#speaking of meaningless distinctions

[foursaints]

also i think harry potter is a more interesting character when you allow james to be extremely morally grey. imo this is more reflective of canon: he was a bully. he was blindly privileged. he harassed lily and treated it like a joke. and no matter what, he's still a man who wanted to marry "the brightest witch of her age" and saw absolutely nothing wrong with making her his jobless prospectless pregnant housewife at 19 years old! that's entitlement!

like in doing this, james technically carried on centuries of misogynist conservative pureblood tradition (marrying women off to be teenaged childbrides) without another thought. this is the environment in which he was raised. and he told himself it was ok and progressive because he, like, wasn't racist to her for being muggleborn and genuinely loved her as a person, or whatever. but that's the bare minimum! and it shows that he had no qualms with participating in pureblood culture & tradition when it suited him, because he literally materially did. a better james potter would never have been comfortable with letting her take on that role.

and the series themes are more resonant when harry's parents aren't both just, like, nebulously ontologically good. it's really poignant when harry spends his entire life being taught to idolize a man who was, in actuality, kind of a piece of shit— and grapples with this as he grows up, ultimately choosing to be different. the lesson is that both good (and cruelty) can come from anyone, regardless of birth circumstances or house placement, because goodness is a choice.

[pathologicalreid]

litmus test | s.r.

in which Spencer needs your expertise to help solve a murder, but crime fighting is most decidedly not for you

find more chemist!reader here!

who? spencer reid x chemist!reader category: flangst (like. the end is a little angsty and it has case details) content warnings: typical cm violence, science talk, fem!reader, reader is not built for crime, morgan being an older brother, some fun banter!! death by firework is crazy lmao word count: 1.68k a/n: this is one of my favorite fluff pieces i've written in agessss i missed chemist!reader so much i learn so many things when i'm writing her. this was a request! i hope you like it as much as i do!!

“Do you have a second?” Spencer asks, his voice slightly choppy over the phone. Between his ancient phone and being inside concrete police precincts, some disconnect was bound to happen.

Saving your document to your computer, you rest the lab phone between your shoulder and ear, “If you’re asking me if I have any corrosive chemicals in my hands, the answer is no.”

He chuckles lightly, “I never know with you.”

You roll your eyes in response, even if he can’t see you, “It was one time and I needed a new phone case anyway.”

“You fused the plastic of your phone case to the material of your phone,” he retorts far too quickly for your liking.

“Yes,” you acquiesce, “but I know the exact chemical reaction that caused that phenomenon.” You cross your legs one over the other, maintaining your balance on your lab stool as you speak to Spencer over the phone.

He gave a light hum in response, “Speaking of chemical reactions – I need your help.”

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise, “You’re asking me for help in chemistry?” There really was a first time for everything, you suppose.

Spencer was more than capable of navigating a lab on his own, even so, he admits, “You have more applied practice than I do.”

Pursing your lips, you nod to yourself, “Fair enough. What’s stumping you, Dr. Reid?” Your inquiry, while innocent enough, garners a wolf whistle from your graduate assistant.

“There’s something burning a hole in these bones, and I’m not sure what would be causing it to happen this fast,” he explains, giving you minor background information on how long the bones were out and if the medical examiner had treated them with something.

You clear your throat, frowning at the notes you had scrawled down in front of you, “Burning or corroding?” What was seemingly a meaningless distinction would actually allow you to filter through approximately half of the possibilities.

“Corroding,” he corrects himself, “My mistake.”

Crossing off some of your notes, you purse your lips at the new possibilities, “No worries. Did you try flushing it out with water?”

You hear papers flipping on his end of the call before you get a response, “That would destroy evidence.”

“Well,” you raise your eyebrows, “It sounds like your evidence is destroying itself.”

“Baby,” Spencer says in a no-nonsense tone reserved for when he was deep in a case. You could’ve sworn you heard Morgan in the background of the call mocking him for the pet name.

Turning back to your notes, you sigh, “Yeah, yeah, all work and no play. Was the body buried?”

“Partially,” his reply intrigues you, “I can have Garcia send you the crime scene photos if you think it’ll help.”

Wrinkling your nose at the thought, you made an unsure sound, “Right, because nothing says lunchtime like getting up close and personal with a homicide victim.”

“What lunchtime? It’s three pm in D.C. right now,” he caught you, a slight chiding tone in his words.

Ignoring his questions, you ask more of your own, “Was the body near water? Did they test the pH of the soil and water?”

There were more papers flipping, likely someone presenting the results of those tests to him, “Yeah, the soil was a five-point two and the water was a seven-point eight,” he listed off for you.

While your knowledge of the pH of the soil in Iowa was limited, you did know that those levels were pretty on par for the northern Mississippi River. “O-kay,” you say, extending your vowels, “and they didn’t find anything else on the scene that points to corrosive materials. Hydrofluoric acid?” You posit, “No, you know what – maybe you should send me those files. My work email is encrypted, you can give it to Penelope.”

He speaks to someone else in the room with him and you resist the urge to ask him if he’s enjoying Iowa, “It’s sent,” he confirms with you.

Pulling up your email only takes a moment, and once you get over the initial shock of seeing a dead body on your computer screen, you lift your lab glasses to the top of your head in order to get a better look. “I mean,” you think for a moment, “those look like alkali burns to me. I’ve never seen them on bones before, but you should do a litmus test to check either way.”

“So, we rinse it with water?” He asks, seeking instruction from you in a way that makes you feel oddly powerful.

Your eyes widen, “No, no, no. If it’s a metal compound then it’ll be covered in a mineral oil, so rinsing it with water would actually make the burn worse.”

Pausing for a moment, you consider the possibility that Spencer didn’t have the luxury of time – he was trying to solve a murder, not do experiments in a lab.

“Alkali burns can be serious, it all depends on what caused them, and most are helped by rinsing with water. So, unless you have the time to test for metal compounds, I’d go ahead and rinse it. You might want to brush the damage to the bones with a dry brush first. If there’s lime on the bones it’ll foam, which not only will corrode the bones even further but it might release a toxic gas,” you have no idea how the corrosion would interact with bone marrow, but something tell you that you don’t want to know

“Wait a minute,” Derek interjects, being included in the conversation now that Spencer put the call on speaker, “I thought things like alkaline water were good for you.”

You scoff instinctively, “Oh, there’s no definitive evidence that shows alkaline water as having any real health benefits. Especially not the benefits that the internet says it has.” Straightening up in your stool, you continue, “In fact, there is evidence from the NIH that says drinking alkaline water could cause kidney damage. There’s a particular-“

“My bad,” he interjects, effectively stopping your rambling before it really took off, “I forgot whose girlfriend I was talking to.”

Groaning at your new vexation, you huff, “Oh, fuck off, Derek. Go kick down a door.”

Spencer quickly switches the phone back, “Thank you, angel.”

Squinting at the photos that were still on your laptop screen, a crude, disturbing thought came to mind, “You know, sparklers can cause alkali burns. It might be something to consider because of the diameter of the burns.”

Your boyfriend was silent on his end of the call for so long that you had to check and make sure the call hadn't dropped. “Did you say sparklers?”

“Yep,” you confirm, “like the ones you can get everywhere this time of year.”

He says something to Morgan, placing his hand over the receiver so you can’t hear, “There’s only one spot in this town, though. I’ve gotta go, see you soon.”

“Stay safe, please! I prefer your bones unburned,” you rattle off into the phone before it clicks, placing the phone back on the stand and deleting the crime scene photos from your inbox.

The front door to the apartment opens and shuts quietly, with Spencer under the assumption that you already went to bed, he was surprised to find you on the couch, nursing a cup of tea. “Hey, baby,” he chirps, unusually peppy for this time of night.

“Hey,” you say half-heartedly, threading your fingers through the handle of the mug.

Your somber tone gets Spencer’s attention, “What’s wrong?”

The slight panic in his voice causes your eyes to snap up to his, “Nothing,” you murmur. “It’s just… the woman who was in those pictures. There- the burns on her bones, they were signs of torture, weren’t they?”

You’d been thinking about the burns ever since Spencer showed them to you, “Yes,” he answers with a reciprocating softness, sitting down next to you on the couch. “The medical examiner concluded that she was burned antemortem.”

That woman had been burned alive by fireworks, sparklers had seared their way through skin and muscle until it finally met her bones. You blink a few tears from your eyes at the thought, “I like my lab, Spence.”

The confusion on his face was palpable, “I know you do.”

“I like my minimal human interaction and my chemicals, and I like knowing why certain things cause certain reactions. I like it when things make sense.” You take a deep, shaky breath, “Killing someone. Torturing someone with fireworks. That just doesn’t make sense to me.”

You had no interest in hearing the excuses that the killer had provided. You had no interest in hearing the psychological breakdown of that woman’s killer. Spencer knows that, “The photos got to you?”

Taking a sip from your mug, you nod solemnly, “I can’t stop thinking about the way it must have felt. Oh, the smell must have been horrible. That poor woman.” In theory, it was a ridiculous notion, killing someone with fireworks seemed neither probable nor possible. Yet here you are.

“But we got the person who killed her,” Spencer reassures you, resting his hand gently on your knee. “We couldn’t have done it without you,” he adds.

Your face warms at his compliment, “I wish I could have helped before she was killed.” You were grateful that Spencer hadn’t passed on any personal information about the woman, it was easier for you if you kept things in separate storage files in your mind.

Spencer hums, reaching out and sweeping a strand of hair behind your ear, “There’s always going to be another one. I’m sorry about the photos, I should’ve made sure Garcia only sent the necessary ones.”

Nodding absentmindedly, you look at him thoughtfully, “This will pass, but for tonight I just feel bad for the victim.”

“I can have Penelope share some of her favorite baby animal videos, if you’d like,” he offers softly, resting his head on your shoulder.

In return, you give him a small smile, “Well, I suppose it really can’t hurt.”

[pseudowho]

Calamus et Gladius

(help me find the Higuruma artist in the banner, for crediting and thanks/permission!)

Stolen from a foreign army to participate in the Culling Game, speaking little to no Japanese with just a rifle for self-defence, the reader partakes in a bittersweet dance of death and love, with Higuruma Hiromi.

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, enemies to lovers, murder, use of firearms, the desperate smut of two traumatised people who fall hopelessly in love.

This is long, but I make no apologies, because the payoff is worth it.

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You were used to violence. You were used to senseless bloodshed. Used to rains of bullets, flinging shrapnel, your ears ringing with explosions and screams.

Yet, it was your own screams that rang through you, as an enormous gavel split the earth where you had just stood.

Your entire unit was dead, almost fifty men and women lured into Tokyo Colony One, and you scrabbled back on grazed hands, kicking feet, as this ink-haired monster stepped slowly through the rubble and gore, black eyes fixed on you with the rage and fervour of a justified killer.

He appeared to hesitate only briefly as your face crumpled up at him in tearful rage and despair, desperation. You did not move to grab the rifle on your back; a threat of retaliation would be your downfall.

Despite being the only one of your unit who had had something new, something alien awakened within them, you had developed no fantastical technique. You had no mystical weapon. You had no roiling blue flames engulfing your fists. You had only the ability to sense others like you, and the horrifying stop-motion beasts that now sullied your sight. It was enough, at least, to hide.

"Please-- please--" you begged, the last attempt of a cornered woman. Your back pressed against the wall, the wide street around you a no-man's land of rubble, overturned cars and bloody splatters. The man's hand tightened on his gavel, his other raising to swipe flicks of black fringe off his forehead. He frowned, stopping. You noticed his distinctive hooked nose, crinkling in disgust.

"English," he offered, thickly accented, neither a question or a statement. You gulped, nodding with urgency, any dialogue an opportunity to re-establish his humanity.

"Innocent," you insisted, hands raised in front of you, disarming, "I'm innocent." That word, the man seemed to recognise, and he blew air through his nose, snorting in mirth.

"Innocent?" He asked, sarcastic.

He knelt down in front of you, his eyes still offering no mercy, but he spoke to you so conversationally. He reached one long finger out, tapping the rifle on your back, coming back round to stroke you teasingly along the side of your cheek, holding it so tenderly. His words washed over you, meaningless, until you caught one you could understand as he stood up.

"...sorry." His arm raised, the head of the gavel blocking out the sun, and you took your chance.

Your hand darted, and you flung a handful of brick dust into his eyes as he spat, staggered, cursing. You brought the butt of your rifle round to slam into the side of his head, and although he barely faltered, you ran for your life, darting down alleys, your heart bursting in your ears.

You heard no footsteps chasing you. He could have...but he didn't.

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Just one easy kill.

The others had all gone down so hard, Hiromi thought, stepping into his swing, barely missing the foreign woman, the gavel making a buckled crater in the tarmac instead. Hiromi tsked, annoyed, kissing his teeth. Watching her squirm on the floor to save her life, a worm from a bird, Hiromi's gut churned-- ugly.

Murder was so easy. The power to beat scum at their own game was intoxicating. Hiromi stepped after her, so far removed from his old self. His usual self? He wasn't sure.

His keen eyes built the woman's character, hawkish and unforgiving. Young...naive. Soldier...killer. No Japanese...lazy. Pleading...pathetic. Not fighting...coward. By the time she began to beg Hiromi, she was already barely human in his eyes. Swiping his hair upwards, and tightening his grip for the deathblow, he spat, "English."

She caught his eye, and Hiromi felt the barest seed of guilt in the back of his mind, an itch he could not scratch. She had nodded at him, tears brimming in her eyes, hands raised in placation.

"Innocent," the woman had insisted, "...innocent." Bile rose in Hiromi's throat at the familiar word, and the audacity she had to use it for herself, as if she wasn't rolling in the same pigshit as the rest of them. Hiromi's lip curled, smirking as he rubbed his nose with the side of one long finger.

"Innocent?" He stabbed. Hiromi knelt, talking at you as if you understood.

"What's that? You're the good guy, are you?" He mocked, reaching out to tap the rifle on your back, feeling you flinch beneath him, "Is it this, that makes you innocent, hmm?" He brought his hand to your cheek, stroking it with the blade of his finger, swiping away the tears that had cut a track through the dust and grime, "Or this pretty face, hmmm? Are those big, teary eyes what make you innocent? Don't make me laugh. You're scum, just like the rest of us. And natural law is at play here." He cupped your cheek once, squeezing it with the barest of sincerities in his apology as he stood.

"Sorry," Hiromi offered, lifting his gavel and feeling power churn through him, just and righteous as your executioner.

Hiromi cursed as he felt a spray of grit flung into his face, immediately disarmed by the sordid pain of sand in his eyes, further disorientated by the ear-ringing slam of something into the side of his head. He staggered, faltering.

"Oooh, you piece of shit," Hiromi cooed, vicious, spitting with venom, vision completely obscured as he tried in vain to clear his eyes. He felt you disappear, and he leaned against the wall, laughing despite himself at having been bested. He smiled, the barest tinge of admiration for your tenacity threading through him.

"Alright," Hiromi sniffed, rubbing his nose again as his vision began to clear, "catch you later, I suppose."

Hiromi tried to forget you. He tried to forget his humanity, but each life he took made him sicker, infected by this game.

Every time he closed his eyes, to sleep in some strange home-less, love-less bed, your eyes met his, impeaching him.

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Resources soon ran thin, for one who held no territory. You had your army pack, and rationed out your meagre foodstuffs, always hungry, always on-edge. You had never fought alone, in war.

You had managed to develop quite the skill at hiding, and concealed yourself, cloaked in plain sight, from even the most powerful of those left in the game. Every day that the stragglers were picked off, the stakes ran higher. Every explosive battle you ran from, dodging the falling debris thrown by titans, you felt your inherent value as an easy kill increasing.

You thought of the hook-nosed man who had let you go. Despite his willingness to kill you, you craved human contact, and found warmth in the memory of the heat of his gaze, his hand on your face, desperately trying to translate the words he had spoken to you as he caressed your cheek.

One dewy dawn, you had taken position on a sheltered rooftop, giving you equal measures concealment and oversight. With your rifle drawn, flat on your belly, you felt the ebbs and wanes of a familiar power draw closer. Curiously, it made your belly clench, eager to see the man who could have chased you, but didn't. You were itching to know why. Itching to behold him again.

Your heart leapt as he stepped into the street, at least four stories below you. Even from this distance, you could see the intensity of his furrowed brow, the noble bearing of his shoulders beneath a great black overcoat. His tie hung, dishevelled, loose-knotted. He was hunting.

He paused, tiptoed on a breath...before rolling, gracefully dodging as a knife of Cursed energy ricocheted through the street, splitting it. You gasped, your eye moving away from your rifle lens, watching in awe as he took to battle with another man. While he seemed to hold his own, he appeared distracted, and was buffeted, winded by an almighty hit, knocked onto his back, elbows on the ground.

A strange panic overtook you as your hook-nosed man's assailant bore down on him, power surging, preparing to murder--

-- a gunshot. A brittle, echoing bang. The assailant's head snapped forwards, and he fell, killed instantly, face first on the ground in front of your hook-nosed man.

He panted, his face sprayed with blood. With a few owlish blinks, his eyes tracked upwards. You held your breath, adrenaline coursing through you. As the man stood, eyes fixed on you (in rage? murderous intent? thanks?), you jolted to life and took aim on him.

He did not raise his hands. There was no standoff, as he made no move to save his own life. In the moment that he accepted his death for the attempt he had made on yours, something in you both softened, seeing each other as you saw no others. A gentle impasse. The intimacy of differentiation.

It took everything you had in you to break eye contact, and run.

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Hiromi mulled beneath the shaky warning of your rifle.

You were afraid, he thought as he gazed up at you, so sickeningly grateful for having been chosen by you. The mist of his opponent's blood drifting through the sunrise, picked Hiromi out as somehow preferable, in your mind.

And, why should you not be afraid? He saw you beneath him, again, your eyes soft and begging him for mercy. You had been defenceless and entirely in his palm. He had been relieved, he recalled, that he could kill someone easily. The begging made you passive. Hiromi could have vomitted, sickened by himself.

He stood, arms raised slightly to his sides, his profile illuminated by sweet morning sun, waiting for death to take his hand.

Hiromi felt embraced by your eyes. Wanted. Some companionship, in death...until you refused him his end. The red string between you both seemed to snap as you broke eye contact and ran.

Alone, as the sun broke above the skyline, Hiromi whispered; "Thank you."

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There was no way out. Starving and desperate, days had passed since you had saved your hook-nosed man, and you had crept through haunted streets to a convenience store, unusually well-stocked with food and drink.

You bit your tongue for your own stupidity at having walked into such an obvious trap. No amount of being able to hide one's Cursed energy could compensate for being seen walking into the shop. Crouching now, behind shelves of ramen, tears trembled on your lashes, an aching lump in your throat.

You heard a mocking voice, cooing at you, laughing at you, and you blushed with indignant tearful injustice, not needing language to know when you were being assaulted for your sex. You were afraid of death. You were more afraid of being used beforehand.

With nowhere to hide, and no grit to throw, you tipped your head back and thought of those black embering eyes, holding you in his gaze.

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"Are you hungry?" The voice chirped, teasing, mean, "Come out, baby. I've got something here in my pocket you can taste." A filthy laugh. Slow, easy footsteps. Willing to rape you before he killed you. Hiromi felt himself burn with fury, ready to wring this man's neck with his own two hands.

Hiromi walked the streets easily, now. His power had come on in leaps and bounds, and he both trusted in his own abilities, and feared nothing of death. Not since you had held his life in your hands, and thrown it straight back in his face.

He was a disordered eater at the best of times, but, a sudden faintness from hunger sent him seeking food. Hiromi knew some dirty little spider had built a web at an abandoned store, and did not fear a man who sought to ensnare the desperate.

Let him try me, thought Hiromi as he approached, lit by the sickly orange glow of streetlights, and see where it gets him.

Just a few steps from the entrance, Hiromi paused mid-step, his heart hiccuping in his chest. It was you. Inside the store, your Cursed energy faltering and so overwhelmed by that of the spider. Hiromi's lips parted, to call for you, a hand in the dark. He stopped, gritting his teeth. No-- this would not do, he thought, as he began a hunt of his own.

The spider was so obviously distracted by excitement, thrilled to find a woman in his dirty little trap. He had found you, by the time Hiromi reached you, in time to see you flung, body smashing against the counter, curling and coughing. Hiromi stepped behind the spider, seething, overburdened with terrible strength.

You had looked up in time to see your hook-nosed man wind an arm round your assailant's neck, throttling him, dragging him backwards out of the store. The hook-nosed man's face was twisted, ugly with rage...and for what? For you?

If your Cursed-energy had been no match for that of your assailant, his was dwarfed by that of your rescuer. Still coughing, doubled over on your hands and knees, you crawled to the entrance, watching the streetlights flicker above your hook-nosed man as he choked the life out of your assailant, merciless in his conviction.

You knelt there, drinking in his profile, in that sickly orange glow. His sharply squared jaw. His black overcoat, shrouding him like Death itself. Panting and cursing as his arms shook, your assailant fighting weakly beneath him. Choking the life out of a man, a murder most intimate. For you. Killing, with his bare hands-- for you.

Time hung in suspended animation in these small hours. Your rescuer sighed, the tension releasing from his shoulders as he knelt back on his haunches. He appeared devoid of guilt, at having carried out his sentencing. Slowly, as if fearful of what he would see in your eyes, he turned to you, kneeling in the doorway of the shop.

Your eyes met. You studied each other in silence. He had a way of making you transparent. You had a way of making him exposed. His panting slowed, palms flush to his thighs, offering you a cautious smile, as your eyes glimmered in the dark.

"English," he spoke, by way of greeting.

"Nose," you returned. He frowned, uncertain.

"N..?"

You reached up to stroke your nose, and repeated, with a smile; "Nose."

His hand reached up to mirror yours, realising, and he burst into laughter, rich and genuine. You blushed, burying your face in your hands as he continued to laugh. He wiped his eyes, fingering the hook in his nose again, looking at you with those deep embering eyes that wholly undressed you.

"Nose," he repeated, chuckling, "Subarashī." Your bit your lip in mirth, looking anywhere but at him as he tried to catch your eye again, mischief twinkling in his.

Hiromi stood, stretching his shoulders back with a husky groan, tipping his neck from side to side. He stepped over to you, and you felt, ridiculously, so teenagerish as the odd duality of your hook-nosed man made your belly twist. You saw a long-fingered hand enter your line of sight. You looked at it questioningly. The fingers wiggled in invitation.

With a shaking hand, you took his. He pulled you up and smiled at you, swinging your hand briefly in his before releasing it, waiting for you to step into the shop before he followed. You browsed for food, as if Saturday-Night-Snack-Hunting as a couple, in safe silence.

Shivering as the adrenaline wore off, your stomach clenched with terrified nausea to hear explosions, shouts, drawing ever nearer in the street outside. Your hook-nosed man looked up, hangdog eyes wide, flicking from you, to the street, and back again. He gritted his teeth, bundling packets of food into the pockets of his overcoat.

You found yourself manhandled, his heavy coat suddenly on you. Your rescuer's hands moved deftly, smoothing the coat across your shoulders, searching for words, irritated by his intelligence in one language and his stupidity in another.

"Cold-- hungry-- go," Hiromi pressed in broken English, spinning you as you protested, urging you through the back door. You turned in the doorway, your eyes begging him to...what? To go with you? There was no time, no time--

Hiromi materialised his gavel, and crouched, snarling at you: "GO!" He roared, steeped in regret as you sprinted away, guarding your life like a child.

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Your hook-nosed man began to leave you breadcrumbs; tickets to safe havens, food, shelter, beds. You felt the vestiges of his Cursed-energy wherever you followed his trail, haunted by the path of devastation he left to build you sanctuaries.

Your dialogue budded, and combined with his notes and signs, you began to learn more about him. His notes, secreted away in scrawled English, street signs flipped to point in alternate directions, and crude maps drawn on dust-caked windows, all added colour and life to him.

Hiromi took a little joy, his cold heart popping to life, at the little hearts you drew in the dust; signs of acknowledgement, a tiny thrill.

You found yourself drawn to a bookstore, and scoured the shelves, looking for a particular something, a matching pair. You found hints of him in the pockets of the hook-nosed man's overcoat; a business card, in Japanese. A handkerchief, curiously embroidered with two gold initials-- H.H. A set of housekeys with a key-finder fob. A pair of chewed pens. You still thought of him as "Nose".

Hiromi still thought of you as "English", as he caught himself differentiating you from the others. Still steeped in this depression, this black-dog-misery and ugliness, he saw you, a light in the dark, who hid yourself to protect yourself as well as others, from needless violence.

They were all ugly...except, perhaps, for you.

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You sighed as you slipped into the hot bath, water up to your chin in the great, deep basin of this luxury hotel. You were impressed there was still a hot water supply, and you felt a gleeful coil of naughtiness, knowing you would never usually be able to afford to stay in such opulence, all marble tiles and gold taps.

Fighting for survival did not negate the fundamental craving for little joys, and you took advantage of the selection of complimentary soaps, scouring yourself free of grime with happy hums. You sang to yourself, quiet in the evening hush, just you and your languid splishing--

-- oh. A cautious approach. A familiar power. You clasped the lip of the bath, sinking your body under the water.

"...hello? Nose?" You called out. You heard the click of a lock, quick feet stepping in, locking the door behind him. A single held breath.

"...English?"

You blushed, pressing your lips to your knuckles, white from how tightly you gripped the bath. Hiromi's cheeks prickled faintly, hearing soft splashes from the bathroom, seeing your clothes discarded over the bed, your rifle leaning against it. You cleared your throat, wanting to talk, not knowing where to start.

"Mhm." Hiromi smiled at your little squeak, sitting with a groan and creaking knees, his back against the wall beside the bathroom door. Separated by this thin wall, he reached a hand around the doorway behind him. You giggled to see his long fingered hand offer you a jaunty wave.

"Konbanwa, English," he offered. He jolted to feel your little hand, warm and wet, squeeze his. His thumb grazed over your knuckles, smooth, examining, probing in a way that made your belly tight. You reluctantly released his fingers, humming in thought as you reached out of the bath into your backpack, searching for something.

Momentarily, Hiromi felt something gently tap the side of his head around the bathroom door, and he giggled, a noise which made you paddle your feet in delight. He reached up, taking a Japanese-English dictionary and phrasebook from your hand.

"Ahhhhh!" Hiromi hummed, genuinely thrilled, "Yoi aidea." He skimmed through the book, hunting again, and you paused, listening.

"Good idea!" He stated, confident, and he squirmed to hear you laugh at his janky pronunciation. Hiromi wanted so dearly to see you, to know you were uninjured, and instead scoured his little book again.

"Hurt?" He asked you. You softened, responding automatically.

"Ah...no, I'm...hmm," you flipped through your own book, "...uhm...daijōbu desu?"

Hiromi hummed, satisfied. You talked this way, for some time, gently brushing the outskirts of each others' language and personality. Hiromi corrected you. You corrected him. The bath grew cold. The light began to die behind the windows, casting you both in deep shadow and amber glow.

At some point, in the conversation, your hands had trailed together again. Hiromi now leaned sideways against the wall, his cheek pressed against it, eyes closed as his fingertips grazed the inside of your wrist.

You lay in the bath, shivering, feeling your heartbeat between your legs from such an innocent, intimate touch-- except, it did not feel innocent in intent. Perhaps, that was what made you squirm.

"Stay safe," Hiromi whispered to you, his fingers drawing circles on your palm, his next word crumpling your face with barely restrained tears, "Afraid."

Hiromi bit his lip in anguish, eyes squeezed shut to see you in his mind's eye, so desperately touch-starved as you pressed a kiss to his palm. He felt your lips remain, nose ghosting against his pulse. He imagined those lips on his own, and he was filled with an anxious need to taste you, to lift you from the bath, wrap you up in the bed and his arms, safe.

Fully distracted by thoughts of you and your sweet cries beneath his body, Hiromi almost missed you holding out your book to him, pressed open at the start-- and a name, your name, written neatly on the page. You offered this, all the while wanting to step to him from the bath, and offer him the feel of those clever fingers, examining the rest of your body.

"Oh..." Hiromi whispered, reverent, squeezing your hand as he swiped his thumb over the faint imprint of your written name, repeating it aloud slowly. Hearing him speak your name, almost had you climbing out of the bath and into his lap. You closed your eyes, imagining him crying it out as he peaked, buried deeply inside you. You burned with the urgent need to know him.

Just a few seconds later, Hiromi's hand reached round the corner, offering his own book back to you, with his own name written in your own alphabet, jolted and square.

"Higuruma...Hiromi?" He hummed, happily.

"Hiromi," you repeated, and he hummed again, delighted by your name on his lips. You tucked your dictionary away, thrilled, reaching for a towel.

"It suits you. I love it." Hiromi understood just one word you had uttered, and it sent joy creeping down his spine. He pressed his forehead against the wall.

Pull yourself together, Hiromi, he thought, it's just loneliness and desperation. Nothing else. No amount of logic and self-chastisement stopped his mouth from moving independently of his mind, as he flicked through your dictionary, imbued with your name.

"Bed. Stay. Please." Silence. Hiromi pressed the corner of the dictionary to his head, cursing himself under his breath. Idiot, pathetic little moron, stupid--

"Yes."

Hiromi's stomach swooped, missing a step, hearing you climb out of the bath. You steeled yourself, blushing furiously, to wrap a towel around yourself and pad out to the bedroom. Hiromi turned his back to you, but not before seeing the graceful curve of your leg, the wet cleavage of your breasts, the towel barely skimming the tops of your thighs. He breathed slowly, clawing back his self-control as you dressed behind him.

A long, slow whistle, belonging to neither of you, broke the silence, and your blood ran with ice water.

Voices spoke, Hiromi spitting threats, in this language that still gatekept against your understanding.

You jacked sideways, still topless, seizing your rifle as Hiromi demolished the doorway with a single wide swing of his gavel. You heard laughter from the corridor, and you hurriedly pulled your top and Hiromi's overcoat on, fixing your rifle on your shoulder to take aim.

Hiromi backed up to you, wrapping one arm behind himself and around you, fingers splayed against the small of your back. You understood none of the venom spat between Hiromi and this hidden assailant.

Your nerves on a knife-edge, you sensed movement behind the shattered brickwork of the doorway, and fired, a deafening blow in this enclosed space. A spray of blood and an enraged shout through the drifting plaster-cloud saw you hit your mark, and Hiromi exclaimed, shocked and delighted, squeezing your waist.

"I've seen better shots than that from her, bastard" Hiromi warned, "and if you think she's easy prey, you've got both of us to take down."

"Hiromi," you gasped, hyperventilating, "Hiromi-- Hiromi--"

Silence through the room; Hiromi's ears rang. He pocketed your dictionary, and grasped your cheeks, eyes fixed to yours and wordlessly reassuring you as he turned you towards him from the doorway. You felt your heart bounding in your chest, hands loosening on your rifle as you drank him in, breathed the same air, panting, together--

--it was all too fast. Hiromi's eyes fixing behind you. His panicked shout. Being thrown sideways onto the bed, a glassy smash, a scream that may have been your own--

Hiromi and your hunter plummeted in an outward spray of glass, two inky blots fading into the night.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

You had searched so desperately. Nothing could assure you Hiromi was still alive. There were no breadcrumbs left in the dust; nil but blood, and so much of it, beneath the shattered hotel window, so many stories up.

You had run your hands through it, clotted with the rubble, needing to feel him within the grisly spill-- alas. Too many residuals passed over this land. Too many battles fought, too many lives spent and saved, for clairvoyance to be what repaired your fractured heart.

You steeled yourself. Adversity goaded you to try harder. To do better. You took to the hunt yourself. You amassed points from potshots, hidden in curious places to execute nasty little opportunists who sought dominion over the weak.

While you had had no experience of the Kogane-- the odd, winged shikigami which acted as an interface between the players and the game-- in your passive state, they now became regular visitors, updating you of your points total. You had assumed they could not speak your language-- you were wrong.

Witnessing, from afar, one day, another player asking Kogane a question, your stomach rolled with nausea and hope as you called the black-tailed beast to you.

"Kogane?" The creature appeared with a pop. Your mouth opened, and closed, faltering over your words.

"Kogane, is-- is Hiromi Higuruma a player in the game?"

Silence-- and an answer; "Higuruma Hiromi is a player in the game--"

All of the air left your lungs in an enormous gasp, a heaving cry of relief as you doubled over, your hands cupped over your mouth and nose, tears streaming down around your fingers, before the Kogane had even finished giving its report.

"Thank you-- th--thank you, Kogane," you sobbed, blinded by your own tears. This tiny demon, to whom manners meant nothing, hung impassively. It disappeared with a pop as you spun away, cloaked with conviction.

You turned on a pinhead, cocking your rifle ready, and stalked off through the ruins; all of your steeling wisped away like ashes, your heart on the battlefield, knowing your vulnerability was out there, alive.

You decided now, with a smile at the thought of those beetle-black eyes, to hunt not for business, but for pleasure.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Hiromi felt the damp all the way to his bones, in these heavy, wet clothes, made heavier still by the excruciating weight of his crimes. The theatre door swung closed behind him, and he leaned his back against the wall, crouching, the palms of his heels pressing so hard into his eyes that he was blinded by lights.

He had fallen beyond salvation, and it gnawed at the rotten wood of him, eating him alive. Feeling his brain judder, his tie too tight, the walls too close, the silence too deafening, Hiromi tried to collect himself. He pressed his palms to his thighs and breathed; in through his nose one two three four five and out through his mouth one two three four five.

Feeling his heart rate slow, full of equal parts light and dark, Hiromi called out into the gloom, straightening slowly.

"Kogane." The creature appeared with a pop, waiting, patient. Hiromi spoke your name, and then, hesitant--

"...is she a player in the game?" A heartbeat. Two. Three.

"Confirmed--"

Hiromi did not hear the rest, buckling to his haunches with a primal cry of gratitude, and a few moments of dry sobs as his fingers raked through his hair. Chest heaving, he breathed again, one two three four five, one two three four five.

In the space taken for one breath, Hiromi decided not to find you. You, who had always chosen not to fight. You, whose pleading eyes still haunted him. You could not be sullied by his rot.

Hiromi stepped out into the night, a porcelain man checkered with cracks, seeking only to rebuild a world worthy of you.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

He's here.

Climbing the stairs, fine piano music rang distant, its notes bittersweet, cherries in kirsch. Your feet carried you unbidden and you ascended, the notes becoming sweeter, feeling him, closer, playing this Siren's song.

Stepping into the doorway of the skyline bar, he must have felt your approach. The lights were low, refracted through a hundred hanging glasses, a hundred under-lit bottles of vim and vigour. The room sprawled out in an expansive, long C-shape, and your heart stuttered to see Hiromi at the end, pale fingers moving across the piano, white-shirt-shoulders burdened by the weight of his song.

You felt him build in the music as you approached, each note demanding more of him, and more and more and more and more--

There was only the briefest hitch in the music, barely perceptible, as you slid onto the bench beside Hiromi. He did not look up, his mouth set in a grim line, his eyes pressed tightly shut.

Consumed by the need to feel his skin on yours, you reached out, your hand ghosting over his. In a flash, Hiromi's hand darted up to grab yours, fingers tangled, as his other hand continued to move, playing this bisected song. A few moments passed, this way, with Hiromi pressing his lips and nose to your knuckles, his face contorted, conflicted-- pained.

"Go," he whispered, breath fanning over your hand, "bad."

"I...I don't--...bad?" You turned towards him, to hold him, and he jerked, twitching away from you, and you felt your heart tug along with him.

"No. Me. I...am bad." You shook your head, more and more fervent as Hiromi twisted away from you, quietly cursing, husky, tortured. He tried to release your hand, and you refused, plaiting your fingers in his, steadfast in a way that filled him with an animalistic urge to appreciate you.

You turned from him, your other hand resting upon the high keys, pressing gentle, uncertain notes. Overwhelmed by your closeness, and your insistent faith in him, Hiromi softened to watch your profile, backlit from the liquid glow of the bar. Your small hand, moving softly over the keys. Your heart beating like butterfly wings in your throat.

"No. Not bad. Lost. Lonely. Sabishī."

Every moment of belief you handed him, pulled Hiromi closer to the light. Swallowing thickly, he brought your joined hands to the keys, laying his palm over the back of yours, overlaying your fingers with his own. He pressed, soft insistent touches, on your fingers, guiding them to play. You felt your belly coil with odd pleasure, captivated by Hiromi's hands, all at once gentle and rough, smart and instinctual--

"Hiromi--"

"No. Stop." Hiromi tensed, his voice rough, fraying alongside his self-control. His hand shook over your own, the notes stopping now. Heat burst through you, certain he felt it too, this dangerous need, and his name forced its way out of you again, a challenge.

"Hiro--"

Hiromi spat venom again, growling and cursing as he stood, lifting you by the waist, sitting you upon the keys with a spray of notes, his arms shaking as they pressed beside you, trapping you in. Nose to nose, his breath on your lips, his face twisted with fury and need, Hiromi whispered to you.

"Stop. My name--" Hiromi shook, on his last thread, half a step away from using you--

When your hand snaked to his tie, tugging him closer, your other hand sinking into the back of his hair, Hiromi snapped.

His lips pressed to yours, hot and hungry, his body closing the rest of the distance to be flush between your thighs. Your mouth opened to him, feeling his urgency as he drank down your stolen breath, one hand tilting your head back to consume you, the other dragging through the plush rolls of your belly and hips.

Every kiss was hot and anguished, punctuated by Hiromi's low rolling voice, not needing language to feel the fervour and vice on his lips-- "--won't be gentle-- I'm sorry I-- I can't--"

You insisted your understanding on him the only way you knew how; fingers working his tie off and draping it round your own neck, locking your legs around him to press his aching cock against your core, undoing his shirt in a desperate flurry, all notes and fingers and tongues and moans.

You tasted rum in his mouth, all spice and brown sugar, and his hand wandered to your throat, feeling your pulse there before tilting you backwards, arched against the hood of the piano. With your head rested back, he spoke to you, shirt now unbuttoned to his navel, cock straining against the material below a trail of black hair.

"--making a mistake to let a monster put his mouth on you, English-- let's see what sounds you can make." Your khaki t-shirt was pulled off over your head, where Hiromi let it catch around your hands, twisting it to bind you. Hiromi kept you gripped this way, leaning over you, caging you in as he gripped the cups of your bra between his teeth, yanking them down to free your breasts.

Hiromi shuddered and moaned, feeling a drop of pre-cum soak into his boxers, as he flattened his tongue over your nipple, rolling, tasting, pulling you between his lips, nuzzling from side to side like an animal. You mewled, jutting your hips involuntarily, and Hiromi pressed back, pleasuring you with rough, sharp thrusts against your clothed pussy.

Hiromi leaned back, releasing your nipple with a hard suck, gazing down at where he fucked himself against you, mesmerised by the way you shivered and humped against his cock. Unabashed, his words falling over you like strange-eyed constellations, Hiromi fucked you with his voice--

"--cum like this, and I'll give you my fingers...cum like that, and I'll give you my tongue-- fuck, I'll eat you alive, you fucking goddess--"

As Hiromi spoke, all twisted rage and growls, his hips slammed into you, spurred on by your squeaks and whimpers, gripping the fat of your hips to ram your core against him. The pleasure was brutal, all harsh fabric friction and Hiromi's unrestrained adoration, and you tried to hold yourself together as you were dragged to orgasm, your frantic hands pressing disjointed chords on the keys beneath you.

Hiromi wanted to, needed to cum like this, with you, knowing he'd be able to continue fucking you after until he collapsed in your arms from exhaustion. Pausing only briefly to reach into his boxers, and angle his angry, throbbing cock upwards so the bulbous tip pressed between his waistband and belly, Hiromi's eyes rolled back in unadulterated ecstasy as he continued to fuck you against him.

You were both close, having been unfinished even by yourselves for weeks, and Hiromi's eyes burned into yours, feral with the need for you to finish with him, feeling your thighs tense around him as you babbled, fully understanding your meaning behind the nonsense--

"--gonna cum-- please-- Hiromi-- harder--"

You pressed back against the piano, arching with a high-pitched cry as hot pleasure burst through you, from your deeply aching clit outwards, crackling through your fingers, all white-hot sparks and embers. Watching you convulse against him, angling his hips to rut his trapped cock tip, feeling his thighs and belly set alight with the force of his orgasm, his hands planted either side of you, back twitching as he came with a bark.

Still riding the last waves of your orgasm, you watched him in fascination. The sight of Hiromi's cum spurting in long, white ropes onto his navel and yours, his agonised, fractured gasps, had you humping against the underside of his cock again, dragging out your peak to hear him whimper, cock twitching against your core. Your hand drifted to his belly, stroking the cum between your fingertips in a blissful haze, squeezing a thumb under the foreskin of his exposed cockhead, stroking his slit with his own lubrication.

Hiromi convulsed and growled at you, clasping your hand against him, dopey and shaking as you drank his reaction from his eyes, thumb still circling his cockhead, slippery with his seed.

"St--st--aaaaahhh..." You shushed Hiromi's weak cries, grazing your tongue over his lips, delighted as he twitched in your hand, weak little spurts of cum oozing onto your fingers. Hiromi let you continue like this, for a few seconds, before wrenching your hand away, plaiting your fingers into his own and nuzzling into you furiously. His heart leapt to hear you giggle as he bit into you, still to desperate, everything still not enough to take away this pain and this filth and this misery--

His other hand wandered down, stroking down the rolls of your belly, pinching, nails grazing, digging in all the way to your belt, undoing it with military efficiency. Not bothering to undo the button, he yanked down the zip instead, giving him enough room to manoeuvre his hand between your skin and the fabric, shucking your underwear aside to cup the wet heat of your pussy in one long hand.

Dipping his hand out to collect the cum off your belly, he thrust his hand back inside against your pussy again, teeth gritted and bared as he drank down your reactions now. He was satisfied to see the playful glint in your eyes flicker, your eyebrows raised in shock and overstimulation, teeth sinking into your lip as he rubbed your clit roughly, cum-sticky fingers rubbing broad strokes side to side across it.

"--two can play at that game, sweetheart...feels good? More? Harder?" Hiromi pressed you, in these words you didn't understand, and laughed, darkly satisfied as you wiggled beneath his hands, one hand resting lightly on your throat as you tried in vain to scoot away from him, your breath releasing in airy whimpers.

"No answer?" Hiromi moved his fingers faster, harder, your pussy squelching with your mixed cum inside your trousers, feeling you writhe beneath them, "I'll decide for you then."

Hiromi urged your orgasm to build, faster and harder this time, teeth gritted as he dragged you to the edge, growling into you as his tongue flicked roughly over your nipple--

"--come on-- know you can do it-- I'll go as hard as you like, come on, good girl--ah, there-- good girrrrllll..." Hiromi softened his movements, fingers undulating against your pussy as he pulled another orgasm from you, moving one finger from your throat to dip into your mouth, shuddering as you sucked it around your cries and whimpers.

Hiromi felt his cock beginning to stir to life again, and he committed you to memory like this, draped over the piano, wet breasts heaving, his seed dripping down your belly, eyes glazed, body supple.

Another word, that he did know in English, slipped from him, as he dropped to his knees before you, worshiping at this otherworldly alter in the moonlight; "Beautiful."

You blushed, voice catching in your throat as Hiromi smiled up at you, soft and captive in his sincerity as he unbuttoned your trousers, easing them, with your underwear, gently to your ankles, and off. Feeling suddenly so exposed, so flawed, you squeezed your eyes shut. You felt Hiromi grip your ankle with such tenderness, pressing a long, languid kiss to the delicate bones on the inside.

"English," Hiromi called, beckoning you back to him. You shook your head, blushing, eyes still closed, and he insisted. "English, please--" your eyes opened, uncertain, and Hiromi hummed in satisfaction as he began to kiss his way up your inner legs, "--beautiful."

Sighing and leaning back, one arm over your eyes, your heart bursting with the oddity of having fallen in love like this, you felt safe behind your language barrier as you spoke without a filter; "Oh, Nose. I love you. I really do."

Hiromi paused, stunned and ecstatic, his lips still on your inner thigh. He shocked you both, at how quickly his grasp of your language had come along; "And I love you, English." Hiromi chuckled with genuine glee as you clapped your hands over your face, mortified. Hiromi nuzzled into you, wickedly playful, but soon overtaken by this violent urge again--

"And...I love--" you squealed as you felt Hiromi force your thighs apart, sinking his tongue and nose quickly between your folds, groaning as he tasted the heady mix of his and your cum around your clit. His cock, almost fully hard again, throbbed, tightening his waistband as the blood rushed to it again. Hiromi reached down, releasing his cock with a sigh.

He took his time, lifting your thighs over his shoulders as he lapped at you, dipping his tongue into your entrance, tasting you, teasing you. You leaned, watching him again, and he looked up at you, hooded eyes burning as he nuzzled his nose against your clit, and held his own cock in his hand, stroking slowly. You felt jolts of voyeuristic pleasure, watching him masturbate himself to the taste of you.

"I...I like that," you whispered to him, your hand moving down to graze your nails against his scalp. You watched Hiromi like pornography as he shuddered, his cock leaping in his hand, your eyes fixed intently on his hand gliding up and down his length as you felt your pleasure beginning to crescendo yet again.

"More, I--" you moved your hand in the air as if you were the one stroking Hiromi's cock, mimicking faster movements, "--faster, Hiromi." Hiromi hummed in understanding, groaning sandy little groans into your pussy now as his hand sped up, jacking himself off harder, feeling your pussy clench around nothing beneath his tongue as you watched him, your keening cries getting higher and higher until--

-- you came again, trembling with the fluttering soft pleasure of your third orgasm, thighs clamping around Hiromi's head as he sucked your clit gently between his lips. Hiromi panted, gripping the base of his cock, delaying his high, fingers wet with more pre-cum, desperate to drag you to the floor and finish using you.

Pulling his mouth away, his hands trembling on your thighs, Hiromi's face was unreadable as he looked at the floor. Standing, dishevelled and sweating, looking up at you with feral hunger, his cock still twitching in his hand, you could see the barest vestiges of Hiromi pleading you for permission, with those exquisite dark eyes--

All it took from you was a nod. Hiromi pounced, wiry arms deceptively strong as he lifted you, legs locked around his waist, nose nuzzling against yours, teeth nipping your lips with a rumble. Hiromi whispered his mother tongue against your mouth, reaching out one hand for his overcoat, and tossing it into the floor, before laying you on your front, sinking his teeth into your shoulder blade with bruising force.

"--you're beautiful, and you're good, and I don't deserve you-- fuck, I need you now, I--I need--"

Hiromi panted above you, barely restraining himself from slamming into you immediately as he looped an arm round your neck and chest, pulling you up and forcing your back to arch. Ghosting his nose over your ear, he whispered your name, making you shiver and squirm, certain you'd break unless you felt him inside you soon.

"Ready, English?" You trembled, nodding, head tipped back as his cock grazed against your slippery folds. One hand cupped your arse, stroking softly, before slapping, Hiromi captivated by its plush jiggle against his fingers, how you cried out, how your skin flushed so deliciously.

Not holding back, Hiromi slammed into you, one forearm planted to the floor while the other restrained you against him, cupping your breasts in one squeezing hand. He shook, cursing, his teeth in your shoulder, as he felt the tip of his cock kiss your gummy walls, feeling your pussy clench around him in shock.

Prone, hands clawing at his overcoat, Hiromi felt enormous inside you, so swollen and plush after waiting to be filled for so long. You whimpered, resting your head sideways against his clutching bicep, feeling the muscle tense and jump as he rammed into you at a relentless pace, still speaking husky reassurances to you in his native tongue.

"--rest, just-- keep still and let me hold you, I-- I can't slow down anymore--"

Feeling simultaneously used and protected, caged in like this for him to chase his own pleasure, your breath came in ragged gasps, both hands now clutching the forearm across your neck and chest, head swimming with the instinctively blissful fullness of his cock, tightly sleeved within you. You felt your belly jolt from the force of Hiromi's thrusts, and pressed up towards him, proud to hear him moan in response.

Hiromi fucked you with abandon, needing this release, needing to shed his sin and worthlessness, his heart leaping to feel you fall apart beneath him. His hips began to stutter, strength abandoning him as his orgasm approached, moaning deep breaking moans in your ear, nipping, holding your neck in his teeth.

His legs buckling beneath him, Hiromi cried out in bliss, his arm shaking around you, hips flush against your arse, cock twitching long, hot spurts of cum inside your walls, feeling you pulse around him, sucking him in. You revelled in the glorious feeling of him twitching deep inside you, your belly hot and clenching as his seed seeped out between your clenched thighs. Hiromi lay above you, panting, pressing soft kisses into your hair, using his arm to roll you sideways with him, covering you both with his overcoat.

With his arm beneath your head, the other lazily stroking the curve of your waist and hips, Hiromi laughed lazily behind you.

"You love me, English, hmm?" Hiromi laughed again as you clapped your hands to your face.

"Stop, Hiromi, stop--" you cried, blushing all the way to your toes as he squeezed you closer, "-- or I will shoot you." Hiromi lifted his head, peering mulishly at you, one eyebrow raised. You scowled, pointing to your gun, and then at him, and he gasped in mock horror.

"Ara ara," he rumbled, teasing you in alien words, "so violent when you're meant to be happy."

You remembered these sweet small hours the most, after the horrors that came. You remembered lying in each others' arms, sticky and teasing. You remembered sneaking to the bathrooms, splashing each other at the sinks as you cleaned up as best as you could. You remembered laughing as Hiromi cursed, trying to clean the residual cum off your clothes. You remembered Hiromi calling for you, afraid, anxious, before you ducked back up from behind the bar, your arms full of snacks and drinks. You remembered lying beneath the piano, gazing out across the city, flicking peanuts at each other, sharing slow, lazy kisses. You remembered naively seeing a future between you, a happy life with none of this unthinkable chaos.

It was your fault, you cursed yourself, vomiting and wracked with sobs, staggering away from the devastation. If you had been able to develop your power, and pose a real threat, Hiromi wouldn't have been burdened with such a liability.

Lost in each other again, nose to nose beneath the piano, your instincts had kicked in just fast enough to kick Hiromi away, saving his life as the floor between you both split with dreadful electricity. A strange-haired, wild-eyed boy burst through the room on a voltage, bottles smashing, the floor splitting, your rifle disappearing into the chasm as Hiromi shouted for you, urging you, ordering you-- you were sure, to move, to run, to save yourself and leave him.

You could do none of them, your military training meaning nothing to this god. You could do nothing when Hiromi stepped into his path, defending you, fighting tooth and nail. You could do nothing as the floors split beneath him, dragging them down in lightning flashes, horrifying rumbles. You had fled from the collapse, leaping flights of stairs one at a time, possessed by some strange force. You had not felt Hiromi again. Powerful though he was, you could not see how he could walk out of such a fight alive.

Putting all the dregs of your energy into hiding, refusing to let Hiromi's sacrifice be in vain, you cried yourself to sleep, nose in Hiromi's overcoat, his cum still cooling between your thighs.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Each day merged into the next. Time had lost meaning. While you had the urge to fight before loving Hiromi, to have loved and lost him broke you and the future you may have had. The battleground was no place for someone such as yourself now. You cursed the injustice of it all.

Cold, dirty and exhausted, your head rested sideways against an industrial bin, praying the rain would wipe your soul clean.

You had translated his business card, with your little dictionary--

Lawyer. Higuruma Hiromi, Criminal Defence Lawyer.

Knowing this detail of his life, a sweet overlay of understanding dawned upon you, his character suddenly so understandable, his anguish shooting through you like knives, and all too late, too late--

"...English?"

Your head jerked up, to the end of the alleyway. Silhouetted, dripping in the rain, bleeding and bruised but impossibly alive--

Your face crumpled, pressed into your wet sleeves, shaking. Slow splashing footsteps approached you, Hiromi kneeling in front of you, a hand coming out to graze through your hair.

He opened your dictionary, dusty and bloodstained, before flicking to a dog-eared page;

"Found you."

[hadesoftheladies]

queer theory is actually a nightmarish frankensteinian creation of postmodernism, and post-modernists philosophers have frequently and explicitly been pro-pedophilia, because this is a logical consequence of what post-modernism says is true: there is no (epistemic) certainty or stable meaning.

when my conservative parents tell me they basically associate "lgbtq" with "maps" and pedophilia, they have reason to do so, given how "queer culture" is fundamentally a creation of post-modernist values, and post-modernist estimations of sexuality. everything is fluid, no binary exists, no meaning is fixed, so there are no defining lines, which means lines cannot actually be crossed. homosexuals can be bisexual, man and woman are interchangeable meaningless terms, and attraction to children is just one of the many ways sexual fluidity is expressed in humans, a benign and normal thing that should be released from modernist moralistic confines

that is queer philosophy, and it is actual queer culture. so not only are LGB folk being told they should celebrate the reclamation of an awful slur that explicitly others them as "perverted" and "strange", but now they are told to embrace queer culture (which means queer identity and philosophy) which not only declares their reality as abnormal and unreal (same-sex attraction is myth, since there is no such thing as sex and attraction is fluid), but also defines them explicitly with sexual perversions like pedophilia and bdsm: which IS EXACTLY WHAT HOMOPHOBES BELIEVE ABOUT THEM.

when queer culture is predicated on subjective feelings of identity needing to be validated, celebrated and "set free" from modernist (read definable, material and epistemological) structures, then the distaste for MAPs from queer folk doesn't mean anything, because even if MAPs are publicly rejected by queer culture, they are embraced and validated by queer theory and post-modernist philosophy.

what is doubly baffling to me is how the lgbtq+ community has tainted a movement for gay rights, you know, people who are being killed and ostracized for being same-sex attracted. not only nullifying their experiences and struggle in being same-sex attracted, not only associating their neutral, normal orientations with perversions and kinks, making something neutral political . . .

but they have also actively decentered a movement for homosexuals and bisexuals in order to accommodate identities that have NOTHING to do with that struggle or fight. intersex conditions, gender dysphoria, and asexuality have nothing to do with the oppression LGBs have faced for their sexual orientation and gender nonconformity, their culture of genderlessness. the idea that men and women can wear and present however they want, love and be attracted to the same sex, without it altering their material status.

EVEN MORE INFURIATINGLY, queer politics has offered almost ZERO challenges to patriarchy. by throwing out definitions, throwing out distinctions, it has relegated the essence of oppression to an individualistic, liberal fantasy that is powerless to change the system, and so can only grant us "spicy" patriarchy. dominance and submission, patriarchal inventions, are now cool kinks that every couple should try. gender is now open access (but still necessary), so men can wear heels and still call women slurs and violently harass them. transmen can go by he/him and still be refused abortion access! gay people are gender fetishists, not sinners. nothing has structurally changed, it's just we have cool names now! :)

so now LGB and women all over the fucking world are relegated to this homophobic misogynistic hell whether we turn to the left or right, and when we speak up about it, conservative homophobes and misogynists confuse us with liberal perverts, and liberal homophobes and misogynists conflate us with conservative sadists.

the structure doesn't change. there is no actual progress. like, same-sex right and women's movements all over the world have suffered for this. because white liberal westerners wanted to play around with words and have that count as activism.

i fucking hate queer theory and politics. i fucking hate how rich western whites shit on every human rights movement while capitalizing on them.

[wordsandrobots]

OK, to pull something constructive out of the rant I went on yesterday:

While I am generally lukewarm on newtypes as a concept, I do prefer them to later AU iterations of the idea of an 'ascended' form of humanity. With the Coordinators and the Innovators, the difference is very much placed at a genetic level. An artificial or natural improvement that grants superpowers. This is why my criticism of SEED and 00 is so heavily focused on 'they say eugenics works'. Because they do. Whether knowingly or not, they suppose the perfectability of human beings as a baseline conceit.

Yet that's not how the original newtypes are presented. In Gundam 79, the theory is that by moving into space, people are unlocking greater potential within themselves. This plays into the themes of a younger generation achieving a greater understanding than their predecessors: it's not some inherent biological difference but a change in perspective that mark out this 'new type of humanity'.

And that's much more interesting, as a concept. We see in the original series that the whole White Base crew develops a greater connection over the course of events, such that they can all hear Amuro at the end, and they showcase a variety of minor abilities, nowhere near the ESP of the 'proper' newtypes we see piloting Gundams, but in the same ballpark. The most powerful antagonistic newtypes (Paptimus, Haman) are those who have travelled further out and seen the solar system from a greater remove, their actions and philosophies speaking to the double-edge within this idea. You might gain more insight by voyaging into the dark, but it isolates you from the very humanity you learn to read on a more fundamental level. Judau making that same journey at the end of ZZ is implied to be driven by wanting to understand what drove Haman, so that he can couple that greater perspective to his natural compassion, thus maturing more healthily than those adults who cut themselves off from the possibility of understanding others.

Which goes to the heart of why newtypes work as a metaphor and the genetic-superiority versions stumble, at least in my mind. With newtypes, there is the constant undertone that the 'oldtypes' who perpetuate unjust systems are making an active choice. You can't force the change into becoming a newtype - both Char and the cyber-newtypes prove why attempting to is an ultimately arrogant and destructive act - but you can embrace greater human connection irrespective of whether or not you already feel the stirrings of extra senses. In some respects, having the imagination to see that possibility is the spark that lights the fuse on various people's nascent abilities. Refusing and turning away from this future or trying to control it becomes an act of malice. Because the possibility of doing otherwise always exists. There's no biological barrier between you and them. If we could launch all the politicians into space, perhaps they too would admit the reality that lies above their heads. But they won't get on the rocket.

With Coordinators and Innovators, you either are one or you aren't and it's very obvious which is the case. Newtypes don't have that inbuilt distinction - to begin with. It gets a trifle fuzzy as things progress and expand, as we lose that nice, neat conceit where newtype theory and the reality we are shown don't entirely match. Amuro is earth-born: there never was a hereditary component here. It's not evolution in the sense of escalating levels generational superiority; rather, in the sense of an unfolding pattern. The potential lies in all of us, providing we are open to the right conditions.

I find it funny sometimes, the way Gundam X satirised both this and the later genetics routes in advance by making 'newtype' a thoroughly meaningless label, encompassing random mutation and political ideology. Yet in some ways, this remains a less powerful than the way the concept is treated in Tomino's first three shows.

[unbidden-yidden-deactivated20240]

Someday everything that made you you will be gone. Your people, your tribe, your family - they will all have chosen to go gently into that good night and your genetic descendents will no longer look or act or think like you. You will have no spiritual descendents. Every feature that made your people distinct will have softened into the general pool of humankind, and evened out to become exactly like everyone else. They will have shed the ritual items that made up your daily life and eschewed the traditional words that connected them to thousands of years of wisdom. The tapestry of your religious and cultural life will have been completely unwound into string and repurposed or disposed of to make a new fabric in the image of the masses. Your people will look and sound and act and speak and think like the homogeneous mass of humanity. No longer will your people's language be heard, for there is no need now that we can all communicate freely. The prayers that connected one generation to the next will be discarded in the garbage heap with all the other pesky superstitions. No more will the rituals that sustained generations in exile and preserved at risk of life and limb be a source of comfort and pride. The beauty of the High Holy Days, the music of the psalms, the flavors of foods designed around kashrut, the scent of b'samim after the sacred rest of Shabbat will reside in the genizah alongside every sefer Torah and siddur and set of tefillin.

None of this will be carved out of you. This is not a threat. This is inevitable, because no enlightened person could possibly choose to live like you. Already an anachronism today, your lifestyle will be unthinkable tomorrow. The names and covenant of commandedness will be willingly forgotten, as your descendents bow to the one Truth of the universe, as defined by the secular society of the day. That I imagine this secular wisdom as matching my culture and defining truth as being singular in the same way that I do is totally coincidental and not at all hegemonic. In this future, there will be no need for your silly superstitions and obviously meaningless rituals and quaint efforts to make the world a better place, because it already will be. Your people will no longer identifiably exist, and that will be right and good and the best possible outcome for everyone. Again, this is definitely not a threat. Your descendents will finally see the light of Logic and Reason and willingly become one with the world. They will have saved themselves from the barbaric practices of a Bronze Age religion and have no need for any such relics. They will shake off the yoke of Torah like raindrops and emerge into the glorious future indistinguishable from the nations. And in so doing, will have accomplished what 2500 years of war and bloodshed and imperialism and exile and pogroms and genocide have not yet achieved: the Jews will willingly surrender their Jewishness, quietly and unceremoniously, as they become enlightened. Remember, this is not a threat. This is simply progress. And inevitable.

[transmutationisms]

these tags annoyed me to be honest

1. PCOS is a bad point of comparison because despite the name, diagnosis is not *supposed to be* done on the primary basis of finding cysts in the ovaries; these are common and not inherently of concern. instead, the more indicative biomarker is the hormone test (high levels of testosterone *throughout the menstrual period*, with corresponding disruption to the expected/typical fluctuations in estrogen/progesterone) but often diagnosis is done more on the basis of a physical exam ('exam') confirming characteristics such as hairiness or adiposity. this absolutely DOES result in PCOS overdiagnosis for some demographics; while a real biological condition, PCOS is also a load-bearing diagnostic term in the enforcement of very specific standards of (white) femininity and its use also frequently masks, for example, the frequency of hypothalamic amenorrhea (HA) secondary to chronic energy deficiency (as in anorexia), which doctors are loathe to diagnose because they view weight loss as prima facie good

2. the reason it matters that psychiatric diagnoses do not have a 'biology' is not because every disease must have a single specific biomarker; it is correct that some do not. however, the way patient complaints are sifted into categories labelled 'psychiatric' versus '(otherwise) medical' begins essentially with determining whether the distress is 'physical' or 'mental'. in other words, in the case of, say, the chronic fatigue syndrome (famously, lacking a known specific biomarker), the symptoms being investigated by the non-psychiatrist physician are still physical (PEM; mast cell dysregulation; pain; etc) whereas a diagnosis of depression may be accompanied by, but requires no, physical symptoms or presentation. the psychiatric claim that its diagnoses have biological causes and correlates is specifically a claim about the role of neurobiology in the causation of affective states; thus, the comparison to physical complaints is meaningless here

3. this person goes on to claim that depressives do in fact share, though not universally, certain biomarkers such as mitochondrial dysregulations. such claims typically come from various imaging studies plagued with systemic problems in the selection and definition of patient populations as well as the subjectivity of result interpretation and analysis. these claims are not well supported and typically rely on circular selection and definition of patient populations

4. speaking philosophically, it is in fact often correct to challenge the notion that a physical 'disease' chronically lacking a specific biomarker is indeed a disease, in any sense besides the colloquial one. that is, diseases that cannot be correlated with one cause or presentation are often better understood as 'syndromes', which is to say, as a taxonomical heuristic that is likely grouping together multiple disparate physical (anatomical, physiological, functional, &c) problems with multiple disparate causes. this is almost certainly the case for chronic fatigue syndrome, for example. this is a philosophical distinction that matters for research and understanding, and does not mean or imply anything to minimise or contradict the patient experience of the syndrome or symptoms. it matters because, for instance, CFS triggered by the epstein-barr virus may indeed turn out to have different disease mechanisms to CFS triggered by, say, covid-19, or may have different specific mechanisms when running in certain families, and so on. distinguishing these much more specific presentations, and possibly distinct diseases, from the current discursive schema of the overlying syndrome is potentially very good for patients, who likely have different needs and treatments to one another despite currently all sharing the same label in their charts

5. which goes back to an overlying point, which is that (despite frequent defensiveness to the contrary), whether or not something is a disease does not inherently tell us anything about its reality, its severity, its cause, the moral status of its sufferers, &c

[transfemme-shelterdog]

it's fucking lonely

honestly, that's the worst part about being a trans woman who at least attempts to stick up for trans men. i can't trust anyone. it's hard to actually reach out to people and make friends and keep them because i'm constantly so scared that it won't hold up. most trans men aren't actually raging transmisogynists no matter what the transradfems want you to think, but a distinct amount of them are, and I know it reflects on me that it makes it hard to meet them because of that but that doesn't really change the fact that it does

trans women on here are honestly almost fucking worse. i've had to instantly hardblock so many mutuals i actually really liked because they can't stop going mask off about how they think trans men benefit from patriarchy, or talking shit about people i really like, or reblogging callout posts about my alt they don't know is me where i actually felt brave enough to speak up about this. the "love every trans woman you meet before it's too late" thing somehow never seems to hold up when it's a trans woman who doesn't agree with them about how they're actually the only oppressed people ever, it's all just meaningless platitudes they refuse to put into practice when the chips are down

anyway trans men who follow op and are seeing this: you aren't inherently evil for being a trans man. you are not being transmisogynistic by talking about the specific ways you're oppressed and wanting to have language for it

trans women seeing this: you're a good person. you aren't in the wrong for talking about how mainstream (trans)feminist theory doesn't properly address your struggles or complaining it ignores and speaks over the experiences of trans men. there are people out there who will support you as a person when people write callout posts about you, insinuating you believe things you've never said, for disagreeing with them. if you consider yourself a transfeminist, ask yourself how you would react when another transfem disagrees with you.

sorry i'm venting on your blog, op. i really admire you being willing to talk abt this sort of thing as openly as you do and if anyone i follow is willing to host this inane string of rambling its probably you lol. you dont have to post this if you dont want, i just felt like i had to say it bc its kind of eating me up inside, and i dont wanna post it on main because the transradfems will all tell me to kill myself again lmao

Oh it's incredibly lonely, I totally agree. The amount of trans women I've met online and irl that have basically distanced themselves from me because I believe that trans men can be oppressed is a depressing amount. It's incredibly isolating, but I don't regret a thing.

It's important that we stand together and not falter in our support of each other, no matter what. The moment we stop supporting each other is the moment the transphobes both within and outside the trans community win.

[physalian]

Dialogue Tags Are Not Optional

I think I read too much fanfic. I must. Because fanfic has given me an unrealistic expectation of properly tagged dialogue that burgeoning authors of original fiction continue to disappoint.

Dialogue tags are not optional. I don’t care what genre or age range you’re writing for. This is for all books everywhere and a rare blanket writing statement that I think is absolutely valid and without exception.

Now.

You can, of course, go 2-3 exchanges between two characters ***that have distinct voices or arguments*** without tagging and the reader can presume before you pick it back up again, but any further and you’re losing out on so much narrative.

You wrote a book, not a screenplay.

Beyond even “Character said” while “said” isn’t dead, you must break up your giant-ass monologues with either movement, introspection, or sensory details. This is not optional.

How much and how fluffy your narrative is, is up to you, but I am so so sick of sitting through an entire speech and completely forgetting where the speaker is, what time it is, who’s in the room around them, what they were doing before they started speaking, and what they should be doing instead of preaching on their soapbox.

A thirteen-year-old writing smut between two hot anime boys for the first time can do better than some of the unpublished original books I have read by mature adults.

Why?

You are telling a fictional story, that means as many details as possible should be reflecting back on the story in a meaningful way. You don’t need ten layers of symbolism but if you’re going to have your character talk at-length about any given topic, whether it’s Tragic Backstory stuff or exposition about the MacGuffin or how the West was won, all of that information is meaningless if it doesn’t tell me anything about the character speaking it.

What does this information mean to them? Why are they delivering it now? How do they understand their audience, and how might their delivery be different with this audience over someone else? What are they not saying? What are they saying without saying? And what tone of voice, facial expression, and body language do they have when speaking?

Tag your dialogue. I don’t care how compelling the Tragic Backstory is, if the character is saying it soullessly.

Beyond that, go too long devoid of grounding your dialogue in the scene and you end up with readers forgetting important details like I mentioned above, like where the character is standing when they’re speaking. Are they home? Outside? In their kitchen in a bathrobe, or in a suit in their office?

And beyond, beyond that, if you don’t tag your dialogue and give some sensory and physiological details about the narrator, your audience will have no idea what tone of voice to read any of it with. You know how it should sound, but the words themselves are barely half the message. It’s the tone of voice, what words are emphasized and what isn’t spoken but instead given through gesture and expression that paints the whole picture.

Where’s that post that goes something like “this sentence means 7 different things depending on the word you stress” and the sentence is:

“I never said she stole my money.”

I never said, implying that someone else did but that the speaker believes it

I never said, implying that this is a complete denial of an accusation and they won’t stand for it

I never said, implying that the speaker has been quite vocal indirectly or perhaps passive-aggressively about the stolen money, or that the thief is blowing things out of proportion

I never said she, implying that there is indeed a thief, but it’s not this girl and the accuser has the wrong target.

… stole my money, implying that the thief may have gotten the funds legitimately, but it still leaves the speaker miffed that they haven’t been reimbursed

… stole my money, implying that the thief stole from someone else, but the speaker is involved nonetheless, and perhaps gave them money legitimately, but now the thief has actually robbed someone

… stole my money, implying that the thief sure stole something, alright, it just wasn’t money.

See? See?

Tag your dialogue. And use italics when necessary. But mostly. Tag your dialogue.

[big-mean-trans-dyke]

Megan Wilson knelt, gasping, in front of a tall, well-built transfem. She was a mess. Her chin dropped spit, a couple coughs only adding to the mess as she gasps in a couple breaths. Her tits are as soaked in spit as the lower half of her face, and her lap ties the whole thing together, itself a puddle of some mix of pre and saliva.

She leans forward, jamming her face into the woman's balls and sniffing in hard, doing her best to inhale every bit of ball-sweat she can. She knows, if she wasn't nose-deep in girl balls, that she'd still be able to smell the piss marking her hair. She doesn't care, though, not right now.

The whole scene is hot on its own, obviously, but there's something that really makes it that much more special for the girl in front of Megan, her cock dripping spit and a little dribble of pre. Megan had a secret, something nobody else could ever know. Megan was a TERF. That wasn't her secret, of course, she'd tell that to anybody who would listen. No, her secret was that behind closed doors, away from the protests, *this* was her favorite place to be. Kneeling, serving girlcock. It was an addiction for her, a compulsion. One she couldn't possibly resist.

When the cameras were on, she was actually quite well known. She held the dubious distinction of being one of the only TERFs that anybody at all took seriously that also held a platform of more than a couple dozen people. She was a familiar name over about half the country if you asked anyone who followed that kind of thing, and even had her share of international followers.

All this, and all it would take to ruin her would be for one of the five or six women she treated like this, one of them women who treated *her* like this, to release video. She always let them film, she couldn't help it. They all promised not to release it publicly, just use it to jerk off to. That was a thought that often came to Megan when she was speaking publicly, that somewhere out there, someone might have her speech on one monitor and a video of her pissing on her own face with a dildo in her ass on the other.

And still, she lived her double life. She spent her days protesting, making preachy videos and whining about meaningless bullshit, and spent her nights gagging on cock, stretching her asshole, and generally making a fool of herself.

Unknown to her, behind the scenes her collection of 'friends' actually knew each other. They'd all agreed amongst themselves not to share the videos publicly, only because it made it so much hotter to share them amongst themselves. Trading videos of how well she takes a DP for videos of the girl guzzling piss and spit and cum with a ring gag in. Knowing that while everyone else is taking her seriously, they know who she really is. It's only a matter of time before something goes wrong, someone smells the ball-sweat on her breath or walks in on her washing the piss out of her hair, but for now, everyone's happy to enjoy their arranegment.

[catsushinyakajima]

hey hey I finished reading your "the adults are talking" and you WRECKED ME, like I genuinely don't think you could understand how absolutely ripped apart and splayed open I was. I was crying thick sob tears and putting the fic down, just to pick it back up and immediately start crying again. happened like 4 times.

you wrote it so, so wonderfully, and truly captured insecure Lance in a way that broke me. the characterization in each paladin member was distinctive and fit in the scenario, from their emotional reactions, to their outward displays, to the unique patterns of their speech (and even writing, for Keith n Lance). I loved how you wrote Keith and Lance, but I also absolutely loved the scene where Shiro talks to Lance, cause FUCK, it fucking hurt but was SO in character for him. devastating blow.

also the idea is so perfect? especially for langst?? and executed even more perfectly????? the pacing carried the emotion through it, never too rushed or slow, it was just... perfect.

anyways I'm currently reading through the other KL fics you've got and immensely enjoying the experience, but I needed to tell you how much this fic got to me. you wonderful wonderful writer 🙏

quick link to fic before my response: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59321800

HI HI OKAY SO-

*hands you a tissue for your tears* sorry?? I suppose?? But also your welcome?? I suppose??

It means so much to me that you like my work. Like so much. I'm like squirming with excitement, which is not good because it's causing my laptop to connect/disconnect from charging repeatedly (my charger is weird idk and my laptop's on my lap).

I can never tell how my writing is perceived to others because I'm so used to my words so every time I read it I'm like "okay....ig??" So this is great confirmation that my writing does NOT SUCK THANK YOU!! Thank you very much. It means a lot to my writer heart.

I think speaking is such a valuable and preferred method of communication to Lance. More than having a lot on his mind to say, I think it is a way for him to genuinely connect with people and he puts a lot of weight into his words and the words of people around him (especially if those words are directed at him). I'd like to think that its importance to him is a double edged blade. There are positives such as treasurable interactions, being able to express himself, having a thriving social life, etc. But there are also negatives like over-picking people's words or lack thereof, worrying about saying the wrong thing or too much/too little, putting so much value into his words that it starts to feel meaningless, etc. I wanted to play with the balance between these factors and that's how I came up with this fic!

I'm glad that the way I portrayed his thoughts and feelings resonated with you. I struggle with similar anxieties and it was very natural for me to write Lance's perspective in this fic, so I understand why it would feel personal. I hope that you are never in a situation where uh...you get zapped and your voice box gets paralyzed so you can't speak and are in imminent pain?? But in all seriousness, there is importance to yourself and your words no matter what you or others lead you to believe. Similar to the way I didn't realize the extent of the impact my fic had on people, you might not realize the impact you have on other people. Exhibit A: Your message to me was genuinely so kind and every single sentence you took the time to write means so much to me. I'm definitely coming back to this ask whenever I'm feeling down.

On another note, I feel so bad for making you cry that I'm thinking of writing a Lance Fluff fic to make up for it. What would that be called? If there's Langst, then would that be L' Fluff? Lafluff? L' Hurt/Comfort? If you have any requests or ideas let me know because I'm writing it with you in mind- no pressure, though.

Anyways see you around! I hope you have a good day and week and month and forever and read more good KL fics! Once again, thanks so much for reading!

[the-perfect-wagnerite-again]

Philosophical question: What makes art "good"?

I've been sitting on this ask for a while. On the one hand, it'd be way easier to just say "thousands of pages have been written on this topic with no agreeable consensus yet, so what does it matter what I think?" On the other hand, this exact question came up in one of my discords recently, and I remembered this is still a real question for people who don't spend their time combing through those thousands of pages. I'll try to give some personal thoughts. This is going to be a long one, so apologies in advance.

First, I have to assume that anyone reading this believes there is a real distinction to be made between that which is art and that which is not. Art is the resultant of intention for the purpose of aesthetic engagement. A chair might be beautifully crafted and have significant aesthetic qualities, but its true function is as a piece of furniture. To that end, it might be artisanal, but it is not art, strictly speaking. Those who say "art is whatever you think is art" (or similar derivatives) do not actually believe it, because their entire goal is to appropriate the label "art" for whatever product or commodity they personally value, which would be a meaningless goal if they did not already recognize the label "art" as a non-subjective signifier. For the purpose of this post I'll be containing my thoughts to visual arts specifically (music, literature, drama, and poetry are surely arts, but they will make things slightly more difficult).

In philosophy, the discipline of phenomenology seeks to explore experience as such. One might argue that Kant acted as a precursor to phenomenology with his distinction between phenomenon and noumenon, the former being that which is accessible to us through our senses. Since art is an aesthetic endeavor, this makes modern philosophical questions about art inextricable from questions about phenomenology, because art is something we must experience with our senses. We see paintings, we hear music, etc, but what are sights and sounds really, and how do we explain emotional responses to empirical stimuli?

One concept in phenomenology I find particularly useful in the domain of art is the concept of intentionality. In short, all of our thoughts are about something. We do not have free-form, disconnected thoughts, but rather thoughts that are directed towards particular concepts, objects, or feelings. We have thoughts with intention. This might seem obvious at first, but it has grave implications for our connectedness to the real world. If all of our thoughts are about things, then it is things (be they concrete or abstract) that anchor our minds to the world. Indeed, this is the crux of the Kantian paradigm (though he predated the modern terminology).

What does this mean for art, and how does it affect what one might consider "good" vs "bad" art? Here we get to the messiness of the objects of our thought. Is it possible for one to have their thoughts directed at the wrong thing?

I'm going to take a step to the side here and illustrate my perspective from a parallel street: the distinction between the erotic and the pornographic. In the modern uses of the word, the two are practically synonyms, but this is the result of a modern world that values pornography over all else, perverting the natural domain of the erotic in the process. So what is the difference? All human beings experience sexual desire, but we understand that sexual desire and lust are not identical.

In true sexual desire, we feel the erotic impulse not merely for the body of our beloved, but for our beloved embodied. We see in our beloved the self-experience of their entire person, a self-experience we recognize within ourselves, and we seek to bridge the gap between self and non-self, us and them. Christendom recognized this truth in its pronouncements that in the sacrament of marriage, man and woman become as one flesh. In a more romantic idiom, we recognize this impulse when we get lost in the eyes of our beloved. It is not the literal pupils and irises we see, but the person behind those eyes. In the sexual act, we consummate our desire as erotic love, the intention of which is directed at our beloved as a subject. Sexual desire, at its heart, is a search for knowledge of the Other: it is an outward direction passion of epistemology.

Lust, by contrast, is entirely directed inwards. We are only too familiar with lust as an appetite. Lust makes no regard for the personhood of its object, because the object of lust can be replaced at a whim. Imagine if someone suggested that you replace your true love with a nicer, more beautiful man/woman: the idea is so absurd it's insulting. But the accessibility and variety of modern pornography perfectly illustrates the non-specificity of lust. It doesn't matter what an object of lust is, because it is in the satisfaction of the self that the appetite of lust is sated. Lust denies the personhood of its object, which is why lust in its most extreme and degenerate forms (rape and pedophilia) can satisfy itself with any number of victims, each just as good as another. (As an aside, this is why pornography is so perverse. It displaces and usurps healthy desires with false substitutes. Note that this description also applies to much non-sexual products of the modern world.)

I'm sure you can see where I'm going here. The erotic attempts to use art to explore the dimension of sexual desire, a natural and fundamental part of the human condition. The pornographic serves to satiate the appetite of lust.

See here the Titian "Venus," an exploration of erotic beauty in the divine. Here the body is at perfectly at rest. The Venus could be clothed from head to toe, and her natural posture need not change in the slightest. She is in complete awareness of her form, and she gazes at the viewer with the relaxed confidence of a transcendent beauty. The viewer is drawn automatically to her face, which veils her nude body from perversity. You cannot objectify this woman, her flesh is off-limits to base appetites. Instead of consuming her, we adore and appreciate her, admiring from a distance the perfection of her features and the sublimity of her Self. We see in her a woman embodied, flesh and spirit entwined.

The male gaze meets the erotic (like the Venus) and feels a desire for more than mere flesh. She is pure subjectivity, and a function of sexual desire is to know that subjectivity as one's own. This is not a uni-directional force, however, and in the erotic moment that desire for knowledge compels us to make ourselves vulnerable for our beloved, that they might do the same for us. The Venus's eyes are both sword and shield, her face both an invitation for vulnerability and a bulwark against obscenity.

It's not exclusively in the beauty of the divine that we encounter erotic passion in art, however, and certainly human beings are not gods. See here a more terrestrial exploration of the erotic in Manet's "Olympia."

Notice first the similarities to the Titian: a nude figure, a relaxed posture, a self-awareness in expression. But immediately differences are apparent. This is no goddess, but a woman of flesh and blood. Hers are not the spotless hands of the divine, but the earthly hands of caresses, of money-handling, perhaps even of violence. Her features are hardened, but they are true. And like the Venus, her face holds vigil above her form. We see in her expression an entire person, a woman with a history, will, and total self-knowledge. She too is off-limits, but for more imminent reasons than the Venus, for this is a more imminent beauty.

In the Venus and the Olympia we see the body unashamed. They are bodies in sublime reclination, perfectly at one with themselves in their nakedness. Theirs is not a nudity of advertising or intentional display, but instead of total leisure. The veil between the viewer and these women holds fast, and we see in them a representation of the female form in all its splendor. These are not "real" women (though their models doubtlessly were), and so for the viewer, they are the subjects of imagination.

By way of contrast, let us move now to a work of false eroticism, Boucher's "Blonde Odalisque."

Striking differences are at play here. Most apparent is the subject's posture, an unnatural and inexplicable pose that she would never hold if she was fully clothed. This is not the body at rest, it is the body on display. The face is another red flag, as it has no feature to play in the body's composition, and we have no reason to be drawn towards it. Whether she is intentionally avoiding our gaze or is simply unaware of it, her subjectivity is compromised, and we are free to engage in more lecherous mental activity. This is not the body unashamed, like the Venus or Olympia. Instead, it is the body shameless. Her nudity, while beautiful, is dangerous and borders on advertisement. There is no history in this woman that concerns us beyond her bare flesh, and therefore she is not a fully intact agent to us. The erotic here is impossible, and we have brushed against the boundary of the pornographic.

What conclusions can we draw? The Titian and the Manet are works of art that pull our thoughts into them, realms of fantasy where the imagination must work, wrestle, and play with perspectives of subjectivity and the erotic. The Boucher also pulls at our thoughts, but not with the same end, instead providing an immediate satisfaction for fantasy in the form of a readily present object. There's no room for imagination here beyond inward-focused lechery.

Here we encounter another difficulty in art, the conflation of technical execution to artistic expression. One cannot deny Boucher's remarkable skill as a painter. But that skill does not automatically endow expressive merit to a work of art. Compare especially the Titian to the Boucher - the compositions have similarities in form but not in content, because there is more to a work of art than the literal pigments on the canvas. Those who cannot penetrate beyond the surface-level sense impressions of a work will find it difficult to delineate between genuine artistic expression and the evocation of mere sentimentality. Art must take itself to be fundamentally serious, and in that vein it cannot properly provide gratification for fantasy, for such satisfaction would be illusory. Where gratification comes easy, artistic expression recedes.

And now we return to the question at hand with a new perspective on what makes art "good." "Good" art is art which exists for its own sake, while "bad" art (and I'm using the word "bad" here very loosely, for much "bad" art is still skillfully executed) is art which exists for the sake of the emotions and feelings it satisfies in those who engage with it. In the phenomenological phrasing, "good" art pulls the intentionality of thought outwards, while "bad" art confines it inwards (metaphorically speaking). Indeed, it is the very notion of "inward-focused intentionality" that seems to be the defining feature of what the art-world calls kitsch.

We all know kitsch when we see it. The art on greeting cards, or in hotel lobbies, or in Precious Moments figurines. These are things that exist for the sole purpose of arousing an emotional response, and it is in that response that we find satisfaction. The automatic "awww" that we coo out when we open a birthday card with a cheesy poem inside is categorically different from the "awww" we whisper when we hold a sleeping infant. In this sense, kitsch is emotional pornography, in that its function is to both induce and satisfy an emotional craving without pulling one's thoughts towards anything except their feelings.

Much of modern art is kitsch. Some "artists" like Koons go so far as to produce works that are so blatantly obviously kitsch that it preempts the criticism, as if to say "I know this is looks kitsch, so it transcends the label into new territory, and you can't call it kitsch anymore." Such works are stupendously popular among art critics, because in a world where beauty is considered dangerous and hierarchical, the current vogue is to be as offensive to taste as possible. Other modern works are elaborate exercises in mental masturbation, a kind of "Emperor's New Clothes" litmus test for the anointed of the modern art-world. In these overly intellectualized forms of kitsch, the "merit" is found in one's own capacity to recognize and appreciate said "merit," and those who can't probably aren't sophisticated enough to understand.

But this presents another danger in the opposite direction, the glorification of tradslop. In an effort to signal as hard as possible an opposition to the trends of modernity, tradposters and right-wingers alike have fallen into the habit of idolizing prettier forms of kitsch.

Thomas Kinkade paintings all have exactly one function, to satisfy one's emotional cravings for idyllic coziness or nostalgia. On the surface it appears more "traditional" than Koons (or at least less "modern"), and the accessible prettiness makes it attractive as a counter-signal to the abstract ugliness of hypermodernity. Like the Boucher, the Kinkade has genuine merit in form and composition, use of color, perspective, and lighting (a trademark specialty of Kinkade). But beneath the surface, there is no genuine content in a Kinkade landscape, no representation for our imaginations to occupy, because it is purely for the sake of the emotional response of the viewer that the landscape exists. It is a prop that is satisfying to look at because that is its function.

By way of comparison, let's look at Wyeth's "Christina's World," a mid-20th century painting that, ironically, was considered too kitsch on its debut because it wasn't abstract enough. The Wyeth, like the Kinkade, induces a kind of nostalgia on first impression. But unlike the Kinkade, the nostalgia here is for a world rooted in reality. Our gaze moves from Christina to the homestead and back, scanning everything from her clothes to the tracks in the field for clues of the human life depicted. We might feel grief for the loss of a world long-past, recognition in the home depicted and the familiarity of its contents, or empathy in Christina's course towards the property. In all of this, our imaginations dance within Wyeth's representation, a somber and sublime depiction of Americana, but separate from us, enframed as an end in itself.

My suspicion is that in the modern world of commercial product, we are so inundated with a constant stream of slop that we are primed to overexcitedly pedestalize even mediocre content to heights it doesn't deserve. Film and videogame soundtracks are "just as good" as the symphonies of Beethoven, because they both use orchestras, right? The pop music of Phil Spector was pure genius compared to his contemporaries (and successors), but does that make it more artistically sound than the Wagnerian element he utilizes? Game of Thrones might not be Shakespeare, but it's got to be better than Harry Potter, isn't that good enough? Why not enjoy Kinkade when everything else is either perverse or Corporate Memphis blob art?

The "product vs art" discussion is sticky, because in a world dominated by the democratic atmosphere, it's forbidden to suggest that one's taste in anything, from food to films, might be inferior to another's. "Just let people enjoy things!" It is sobering to remember that the most effective products for mass consumption are those manufactured to satisfy the lowest common denominator, and what is more satisfying than the instant gratification of fantasy? But if one cares about art as a feature of humanity's impulse to create, then one must recognize that, like human beings themselves, not all art (and certainly not all product) is created equal. If it were, criticism would be impossible.

[whumping-newbie]

Taking What Is His

Back from the dead to post a thing I wrote the other day for an extremely self indulgent AU to my longstanding, long suffering WIP :)

What do you mean it's been more than a year since you last posted. Not gonna lie, time is meaningless and a lot of stuff has happened. Either way, I hope you enjoy :)

Thanks to @justplainwhump for the support with this one, she's been a real rock these past months. I hope you know how much I appreciate it <3

Tiny bit of context that may help: The General is the de facto King of the nation after his successful coup to overthrow the previous King. He forcibly married the Crown Princess, and she has committed the grave sin of... saying "no" to him, so he feels he is allowed to teach her a lesson.

CW's: fade to black noncon, (male whumper, female whumpee), creepiness in general, forced servitude setting, forced to strip, threatened with a knife, cigarette burning.

There’s a distinct sound clicking down the wooden corridor. It’s subtle, rhythmic, and very recognizable. I turn a corner and find my assumption to be correct. One of my wife’s Maidens of Honour, the one with a prosthetic leg. The odd sound was her leg every other step.

What incredible timing.

“You.”

I call out to her, and she immediately stops, turns to face me, and stands aside against the wall as I approach.

“Good evening, your Excellency.”

Her greeting is stiff, her posture perfect as she bows her head, her long dark hair resting just so over her shoulders. I can’t help but look down at the rest of her. The maid’s dress is modest, just below the knee level, high necked and practically pristine. Of course. This girl is known to take great care of her appearance.

I do appreciate that very much.

“What are you doing here?” I ask her as I stand directly in front of her, barely a step between us, “a little late to be wandering around, don’t you think?”

It’s here that she does look up, ever so slightly, as she answers my question. “I was going to see if her Royal Highness needed anything from me before I retired for the evening, your Excellency.”

She speaks with an elegance that has not changed since the first time she set foot in this place, speaking to me no differently than she speaks to my wife in public. I can’t help but let out a small chuckle - clearly fate is on my side tonight.

“Of course. Come with me, I’ll take you to her. Save you wasting your time.”

With that, I turn back around the way I came, and it takes a second for her to register my order and follow me wordlessly. She knows this way does not lead to my wife’s bedchamber, but of course, who is she to disobey me when I know where my wife is?

She may be a simple girl, but credit where credit is due, she knows better to disrespect her betters, unlike a certain someone I know.

A few moments later, we’re back at my Imperial Office. It’s late, so of course there’s no one else around, meaning that when I open the door, turn on the light switch, step inside and wait for the girl to enter, it’s just the two of us.

The latch of the door clicks shut, and I slide the lock into place.

“Your Excellency?” she asks, and I barely catch the quiver in her voice. “Where is her Royal Highness?”

I don’t deign to answer her question, she doesn’t need one. Instead, I walk over to her, closing that distance between us even more than we did in the corridor. She is looking me square in the eyes, her stance firm, I can see her fists clenched by her sides. I must admit, if she is scared, she’s hiding it quite well beneath that bravado of confidence, like she knows what will happen here.

She hasn’t the slightest idea.

The girl clears her throat and speaks again. “Where is her Royal Highness?”

I reach for the side of her face, and cup her chin in my hand, relishing in the way she freezes in my grip. “That doesn’t matter.”

“But I -“

“Shh,” I push my finger to her lips, silencing her, “be quiet, girl.”

I want to savour this. The moment that I finally get to give my wife a taste of her own medicine. If she wants to be stubborn, I will make the consequences for her refusal severe.

Well. Severe for her and her friends. Me? I plan to enjoy this.

The girl’s breath shakes in my grip, and I pull her closer, practically feeling her heartbeat as I lean in for a kiss. She tries to lean back, get away, without directly fighting back. She tastes sweet, her lips soft and sensual, rather like the kiss I got from my wife our first night together.

It’s incredible how similar this feels to that very first night.

I pull back from her, keeping a hold of one of her upper arms. Her eyes are wide, her voice nonexistent, yet she does not reject me. Just frozen in place, and yet, I like her like this. I lean in again, and leave little kisses on her cheek to see how she reacts, she just barely turns her head as I leave the trail down onto her neck.

She shortly pulls her arm back, presumably testing my grip, but I don’t let go. She must realise that I am stronger than she thinks I am, given that she does not try that again. I can hear her breathing deeply as I move my kisses back up to her ear and whisper.

“Take off your dress.”

“What?” she croaks out.

I stand back up straight, “are you deaf, girl? What are you waiting for? Take off your dress.”

“Sir, why -“

“Are you going to disobey me, or are you going to do as I tell you?”

As I begin to speak, I reach for the knife in the sheath on my belt, which catches her attention and I can hear her breathing still. I haven’t even got this knife anywhere near her, as I had stepped back to give her some space, giving me the chance to get a good, long look at what she has hidden under her dress, what I’ve never seen in the years since she was first assigned as Maiden of Honour to the Crown Princess herself.

How many men can claim they will have seen this?

The knife is a convincing argument for her to do as she’s told, because she shakes her head shortly, before starting to undo the buttons on the front of her dress, her hands visibly trembling as she works the top one loose. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next

“Good. No need to be shy, is there?”

I move back a step and sit down in the armchair just behind me, in between the desk and the fireplace. I keep the knife in my grip, testing its sharpness on the tips of my fingers. Hm, it’s a little dull. Perhaps I should sharpen this. Either way, it seems like she does not want to test out the knife regardless of how sharp it is, because she’s now fumbling with the apron tied at the back, the buttons fully opening up the front of her dress, giving me a tantalizing taste of what she has hidden beneath it.

Once she has the apron untied, she drops it to the floor. As she tries to work off the dress from her shoulders, she quickly rubs one of her eyes before letting that fall completely, leaving her stood there in her underwear.

She’s quite the beauty under her clothes as well as in them, it seems. She’s not got much in the way of blemishes, but her slender figure is accentuated by the way she’s stood, legs tightly together, with her prosthetic leg ever so slightly in front of the “real” leg. The beautiful form of a dancer, with strong legs that have just the perfect amount of muscle on them to look like she could form complex dance moves without much effort.

I wonder what other moves she could do, if she really really tried.

She looks at me, and I can see her eyes are shiny with tears that she desperately is trying to hide, folding her arms in front of her, probably shivering in here. She’s somewhat obscuring her chest, but the way she’s done it has pressed her bra up, making those features look considerably more attractive.

I can’t help but smile. The girl has done very well so far. Let’s see how far she will go for me, in comparison to my wife, whom I helped undress on my wedding night, feeling her form in my hands as I unzipped the dress, leading her out of it and towards the bed.

Back to reality.

I nod in the direction of the sofa behind the girl here, still twisting the knife in my hands.

“Go lay down on that sofa.”

She doesn’t move, just cringes on the spot as she casts a small glance behind her at the sofa in question. One of the nicer ones in this place, a lovely green velvet fabric cover with rich emerald silk cushions in either corner. Quite the comfortable piece of furniture, and she’ll finally get to experience it.

However, here’s where she decides to be resistant. She shakes her head at me, soundlessly refusing my order.

That’s a pity.

“We can do this the easy way, or the hard way,” I stand up from my seated position, “are you sure you want to find out what the hard way entails?”

As soon as I say that, I take one deliberate step forward, and she all but falls backwards into a seated position on the sofa, gripping the delicate fabric in her hands, her chest moving quickly from her rapid breathing, her gaze firmly planted at the floor. I could swear I can hear a sob creep through that breathing, but it vanishes as soon as it began.

I carefully re-sheath my dull knife and begin working on undoing my own clothes, watching her shoulders move with every breath she takes. I can see her concentrated effort on steadying her breathing, but she still seems to breathe very quickly. I work my belt loose and undo my service uniform’s trousers, slipping out of my shoes then stepping out of my trousers, leaving them on the floor beside the girl’s discarded dress.

“Lie down on your back.”

She looks up at me briefly as I loosen my tie, and I realise that she has tears streaming down her face. Hm. I’ve never known this one to be an emotional one. I’ve seen one or two of those girls cry, especially since my revolution, but this one always seemed stone cold, uncrackable.

It seems I’ve found that spot with which I can break her.

Slowly, she swivels on the spot, lifts both her legs onto the sofa, and lies down onto the soft cushioning of the sofa, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She turns her head away from me, into the silk, her arms tightly at her side, her legs crossed over one another. It’s here that I can hear that tiny, tiny sob once again, her eyes screwed shut.

I take off my jacket, leaving just my shirt on, and make my move. Straddling her at the waist, I get a good feel at her upper body. Running my hands up her sides, I stop at her breasts, if only to see what she does. I can see her face screw up and she hisses through her teeth, clearly trying to ignore me as best she can, but that’s quite difficult when I’m sat on top of her getting a good feel at tonights entertainment.

Leaving her bra as is for now, I move my body into position above her, running my hands back down her midriff and working at her underwear. This action provokes another reaction from her.

“Please, please stop -“ she gasps out, her eyes open now, but still not looking at me, tears flooding down the side of her face.

I am now done with her underwear, and silence her cries by forcing my lips onto hers, feeling those little sounds at their source. She doesn’t try to buck me off, or fight me. My wife did that once.

She has not done it since.

I move away from her lips once again, whispering into her ear, “you don’t need to say anything else, girl. Just lie there and let me do all the work.”

With one last stifled sob, the girl closes her eyes and her mouth, looking away from me again. I’m ready, ready for my good time, all whilst a few of my men are probably doing the same to the other girls right this moment. I plan to enjoy every second of this, and every second of knowing that what my wife does not know will not hurt her.

And oh, I will get what I want from all of them.

---

The girl lays still on the sofa when I’m done.

I’m thoroughly satisfied with my time here, and am getting myself presentable - tightening my belt around my waist - whilst she just lies there, unmoving and silent. I will admit that she didn’t do much more beyond lay there and cry, but for the experience I wanted? I am more than content with that.

If I wanted more from a sexual partner, I’d certainly be more persuasive in getting what I want from them.

“How did you find that, girl?” I ask as I walk over to my desk and fetch a cigarette and lighter from the top drawer, “did you enjoy being fucked like you deserve?”

She does not answer me, does not even look in my direction, doesn’t even move. Merely acts like I hadn’t said anything at all. From here, her head isn’t visible behind the armrest of the sofa, but I have a good view of everything else.

I light the cigarette and walk back over to the sofa, taking a drag as I stop right at her upper body. It’s a bit annoying that she has ignored me, I would have thought she’d have it in her for a bit more respect than that.

I press the lit end of the cigarette into her shoulder and she instantly screams out, trying to move away from the cigarette, clutching her upper arm.

“Sit up,” I kneel down beside her, and she does as ordered, “tell me, was I your first time with a man?”

She blushes furiously.

“Am I to take that as a ‘yes’, then?” I can’t help but smirk. How interesting. I would have thought this one would have been snapped right up by some classmate during her teens, she certainly could have fooled me.

I pick up the discarded dress from beside me and throw it at her.

“Get dressed then clean up this mess,” I give the order as I move back towards my desk, “and hurry it up. It’s late, and I have to get up early in the morning.”

I continue to smoke the cigarette as I wait for my wife’s Maiden of Honour to finish what she had started. Little slut. I’m sure I can get more satisfaction out of her next time - satisfaction for me, that is.

Funny thing, that title of hers. She’s no Maiden anymore. And Honour? Well, the little minx certainly has none when I’m through with her.

She quietly yet quickly works at the sofa with what little we have in this room. She’s still in a sorry state - not yet dressed with her hair an absolute mess, the fresh burn from the cigarette is red and raw on her upper arm, and the tear tracks on her face have yet to dry.

By the time I’m finished with my cigarette, so is she with the sofa, and she quickly gets the dress and apron back on, tying up the buttons a lot quicker than she got them off.

“Before you go, girl…”

She freezes, not even finishing tying her apron behind her back, just holding it in her hands, both tightly at her side.

“Tell anyone about our little meeting, and I will make sure there are consequences. Is that clear?”

She nods.

Not good enough.

“I can’t hear you, girl. Am I understood?”

And then, in a display I’ve not seen since I first brought her into this room, she looks back up at me with a hardened stare. The tears are no longer flowing.

“Understood, your Excellency,” her voice, while weak, is certainly more akin to before than during our little tryst, “I won’t tell anyone about this, as you command.”

“Good. Now get out.”

She certainly didn’t need telling twice.

I’m not too far behind her in leaving the room, still relishing in the delights of fucking one of my wife’s so-called friends whilst she has no idea.

I’ll have to do this again sometime. Perhaps I should let my wife disobey me more often.

[transgenderer]

have increasingly come to the belief that the "human experience" is so multifarious that to talk of it as one thing is basically meaningless. i think this is true on multiple "scales".

on the personal scale, even if we are in the same culture, even if we participate in the same activities, human variation is large enough that the structure of our thoughts, our...thought-flow, our consciousness of reality, can be so distinct as to admit little comparison. but this is the weakest layer. or maybe it isnt, its also the least knowable layer. beetles, boxes, etc.

next up, there's the "lifestyle" scale maybe, that the way we live our lives, occupy our time, etc, can be very different, in ways that are not conducive to universality. what i mean is that...you can be a person that does lots of different things, or a person who does a much smaller set of things. but the thing is, while maybe the person of diverse experience has in some meaningful sense "more" experiences, theyre not experiencing what it is like to have a more circumscribed experience! if youre some world traveler experiencing a bit of lots of different cutures, youre not a writer dedicating all their time to the craft, or a homemaker focusing everything on your children and your house and your local social sphere, lives are short. its the agony of plath's figs. and the personal scale ties in very heavily here, youre strictly limited by your nature, by your constitution. i mean, it depends how strictly you mean strictly, you can do a huge variety of things with your fixed constitution, and yet *things are still closed off by you*. some things you just wont enjoy! and you dont get to experience what its like to be the sort of person who enjoys those things! it sucks!

anyway ON TOP of the other two, which would be bad enough on their own, there's the cultural layer!!! people raised in other cultures can have fundamentally different culturally-cultivated experiences of the world! an understanding of what it means to be a person, an understnanding of their own consciousness, in a way that gives them a different strange loop, that affects the way their consciousness "runs". and you can be raised in two cultures but then as above youre not fully raised in either culture, you're a third thing, experientally speaking.

i mean. obviously theres not NO overlap between people, in exeprience. there's a lot of overlap. humans are a very restricted subset of possible minds. but. theres not as much overlap as there COULD be. there are very few universals, for some sense of "very few"

[thevioletcaptain]

😔🧋🤙 for the emoji prompt!

Cas is just leaning in to kiss him, his fingers trailing warm and seductive down the center of Dean’s chest, when there’s a knock on their bedroom door. Three sharp raps in quick succession.

They both freeze, breath caught as they wait, as if silence will convince whoever’s knocking that they aren’t here.

“Dean? Cas?”

No such luck.

“Maybe if we ignore him, he’ll give up and leave,” Dean whispers, but he’s barely finished the sentence when Sam knocks again.

“Uh, guys?” Sam says, voice louder but still muffled through two inches of oak. “You awake in there?”

Cas sighs, slumping back onto his own pillow to give Dean a look that very clearly states; your brother, your problem. Dean sends one back that says, what’s mine is yours, sweetheart, but Cas only glowers in response.

“Guys?” Sam repeats, knocking a third time, and Dean groans as he pushes out of bed.

With one last longing glance at Cas, naked and sleepy and looking decidedly put out about the fact that his plans to continue what they’d started last night had been interrupted before they could even begin, Dean slips into his robe before cracking the door.

“What?”

Sam meets his gaze with a sheepish grimace.

“Hey, sorry,” he says again, wrinkling his nose. “I was gonna let you guys sleep in, but, well… I don’t wanna freak you out or anything, and it might not even be—”

Sam pushes out a breath. Hesitates.

“Dude, just spit it out. It’s early.”

“It’s eleven.”

“Sam—”

“I think there’s something wrong with Jack.”

That gets his attention fast, and Dean pulls the door wide as Cas launches out of bed. Sam averts his eyes when he notices Cas’ distinct lack of pants.

“Uh—”

“Is he sick?”

“What happened?” Cas asks, immediately breathless with worry. “Where is he? Is he hurt?”

“He’s fine, he’s safe, he’s taking Miracle for a walk. But— Cas, can you put some clothes on?”

Dean grabs Cas’ fuzzy cloud-print bathrobe from the back of the door and tosses it over to him before he can start arguing with Sam about the fact that his lack of pants has no bearing on Sam’s ability to explain himself.

“So if he’s fine and safe and walking the dog—what exactly is the problem?” Dean asks.

With an uncertain shrug, Sam nods toward the kitchen, and they follow him down the hall as he explains.

“Okay, so this morning I had to go to up to Hastings for a few things, and I asked if he wanted to come with — he normally does, y’know, because he likes the toffee boba from that place opposite the store where I get my protein powder.”

“Uhuh,” Dean says.

“So, I dropped him off to get his drink, and I went to the health food store, and when I came back to meet him he was just, like. Sitting in the middle of the sidewalk.”

“Sitting, and… doing what?” Cas asks.

“That’s the thing,” Sam says, stepping down into the kitchen. He looks back at them as he pulls out one of the swivel chairs at the table and sits down. Dean and Cas mirror him on the other side. “He was just sitting there, staring at a crack in the pavement with a dandelion growing in it.”

“So…” Dean says, waving a hand for Sam to elaborate.

“I think he’s depressed.”

“Depressed,” Cas repeats with a frown.

“You think he’s depressed because he was sitting on the sidewalk and looking at a flower?” Dean asks, narrowing his eyes. “The kid’s just weird, Sam. He’s always been weird. He gets it from his entire family.”

“That’s not— look, I asked him why he was sitting there instead of on the bench five feet away, and you know what he said to me? He said, what difference does it make? Everything is meaningless.”

“Okay, well that… that does sound kinda concerning,” Dean admits.

“Did he say anything else?”

“No, not really. But when we got back to the car he stuck the dandelion under the windshield wipers to ‘see how long it would hold on’, and… honestly, saying that out loud sounds stupid, but… I don’t know. It worried me.”

As he’s speaking, the distant whine of the main door opening echoes through the bunker, followed by scrambling claws as Miracle launches into his usual post-walk zoomies, and the heavy clang of the door slamming shut.

Miracle bursts into the kitchen a few seconds later, frantically sniffing at all of them — Cas carefully repositions himself to avoid getting a dog snout all up in his business — before sprinting back out, and Jack follows shortly after, slurping away at his boba.

Inexplicably, he’s wearing his Ghostbusters jumpsuit from last Halloween, a pair of teal flip flops, and has Cas’ floppy gardening hat hanging around his neck. Dean looks at him and then back at Sam, wondering how neglected to mention this absolute mess of an outfit as he recounted the reasons for his alarm.

“Hello,” Jack says with a wave, and walks over to the fridge.

Dean, Cas, and Sam all look at one another before Cas clears his throat.

“How are you today, Jack?”

Rifling through the vegetable drawer, Jack lets out a thoughtful hum before extracting a single tomatillo. He sniffs it before biting into it like an apple.

“Snacky. And… contemplative. Have you ever noticed how Miracle just eats whatever he finds no matter what time of day it is? That makes more sense than designated breakfast food, I think.”

“Right,” Dean says carefully, watching as Jack takes another sip from his toffee-flavored milk tea as though he doesn’t still have a mouthful of tomatillo. He’s unsurprised when the flavor combination — and presumably the added texture of a tapioca pearl — makes Jack gag a little, but it’s still gross when he spits it into the sink.

At least he takes the moment to turn on the tap and rinse it down.

“So, uh. What’s the deal with Halloween in July?”

Jack tilts his head for a moment, as though uncertain what Dean is asking, before he seems to remember what he’s wearing. He looks down. Jiggles the buckle of his utility belt.

“Oh, it’s because I realized nothing matters,” Jack says cheerfully, and takes a long, noisy slurp through his straw before wriggling it around the bottom of his cup, where the last tapioca pearl is stubbornly clinging to the plastic. It finally dislodges, and he crushes the cup in his hand, tossing it in the recycling.

“What do you mean nothing matters?”

“There’s no point to anything. It’s all meaningless, so, you know, if something is kind or fun or interesting and it doesn’t hurt anyone…” Jack shrugs. “Hakuna Matata.”

Without waiting for a response, Jack crams the rest of the tomatillo into his mouth and heads for the door.

“Anyway, I’m gonna go up on the roof and read erotica on my phone,” he says, and waves, and then he’s gone before any of them can process that — let alone react to it.

“See what I mean?” Sam says.

“Yeah, uh. He’s definitely being weird, even for Jack, but… I don’t think he’s depressed.”

“So what is it? Teen angst?”

“He’s not a teenager,” Dean points out. “And he’s not exactly angsty.”

“He’s right, Sam. I’m not certain this is even a problem.”

“Are you kidding?”

“Well, I do think one of us should actually take the time to have a frank discussion with him about sex if he’s going to be reading erotica, but other than that, it seems as though he’s just thinking philosophically. Contemplating the nature of his existence in a newly Godless universe.”

“Yeah, and I mean, as far as philosophies go? Nothing matters so just chill out about it seems… refreshingly optimistic. I say we call it a win.”

[written for this prompt game] [find me on ao3 as imogenbynight 💚]

ps: here's a bonus meme to illustrate why my brain went immediately to "optimistic nihilism" after seeing these particular emojis 😅

[milgram-tournament]

MILGRAM Best Song Tournament, Round 2, Match 1 WEAKNESS vs. THE PURGE MARCH

Propaganda for both options under the cut!

Propaganda for WEAKNESS:

"This is definitely more of a personal anecdote. However, I’m neurodivergent (like Haruka) and struggle with knowing it causes quite a bit of disappointment for my mother. I cry about it a lot. But I find that putting on Weakness is soothing for me. Knowing that there’s a character out there with the same issues…. I don’t know. Just my experience."

---

"why weakness should win over umbilical: - THE SINGING THE HIGH NOTES - this song set the tone to what to expect for the trial songs to come (or what we expected) - the part where the song gets all slow paced and then picks up louder at the end it just done beautifully - it's haruka. - the singing sounds like a mix between of course singing and crying. the 'AHahA' sounds like manic laughing until the end when he's crying and it almost feels like he's sobbing while laughing. - the guitar and the drums complement his soft/sad-ish voice perfectly, especially at the beginning - very emotional, even if you didn't see the music video you can tell he's crying and mentally unwell I'm bad a propaganda, but vote for WEAKNESS!!!!"

Propaganda for THE PURGE MARCH:

"Despite the shorter length, the Purge March has several distinct sections in its structure.

It starts with a rolloff, and then… they don’t follow it. Amane isn’t here to follow the beat.

There’s the spoken-word intro and the upbeat first verse listing the tenets. The prechorus (“dou shiyou mo nai…”) has an amen break. The most-sampled four-bar drum beat. Well, there’s half of it. Is it supposed to mean something? Can I get an amen?

The chorus is so, so cheerful… unless you’re actually listening to the lyrics (“I’ll crush your throat too”) or watching the video. And it’s super catchy. 

The second part of the verse dials things back. Now we’re in reality. This is how Amane breaks her tenets. All the while, those tenets are spoken into both ears over the singing. Get some good headphones. She sounds different in each ear.

The music picks up again with the amen break as Amane happily strolls back home, and then-

Oh.

The somber second chorus, with Amane’s lower singing voice and mournful spoken words, leads into the final chorus, with new lyrics and a more forceful tone. The once-meaningless chanting now has real words. “You’re sorry? I don’t care! Please go ahead and die already.” You can hear Amane’s anger despite the cheerful melody. She harmonizes in the final phrase, as if to say “we’re in this together, me and my little color guard troop.” And finally, it’s just her. Speaking. "Oboetemasuka?" Accompanied by only a single drum.

She is both Amane Momose and not. She upholds the doctrines that she was raised with, but she can’t."

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"Purge March is geniunaly one of my favorite pieces of fiction both in and out of the context of trauma. Its fantastically directed and composed. The batton twirling is spetacular and energetic, the set and character design of Amane conveys a lot about the world she’s in and the story she’s telling. Purge March contextulizes a lot of Magic in both expected and unexpected ways (insert the entire cat symbolism thesis here) Purge March casts Amane in the role of a scary child. The glowing eyes, the framing of Amane as Above the viewer, the brutality and catharsis of it all. It seems tailored made to make you Scared of her. It’s a continuation of the cycle of abuse that we the audience repeated in T1 when we gave her that verdict. A red flashing warning sign about the Inhumanity and Monsterous qualities of Amane Momose. But Amane as a monster is fufilling and freeing. Again, its deeply cathartic. I would write more if I wasnt so sleepy at the moment but its just some Fantastic work overall. Purge March is also just fantasitic vocally and also hids electricity sounds in the instrumental which I think is evil and awesome."

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-Amane’s vocals and how they slowly get more and more off the deep end is both really sad and cool to watch.

-The symbolism of the marching band and the flags. Ifykyk

-The beginning where it sounds like a propaganda TV show… really shows just how far Amane’s thinking is rooted in her cult and how that’s shaped her perception.

-The LYRICS. They work so well but it’s also creepy AF considering it’s a child who’s singing it.

-“So there is no second time, I’ll give back the judgment that you gave to me!”

-The overlapping part… gives me chills everytime.

-Building off the last point, the last “I’ll crush your throat too.” Ouch.

-“Remember MY cries, MY repents, MY words of “I’m sorry” that I said to you?”

-The song also does a great job of showing how much the guilty verdict messed with her.