if your gamble fails, compare idealism and outcomes. You can't just have them be pure of heart and spare their naivety from punishment, then act like that was the only sensible way to act.

[film-in-my-soul]

Think of the Children, Bucky Barnes | 1,214 | RainyForecast

Summary: Clint Barton, Bucky Barnes decided, was on his shit list. Officially. And seeing as he was currently dressed as Santa Claus, the threat should carry some symbolic heft.

undersell, overcommit | 10,222 | silentwalrust

Summary: Steve goes so hard for Bucky that he becomes a licensed, practicing massage therapist.

Glitter in the Air | 11,625 | BonkyBornes / @padfoot-and-the-marauders

Summary: James was standing when Steve turned around. His backpack hung from his left shoulder. Somehow, he’d managed to buckle the strap across his chest. He looked at Steve, his gaze simultaneously expectant and far away. Guarded. Waiting. For what, Steve didn’t think he wanted to know. “Are you in trouble?” Steve asked again. His voice was quiet, barely there. “No.” Steve looked at him. At the dark bags beneath his eyes, at his dirty hair, the sweatshirt he’d been wearing since Steve had first seen him. There was a hole in the left cuff. It was none of his business. “Is there anyone I can call for you? Is anyone looking for you? There are phones you can use.” “No. I’m—” He stopped and looked at the door. His eyebrows furrowed. “I’m looking.” “Looking for what?” If Steve could help in any way, he would. James looked at him again. It was the first time he’d fully met Steve’s gaze. “Myself.”

(see more recommendations below!)

I [Heart] You | 1,138 | writeonclara / @writeonclara

Summary: “Steve’s been hit with a curse,” Natasha said. She said it calmly, so Bucky didn’t immediately go flying out of the apartment to tear apart the Tower in search of Steve. Then again, Natasha would probably be calm if New York City spontaneously burst into flames. He lowered the coffee pot and squinted at her. “Of course he has,” he said. He felt, abruptly, exhausted. “What is it?” “The witch kept ranting about sexual repression and archaic moral principles,” she continued blithely. “It’s not like you to prevaricate, Romanov.” Natasha pressed her lips together. For a moment, Bucky thought she might start laughing. “It might be easier just to show you.”

Small Truths | 1,311 | crackdkettle / @crackdkettle

Summary: Five times Steve shrank and one time he didn't change back.

Van Goghing Slightly Mad | 1,541 | Xanoka / @adventures-in-mangaland

Summary: Damage control. Now would be the perfect time for damage control. “I’m sorry for calling your painting porn!” Well shit. Bucky is a Security Guard at a fancy art gallery and is absolutely not crushing on the Tiny Blonde Guy who frequents the Modern Art section. Nope. Not at all.

unlocking | 2,636 | glim

Summary: Written for Shrinkyclinks Fest for the prompt: Winter Soldier Bucky is recovering and trying to learn about/integrate into society. So, to kill two birds with one stone, he goes to the library. Steve is the librarian in charge of the history section.

Winter, New York City | 3,688 | unicornpoe

Summary: Between the rough sheets stretched rumpled across the bed, two boys curl like a set of parentheses around each other and their breaths mingle arhythmically in that dark place behind Bucky’s eyelids. It’s still night until he looks; it’s still night, and he doesn’t have to move. But then: a shift, Steve’s head rolling a little where it rests on Bucky’s chest, soft-fine hair rasping against Bucky’s collar bone. A quiet, wet cough. And Bucky opens his eyes.

Love in an Elevator | 3,785 | leveragehunters (Monkeygreen) / @leveragehunters

Summary: Bucky wanted M&Ms. Steve just wanted to go home. Neither wanted to get stuck in an elevator. (Warning: may contain traces of peanuts, banter, and some fluff.)

The Bucky Barnes Guide to Household Management | 5,506 | CryptoHomoRocker / @feelingsaboutgaysuperheroest

Summary: "Steve doesn't even notice at first, is the thing." Or: Steve is unobservant, Bucky learns to be good at things that aren't killing people, and knitting happens.

