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mostlysignssomeportents · 2 years

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Decrapify cookie consent dialogs with the Consent-O-Matic

Remember when they sneered at Geocities pages for being unusable eyesores? It's true, those old sites had some, uh, idiosyncratic design choices, but at least they reflected a real person's exuberant ideas about what looked and worked well. Today's web is an unusable eyesore by design.

Start with those fucking “sign up for our newsletter” interruptors. Email is the last federated protocol standing, so everyone who publishes is desperate to get you to sign up to their newsletter, which nominally bypasses Big Tech’s chokepoint on communications between creators and audiences. Worst part: they’re wrong, email’s also been captured:

https://doctorow.medium.com/dead-letters-73924aa19f9d

Then there’s the designer’s bizarre and sadistic conceit that “black type on a white background” is ugly and “causes eye-strain.” This has led to an epidemic of illegible grey-on-white type that I literally can’t read, thanks to a (very common) low-contrast vision disability:

https://uxmovement.com/content/why-you-should-never-use-pure-black-for-text-or-backgrounds/

Often grey-on-white type sins are compounded with minuscule font sizing. You can correct this by increasing the font size from teeny-weeny-eyestrain-o-rama to something reasonable, but when you do, all the static elements on the page size up with the text, so the useless header and footer bars filled with social media buttons and vanity branding expand to fill the whole screen.

This, in turn, is made a billion times worse by the absurd decision to hide scrollbars (shades of Douglas Adams’ description of airports where they “expose the plumbing on the grounds that it is functional, and conceal the location of the departure gates, presumably on the grounds that they are not”).

https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/3205828-it-can-hardly-be-a-coincidence-that-no-language-on

Scrolling a window (without using RSI-inflaming trackpad gestures) is now the world’s shittiest, most widely played video-game, a hand-eye coordination challenge requiring sub-pixel accuracy and split-second timing to catch the scroll-bar handle in the brief, flashing instant where blips into existence:

https://twitter.com/doctorow/status/1516136202235043841

One of the scariest things about the precarity of Firefox is the prospect of losing some of the customizations and stock features I rely on to decrapify the web — stuff I use so often that I sometimes forget that it’s not how everyone uses the web:

https://www.wired.com/story/firefox-mozilla-2022/

[Image ID: Two side-by-side screenshots comparing the default layout of a wired.com article ('The intoxicating pleasure of conspiratorial thinking' by Virginia Heffernan) with the same article in Firefox's Reader Mode.]

For example, there’s Firefox’s Reader Mode: a hotkey that strips out all the layout and renders the text of an article as a narrow, readable column in whatever your default font is. I reach for ctrl-alt-r so instinctively that often the publisher’s default layout doesn’t register for me.

Reader Mode (usually) bypasses interruptors and static elements, but Firefox isn’t capable of deploying Reader Mode on every site. The Activate Reader View plugin can sometimes fix this:

https://addons.mozilla.org/en-US/firefox/addon/activate-reader-view/

But when it can’t there’s my favorite, indispensable Javascript bookmarklet: Kill Sticky, which hunts through the DOM of the page you’ve got loaded and nukes any element that is tagged as “sticky” — which generally banishes any permanent top/bottom/side-bars with a single click:

https://github.com/t-mart/kill-sticky

A recent addition to my arsenal is Cookie Remover. Click it once and it deletes all cookies associated with the page you’ve currently loaded. This resets the counter on every soft paywall, including the ones that block you from using Private Browsing. Click this once, then reload, and you’re back in business:

https://addons.mozilla.org/en-US/firefox/addon/cookie-remover/

Today, I added another plug-in to my decrapification rotation: Consent-O-Matic, created by researchers at Denmark’s Aarhus University. Consent-O-Matic identifies about 50 of the most commonly deployed GDPR tracking opt-out dialog boxes and automatically opts you out of all tracking, invisibly and instantaneously:

https://consentomatic.au.dk/

We shouldn’t need Consent-O-Matic, but we do. The point of the GDPR was to make tracking users painful for internet companies, by forcing them to break down all the different data they wanted to gather and the uses they wanted to put it to into a series of simple, yes/no consent requests. The idea was to create boardroom discussions where one person said, “OK, let’s collect this invasive piece of data” and someone else could say, “Fine, but that will require us to display eight additional dialog boxes so we’ll lose 95% of users if we do.”

https://pluralistic.net/2021/11/26/ico-ico/#market-structuring

What’s more, the GDPR said that if you just bypassed all those dialog boxes (say, by flipping to Reader Mode), the publisher had to assume you didn’t want to be tracked.

But that’s not how it’s worked. A series of structural weaknesses in European federalism and the text of the GDPR itself have served to encrapify the web to a previously unheard-of degree, subjecting users to endless cookie consent forms that are designed to trick you into opting into surveillance.

Part of this is an enforcement problem. The EU Commission we have today isn’t the Commission that created the GDPR, and there’s a pervasive belief that the current Commission decided that enforcing their predecessors’ policies wasn’t a priority. This issue is very hot today, as the Commission considers landmark rules like the Digital Services Act (DSA) and the Digital Markets Act (DMA), whose enforcement will be at the whim of their successors.

The failures of EU-wide enforcement is compounded by the very nature of European federalism, which gives member states broad latitude to interpret and enforce EU regulations. This is most obviously manifested in EU member states’ tax policies, with rogue nations like Luxembourg, Malta, the Netherlands and Ireland vying for supreme onshore-offshore tax haven status.

Not surprisingly, countries whose tax-codes have been hijacked by multinational corporations and their enablers in government are likewise subject to having their other regulations captured by the companies that fly their flags of convenience.

America’s biggest Big Tech giants all pretend to be headquartered in Ireland (which, in turn, allows them to pretend that their profits are hovering in a state of untaxable grace far above the Irish Sea). These same companies ensured that Ireland’s Data Protection Commissioner’s Office is starved of cash and resources. Big Tech argues that their Irish domicile means that anyone who wants to complain about their frequent and enthusiastic practice of wiping their asses with the text of the GDPR has to take it up with the starveling regulators of Ireland.

That may change. Max Schrems — whose advocacy gave rise to the GDPR in the first place — has dragged the tech giants in front of German regulators, who are decidedly more energetic than their Irish counterparts:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/05/15/out-here-everything-hurts/#noyb

The new EU tech competition laws — the DMA and DSA — aim to fix this, shoring up enforcement in a way that should end these “consent” popups. They also seek to plug the GDPR’s “legitimate purpose” loophole, which lets tech companies spy on you and sell your data without your consent, provided they claim that this is for a “legitimate purpose.”

But in the meantime, GDPR consent dialogs remain a hot mess, which is where Consent-O-Matic comes in. Consent-O-Matic automates away the tedious work of locating all the different switches you have to click before you truly opt out of consent-based tracking. This practice of requiring you to seek out multiple UI elements is often termed a “Dark Pattern”:

https://dl.acm.org/doi/pdf/10.1145/3313831.3376321

But while “Dark Pattern” has some utility as a term-of-art, I think that it’s best reserved for truly sneaky tactics. Most of what we call “Dark Patterns” fits comfortably in under the term “fraud.” For example, if “Opt Out of All” doesn’t opt out of all, unless you find and toggle another “I Really Mean It” box, that’s not a fiendish trick, it’s just a scam.

Whether you call this “fraud” or a “Dark Pattern,” Consent-O-Matic has historic precedent that suggests that it could really make a difference. I’m thinking here of the original browser wars, where Netscape and Internet Explorer (and others like Opera) fought for dominance on the early web.

That early web had its own crapification: the ubiquitous pop-up ad. Merely opening a page could spawn dozens of pop-ups, some of them invisible 1px-by-1px dots, others that would run away from your cursor across the screen if you tried to close them, and they’d all be tracking you and auto-playing 8-bit music.

The pop-up ad was killed by the pop-up blocker. When browsers like Mozilla and Opera started blocking pop-ups by default, users switched to them in droves. That meant that an ever-smaller proportion of web users could even see a pop-up, which meant that advertisers stopped demanding pop-ups. Publishers — who knew their readers hated pop-ups but were beholden to advertisers to keep the lights on — were finally able to convince advertisers that pop-ups were a bad idea. Why pay for ads that no one will see?

Pop-up blockers are an early example of Adversarial Interoperability, AKA Competitive Compatibility (comcom for short). That’s the practice of improving an existing product or service by making an add-on or plug in that changes how it behaves to make it more responsive to its users’ interests, without permission from the original manufacturer:

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

It’s been more than 20 years since the Platform for Privacy Preferences (P3P) tried to get tech companies to voluntarily recognize and honor their users’ privacy choices. It failed:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/P3P

Do Not Track, another attempt to do the same, did not fare much better:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Do_Not_Track

But you know what actually worked? Tracker-blockers and ad-blockers, “the largest consumer boycott in history”:

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

Making it impossible to track users is of great assistance to efforts to make it illegal to track users. Tools like Consent-O-Matic change the “security economics” of crapification, by turning the consent theater of illegal cookie popups into actual, GDPR-enforceable demands by users not to be tracked:

https://doctorow.medium.com/automation-is-magic-f4c1401d1f0d

Decrapifying the web is a long, slow process. It’s not just using interoperability to restore pluralism to the web, ending the era of “five giant websites, each filled with screenshots of text from the other four”:

https://twitter.com/tveastman/status/1069674780826071040

It’s also using a mix of technology and regulation to fight back against deliberate crapification. Between Consent-O-Rama, Reader Mode, Kill Sticky and Cookie Remover, it’s possible to decrapify much of your daily browsing and substantially improve your life.

[Image ID: A GDPR consent dialog with a rubber stamp in the center depicting a snarling man flipping the bird.]

#pluralistic #plural system

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jaim-inhothekid · 5 months

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♪ 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐌𝐞 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠

[ W.C ! ] : 2.1k

[ Summary ! ] : When attacked by a devil fruit user with the power to turn of taking 50 years away from their age, Brook is surprised to see himself as human again. Velouria takes advantage of it. | NSFW ; OC x Canon

⌗ ✎ Author's Note : This is a work commissioned by the lovely @uminozerol !! If you're interested in commissioning me as well, here's my sheet!

“So… how do you feel?”

Velouria stood by Brooks' side as the man gazed upon his own reflection in awe. Not believing the vision before his eyes.

The unusual predicament Velouria and Brook found themselves in was initially quite shocking, after being ambushed on an island the crew stopped by to gather supplies before continuing their journey, Brook received the burn of the attack once he jumped in front of Velouria to protect her from any damage – what both didn't know, was what exactly the attacker was capable of.

A devil fruit user capable of taking fifty years out of their target's age. With a span so large, it was expected that whoever was struck by the powers was either rendered useless or killed instantly, which was definitely what the pirate was aiming for when they went for Velouria. Brook, being… different than the usual human, had a completely contrary reaction to what was intended to.

The mirror Brook stood before reflected back a man, a human man. Brook's jaw fell slack as he stared at an image of himself that died a long time ago, one that he never thought he'd see again outside of memories increasingly more blurry, small details losing themselves from his mind with time. Brook ran his fingers through his hair, pinched at his skin, pulled at his eyes and lips while staring wide-eyed at the mirror. Blinking rapidly as if trying to clear up his mind from a hallucination. Skin, flesh and muscle – veins and nails and a pulse, numb yet hyper alert of his old… new? Strange, body.

The scar on his forehead and the discolored patches of skin around his eyes and mouth, placed exactly how he remembered having them, told him that he was not dreaming. That and the harsh pinch he gave himself on the arm, of course.

“I don't know… Alive? Well, more alive” Brook chuckled awkwardly, turning his face from side to side and looking at himself from various different angles, scratching at the hair on his chin – was he always able to feel the blood rushing in his veins when he was human? He doesn't know, but it sure feels extremely odd. The sound of his pulse thumping in his ears like the steady beat of drum distracted himself from the bizarre vision of the prominent veins in his arms, was he always so… cardiovascular, when alive? How strange. “God, I can hear my pulse– is this normal? Can you hear yours, too? Oh, my skin feels warm, and… sweaty, ew.” Brook made a face at the long grown unfamiliar sensation of clammy hands, rubbing his fingertips together and wiping his palms on the fabric of his coat. “Now my skeleton jokes won't make any sense anymore, how tragic, the ladies loved ‘em”

Staring with a loopy smile at her partner's sharp features, Velouria felt her cheeks grow warm to the touch. Brook happened to have the loveliest brown eyes, warm and intoxicating like a rich, strong liquor that ran down the throat and left a burning sensation on its trail. Those irises beckoned her over along with the curve of his crooked nose and the handsome, silvery smirk framed by the most kissable full lips she's ever seen. Sun kissed skin complimenting slithe, elegant figure. Hot, she totally would've been a groupie back in the day – we're groupies a thing back on his day? Anyways, with a hot musician like that, she would've been pioneering the movement for sure.

Velouria had no idea of what Brook looked like before the whole ‘dead but then not quite as dead but also not totally alive’ event. Now seeing his tall, lanky figure in all of its once glory, Velouria felt a bit light headed – oh, how dreamy.

“I think you look great,” Velouria sighed, biting the inside of her cheek to keep herself from giggling – she felt like a little girl with a crush all over again. Butterflies filled her stomach and tickled her throat with the overwhelming urge to kiss her man senseless, Brook has lips now, pretty and plump and inviting– “come here”

Velouria left no room for Brook to speak as she immediately went to grab on the collar of his coat, urging the tall man to bend down at the waist to meet her halfway as she stood on her tippy toes, she cornered him against their mirror – the glass rattling lowly as his back came in contact with it.

Brook's eyebrows shot up in surprise at the suddenness, freezing with shock upon the new feeling of their lips meeting. Velouria's touch felt heavenly, her soft mouth molding against his own like puzzle pieces never meant to be taken apart. Brook allowed the entrance of Velouria's tongue, shuddering when the muscle gently prodded inside his mouth – wet and warm and passionate, Brook felt incredibly overwhelmed, raw and vulnerable in the hands of the woman he loved more than anything. Brook relishes in the blissful sensation, taking him apart at his core and giving him the dizzying rush only a man who reached the high of a drug he never experimented before would relate to, the taste of Velouria branding itself into his taste buds, Brook wished nothing but to never get rid of it.

Her tongue massaged his gently, their teeth barely grazing together, sighing and groaning into each other – their sounds promptly swallowed. They separated by millimeters before clashing again with more and more urgency each time, palms and fingertips explored every inch of exposed flesh – treading between strands of hair, grabbing at waists and rubbing at necks, Velouria's touch felt so familiar yet so alien it ached deep in his chest – Brook's skin felt so otherworldly underneath Velouria's palms that for a moment she wondered if she was about to wake up from the most wonderful dream of her life.

When Velouria pulled away, Brook's lip, swollen and wet, quivered in desperation at the loss of contact. A thin line of saliva connected their mouths, and Brook barely resisted the urge to break it by pulling Velouria to another kiss. “I need you,” Brook rasped, his hands trembling with barely contained desire. Velouria panted and quickly shook her head in affirmation

“Lay back for me,” She urged, pulling at Brook's coat once again to move him away from the mirror. “Let me undress you, please?” Velouria begged so prettily it felt like heresy to even think of refusing, Brook grabbed at her waist and pulled her along with him as he wobbled towards the bed, his back hit the mattress once the back of his knees met the bed, Velouria following him on the fall and laying on top of his chest.

Slowly and deliberately, Velouria slid her palms over his shoulders and down his torso, Brook's abdomen clenched and trembled under the touch of her fingertips – barely there grazing that didn't even wrinkle his shirt, but still enough to make Brook's whole body tense in anticipation. With each button Velouria undid, Velouria's mouth replaced her hands to plant feverish kisses on every revealed inch of bare skin. Soon enough Brook's coat and shirt were discarded, thrown on the floor as Velouria laid between his legs, cheeky eyes adorned a mischievous smile that held the zipper of his pants between teeth.

Like every nerve on his body had been exposed, even Velouria's presence at the moment had him gasping for air – already crazy with overstimulation, Brook bucked his hips up against Velouria's face, his zipper clinking softly in between her teeth. Liquid fire pooling over his groin, Brook's vision swayed, a muscle in his jaw twitched as he clamped his lips together, biting back a moan when Velouria freed his erection from his pants. Long and thin and curved prettily, following the shape of his stomach. His tip colored an angry red, leaking precum like a broken faucet, begged to be touched.

“I hope you stay like this for a looong time,” Velouria whined, grasping the base of his cock with a firm hand, Brook trembled at the sensation of that soft palm touching him. Velouria rubbed the tip over her lips, smearing precum like lip gloss, then tapped it over her cheek – covering herself with him. She made quick work of her shorts, hurrying it down her legs and kicking it over to a random corner of the room. “You're the most handsome man I've ever seen.”

As her hands went down to her panties, intending to take them off as well, Brook quickly shook his head, Velouria stopped in her tracks. “L– Leave them on… I love this pair” Velouria giggled at the request, but obliged anyway. Pushing the fabric to the side to expose her cunt to her lover, Velouria pressed her folds against Brook's dick. Rocking her hips up and down over his length with the intent of lubing him up further with her essence, whimpering when her clit caught on his cockhead, closing her eyes in bliss when she rubbed herself over the veins of his cock just right.

When Velouria grew desperate enough, she lifted herself up on her knees, legs on either side of Brook's hips and pussy hovering over his cock, dripping steadily over his tip. Brook's hands flew up to her waist, squeezing with anticipation, knuckles turning white as he struggled to ground himself. She grabbed his dick at the base once again to line it up with her hole, rubbing the tip over her folds before sliding it in her entrance.

Close to losing his damn mind from the pleasure, Brook shot up and pressed his chest to Velouria's, her tits squeezed against his pecs, he hugged her waist and slammed the rest of his length inside her in one go. