#the targets are completely arbitrary

[talysalankil]

well. it's going so far

[byoldervine]

How To (Realistically) Make A Habit Of Writing

To clarify: Works with my autism. WORKS WITH MY AUTISM!!! I’ve been meeting my goals since I made them my New Year’s resolution! Anyway I’m so sick of all those ‘how to’ guides that don’t actually tell you what the process is they’re just like ‘just do it, but don’t burn yourself out, do what’s best for you!’ because you’re not telling me what I’m not supposed to be burning myself out over but okay, so I made my own. Hope this helps

1. Choose your fighter metric. What works better for you as a measurement of your progress; time spent writing or your word count? Personally I get very motivated and encouraged by seeing my word count go up and making a note of where it should be when I’m done, so I measure by that. At the same time, a lot of people are also very discouraged by their word count and it can negatively impact their motivation to write, and in that case you may be better off working from how much time you spend writing rather than where the word count is

2. Choose your starter Pokémon time frame. How often can you write before it starts to feel like a chore or a burden rather than something fun you look forward to? Many people believe that they have to write daily, but for some people this can do more harm than good. Maybe every two or three days? Weekly? Figure out what fits your schedule and go with it

3. Choose your funny third joke goal. Now that you’ve got your chosen time frame to complete your goal in, what’s a reasonable goal to aim to complete within that time frame based on the metric you chose? If your metric is your word count, how much can you reasonably and consistently write within your chosen time frame? If your metric is time spent writing, how much time can you reasonably and consistently spend writing within that time? Maybe 1000 words per week works, or maybe 10 minutes per day? The goal here is to find something that works for you and your own schedule without burning you out

4. Trial and error. Experiment with your new target and adapt it accordingly. Most people can’t consistently write 1667 words per day like you do in NaNoWriMo, so we want to avoid that and aim somewhere more reasonable. If you feel like it’s too much to do in such a short time frame, either give yourself less to do or more time to do it in. If you find yourself begrudgingly writing so often that it constantly feels more like a chore than something fun, maybe consider adapting things. And if you think that you gave yourself too much wiggle room and you could do more than this consistently, give yourself more of a challenge. Everything needs to suit you and your pace and needs

5. Run your own race. Don’t feel like you’re not accomplishing enough in comparison to others or not working fast enough to satisfy some arbitrary feeling of doubt. Everybody works at their own pace and slower work doesn’t mean worse work. You could be on one word per day and you’ll still see consistent results, which is still one word per day more than you could originally count on. All progress is progress, regardless of its speed

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Predicting the present

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

https://pluralistic.net/2024/12/09/radicalized/#deny-defend-depose

Back in 2018, around the time I emailed my immigration lawyer about applying for US citizenship, I started work on a short story called "Radicalized," which eventually became the title story of a collection that came out in 2019:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250228598/radicalized/

"Radicalized" is a story about America, and about guns, and about health care, and about violence. I live in Burbank, which is ranks second in gun-stores-per-capita in the USA, a dubious honor that represents a kind of regulatory arbitrage with our neighboring goliath, the City of Los Angeles, where gun store licensing is extremely tight. If you're an Angeleno in search of a firearm, you're almost certainly coming to Burbank to buy it.

Walking, cycling and driving past more gun stores than I'd ever seen in my Canadian life got me thinking about Americans and guns, a subject that many Canadians have passed comment upon. Americans kill each other, and especially themselves, at rates that baffle everyone else in the world, and they do it with guns. When we moved here, my UK born-and-raised daughter came home from her first elementary school lockdown drill perplexed and worried. Knowing what I did about US gun violence, I understood that while school shootings and other spree killings happened with dismal and terrifying regularity, they only accounted for a small percentage of the gun deaths here. If you die with a bullet in you, the chances are that the finger on the trigger was your own. The next most likely suspect is someone you know. After that, a cop. Getting shot by a stranger out of uniform is something of a rarity here – albeit a spectacular one that captures our imaginations in ways that deliberate or accidental self-slayings and related-party shootings do not.

So I told her, "Look, you can basically ignore everything they tell you during those lockdown drills, because they almost certainly have nothing to do with your future. But if a friend ever says to you, 'Hey, wanna see my dad's gun?' I want you to turn around and leave and get in touch with me right away, that instant."

Guns turn the murderous impulse – which, let's be honest, we've all felt at some time or another – into a murderous act. Same goes for suicide, which explains the high levels of non-accidental self-shootings in the USA: when you've got a gun, the distance between suicidal ideation and your death is the ten feet from the sofa to the gun in the closet.

Americans get angry at people and then, if they have a gun to hand, sometimes they shoot them. In a thread /r/Burbank about how people at our local cinemas are rude and use their phones in which someone posted, "Well, you should just ask them to stop." The reply: "That's a great way to get shot." No one chimed in to say, "Don't be ridiculous, no one would shoot you for asking them to put away their phone during a movie." Same goes for "road rage."

And while Americans shoot people they've only just gotten angry at, they also sometimes plan shooting sprees and kill a bunch of people because they're just generically angry. Being angry about the state of the world is a completely relatable emotion, of course, but the targets of these shootings are arbitrary. Sure sometimes these killings have clear, bigoted targets – mass shootings at Black supermarkets or mosques or synagogues or gay bars – more often the people who get sprayed with bullets (at country and western concerts or elementary schools or movie theaters) are almost certainly not the people the gunman (almost always a man) is angry at.

This line of thought kept surfacing as I went through the immigration process, but not just when I was dealing with immigration paperwork. I was also spending an incredible amount of time dealing with our health insurer, Cigna, who kept refusing treatments my pain doctor – one of the most-cited pain researchers in the country – thought I would benefit from. I've had chronic pain since I was a teenager, and it's only ever gotten worse. I've had decades of pain care in Canada and the UK, and while the treatments never worked for very long, it was never compounded by the kinds of bureaucratic stuff I went through with my US insurer.

The multi-hour phone calls with Cigna that went nowhere would often have me seeing red – literally, a red tinge closing in around my vision – and usually my hands would be shaking by the time I got off the call.

And I had it easy! I wasn't terminally ill, and I certainly wasn't calling in on behalf of a child or a spouse or parent who was seriously ill or dying, whose care was being denied by their insurer. Bernie's 2016 Medicare For All campaign promise had filled the air with statistics (Americans pay more for care and get worse outcomes than anyone else in the rich world), and stories. So many stories – stories that just tore your heart out, about parents who literally had to watch their children die because the insurance they paid for refused to treat their kids. As a dad, I literally couldn't imagine how I'd cope in that situation. Just thinking about it filled me with rage.

One day, as I was swimming in the community pool across the street – a critical part of my pain management strategy – I was struck with a thought: "Why don't these people murder health insurance executives?" Not that I wanted them to. I don't want anyone to kill anyone. But why do American men who murder their wives and the people who cut them off in traffic and random classrooms full of children leave the health insurance industry alone? This is an industry that is practically designed to fill the people who interact with it with uncontrollable rage. I mean, if you're watching your wife or your kid die before your eyes because some millionaire CEO decided to aim for a $10 billion stock buyback this year instead of his customary $9 billion target, wouldn't you feel that kind of murderous rage?

Around this time, my parents came out for a visit from Canada. It was a great trip, until one night, my mom woke me up after midnight: "We have to take your father to the ER. He's really sick." He was: shaking, nauseated, feverish. We raced down the street to the local hospital, part of a gigantic chain that has swallowed nearly all the doctors' practices, labs and hospitals within an hour's drive of here.

Dad had kidney stones, and they'd gone septic. When the ER docs removed the stones, all the septic gunk in his kidneys was flushed into his bloodstream, and he crashed. If he hadn't been in an ER recovery room at the time, he would have died. As it was, he was in a coma for three days and it was touch and go. My brother flew down from Toronto, not sure if this was his last chance to see our dad alive. The nurses and doctors took great care of my dad, though, and three days later, he emerged from his coma, and today, he's better than ever.

But on day two, when we thought he was probably at the end of his life, as my mother sat at his side, holding the hand of her husband of fifty years, someone from the hospital billing department came to her side and said, "Mrs Doctorow, I know this is a difficult time, but I'd like to discuss the matter of your husband's bill with you."

The bill was $176,000. Thankfully, the travel medical insurance plan offered by the Ontario Teachers' Union pension covered it all (I don't suppose anyone gets very angry with them).

How do people tolerate this? Again, not in the sense of "people should commit violent acts in the face of these provocations," but rather, "How is it that in a country filled with both assault rifles and unimaginable acts of murderous cruelty committed by fantastically wealthy corporations, people don't leap from their murderous impulses to their murderous weapons to commit murderous acts?

For me, writing fiction is an accretive process. I can tell that a story is brewing when thoughts start rattling around in my mind, resurfacing at odd times. I think of them as stray atoms, seeking molecules with available docking sites to glom onto. I process all my emotions – but especially my negative ones – through this process, by writing stories and novels. I could tell that something was cooking, but it was missing an ingredient.

Then I found it: an interview with the woman who coined the term "incel." It was on the Reply All podcast, and Alana, a queer Canadian woman explained that she had struggled all her life to find romantic and sexual partnership, and jokingly started referring to herself as "involuntarily celibate," and then, as an "incel":

https://gimletmedia.com/shows/reply-all/76h59o

Alana started a message board where other "incels" could offer each other support, and it was remarkably successful. The incels on Alana's message board helped each other work through the problems that stood between them and love, and when they did, they drifted away from the board to pursue a happier life.

That was the problem, Alana explained. If you're in a support group for people with a drinking problem, the group elders, the ones who've been around forever, are the people who've figured it out and gotten sober. When life seems impossible, those elders step in to tell you, I know it's terrible right now, but it'll get better. I was where you are and I got through it. You will, too. I'm here for you. We all are.

But on Alana's incel board, the old timers were the people who couldn't figure it out. They were the ones for whom mutual support and advice didn't help them figure out what they needed to do in order to find the love they sought. The longer the message board ran, the more it became dominated by people who were convinced that it was hopeless, that love was impossible for the likes of them. When newbies posted in rage and despair, these Great Old Ones were there to feed it: You're right. It will never get better. It only gets worse. There is no hope.

That was the missing piece. My short story Radicalized was born. It's a story about men on a message board called Fuck Cancer Right In the Fucking Face (FCKRFF, or "Fuckriff"), who are watching the people they love the most in the world be murdered by their insurance companies, who egg each other on to spectacular acts of mass violence against health insurance company employees, hospital billing offices, and other targets of their rage. As of today, anyone can read this story for free, courtesy of my publishers at Macmillan, who gave permission for the good folks at The American Prospect to post it:

https://prospect.org/culture/books/2024-12-09-radicalized-cory-doctorow-story-health-care/

I often hear from people about this story, even before an unknown (at the time of writing) man assassinated Brian Thompson, CEO of Unitedhealthcare, the murderous health insurance monopoly that is the largest medical insurer in the USA. Since then, hundreds of people have gotten in touch with me to ask me how I feel about this turn of events, how it feels to have "predicted" this.

I've been thinking about it for a few days now, and I gotta tell you, I have complicated feelings.

You've doubtless seen the outpourings of sarcastic graveyard humor about Thompson's murder. People hate Unitedhealthcare, for good reason, because he personally decided – or approved – countless policies that killed people by cheating them until they died.

Nurses and doctors hate Thompson and United. United kills people, for money. During the most acute phase of the pandemic, the company charged the US government $11,000 for each $8 covid test:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/09/06/137300-pct-markup/#137300-pct-markup

UHC leads the nation in claims denials, with a denial rate of 32% (!!). If you want to understand how the US can spend 20% of its GDP and get the worst health outcomes in the world, just connect the dots between those two facts: the largest health insurer in human history charges the government a 183,300% markup on covid tests and also denies a third of its claims.