Stitch Me Up Right | 5,954 | sirsable

Summary: The Avengers have a new fashion designer and suddenly Bucky has a lot of problems with his suit.

Nailed to the Wall | 645 | Catchclaw

Summary: “Shhhh,” Bucky says for the dozenth time. “If you’re that afraid of getting caught, you should probably keep your mouth shut, huh?”

Snap Him Up | 647 | Catchclaw

Summary: “Rogers, those do nothing for you.”

You're Back | 779 | Catchclaw

Summary: He dreams that he’s spread on Bucky’s fingers. Not the blood and bone ones. The metal ones; the cold, killing kind.

Mistake on the Part of Nature | 1,274 | idiopathicsmile / @idiopathicsmile

Summary: Steve takes in Bucky's betrayed look and Sam's confusion, follows Sam's gaze to the pile of mangled fruit in the trash can. Sudden comprehension fills his face. "Oh," he says. "Bucky found out about bananas."

Resist / Delay / Obstruct | 1,321 | ladivvinatravestia / @ladivvinatravvestia

Summary: Who uses their mug shot as their dating profile pic? Steve Rogers, that’s who.

then we shall need each other | 1,425 | tsunderestorm / @tsunderestorming

Summary: In which Bucky returns to Steve, just not in the way he'd expected.

Phases of the Moon | 2,359 | Catchclaw

Summary: It’s not so much that Steve Rogers is a virgin, it’s that he’s a virgin.

They Say That Time's Supposed to Heal You | 4,939 | untune_the_sky

Summary: The thing they don’t tell you, don’t warn you about, when you make that first connection – when you feel somebody else’s breath in your lungs for the first time – is that it fucking hurts when that’s gone. They don’t warn you, because it’s a difficult thing to comprehend; it’s a difficult thing to understand.

One-Armed Pushups | 5,033 | k8erwaul

Summary: Saw one of those "AU prompt" posts on tumblr and this one stuck out to me as perfectly appropriate for Stucky: “i came to the gym to work out but holy god i can’t stop watching you do one armed push ups that’s so hot” AU

Just let me (kill) love you | 5,041 | Chim / @chim-aceyliz

Summary: The Winter Soldier has a mission: killing Steven Grant Rogers. Too bad the whole universe is getting in his way.

"Lunch" | 5,140 | cleo4u2 / @cleo4u2 & xantissa / @xantissa

Summary: Bucky Barnes, the feared Winter Soldier, is working hard at becoming a person again. He doesn't understand a lot of the modern world, yet, but he Avengers help him with that when they can. They don't always get it right.

Something Fishy | 5,254 | leveragehunters (Monkeygreen) / @leveragehunters

Summary: Steve meets Bucky. Bucky meets Steve. Some things are meant to be. But even when something's meant to be, you might need to work a little to make it happen. (And that's made a tiny bit harder when your universe, out of all the infinite multiverse, managed to get things so completely mixed-up.)

When You Come Home | 5,978 | unicornpoe

Summary: “Nice to meet you, Bucky,” says Steve. He lets go of Bucky’s hand, and it doesn’t feel like a retreat, but it does feel like a promise: like the end of a sentence left uncapped, hanging there for one of them to finish later. There’s a cold wind blowing, but Bucky feels warm. “Please don’t try to come in here,” Bucky says. “There are alien corpses. It’s really gross, and really dangerous.” “Alright,” Steve says, and he’s not quite laughing aloud, but one lingers in the corners of his smile, in the way his blue eyes brighten.

special delivery | 6,049 | glim

Summary: It's not that Steve's bad at taking care of himself when he gets sick; he just wishes he didn't have to all the time. At least he can order most of what he needs online. That's some small comfort, that he can have soup and ice cream and everything else brought to his door.

asthma attacks, fire escapes, and chai | 6,657 | beemotionpicture / @beemotionpicture

Summary: It happens because of his asthma of all things. As soon as he feels short of breath he starts rooting through his messenger bag for his inhaler. Steve has a moment to think aha! and then fuck, before he's losing his grip on the thing and it’s skidding across the pavement and into an alleyway. He freezes when he realizes he’s not alone. Steve hears a muffled sound coming from behind the dumpster, but that’s not what makes him look; no, it’s the metallic scent in the air which, with a creeping feeling of dread, he hopes isn’t blood. He looks. It’s blood. And there’s a man sitting right in a puddle of it, leaning heavily against the brick wall and clutching his side with a metal hand.

re(dis)covery | 7,024 | glim

Summary: Wherein Bucky Barnes, SHIELD operative, discovers he has feelings for the nurse down in medbay and rediscovers a few more things about himself along the way.

Blind Date | 8,294 | AggressiveWhenStartled & quietnight / @quietnighty

Summary: “I just had the best idea I have ever had in my life,” Bucky said, punching straight through a doombot with his metal hand and clutching the napkin with Steve’s phone number in the other. The formerly (somewhat) dark and peaceful corner of Central Park was now lit up with energy beams, flashing robotic lights, and panicked astronomy buffs running for cover. Oh well, it wasn't like they'd been going to see many stars what with all the Christmas shit everywhere. “The bar you are setting for that is not high,” Natasha told him over the coms.

Brooklyn | 8,749 | togina / @toli-a

Summary: "Captain America, what's your stance on gay marriage?" Everyone knows that, by now. Everyone but Bucky.

Here comes the feeling you thought you'd forgotten | 8,946 | bangyababy / @bangyababy

Summary: So he eats his cake and sips his coffee, occasionally glancing up from his phone to Steve. If Steve sees him he’ll give him a little smile, which he tries to return, but judging from the look on Steve’s face, it’s probably not working. Still, Steve doesn’t stop smiling at him. It makes him feel almost…real. Today, he thinks, he can be James. Recently escaped from Hydra, the Winter Soldier stumbles into a bakery where he meets the worker, Steve. Being around Steve helps him remember things about his past, makes him feel a little more like a person, so he keeps coming back.

The Long Road to Lynbrook | 9,306 | monicawoe / @monicawoe

Summary: Six years ago, Bucky left the hamlet of Lynbrook to battle against the Knights of Hydra. Steve has missed him ever since, and refuses to believe he's dead. One night, Steve finds a frog at the well— a frog with one metal arm.

Breadth Requirements | 9,438 | SkyisGray / @skyisgray

Summary: Steve's never met his Psych TA in person, but he's a little obsessed with their snarky, flirty email conversations. Steve's never made any headway with the hot guy who sits in front of him in Psych, but he's a little obsessed with his mouth.

if you keep reaching out (then i'll keep coming back) | 10,517 | unicornpoe

Summary: “Do you mind if I work a little, Bucky?” He says Bucky’s name as often as Bucky says Steve’s, like maybe he likes the feel of it, the music of it—like maybe it’s at the top of his list, too. He’s using strong-looking hands to pick up the satchel he’d been carrying when he came over, lifting it up and sitting it on his lap. “I’m an artist, and I’ve got a couple commissions I hafta finish up here soon.” Artist. Of course he is. “I don’t mind,” Bucky says. He doesn’t. He likes the idea of sitting across from Steve while he works, sipping his coffee, finishing the book he was reading, and maybe looking up and meeting Steve’s eyes every now and again. His shock-blue eyes. His eyes framed with golden lashes, like seagrass. The Winter Soldier, and a man made of spun-strong gold.

Wrap Battle | 10,604 | GoodbyeBlues

Summary: "Hey, fuckface!" Steve called out after him. "What name do I put on the order?" The man stopped short, turning and looking at Steve from under a cocked brow. "Do you talk to all of your customers this way?" "Yes," Steve nodded. It was the truth. The man grinned, his straight white teeth flashing and the creases framing his eyes deepening with the motion as he continued to gaze unflinchingly at Steve. "You can call me Bucky."

Nokken Wood | 10,616 | leveragehunters (Monkeygreen) / @leveragehunters

Summary: When Sam's friend needs a house-sitter for his place in the country, Steve jumps at the chance. Six months rent-free to do nothing but draw and paint and wander the countryside, looking for inspiration? It was like a dream. But when he gets lost in a storm and nearly falls into a pond he starts to rethink the whole like a dream aspect of life in the country. And when a red-eyed, sharp-clawed, silver-fanged creature rises out of the darkness, Steve is one hundred percent certain the dream's morphed into a nightmare. ...until it gives him a cup of tea.

miles to go before i sleep | 11,910 | Avelera / @avelera

Summary: Steve finds Bucky outside of the Smithsonian and invites him home.

Under the Skin | 18,447 | leveragehunters (Monkeygreen) / @leveragehunters

Summary: "Brooklyn, like I said," he replied, taking Steve's hand and shaking it, then he paused, tilted his head, and said, "Actually, since you're staff? It's Bucky." "Bucky," Steve repeated, feeling oddly touched. "Always Brooklyn in front of the clients, though," he added seriously. "No, of course," Steve promised. "Good to meet you." "You too," he said, glancing down to where Steve was still holding his hand. Steve let go with a sheepish smile. "Sorry." Working in a brothel wasn't somewhere Steve ever expected to find himself, but then he'd never expected to quit his shitty corporate hell-job to apprentice as a tattoo artist. Great as it was, his apprenticeship didn't come with a pay cheque, so eating and keeping a roof over his head meant finding a job that paid actual money. Which was how he'd ended up as the night receptionist in a brothel, accidentally holding Bucky's hand, with no idea Bucky was going to turn out to be something else he'd never expected.

Decoys | 19,540 | littlerhymes / @popliar

Summary: The serum makes Steve stronger, but not bigger. Instead of a superhero, he becomes a spy.

Something New, Something Gold | 20,385 | Nonymos

Summary: Bucky Barnes, retired black-ops operative and Archeology professor, spends a long weekend in the Brazilian rainforest toying with his own mortality and puzzling over the mystery of Steve Rogers. (Also, like, the lost city of El Dorado. But seriously, Steve Rogers.)

The Day the World Went Away | 21,323 | 74days / @74days

Summary: Bucky Barnes has survived the Virus that devastated the world, leaving him road-tripping over America dodging violent gangs and trying to get through another year. When he manages to find a radio station still broadcasting, he's not aware that the voice on the other side of the country will soon become the driving force behind his actions.

This Side | 35,321 | orphan_account

Summary: Bucky Barnes restores antiques for a living. Steve Rogers saves the world. Bucky has no reason to believe their paths will ever cross, right up until they do.

Graphology | 55,177 | leveragehunters (Monkeygreen) / @leveragehunters

Summary: "Steven Grant Rogers," a voice said from somewhere near Steve's front door. "Professional inker. Maybe you'd like to explain why you're leaving us messages about our good friend Bucky?" The redhead currently pinning Steve to the couch said, "Really?" "Alright, her good friend Bucky. My tolerated friend Bucky." "My phone's on the table," Steve ground out. "Grab it, have a look at the last picture." The guy grabbed it, and his obvious double-take would have been funny if Steve wasn't being crushed into his couch. He held it out and the redhead peered at it. "It could be fake." "That's right," Steve said, digging down for all the sarcasm that existed in his skinny body. "I scribbled all over my own thighs and took a photo so I could lure a pair of hostile weirdos to my apartment. That's how I enjoy spending my time." "You know what this means, right?" the guy said, sounding deeply bemused. "Bucky has a soulmate.

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[miraamio]

The two faced spectre and his poor guise of duplicity

jujutsu kaisen as a manga is very carefully curated to lay some of the key themes out. For characters like Gojo, and Geto, it takes a painstaking amount of care to carefully lay out the intricate details and nuances of both their characters and their relationships and the inherent symbolism in it. Something as such would convince you that Jujutsu kaisen is very generous with its explanation of themes to its readers. However, I think this act of laying bare the key details is what really tricks the readers and convinces them into believing Sukuna is a standard, evil character. With no real motives or purpose, just simple need for violence.

Sukuna’s curation, by far, consists of the most intricately picked out details that intentionally create a barrier between him, the reader and the characters he interacts with. He belongs to an ancient era, much of what he speaks is often lost in translation to the sorcerers and curses of the current era. You may find a lot of Japanese speakers/readers break down multiple panels of Sukuna’s speech bubbles and more often than not, his speech bubbles dissect to give us a deeper, more complex dialogue which neither the reader nor the listening character will grasp at first. This barrier of language is intentional to create an air of mystery and confusion on both ends, it tricks the readers and the characters in verse into believing Sukuna as a being is shallow enough to simply fight for the hell of it.

A very essential part of Sukuna’s character is his curiosity. He is curious, at his very core. He is curious to test someone’s limits, to see how far can someone really go, how far can they be pushed? He is curious about human food (cue to him trying and disliking popcorn) His curiosity is a very significant cause that steers him into battles. He treats every opponent differently, he praises some, he belittles some, he encourages some. It’s his way of understanding and testing the true limits of his opponents. He praises Jogo, Kashimo, he asks Higuruma to heal himself, he acknowledges Gojo when the narrative itself brushes past his death. His candidness in every character interaction during a battle is what makes him raw and hard to stomach beyond the surface level.

Sukuna is both similar to, and different than gojo. In a way they're perfect anti parallels to one another. In their shared loneliness and dehumanisation, they find a common ground. Yet it is also what differentiates them. Gojo's isolation renders him impenetrable by those around him, so he becomes a pillar that ensures the security of the jujutsu society, despite acknowledging its flaws, his existence on the mounted platform makes him shoulder the burden of being a beacon that needs to guide his students in order to bring about a change. However, Sukuna's loneliness is a trait that had been engraved into his being from his time in the womb itself as a taboo child. So his isolation as the strongest only strengthens his beliefs of living as he chooses to. Which is why there is a stark contrast in the two panels between Gojo and Sukuna wherein both are titled as the honoured ones.

Sukuna is a very refined character. He recites haiku in midst of his battles, he knows poetry, he knows the language of flowers and knows archery. He praises the moon during his fight with Jogo whilst simultaneously belittling him.

Sukuna’s character often comes with an air of duplicity. It’s not greatly intended on his part but rather something that is reinforced by Gege. Its a very funny way to trick your readers into doing their homework for their characters.

He is a man rooted to his principles and beliefs, a lot of his practices reflect the traditions of his time. But him being grounded to his principles doesn’t really equate to him being moral. He lives the way he wishes to, he fights and destroys and pushes everyone to their limits, his beliefs are limited but stay unshaken.

For a character like Sukuna, who is a product of neglect, and someone who’s very existence is reduced to a title alone, his isolation from human sentiments is very understandable. He was a taboo child, someone who’s very existence stems from negativity cannot understand the concept of “love” so he rejects Yorozu. Sukuna is a character who was robbed off the very chance to be human, he lived and died as the “two faced spectre,” and the effect of this dehumanisation reflects itself in the final chapter. He dies in Yuji’s hands calling himself a “curse,” yet when confronted by Mahito he expresses his true feelings of both fear and regret.

His confrontation with Mahito was extremely fitting for his character because throughout the story, Sukuna, sticking to his beliefs, lives the way he wishes to. He partakes in all heinous acts and stoops low enough to deceive and kill when necessary. When he fights Yorozu, in megumi’s body, he tells her she can do anything she wishes to if she defeats him upon being questioned for marriage. This really grounds Sukuna’s belief of loss and defeat to be equivalent to death itself. He cares not for what Yorozu does to him if he is defeated because a defeat to him, is shameful enough to be considered death itself.

Which is why the only time he directly confronts Mahito, and through him the very narrative itself, is after his defeat. He loses so he finally let’s go of his arrogance. And we find out who Sukuna really has been all along.