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#and by extension feeling more disillusioned about working here

turtleofthehollow · 3 months

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If Hazbin Hotel had more episodes, I would have loved for the show to explore Charlie’s messed up self image that she probably had from being part angel and part demon

Since she’s basically trying to turn sinners into angels thinking their lives would be better there, I can imagine she’d have grown up hating her demon heritage to some degree, and by extension hating her mom

She’d, of course, feel really guilty about it because she loves her mom, and she loves her people, but she still struggles to accept this side of her. After all, hell is the place souls are sent to be punished, so what does that mean of her for having been born here?

So while she works to redeem sinners at the hotel, she unintentionally tries to distance herself more from her demon side in some misguided attempts to prove that she is also worthy of heaven

In her mind, heaven is a great place, so it’d only be natural for her to want to ascend to heaven herself some day, even if her guilt stops her from entertaining the idea

When she finally does visit heaven, and realizes it’s full of corruption and hypocrisy, she becomes disillusioned to her goals and even her identity

Her angelic side could have been the only side of her she felt was valid, and is now left feeling lost thinking there’s nothing good about her at all

After some soul searching, and resolving to defend the hotel and her people, she learns to embrace both sides of her lineage, and is able to use her full power in the fight against Adam

It would have been a fun twist to have Charlie spend so much time trying to get sinners out of hell as some form of rejection of herself, only for her to learn to accept her bad sides knowing they don’t define her, just like a sinner’s actions don’t define them

#this is a long winded way of saying I wish we had more episodes #Hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel theory #on writing character arcs #hazbin hotel charlie #hazbin charlie #charlie morningstar #charlie and lucifer #Charlie and Lilith #hazbin headcanons

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tomionefinds · 1 month

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could you please recommend me good tomione ffs where its not set in hogwarts? And I prefer if it has dark themes😚

Hey Anon:

There's alot that fit this description so I'm placing just a few here to get started (I say this so no one thinks I deliberately slighted a fic--we have a wealth of darker, non Hogwarts fics, thank you writers). Many of the authors below have extensive backlists as well on A03 to explore in this pairing.-Haus

**********

Dimmuborgir by NoFootprintsinSand

E | complete | 93k

He steps straight out of the shadows one late autumn evening, but she is not afraid. At least not at first.

A Sin to Know by EchoPhoenix

M | WIP | 76k

Tom allowed a genuine smile past his bloody lips as he raised his slender fingers to his gaze. Miss Granger really ought to curb such a self destructive habit, digging her fingernails into her palm like a reprimanded child? How very unladylike. Tom pressed his fingers to his nose, smelling her sweet scent of copper and iron. He could hardly suppress a moan as he breathed her in deeply. He traced those two, bloody fingers across his lips, allowing his and hers to intermingle in an intimate act of which one party was not privy to. Tom couldn’t quite bring himself to care, his tongue darting out to taste her, despite himself overeager at the thought of her on his tongue. A groan escaped his throat, low and guttural as he dipped his fingers into his mouth, swirling her there like a fine wine. Hermione Granger tasted positively divine. (NOT abandoned- author just travelling :D)

Madam Umbridge Home for Wayward girls by LovelyVillain

E | complete | 753k

Hermione’s life takes a dark turn after the death of her parents, leaving her at the mercy of a tyrannical Matron. Her new home is more prison than sanctuary, haunted by ghosts bearing terrible, bloody secrets. And though she is surrounded by troubled young women, it is the men in her life who teach her that freedom comes at the greatest price of all. Victorian AU, Tomione, Dramione, no triad

The Itch by Seollem

E | Complete | 75k

Tom looked intrigued. “Soul Glass? I’ve never heard of it.”

“Oh, yes, it’s a very rare material, indeed! If you look carefully, you can see the other half of your soul on the other side. Perhaps that of a lucky lady?” Mr. Burke winked conspiratorially. “How fascinating.” A slow, predatory smile overtook the handsome features of Tom’s face, something flashing in his eyes as they locked on the shadow beside his reflection. “A piece of my soul, you say?”

The Prisoner by NerysDax

E | Complete | 180k

Imprisoned, Lord Voldemort is considered a threat of the past. His knowledge is desired by many. Yet, his offer is for one person only: Hermione Weasley-Granger.

Wolfer by peppershark

E | WIP | 38k

In the year 1889, Tom Riddle has travelled west to a little gold-rush town in the foothills of California’s High Sierras. What happens next shouldn’t have been so easy. He never meant to find a woman this early in his plan, but lucky for Tom this little fury is just a firecracker of accidental magic. It gives him a fine feeling seeing the preacher’s daughter going about the town, doing the Lord’s work, and not even knowing she belongs to him. Of course, Hermione Granger doesn’t even know she’s a witch. Old west AU with magic. Dark romance.

The Anti-Heroine by Chershire_Carroll

M | WIP possibly abandoned but worth it | 641k

Hermione Granger knows she's not a good person. Disillusioned with life at only twelve years old; she is cynical, manipulative, ruthless and, above all else, a survivor. For six years she has lived on the streets of London with only her sharp mind and her sharper knives to keep her alive, but a letter from an owl changes everything for Hermione, and the bond she forms on the Hogwarts Express with a timid boy with broken glasses, skinny wrists and a lightning-shaped scar will change the whole of Wizarding Britain. Main Pairing: Harry Potter/Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle

#Tomione #Answered Asks.#Not Hogwarts #Tom: Dark

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achronicleofblasphemy · 3 months

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Here's an excerpt of chapter 2 from my book.

📚✨Evie finds herself disillusioned at a public school dominated by fanciful tales of magical sensitivity and elvish heritage. As her peers fall for the deception, Evie reflects on the societal desire for superiority and the absurdity of the magical narratives she once embraced.🌟🧙‍♂️

“I probably couldn’t even use a Talisman. My mom has a lot of elvish on her side so I’m like super sensitive to that stuff.” A girl prattled on to her friend. Evie ate alone as she had the past three days since starting at Ward 3 – Kearns Secondary. The girl and boy next to her were in her class and never once had they uttered a word in there. Out here they wouldn’t shut the fuck up.

“Oh my god I know. Could you imagine having to carry like a big wooden staff or something? I could never.” The boy mindlessly contributed.

“Mine would be a crown.” The girl stated miming out the placement of her contradiction upon the top of her head.

“Ya, totally.” The boy agreed unsarcastically.

It had been a glorious victory for Evie to be enrolled in public school. She had worked tirelessly to be expelled from every private school her father threw at her:

Andover School of Math and Science: Mild arson in the Gym. Fucking fascists.

Rosemary Mann Academy of Arts and Letters: Slashed all the teacher’s tires in the parking lot. Damn hippies.

Fishburne Service Academy: Blackmailed the teacher to flunk her out of school. Those fuckers didn’t give up easy.

She was deeply proud of her accomplishments, but now being here she was gravely disappointed. She had hoped she might find some comradery in her fascination with Places of Power, Constructs, and the building blocks of engineering. She only found the same ignorant conversations about “magical sensitivity” and elvish heritage. These two kids didn’t even know the extent of it. The students at Andover, even Rosemary Mann, would eat them alive. The lie they so willingly believed was just another part of her family’s, and other families like hers, generational predation. It wasn’t even a good one. It was easily contested, proven to be inaccurate, and just required a modicum of dignity to overcome. It appeared to her, now most of all, that people just wanted any excuse to feel superior.

“I’m actually related to Baroness Du Kompf.” Said the girl.

“No way! That’s crazy.” The boy responded.

Evie actually knew the Du Kompfs. Or rather, had met several members of the extensive family at the stuck-up galas her parents forced her to go to.

“Excuse me, sorry, but did you say you’re related to the Du Kompfs?” Evie asked, feigning excitement to grab their attention. The girl suddenly looked uncomfortable when she realized someone besides the two of them were listening to the conversation.

“I mean, ya, but like distantly you know? She’s like my great, great, great, great aunt. Or something.” She replied with a sharp antagonized tone. The boy next to her nodded in agreement. Evie didn’t believe her, but the girl obviously wanted to be a part of the world she came from, and she was more than happy to oblige her in this life lesson.

“I went to Andover with Ari Du Kompf!” Evie exclaimed excitedly. This was true, and she liked Ari. They were friends in kindergarten and first grade. Until her father embezzled a large sum of money and they had to relocate back home to the Caspian Republic.

“You went to Andover? Why are you here?” the boy asked skeptically. Evie didn’t appreciate the newfound discernment. He’d been so willing to accept the nonsense spouted by his harebrained friend, why was her own life so unbelievable?

“I didn’t enjoy the education they offered. I wanted somewhere that focused on things like Engineering, Constructs, Points of Power and all that.” Evie replied truthfully.

The two of them looked at her as if she’d just told them she ate from the trash.

“Isn’t Andover a math and science school?” the boy asked her incredulously.

“Right, but it's more in line with corporate markets, political sciences, asset management, and stuff like that. The only time they ever really get close to something like engineering is when discussing demographic economics, and its glanced over as something other people do.” She explained. It was lost on them.

“Wait, so are your parents like rich?” The girl asked her. She recognized the hungry look of envious admiration. She despised it.

“Oh yaaaa. But wait, so, do you know Ari?” Evie replied, trying her best to match their asinine cadence. The girl nodded her head enthusiastically. Her eyes offered no spark of recognition but swallowed her whole with a covetous yearning.

“I was so sorry to hear about the accident.” Evie lied.

“Uh, oh with Ari?! I know, it’s awful.” The girl replied instantly, leaning in past her friend to get closer to Evie.

“And that poor horse, and Romero!”

“Oh my god, I know.”

“That fire went on way too long, didn’t it?”

“Riiight?”

“Dongwagler’s up in smoke, and just like, poof! No more pistachio ice cream.”

“So fucked.”

“Westminster will never be the same. I don’t even think it's worth going this season.”

“I’m not.”

“Oh my god how could you even?” the boy agreed. Evie couldn’t believe it. Nothing would stop them from trying to envelop themselves in the same bullshit that her world had convinced everyone else was true.

She wasn’t hungry, and everyone else was boring. She was going for a walk.

“Dongwagler’s? Really?” She sneered. The two of them took a moment. Upon realizing they’d been duped they sneered back at her and called her weird. They blocked her off but made sure to speak loud enough so they could hear them laughing at her.

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nobrashfestivity · 1 year

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I feel terrible brash. my new years resolution last year was to get more involved in political activism. over the course of this last year I joined a local organization and rose the ranks, but as I've become closer to the higher ups, I've noticed a lot of sh*tty behavior -- embezzling funds, mocking newer recruits/trainees for not being knowledgeable enough, expecting me to cover for people who aren't pulling their weight without credit or compensation, scolding/reprimanding people for taking naps during 8-hour unpaid shifts.

it was the only source of consistent social interaction outside of my toxic family and now I have to start over. I've made some friends, but they make excuses for the behavior. I'm afraid to start over. I have little faith I'll make new friends. It's gonna be difficult trying to leave since I was promoted to a lead, but I don't see a future here with these people. I caught two of the three chief financial officers using mandatory membership dues collected from the general body to cover their expensive meals at a bar -- there's no returning from that, especially if no one questioned them about it.

I'm older and its hard to make friends so I want to stay put out of fear, but I know that I can't in good conscience remain in the organization. I guess I'm afraid of being alone -- I don't really have anyone else. They're the only ones who messaged me on my birthday. This feels like a cruel joke from "the fates."

First of all, I am sorry about the behavior in the organization you encountered. Most things are infected with some kind of corruption and it can be complicated and disillusioning.

It seems like the misery of the situation has you doubting the world and by extension, your place in it. The thing about all of it is that it feels very personal when the world seems like it is out to get you, but I can tell you a couple of things I feel about that:

The first is that they're not doing it to you, they're just doing it. It helps me immeasurably to know that narcissist's and bad people operate on a kind of auto pilot. They exploit you and take your good will because they have no empathy, but it's not about you, it's about them and their endless, unquenchable chasm of need that can never be satisfied. It's not your fault they are this way. The fact that you became involved with these people says absolutely nothing about you.

The second thing is that, I really believe if you do good work and press forward with it, you will be rewarded. Friends and relationships will come. If you don't have enough other people right now try to throw yourself into something that enriches you as i think you will feel good about yourself being busy and involved in something. The feeling you have right now is absolutely understandable but from the outside I can assure you it will pass. In the meantime there is art and music and beauty in a million permutations that have saved our lives a million times.

I'm not a cheerleader nor do I claim to be enlightened but I know what it feels like to be tired and not wanting another day of the same but I am absolutely sure you can make it through this and come out the other end.

Good luck

#personal #anonymous

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myxineye · 2 years

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Not mean to be rude,but can we get to know more facts about Kestrel please?: )

YES!! KESTREL MY FRIEND KESTREL ^_^

I've been looking for an excuse to drop some stuff about Kestrel after editing their backstory a little bit, if you’re interested in the whole backstory it’s under the keep reading tab! But for now, here’s some random facts about Kestrel:

Frequently whistles and sings to himself

Has a habit of cleaning their prosthetics often; the last thing you’d wanna worry about in the middle of battle is getting an infection from your own arms. Over time, cleaning their weapons just turned into something they do to calm themself.

Kestrel has some problems managing how much pressure to apply to things with their arms; if you go for a high five with them, there’s a chance they might break your hand. Recently though, that chance is getting smaller as Quincy continues to make more modifications to their arms

Upper body is full of scars, most notably burn scars, due to some past accidents with their arms. They make sure to cover them when in public though

Needs to wear a special spinal brace when using bulkier arm weapons; otherwise they’d get bad back pain trying to carry everything around

Despite knowing fully well the Armada are clockworks and not alive, Kestrel still feels a kind of kinship with them. Maybe it’s because of their identity problems as a cyborg, or the fact that the Armada treated them better than the Dogs ever had (of course, it was because Kestrel was useful to the Armada, which they’re also aware of), but they can’t bring themself to think of the Armada as only machines.

At one point, Quincy made them a mechanical falcon as a gift, which Kestrel nicknamed Ava. They like to use it to send messages to people, and sometimes the two can be heard singing/whistling together :)

Anyways the full backstory for Kestrel here!

██████ “Kestrel” ████████

36 years old

Any pronouns

Musketeer + Buccaneer

Backstory:

Kestrel isn’t their actual name, but a codename given during their time in Her Majesty’s Secret Service; they’ve long forgotten their original name. Growing up, they led a fairly ordinary life in Marleybone, but one fateful night led to both the death of their parents and the loss of their arms. They were found on the verge of death by a certain M, who brought them to a hospital and eventually convinced them to join the Secret Service, to follow in the steps of their parents (but honestly it was just an excuse to test some experimental weapons through prosthetics, it was an extension of the golem program). Not having anything else to do and feeling grateful that M saved their life, Kestrel agreed to join – and from then on, they were given the codename Kestrel and served essentially as a living weapon and test subject. It was also during this time Kestrel met Quincy, who was by then an established engineer working on irregular duty in Marleybone (Quincy's backstory is more extensive and all over the place, but they're the one person tying every oc together so of course I gotta mention them here).

Over time, Kestrel became disillusioned with their role and grew to detest M. They were always regarded differently by the others because of their cyborg status, and anyways, they had a lot of childhood trauma that never got touched on until later on in life. As a personal act of rebellion, Kestrel secretly defected to the Armada, giving away valuable intel including schematics of advanced Marleybonian tech and insight into how the spy system works there – they even helped to plant and create their own Armada spy ring in Her Majesty’s Secret Service.

After a while of doing all that, it seemed Kestrel decided to just… one day disappear. Marleybone never found out about Kestrel’s betrayal, declaring him as MIA, and the Armada simply does not know where they went. In reality, after hearing about Nora and Valentina’s departure from the Armada, Kestrel decided she wanted to follow suit -- they just didn’t want anything to do with politics or world powers anymore. They never had a chance to grow up, instead being thrown directly in the army as a child and forced to grow up under the scrutiny eyes of others, without being able to make any decisions for herself -- Kestrel just got tired, yaknow, wanted a new start and a new life and everything, they wanted their own freedom and wanted to act however they want.

Using what little information they could gather with where Nora and Valentina could’ve gone, Kestrel eventually caught up with Nora and Quincy. Since then, the three of them have been traveling the skyways together 👍

#pirate101 #p101 kestrel #yippee!! yahoo!!! always fun talking about ocs :D #i know i should draw kestrel more ahgfdjh maybe the next batch of oc sketches would be of them and rooke??? idk #all my ocs have to do Somethign with the armada tbh i love those weird clockworks sm...#egg talks #ask #anon

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genderisareligion · 1 year

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~10 years ago, I was trans. Back then we knew we had a mental illness. We felt our bodies didn’t match our minds. We hoped changing our bodies would give us as much peace as possible, but we knew we couldn’t actually become the sex we wanted. I wished gay men and straight women would want me bc I wished I had a male body, but I knew I didn’t, and wouldn’t have imagined holding it against them. We all felt that way. Now instead of dysphorics, our movement has become overrun w/ antiscience rapists

I've been looking into this long enough to see this shift happen with my own two. It is disappointing that the transsexual/"transmed" community got demonized. Even while I hate gender and think it's a harmful placebo that benefits way less people than it harms, I still have sympathy for some people who believe in it the same way I feel about religious women as I used to be one. I've been struggling with anorexia most of my life and that has come with bouts of dysmorphia which I understand is distinct from dysphoria but similar enough that I know it's not always something that can just be "unbelieved in." It feels very real even if it's not and since the solution is impossible it can take a long time to heal from.

Before 2020 I considered myself a transmed ally and was especially reading/sharing content from FTMs because the only trans person I knew IRL was a transmed FTM (although he didn't call himself that and didn't even know what a TERF was when I asked lol fucking bless I love normies). Then the white supremacist shit happened (pinned post, some other shit a few weeks after that) as well as January 6th 2021 and I became officially disillusioned with all of gender. I still support him from over here because he's normal about his shit and is actually one of these people whose dysphoria and life quality did improve from going stealth but I'm also a staunch believer in "If there were no gender there'd be no dysphoria." (I'm not saying the fact that butch lesbians sometimes have easier lives as passing men is like fucking right or anything, just pointing out the objective fact I witnessed + he told me, that people left him alone more often and he was happier for that at least).

Does wanting gender abolished mean I think physical intervention is always unnecessary? For HRT and even some* reduction surgeries, not necessarily, I think it can depend on the severity (*SRS below the belt is pretty inhumane as it stands now but ethics in the plastic surgery world aren't what they are in the non elective world). I think it should be an absolute last resort and that a lot of people with dysphoria could go without and get some extensive form of therapy instead if our society wasn't so violently capitalistic via medicine, wasn't putting suffering people through an automated surgical assembly line to avoid doing the real work of trauma recovery. Trauma these people received from just like being born into violent capitalism and its sexism which of course the capitalists don't want to acknowledge so they tell you it's about your "gender identity"

Unfortunate trans is becoming synonymous with anti science and rape apologism because there used to be more to it than that

#shadow.txt #ask.txt

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saiakv · 3 months

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ON EXPERIENCES WITH LOVE.

Geto's perception of love has changed a lot throughout the years. When he was younger he understood it as something tangible that can be proven through actions. When you love someone, your primary goal should be to make them happy. In his family, his parents would always insinuate that they accepted him as a sorcerer and accepted that he had to leave the family home behind because they prioritized his happiness out of love.

In his relationships with others back then he tried to be loving and nice. His romantic pursuits easily grew cold on his end; everyone just wasn't 'the one' after a week or two - he did not feel understood or heard by most people, apart from being a little socially isolated due to the nature of being a sorcerer and having to keep it a secret. So he had kind of stopped bothering and prioritized other things.

The first time Geto experienced something he could call 'love', was with Shoko and Satoru. They made for a great team, balanced each other out and he genuinely enjoyed his time with these two. It felt easy to be around them, even if his introverted disposition still beckoned him to look for some alone time here and there. For as quiet as Suguru was, his friends' presence filled the room. Throughout his life, those were the only days he would refer to as his personal 'blue spring'. He held genuine love in his heart for both Gojo and Lieri until the end of his time.

But then there was jujutsu. And there were curses, born out of 'love' ; tragic, toxic, violent love. This type of curse tastes especially bitter, in a way that coats the tongue with something thick for a few days — and it flutters in the stomach, like the proverbial butterflies. It was one of many types that he had come to dread, even if the curse itself was pretty powerful more often than not. These experiences coming at such a tender age were like slowly losing a part of him that hadn't even had a chance to fully form.

So eventually he became pretty disillusioned with the concept. Although he knows he loves his family, especially the girls. His experiences have made him fearful to tap into that emotion, however, so, at least initially, he had made for a rather reserved father figure, even though he genuinely loved Mimiko and Nanako a lot.

AS FOR KENJAKU, they recognize and appreciate the value of familiar bonds and partnership in life. They were pretty content being married to Jin Itadori for some time and having wives before that as well. So they value the concept of marriage for its uses, but apart from that someone of their age and knowledge has long outgrown sentimental needs. In a way, though, we could say that they are pretty passionate about their work and the aspects involved in it by extension.

#spoilers tw #HEADCANONS.#( the tl/dr: he was too sad for it )

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indianyogaschoolorg · 2 years

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Want to transform your body with Yoga? Join yoga teacher training course in Rishikesh

People attempt everything to get the best transformation of the body. They visit the gym and sweat hard, even after a tiring office hour. Some human beings even try anything and the whole lot marketed on the TV display screen. Coming to effects, some of these people get disillusioned, and some although see little development, again get again to the old shape in no time.

Yoga is an workout that mixes bodily workout (posture) with meditative respiratory to acquire height, physical health, and trendy health. But what exactly does this imply? What are the advantages of training yoga on a ordinary foundation?

Note: "Regular" yoga sporting events are typically at the least a total of 2 hours a week. You don't have to have two 1-hour lessons. It can be four lessons here and there, half-hour an afternoon or 15 to 20 mins. If that is no longer viable, that is top too-any yoga is better than no yoga!

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Thing is, we realize the importance of yoga in our existence best after you have about its enduring impact. The form you get through regular practice of yoga goes to last for a long even as. This is in order yoga sporting activities healthy the life-style of an athlete, in addition to of a not unusual guy. In popular instances, a not unusual man while the use of the simulators receives short results. But, as he/she gets again into his/her original habitual, things don't stay underneath manage. Unregulated appetite, metabolism, and so forth, soon convey him/her back to the unique state. On the other hand, yoga development may not be such weirdly magical but indeed expand the man or woman clearly from inside.

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Moreover, it develops inner center energy, which empowers the frame muscular tissues. Naturally, the individual feels influenced to paintings harder and with extra performance. As the extent of practice grows with the ability of the muscles, absolute confidence of fatigue arises. In truth, it's handiest a yoga way of workout that provides good enough oxygen to the frame cells, which rejuvenates them. As a end result, the threats of cramps, traces, fatigue, etc. turn out to be decrease.

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indigoelegy · 2 years

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hugo? more like HEUGH. gOUGHHHHGGGGVHHHGGGGHH (sound of me frowing up)

MAJOR tw for csa discussion

one thing i think furuya did really well in innocents was being able to tell my brain about hugo before i caught up (or had enough evidence to believe he was bad), by using visual cues from pop culture depictions of the devil! it was a very neat trick which gave enough suggestion to hugo being malicious before he showed any signs of it so that it didn't come out of nowhere. however i think that's where my praises of hugo end.

personally i feel like the way furuya utilised particularly graphic imagery in innocents is completely abysmal. i don't think this failure was intentional in the sense that he included those incredibly prolonged scenes of child sexual abuse purely for the shock, as he has said himself (albeit after the release of innocents) that he uses graphic imagery in his works when necessary to make a point (here, the subs just disappear at times + i don't remember the time stamp for him saying this but it's in there somewhere). however the question i ask about the multiple pages of super gross shit happening in innocents is, is this necessary to get the point across? and the answer's no.

not only is it established prior to the lengthy incident with henri that hugo is a child rapist, it goes on for much too long. the same effect - arguably a more harrowing effect - could have been achieved by cutting out the actual bulk of the imagery and simply leaving off where the others deliver henri to hugo, and then skipping to the aftermath. that would deliver the necessary shocking information of the event without needlessly prolonging it, at the least - and at the most it would challenge the viewer's imagination, and leave them repulsed at themselves for even daring to think about it. sometimes the suggestion of the horror is more effective than spelling it out for us - the ambiguous nightmare of room 101. jaibo's unexplained but presumably traumatic background. any number of horrors are contained in the blank space.

and then you consider the point furuya is attempting to make with this shock as well, because it isn't just meaningless - that hugo is corrupt and evil, and both of these things are bad for being ubiquitous within the church that the boys have so much faith in. by the time he gets to henri, we have already seen both of these demonstrated at length. it is hammered in again and again that hugo is financially corrupt and he will go to any lengths to protect the secrecy, going as far as attempting to kill christian right away for witnessing his dealings. it's hammered in again and again that hugo is emblematic of every sin and not only that, he tries to contaminate others with it as well. he was already despicable in every aspect long before furuya felt the need to show us that. he had done his job extensively and in multiple already by that time.

this doesn't even begin to cover the fact that IF the point in this case happens to also be 'pedophilia bad', what extra information or angle does showing hugo assaulting this little boy in graphic detail achieve? there is no poignancy to be had. this doesn't add anything, nor does it contribute to a point which was already LUSHLY illustrated by that point in the manga.

i'm not saying that you can't choose to make a point about this graphically. it's possible. across the board, furuya utilises shock very well to get a point across - like in litchi hikari club. but with child sexual abuse specifically you have to be very careful that what you're doing isn't bordering on fetishism, and unfortunately that's what this is. i know that the correct intentions were there. the correct intentions, i feel, were there for all of innocents. but the execution of this particular part made me feel so disillusioned that i almost stopped reading.

also, i am aware that one of (arguably the Core) the traits of eroguro is that it's not only disgusting, painful and aesthetic, but also meaningless. and if furuya had committed to it being both disgusting and meaningless, i could have accepted this as mere shock (mother from palepoli + other short earlier works such as that are the first thing that comes to mind). but he chose to try and interweave it with a point which had already been made, and also a weak point on which he had nothing else to say, and which didn't need to be proved. plus, i don't read furuya for meaningless shock - if i wanted something like that, i would read suehiro maruo. i love furuya because of his ability to splice together decadently shocking, disturbing images with deeper meaning. and the most damning part about innocents is he was ALMOST THERE with a lot of it! it just fell short on a few crucial occasions. and hugo is one of them.

but i do sort of get the sense that maybe he realised he fucked up by his own standards on this one because he literally never mentions it but thats a different discussion and this post is already long enough

#innocents shounen juujigun #usamaru furuya #media criticism #again hello to the other 2 people on this website who know what I’m talking about #sorry that none of my opinions are positive LOL

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maverickmongrel · 3 years

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Alright, so here’s a long, overly-detailed process on how to make Brambleclaw’s arc in TNP work without changing any of the canon.

long thread under cut

Brambleclaw’s “will he, won’t he” arc doesn’t ring true because the authors can’t seem to commit to writing a morally questioning character.Brambleclaw tells himself again and again and again that he’s doing nothing wrong, that Tigerstar is just making him a better warrior, that he won’t do anything bad. He gets brief flashes of “oh yeah, it’d be real nice to be in charge” but they’re always very quickly tampered down by his own feelings of guilt or disillusion that it’s not that bad.

All it does is make him come off as wishy-washy and, well, stupid. And not the stupid you want to root for, he’s rude and condescending and pushy towards his clanmates, making him the bully with no brains kind of stupid.

There’s no tension over what his choice will be because in all of Sunset all Brambleclaw thinks about is Tigerstar taking things way too far, feeling guilty over the possibility of other cats finding out about his meetings, and trying to convince himself that this is all okay.

We can see the ending before we get past the first chapter of the book.

It’s literally just a matter of “so when is he gonna fight Hawkfrost?”

My argument is that there’s a lot of groundwork for Brambleclaw to want to betray his clan, more specifically Firestar. Because despite how much the fandom has sugarcoated their relationship into being like a father and son, the text never reads like that. Firestar doesn’t seem to get over his problems with Brambleclaw until Sunset where even then it’s never properly discussed, it just never comes up again. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Here’s a quick refresher on Firestar and Brambleclaw’s history.

We already know about Fireheart’s distrust and fear of Bramblekit but here’s a few passages as a reminder of his mindset. Most notably, he can’t shake the feeling that he sacrificed Yellowfang to save Bramblekit and there’s a moment where he was to restrain himself from lashing out at the kit for the death of Graypool, an event completely disconnected from Bramblekit.

Despite this, Fireheart decides to take Bramblekit as his own apprentice. A decision that others warn him not to do. Fireheart can’t deny his dislike for Bramblekit and straight up admits his reasoning is to personally ensure Bramblekit is loyal to ThunderClan

I don’t think it needs to be said but this is a very bad mindset to have when becoming a teacher figure in a child’s life.

Oh yeah, there’s also this moment where Fireheart briefly considers handing the children over to Tigerstar just to be rid of them and then decides against it simply because the warrior code wouldn’t allow it.

The closest we ever come to getting a real, honest discussion between the two is in The Darkest Hour when Bramblepaw catches Firestar sitting on a fence looking at twolegplace.

This mutual understanding is short-lived though. Firestar immediately and hypocritically loses faith in Bramblepaw again when the apprentice asks questions similar to the ones Firestar asked when he was an apprentice himself.

And again, he can’t truthfully say he ever fully trusted Tawnypaw and by extension, Bramblepaw.

And then we get to the final confrontation with Tigerstar. People love to point to this scene as Bramblepaw’s final growth moment. Here he is, breaking free from his father and choosing his own path. That his character arc in TNP is useless because he already had this moment here. There’s no reason for him to be tempted by Tigerstar again.

I’d like to argue this scene...isn’t really about Bramblepaw at all. Bramblepaw has shown time and time again that he’s committed to ThunderClan. Why wouldn’t he be? He was born there, grew up there. He doesn’t know Tigerstar, didn’t even know he was his father until after he was made an apprentice. And Tawnypaw is written as a direct parallel to him. Tawnypaw does struggle with ThunderClan, much more than Bramblepaw. She’s shown to be much more sensitive to their cruel remarks and unwilling to fight for a place among cats who don’t want her. As readers, we already knew this was the conclusion to Bramblepaw’s character arc. Just like in TNP, all the signs were there and to be given anything else would’ve been forced and out of left-field.

This scene if meant for Firestar. For Firestar to see that Bramblepaw is loyal. That when given the direct choice between Tigerstar and ThunderClan, Bramblepaw will choose ThunderClan.

So how does this tie into Brambleclaw’s arc in TNP? Even if the final confrontation was for Firestar’s benefit doesn’t it just prove all the more that Brambleclaw questioning his morals in TNP fits even less if it was never a problem for him in the first place?

Well the problem is Firestar still hasn’t learned anything. Just like after the scene of them sitting on the fence, this understanding doesn’t last long.

Firestar’s Quest is the last book we get from Firestar’s perspective. Brambleclaw isn’t in the majority of it but the few passages we get it’s clear Firestar has not shaken off that prejudice.

I want to compare these passages to some passages from Graystripe’s Vow. Set during the same time as Firestar’s Quest, Graystripe appears to have very different feelings for Brambleclaw. There are no misgivings, it’s almost comical the amount of praise and admiration Graystripe gives this cat who’s barely a warrior.

After this we get to see from Brambleclaw’s perspective and this where the groundwork for his possible betrayal could have started. Because I think even the most steadfast and loyal warrior would start to waver under, at this point, years of distrust from his own leader.

At the beginning of Midnight Cinderpelt receives the fire and tiger prophecy. Firestar’s response to this is acting harsh and unreasonable towards Squirrelpaw and Brambleclaw whenever they’re around each other.

Brambleclaw’s reaction is mostly...confusion? And finally towards the end anger. But the fact that this behavior is never compared to Firestar’s previous treatment of Brambleclaw is...kind of shocking. Brambleclaw grew up dealing with Firestar’s irrational fear and distrust towards him and he doesn’t draw the line between that and his leader’s current attitude?

By the time Brambleclaw is set to leave for his journey he is facing a future of never being enough for Firestar. Of trying to gain the respect of a leader who does not want him and Brambleclaw decides then and there he’d rather leave and never come back than face Firestar again and have his loyalties questioned.

This is just straight up what Bramblepaw went through in the first arc, nothing has changed. Instead of writing Brambleclaw like some naive, confused boy who can’t think of a single reason for this behavior, it would have been very easy to steer this towards Brambleclaw being frustrated with the lack of progress. That he thought maybe he was finally leaving Tigerstar’s shadow behind only to have it all thrown back in his face. Like I said, going from this perspective, it would take a saint to continue with the patience and hard work route that Brambleclaw has obviously been doing since he learned his heritage as an apprentice and not feel bitter and resentful that it isn’t going anywhere. And it’s the first book so we don’t need to have a sudden switch to Brambleclaw feeling a desire to strike back or take revenge but we can plant the seeds that will grow and grow till the climax of the arc.

Firestar’s whole behavior here is never resolved either. In Dawn, Leafpaw tells Squirrelpaw and Brambleclaw about the fire and tiger prophecy and the only comment Brambleclaw seems to have on it is maybe they are destroying the clans. There is no mention of Firestar’s behavior ever again. Brambleclaw just accepted that his leader was being angry and unreasonable and when he returned everything’s good again and neither has anything to say about it.

Here’s a few other passages from Dawn with FIrestar. I’m honestly surprised what a dick he is Brambleclaw in this book. It feels like set up for a confrontation that never happens.

After Dawn Firestar and Brambleclaw’s interactions are pretty limited. Firestar is usually only around when the topic of Graystripe and choosing a new deputy is brought up and Brambleclaw is caught up in his troubles with Hawkfrost and Squirrelflight.

From here Brambleclaw also starts training in the dark forest and this is when he starts struggling with controlling his ambitions. And that’s all the books write it out to be, his own ambitions. Brambleclaw shows no resentment towards Firestar, doesn’t dwell on the years of mistreatment. There are a few times when it’s directly addressed that Brambleclaw’s heritage is the only thing holding him back from being deputy but Brambleclaw never seems to blame Firestar for being prejudiced against him.

Brambleclaw just...accepts that Firestar doesn’t trust him. He only ever uses it as a springboard to complain about not being deputy. Once more, it’s bizarre that they don’t dive into this issue. It’d make Brambleclaw’s plight so much deeper and more sympathetic than the plot we end up with that’s just “I really want to be deputy but I promise I’m not a bad guy”.

Firestar has some sort of realization in Sunset that Brambleclaw is actually a good guy (debatable but that’s not the discussion we’re having here) but this is only discussed in passing with Leafpool.

And that’s about all we get from him. He doesn’t reflect on his past actions or behavior. Firestar once again gets to decide when and where he can trust Brambleclaw and faces no consequences leading up to that decision.

I want Brambleclaw to blame Firestar, to get angry at Firestar. In the text Brambleclaw wonders if he will ever be good enough for Firestar, if he’ll ever be anything more than a reminder of a dead enemy. Take it further. Make Brambleclaw wonder if it’s worth fighting this much for the approval of a cat who has shown time and time again that he can’t look past Brambleclaw’s heritage. It’s been years and Firestar is still the main roadblock in Brambleclaw’s way. Make him bitter and angry and fed up with it. Make him call Firestar out.

When we hit the climax of the book I want Brambleclaw to confront his own anger. To decide for himself how he wants to respond to the years of mistreatment and never being enough. I want him to challenge Firestar to think about his actions and the consequences of them. And when it’s all said and done I want him and Firestar to actually talk. Please for the love of god let them talk to each other. I don’t care if Brambleclaw keeps his deputy position, I guess he can since I promised to change the canon as little as possible, but these two have such baggage and the books never properly address it.

And that’s my rewrite of TNP if you could call it a rewrite. The thing is all this stuff is already there. The only thing that has be added is the characters having proper reactions and reflections to what’s going on around them.

If there was one thing I’d change about the canon to drive the impact further would be to kill off Goldenflower sometime between Midnight and Starlight. Brambleclaw’s obsession with blood relations and desiring a connection with his kin would be all the more powerful if he lost his one remaining family member in ThunderClan. This could be coupled with a one and done scene of him attempting to reach out to Mothwing but since he’s already aligned himself with Hawkfrost it’d be very understandable why she wants nothing to do with him. That’s it. That’s the change to canon I’d make. Everything else is already written in, just have the characters think and react and respond.

#warriors #warrior cats #bramblestar #i don't even like bramblestar #i stand by what i said at the beginning of this long ass essay #the way he's written he's just a meat headed bully who just so happens to get what he wants

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sardonicallys · 3 years

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𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸, 𝗻𝗼 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆 | 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝘄𝗼

mobile masterlist | web masterlist

𝗣𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: Jaebeom + Female!Reader

𝗚𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲: Corporate AU, Mature, Smut, Angst, Enemies to Lovers

𝗪𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: Cursing, sexual content, mentions of trauma

𝗦𝘆𝗽𝗻𝗼𝗽𝘀𝗶𝘀: You don't like to think of the word "workaholic" as an insult, but rather as a title of prestige. Everything you have accomplished in your career has been reflected as a glimmering treasure in your trophy case that doted on your work ethic and undying tenacity to put your best effort in everything you have involved yourself in. When you're transferred to what feels just a step away from a demotion, rewritten as an opportunity to "help" the new CEO, you find yourself in a predicament when you realize he's an unbearable nuisance.

𝗪𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗖𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 10,072

𝗔𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿'𝘀 𝗡𝗼𝘁𝗲: This chapter took forever to write, for literally no reason at all.

[ chapter one ]

The coffee tastes like water.

What you noticed about pondering is that it somehow took all the energy from everything else and redistributed it for its own selfish purposes, in this case you were left wandering your snapshots of last night while your tongue savored liquid that was mute. You wouldn’t necessarily call your behavior appropriate but it was concocted not from pleasure, rather delivered from revenge. It was resentment that fueled your desire — sexual gratification could not fulfill this hunger — it was about power. It was about control. It was seizing back every ounce of pride you let your good for nothing chief of executive operations put out like a lousy cigarette on the ground after you had offered humility. These murky thoughts were the reason you felt no regret for your actions, but you were still subjected to the over seasoned yet tasteless rice balls and the coffee that emulated muddy rain water on your tongue. You felt like shit, essentially, but in the complexity of things you had won. Grinding the ball of your foot into the pavement as rock scraps rolled beneath your sole, you slouched into the backing of the bench while listening to the sprinklers douse the grass, quietly piecing together what you were going to do.

What were you going to do?

Now without a job from a company you bent backwards and jumped through flaming hoops for, your mind raced with the anxious reminder that you were going to have to build your way back up. Convincing yourself it wasn’t so bad because you had attempted, and succeeded, was becoming a struggle every passing second. The flood of contemplation had you wondering if you should have accepted the offers that were given to you while you were being scouted by other companies who wanted to poach you from the market. Had you known you’d be assisting a living piece of shit, you may have resisted less.

Honestly you always wanted to live simply, at least amongst the standards of society. A small one bedroom apartment in the city but not on prime real estate, a middle manager job at a branch of a main company with opportunities, a stray black kitten turned cat, and you, the whole of these extensions. You always did your best and prided your perception off these little views into the whole reflection of you, regardless of what the outcome was because in reality, you expected only this much. This was simple and humble living, and this is all you wanted. You worked hard and you minded your own business, so what kind of karma did this entail exactly?

Pushing yourself off the bench, finally grappling with the sore result of your body, you felt the weight sink to your ankles as they balanced between carrying you and keeping poised on your heels. The walk of shame carried a different meaning to you, and it was that you were unemployed for the first time since university started. Discarding the remnants of your tasteless excuse for a breakfast, you brisked through the park and back towards your neighborhood where you could finally wash yesterday down the drain and start over, perhaps through job hunting. Just a block away from your building, you practically planted into the ground at the sound of your mobile phone as it erupted in your purse. Fishing it out, you squinted at the unknown number and somehow between the second you saw it and the second you answered, you hoped it was a pleasant coincidence that maybe someone you knew was looking to hire. Or perhaps a friend of yours recommended you and someone was reaching out to see if you were interested in a new career path? Better yet, that friend opened a company and needed you on the team for a start-up. Anything, desperation chimed, anything.

Anything but the sound of Mr. Im’s voice that oozed with impatience, instead, surfaced into the canal of your ear, “Why aren’t you in office?”

To say you were shocked was an understatement, completely in disillusion to the point where you pulled the phone away from you just to check if you were starting to hear things all on your own. After a brief pause, you curtly responded, “…Because I was terminated?”

There’s silence before a sarcastic laugh sparked from the receiver, “I don’t have any official documentation of that, you need to work until we find a replacement.”

A long pause, “Or did you not know that.”

The last comment was made to be a complete fucking asshole, you knew he was provoking you. Inhaling deeply, assuring not to allow the noise of frustration earn the exact reaction he was seeking, Mr. Im spoke once more, “I’ll see you in fifteen.”

And the line cut off.

Sometimes, you had a habit of taking too shallow breaths and you spoke to a few doctors to which they deliberated that you may have had some form of anxiety that lie dormant between the physiology of your being. Mostly because during these questionnaires, you had a bit of trouble answering honestly and it wasn't that you weren't aware of what you were doing, but you couldn't bring yourself to say the words that were on your mind. Instead you vaguely referred to them, like a directory more than an explanation. You assume the psychiatrist you met with saw through this, but knew how to communicate without causing a catalyst to exacerbate the symptoms. Besides, it wasn't abundant enough for medication but it wasn't quiet enough for you to go through your day to day without feeling a stammering worry that plagued every atom of your body. You remembered reading some time ago that there was a man who had some disease — common or not — and he committed to these breathing exercises that extended his life expectancy tenfold. That was what you wanted, right now in this moment, just to breathe enough to survive this because you were not going to crumble here, not when you were going to prove a point.

Turning on your heel, you started charging back towards the main street only to halt to a stop. But why should you return? It was already decided, just moments ago, to start anew. Right? You had made your resolution the second you slipped your clothes back on and disappeared from the room you shared with Mr. Im that you were going to rebuild this but better. There was no reason to go back to that fucking office to suffer the berating existence that it was to be a secretary of someone who had very little respect for you. There just wasn't. You barely realized how tensed your shoulders were until you exhaled deeply, feeling your muscles release your bones.

I'm going home.

But you can't seem to move because somewhere in the depths of your overthinking, riddled with holes and passages that descended down to nowhere, labyrinths of darkness that encased your every motive you wondered, what if he screws your entire career? What if, being a heavy hand in your industry, he crushes every possible pathway for you and you're left with nothing? Because he knew how much this whole thing meant to you, if it wasn't enough that you were willing to miserably put up with his shit the day before, then at least your work record could prove that much. The worry filled your being, as if someone was pouring water and it was already at your knees. Before you know it, you feel the water climb up your throat and now you're sprinting through the subway as you bite back your tears of frustration because you had never, not once felt that you lacked this much control in your entire life.

Entering the building, the embarrassment crashed into you like a flood, your head hung as you balled your fists up, creating crescents of your nails into your palms, wearing the same navy chiffon dress that adorned you the day before. The several years of pride that you built on your appearance, work ethic, and upstanding quality were crashing down onto you in just a matter of days and you could barely bring yourself to take the elevator up to your floor, the brief glances of your peers and coworkers feeling as if you were scrutinized — regardless if they had noticed your disheveled appearance or not. You're absolutely disgusted as you dropped your things at your desk, no time to even peer at yourself in a mirror, and threw Mr. Im's door open, not bothering to knock.

"Great, you're on time," he doesn't even bother to look up, but you're not surprised. Parting your lips to speak, he finally lifted his head and you could feel his revolting gaze scan over your appearance, causing you to feel nauseated and hold your speech which allowed him to interject first, "You didn't even bother to change?"

There were no words that you could find, or at least, no single formed sentence to use that could have described the frustration that coursed through every vein in your body. Your breathing turned shallow again, reflecting on how your superior had cleaned up — hair slicked back and a freshly dry cleaned suit, the collar of his shirt starched and ironed perfectly to press against his neck. The piercing and judgmental gaze gripped your lungs, forcing you to keep your composure, "...I didn't have time this morning. I had assumed—"

"Your affairs outside of the office aren't my business," sneering your name, you could see half a smirk appear on his lips as he continued, "but it seems you must have had a long night if you were irresponsible enough to show up...Like this."

Leaning back in his chair, you have to program your nerves not to let your jaw drop from his comment. The back of your neck warmed instantly, creating a trail to a migraine as you repeated to yourself breathe breathe breathe because you could feel your throat closing up quicker now.

"My apologies," through gritted teeth, you managed to surface a cruel smile, "I promise it won't happen again."

Rather than wait for his direction, you turned and slammed the door behind you before striding towards your desk, dropping your weight into your chair while quietly gasping for air. I shouldn't have come back, head tilted back as you attempted to ease into steady breathing. As childish as it was, you wanted to blame the whole of this on Jaebeom, every last fucking bit of it. But you can't and perhaps that's what created even more friction, because you knew that this wasn't his fault, at least not entirely. You created this situation yourself, and had you not selfishly decided to seek revenge for something as egotistic as pride, perhaps you could have walked away with your hands clean. This worked in tandem with the arrogance of your boss, of course, but he didn't do anything that was outside of your expectations. You earned this and so you attempted to recenter yourself by focusing entirely on work. There would be no time for your wandering thoughts and regrets, so long as you did what you did best and that was to work. Surprisingly, this is successful, and you managed through most of the day without feeling the combustion of frustration you had that morning, even avoiding Mr. Im as he had several clients to see to that day — all of which did not line up with your schedule, to your relief.

Just as the last two hours of your work day were resolving, greeting you every hour closer to your escape, you suddenly saw one of the sales associates frantically dart towards your desk with a heavy binder in her hands. It's a long explanation you can barely fathom through her shaky sobs, but you managed to piece together that a backorder she had placed had an exponential amount of quantity in contrast to the original form and she wasn't sure where to redistribute it. Apparently she heard you were a savior for these sort of situations at the branch, and now you were her only hope. Perhaps you pitied her tear stained face, and how could you possibly let her be fed to Mr. Im after he put you through the wringer this morning? Assuring her you would fix the mistake, you sent her home and began revising her work. Overtime wasn't new to you, but you hadn't thought this would to be a commitment as someone who was only an assistant. In some ways, you were relieved you were still seen as helpful, and that was honestly the ego boost you needed.

The office was empty, Mr. Im long gone due to some client meeting, the only sounds were your nails clacking away on the keyboard and the hum of the air conditioner every so often to keep the printing room cool. Occasionally, you'd hear the ice maker in the break room, but otherwise you were savoring the paradise of peace you were draped in while you began sorting the order. The work wasn't difficult but tedious, as you sent several notices to the global order management team, making them aware of certain changes you needed to override and why it was so sudden. The familiarity of work offered a sense of comfort to you, so much so, you didn't realize the figure hovering near your desk, "You're still here?"

The recognizable tone rekindled nausea as you focused on your screen, not bothering to look at the owner of the voice, "Yes, why are you here?"

"A meeting got moved and I thought I'd work on something..." the tone is flat and suddenly your vision blurs, fingers cold and unmoving, wondering why he's still looming before he suddenly grabbed the bottom mount of one of your monitors, turning it towards him. The silence indicated to you that he's probably reading, and you prepared yourself to hear him blast you with his uninvited criticism.

"...You know for someone who was at your managerial level, but unable to delegate, it's no wonder why you're a secretary now huh?"

"Excuse me?" Turning your head to look at him for the first time, you felt your blood pressure spike, "You do know you're in charge of overseeing the sales associates right?"

"It's not my job to clean up someone else's blatant mistakes, and it isn't yours either," turning the monitor back, he spoke his words firmly, "But someone who can't create a boundary on what their job title is..."

Sucking in a breath between his teeth, he folded his arms across his chest, "Certainly will do the work for them, huh?"

"Maybe, if you knew how to do your job better, they could follow," folding your fingers together, you leaned across the table, offering a sickeningly saccharine grin, "That way there wouldn't be any mistakes to clean up, don't you think, Mr. Im? You are only as strong as your weakest link."

"That's why you have to learn to strengthen those links, not baby them and do their damn work for them," leering at you, head tipped down, you have no other comments to make and there isn't time for it, because Mr. Im took his leave almost immediately after. It takes everything in you not to throw the monitors out the window behind you, use the computer itself to break through Mr. Im's door to trash his office, light the chairs and shelves lining the walls as a starter for a fire that would burn the building to a crisp. It takes everything in you not to boil over and cry every tear you had been holding in all fucking day. You pace back up to speed while continuing your work, still struggling to breathe.

A mug is delivered onto your desk by the devil's spawn, and you can't help but offer only disgust as he sips his own coffee. You dream a hundred different ways to splash the hot beverage at him as he lies in waiting, you assume, for you to take a sip, "Please tell me you put poison in it."

"You really think too highly of me."

"Trust me, I don't," rolling your eyes, you scanned through the worksheet, scrolling down towards a row in question.

"Drink it."

"No."

"Drink it and don't show up looking like you did again this morning."

Glaring at him, you begrudgingly took a sip before slamming the mug back down on the desk, holding your eye contact. If he was anyone else, you wouldn't have been so aggressive, stubborn. You would have certainly expressed your gratitude, but because he wasn't anyone else, you would never let him hear a single thank you for the rest of your life. It's close to midnight when you finish, and you depart without saying anything, letting the blur of catching the last train and of how you get home consume you through the sticky night air. You can't even recall a hint of how you washed up and got into bed, so drained you don't even notice when you fall asleep.

Water is the most pure and present representation of neutrality, a concoction that occurs only as a reaction. Though many physicists would argue otherwise, its state is a result more than a stable initiator. The temperature of water is adjusted due to exposure of heat, an outside conductor, its movements are recorded through the tectonic plates that grapple against one another hidden beneath the earth’s surface, another outside conductor. With the ability to control small increments in the human hand, it can also be a significant abundance and in mass amounts, water could flood whole cities, countries. Water brought life just as easily as it swept it away and as you float in an endless sea that had no horizon, blended to reflect the ash sky above, you wonder just how much of this is a reaction to you.

Though you were never particularly good at swimming, you could at least float. Fingers parted while exploring the viscous space, head bobbing just above the surface, the water that filled your ears and kept you recording your breathing in silence, soft licks of waves creeping beneath your inhales. Your body must have acclimated to the temperature since there was no particular differentiation when it came to heat and chill. Dipping down as you closed your eyes, you held your breath but soon realized while being under just slightly and seemingly too long, there was no reason to be doing so. Soft dancing bubbles escaped your nostrils as you looked up to see the dim light cadence against the reflective surface, glimmering for your return.

Instead, the urge to sink into the dark abyss intrigued you while you curled up and felt your weightlessness create some form of mass that drifted your being down. Lulling your eyes closed, the shadow depths began to creep over your skin as the gentle shifts in the water turned and rocked you at its will. Each breath you drank let no salt touch your tongue as you listlessly floated through limbo, no particular attention towards anything yet all things, all at once. Opening your eyes once more just to observe how far you fell, now in utter darkness. A deeper smudge of obsidian seemed to cloak your vision the deeper you descended, something stained the water, and what was once faulty oxygen in your lungs surged as you observed the surface growing closer before you broke through the ceiling. Gasping suddenly as the flesh of a palm cradled you in its confines, you were horrified to watch as the fingerprints began to unravel, skin coiling and peeling back. The nails decayed in slivers and crumbled into the water, ribbons of the epidermis effortlessly withering away as the imagery instilled panic — not because you would revert to sinking once it had completely peeled apart but the rotting flesh itself was enough. Ready to abandon ship, you felt your ankles locked in place as the vibrant crimson began crackling in desperation, forming vertices through the bone structure before dying the boards of a small paddle boat to carry you in. It happened so rapidly, vividly, your unease became a beacon of confusion once more as the vessel gently turned in a counter clockwise motion.

Suddenly, you're shivering. You weren't the least bit cold earlier, but between then and now, there's a draft. Craning your head back to peer up at the sky for clues, you notice not even a change in the cloud's structure has budged. It's as if air had no presidence here, not a requirement for you and certainly not present. Left without an oar, you clenched your teeth and leaned over the edge of the boat before scooping water towards the direction the head of the boat was pointed in an effort to escape. Hands cupping the frigid liquid, as if freshly melted ice had made its home in your hands, you continued to part your way before seeing a dark object in the distance. It swayed heavily and must have had some weight to it, creating its own ripples that licked at the bottom of your boat. Flicking the water off your hands as best you could, you squinted while shielding your fingers around your eyes as the vessel drifted closer. It's sinking now, whatever was peeking at the surface began bobbing lower and lower, circumscribed by the buoyant surface of the sea as it swallowed up the mass. When it finally broke the pendulum swing, it sunk and the fibers of protein that warped as the clear reflection finally imprinted on your gaze had you fully forming the inference.

It was Jaebeom, and he was sinking.

Humans like to think — in a hopeful sense — that we could independently peruse this lifetime without a need for others. It's the selfish and human thing to do. But in reality, we all pour from our cup, to another's cup, to another's cup, and to another's cup. We pour a little of our responsibility, our support, the love we share, our sanctity, and humanity all in different people's cups whether we like to acknowledge that or not. In a way, no matter how selfish an individual is, there is somehow a rift created from them that inherently has helped someone else, and that's the beginning and ending of it all. Because of this human response to how we accept the traumas that we experience through others, it really is no surprise that you didn't hesitate for a moment as you stood at the edge of the boat and screamed his name.

Im Jaebeom.

There's no sound. Gently reaching your frozen fingers around your neck, you amplified with what you could, kicking your diaphragm up as you felt your throat quiver in desperation. Still no sound. Panicked, you plunge into the water on a whim, swimming with what clumsy form you could remember — what your body could remember — as your fingers grasped through the intangible material with haste. Every time you reached to propel yourself forward, you realized that the image of Jaebeom would crystalize and somehow turn into fragments before resorting into one whole piece. At first, you assumed it was the water that was claiming your vision, but it wasn't, it was as if his entire existence was shifting before you. With each paddle, his physical being was disintegrating. As you grew closer, seeing the unconscious body drift lower and faster, you reached forward in an attempt to grab him as your mouth opened and struggled to claim any kind of volume you possibly could.

But somehow every time your fingertips drew forward, he was reeled backwards just as far. Kicking your feet faster, harder, aggressively attempting to bring yourself closer, you continued to desperately shout into the abyss, no water and certainly no sound departing or returning. A shadow from above began to cloak over as you watched the onyx shade creep up from behind the descending form in front of you, screaming even more frantically now.

Wake up! Wake up!

Every nerve in your body jolted forward as you sprung from your mattress, awoken by the perilous screeching of your own voice before desperately gasping for air. It was just a dream, but that doesn't comfort you as you felt an overwhelming chill bite at your skin while your alarm ripped through your bedroom walls.

Were you appreciative that you were still employed? Sure. Were you desperately looking for a way out? Absolutely. Wanting nothing more than to escape this reality you had little to no control of, you decided on your commute that you would create a deadline for yourself that would shape the rest of your time as Mr. Im’s assistant. That is, if he didn’t throw some fit and cut your contract short. Though confident in your work and abilities, on the off chance you could not make your way out, you would leave when the allotted time was up. It was a way for you to look forward to something, anything. Settling in your chair as your rolled it towards your desk, one of the sales managers strutted towards you, her elated but professional grin painted on her lips. Though you couldn't recall her name, how could you forget the most gorgeous employee at the main office? A stunning beauty, you were half surprised when you were introduced and told that she was responsible for many of the large trades and shipments that were from overseas; she looked more like an actress or movie star than another one of the pencil pushers here, like yourself. Residing with the top numbers for countless months, she was easily one of the top sales managers after her training period.

Resounding your title and last name formally, she gently placed a hand on your desk as your gaze followed her beautifully glazed nails up her neatly ironed dress, engaging in her glance finally as she spoke, "Is Mr. Im free today? I would like to discuss something with him."

Typically, you recited — like some kind of voicemail message — that he would be unable to take any appointments and you'd have him take a look at whatever was the subject of said request when he was free and return the documents or inquiries after the fact. This was, of course, full of shit and he really just didn't want to meet with anyone and especially not a woman one on one. After what happened the other day, you couldn't really blame him. But you could blame him for the past few hellish days where you listened to his condescending tone beat into your skull and insult any sort of work you did that didn't follow his organization — which you realized was a lot more picky than you initially suspected. With a saccharine grin, you beamed at her, "I am sure I can find some time for you. What did you want to discuss and when would you like me to pen you in?"

The expression that plagued her every feature was priceless, absolutely appalled that it was that simple because in the past, you were sure whoever was the makeshift scheduler refused to have anyone meet the CEO without obstacle and challenge. Leaning into your desk, a patient and friendly smile masquerading your expression, you tilted your head as she stuttered through her words, something you never imagine you'd witness, "...It's just some numbers with a new brand we're working with, just to double check."

The end of her sentence faded into the air similarly to how her tone wafted away, an almost sheepish grin now forming on her lips. It was made clear that she may have had a crush on your boss, how funny. This would make for an interesting meeting, you began jotting down buzzwords that held seemingly more importance than what she was spouting about. Nodding vaguely while she spoke, you peered up at her, "He's free in an hour, if you're available, I can have you meet with him then?"

With that, she fervently thanked you before departing back to her desk. What could you say? You told Mr. Im you were good at you job, which included but wasn't limited to, helping him grow and supporting him. If that meant you were going to help him through his phobia — or condition? Whatever it was — why wouldn't that be considered growth and support? Chuckling to yourself, you mentally began the countdown to your most exciting encounter of the day.

Or so you thought.

Somehow — and you had a feeling that the sales manager must have let that elation loosen her lips — you had a ton of inquiries from every female identifying human in the building to see Mr. Im. What a surprise. You let them come in and deliver him tea, host meetings with him in person and not over e-mail or some poorly streamed video, bring his mail to him personally, and even do their presentations in his office. The rest of his week was fully booked with more or less, mundane and useless appointments with the women of the office who wanted to court him. The current quarter was always notoriously slow, so it's not like you were sabotaging anything of importance. Rather, you filled his time with your very own unpaid therapy and for that, he should be thankful.

By the end of the week, you could tell he was on his last leg, his expression depleted of energy and yet somehow it roused with rage and frustration you knew was targeted at you. Feigning innocence, you went by each day carefully avoiding him in spaces where he could scold your behavior, even going as far as having your lunch out in the courtyard. You were as close to paradise in hell as you possibly could have experienced, as if you had begrudgingly crawled through a desert — famished and dehydrated — and somehow the mirage in the distance had fabricated into a tangible scenery, why hadn't you decided to floor him earlier? Forget fucking him, this was a hundred, no ten hundred, times more satisfying.

Honestly, you expected him to call you into his office at some point, though you were surprised how patient he seemed since he picked Friday and right before you were about to clock out. This may have been his own oversight though, based on the fact that he knew he'd be dipping right into your weekend. Just to add to your misery, why would he not eat up your time?

"Are you insane?"

"...According to my health records, no, not clinically," pausing, you let your eyes wander a bit as you hummed, creating an illusion as if you were thinking through something. Scoffing in response, palm resting at the edge of his desk, you watched as his fingers curled around the margin. Gripping the furniture, you wondered just how agonizing his week had been while his knuckles surfaced an alabaster tone that was wreathed by a rush of blood beneath his skin. Honestly, you only complied to the last minute meeting just to have him relive his entire week through the festering wound you created, "You have got to be fucking crazy."

"Well you aren't a doctor, are you? So what do you know?"

He shot you a look as you smiled at him sarcastically.

"I didn't tell you all of that in confidence, but I didn't think you'd act smart with me," wedging his lip between his teeth in frustration, he finally released the desk as you barked out a laugh. It's the first time either of you hear this curdling trill, and it's rather frightening because you never once imagined that you'd be laughing in the presence of Mr. Im and he certainly never thought he'd be hearing it either.

“...You know, for someone who’s got some kind of issue around women, you seem to know how to fuck them,” lulling your head languidly to the side, you eyes traced over the features on his face as they contorted into a strange expression, “…I said I didn’t know how to interact with them, not that I didn’t know how to have sex with them.”

“All the more reason you should thank me for helping you,” shrugging your shoulders, a smile graced your lips, implying directly that you did him a favor. Which he obviously did not consider. Exhaling a halfhearted laugh, one that does not fill its full resonance, he grit his teeth as he spoke, “Do you have any idea how stupid that sounds?”

“Do you have any idea how stupid it sounds that you know how to have sex with women but not talk to them?”

Silence. Because it was stupid.

"...It makes a lot more sense than you imposing your so called help onto me," folding his arms over his chest, he narrowed his eyes while glaring at you, your smile never leaving your lips. You learned, in a matter of days, your actions held more weight than your words. It started on the very first day and his impression of your preparation, it was as if he complimented you when he arrived at expressionless silence. And it also didn't help that the language you both used seemed to be littered with spite alone. It was how you adjusted his schedules so he wouldn't constantly be parked at his desk for twelve to sixteen hours a day, or how you knew that he liked to stand on the right side of the elevator when you accompanied him to meetings. Even how you arranged his pens and documents in the morning to suit his left handed preference, all these little actions that created a warped way of understanding that held no flames to how you responded to him or would call him by his first name as an insult. It's how Jaebeom worked.

"I'm here to guide you Mr. Im, don't question my methods. I'm supposed to be both your support and mentor," placing a hand at your chest, fingertips gently grazing your necklace as you played victim, your sarcastic tone dug right into him as he sneered.

"You're doing a shit job at it."

"Well, I haven't been terminated yet have I? So I might not be so bad," wandering towards the bookshelf beside him, you peered at the generic picture frames that were made into partitions before glancing over your shoulder.

"Well don't get too comfortable," Leaning into his desk, arms still crossed tightly, his stoic expression reeked of rage as you mimicked his stance arrogantly. It really was all about action with him, and it had a lot to do with how well he read others. Watching his eyes roll as he exhaled yet another frustrated breath, your gaze incidentally found that his condition was acting up. Forcing your laughter back down your throat, you decided on a whim to instead, provoke him first, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You really have to ask? Don't get comfortable where you're at."

Realizing that his exasperation to your behavior must have circumvented any other physical response, the receptors in his head simply overworked by the onslaught of cortisol it must have been pumping this whole week, you discern that he had no idea he was straining in his slacks.

"...Speak for yourself," a stride forward, and you impetuously tucked a finger into his belt before pressing your other palm up against his very obvious erection. The sudden tension that plagued his face leaked down every feature until it dripped down his body, his skin instantly searing beneath your touch, "You're getting a little too comfortable, don't you think?"

The impulse trip kicked up again as you squeezed him through the fabric, guiding yourself just a breath closer. Just as you inhale, you captured the blunder of tobacco and pepper cease your senses before feeling the familiar hand grip at your hip, his thumb finding the slope of your protruding bone.

"...That's your best apology for the bullshit you did this week?"

But, that's how Jaebeom worked, his actions were always alluding to his true intentions. One curved revolution and your positions were reversed, your back creased along the edge of his desk as he trapped you with his hands along the margin. Unflinching, your pupils must have been flooded as you locked your gaze with his, fingers gliding up his silk tie before you gripped the fabric and yanked him a little closer, "That's the best you're getting from me."

In one deft motion, he hoisted you up onto the edge of his desk while dipping forward, the perimeter between the two of you filled with only anticipating breaths. It was as if you were both expecting the other to give in first, a quiet war that sparked a flint that was igniting a swarming fire that could be used to burn the other. But in some ways, you were the guilty verdict, and you took that as a victory rather than a loss. Palms settled behind you, you were ready to recline as you abruptly felt Jaebeom's hand press into your spine to restrict your movement, "As much as I'd love to watch you crack your head on the edge of one of my monitors, I'm not really in the mood to clean it up."

It half surprised you that he read your motion even before you committed to it, but he was always a little too observant anyways. Narrowing your eyes at him, the grimace on your lips deepened when he drank in your expression, his fingers gripping the plush of your cheeks as your mouth rested at the valley between his thumb and index. Crooning in the most unbearable tone you had ever heard, you rolled your eyes at him while he spoke, "Don't be a brat, aren't you supposed to be apologizing to me?"

A brat? Wrinkling your nose, you sneered at him, "Takes one to know one, huh?"

Forcing his thumb into your mouth, you were half tempted to bite down — you heard that all it took was the pressure of splitting a small baby carrot with your teeth to detach it from its joint. You decide against it belatedly as you heard sharp droplets littering the wooden surface before rolling onto the plush carpet, peering down at the lost buttons of your blouse, you groan in displeasure before using your tongue to push out his finger, "You fucking idiot, how the hell am I supposed to go home?"

"Not really my problem," shrugging, a shit eating grin plastered over his mouth, he continued his own handy work as he dove into your shoulder while reaching up to cup your breast in one of his hands.

"You're such a fucking jerk."

"Mhmm," savoring the way your jasmine infused perfume clung to the cotton of your shirt, he reached around and unclasped the hooks of your bra as the garment fell. Pushing the sleeves of your shirt away and discarding your bra along with it, you begrudgingly yanked on his tie — harder this time — as you drew him in and pressed your forehead against his, "Are you really not going to apologize for ruining one of my favorite blouses?"

"I don't remember you apologizing to me yet," and he sealed his sentence onto your mouth as his tongue swiped over your bottom lip, causing you to freeze up, brows furrowing, "...I told you not to do that."

"I told you not to schedule anyone without my permission."

"It was important."

"You want me to believe you thought it was that important?"

Lies were always a struggle for you to vocalize, they just never seemed to fall from your lips without some sort of awkward contradicting action, and even now you were fumbling with the silk fabric around Jaebeom's neck as you tried to pull it loose, "It could have been."

Sliding his index finger into the knot, he pulled the loop with one swift movement before grabbing ahold of your chin to induce eye contact, "But it wasn't, was it?"

"...I wouldn't know, I wasn't the one meeting with them."

The snarl you heard blossom in his throat had you flinch, Jaebeom taking advantage of your staggered movement by gripping your wrists and bringing them to his belt as he began carefully slipping the buttons of his shirt through their respective holes, "Then I can assure you, they weren't. So no more scheduling useless appointments, right?"

The tone he used put you off, and your decision to push him came into fruition almost immediately when your thumbs simply line the leather and silver plated buckle of the logo, as if memorizing the design. You weren't so keen as to drop your hands, but they certainly were not moving at the pace of his impatience. With your jaw in his hold once more, the empty eye contact held your silence between the two of you, as he articulated with more emphasis, "Right?"

"...Right."

Rather than succumbing — much to his desire — you instead only respond to give him the answer he was seeking, because in all essences, you were the one in control. If Jaebeom wanted to create an opulent fantasy where he could overrule your decision, he certainly had not learned about you the way you had learned about him. Pressing the hook through the hoop as the plate and metal hinge knocked against one another — the only sound that seemed to be reverberating between the short and shallow breaths you both shared — the belt came apart in your hands, a touch of fabric against the suede lining whistling in your ears as you let it descend. The dull thump of the heavy buckle hit the carpet as you kicked your heels off along with it, struggling to shimmy out of your own slacks before feeling your weight lifted up. Tucking you against his sturdy frame with one arm, he effortlessly helped you out of your pants before setting you back on the desk unceremoniously, "You're slow to undress, even this time."

"...You just always know what to say, don't you?"

"I'm rather good with my mouth," the smart comment instantly invoked a heavy desire of wanting to redress yourself and leaving without a single word more.

"Are you? Jokes are only funny when you're not lying."

"Do you think I'm lying?"

You weren't sure what your initial intention was but that was a threat, you were sure of it. But a threat you were tempted to see through. There was a prominent suggestion swirling in your mind as you contemplated whether to guide it into vocalization or to simply continue and slice through his ego, perhaps gaining a more intense result if you committed to the latter. The performative action of how you uncrossed your legs decided for you, "I don't believe things until I see them."

"Since when did your apology turn into me doing you a favor?"

Mouth agape, you feigned shock, "A favor? Mr. Im, it's only a favor if it's good."

And you receive the response you were eager to be in through the presence of a brute and concise expression of competition that riddled the perimeter of his whole face. Though he seemed to be composed, you realized early on that Im Jaebeom was a competitive bastard and a few carefully plucked nuanced words were all you needed to get his ignition going. You also realize, in the few moments where you let him finally rid you of the last garment on your body, he doesn't know how to take a joke the same way he delivers them and when he flattens his tongue ardently against your bundle of nerves, you suddenly realize what they meant when they said there were 8,000 of these endings in the clitoris alone. Dipping backwards, you winced as you felt Jaebeom yank your hips closer to him, skidding along the smooth wood and his teeth sinking into your inner thigh as he spoke into your skin, "I told you to be careful your hard head might crack one of the monitors."

The only noise you could utter in response is a groan as he stiffened his tongue back against you, causing an instant slur of moans to escape your lips. As much as people liked to credit the heightened experience of alcohol induced sex, there honestly was no comparison to sobriety, not when you felt every fervent breath between the calculated way Jaebeom used his tongue against you. Even the gentle brush of his teeth against your skin caused you to squirm in absolute delight, feeling yourself drip over every lick you received. Pure euphoric noises passed your lips as your fingers threaded through his hair the moment he slid a finger into you, and even he noticed how hard you were clenched around him. The labored breaths that sunk your lungs was his indicator that you weren't going to last, unraveling at his hands as he pulled away, timed perfectly before your uncoiling. Gasping desperately, you peered at him with a dazed expression as the words fell out on their own, "Why did you stop?"

"To check if it was good."

The violent desire of having his mouth meet your fist was all that roused your thoughts as your hazy expression began to take a tumble, absolutely speechless at his childish action. But he reassured you that he was simply the same asshole, nothing quite so new, you thought he was when he cleared his throat, "...If it was, you can tell me, and I can finish the job."

"So you got a praise kink, now?"

Earning yourself a deadpanned eye roll you can't help but expel an amused laugh, watching him hover over you with an acrid and unimpressed expression, "I mean, I wouldn't be surprised...What with you being an only child, mommy and daddy showering you in all their attention, right?"

There was a fleeting spark of something that crossed over his eyes, just for a moment, and if you had not been staring directly at him you may have missed it. It was a strange chill that emulated an emptiness you had not felt in ages, but you don't address it as he readjusted the banter back towards a boundary you had not meant to cross, realizing you may have not learned all you thought you did, "Call it whatever you want, but unless you say it, you're going to be the one dealing with your own mess."

"Mess? At least when I put my pants on, it doesn't look like I have a weapon on me."

"...So you think it's that big?"

Sucking in your lips, you held them in place with your teeth, a tight line bit down desperately when you realize your words were getting clumsier the more you spoke. Though he wouldn't be lying, you weren't willing to disclose that information with him just yet, "...You did good."

"That's it?"

"Very good," your eyes turned like a dial as you nudged your knee at him, "Are you going to let me cum now or what?"

"I don't know, it doesn't feel as convincing when you say it..." The provocation is supported by a warm growl that you recall from several nights back, a sound that easily caused a kindling and lust filled response. Typically, he spoke with a natural timbre and tone that even the occasions when he cleared his throat to speak during presentations caused your mind to stray and wander far from your reality. You let him win the round, "Could you please? You were right, your mouth is not just for talking shit."

You couldn't help the latter, honestly. But instead of taking offense he bellowed a laugh of disbelief, "Are you seriously begging and insulting me in the same breath?"

"Will it get you to go down on me again?"

"If it was that good, I thought you'd be more desperate."

Pride in humans was such a complex concept that molted and formed where it needed to, and it found a home between your legs at this moment, your knees kissing to relieve some of the tension you had pent up inside you, "...I need you to do it again, please? It was good, and I honestly don't know if it will feel the same if I try and get myself off."

The words jumbled when you attempted to feed them back into your own ears, the sound of distance in your own voice causing confusion in the strange tone and desire that lost to your human will. But the moments you have to feel any last shred of embarrassment is dispersed as soon as you felt Jaebeom's grip on your thigh, spreading your legs once more before continuing his ministrations. Pleasure instantly washed over you as he worked his middle finger back in, lips encapsulating your swollen bundle of nerves as he worked in tandem to let you meet your peak once more. Convulsing as your abdomen tightened, your fingers card back through Jaebeom's messy hair as you gripped hard and bucked your hips forward. When he referred to how apparent your arousal was by calling it a mess he should have simply referred to you instead, your reaction was intrinsic but your movements and inherent being were falling apart before him. A final exhale and you choked out his name while a high pitched moan managed to gather and release from your tongue.

The moment you found to steady your breath is the same one that Jaebeom used to turn you over on his desk, your chest against the wood surface as he propped your knee up at the edge. Hissing as you attempted to adjust for comfort, he selfishly began pressing against your overstimulation as your arms gave out from your position, "Why are you always so impatient?!"

"Can you not comment once in a while, I let you cum already."

Your hips react differently to the way he lined his tip up and down your folds as opposed to your tone, back arching to meet his touch with wanton abandon as you shuddered when he finally entered you. If you were still in the mood to tease him, you liked to think you would have turned around and retorted some well thought out remark, but even then that could have lost to the possibility that the results would be the same. You had him inside of you recently, but somehow it felt like the first time again, the stretch sudden but coercing adrenaline in a way that blinded any initial soreness by raw pleasure. Fervent fingertips traced up your hips and finally to your waist, you plant one hand to pitch you up on the desk but the other curled around his bare wrist — if you grabbed his watch, you knew you'd leave a bruise on him with how tightly you're holding — giving it a squeeze. With no surprise or hesitation, Jaebeom took his cue and pushed his length entirely into you as you moaned.

The pace is slow for only as long as you can sneak a respiration, but his rhythm easily picked up to suit his impatience, and the string of obscenities that left your lips was growing in volume and length. Dousing the back of your neck with his breath, your sensory overload had you losing the last bit of control you had, submitting even your pleasure over to him as he thrust into you with perfect strokes, back and forth. The only focus you had left was to not cum too early and give him new ammunition to use against you, because he seemed to take pride in what he could manage to squeeze, whether that was a reaction or a way to beg him to fuck you, you now learned.

Without intention, you managed to complete his request of not commenting, simply relinquishing noises of delight and pleasure. Reaching for your neck with his free hand, he gently wrapped his fingers around your throat as you felt your skin blister from anticipation — it was sick how much he must have paid attention the first time if he noticed that you got off with how he choked you. Refusing to react, you simply pushed your hips back at the same rate he fucked you against the desk before his grip fused against your skin, pressing the column of your throat to capture your breath. You quietly thanked him for having turned you around because you weren't sure what kind of face you were making, lost in bliss the way every inch of his cock stretched you and how his rough hands were keeping the last bit of controlled ownership to himself.

Stifled moans are the last emission you can manage as you feel the quick snap of your core, completely unwound as Jaebeom crashed his hips into yours. By now, he knew exactly what you felt like when you were cumming, clenched around him and he'd be lying if he said there wasn't an insatiable desire that caused him to chase it every time. Not slowing his pace, he released your neck while pulling you closer towards him, his warm skin greeting your own while you rode out the last bit of your orgasm with soft whines, "You've cum twice and I still haven't gotten an apology."

There it was. But you don't have the energy to argue rather, you languidly reached around and draped your hand over his neck while catching your breath, peering up at him, "...I'm sorry I let all the nice and pretty girls in the company bother you this week. Don't be too mean, they just think you're cute."

Your words snuck between labored breaths as your half lidded eyes shut, your body still drowning in a post high you weren't quite sure you would come down from. There isn't any effort from you as he continued to thrust up to meet your hips, a smudged bout of laughter leaving his throat, "Never thought I'd hear you actually apologize."

"Then why'd you mention it."

"Just to mess with you."

"...You're such a fucking jerk, you know," while you mumbled, he moved his fingers that were originally inside of you against your lips, allowing you to taste what was left of when you soaked his skin and it's enough to make you want to cum against his cock again. You still hadn't figured out why he lasted so long and you decided it was because of his reverse erectile dysfunction, it had to be. When you managed to finish catching your breath, reality no longer lapsing you between a euphoric lust led fantasy, you alternated between how tightly you squeezed him with each thrust — hoping this would usher him to his end, but he doesn't react how you expect, instead his hands traveling over every inch of your skin and causing you to shudder.

It wouldn't be right to cum again, you keep telling yourself, but the way he's groping your breasts or how his fingertips were dug into your thigh was convincing you otherwise, "...I'm gonna cum."

You think the admission is at least better than not mentioning it at all, now for the third time, but you decide it's much worse once his lips pressed against your neck — just below your ear — and he whispered in a tone so gentle that the way he said it probably was what caused you to unravel rather than the way he fucked you, "Go ahead, cum."

Instant gratification was at his disposal as you leaned forward, only held in place by Jaebeom's arm around your waist as anything below your hips grew hot then numb, your toes curling in response to your body's reaction. Mentally you chant and beg for him to finish because you can assure yourself you're not going to be conscious for much longer, and though he could read others well, you started to wonder if he pretended he didn't know your intent especially when you felt his finger against your clit, "Wait!"

The yelp is instant as you shivered against him, torn between a mix of succumbing to every pleasurable desire you ever had being fulfilled or stopping to catch up with how your body’s reaction. Jaebeom, of course, ignored your request as you puddled out moans from your throat. Teeth in your shoulder, the onslaught of sensations were overwhelming every one of your receptors because it really did feel that good yet you couldn't savor any particular moment because it happened all at once.

Lost in a haze, your body felt as though it no longer belonged to you, every extremity inherently detached from the organic state and so heightened by pleasure and tension that they were simply extensions hanging from a frame. If begging could get Jaebeom to finish, you would have done it but you didn’t have the slightest idea how to coax him to cum. What was so intricate about the male physiology, anyways? Yet, through contradiction, you were the one spent over and over. The sudden rough grip on your breast forced you to hiss as the erratic tempo of Jaebeom’s thrusts offered a possibility of an end — finally — while your eyes pooled, festooning your cheeks with tears that were gifted from overstimulation.

The ragged breathing into your skin was your relief as you felt his sudden pull, but in your panic — especially from his disorganized way of spilling and leaving behind his mess — you gripped his wrist, “Just cum inside.”

“What?” A disgusted expression plagued his face as he seemed to lose his rhythm, “You really are fucking cra—”

“I’m on birth control so get over yourself and it’s gonna get on the carpet and your desk,” narrowing your eyes at him, you spoke quickly through your breathy pants. With a contorted expression, he rolled his eyes as he simply nodded, and not a breath later you could hear his painstakingly elongated growl. Shivering at the tone and how he held your hips in place, you finally released a sigh of relief before reaching over the desk to grab the tissue box near his keyboard. While his grip loosened, you secretly savored the warm and viscous feeling of how he filled you.

Watching your fingers tremor as you carried the cardboard container, you realized just how tense you must have been the entire time. Focused on gaining a proper grip back, you witnessed a flash of white as Jaebeom snatched several sheets and did the cleaning himself — much to your surprise and a tinge of embarrassment. You'd mostly expected to have done it on your own, and though this was already the second time you were allowing yourself to be completely naked and blissed out from being fucked by him, something about this action had induced some form of shyness. Gentle swipes over your skin and you listened to him discard the sheets as you whimpered while removing your knee from the desk, a heavy red mark along your thigh and your hip searing with initiated soreness.

The marks and fatigue would fade into an ephemeral glimmer, the same way your high would only last those fleeting moments more, but now in your sobriety you were left with an impression you weren't quite so sure would emulate the same transience. Several nights ago, you barely remembered how you managed to get your dress back on, how you purchased your breakfast, or even how you ended up at the park. Now, with full clarity, you were pulling on fabric over your skin with amplified sensory, listening to how every zip and clasp reattached itself in utter silence. It left your mind to wander once more, why you let this second time even ensue, better yet with your initiation. Two for two, right? You hadn't felt such a deeply mortifying realization until this moment as you awkwardly attempted to figure out how to wrap your blouse so you wouldn't be committing some form of public indecency.

How the hell were you supposed to get home?

all work, no play series masterlist

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solomonish · 3 years

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you dumb bitch, i loved you! (belphegor & lucifer)

the worst part is i loved you, and sometimes i feel like i still do

when belphegor fell, it felt like everything he loved had been forced inside out and created just to hurt him.

WARNING: (christian) religious imagery and guilt, swearing, brief choking, and my own interpretation of how belphie was forced in the attic.

based off of this song // ao3 link: here!

No matter how hard he tried to forget, Belphegor remembered how passionately he loved the human realm and how his bliss in his old home had been nearly just as strong.

His memories are filled with adventures in the human realm, walking down the streets with Beel and Lilith at his side. Humans liked to marvel at their gradual progress over the centuries, but to an extension of Father himself as everlasting as His love, they seemed to grow and learn at a fascinatingly fast pace. He could walk down dirt paths made only by the constant wear and tear of feet, only to be pulled away by his ear and come back after his punishment to find cobblestone and two-story apartments lining the spot where he last stood. Humans were such darling creatures, bold and brave in their battles yet never losing that adorable haze of ignorance to the greater realms. There was something about them that made him want to work harder to guide them gently on their way - an urge to protect the people who interested him so much, in an effort to maybe let them know just how dearly he loved them all.

When he wasn't wandering the human realm with a wide-eyed wonder, he spent his time diligently working, hoping that he might catch the attention of a certain angel - or maybe get him to admit that his work made him proud. Angels were not perfect, being mere reflections of His grace - if the warped spot in Belphegor's mirror was not his interest in humans, it was the favoritism he harbored for a certain group of angels. His attachment to Beel could be tied to their kindred creation and his love for Lilith a version of the love all senior angels felt for their younger brothers and sisters, but the complete admiration he had for Lucifer was something entirely different. The sentiment was shared by most angels, complementary sighs of Lucifer’s beauty and success floating around any room he was in. But Belphegor noticed the softness Lucifer held for him and the others in their little group - a bond that would not go punished if not boasted about. Fortunately for them, boasting wasn’t in the nature of angels.

There was something about Lucifer that had Belphegor completely enamored. There was something about how he seemed so...brilliant, with magnificent wings and a certain air of vulnerability that made his few imperfections invisible. Not only did Belphie respect and admire Lucifer, he considered him his favorite. If angels were creatures of devotion, Belphegor had no issue devoting himself to Lucifer. It was hardly blasphemous to revere a creature made so as glorious as he.

Perhaps his fault was that he loved Lucifer more than his Father, or his love was too selfish. (He always knew in the back of his mind that his desire to be perfect in Lucifer’s eyes, his desire to hide away with only the seven angels that felt more like his brothers than anyone else, was sacrilegious). But at the end of the day, he had loved Lilith enough to go against Father, and he had loved Lucifer enough to trust in his battle plan. A band of disillusioned heretics was no match for the strongest armies of heaven, and their ideas were destined to burn.

And burn they did.

When he watched Lilith fall out of the clouds, Belphegor felt his heart drop, bile threatening to spill from him as he, too, slipped out of his realm. Plummeting to the ground, seven burning stars on their path to damnation, he was acutely aware of the fire encapsulating him and Beel - and yet the only burning he remembered was from his throat, raw from his screams. Just as quickly as his wings burned up and his halo fractured, all of the joy Belphegor’s life once gave to him disintegrated as well. It was replaced with a hatred just as deep, the comforting warmth turned into a scalding flame that ensured he would never forget what it once was.

The Devildom was hardly a place to fear as much as the Celestial Realm made it sound. Although Belphegor really didn’t experience much of the realm - between grappling with his grief and being lulled to sleep inexplicably most hours of the day, he didn’t have much time to irritate the denizens of his new realm. He accepted what was given to him, the room and the school itinerary, and spent his time in his room, mulling over what fate had handed to him. With no ear to listen, (one unbiased by its own pain, at least), sorrow quickly turned to bitterness. He refused to admit - or believe - that Lilith had been wrong, and a fond part of him that hadn’t yet died was reluctant to blame his past celestial siblings. It was humans who led to his downfall, humans in their stupid, ignorant, arrogant ways. They moved on too quickly, their rich energy a gilded facade that hid just how shallow and stupid they really were. It was their fault - it had to be, because the idea that it could be anybody else’s was far too terrifying to deal with.

Days turned to months turned to centuries, and Belphegor slept it all away. That was easier than dealing with the world. Besides, if what Beel told him was true, Lucifer was taking care of them. They were all in good hands.

Properly adjusting to the world, once he was forced to actually attend school (and regularly, at that! What a chore), wasn’t as horrible as he thought it might be. After all, spending so much time in the personal hell of his own mind meant that mingling with demons for eight hours of the day was a walk in the park. The worst part of his day was the school council meetings, a place in which he only learned he had just before he left to take a desperately needed afternoon nap. The meetings were boring, and he often found himself dozing off during them. It didn’t matter that he wouldn’t be able to offer ideas when he had nothing to offer. Lucifer scolded him, of course, for acting so disgracefully in front of Diavolo. The defensive aura prickling over both their skin made Belphegor shift in his seat, the scowl Lucifer wore like a horrifying version of the firm decision-making face he knew. The fall seemed to have done that to all of them, forcing them all into distorted versions of themselves. That time, he brushed the incident off and made an empty promise not to do it again.

He would do it again, though. There was too much effort in keeping promises.

Sometimes, though, he felt well-rested enough to stay awake during these meetings. He still slumped in his seat, head rolling back and eyes shut, but he was listening intently. It was then that he heard plans were being put forth for an exchange program - were some circles of Hell shut off from the main city of the Devildom?

Lucifer and Diavolo went back and forth, discussing logistics and statistics boring enough to almost put him back to sleep. Aside from an occasional interjection from Satan, nobody really interrupted their little lovefest - until Asmo seemed to perk up and ask excitedly, “You’re considering Solomon?!”

Finally interested in the conversation, Belphegor adjusted himself in his seat and watched Lucifer carefully. He looked worn thing and undeniably frustrated - his fault for working himself to the bone for his dumb little boyfriend - but he still spared Asmo a second to answer his question. “He would be at the top of the list, yes. It isn’t wise to bring in two humans who have no idea what they’re doing.”

Belphegor took care to hide his outburst, but his anger must have been palpable as the two heads of the table turned their attention to him. “How nice of you to join us,” Lucifer said, a hint of something completely unfamiliar underneath his breath.

“Belphegor! What do you think of the program?”

He only stared dumbly, eyes darting between the prince who had done everything wrong and his brother who he thought could never. He wasn’t concerned with revealing that he hadn’t been paying attention until this moment. For a moment, he could feel again, his sloth and hidden feelings doing nothing to dampen the turmoil inside of him. He didn’t miss being able to feel. His blood seemed to burn at his skin, like his entire red-hot soul wanted to explode out of him and destroy the entire city. “That’s what this exchange program is?”

“What’d ya think it was?” Mammon asked underneath his breath. Belphegor ignored him.

“Don’t you remember what they did to us? You didn’t forget, did you? You couldn’t have.”

His brothers either stared at him in shock or purposely looked away, examining the floor absently. Diavolo was the only one who didn’t understand, steepling his fingers in front of him and tilting his head curiously. Belphegor hated it, and fought the urge to leap at him from across the table.

“Lucifer, what the hell? We can’t just make peace with them and pretend that everything is fine!”

“No human is alive from then,” He justified, his voice missing the harsh edge Belphegor expected. Had they been in the Celestial Realm, it would have been soft and comforting, but he couldn’t risk his imposing image, could he? “Peace between the realms could improve life here more than we know.”

“What does he know?” Belphegor shouted. His throat started hurting again, reminding him of things he’d rather forget and forcing tears to prick his eyes. After blinking them away, he turned to Diavolo and started walking towards him. “You don’t know. This is a horrible idea. We can’t let them in.”

“Belphegor.”

“Wait until they tear everything you care about apart and force everyone you loved into people you barely recognize.”

He could feel the awkwardness settle over the room at that, but he also felt hot enough to burn everything in the room with one touch. Maybe that was why he was inching closer to the prince, wanting to burn him, scar him, teach him what pain was because surely he had never felt it if he thought bringing them into the Devildom was a good idea-

Belphegor ran into somebody, and it wasn’t Diavolo. It was Lucifer, who had a warning grip on Belphegor’s shoulders that felt like a plea to back down. Belphegor watched him glance over his shoulder, nodding once at Diavolo. The prince had a firm look on his face, fitting for someone of his status - too bad Belphegor was centuries past giving a shit about any of that. Gritting his teeth at the sight of Lucifer asking for permission, Belphegor tried to shake his hands off of his shoulders.

“This meeting is adjourned,” Lucifer announced, allowing Belphegor to push away from him. He wanted to rip Lucifer’s eyes out of his skull when they settled on him. “We will talk about this when I get home.”

“Like hell we will,” Belphegor hissed, turning to hurry out of the room. He didn’t bother to stop for his bag, just wanting to escape and run.

At the House of Lamentation, Belphegor kept to himself in his shared room with Beel. His twin had the wisdom to keep away for a while, though he did hear the zippers on his bag clink together when Beel dropped it off outside the door. Curled up underneath all of his blankets, Belphegor alternated between willing sleep to come to him or the weight of the covers to crush him. Nothing happened, the adrenaline and resentment coursing through him too quickly. As he held onto himself for some sense of stability, he clenched his teeth so hard his jaw locked. He didn’t know how long he stayed there, curling in on himself like a black hole and wishing he’d burn out, but he didn’t move until somebody knocked on the door. It was Beel again.

“Dinner just ended,” He said lowly. “I know you’re up. You should eat.”

That normally came with a silent I brought you food but I don’t know how much longer I can hold myself back. “Go ahead and eat it, Beel. I’m not hungry.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the door. “...You’ll die if you don’t eat.”

“I’m not you. I can skip one meal,” Another silence, one that gave Belphegor a moment of enough sanity to make a plan. Shuffling, he made his way to the door and opened it, surprised to see Beel still standing there. He was unsurprised to see him with half a phoenix leg in his mouth.

“Sor-” He started, voice muffled by the food. Belphegor put a hand up and walked past him. “Where are you going?”

“Lucifer had to talk to me, remember?” Belphegor didn’t look back, knowing the pained look that would be watching him if he did.

Lucifer knew who it was when he knocked - hell, he probably had their knocks memorized at this point - and called for Belphegor to come in. Just seeing Lucifer made all the anger come rushing back in a blistering wave, but Belphegor bit his tongue and fought it back.

“I take it, since you came to me, you’ve come to your senses?” Lucifer asked. When he clenched his fists, Belphegor felt the hostile way Lucifer glanced at them.

“What the fuck?” He asked. Unfazed, Lucifer only blinked. “How could you do this? You know what they did.”

“Belphegor, every human isn’t to blame-”

“Of course they are!” Belphegor didn’t care about how loud he was getting and how quickly he was unraveling. He was angry, and he needed Lucifer to see what he was seeing. “Who else? If she hadn’t fallen for that idiot-”

Cutting himself off, Belphegor clenched his teeth again and doubled over. Was this how Satan felt all the time, so consumed by a rage he didn’t know what to do with? Lucifer hesitated, but his words showed no such remorse. “I know that...it’s hard to believe people who we thought were family would betray us like that-”

“No it fucking isn’t!” When Belphegor straightened himself out and levelled Lucifer in a murderous glare, Lucifer immediately stood up. “That’s what you’re doing right now! You’re throwing me under the bus because, what, your prince wants to do something stupid?”

“Belphie,” Lucifer’s voice was softer than he had ever heard since the fall, but the way he squared his shoulders warned him to watch his step lest he step on a landmine. Unlike the spineless demon in front of him, though, Belphegor wasn’t a coward, and he was going to stomp through the field and hope he blew themselves both up. “We can talk about this.”

“They killed her, Lucifer. They killed Lilith, and if you wanted to talk about it, you should have done it centuries ago.”

The silence that followed felt suffocating, hovering with all the pain and anger left unsaid woven between the hesitation. He was stuck in a culmination of atrocities surmounting to their peak, the inevitable fall not finishing on a battlefield in glory but in a stupid fucking office. Belphegor could feel the content of the books surrounding them, filled with the words and law of the creatures he had been taught to despise since day one, one of the only two demons he'd ever truly been able to hate standing in the middle. Shaking with what he wished he could say, Belphegor wanted to prompt Lucifer to say something. He regretted the thought when he opened his mouth.

“I know what you’re about to say, Belphegor. Watch what you say next,” Lucifer said, slowly. Belpheor didn’t doubt that, but he let out a scorned laugh all the same.

“I’ll kill it. Them. Both.” His voice sounded much lower than he had ever heard it, like he was using it to its full demonic potential for the first time. “I’ll kill the human you bring down here.”

Lucifer rounded his desk and stepped carefully towards Belphegor. “Watch it.”

“Anything! Anything to stop this stupid program,” Instincitively stepping back, Belphegore’s gaze unfocused for a moment. “I’ll kill your precious prince, too. This can’t happen. It isn’t-”

All at once, Belphegor’s voice cut off and his back hit the wall behind him. His legs dangled a distance from the ground, and it took him a moment of being unable to breathe to realize Lucifer pinned him to the wall by his neck. He found himself staring at Lucifer framed in an endless black void, noticing a few moments later that he was in demon form and his wings were stretched out. His red eyes were staring through him, as if deciding what to do with the demon hanging limply in his grasp.

Lucifer didn’t give him the luxury of an explanation, instead forcing him down the hall and up the only staircase to the attic. When he was thrown forward, Belphegor felt what little breath was left being forced out of his lungs. He could vaguely hear Lucifer chanting something and bars forcing themselves into place, but by the time he realized what was happening, it was too late. Stumbling to the bars, still uneasy on his feet in his fatigue, Belphegor pressed himself against the bars. Lucifer stood just out of reach, and the thought that it had been like this since they were demons tasted bitter on his tongue.

“What are you doing?” He asked, his voice a harsh rasp. “You’re just- leaving me here?”

It was the first time Belphegor saw uncertainty flicker in Lucifer’s gaze, but he couldn’t find any pleasure in it with metal bars pressing into his face and chest. “Believe me when I say this is what’s best for you,” Lucifer said.

Belphegor didn’t know how long Lucifer was planning to keep him up there, but the finality circling around him was as bad an omen as any. When Lucifer turned to walk away, he began throwing himself against the bars, screaming his protests and promising to find a way out. He couldn’t see the pain on Lucifer’s face with his back turned - but his own angry, desperate tears would have blurred his vision anyway. Still, he wouldn’t resort to begging to be let go, not if it meant accepting a world where humans wouldn’t pay for what they did to his whole family.

For the second time in his life, Belphegor screamed his voice hoarse. For the second time, when he was done, his cheeks wet and body exhausted, he crawled into the nearest bed and lay in contemplative silence. There was one small window in the attic, one he knew he wouldn’t be able to escape from, and from it the moon shone through and painted the otherwise dark room a misty white. He remembered how he had stared at a similar moon and wondered with the humans about what it’d be like to go there, and felt as though he had finally made it there only to realize it was nothing but a dusty rock.

He hated being stuck without his brothers, being able to hear their commotion through the floorboards but knowing they didn’t miss him at all. He hated having so much time left to his thoughts, and it only embittered him more. Most of all, he hated Lucifer, hated how he could so clearly remember how great he had been and how pathetic he turned out to be. The illusion of fallen angels no longer stuck in his mind - he was the complete opposite of his former self, so it only made sense that Lucifer was, too. What once was great and admirable was now nothing short of disgusting, and Belphegor had allowed him to trick him into thinking he might still be worth something. Everything he loved had been torn apart and distorted into a monster even he couldn’t stomach.

How easy it was to be fooled by the things you loved.

How easy it was to fall for them.

#WAS HIT BY RANDOM INSPO AND WROTE THIS IN A FEW HOURS #SRRY 4 SUCK #obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me swd #swd obey me #obey me belphegor #swd belphegor #belphegor #mine #belphegor angst #obey me lucifer #obey me lucifer angst #lucifer angst #belphegor fic

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thealexchen · 3 years

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One Year On: Life is Strange 2 Critique

December 3rd, 2020 marks a year since Life is Strange 2 ended. I was inspired by @smitethepatriarchy‘s text posts (here, but there are several other answered asks worth reading) and @suhaplays’s text post (here) criticizing Life is Strange 2 to write a critique about how Life is Strange 2 handled certain themes and social issues.

(tw: gun violence, police brutality, animal death, incarceration, racism. In this essay, I use the word “queer” in a reclaimed sense, as a queer person myself. Of course, spoiler warning for all five episodes of Life is Strange 1 and 2).

A year on, my feelings about this game have soured... a lot. When the game was first announced, I was overjoyed that our new protagonists would be two Latino boys. Finally, we would have a culturally meaningful, groundbreaking video game with people of color and their experiences at the forefront!

Then the game was met with immediate backlash and I utterly exhausted myself defending it for weeks on Reddit and Tumblr. Throughout 2019, as the episodes came out I became increasingly disillusioned, frustrated, and disappointed with where the story was going. I couldn’t figure out why I felt so damn miserable while playing this game.

Then in the summer of 2020, when Tell Me Why began rolling out pre-release material, I noticed that they posted a Q&A about transphobia, gave content warnings, and discussed at length about their collaboration with GLAAD, Checkpoint, and the Huna Heritage Foundation to make the game with sensitivity and proper research. I cannot speak for trans and gender non-conforming people on whether Dontnod succeeded at doing so with Tell Me Why. But Life is Strange 2 did… none of that.

Essentially, I realized that the reason why I was so frustrated with LiS2 is because it focuses way too heavily on a trauma narrative. This comes off as insensitive to players of color without any content warnings or extensive research.

Sean didn’t have to get kidnapped, kicked in the face, and called a racial slur by a gas station owner. Daniel did not need to watch his puppy get mauled by a mountain lion for the sake of a “difficult choice.” Sean didn’t have to lose his eye for the sake of heightened drama. Sean didn’t need to get called a racial slur and humiliated by his native language/beaten in the desert for refusing to sing. Daniel didn’t need to get shot— twice. Hell, all of “Faith” probably could’ve been cut— how is a church cult that brainwashes Daniel and beats Sean half to death relevant at all to the story?

Even if not all of the game’s violence was racially motivated, the consistent trauma that Sean and Daniel endure does not make for positive representation— or even good characterization. There is a difference between sympathetic characters and well-written characters, and trauma does not make Sean and Daniel any more complex or likable-- just more fucking traumatized.

LiS2 is more grounded in reality, but that also makes plot holes that much harder to excuse (Daniel’s powers being spotted, most of the Parting Ways ending, Sean’s prison sentence). But most of all, it grounds all of Sean and Daniel’s pain and trauma in reality.

There is no magicking away a town-destroying storm with time travel. Sean can’t keep his dad alive by ripping up a Polaroid. After Max unlocked her powers, she was still a Blackwell student, reconnecting with Chloe, taking photos, saving lives, and uncovering a murder mystery. After Daniel unlocked his powers, the Diaz brothers lost everything.

The game never lets you forget that Sean and Daniel are homeless, wanted, constantly in danger, and that they are never getting their old lives back. It permeates the entire game, and for players of color, just reinforces a sad, miserable, grim reality about living in the United States. It is, as @smitethepatriarchy said, potentially triggering for players of color, and it is certainly not something I needed to be reminded of.

And the representation of POC? It feels shallow and ill-researched. It would only take a Google search to find out that Dia de Muertos (a holiday to honor the dead, no less) was from October 31 to November 2 in 2016, the year the game takes place, but Daniel only talks about Halloween in episode 1. Sean and Daniel never discuss any Mexican customs, foods, or holidays. Sean doesn’t speak Spanish with his immigrant father, only during a scene when he’s traumatized (again!) by two racists, and again when talking to Mexican immigrants— in jail. Daniel doesn’t speak Spanish at all. Most of their allies throughout the game are white, including Finn and Cassidy, who appropriate Black culture with their dreadlocks.

So what’s left? Sean and Daniel’s existence as people of color is, at worst, just a narrative prop to justify everything that happens to them. They are people of color on the surface only. In a meta-sense, the game only considers the color of their skin and their last names as what is narratively important… yikes.

I don’t have anything against people who genuinely loved the game and were moved by its messages and story. But I can’t help but feel bitter that white players have the luxury of only thinking of this game as a work of fiction and not feeling any personal reliability to Sean and Daniel’s racialized trauma.

I don’t regret playing LiS2, but I do regret all the time and energy I spent defending it in the beginning. I understand now that I shouldn’t let people’s opinions get to me, nor should I feel obligated to like or defend a game for its attempts at representation. But now, I think I understand how queer fans must have felt in late 2015 when Polarized released. After following the game for 10 months, to see that Chloe’s ultimate destiny was to die and Pricefield is another ship plagued by the Bury Your Gays trope (in the ending that the devs clearly put more work into) must have been just as disillusioning and infuriating. I understand why some fans were so quick to unfollow LiS or develop mixed feelings about the series, because that’s how I feel too after following LiS2’s development from September 2018 to December 2019.

Before I end, I will admit that Life is Strange 2 arrived at a time when I needed it. I still stand by my belief that DN did a great job characterizing Sean, Daniel, and Chris without toxic masculinity, which is the best thing they could’ve done for a male-focused follow-up to a game about queer women. I love that Sean is still a canonically bisexual man of color in a major video game and that DN didn’t forget their queer audience. I love the world and characters that DN built, but I still prefer AU fanfictions of their normal lives, without all that trauma.

So, I will continue to treasure Lyla and her 10 minutes of screentime (aka the only shred of Asian American representation I can get from this series). I still reblog LiS2 fanart to support the artists. I still support Dontnod, because as Tell Me Why has shown, they are capable of researching and writing stories with more sensitivity. And let’s be honest-- I’m still gonna be hella excited if Life is Strange 3 is announced.

But so many aspects of Life is Strange 2 were bungled that it came off as a remarkably average and forgettable experience. A year on, I don’t hate Life is Strange 2, but I am writing this to move on from it.

Thank you for reading.

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masterwords · 3 years

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A Certain Moral Flexibility

Notes: Imagine a world where Hotch didn't join the BAU after SWAT, instead he went into the CIA. There isn't much plot here, I had a whole lot of ideas planned out and this kind of just went the way it went. However, I think this is more fun as maybe an intro to a continuing fun-fest Mortch CIA AU. HUGE thanks to @kirstenseas for the brilliant idea and inspiration! (~5000 words)

Warnings: Eh, it's pretty tame, honestly. Hotch is a CIA sponsored hit man, so there is that. A brief mention of spouse & child loss, vomit, everything I could think of is tagged below.

“You're sure this is the guy?” Hotch asked, skimming the file in his hands. The face in the photo was familiar, he'd worked with the mole before. Suspected mole. That was a distinction his mind had never made before - he held the file and he knew they were guilty, or if they weren't, they'd done something to get themselves on the list and the paycheck would take care of any lingering feelings of guilt on Hotch's end. But this time he couldn't shake the suspected part, he knew the guy, hadn't seen him in years now but he'd know that face anywhere. They'd worked together in S.W.A.T a lifetime ago. “He doesn't read like a mole.”

“Oh, so you know more than I do now smart guy?” Samson asked, cocking an eyebrow. Hotch's lip twitched. He didn't like Samson and he especially didn't like being called names. He also didn't like coffee shops, especially this one. There were people everywhere on computers, phones, electronic extensions of their hands and eyes. There was a young man near the door that was taking photos of them, probably mocking the only two old men in the place. "Watch yourself."

“Not what I meant.”

“Right. Well, hot shot, that's him. That's the guy. He's about to get a big payout, you need to take care of things before he does or he's gone. He'll be in the wind so fast and we'll never see him again. It's a matter of national security.” Another name. Hotch narrowed his eyes, pictured a little red dot between Samson's eyebrows and nodded in understanding. If he didn't live by some vague semblance of a moral code he would make good on his fantasy, but not this time. It wasn't killing Samson that gave him pause, it was all of the witnesses. It was the punk with the phone uploading his face to whatever his social media drug of choice was. “You take care of him or it'll be your head on the chopping block.”

Threats. He really hated Samson. “Your bedside manner needs some work,” Hotch muttered and Samson laughed, spraying specks of his scone all over the table. Shame, Hotch thought, he had been planning to eat his muffin but that was lost now. He pushed his plate to the side without blinking.

“I'll keep that in mind,” he replied with a wink. Hotch didn't flinch, didn't smile, didn't even blink. He was sitting there in a hipster coffee shop full of people half his age who thought they were so clever, unsuspecting keyboard warriors lost in their internet arguments over a world they barely understood. There was a time in his life he would have enjoyed a place like this, a different lifetime when he could still see the world in pure color and the thought of other humans didn't fill him with contempt.

He didn't like this. Something felt wrong, the way Samson was sure this FBI Agent was a “traitorous scumbag”, such a master of words. Hotch had nearly sidestepped the CIA and entered the BAU, had learned how to profile a person based on behavior, found it intriguing if not a little dull in the end. It lacked a certain quality that the CIA offered in spades, and he'd thought it was many different things over the years but he was entirely disillusioned now and understood it was simply the sanctioned killing that put a smile on his face anymore. Not even a real smile, even that was gone.

This Derek Morgan profiled like a stand up guy, though, and nothing about his history made him look like a person who would betray their country or even their friend in a game of cards. He'd been offered promotions and turned them down, so he wasn't motivated by power. Hotch settled into the seat, picking at his muffin, staring into Agent Morgan's face. As Samson scribbled his signature and paid their check, Hotch considered whether his gut was worth following, worth dying over if he was wrong. He would certainly end up in a very strategic accident if anyone even knew he was considering not fulfilling his assignment. Questioning Samson, a man who held more power in his spidery hands than anyone had a right to.

Hotch was already dead. He'd watched his pregnant wife die beside him, felt the light inside of him snuff itself out when her eyes closed for the last time. He was a broken shell of a man, physical wounds that would never heal served as a constant reminder of his loss. Every day he waited for a reason, some excuse for Samson or another big wig to order him a bullet between the eyes, cut his brake lines, poison his coffee. He supposed he didn't actually want to die, he didn't drive anymore – if he couldn't get there walking, he wasn't going to get there at all most days. Public transport, packed airline flights, he covered his bases. No one wanted him dead enough to hurt innocent civilians yet, but he knew he was a monster to use them as a shield. If they chose the coffee, may as well kill him anyway because he wouldn't go without it. His life was void of pleasure, except coffee.

He let Samson leave first, sat and finished his muffin in silence before heading for the door. On his way out, he snatched a phone from a young man's hand and snapped it in two, the glass from the screen splintering beneath his fingertips. The memory card snapped with the phone and it brought a smile to his lips – he'd gotten lucky, wouldn't have to spend extra time digging. It was rare that his theatrics came through for him – maybe it was a sign. He saw blood when he handed it back to the young man.

“Stop taking pictures of strangers. A lot of people wouldn't be as understanding as I am.” He smiled a wolfish grin at the young man and left with the understanding of two things: first, whatever photos had been taken of him were already on social media so breaking the phone was just some pointless fun and two, the young man's account was being scrubbed clean if facial recognition was doing its job. You can't put photos of a ghost on social media. All he'd really done was break an expensive phone and he didn't feel bad for that, a new one would be out in a matter of months that would have rendered the broken one obsolete anyway.

The house he found himself holed up in was big and empty, with ripped wallpaper and a crumbling foundation. He wondered as he peeked in closets and flicked light switches on and off how long the CIA had owned this particular property, how they'd curated it to look just unassuming enough to be inconspicuous. The house was clearly not lived in, but always teetering right there on the edge – the family must have just moved out, it's in limbo. The lawn is just this side of unkempt, the exterior paint isn't chipping but it needs refreshing. there is a rough patch in the yard where a For Sale sign occasionally hung. Agent Morgan had been under surveillance for months, maybe longer, that much was obvious. He ran his hands along the dusty blinds, peeked through the window at the house across the street. Agent Morgan's house, or one of them anyway. Upstairs the house smelled like urine, probably cats but maybe rats too. Carpet held onto memories better than anything.

“I need you to check on something for me,” he said, staring down at his feet as he spoke, shielding his face from watchful eyes. Cars peeled around corners in the garage, spewing their exhaust as they sped by. Agent Gideon nodded, looked the other direction. This meeting wasn't happening. “At the coffee shop downstairs, ask Amber for the receipt for table 12 – cinnamon scone, blueberry muffin and an americano.”

“What do you need from me?”

“There's a name on that receipt. Do some digging.”

“How long?”

“I can drag it out three days, maybe four. Text the number at the bottom of the receipt when you're certain. I don't need to tell you what'll happen if you breathe a word of this to anyone...”

“Not a peep,” Gideon replied quietly, always glad to inject a little levity into their conversations. It wasn't going to come from Hotch so he may as well.

Careful to avoid detection, Hotch kicked off his shoes and set up his chair before getting to work on his weapon. He loved this bit. The delicate dance of parts clicking together, satisfying, locking in place of something that looked so much like something he'd played with as a child in the backwoods of rural Virginia only this wasn't make believe. It sang its siren song as he worked, his fingers itched to get locked in place.

He hoped Agent Gideon took his time. Not too much, but enough that he could breathe. It had been so long since he'd had occasion to just sit. He'd been all over Mexico for months, holed up in Beirut before that. He never really knew what he was doing but he supposed he did it well, they kept handing him more. This one felt like a suicide mission, killing a decorated FBI Agent, but even that couldn't sour his mood. Suicide mission and vacation looked dangerously similar in his line of work.

Agent Morgan walked in and out of his house too casually for someone being watched by the CIA. Hotch's suspicions increased tenfold when Morgan didn't so much as look over his shoulder as he hefted his grocery bags through the front door. He opened his door for neighbors, left it hanging wide open while he watered his grass, walked his dog without a care in the world. Alarms were going off in Hotch's head. He took a deep breath, looked around the room, listened to the pigeon warbling on the power pole outside. The urine smell was stronger where he stood, where the sunlight heated up the carpet. The alarms quieted and he sat himself down, peered through the blinds again, watched Morgan haul in the last bags of groceries and visit with his neighbors. He closed his eyes, saw Morgan's face clear as day in the darkness and took a deep breath.

The smell of urine faded and was replaced with the smell of a car's exhaust and hay. He looked to his right and there was Morgan, bundled up in a puffy jacket, head covered in a knit cap that fell over his ears. Hotch looked at his hands, covered in thick wool gloves and he spoke. His voice sounded softer in his fantasy, almost gentle and very human. That was always how he knew it wasn't real.

“It's freezing,” he muttered, and Morgan laughed. His laughter was warm and light.

“Yeah. It's been freezing the whole time, you new here?” he asked, fiddling with the seam on the finger of his own glove. “This is taking for fucking ever. You hear anything out there?”

“Just two idiots talking shop, nothing interesting,” Hotch replied, his earpiece buzzing with the voices of two men he didn't know arguing over pizza restaurants. They'd been holed up in the garage for hours now with nothing to keep them warm but a small space heater that rattled too much to use while their targets were parked outside the door. Hotch was freezing, his teeth chattered as he listened and he moaned about it every so often to Morgan who seemed just fine.

“How'd you get stuck on this god forsaken stakeout?” Morgan asked, rubbing his hands together. “They don't usually send guys like you out.”

“Guys like me?” Hotch asked, folding his arms over his chest, pulling his coat tight indignantly. He knew very well what Morgan meant but he wanted to hear it. “What does that mean?”

Hotch shivered in his chair, squinted through his scope and watched. The muffin and coffee were not sitting well in his stomach, he felt sick. The thick feeling of saliva coated his mouth and he swallowed it down, blinking hard, squinting to see faint shadows moving behind Morgan's curtains. His fantasy shifted as his stomach churned, softened just enough to offer him peace from his angry stomach.

“You okay?” Morgan asked, sliding closer to Hotch in the garage. The car had gone, they'd turned the heater back on and huddled in close. Hotch nodded and shivered, wondering if he was okay or not. They'd been on this stakeout for almost a full day with no sleep, no food and only small intervals with heat. His fingertips were painful and he knew that as bad as that felt, the numbness that would follow would be infinitely worse.

“What'd you mean earlier? Guys like me?” Hotch asked, nearly touching the space heater now with his bare hands. Morgan laughed his golden laugh.

“Suit and tie,” Morgan muttered. “You know what I mean. You're the guy that hands out the orders, not the one that takes them.” Hotch rolled his eyes, wouldn't dignify that with a response. He was just as capable of field work as Morgan was. They sat in silence, huddled close together for warmth and the time passed slowly. As day gave way to night and the temperature dropped painfully low, they heard another car pull up and turned off the heater reluctantly, listened intently to the people inside. Teenagers, it sounded like, there to make out in the abandoned field beside the garage. It happened often in spots like this, secluded and broken down. People having sex, drug deals, murders. That's all places like this were good for. That no one ever seemed to wonder about the garage at the edge of the property spoke to just how self-absorbed most people were.

Days seemed to pass slower out there, and Hotch could feel fingers of cold twisting up his spine, into his head. He was losing feeling in his toes. Morgan kept looking at him funny and he couldn't figure out why.

“You don't look good,” Morgan pointed out as sunlight broke through a dusty window at the top of the garage. “You okay?” Hotch gulped down some bile and nodded. Sure, he was fine, he thought. Maybe he was dying of hypothermia, maybe not.

His stomach lurched, shattering his fantasy and he cupped his hands to his face, losing the contents of his stomach unceremoniously all over himself. Maybe he wasn't so far off with the poison idea, he should have known better than to eat with Samson. He'd never been able to turn down a blueberry muffin. Abandoning his post momentarily, he cleaned himself and the carpet up. When he finished scrubbing it was the cleanest patch of carpet in the place and he got back to it. It was unpleasant, but he did feel better.

Morgan stretched his arms out, pulled Hotch to his chest, wrapped him tight and Hotch wondered how he was so warm. “Better?”

“Yeah,” Hotch mumbled, burying his freezing nose in Morgan's chest. He didn't feel sick anymore, he felt peaceful and warm. With Morgan's arms around him, he felt a strange light in his chest, something hopeful for the first time in years. Like he had something to live for.

Hotch blinked, felt himself losing his focus. The lines between fantasy and reality felt hazy where they were usually solid. He arched his back, looked around the room, named the objects he saw, the things he heard, sucked the smell of urine in deep and let it out. At his feet sat a phone, not a new message in sight. He normally had no trouble with his fantasy integration, he could sit for days without moving. Something about this target, this assignment made him uneasy. So far it had been barely 24 hours and he was losing it. He saw movement behind Morgan's curtains and put his eye back to his scope, finger resting gently against the cold trigger. There was a clear shot, plain as day, he could take it now and be done with it, let his soul be sorted later. He could.

He didn't.

Morgan's arms were around him and he breathed his scent in deep. They didn't make a sound as they wrapped up in eachother's embrace, knew they were just as much being recorded as any of the suspects outside but what happened in the silence was enough to warm him through. A moment more of peace, and then there was the sound of tires on the dirt outside and voices. Hotch sat up, pressing his gloved hand to his ear to listen with renewed vigor.

“That's them,” he muttered, squinting. Morgan pulled out his binoculars and approached the door, pressing his face to the small opening between two boards. The men outside sounded gruff, Hotch thought, not the type he wanted anything to do with. Morgan confirmed that notion quickly, backing away from the door.

“They're getting out of the car,” he whispered, dropping the binoculars and pressing his hand against his gun. Hotch stood and mimicked the movement, wondering if his freezing fingers could pull a trigger if necessary. They stood listening to the men talk in their ear pieces, listened to the crunch of dirt and rocks beneath their feet as they examined the perimeter of the garage, tugged on the door that was chained and locked from the outside. Hotch glanced at the rope ladder hanging from the roof, the hatch closed but unlocked. It was their only way out and it suddenly seemed foolish. He wasn't exactly afraid, just unsettled. He and Morgan pressed together and backed toward the ladder, knowing that they may have to use their exit sooner rather than later if things went awry. They weren't there for action, just to listen, but the things the men were saying made it sound like they'd bitten off more than they could chew. Back up was miles away, they were on their own.

“You go up first,” Morgan hissed. “I'll be right behind you.” Hotch shook his head no, that wasn't how it worked. He was the senior agent, he had to be the last one out. The door rattled on its rotting hinges and daylight broke through the cracks.

“Little piggies!” called a voice from just beyond the door. “Let me in or I'll blow this house down!”

Morgan began climbing first and Hotch watched, waited for him to touch the roof before he grabbed hold and hefted himself up, rung by rung. The door splintered off of its hinges and Hotch climbed faster, reaching for Morgan's outstretched hand, feeling the pull in his shoulder as the man hoisted him out into the morning sunlight. They heard shots from below and scrambled across the pitched icy roof, wondering at their predicament. Their vehicle was in the mix of junked cars behind the garage, Hotch could see it but the men were blocking their way down. Morgan grabbed Hotch's hand, gripped it tight and pulled him close.

“We gotta jump,” Morgan whispered, his lips tickling against Hotch's ear. They both looked at the ground, it wouldn't kill them but it was going to hurt. “You wanna go first or should I do the honors?”

Hotch volunteered. He'd sent Morgan up the rope first to save him, he may as well jump first. If the men were waiting they would see him hit the ground, be on top of him quickly and Morgan could wait it out, maybe get away. Hotch inched toward the edge, Morgan's hand still gripping his until the last moment and he let go, pushed off and soared out away from the garage. He felt his body hit the ground, the wind knocked out of him. He gasped for breath, squinted into the sunlight to see Morgan on the ledge waiting for his chance, waiting to see if the men were watching. Hotch couldn't breathe, couldn't move.

The phone buzzed at his feet and he blinked stupidly, breaking out of his trance. He glanced down, saw it buzz again and reached for it. Abort, it said. He peeked through the blinds, no movement across the street. The house was dark. His phone rang and he answered it, held it to his ear without speaking, without breathing. “It's a set-up,” the voice said. “Get out of there.”

Hotch shut off the phone and pulled it apart, snapping the SIM card between his fingers and slipped away from the window. He thought about the assignment again, the smell of the house flooded his senses and he recognized something just under the astringent urine, something foul and he felt sick again. His fingertips tingled, his toes hurt. So this was the way it went, not a bullet or poisoned coffee, something slow acting, dousing the carpet or maybe the blinds. It didn't matter. He carefully pulled his weapon apart, he'd be damned if Laverne wouldn't be shown respect even if these were their last moments together. He wiped her down with shaking hands, last respects from a dying man, spending his last seconds of life on his precious girl and squeezed his eyes tight against the harsh sunlight. Fantasy barged in on reality, a coping mechanism when the pain set his nerves on fire.

Morgan was standing over him smiling. “You're not very graceful,” he said, extending his hand to Hotch who still lie on the ground, struggling to breathe like a fish out of water. “Get up. You gotta get up.” Hotch didn't take his hand, he thought maybe he was dying. Morgan crouched, cupped his face in his hands and shook his head. "Hotch, get up now. You hear me? Now."

With Laverne in his hand, he stumbled out of the room and toward the stairs, gripping the railing as tight as he could. He didn't rush, wasn't sure he wanted to live through this because what happened then? Someone had set him up, his life was as good as over whether he lived or not. He should have killed Morgan, he knew that now. Whoever it was that wanted him dead was going to take them both out, they wouldn't stop. He stumbled on the stairs, feet went out from under him and he crumpled, knocked into the wall and stopped at the base winded and hurt. It wasn't so bad, going this way. If he hadn't fallen down the stairs, it would have been painless anyway. Probably more than he deserved.

He woke in a hospital, that much he was sure of. A bag suspended above his head pumped something cold and thick into his veins, he felt it course through him. He hated it. Why couldn't hospitals be as efficient as whomever it was that decided to poison him? They'd had the decency to leave needles and machines out of it. They knew he'd kick his shoes off, he always did, and it was easy after that. They barely had to try, he did most of the work himself. There was someone beside him and he inclined his head to see, just barely able to make out a face that felt so familiar now he would know it anywhere. The smell of a crisp mountain morning, of cedarwood and sandalwood and crisp cotton drying in the sun.

“Agent Morgan?” he rasped, confused. Was he still in the house? Had it all been a dream? Part of his fantasy? He was losing it. Paranoia, he'd been warned, was a dangerous symptom of the job.

“Hey,” Morgan said softly, as if they were friends, as if they knew each other intimately. Hotch was confused and Morgan could see it on his features. “Don't worry. When you're up to it, I'll fill you in. Just rest now.”

He didn't do resting, it didn't agree with his system. The longer he was forced to lay there the more restless and agitated he became. He was snapping at Morgan, at the nurses, pulling out his IV every chance he got regardless of consequences. Morgan thought it was funny and finally decided that Hotch was lucid enough to share what little he knew with him. Hotch wasn't sure he cared to hear it from the smug man sitting beside him and yet he had no choice, no one else came. It was just he and Morgan and two police officers posted up right outside of his door, either keeping them inside or keeping others out, he wasn't entirely sure and neither would have been terribly surprising to him.

“I was just playin',” Morgan began with a smirk. “I don't know much, it's way above my pay grade...” Morgan said, leaning over Hotch's bed. Hotch's lip twitched. “I do know that you were supposed to kill me and you didn't, now we're both here on protective detail while Agent Gideon handles the pile of shit we stepped in.”

“Just my luck,” Hotch muttered, closing his eyes. He imagined taking that first shot, Morgan with his key in the lock, a paper grocery bag in his arms. Saw the blood, the groceries flying all over the front porch – a few cans of beans rolling down the stairs, cilantro hitting the ground, a jug of juice exploding. He smiled. “I should have taken the shot.”

Morgan laughed. “Yeah, probably. Have I thanked you yet for waiting?” His features went solemn just briefly, long enough that Hotch could see that he was scared. Maybe he had no idea what he'd done to get on a list, maybe he knew, but he was afraid. For the first time in as long as he could remember, Hotch felt remorse.

“No,” Hotch groaned, trying to sit up. His back ached. He felt like he'd aged twenty years, his joints screamed at him. Remember falling down the stairs? His muscles asked him and he had to admit, he'd forgotten that detail again. It came and went in blurry flashes. Had he fallen down stairs or jumped from a roof? Was he in a house or a freezing garage? Fantasy had blurred with reality in a way he hadn't experienced before. It wasn't terrible, it kept him busy, but the way Morgan's arms had felt around him couldn't be real, it was too good to be real.

“Well, when we get out of here maybe you let me take you out to dinner?”

“Is that supposed to be the thank you? If it is, I think I'll pass...on account of just having been poisoned and all.”

“You're not getting anything better than all of this...” Morgan said, smirking. Hotch had to turn away lest he smile in return, let his guard down. He was already vulnerable, wearing nothing more than a thin hospital gown, exposed from the waist down beneath the papery sheets. “I guarantee it.”

Hotch laughed, it hurt his head. “Really wish I had taken the shot.”

“Nah. You don't. Know why? You were enjoying the fantasy too much. Can't blame you, look at me.”

Hotch rolled his eyes. He hated this guy already. Memories flashed before him, memories of their time in S.W.A.T, why he hadn't tried to keep in touch when they went separate ways. He was insufferable. Kind, generous, gorgeous and completely insufferable. “I can see why they wanted you dead.”

Morgan laughed. “Ditto.”

Agent Gideon came by later to let them know it was taken care of, they were both safe. He and his team had sorted things out. Hotch had a new Director to get to know after Samson, the real traitor, was arrested. Hotch was wholly unsurprised by the revelation that his boss was a traitor, he had all the markings. It was almost too easy, and he supposed that was just the way of it - there would be another Samson, and another, because that amount of power bred stupidity.

He would have a new Director and he just hoped they wouldn't try to kill him right away while Morgan had to return to work. Hotch was holed up in the hospital for days as the poison was worked out of his system and no one came to visit him after Morgan left. Prior to this assignment he would have liked it that way – he hadn't let anyone in since his wife died, preferred having no connections, no complications, but there was Agent Morgan's smile and he found himself lying in that cold hospital bed wondering if his arms were really as warm as they'd felt in his dream. He was making himself sick, soft and sentimental, it was definitely time to get out of the hospital and on with his life.

Morgan made good on his promise and took Hotch out to dinner. He showed up at the hospital when Hotch was discharged, gave him a ride away from that place. Hotch hadn't been inside of a car in years, hadn't trusted it, still wasn't sure he did but there was Morgan sitting beside him and for some inexplicable reason he trusted him.

“I've got a new assignment,” Hotch said, picking at his salad mirthlessly. “You won't see me again after tonight.”

“Well, then...let's use this,” Morgan replied, sipping his wine and holding up a hotel room key. It dangled from his fingertips and Hotch stared at him for a moment, caught somewhere between laughing and hailing the waitress for their check. “Let me thank you properly before you become a ghost.”

He did laugh. Long and hard, and Morgan followed suit. Then they hailed the waitress for their check.

#criminal minds au #aaron hotchner #derek morgan #jason gideon #mortch #hotchgan #hotch whump

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lena-in-a-red-dress · 3 years

Text

Metallo!Lena AU Pt 18

Wresting back control of LuthorCorp is easier than Lena expects. She's forgotten that she was voted in once, that the shareholders had actively wanted her in the lead, wanted her to pull them back from the brink. It doesn't hurt her case that the company floundered even further after her presumed death. Who better to bring it back to life, the board surmised, than the ressurrected Luthor herself?

Towards that end, Lena hires an army of people to bring her back to life. She recruits a publicity firm to handle the media, she hires a stylist team to shop an entire wardrobe for, and an accounting agency to figure exactly how much money she has to her name.

Lena allows her army free reign to put her life back in order, and in the meantime she devotes her time to resuming her battle for the good opinion of National City. As a vigilante, being Supergirl's friend helps a great deal, but for Lena herself, she has work to do.

Through a series of follow up articles, Lena shares herself with Kara, and by extension CatCo's readership. At LuthorCorp, she ingrains herself in the daily workings of the company. She's already laid much of the groundwork before the crash, but she's still full of nerves as she re-introduces herself to each and every department.

She's keenly aware that a handshake from her could now snap bones, so one corner of her mind is always conscious of her strength, always careful. Part of her now recognizes why Kara spent so much time at the DEO, where everyone knows her strength and how deadly she could be-- they know to keep their distance.

At L-Corp, everyone presses close, eager for smiles and soft words of welcome backs. Lena remains on the razor's edge of awareness, leaving her drained by the time she walks back into the apartment she shares with Kara.

"Oh, wow," Kara mutters when Lena returns after her first day. It takes Lena a moment to realize her friend is staring, and a moment longer to remember that Kara had been called away for an early DEO emergency that morning, and that this is the first time they've seen each other all day. Kara's already comfy in pajamas and an NCU sweatshirt, but Lena is still dressed for the office, in an outfit her stylist selected for her.

Kara blinks, her eyes traveling all the way down to Lena's feet, arched in killer heels. Only then does she shake herself out of it.

"Oh, wow," she repeats, this time less stunned and more concerned. "You must be exhausted."

Lena huffs, rolling her eyes. "You have no idea."

She's been sleeping on the sofa's daybed at night, but at the moment its folded up into the couch. Lena clicks her way over and slumps into the increasingly familiar cushions, chucking off her shoes haphazardly.

Kara scurries over and hands her a bowl of pasta. Lena accepts it with a grateful smile and waits for Kara to join her on the couch with her own bowl before she tucks in. Its simple, just a snack of buttered noodles to pick them up, but Lena devours it in record time.

"How's CatCo?"

Kara grimaces. "Awful. Snapper hates me. Which is actually normal for him, but... some of the others have joined in this time. A little less thuggishly, but still."

Lena frowns. "Wait 'til christmas. They'll be thanking you for their holiday bonus."

"I don't want them to like me because I helped get them money," Kara counters. "I want them to like me because I'm nice. Or good at my job."

Lena smiles. "I give them another week before they're eating out of your hand." When Kara looks at her, she shrugs knowingly. "Isn't that about how long it took you to break through to me?"

Kara scoffs, thumping her with a pillow. "You're different."

"Am I?"

"Well, yeah. You're.... you."

"That explains everything, thank you."

---

Lena doesn't patrol with Supergirl anymore-- the district attorney's office serves a cease and desist the morning after her first interview with Kara airs, xiting that having such a high profile figure running amok on the streets would only incite chaos, not prevent it. But the DA's reach doesn't extend to the DEO, and so when Supergirl reaches out for help investigating the strange rash of young adults deliberately in harm's way in the hopes of being saved by the hero, Lena readily agrees.

With Kara in her guise as a reporter, they track the group to a meeting space, and discover that it's actually a religious group-- devoted to Supergirl.

"Miss Luthor!"

Lena's recognized immediately. Kara bristles at the exclamation, but Lena squeezes her wrist in reassurance. She can handle a room full of disillusioned young adults, but if anyone recognized Kara, they were done.

A slender man with a wet-eyed look approaches them. "It is an honor to have you here, Miss Luthor. Any friend of Supergirl's is a friend of ours. How did you learn of our group?"

Lena flashes one of the flyers they'd used to find the dingy little room. "We received one of these. What exactly is this?"

"You've arrived just in time to find out," the man says with a simpering sort of smile. "Please, find a seat, and make yourselves comfortable."

Sharing a look, Lena and Kara make their way to the rows of chairs, settling in towards the back. The meeting opens with a girl who shares her story of rescue-- one entirely genuine, not fabricated like the recent arsons and trespasses.

When a young man follows, then an older woman, Kara realizes she's saved all of these people. She doesn't feel honored-- she feels sick. But Lena has her eye on the leader, who introduces himself as Thomas Coville. There's something about him that rubs her the wrong way, and the moment they leave she says as much to Kara.

"I get that being saved from certain death could turn someone's life around," she hisses in a low voice. "But starting a religion? No one does that unless they want power, and when someone wants power, that makes them dangerous."

She resolves to get close to him, and to everyone's surprise, it's shockingly easy to do so. All it takes is modifying her cover story so that it's Supergirl who pulled her from the fiery helicopter crash and whisked her away to anonymity-- and she's in. It takes almost a month before Coville hints that he's got something big planned.

When he leads Lena and the rest of his congregation to the basement of the National City sports stadium, Lena puts a finger to her ear.

"Now."

Supergirl and the DEO swarm the basement. They begin arresting people, and shuffling them all out. The last to go is Coville, but the man is anything but perturbed.

"By Rao's will," he says, a sentiment echoed by his followers. None of them resist. Only then does Lena catch sight of the betahedron in one corner of the basement.

"Is that...?"

It powers up, its light pulsing more quickly. Supergirl cries out, dropping to her knees. Lena rushes to her side, only to jerk back when she sees her friend's skin threaded green kryptonite. Pressing the button on her watch, her vigilante suit forms around her-- she'd lined it with lead in case her kryptonite ever failed. But Kara continues to groan, and Lena realizes she isn't the culprit this time.

"The betahedron!" she calls. It's starting to pulse faster now, which can only mean one thing. "It's gonna blow-- get everyone out, now!"

"There's a packed house upstairs," Alex says over comms. "There's no way to evacuate in time. You'll have to find a way to disarm it."

"It's a fucking alien probe, Alex!" There might not BE a way to disarm it. Behind her, Lena can hear Kara struggling for breath. She can't do anything to disarm it, but she can't do nothing, either. A dozen ideas fire through her brain, but all of them are discarded as usless.

All but one.

With only a moment's hesitation, Lena approaches the betahedron and punches a hole through its plating, peeling the outer layer back until she can see the pulsing green crystal within.

Removing her gauntlet, Lena pages her comms. "Director Danvers!"

"You got something, Luthor?"

Lena takes a deep breath. "Maybe. If it works, I'm going to be radioactive as hell." She looks over her shoulder, meeting Kara's pained gaze.

"No matter what happens, don't let Supergirl touch my fucking body."

Kara's eyes grow wide with realization. "Lena, NO!"

Lena thrusts her arm into the betahedron and grips the kryptonite with all her strength. She screams as the radioactive energy crackles up her arm towards her chest, seeking it's grounding point in the crystal embedded there. The manufactured kryptonite absorbs the energy, buffering and containing it for long, perilous moments before the first cracks begin to form.

Lena hopes it'll last long enough to diffuse the kryptonite energy of the bomb and neutralize its explosive power.

As her senses go dark, all she can do is hold on with all her might, and not let go.

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#metallo lena au #supercorp #freaking coville #i know it doesnt exactly match up to the episode bomb wiae #but it works for me okay?#okay #things are picking up again

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