UHC is a vertically integrated, murdering health profiteer. They bought Optum, the largest pharmacy benefit manager ("A spreadsheet with political power" -Matt Stoller) in the country. Then they starved Optum of IT investment in order to give more money to their shareholders. Then Optum was hacked by ransomware gang and no one could get their prescriptions for weeks. This killed people:

https://www.economicliberties.us/press-release/malicious-threat-actor-accesses-unitedhealth-groups-monopolistic-data-exchange-harming-patients-and-pharmacists/#

The irony is, Optum is terrible even when it's not hacked. The purpose of Optum is to make you pay more for pharmaceuticals. If that's more than you can afford, you die. Optum – that is, UHC – kills people:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/23/shield-of-boringness/#some-men-rob-you-with-a-fountain-pen

Optum isn't the only murderous UHC division. Take Navihealth, an algorithm that United uses to kick people out of their hospital beds even if they're so frail, sick or injured they can't stand or walk. Doctors and nurses routinely watch their gravely ill patients get thrown out of their hospitals. Many die. UHC kills them, for money:

https://prospect.org/health/2024-08-16-steward-bankruptcy-physicians-private-equity/

The patients murdered by Navihealth are on Medicare Advantage. Medicare is the public health care system the USA extends to old people. Medicare Advantage is a privatized system you can swap your Medicare coverage for, and UHC leads the country in Medicare Advantage, blitzing seniors with deceptive ads that trick them into signing up for UHC Medicare Advantage. Seniors who do this lose access to their doctors and specialists, have to pay hundreds or thousands of dollars for their medication, and get hit with $400 surprise bills to use the "free" ambulance service:

https://prospect.org/health/2024-12-05-manhattan-medicare-murder-mystery/

No wonder the public spends 22% more subsidizing Medicare Advantage than they spend on the care for seniors who stick with actual Medicare:

https://theconversation.com/taxpayers-spend-22-more-per-patient-to-support-medicare-advantage-the-private-alternative-to-medicare-that-promised-to-cost-less-241997

It's not just the elderly, it's also the addicted and mentally ill. UHC illegally denies coverage for mental health and substance abuse treatment. Imagine watching a family member spiral out of control, ODing, or ending up on the streets with hallucinations, and knowing that the health insurance company that takes thousands of dollars out of your paycheck refused to treat them:

https://www.startribune.com/unitedhealthcare-will-pay-15-7m-in-settlement-of-denial-of-care-charges/600087607

Unsurprising, the internal culture at UHC is callous beyond belief. How could it not be? How could you go to work at UHC and know you were killing people and not dehumanize those victims? A lawsuit by chronically ill patient whom UHC had denied care for surfaced recorded phone calls in which UHC employees laughed long and hard about the denied claims, dismissing the patient's desperate, tearful pleas as "tantrums" :

https://www.propublica.org/article/unitedhealth-healthcare-insurance-denial-ulcerative-colitis

Those UHC workers are just trying to get by, of course, and the callouses they develop so they can bear to go to work were ripped off by last week's murder. UHC's executive team knows this, and has gone on a rampage to stop employees from leaking their own horror stories, or even mentioning that the internal company announcement of Thompson's death was seen by 16,000 employees, of whom only 28 left a comment:

https://www.kenklippenstein.com/p/unitedhealthcare-tells-employees

Doctors and nurses hate UHC on behalf of their patients, but it's also personal. UHC screws doctor's practices by refusing to pay them, making them chase payments for months or even years, and then it offers them a payday lending service that helps them keep the lights on while they wait to get paid:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=frr4wuvAB6U

Is it any surprise that Reddit's nursing forums are full of nurses making grim, satisfied jokes about the assassination of the $10m/year CEO who ran the $400b/year corporation that does all this?

https://www.thedailybeast.com/leading-medical-subreddit-deletes-thread-on-unitedhealthcare-ceos-murder-after-users-slam-his-record/

We're not supposed to experience – much less express – schadenfreude when someone is murdered in the street, no matter who they are. We're meant to express horror at the idea of political violence, even when that violence only claims a single life, a fraction of the body count UCH produced under Thompson's direction. As Malcolm Harris put it, "'Every life is precious' stuff about a healthcare CEO whose company is noted for denying coverage is pretty silly":

https://twitter.com/BigMeanInternet/status/1864471932386623753

As Woody Guthrie wrote, "Some will rob you with a six-gun/And some with a fountain pen." The weapon is lethal when it's a pistol and when it's an insurance company. The insurance company merely serves as an accountability sink, a layer of indirection that lets a murder happen without any person being the technical murderer:

https://profilebooks.com/work/the-unaccountability-machine/

I don't want people to kill insurance executives, and I don't want insurance executives to kill people. But I am unsurprised that this happened. Indeed, I'm surprised that it took so long. It should not be controversial to note that if you run an institution that makes people furious, they will eventually become furious with you. This is the entire pitch of Thomas Piketty's Capital in the 21st Century: that wealth concentration leads to corruption, which is destabilizing, and in the long run it's cheaper to run a fair society than it is to pay for the guards you'll need to keep the guillotines off your lawn:

https://memex.craphound.com/2014/06/24/thomas-pikettys-capital-in-the-21st-century/

But we've spent the past 40 years running in the other direction, maximizing monopolies, inequality and corruption, and gaslighting the public when they insist that this is monstrous and unfair. Back in 2022, when UHC was buying Change Healthcare – the dominant payment network for hospitals, which would allow UHC to surveil all its competitors' payments – the DOJ sued to block the merger. The Trump-appointed judge in the case, Carl Nichols – who owned tens of thousands of dollars in UHC bonds – ruled against the DOJ, saying that it would all be fine thanks to United's "culture of trust and integrity":

https://www.thebignewsletter.com/p/the-antitrust-shooting-war-has-started

We don't know much about Thompson's killer yet, but he's already becoming a folk hero, with lookalike contests in NYC:

https://twitter.com/CollinRugg/status/1865472577478553976

And gigantic graffiti murals praising him and reproducing the words he wrote on the shell casings of the bullets he used to kill Thompson, "delay, deny, depose":

https://www.tumblr.com/radicalgraff/769193188403675136/killin-fuckin-ceos-freight-graff-in-the-bay

I get why this is distasteful. Thompson is said to have been a "family man" who loved his kids, and I have no reason to disbelieve this. I can only imagine that his wife and kids are shattered by this. Every living person is the apex of a massive project involving dozens, hundreds of people who personally worked to raise, nurture and love them. I wrote about this in my novel Walkaway, as the characters consider whether to execute a mercenary sent to kill them, whom they have taken hostage:

She had parents. People who loved her. Every human was a hyper-dense node of intense emotional and material investment. Speaking meant someone had spent thousands of hours cooing to you. Those lean muscles, the ringing tone of command — their inputs were from all over the world, carefully administered. The merc was more than a person: like a spaceship launch, her existence implied thousands of skilled people, generations of experts, wars, treaties, scholarship and supply-chain management. Every one of them was all that.

But so often, the formula for "folk hero" is "killing + time." The person who terrorizes the people who terrorize you is your hero, and eventually we sanitize the deaths, and just remember them as fighters for justice. If you doubt it, consider the legend of Robin Hood:

https://twitter.com/mcmansionhell/status/1865554985842352501

The health industry is trying to put a lid on this, palpably afraid that – as in my story "Radicalized" – this one murderer will become a folk hero who inspires others to acts of spectacular violence. They're insisting that it's unseemly to gloat about Thompson's death. They're right, but this is an obvious loser strategy. The health industry is full of people whose deaths would be deplorable, but not unsurprising. As Clarence Darrow had it:

I’ve never wished a man dead, but I have read some obituaries with great pleasure.

Murder is never the answer. Murder is not a healthy response to corruption. But it is healthy for people to fear that if they kill people for greed, they will be unsafe. On December 5 – the day after Thompson's killing – the health insurer Anthem announced that it would not pay for anesthesia for medical procedures that ran long. The next day, they retracted the policy, citing "outrage":

https://www.cnn.com/2024/12/05/health/anthem-blue-cross-blue-shield-anesthesia-claim-limits/index.html

Sure, maybe it was their fear of reputation damage that got them to decide to reverse this inhumane, disgusting, murderous policy. But maybe it was also someone in the C-suite thinking about what share of the profits from this policy would have to be spent on additional bodyguards for every Anthem exec if it went into effect, and decided that it was a money-loser after all.

Think about hospital exec Ralph de la Torre, who cheerfully testified to Congress that he'd killed patients in pursuit of profit. De la Torre clearly doesn't fear any kind of consequences for his actions. He owns hospitals that are filled with tens of thousands of bats (he stiffed the exterminators), where none of the elevators work (he stiffed the repair techs), where there's no medicine or blood (he stiffed the suppliers) and where the doctors and nurses can't make rent (he stiffed them too). De La Torre doesn't just own hospitals – he also owns a pair of superyachts:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/28/5000-bats/#charnel-house

It is a miracle that so many people have lost their mothers, sons, wives and husbands so Ralph de la Torre could buy himself another superyacht, and that those people live in a country where you can buy an assault rifle, and that Ralph de la Torre isn't forced to live in a bunker and travel in a tank.

It's a rather beautiful sort of miracle, to be honest. I like to think that it comes from a widespread belief by the people of this country I have since become a citizen of, that we should solve our problems politically, rather than with bullets.

But the assassination of Brian Thompson is a wake-up call, a warning that if we don't solve this problem politically, we may not have a choice about whether it's solved with violence. As a character in "Radicalized" says, "They say violence never solves anything, but to quote The Onion: that's only true so long as you ignore all of human history":

https://prospect.org/culture/books/2024-12-09-radicalized-cory-doctorow-story-health-care/

[badathumanemotions]

Hello! I don't know if you're taking requests, but if you are I'm begging for an emily prentiss × female!reader with a dom/sub dynamic involving... Scissoring (I don't know if that's how you say it, but that's how I'm going to say it) after a difficult private case involving children (which is Emily's weak point) and I thought about breeding kinks, if possible (I think it's hot involving sapphic couples). Please?

The Quiet After

Emily Prentiss x femReader

MDNI Masterlist Category: Smut CW: Normal Criminal Minds Warnings, Case Involving Children, BAU Reader, Angst, Smut, Oral Sex, Tribidism, Scissoring, Strap On, Breeding Kink, Light Dom/Sub, Comfort. WC: 7,852 *Updated* Completely missed the first section while transferring it over, sorry about that. (Not Proof Read)

The case weighs heavily on Emily. It’s in her eyes—those tired, worn-out eyes you’ve come to know better than anyone else’s. She doesn’t let it show on the surface, but you can feel it. You know her. And this case, with the kids, is getting to her in a way that’s deeper than usual.

You watch her for a moment, standing at the board, her fingers tracing the photos of the missing children. The unsub believes he’s doing them a favour—taking them to a “better” place. It’s not hard to guess why it hits Emily so hard. There’s a part of her, a quiet, secret part, that wants to be a mother. She’s told you once, during one of those rare moments when she lets her guard down, when it’s just the two of you, and she’s soft, vulnerable in ways that few people get to see.

You’ve seen the subtle changes—the way her hands linger over the files of the kids, her shoulders tightening as the day stretches on. She’s struggling, but you’re here. You’re with her. And even when the case is consuming her, she finds ways to steal small moments with you, little gestures that recharge her.

A quiet kiss behind the SUV after the briefing. Her hand slipping into yours as you walk to the next scene. The brief press of her lips to your temple when she thinks no one’s looking. It’s in these moments that you can feel her ground herself again, as if your touch can remind her that she’s not alone in this.

The board in the conference room is covered with photos of the missing children, their faces staring back at you. There are seven so far, ranging in age from five to eleven. Beneath each photo are snapshots of their lives—school pictures, candid moments from birthday parties, photos scraped from social media. It’s a cruel juxtaposition against the grim reality of their current circumstances.

“The unsub is targeting children they perceive as neglected,” Spencer explains, standing near the map dotted with pins marking the locations of the abductions. “But their definition of neglect seems warped. The children’s backgrounds don’t show significant patterns of abuse or systemic failures.”

“It’s subjective,” Emily adds, her voice sharp and focused. “They’re acting on personal judgment, deciding these kids aren’t being cared for based on arbitrary criteria—like an out-of-context moment or assumption about the family dynamic.” Her arms are crossed tightly over her chest, a shield against the emotions brimming beneath the surface.

Garcia clicks through slides on the projector, her voice uncharacteristically subdued. “This is Evan Marshall, eight years old. His mom works two jobs, so he’s often in the care of his older sister. She’s fifteen. CPS has never been involved. Teachers describe him as happy and well-adjusted.”

The photo shifts to a girl no older than twelve. “And this is Sophia Grant. Her dad is a single parent. No abuse on record, but the unsub might have seen him disciplining her in public. And then there’s Mia Lang, five years old. Her parents had a loud argument at a grocery store a week before she was taken. Someone might have seen that and made assumptions.”

“They think they’re saving these kids from a horrible life,” JJ says, shaking her head. “But in reality, they’re just ripping them away from their families.”

Spencer frowns, adding, “It’s likely that the unsub sees themselves as a redeemer, correcting what they perceive as societal failures. Each abduction reinforces their sense of righteousness. The more they take, the more justified they feel.”

A heavy silence falls over the room. The photos on the board feel suffocating. Seven children—snatched away under the guise of salvation, only to be murdered by someone who thinks they’re better off dead.

Emily’s gaze lingers on the images longer than the others. Her jaw tightens, and you can almost see the turmoil brewing beneath her composed exterior. This isn’t just another case for her. It’s personal in ways she hasn’t fully shared with anyone but you.

Later, during a quieter moment, you find her standing by the SUVs in the parking lot, her back to the building. Her fingers worry the strap of her holster, a nervous habit she doesn’t even realize she’s doing.

You approach slowly, your footsteps pulling her from her thoughts. She looks up, her expression softening slightly when her eyes meet yours.

“Hey,” you say, your voice gentle as you step closer.

She doesn’t speak immediately, but she doesn’t resist when you slide your hand into hers, offering her an anchor.

“I hate this case,” she finally admits, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s not just the kids. It’s the way the unsub thinks they’re doing the right thing. That they’re justified.”

You nod, squeezing her hand lightly. “It’s awful. But we’ll find them, Emily. You’ll find them.”

Her jaw clenches, and for a moment, you think she’s going to argue, but then she exhales a shaky breath and nods. “I hope so,” she murmurs.

Her hand tightens around yours, grounding herself in your touch. It’s a stolen moment, brief but powerful, as she lets herself lean into you. The team doesn’t need to see this—the way she recharges herself in the quiet moments you share.

“You okay?” you ask softly, your free hand brushing a strand of hair from her face.

Her eyes meet yours, and though the exhaustion is clear, there’s gratitude there too. “I will be,” she says, her voice steadier now.

You stand there together for a little longer, the weight of the case momentarily lighter between you. It’s enough to remind her—and you—that she’s not in this alone.

The tension in the room was electric as the team pieced together the final parts of the unsub’s profile. Spencer’s rapid-fire monologue laid out the psychological motivations, each word building up a picture of the unsub.

“The unsub’s fixation stems from a personal history of perceived neglect,” he explained, his hands moving animatedly as he spoke. “They’re projecting their own experiences onto these children and making judgment calls based on fleeting observations. The perceived neglect—a single-parent household, a sibling as a caretaker—is triggering their need to intervene.”

“They’re likely observing the children over time,” JJ added. “The unsub is targeting families that seem chaotic or unconventional from the outside, but these are often normal, loving homes. They’re misinterpreting moments—like a parent raising their voice in public or an older sibling looking overwhelmed—as signs of neglect.”

Emily’s arms were crossed tightly, her jaw set in a way you recognized. She was focused, determined, and more emotionally invested than she’d ever admit in front of the team.

“What we’ve seen so far suggests they’re escalating,” JJ added, her voice heavy with concern. “They’ve gone from abducting children every few weeks to every few days. If we don’t move fast, there’s going to be another victim.”

“Garcia, do we have anything on their potential location?” Hotch’s voice cut through the discussion with its usual authority.

Garcia’s fingers flew across her keyboard, her eyes scanning through reams of property records, utility bills, and work schedules for any anomaly that might point to a suspect. “I’m narrowing down properties owned or rented by individuals with ties to these areas," she said, her voice tense but determined. "I’m looking for someone whose daily routine brings them into contact with children in these areas—a school bus driver, a delivery person, someone who works near parks or schools. Those interactions might be how they observed the kids." She glanced at the screen. "Cross-referencing every property associated with individuals fitting the profile within a fifty-mile radius of the abduction sites. Hang tight, my loves, I’ll have something soon."

Moments later, her screen lit up with a match. "Okay, I’ve got something. George Lyman, 38 years old, works as a postal carrier in the targeted areas. His route regularly takes him through neighbourhoods where each of the victims lived. He’s single, no criminal record, but… oh." Garcia paused, her tone shifting. "He has a history of child protective services reports from his own childhood. His parents were flagged multiple times for physical and emotional abuse, but every time George ran away, he was returned to them. There are records of repeated visits by social workers, but nothing was ever done to remove him from the home.”

Emily’s face darkened. “So he sees himself in these kids, believes he’s saving them.”

Hotch nodded. “That fits with the profile. What else do we have on him?”

“He rents a farmhouse just outside town,” Garcia continued. “It’s isolated and matches the description of the type of location we’ve been looking for. I’m sending you the address now.”

You caught Emily’s eye across the room. The exhaustion in her face was mirrored in your own, but beneath it, you saw the same resolve. You gave her a small nod, and she returned it—just a fraction, but it was enough to steady you both.

The drive to the farmhouse was tense. Emily sat beside you, her leg bouncing with restless energy. She’d barely spoken since the briefing, and you knew better than to press her. Instead, you let your pinky brush hers on the console between you, a silent reassurance. She glanced at you briefly, the corners of her mouth twitching in a ghost of a smile, before turning her focus back to the road ahead.

The farmhouse loomed in the distance, its silhouette stark against the darkening sky. The team split into pairs, surrounding the property. You were with Emily, your weapons drawn as you moved toward the back entrance.

“Ready?” you whispered.

She nodded, her jaw tightening. “Let’s do this.”

The door creaked open under Emily’s firm push, revealing a dimly lit interior that smelled of damp wood and decay. You swept the first room together, clearing it quickly before moving deeper into the house. Upstairs, muffled voices and a child’s cry sent a chill down your spine.

Emily held up a hand, signalling you to pause. She leaned toward you, her voice barely audible. “They’re up there. We need to be careful.”

You nodded, your heart hammering in your chest. Together, you ascended the stairs, each step deliberate and silent. At the top, you found yourselves in a long hallway, the sound of the child’s cries growing louder. Emily gestured to the farthest door, and you both moved toward it.

Hotch’s voice came through your comm. “We’ve cleared the lower level. The house is empty except for one suspect. Any sign of the child?”

Emily responded quietly, “We’re about to breach a room on the second floor. Stand by.”

You reached the door and exchanged a glance with her. This was it. Emily counted down with her fingers, and on three, you burst into the room together.

The room was small, its walls covered with old wallpaper curling at the edges. A man stood in the center, his grip tight on a terrified boy’s arm. The child, no older than eight, was trembling, his tear-streaked face pale with fear.

“FBI!” Emily shouted, her voice commanding. “Drop the weapon and let the boy go!”

The unsub’s eyes were wild, darting between you and Emily. He clutched a knife in his free hand, the blade trembling as much as his fingers. “You don’t understand,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’m saving him.”

“Saving him from what?” you asked, keeping your voice calm. “He needs his family. Whatever you think you’re doing, this isn’t the way to help.”

The unsub shook his head violently. “No one cared about me! No one ever cared! They won’t care about him either!”

Emily took a slow, careful step forward, her gun still trained on the man. “George, listen to me. You’re scared, and you’re hurting, but this isn’t the answer. Look at him—he’s just a child. You can’t make him go through what you did.”

For a moment, something flickered in George’s eyes—hesitation, maybe even regret. His grip on the knife faltered, his hand trembling. But then, in an instant, he pulled the boy closer, the blade pressing against the child’s neck.

“Stay back!” George screamed, his voice breaking. “Don’t make me do this!”

Your heart raced as you saw the terror in the boy’s eyes. Emily’s voice remained steady, though you could hear the edge of desperation in it. “You don’t have to do this, George. Put the knife down, and we’ll talk. No one else has to get hurt.”

The standoff stretched into agonizing seconds, every muscle in your body coiled and ready to move. You caught Emily’s eye, and she gave the slightest nod—silent confirmation of the plan forming between you.

In a swift motion, Emily fired, her shot hitting George’s shoulder with pinpoint accuracy. The knife clattered to the floor as George cried out in pain, his grip on the boy loosening. You didn’t hesitate, lunging forward and pulling the child into your arms, shielding him as Emily rushed to subdue the unsub.

“It’s okay,” you whispered to the boy, your voice gentle as you held him close. “You’re safe now. We’ve got you.”

The boy clung to you, his small hands gripping your shirt as he sobbed uncontrollably. You crouched on the floor with him, your body positioned protectively between him and the rest of the room.

Emily secured George with practiced efficiency, her jaw tight as she snapped the handcuffs into place. She glanced over at you and the boy, her expression softening ever so slightly when she saw you murmuring reassurances to him.

The rest of the team arrived moments later, the tension in the room finally breaking as Hotch and Morgan took over. Emily walked over to you, crouching beside you and the boy.

“Hey,” she said softly, her voice a stark contrast to the authority she’d wielded moments ago. “You’re safe now. Can you tell me your name?”

The boy hiccupped through his tears. “E-Evan,” he managed.

Emily smiled gently. “Evan, you’re so brave. We’re going to take you home, okay?”

He nodded, his grip on you loosening just enough for Emily to brush a comforting hand over his back.

As the team began to clear the scene and escort George out, you stayed with Evan, his small frame still trembling against yours. Emily stood, giving you a brief but meaningful look before stepping away to help the others.

You held Evan a little tighter, feeling the weight of his fear and relief as if it were your own. In that moment, nothing else mattered but making sure he felt safe.

The boy, Evan, was safely in the hands of the paramedics now, his sobs slowly subsiding as he clung to one of the responders. The team had the unsub secured, and the farmhouse was already being cleared. You felt a wave of exhaustion wash over you as you watched them lead Evan to safety, but it wasn’t over yet.

“Good job, everyone,” Hotch said, his voice steady, even in the aftermath. “Let’s wrap this up.”

The drive back home was quiet, the weight of the case still hanging heavy in the air. You sat beside Emily, your fingers brushing occasionally, the small touches speaking volumes. She was focused on the road, her jaw tense, but you could see the weariness in her eyes. You didn’t speak, neither of you needed to, but your proximity was a comfort—a grounding force amid the chaos of the case.

By the time you made it to your shared apartment, the evening had settled into a quiet calm, but the emotions of the day were far from gone. You both stepped out of the SUV, the cool night air feeling sharper now as it hit your skin. Without a word, you walked side by side into the building, up to your apartment, and inside.

The door clicked shut behind you, and just like that, the quiet of the apartment surrounded you both, cutting through the exhaustion that clung to your bones.

Emily didn’t say anything. She simply kicked off her shoes, then reached for you, pulling you into a tight embrace. Her arms were strong, but there was something softer about this moment—more raw than you’d seen in her before. It was as if she couldn’t bear to let go of you, even for a second.

Then she leaned in, her breath warm against your cheek. Her kiss took you by surprise—intimate and urgent. It was as if she was trying to erase the horror of the day with the press of her lips to yours. You didn’t resist. You couldn’t. Instead, you melted into it, letting the heat of her touch seep into your very soul.

Her arms wound around your waist, pulling you closer, until there wasn’t an inch of space between you. Your hands found their way to her hair, tangling in the soft strands as the kiss grew deeper, more desperate. It was a kiss filled with fear and anger, but also with a fierce love and a need to be connected—to be human.

Without breaking away, you both stumbled into the bedroom. The door clicked shut, cutting off the outside world, leaving just the two of you. You didn’t bother with the lights, the moon casting enough of a glow through the windows to navigate the room. Her hands were everywhere—on your neck, your back, sliding down to your ass—and you could feel the urgency in every touch, as if she was trying to claim you as her own.

Emily’s strength was surprising as she hoisted you onto the bed. You felt your breath hitch as she looked down at you, a wild hunger burning in her gaze. You could see the need etched on her features, the same need echoing in your own chest. It was raw, animalistic, and you craved it like a drug.

Her hands moved to the buttons of your shirt, deftly undoing them one by one. Each button released cool air against your skin, causing goosebumps to break out. She took her time, kissing each inch of exposed flesh as if she were worshipping it, her lips leaving a trail of fire in their wake. The fabric parted to reveal your bra, and she took a moment to simply look at you, her eyes darkening with desire.

Emily’s fingertips danced along the lace, tracing the edge of your bra before gently pushing the fabric up to reveal your breasts. She took one nipple into her mouth, her tongue swirling around it in a slow, tantalizing dance that had you arching off the bed. The sensation was exquisite, and you couldn’t help but moan, your hands fisting in the sheets. Her other hand found its way to your waistband, and she began to unbuckle your belt with an agonizing slowness that made you want to scream in frustration.

Her kisses travelled down your torso, each one more urgent than the last. She kissed your stomach, her breath tickling the sensitive skin, and you felt your abs clench in anticipation. As she reached the button of your pants, she paused, her eyes meeting yours. You nodded, giving her the silent go-ahead, your body aching for her touch.

Your pants fell away, revealing the simple cotton panties that were already damp with need. Emily’s gaze was intense, her pupils dilated with desire. Her hand reached out, tracing the waistband of your underwear with the back of her fingers before she hooked them and slowly began to pull them down.

Her eyes were focused as the fabric slid over your hips, exposing the wetness that had gathered between your legs. You watched her face, the hunger in her expression unmistakable. It sent a thrill through you, a heady mix of desire and power, knowing you could do this to her.

Emily’s fingertips brushed over your inner thighs, sending shivers of anticipation through your body. You spread your legs wider, silently begging for her touch. She didn’t make you wait long. With a soft, almost reverent sigh, she reached down and parted your folds with the tips of her fingers. You gasped as she touched you, the sensation of her skin against yours sending heat through your core.

Her touch was gentle at first—exploratory. She traced the length of your slit, her fingertips slipping through your slickness and circling your clit with maddening precision. Your hips rocked upward, seeking more pressure, but she took her time, her eyes studying your reactions. Each touch was calculated, a silent exploration of what you liked, what you needed.

Then, her fingers entered you, sliding in smoothly. You bit your lip to stifle a moan as she began to move, setting a slow, deliberate pace that had you panting. Her thumb found your clit, stroking it in time with the movement of her fingers. It was a sweet agony, the anticipation of what was to come building with every second that passed.

She brought her mouth to your pussy, her tongue swiping over your clit with a gentle touch that had you trembling. She took her time, savouring every part of you, and when she finally closed her lips around the sensitive bud, you couldn’t hold back the gasp.

Her suckling grew more intense, each pull sending shockwaves through your body. Her teeth grazed you gently, not quite biting, but adding an edge to the pleasure that had you digging your nails into the bedspread. Emily’s hand gripped your thigh, holding you in place as she explored your depths, her fingers moving in tandem with her mouth.

As the tension grew, you felt your body begin to quiver. You reached down to stroke her hair, needing to feel connected to her in every way possible. She took your cue, increasing her pace, her tongue flicking against your clit with a rhythm that had your toes curling. Your breathing grew ragged, your moans echoing through the room.

Emily’s own need was palpable. You could see it in the way her hips began to rock back and forth, grinding her core against the edge of the bed. She was so focused on bringing you pleasure that she forgot about herself. But you weren’t going to let that happen.

With trembling hands, you reached down and pulled Emily up onto the bed. Her body was a warm, solid weight against you. You both needed this—needed to feel each other, needed to be close.

You began to kiss her again, but this time, you were the one in charge. Your hands moved to her shirt, slipping it off her shoulders and down her arms, revealing her bare skin to the cool air. Her bra followed, and you took a moment to just look at her—her perfect breasts, the rosy tips of her nipples standing at attention.

Your tongue darted out, tracing the outline of one erect peak before closing your mouth around it. Emily gasped, her head falling back, and you took advantage, sucking gently as you teased the sensitive flesh. You felt her hands in your hair, her nails digging into your scalp as she pulled you closer, her hips bucking against you.

Your hands moved to her breasts, cupping the soft mounds before squeezing them firmly. Your thumbs flicked over the tightened buds, eliciting whimpers that only spurred you on. You could feel her nipples pebbled against your palms, the sensation sending jolts of desire straight to your own core. Emily’s breath grew shallower, her body arching towards you as you played her like an instrument.

With a sudden, urgent need to feel all of her, you slid your hand down her stomach, over the waistband of her pants. Your fingers worked the button and zipper with surprising dexterity, given how much your own hands were shaking. You pushed the fabric down, her underwear following, revealing her bare sex.

Emily’s thighs parted slightly, an unspoken invitation that you couldn’t resist. You gripped her thighs firmly, spreading her wider as you leaned in to taste her. Your tongue darted out, lapping up the wetness that had pooled at her entrance.

Her hips jerked in response, a soft whine escaping her as you found her clit, swollen and begging for attention. You took it into your mouth, sucking gently before swirling your tongue around it, feeling it pulse against you. Her legs quivered around your head, and you knew you had her exactly where you wanted her.

Your fingers slid into her, curling slightly to hit that spot inside that always made her moan. The sound was music to your ears, a symphony of need and desire that had you pressing harder, moving faster. Emily’s breath was coming in short gasps now, her body tightening with every stroke.

The two of you were a captivating mess—half-clothed and carelessly undone, tangled together on the bed in a chaotic, feverish embrace, completely consumed by desire. Emily’s eyes never left yours as you pleasured her, her gaze a blend of passion and something deeper—gratitude, perhaps, for this brief reprieve from the horrors of the case.

Her hips rolled against your mouth, and you knew she was close. You doubled your efforts, desperate to make her cum, to show her that amidst the chaos, she was cherished, loved. You added a second finger, curling them inside her in a come-hither motion that had her back bowing off the bed.

Emily’s breath grew ragged, her eyes squeezed shut as she whispered your name. You could feel her body tighten around your fingers, her muscles clenching as the first waves of her orgasm began to crash over her. You didn’t let up, your mouth working her clit, your other hand sliding up to pinch her nipple, twisting just enough to send sparks of painful pleasure shooting through her.

“Cum for me, Em,” you murmured against her folds, the vibration of your voice sending another tremor through her body. “Let go, baby.”

Emily’s eyes snapped open, meeting yours, and you could see the need there, the desperation in her gaze. You didn’t stop your relentless rhythm, didn’t ease up on her clit. You needed her to release, to feel the shattering pleasure that you knew was just out of reach.

Then, you began to hum—a low, steady vibration that resonated against her sensitive flesh. It was all it took. Her body went rigid, and then she was cumming, her orgasm ripping through her like a storm. Her cries filled the room, her hips jerking wildly against your face as you held her through it, her muscles pulsing around your fingers.

It was a beautiful sight—Emily’s release, raw and unbridled. You felt a sense of accomplishment, a fierce satisfaction at being the one to give it to her. But even as the first orgasm subsided, you didn’t stop. You knew her body, knew that with the right touches, you could coax more from her.

Your tongue remained on her clit, flicking gently through the aftershocks. Emily’s hips rolled, and you knew she was trying to pull away, to catch her breath, but you held her firm, keeping the pressure steady. It didn’t take much—just a few more strokes before she was gasping again, her body responding to your relentless pursuit of her pleasure.

Her second orgasm hit her like a surprise attack, stealing the breath from her lungs. She bucked against you, her pussy fluttering around your fingers. You groaned against her, the vibration of your voice sending another jolt through her.

Emily’s hands were in your hair now, her nails scraping at your scalp, holding you in place. You felt the tension in her thighs as she rode the waves of pleasure, her breath coming in panting gasps. You didn’t let up, your tongue and fingers working in tandem to milk every last drop of ecstasy from her trembling body.

As the second orgasm began to subside, you slowly pulled back, kissing your way up her body. You could feel her pulse beneath your lips, her chest heaving with each ragged breath. You looked into her eyes, searching for any sign of discomfort, but all you saw was a desperate hunger that mirrored your own.

Without a word, she rolled you over, her body straddling yours. Her hands found your face, pulling it closer until your mouths collided in a kiss that was as fiery as it was tender. She kissed you as if she were trying to consume you, her tongue delving into your mouth with an urgency that was almost desperate.

Emily’s hips began to move, grinding into yours with a rhythm that was both seductive and demanding. You could feel the heat of her core against yours, the wetness of her desire coating your skin. Your own need grew, your body responding instinctively to the pressure of hers.

Without breaking the kiss, you shifted, aligning your bodies so that your clits met. The sensation was electric, sending bolts of pleasure through your core. You moaned into her mouth, your legs locking together as you began to rock back and forth.

The wet sound of skin against skin grew louder, punctuating the air with each movement. Your hips rolled together in a sensual dance, the friction building between you. The pressure was exquisite, the feeling of her body against yours setting off sparks that threatened to ignite a wildfire.

You wrapped your arms around her, your hands finding purchase on her toned back as she ground into you. Your own hips met hers thrust for thrust, each movement bringing you closer to the edge. The scent of your combined arousal filled the room, a musky perfume that was intoxicating.

Her hips picked up speed, the friction between you growing more intense. You could feel the slickness of your desire as it coated your thighs, a testament to how badly you needed this release. Emily’s breath was hot against your neck, her teeth grazing your skin as she nipped and kissed her way down to your collarbone.

You both were so wet, the sound of your bodies sliding against each other filled the room. Your clits swollen and sensitive, the constant pressure sending waves of pleasure through your bodies. You wrapped your arms around her, pulling her closer, the heat of her breasts pressing into yours.

Emily’s hands slid down to your ass, gripping you firmly as she ground her hips into yours. The sensation was overwhelming, the friction sending jolts of pleasure through your body with every movement. Your own hips matched hers, the rhythm becoming more frenzied as you both chased the peak of your climax.

“You’re so wet for me, sweet girl,” she murmured against your neck, her voice a low growl of approval. The words sent a shiver of submission that you had desperately craved. You arched into her touch, your body begging for more.

Emily’s kiss grew more demanding, her tongue delving into your mouth as if she could taste your need. You could feel the tremble in her own body, the aftershocks of her recent orgasm still resonating through her. But she wasn’t done with you yet.

With a sudden shift, she pulled away, her eyes dark with intent. “Be a good girl and make me cum one more time,” she breathed, the words sending a new wave of lust through you. You nodded, eager to give her what she wanted, eager to feel her come apart in your arms again.

“I plan on getting my strap out and breeding you tonight, sweetheart,” Emily whispered in your ear, the promise of dominance in her voice sending a thrill through you. Your eyes widened at her words, the excitement of the turn in your intimate moment making your heart race.

With a sudden surge of need, your hips bucked against hers, your body desperately seeking the release that was just out of reach. Emily’s eyes lit up with approval, her grip on you tightening as she held you in place. “Looks like you want it as badly as I do,” she said with a smirk, her voice low and husky with desire.

You nodded, unable to form coherent words as you felt the pressure building again. Emily’s own hips began to rock, her movements more deliberate and forceful as she matched your rhythm. The feeling of her clit grinding against yours was heavenly, sending waves of pleasure crashing through your body. You could feel the heat from her core, the wetness of her desire, and it only made you want more.

The sound of her moans grew louder, filling the room. They were sweet and needy, urging you to give her what she craved. You responded in kind, your own sounds of pleasure mingling with hers. Each gasp, each whimper was a symphony of desire that spurred you onward.

Her hips rocked faster, the slickness of your arousal making it easier for her to glide against you. You could feel the tension coil tight in your stomach, your legs trembling with the effort to keep up. Your body was a live wire, ready to snap at any moment.

Emily’s moans grew louder, the sound of her pleasure pushing you closer and closer to your own release. Your own breath came in pants and gasps, your nails digging into the flesh of her back as you held on for dear life. You felt her get wetter, her movements growing more erratic as she approached climax.

“Cum for me, Emily, please,” you begged, the words spilling from your mouth like a prayer. The need to hear her fall apart, to feel her body convulse with pleasure was overwhelming. She threw her head back, her eyes squeezed shut, and you knew she was close.

With a few hard, desperate thrusts, you pushed against her, the friction between your bodies reaching a fever pitch. Emily’s hips stuttered, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. And then, she was there—her body tightening against yours, her cries filling the room as she shuddered with release.

The moment she came, you felt it—a rush of wetness that soaked the sheets beneath you. You couldn’t help but moan at the sensation, your own climax just a breath away. Emily’s eyes snapped open, and she stared down at you with a fierce hunger.

Then, she broke away, reaching for the bedside drawer. You watched as she pulled out a harness and a silicone dildo. The sight of it sent a thrill through you, a mix of excitement and trepidation. She looked into your eyes, her own alight with something primal.

“I’m going to fuck a baby into you,” Emily growls. It was a dark promise, a fantasy that sent a shiver down your spine. The words alone were enough to make your pussy throb with anticipation.

The harness was strapped around her hips, the dildo jutting out like an extension of her. She leaned over you, the tip brushing against your wetness, and you felt your body respond instinctively, your hips rising to meet it.

Emily took hold of your hips, her grip firm and commanding. You watched as she positioned the toy at your entrance. Then, with a single, powerful thrust, she plunged into your wet heat.

You cried out in pleasure, the feeling of fullness overwhelming you as she claimed you. Your eyes squeezed shut, and you couldn’t help but let your head fall back into the pillow, your body arching up to meet her. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, punctuated by your gasps and her growls of effort.

Emily’s eyes bore into yours, the intensity of her gaze making your heart race. “You’re mine,” she murmured, her voice low and possessive. “You’re going to carry my baby.”

The words hung in the air, coloured with desire and dominance. It was a heady mix, and you found yourself nodding, eager to submit to her every whim. The thought of being filled by her, of carrying a piece of her inside you, was intoxicating.

“Yes, Em,” you babbled out, your voice trembling with need. “I want it—please, take me, make me yours. I want to be filled with you, to carry your baby. Make me feel it, all of it. Don’t stop.”

Emily’s eyes blazed with desire, her pupils blown out. She leaned down, her breasts brushing against yours, and whispered, “You’re going to be so full, my love. Everyone will know you’re mine, that you’re carrying my child.”

With that, she began to move in earnest, setting a steady pace that had you whimpering. Each thrust filled you completely, the girth of the toy stretching your walls and hitting that spot inside that made your toes curl. Your hands clutched at her shoulders, your nails digging in as you tried to keep up with the sensations that were crashing over you like waves.

Her hips moved in a relentless rhythm, the dildo sliding in and out of you with ease. The room was filled with the sounds of your muffled cries and the slick sound of her movements. You could feel yourself building, your body responding to the eroticism of her words and actions.

Emily lifted one of your legs, changing the angle and hitting you deeper, harder. The sudden shift in sensation had you crying out, your hand flying to cover your mouth to keep the noise from escaping. Your eyes watered as she stared down at you, her expression one of pure determination.

Then, she grabbed your wrist, her grip surprisingly firm, and pulled your hand away from your mouth. "Don't you dare stifle those pretty little sounds," she demanded, a dark smile playing at the corners of her lips.

"I want the neighbours to hear how good I’m making you feel," Emily growled, the feral sound sending a shiver down your spine. She pulled out almost all the way before slamming back into you, the force of her thrust making the bed frame shake. Your moan was loud, echoing through the apartment, and you felt a thrill knowing that anyone close by could hear the unmistakable sounds of your passion.

Her hips picked up speed, the slap of her thighs against yours growing louder. Each thrust sent a jolt of pleasure through your body, and you found yourself letting go, moaning louder and louder, the sounds bouncing off the walls.

Emily’s grip on your hips tightened as she pulled you down onto her silicone cock, the friction building between your bodies. She was relentless, her movements powerful and possessive. You could feel yourself getting wetter, the sound of your slickness mingling with your cries of pleasure.

Her other hand found its way to your throat, not squeezing but rather holding you in place as she claimed you. The dominance was intoxicating, and you found yourself leaning into it, your body begging for more.

As Emily’s strokes grew more intense, so did her words, whispered into your ear like dark promises. "You’re going to carry my baby," she repeated, her voice a mix of a command and a desperate plea. "You’re going to be so full of me, so ripe with life."

The thought sent you spiralling, your body responding in kind. You felt your orgasm building, the pressure in your core tightening with each thrust. "Yes, Emily," you moaned, your voice breaking. "I want it—want to be filled with you, to carry your baby."

Her eyes lit up with triumph at your words, her movements growing even more frenzied. She leaned down, her teeth grazing your neck as she whispered, "You're going to cum for me, aren't you?" It was a question, but there was no doubt in her tone.

You nodded, unable to form words as the pleasure mounted, threatening to overwhelm you. Emily's grip on your throat tightened slightly, a silent command to look at her as she took you over the edge. Your eyes widened as your climax approached your body tightening around the silicone cock.

"Emily, please," you managed to choke out, the desperation in your voice clear. "I need to feel you cum in me."

Her eyes darkened at the words, and she leaned in closer, her breath hot against your skin. "You want it that badly?" she whispered, her hips grinding into you.

You could only nod, the anticipation of her release almost too much to bear. Emily’s eyes searched yours, a silent question before she leaned down and whispered, "You’re going to feel every drop of me filling you up, baby. You’re going to be so full."

Her words sent you over the edge. Your orgasm was intense, your vision swimming with stars as wave after wave of pleasure washed over you. You could feel Emily’s own excitement in her tightened grip, her hips moving faster as she watched you come apart beneath her. It was as if your pleasure fuelled hers, her thrusts becoming more urgent, more demanding.

As your climax subsided, she leaned in to kiss you, her breath ragged and her eyes bright with desire. But she didn’t stop moving, the toy still buried deep inside you. The feeling of fullness remained, a delicious reminder of your shared fantasy.

Emily’s kisses grew more tender, her movements slowing to a gentle rocking that kept the pleasure simmering without letting it boil over again. Each thrust was deliberate, drawing out every sensation, making you feel cherished and owned. It was a tender domination that made you melt into the mattress beneath her.

With surprising grace, she shifted your positions so that you were both laying on your sides, the silicone cock still buried deep within you. Your legs tangled together, her hand still resting on your throat, but now with a gentle, soothing pressure that was a contrast to the intensity of moments ago. Her thumb brushed your jawline, turning your face towards her, her eyes searching yours.

Then, she leaned in and captured your lips in a slow, sensual kiss. It was a kiss filled with everything unsaid, everything felt but not voiced. Her tongue danced with yours, a dance that was both sweet and demanding.

The kiss lingered, slower now but just as intense, a way to ground yourselves after the chaos of the case. Emily’s hands slid over your back, holding you close, and you let yourself sink into her, feeling the tension in your body finally ease. The weight of everything—the long hours, the children’s faces, the endless cycle of chasing darkness—seemed to lift with each shared breath.

When the high broke, it was like coming up for air after being submerged for too long. Both of you stilled, breathless and spent, bodies still tangled together as the energy between you shifted into something gentler, softer. Emily rested her head on your shoulder, her arms wrapped tightly around your waist, as though letting go might bring the world crashing back in. Her fingers moved absently along your skin, a grounding motion more for her than for you.

You turned slightly to look at her, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. Her dark eyes met yours, no longer guarded. There was a softness in her expression she rarely let anyone see—a vulnerability reserved for you alone. It was a part of Emily she kept locked away, buried beneath layers of composure and strength, but here, in the quiet of your shared sanctuary, she let you see it.

“I needed that,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper, yet it carried the weight of her exhaustion. “I needed you.”

Your heart ached at the honesty in her words, and you reached out, running a hand along her arm. “I’m here,” you said simply but with conviction. “I’m always here, Emily.”

She sighed, her body sinking further against yours as though your words had given her permission to let go. “It’s just… too much sometimes,” she murmured, her voice cracking slightly. “The cases, the victims, the choices we have to make. I keep it together out there, but when it’s over, it feels like it’s all going to crush me.”

Your chest tightened at her admission. Emily rarely talked about the toll the job took on her—not with anyone else, not even with the team. But with you, she let the walls come down, piece by piece. You cupped her face gently, guiding her to meet your gaze.

“It doesn’t have to crush you,” you said, your tone soft but firm. “You don’t have to carry it alone. Let me help. Lean on me, Emily. Please.”

Her jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought she might push back, but then her face crumpled just slightly, and she nodded. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she whispered, her voice unsteady. “You’re the only one I can… let this out with.”

“You won’t have to find out,” you assured her, leaning in to press a kiss to her forehead. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got you.”

Emily’s hand settled on your hip, her thumb brushing lazily against your skin. The tension that had held her body rigid for hours finally began to ebb. She exhaled slowly, her breath warm against your neck, as though releasing the weight she had carried all day.

For a long while, neither of you spoke, the room quiet except for the sound of your breathing. The case, the emotions, the burden of it all—it wasn’t gone, but it felt lighter now. You could feel it in the way her body relaxed against yours, the way her hand stopped fidgeting and simply rested on you, the way her breathing evened out.

You pulled her closer, holding her as tightly as she held you, grounding her in the present. “You’re safe,” you murmured softly. “We’re safe. Just us.”

Emily lifted her head slightly, her dark eyes meeting yours again. The gratitude in her expression was so raw, so unguarded, it made your breath catch. She leaned in and kissed you again—not out of passion, but something deeper. It was a kiss of trust, of love, of everything she couldn’t quite put into words but poured into you all the same.

When she pulled back, she rested her forehead against yours, her fingers tangling with yours. “Thank you,” she said quietly, her voice steadier now.

“You don’t have to thank me,” you replied, brushing your thumb over her knuckles. “This is what we do for each other. I’m here, Emily. I always will be.”

She smiled faintly, the first genuine smile you’d seen from her since the case had started. “I’m holding you to that.”

“You should,” you teased lightly, earning a soft laugh from her. It was quiet, but it was real, and it was everything.

The two of you stayed like that for a while, wrapped up in each other. No barriers, no walls, just the safety of knowing you didn’t have to face the world alone. And in that moment, nothing else mattered.

[mswolfette]

LMK Sun Wukong's Passive Suicidal Ideation Theory Part 3: Is he really Suicidal?

TW: Suicide and Suicidal Ideation

This is my final part of the analysis, addressing the symptoms according to CharlieHealth, the counterarguments and reaching my conclusion.

First, let's review the definition again for what Passive Suicidal Ideation is:

According to Charlie Health Primary Therapist Meghan Jensen, LPC, “passive suicidal ideation can occur when an individual no longer has the motivation to live, but does not have a clear plan to take their life.” 

And as we have spoken about this fits Wukong 50/50. Wukong does not seem to have a motivation to really live. Wukong almost completely stopped really being active in his life (at least in the public eye) after his battle with the Demon Bull King, and only came back because of MK (and this might not even be a big enough motivation to stay), as we know he has plenty of times where he's attempted to sacrifice himself while putting down that MK is better than him. Besides MK, Wukong doesn't really have a goal or plan for his life. As mentioned in S3e14, he never expected to be a mentor. He lived his life, with the only thing in mind being retirement and self-isolation.

But does Wukong fit with the symptoms of passive suicidal ideation?

According to CharlieHealth, these are the warning signs:

Let's go through the ones that fit Wukong:

Engaging in Reckless/Risky Behavior: Already addressed in Part 1, but this is the most strongest symptom that Wukong has with many of his self-sacrifices.

Extreme Sadness, Hopelessness, Isolation, Rejection, or Apathy: Throughout the series, Wukong can come off as extremely apathetic and dismissive to almost everyone. Wukong has a messy habit of constantly devaluating MK's concerns, especially in the first 3 seasons from how he just pushes off MK's worries with simple remarks, leaves MK with tasks and doesn't really elaborate on them, and especially meditates out of situations. This happens so much to the point where this really begins to bite him in the ass concerning the Samadhi Fire Incident. Even when we first meet him he's generally a bit more apathetic to the Demon Bull King showing up. He even shows apathy for the rest of the group in regards to not really helping them when they need it most, or dismissing their concerns. Even in as late as Season 5, he still reverts to an apathetic state, not really taking others into consideration at times.

Withdrawing or Self-Isolating: Wukong in the earlier seasons has done this a lot. Even the inciting incident is Wukong self-isolating from the world (and by extension MK) for an indefinite amount of time. Wukong in the first 3 seasons, tended to act as a loner, particularly never really being around anyone but MK, and never exactly leaving Flower Fruit Mountain unless he really had to. Granted there could be the reason of: "he's a hero, villains could target him easier." But Wukong is an extremely powerful individual. You could argue this especially with S3 when he was meditating, always making the opportunity to self-isolate by mentally isolating himself from the group. Even in the S3 finale, he had particularly separated himself from the group on purpose alongside MK. HOWEVER, he has seemed to slowly group out of that sentiment. Wukong has begun to try and spend time with the Monkie Kids, actively going out of his way to hang out with them through spending a Beach Day with them and finally, allowing for them to celebrate fireworks with them in the finale. So while this definitely is and symptom, it's important to mention its a symptom he's slowly growing out of.

Giving Away Meaningful Personal Possessions (AKA the Staff): At first, while this could seem arbitrary, there is an argument about passing on his staff to MK. We all know that Wukong is an absolute hoarder, and will preciously hold on to all of the stuff he's collected from over the years. And we know things like his staff are literally some of his most prized possessions. Wukong also could've easily defeated DBK, right? He's immortal after all, and then easily go back to his self-imposed isolation. But instead, he guided MK to his staff and let him take the role as the Monkie Kid. Wukong purposefully gave away his most prized possession to allow another person to continue the fight. This could fuel his self-imposed idea that the world doesn't need him anymore and that he's better off not around.

Seeking Out Objects to Assist in Suicide: This one is a tricky one, because this specifically and only applies to Samadhi Fire Incident. There is an argument to be made on either side of this argument. Possibly the main argument for this is in regards to Wukong despite his power, made the choice to rather take the risk to use the Samadhi Fire over all else (despite seeing he had an extremely good chance of taking down Lady Bone Demon without it). And Wukong was originally planning on doing that alone, especially giving the case that the rest of the gang is purely mortal and could not handle it. Now, if we argue that the Samadhi Fire was intended to be a suicide mission, he could've been actively seeking that out to make a final sacrifice for himself for the world. But you can also argue he wanted to seek it out to ensure that he could defeat the LBD without resorting to actively up and killing the host perhaps.

So, does this mean Wukong was intentionally written to be passively suicidal?

Maybe? Maybe not.

Some of these points prove to be a lot more common than others. As while Sun Wukong can be easily shown to be extremely reckless, self-isolating, and apathetic, its harder to even show some of the other side effects and we have to base our guesses on speculation behind the intent.

And even then we have counterarguments:

a. Wukong Having a Fear of Death: The main argument against this is quite valid actually. Wukong was scared of dying; scared of not being strong enough to live and protect his allies, literally scraping any sense of immortality he can from the peaches, the wine, pills, and even fighting skills to gain a sense of immortality. And even then Wukong can practically be seen not wanting to resort to death, seemingly avoiding that route at all times in S5, and only realizing that someone has to go, that he took the mantel and decided that it would be him. And...yeah that's a completely valid argument. Wukong could be scared of death instead, not wanting to completely face it until it's too late.

However, I would like to rebuttal the idea that: Wukong is a very contradictory character (he's a fairly consistent one though). As much as he is lazy, he can be extremely powerful, as much as he lives for isolation, he's starved for companionship with MK, and as much for he is wise, for as arrogant and stubborn he can be, he could be self-loathing and hopeless. And this could be a similar case. He could have symptoms of being passively suicidal, yet too scared to actively take that final leap until he's forced to.

b. Wukong Being Confident of Living: That could make sense. Wukong is so confident in his immortality status that nothing can touch him that even when push comes to shove, he endures anyway. That could honestly work with the Lotus Scroll attempt, but there have been several other times where he was never confident that he would actively come back in good shape, much less alive, specifically in S3E10. But those are just my thoughts.

But here is my conclusion:

This is just a singular interpretative theory on Wukong's character as a whole; not definitive proof that Wukong has this certain form of suicidal ideation.

In fact these traits might not fall under a typical spectrum of exclusively suicidal.

I think Schnee from YouTube put it best in regards to detailing Mental Illness in Fiction in regards to figuring out if a character has a certain disorder:

Credit: Schnee on YT (How does TRAUMA affect IMMORTAL characters? (Heimerdinger Analysis) | Youtube)

Tl;dr this piece of media is rather informing us about this version of Wukong, about how much all the traumas and issues in his life, shaped and morphed him into this messy, flawed entity. And I personally find that a lot more interesting, don't you.

Thank you for reading.

[spitblaze]

Okay I've witnessed it happening enough in Queer Internet Circles that I think I can confidently say something about it.

Can we PLEASE stop picking arbitrary lgbt+ demographics out of a hat and having entire conversations about how they 'aren't actually queer' and 'taking valuable resources' for the crimes of 'some of them are cringe' or 'some of them are assholes' or 'they have a nebulous privilege over the rest of us so they're the oppressor, actually'.

Like look, some conversations are absolutely worth having. There's a lot of transmasc shitheads who latch on to toxic masculinity or seem to completely forget what it's like to navigate a world that considers you a woman, or completely fail to realize that being transgender yourself doesn't suddenly mean you don't have to examine yourself for internalized transphobia or transmisogyny. And that should be addressed, every community has its issues, no community is a monolith, no demographic is made up of entirely good smart righteous people or evil bad oppressive abusers. Obviously.

But I'm not talking about that!

I'm talking about people bringing up the same tired rhetoric they used when they tried to claim that nonbinary people are clout-chasing attention seekers who will keep cishet society from taking the rest of us seriously, that people used when they decided asexuals were actually cishets who co-opted our movement for their own personal gain, which was recycled from when people tried to claim that bisexuals are het-passing fakers and if a REAL queer has sex with one they'll be left for a cishet because that's what bisexuals do, which is the same as the shit they spewed at whoever the target was before that! It's paranoid nonsense all the way down, people looking for an acceptable target to take their shit out on!

Can we stop doing this, please?? Can we stop picking demographics within our own community that people arbitrarily decide are fine to bully and mock and kick out of the spaces they helped create because you think that they're cringe or that speaking about the issues they face is privileged whining? Can we stop giving bigoted cishets free reign on already vulnerable communities because someone arbitrarily decided that THESE queers are evil and cringe so its okay to make shitty comments and jokes about them? Can we PLEASE stop the cycle in its tracks while we can still see the crosshairs moving onto tranfems and trans women? We can stop this now before it starts getting uglier and deadlier, but we HAVE to be aware and do more than complaining about it online.

[felixcloud6288]

Dungeon Meshi Miscellaneous Monster Tales 9

Barometz

Ryoko Kui has been getting as much content out of the barometz as possible.

Mithrun never actually answers whether or not a barometz is a monster. Instead he talks about arguments about it being an animal or plant.

What Mithrun says about the fruit quickly rotting when cut from the stalk makes it clear that the sheep is not the main body. It's like the whole "The snake is the main body because it survives longer than the chicken" thing with basilisks.

And there are plants in real life that mimic animals for their own purposes. Bee orchids look like bees to trick drone bees into pollinating them. And I'd say plants like raflessias count as well; they mimic the look and smell of decaying meat to attract flies to pollinate them.

Barometz is just an extreme version of the concept and uses mimicry to attract carnivores into spreading its seeds.

The really important question is whether or not it's a monster, and if so, what classifies it as one. Barometz is entirely harmless on its own. The only threat was that it happened to attract direwolves to it.

"Monster" seems to be the collective term for anything that needs a mana-rich environment to survive. But then that definition opens the door to "At what point do we say an environment is mana-rich?"

It's the exact same issue that comes from using arbitrary cutoffs to define species or certain genetic traits. We all know what a fish is, but there's actually no way to define a fish genetically that covers all the things we call fish but doesn't include anything we wouldn't call a fish.

Kabru is opting for a simple definition of monster. If he's willing to eat it, then it is not a monster.

Dullahan

We never learned anything about what the Dullahan was and we still didn't learn anything about it.

All we find out is that the Dullahan attacked Laios because Mithrun had killed its horse.

It actually seems to be a fairly benign creature. It was willing to leave Laios alone when he offered the bicorn to it, and it seemed to approach Mithrun and Kabru's camp out of curiosity more than anything.

If it could talk, I bet the Dullahan would have welcomed Mithrun to the neighborhood and told him how exciting it was to meet new people and ask him if he was going to stay long.

And then Mithrun would have teleported it off the cliff anyway.

And this also implies that Kabru and Mithrun somehow got to the Dwarf city either before or at the same time as Laios's party.

Succubus

Chilchuck's daughter got her freckles from him.

Some of the succubi who fought Izutsumi targeted her beast soul so succubi should be able to feed on non-humans. So succubus hunters should be able to feed the succubi by bringing something like a horse or other large animals with them.

EXCEPT they'd have to pay money or capture the animals. But if they convince some inexperienced adventurer to join them with the promise of pay on completion of the job and then they kill the newbie, then they won't have to pay anything at all.

I wouldn't be surprised if stuff like that happens often. The dungeon attracts the worst kinds of scum. The Adventurer's guild ought to have a inquiry division that investigates disappearances to determine if anyone is doing stuff like this. It probably knows that some adventurers are killing other adventurers to avoid paying them but doesn't care because those adventurers pay it to not investigate.

Now we know the context behind what Mikbell mentioned about Chilchuck in chapter 32. Turns out Mikbell is a scab.

I can imagine Laios being into werewolf fics, but I wouldn't have guessed Marcille might be into vampire fics.

I can't find a confirming source, but I want to say that the tickling and itching sensations are supposed to clue us in to something crawling on you.

Mosquitos are not precise when they try to suck your blood. They might have to spend several seconds running their proboscis through your skin until they find a capillary, hence why their saliva numbs the nerves. If it didn't, they would likely be noticed before they can actually feed.

The post-bite itch is more like the sensations hitting you all at once plus the inflammation caused by the wound and bacteria entering the bite.

back

[gyokutoll]

I won’t do as long of a preamble this time. The usual disclaimers on deeper discussions regarding abuse, the cycles of it, and the forms of it following. Sadao will not be glorified nor excused but will be examined through a lens which requires more nuance than “abuser bad” and recognizes the inherent humanity in the other even if you find them personally despicable. Like I said, short preamble this time and I don’t feel the need to re-establish my values at length as a creative snzz. Okay. Let’s ball with some basic stats.

Name: Sadao Hino (火野 完零) – Name meaning “complete zero/complete nothing/perfect nothing”, and surname meaning “fire field” Age: 35 (present) Gender: Male Sexual Orientation: Bisexual Height: 6’0” Build: Not overly muscular, but not lithe either. The build of a man comfortable lifting things. The build of a man who could do reasonably well in a fight. Complexion: Fair with warm undertones, almost like he radiates light in an odd way Hair: A long, golden blond to about his elbows. Straight, shiny, silky. Well cared for Eyes: A shade of blue-green like a wintry ocean meeting a snow-tipped sky. If Hotaru is autumnal, then he’s the untouched perfection of winter Distinct features: Sleeve tattoos on both arms depicting various yokai and different incantations and mythological imagery. Perpetually smiling and affable Other: A Witch (kitsune lineage)

The finer points of Sadao’s backstory are going to seem disjointed or inconclusive because I am partially explaining this from the perspective of Hotaru. Hotaru did not know everything about Sadao, and there were many things that Sadao kept ambiguous. Sadao, fundamentally, is someone who kept his cards close to his chest. This explanation of him will be half-word-of-God and half-Hotaru’s-recollection. We’re doing it like this in case Sadao is ever a guest muse, or a partner and I agree to use him for a thread as some kind of looming antagonist.

We’ll start with the Hotaru perspective: what did Hotaru know of Sadao? He knew that Sadao also had an absent father, likely some sort of yakuza or corrupt businessman. He knew that Sadao was raised somewhat comfortably and received some kind of education. From where, when, and how, Hotaru wasn’t certain. He also wasn’t fully clear on where Sadao worked and how he earned money, extrapolating that he was some sort of magic consultant for the underground.

Sadao, once drunk, did confide in him that he came from a line of kitsune, distantly. Hotaru wasn’t sure what to make of it at the time. You have to imagine that Sadao was intoxicated, one arm around Hotaru and laughing about it in a strange, strained sort of way, like cursing a woman from several generations down. You have to imagine Sadao laughing about it enough and lovingly carding his fingers through Hotaru’s hair, whispering, “maybe that’s why I want to eat you alive.”

Hotaru further extrapolated that Sadao likely faced a degree of social isolation due to being a Witch. It isn’t necessarily legal to discriminate Witches, but it isn’t necessarily illegal either. There are all kinds of arbitrary rules and legislation in areas which target them specifically while keeping the language broad, as it does for many yokai. Witches are only accepted to the extent that they pledge their services to the Japanese government. If they don’t become proper, licensed Janitors or Onmyoji, they face severe setbacks in society through social prejudice and just general discrimination. Many Witches hide this, but depending on how close they are to their yokai ancestor, the harder it is to hide their features or magical inclinations.

Sadao is removed enough from his kitsune ancestor, but not so far removed that magic has been wrung from her bloodline. Hotaru was never able to divine how removed he was from her. Sadao never said.

Anyways, now we can shift a bit more factual, word of God. This is a mildly more experimental way of conveying information, so I sincerely thank you for bearing with me.

Hotaru, to recap, moved to Tokyo to attend medical school and further his education. Due to the fact that he was from a smaller island without a major city, he was something of a country bumpkin and his social anxiety at the time had made it difficult for him to connect with others, as had his sexuality. He wasn’t open about being gay due to fear of backlash, and he also knew that it would make connecting with others harder.

Overcome by loneliness and isolation, he sought out a gay bar and ended up meeting Sadao there. Sadao was everything that Hotaru was not: he was confident, handsome, charming, self-assured, successful (in his own way), and was the sort of person who could not only occupy a room, but dominate it with a natural sort of charisma. He was witty, always seemed to say the right thing, and genuinely seemed interested in Hotaru. Their first night together, Hotaru vaguely inebriated and impulsive (but still able to reasonably consent at this time, it’s important to note), was enjoyable and the two entered a romantic relationship shortly after.

Sadao did not conceal being a Witch from Hotaru. In fact, he was fairly open about it, almost mocking to see if Hotaru would flee. From Hotaru, there was a moment of bewilderment before he admitted that he didn’t understand why that was such an issue and that he didn’t really mind, adding at the time that he liked Sadao and Witch or not Witch had nothing to do with it. This would sow the seeds of Sadao’s obsession.

It must be understood that Sadao’s way of dealing with neglect by society and neglect from an emotionally absent mother and physically absent father was to be perfect. He molded himself into someone charming and charismatic and perfect because he realized that if he wasn’t what the world wanted him to be, that if he gave into Witch stereotypes, he would never be accepted. But there had been a resentment. His mother had imparted unto him the idea that you need to seduce others and subdue them before they can do the same to you, that you will always be vulnerable as a Witch and never fully accepted. She would remind Sadao that their birthright was that of man-eating and duplicity, and to not be something that he wasn’t, that his blood would always tether him to this legacy and it was inescapable. Sadao internalized this, internalized the way his mother had wrapped several important men of the underground around her finger, internalized how information and cunning gave her power despite being a Witch often being a weakness.

Sadao’s mother had not intended on having Sadao and wasn’t even inclined to carry him to term. She brought him into this world on a whim and reminded him of it, pressing into him that his value was going to come from the magic he was able to perform and the way he could keep the proverbial tide turning in his favor. It was the adaptation of a fox learning to smile in a society that hated foxes unless they could skin them for their fur.

Hotaru not minding the Witch portion and Sadao being maladaptive and taught that control was love and power ended up fixating on Hotaru. He genuinely loved Hotaru, which made him uniquely abuse Hotaru. Sadao did not love his other relationships. Their chief purpose had been to sate carnal urges or to pass the time. Hotaru was the first thing he ever truly loved and chose for himself and he didn’t know how to love him without teeth. He understood that Hotaru was someone genuinely kind, sweet, and intelligent, that anyone would have been fortunate to have someone as empathetic in their corner.

In his own twisted way, he felt this compulsion to ruin Hotaru because the idea of Hotaru being this good bothered him, this idea that someone else might want him. The logic was twisted, but it was this notion of ruining Hotaru so that he would be the only one to want Hotaru. He pressured him to drop out of med school, citing that Hotaru had no friends, that he wouldn’t be accepted by his peers, much less the working world. He further isolated Hotaru by reminding Hotaru of his isolation. He instilled a defeatist mentality in Hotaru so that he would close himself off further and “realize” the futility of what he was doing. He promised to support Hotaru and eventually took control of Hotaru’s finances and moved him in with him.

Hotaru eventually entered a dynamic with Sadao where he would mask heavily and fawn and do everything in his power to please Sadao because he loved him, but also because Sadao’s anger frightened him. It followed the patterns of abuse. That is to say, sometimes Sadao would get frustrated and throw things when Hotaru disagreed with him or would slam doors. Then one day, he struck Hotaru, and Hotaru forgave him after love bombing. Sadao, realizing he could get away with this, began to leverage physical violence as a threat to keep Hotaru compliant. I won’t get into the matters of s/xual coercion, but he did eventually press upon Hotaru that it was important to his happiness that Hotaru complied, even if Hotaru was not in the mood or was still uncomfortable from the night before. Sadao was the seed which planted this idea in Hotaru’s head that his consent did not matter and that his body was fundamentally a commodity for others to use as they pleased. This is the thread which connects to the present Hotaru who would be willing to have s/x with a partner out of the panic that any denial would upset them.

Sadao basically gripped Hotaru so tightly that all it did was eventually drive Hotaru away. But the abuse would go back and forth. He would make Hotaru dependent on him financially but then berate him for not having a job or not contributing enough despite Hotaru making meals and cleaning around the apartment. It was the sort of situation where Hotaru would work doubly hard because he did genuinely believe that no one was capable of loving him outside of Sadao. That in the entire city, only Sadao would come to care about him. The later relationships Hotaru had where he was either the other woman or a one night stand would further convince him of this, to where he still believes it in the present day.

Hotaru was eventually scouted for hosting and agreed because he felt guilty that he wasn’t contributing as Sadao said. This was when the relationship really began to unravel. At first, Sadao was tolerant of it because he perceived it as the manifestation of the sway that he had over Hotaru. Hotaru was only doing this because Sadao had wanted him to get a job and would quit when Sadao told him to. Except that didn’t really happen. Hotaru was becoming fatigued and was losing the ability to mask and fawn at home. He already had to do it during his job that by the time he was home and the day rolled around, he was sleeping in and not as lively or willing to accommodate because he was pushing his body to its very limits.

Hotaru didn’t have a good alcohol tolerance and often spent many nights during hosting basically blacking out or vomiting or both after his shift was finished, then he’d have to work again tending to the apartment and Sadao. It became a situation where he would have to perform at work and drink himself sick, go home, shower, have s/x, cook, clean, and then cycle through that. Sadao noticed that Hotaru wasn’t performing as much and wasn’t as inclined to fawn over him that they had several heated arguments about hosting. Hotaru eventually became reluctant to leave hosting not because he liked it, but because some part of him was exhausted by the cycle of being hit or insulted then being doted on and spoiled. Sadao was the classic abuser tactic of doing horrible things, then buying expensive things for Hotaru or taking him to nice places in order to atone, promising to never do it again until he did it again.

Their breakup culminated in Sadao strangling Hotaru on the floor of their apartment. It was the first time Hotaru really felt that he could have died because his vision was fading and his lungs felt that they were going to burst. Sadao, panicked by Hotaru clawing at his wrists, and panicked by Hotaru’s distress, eventually let go. It’s difficult to explain this portion of their relationship. Sadao hurt Hotaru on a lot of impulses. It’s easy to interpret it as cruelty, and it was, to an extent, but it was more complicated than cruelty. It was desperation, love, want, need. It was the desperate way someone might be drowning and drag a would-be savior down with them. Everything Sadao did was out of this violent fear of losing Hotaru. The hosting terrified him the most because he knew it opened up the door for Hotaru to meet someone else and leave him. Hosting expanded Hotaru’s world, and though it wasn’t necessarily with good people, it was still people, and that terrified Sadao.

He was further afraid that Hotaru was beginning to love him less due to the fact that Hotaru was no longer performing as much. But the truth was that Hotaru did still love him, he was just exhausted. Yes, Sadao was violent and cruel, but it’s the dilemma of someone fashioning themselves into a monster, then realizing with distress and horror that a monster’s claws can’t properly hold something. That yes, they survived this long by being nasty and strong, but to become that strong in that way meant isolation, meant the inability to connect with others in a way which was emotionally satisfying.

Hotaru broke up with Sadao shortly after that because that encounter made him realize that Sadao could very well kill him, and would if things got that far again. Sadao, infuriated, bestowed the curse onto Hotaru shortly after. It became a twisted attachment of… possession. I don’t know how to describe it. Not as dramatic as “you didn’t let me kill you, so now you’ll live forever”, but closer to “you’ll live centuries realizing I was the only one who ever truly loved you. No one, nor yourself, will ever love you as much as I did.” It’s a horrible, nasty, vindictive curse. But it took a lot of magic to cast and the ritual components were costly and involved a lot of blood from Sadao himself. It was basically a parting gift as much as it was a curse, this idea of enmeshing himself further to Hotaru so that Hotaru would be forced to remember that they were together, and always would be, in a way.

The way that Sadao behaved with Hotaru is actually that of an anomaly. Abusers don’t always violently abuse every person that they meet. Hotaru received it due to his intense romantic attachment. Most who know Sadao in the present would describe him as pleasant and easy-going. Certain underground colleagues might have nastier things to say, but those on the surface generally regard him as handsome and easy to like. He’s so likable in fact that it was why Hotaru never came clean about the abuse to Sadao’s friends that he met. Because he wasn’t close to them and couldn’t rely on them, but also because they wouldn’t believe him. Sadao successfully isolated Hotaru to the point where Hotaru was too ashamed to contact his mother and was basically sleeping around and spending nights in hotels and the one-night-stands’ apartments once they were no longer together. Sadao made him too afraid and ashamed to even go to his mother for the love and support that he needed. Hotaru didn't contact her for years until he got back on his feet properly.

Anyways, I feel like I struggle to fully encapsulate the complexities of Sadao in this discussion, but he’s a lot more complicated than “good” and “bad”. He’s a lot of maladaptive coping mechanisms resulting in someone emotionally stunted and warped. His love was sincere, but his execution was terrible. He’s someone who always kept a distance from other people due to the need to survive and be better than them, that when he finally did, it sent him into a possessive, abusive spiral because he never had a proper role model for romantic relationships. His mother was a man-eater in the figurative sense and did things to further her own power. She did not believe that love was real and sincere which translated into Sadao until he felt it and didn’t know what to do with it. Torn with the disgust of that weakness and the nauseating urge to monopolize and hold onto that light.

A lot of Hotaru’s SHIRO persona is based off of Sadao. It’s common for abuse victims to adopt the traits of their abusers in order to survive. The charming veneer of SHIRO and the calm, outward patience is mirrored off of Sadao. Now, it isn’t a one to one, necessarily, but the SHIRO persona is an amalgamation of his own best traits, Sadao’s traits, and how Hotaru perceived the best parts of Sadao when he still loved him.

I don’t have an amazing conclusion for this other than that Sadao is still… out there. He and Hotaru haven’t had any contact and Hotaru is afraid of him. But he’s not afraid of him for the reasons you’d think. Yes, he’s afraid of him to the extent that Sadao harmed him, but he’s also afraid because he knows within himself that Sadao is the only person who could ever truly love him. This isn’t true, but it’s what Hotaru legitimately believes. It’s why he doesn’t contact him or seek him out because he knows that if he was locked in a room with Sadao for twenty minutes, he’d fall in love with him again. Again, this isn’t to say that it would be real love. It’d just be him falling back on the habits of an abuse victim and his brain blocking out the worst of it for his own survival. But in Hotaru’s flawed mind, Sadao is genuinely the only person who could ever care for him romantically and that he was the best that he was ever going to get. And if that wasn’t true, then he wouldn’t have been cheated on or assaulted as many times as he has been, that he would have met someone else by now.

“But Haju, Hotaru pushes people away on purpose, of course he hasn’t found love by now.” EXACTLY. EXACTLY. Abuse victims are infinitely complicated, flawed, and paradoxical. Their reasoning doesn’t always make sense and it often contradicts itself because they are alive by the grace of their survival instincts and propensity for self-preservation, but that doesn’t mean the messaging of the abuser has always been eschewed. Hotaru is an extremely flawed character and isn’t a “perfect victim”. He’s many various, contradicting things cobbled together. He desperately wants to be loved sincerely but doesn’t believe in it and also pushes others away. He never wants to see Sadao again, but would also enter a relationship with him again if Sadao had enough time and opportunity to convince him. It’s tragic and terrible and complicated and messy!! That’s the entire point of Hotaru.

I got a little impassioned at the end there, but I hope… this really explained so much about Hotaru and the man who haunts him. Hotaru is haunted by yokai and he’s haunted by his deaths and the bullying he faced as child, but there is no specter more important to him but also not as reviled by him as Sadao.

[dangermousie]

My Dearest looked at Scent of Time and said "hold my beer." This is honestly how you show so much in so little.

We finally get a proper flashback as to how Ryang Eum came to be with Jang Hyun and it's a doozy. Because RE was being kept (yes, the way it sounds) as a child (!!!) by some psycho noble. And said noble got jealous of attention from someone else so was branding a small kid (!!) and we see teen Jang Hyun, a fellow servant there.

The way he asks this shows what this household is like in one short sentence - that cruelty and insanity are just routine.

And then as the master keeps torturing his small child abuse victim, something in JH snaps and without any warning, and completely calmly, he smashes the man's head in. I cheered.

No wonder RE is forever JH's - he saved him from hell, the first time anyone did. And this sequence is so telling about so many things and the basics of JH's character are already there - even here, JH offers RE a choice, even here he's calm and competent under pressure and has a plan and he is someone who is patient but then whatever arbitrary line is crossed and he will just do anything to take the offender(s) down - the teen who likely murders their master for abusing his slave (if he's caught, a horrifying fate awaits), is the man who hunted and killed a troop that murdered the grandpa who sheltered him in his house, the man who tracked GC alone to that island while sick with the freaking plague etc etc. He can be teen or adult, poor and powerless or wealthy and powerful, but there is a core of pure absolutist steel in him.

You know what I truly love? This flashback shows that despite his present silks and fans, there might not be a drop of noble blood in JH. And regardless of that, he's more competent and full of humanity than the bulk of nobles we meet. I love the narrative expectation that no, of course, he's a fancy noble because when we first meet him, this is what he presents as. And then.

Once again, it makes me think of this writer's previous Rebel. Where the King finally meets his foe Hong Gil Dong and is appalled when HGD says that no, he's not an illegitimate scion of a noble house or anything else approaching blue blood. He's a servant and son of servants, not a drop of blue blood. And the King refuses to believe it. Because he can believe a political challenger or an illegitimate son of aristocracy with a grudge against not being given the place he thinks the noble part of his blood entitles him to, but someone with no blue blood at all? He can't.

(It also makes me think of my favorite scene in cdrama Ever Night, where the Emperor and his court assume our ML on his revenge quest is the son of the general wrongfully murdered with his family and household, and ML reveals no, the general's son is long dead, he's the son of the porter and maid of that house who also got slaughtered in the household as part of general murder spree, not targets or anything but collateral damage. Why can't a servant's son seek revenge, he asks, and you feel the narrative stutter gloriously.)

Anyway, this drama is EVERYTHING!

[angelthemanspanker]

I can't believe of all the magic gimmick episodes to make a mess of that BTVS managed to fuck up a time loop. A Buffy time loop episode should be the stuff of legend up there with The No Talky One and The Singy One but no. Life Serial time loop I'm sorry but you're nothing to me. Buffyverse magic is always vaguely defined and the rules change by the episode but the time loop spell Jonathan put on Buffy is so underexplained and overpowered that it severely takes me out of the scene

No one else in the shop but Buffy is aware that they're looping or time passing so is the spell just sending Buffy back in time and no one else? But then how can the Trio watch what's going on with the Magic Box cameras in real time with Buffy/the audience. Are they also looping? Does Jonathan's spell reset time for literally everyone except the three of them and Buffy? Because that means Jonathan, by means of magic bone, is repeatedly sending the entire world back a few minutes, keeping the memories of him, the other casters, and the target intact, until a completely arbitrary task decided by Jonathan is accomplished by Buffy.

Does that mean the awkward customer was part of the spell? Because satisfying an annoying customer was the task Jonathan set out for Buffy, did he just know that lady would be difficult? Did they just wait until a difficult customer showed up and bother Buffy to start the loop? What if none did? Is she a physical illusion or a magic homunculus being difficult under Jonathan's direction? Is she a real person playing out his script under mind control? Because unless it's the contrived coincidence option that's a lot of continuous magic to keep up while also maintaining the time loop, all with what seemed like a damn easy spell.

Why don't we know that spell? Casters' and target's memories unaffected, why didn't the gang cast it on Buffy before The Gift and make the loop breaking condition being defeating Glory without any Scoobies dying? We fail, oh well, try again. We know it doesn't need to be fixed on a room bc it covered the Magic Box and the Nerdmobile (even though trying to leave the shop just reset the loop for Buffy bc this spell just does fucking everything I guess). We know any damage done gets reset bc Buffy broke Giles' glasses and the doorbell and they were fine after a loop so no worries about racking up injuries or wasting the Dagon Sphere. And sure if Jonathan can do it, he of the only reasonably impressive abilities, then experienced Giles or Tara or especially Willow should have no problem whatsoever. And all this for one scene.

Life Serial time loop spell you are my enemy.

[magz]

Lets Talk Palestine, summary. March 31 to April 5, 2024. Quote:

March 31. Day 177 - Easter

✝️ Israel denied Palestinian Christians — the oldest in the world — access to the old city in Jerusalem

🇫🇷 France to prosecute its citizens serving in IOF for implicated war crimes after video showed French citizen assaulting Palestinian hostages

• 77 Palestinians killed, 108 injured in last 24 hours

🇮🇶 Iraqi group’s drone strikes & damages Israeli naval base in Eilat in southern Palestine, bypassing Jordanian & Israeli air defense to do so (📸 above)

• Another massacre of aid seekers at Kuwaiti roundabout killed 17 & wounded 30. This major aid distribution point now dubbed a “deathtrap”

🏥 Israeli bombing of tents housing displaced Palestinians at al-Aqsa Hospital kills 4, wounds 17 incl. journalist

• IOF abducts 14 in overnight raids in West Bank

🏥 26 patients killed in Israel’s siege of Shifa Hospital. The remaining 107 patients face mass disease spread

🐀 Palestinian Authority President Abbas swears in new unelected gov’t

April 1. Day 178

🏥 IOF withdraws from Shifa Hospital after 2-week siege that completely destroyed the hospital as they set fire to buildings (📸 above). 400+ bodies of Palestinians executed by IOF found, many missing body parts, showing signs of torture

•⁠ 63 killed, 94 injured in Gaza in last 24 hours

•��� ⁠Israeli army report admits that IOF executed Palestinians for crossing arbitrary invisible “kill zones” determined by IOF

🇸🇾🇮🇷 Israel strikes & destroys Iranian consulate in Syria, killing 7 in a dangerous regional escalation

•⁠ ⁠4 foreign @ wckitchen aid workers (incl. Australian, British & Polish) & their Palestinian translator killed by Israeli targeted bombing of their car while distributing food

•⁠ Hamas says the Palestinian Authority & Egyptian officials coordinated w/ Israel to infiltrate Gaza via Rafah crossing as an "intelligence plan" disguised as "distributing aid". PA denies the accusation; 6 PA officers were arrested by Hamas. The PA seeks to administer Gaza post-genocide

April 2. Day 179

• 71 Palestinians killed, 102 injured in Gaza in last 24 hours

•⁠ ⁠Netanyahu claims yesterday’s attack killing 7 foreign aid workers (🇦🇺, 🇨🇦, 🇬🇧, 🇺🇸, 🇵🇱) was “unintended”. But the workers were in a deconflicted zone, coordinated movement w/ Israel, & were in clearly marked @ wckitchen cars

👆UK & Australia summon Israeli ambassadors, demanding accountability; but US & Canada accept Israel’s excuse that the killing was unintended

🇺🇸⁠ Alarming level of US intelligence sharing w/ Israel since Oct 7 from Gaza surveillance. US unsure of its intel’s contribution to civilian deaths

• Knesset (Israel Parliament) pass bill paving way to ban Al Jazeera, claims it poses threat to international media & freedom of the press

• Multiple aid orgs incl. @ aneraorg & @ wckitchen halt Gaza operations after yesterday’s attack + aid shipment returns to Cyprus w/ 240 tons of undelivered aid. Due to Israel targeting humanitarian workers

• World Bank: Gaza infrastructure damage estimated at $18.5bn

April 3. Day 180

• After 6 months of genocide, Israel has killed 32,975 Palestinians, not including thousands buried under rubble; incl. 14,500 kids, 140 journalists & 484 medical staff. Starvation & disease are expected to kill even more as Israel prevents aid

🇺🇳 UN Human Rights Council to consider draft motion for arms embargo on Israel to halt arms sales

• 30% of children under 2 in Gaza are ‘acutely malnourished’

🇺🇳 UN suspends night aid deliveries in last 48 hours after Israel’s killing of 7 @ wckitchen aid workers

⚖️ The PA attempted to arrest a Palestinian resistance fighter in Tulkarem (West Bank), and later PA forces killed Motassim Al-Arif of Tulkarem Brigades (local resistance group), making him the 7th Palestinian resistance fighter killed by the PA since Oct 7. This sparked Tulkarem brigades to initiate a state of “civil disobedience” in Tulkarem. The attempted arrest of the Hamas leader occurred in Jenin (West Bank) and is another escalation of clashes between the PA and Palestinian resistance groups in the West Bank

🇬🇧 YouGov Poll: 56% UK voters support ban of arms export to Israel

April 4. Day 181

‼️ Gaza death toll surpasses 33,000 not including thousands under rubble

•⁠ ⁠Israel’s bombing of Gaza is driven by flawed AI software with little human review of the thousands of Palestinians placed on its ‘kill list’. The AI accounts for 5-10 ‘acceptable civilian deaths’ per targeted resistance fighter

[Magz note: This is a part of Israel's various efforts to kill Palestinians / "Hamas" with more efficiency and ease for the IOF. Other examples being robot dogs and high-tech missile launchers and dropping specialized bombs on highly-concentrated "concentration camp" of Gaza. In this case, the machine-learning database is called "Lavender", and 'identifies' targets that 'might' have any connection to Hamas at all, so the IOF directs "dumb bombs" on the targets. The unspoken implications is that the targets' identifications would include potential family members and friends - thus having as many as 37000 target list total for "Hamas", as the dehumanization of Palestinians is to idenitfy them all as inherently "terrorist". ("‘The machine did it coldly’: Israel used AI to identify 37,000 Hamas targets", The Gaurdian article. Article date: April 4, 2024)]

🇮🇷 Israel evacuated several of its embassies abroad, halted deploying combat units & called reservists in response to Iran’s threats of retaliation after Israel killed 7 Iranian personnel in strike on its consulate in Syria. Israel taking Iran’s threat seriously

• Israeli doctor reveals catastrophic conditions for Palestinian captives incl. requiring amputations from being shackled for 24 hours, regularly blindfolded, denied toilet access & surgeries without proper medical care

• IOF strikes homes in ‘safe zone’ Rafah, killing 8+ Palestinians

🇱🇧 2000 acres of Lebanese farmland destroyed by Israeli bombardment

• IOF shot & killed 28-year-old Asad Amr in Jenin in West Bank

April 5. Day 182

•⁠ ⁠On Palestinian Children’s Day, Israel has killed 14,000+ children in Gaza, 117 in West Bank since Oct 7. 31 kids killed by starvation while 50,000+ are acutely malnourished, 200 kids held captive by Israel & 17,000+ unaccompanied or separated from immediate family

⚖️ Colombia follows Nicaragua in requesting to join South Africa in ICJ genocide case against Israel

🇺🇳 UN Human Rights Council passes non-binding motion urging states to halt arms sales to Israel, citing ICJ ruling; US voted against. First time UNHRC takes a position since Oct 7

•⁠ Israel to open Beit Hanoon crossing to north Gaza & Ashdod port temporarily; analysts say it’s inadequate as Gaza subject to ‘catastrophic starvation’ by Israel’s blockade

•⁠ After international outrage, Israel dismisses 2 officers & reprimands 3 for attack killing 6 foreign aid workers, but no criminal trials or real accountability

•⁠ Israeli sniper kills Palestinian while filming an Israeli raid from his rooftop in West Bank

[petrichormore]

Also so many people on twitter are like “why is q!Baghera siding with q!Bad and not q!Forever???? Why doesn’t she care about Forever???” and it’s like,,,

First of all, she’s not siding with anyone. There are no “sides.”

Second of all, she does care about Forever,,,, but Bad was the one targeted by an unfair law, and Forever was the one who allowed that law to pass. Lmfao of course she’s going to be more sympathetic to Bad here. What. What did you expect her to do. Be like “oh bebou im so glad the corrupt voting session that i couldn’t vote in is putting you at risk of going to prison for a completely arbitrary reason” like. what.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The real problem with anonymity

I'm on tour with my new, nationally bestselling novel The Bezzle! Catch me in TUCSON (Mar 9-10), then San Francisco (Mar 13), Anaheim, and more!

According to "the greater internet fuckwad theory," the ills of the internet can be traced to anonymity:

Normal Person + Anonymity + Audience = Total Fuckwad

https://knowyourmeme.com/memes/greater-internet-fuckwad-theory

This isn't merely wrong, it's dangerously wrong. The idea that forcing people to identify themselves online will improve discourse is demonstrably untrue. Facebook famously adopted its "real names" policy because Mark Zuckerberg claimed to believe that "Having two identities for yourself is an example of a lack of integrity":

https://www.zephoria.org/thoughts/archives/2010/05/14/facebook-and-radical-transparency-a-rant.html

In service to this claimed belief, Zuckerberg kicked off the "nym wars," turning himself into the sole arbiter of what each person's true name was, with predictably tragicomic consequences:

https://www.kalzumeus.com/2010/06/17/falsehoods-programmers-believe-about-names/

Facebook is, famously, one of the internet's most polluted reservoirs of toxic interpersonal conduct. That's not despite the fact that people have to use their "real" names to participate there, but because of it. After all, the people who are most vulnerable to bullying and harassment are the ones who choose pseudonyms or anonymity so that they can speak freely. Forcing people to use their "real names" means that the most powerful bullies speak with impunity, and their victims are faced with the choice of retreat or being targeted offline.

This can be a matter of life and death. Cambodian dictator Hun Sen uses Facebook's real names policy to force dissidents to unmask themselves, which exposes them to arbitrary detention, torture, and extrajudicial killing. For members of the Cambodian diaspora, the choice is to unmask themselves or expose their family back home to retaliation:

https://www.buzzfeednews.com/article/meghara/facebook-cambodia-democracy

Some of the biggest internet fuckwads I've ever met – and I've met some big ones! – were utterly unashamed about using their real names. Some of the nicest people I know online have never told me their offline names. Greater internet fuckwad theory is just plain wrong.

But that doesn't mean that anonymity is totally harmless. There is a category of person who reliably uses a certain, specific kind of anonymity to do vicious things that inflicts serious harm on whole swathes of people: corporate bullies.

Take Tinyletter. Tinyletter is a beloved newsletter app that was created to help people who just wanted to talk to others, without a thought to going viral or getting rich. It was sold to Mailchimp, which was sold to Intuit, who killed it:

https://www.theverge.com/24085737/tinyletter-mailchimp-shut-down-email-newsletters

Tinyletter was a perfect little gem of a service. It cost almost nothing to run, and made an enormous number of peoples' lives better every day. Shutting it down was an act of corporate depravity by some faceless Intuit manager who woke up one day and said "Fuck all those people. Just fuck them."

No one knows who that person was. That person will never have to look those people in the eyes – those people whose lives were made poorer for that Intuit executive's indifference. That person is the greater fuckwad, and that fuckwaddery depends on their anonymity.

Or take @Pixsy, a corporate shakedown outfit that helps copyleft trolls trick people into making tiny errors in Creative Commons attributions and then intimidates them into handing over thousands of dollars:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/01/24/a-bug-in-early-creative-commons-licenses-has-enabled-a-new-breed-of-superpredator/

Copyleft trolling is an absolutely depraved practice, a petty grift practiced by greedy fuckwads who are completely indifferent to the harm they cause – even if it means bankrupting volunteer-run nonprofits for a buck:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/02/commafuckers-versus-the-commons/

Pixsy claims that it is proud of its work "defending artists' rights," but when I named the personnel who signed their names to these profoundly unethical legal threats, Pixsy CEO Kain Jones threatened to sue me:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/02/13/an-open-letter-to-pixsy-ceo-kain-jones-who-keeps-sending-me-legal-threats/

The expectation of corporate anonymity runs deep and the press is surprisingly complicit. I once spent weeks working on an investigative story about a multinational corporation's practices. I spent hours on the phone with the company's VP of communications, over the course of many calls. When we were done, they said, "Now, of course, you can't name me in the article. All of that has to be attributed to 'a spokesperson.'"

I was baffled. Nothing this person said was a secret. They weren't blowing the whistle. They weren't leaking secrets. They were a corporate official, telling me the official corporate line. But they wouldn't sign their name to it.

I wrote an article about for the Guardian. It was the only Guardian column any of my editors there ever rejected, in more than a decade of writing for them:

https://memex.craphound.com/2012/05/14/anodyne-anonymity/

Given the press's deference to this anodyne anonymity, it's no wonder that official spokespeople expect this kind of anonymity. I routinely receive emails from corporate spokespeople disputing my characterization of their employer's conduct, but insisting that I not attribute their dubious – and often blatantly false – statements to them by name.

These are the greater corporate fuckwads, who commit their sins from behind a veil of anonymity. That brand of bloodless viciousness, depravity and fraud absolutely depends on anonymity.

Mark Zuckerberg claimed that "multiple identities" enabled bad behavior – as though it was somehow healthy for people to relate to their bosses, lovers, parents, toddlers and barbers in exactly the same way. Zuckerberg's motivation was utterly transparent: having "multiple identities" doesn't mean you "lack integrity" – it just makes it harder to target you for ads.

But Zuckerberg couldn't enshittify Facebook on his own. For that, he relies on a legion of anonymous Facebook managers. Some of these people undoubtably speak up for Facebook users' interests when their colleagues propose putting them in harm's way for the sake of some arbitrary KPI. But the ones who are making those mean little decisions? They absolutely rely on anonymity to do their dirty work.

Name your price for 18 of my DRM-free ebooks and support the Electronic Frontier Foundation with the Humble Cory Doctorow Bundle.

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

https://pluralistic.net/2024/03/04/greater-corporate-fuckward-theory/#counterintuit-ive

[bitterfishiesstuff]

I'll use any excuse to feed my Huntech agenda, for the kiss roulette? -Rin

Of course oh captain! 40- impulsive kiss (added in a few of your head canons for funnzies)

To see Hunter in his element was something Tech had thought would always be fascinating as a cadet. When they were being molded into an elite squad it had been mesmerizing to see Hunter pin point electronics and more with seemingly arbitrary actions.

But that had been when they were younger. Now he knew Hunter felt electromagnetic fields just as he could feel wind on his skin. That the seemingly random actions where to gain more data on distance and strength of the fields. He'd become so used to it that most times he completely missed Hunter using his enhanced senses, his nose to far buried in his datapad trying to find Intel or sometimes in the pursuit of his own interests.

Occasionally though he'd look up as Hunter was running a hand through the dirt, enhance senses taking a back seat to a skill that they had all learned but Hunter had taken to best. His tracking skills worked in tandem with his senses. Finding the fastest routes to any target, sometimes even quicker then he could himself.

This time it was training, but that didn't take from the pleasure of seeing Hunter where he wanted to be most. In the field, guiding them to another victory. Where his Sergent belonged.

Hunter smiled at him, eyebrow cooked with a hint of concern in his eyes. "Everything good? You've been staring, Ace."

"Yes. We are on track to complete the mission two rotations early if we keep this pace." He walked over to Hunter and put away his data pad. A moment of impulsiveness took over and he took off his helmet. There were no cameras here.

"Keep your bucket on-?!" Hunter's words died, silenced by lips pressed against his for a brief kiss. Tech didn't often give into impulses, but with Hunter his logic seemed to leave in moments of fancy.

And it always paid off. Hunter quickly wrapped an arm around him to readjust to the kiss. Their buckets knocking against each other as they parted.

"What was that for?"

"... You are very attractive when you are focused on a goal."

Hunter chuckled and slipped his bucket back on. "Keep watching then. I'll be your dream man for the next two rotations."

Tech slipped his own bucket on with a soft huff. Hunter always was his dream man. He was made for him after all.

[sophieinwonderland]

I'm sorry, I said what again?

Seriously, how are these people treated as if they have an ounce of credibility, even among their own hate group?

They keep tossing out these lies to members of their server and subreddit that are easily debunked with just a few seconds of effort!

And this isn't even just a random user. It's one of the moderators of r/systemscringe!

Edit: Also, your list was always intended to grow. But I never told anyone that every plural would be targeted. The issue at hand is that specific plurals are being targeted directly by moderators of the subreddit in what's built to be an expanding hitlist of acceptable targets. And the rules for who these targets are have been proven to be completely arbitrary.

Originally, there was going to be a requirement that only people with 10k+ followers would be on the list, but your hatesub backed out of that because you wanted it more expansive.

Current criteria boil down to basically "(1) an adult who (2) has a following of an undefined size and (3) posts about having dissociative experiences in a positive way."

[mrhaitch]

how do you deal with insecurities regarding your writing? i feel like i vacillate violently between “oh i’m pretty good actually” and “i am the worst writer on the planet”. this is also specifically with creative writing. like, when it comes to academic writing i’m really confident in myself and my abilities, and i feel like that’s because i find it easier to objectively judge my own academic writing? like i can tell when it’s good and when it kind of sucks a little, but i don’t know how to extend the same objectivity to creative stuff, so i guess the default ends up becoming that it’s horrible.

i used to write a lot just for fun but i don’t really do that anymore because i end up getting too invested in whether it’s “good” or not and then it just stops being fun, which sucks, but i also need it to be good for me to have fun with it, which just ends up being a vicious cycle. the last time i wrote just for fun was maybe a year ago? i tried really hard to let go of the “this has to be a masterpiece” mindset, so i wrote some fanfiction because well it doesn’t get more “for fun” and self indulgent than that. i posted a couple on tumblr, and i wasn’t exactly expecting much traction, so i wasn’t disappointed or anything when i didn’t get a lot out of the fandom, but i did get a couple really nasty asks. (i guess that’s on me for posting on tumblr lol.) as far as i could tell, it was just one person who was really, really invested in making me miserable. it was kind of stupid but there was just so much of it. at first it was just racism about how i’m not white so i should stop using english because i don’t know how to, which i don’t care about because i’m perfectly aware that my English is more than fine (not that this ask is indicative of anything, i promise i know how to capitalise and use proper punctuation and better grammar). but they said this one thing that i keep thinking about literally a whole year later: “i’m an english teacher, and i’ve used your writing as a sample of what not to do while writing”.

…yeah. so that was just a teensy bit insane!! like they’d called my writing trash in a variety of ways before that, but that last thing was just ??? what do you even say to that?? it was just for fun, i wasn’t trying to be a modern Dostoevsky or anything, but holy shit, was it actually that bad??? (i ask, as if you would be able to judge having never read my writing.) but anyway, i haven’t been able to stop thinking about that, and every time i start writing something now, i have a bit of a “would this be used as the bad writing sample in an english class?” moment.

I believe I answered a couple of similar asks recently.

The short answer is: that feeling of insecurity doesn't go away, but you do eventually learn to pick your battles. Wondering about the tastes of a hypothetical audience is an ever shifting target and unhelpful, so instead aim to satisfy your own tastes.

But I think you know that already.

As for the person giving you shit - honestly fuck them off into a bin. The glorious thing about the internet is if someone acts like a prick, you can bin them and move on - very easily. I have noticed a tendency within Fanfiction communities to be cutting, graceless, and viciously unkind even though the stakes are (as we all know) very, very low.

I reckon it stems from their own feelings of insecurity - that FF isn't real writing (it is, don't let anyone tell you different), so they feel the need to enforce some backasswards, arbitrary standard to create an air of respectability. Trust me - I've been in workshops and swapped work with some incredible, successful authors and this level of backbiting and cruelty is completely alien to me.

So, again: have fun, write what you love, and if someone gives you shit for it, kick them in the shins without breaking your stride.

Or, to put it another way: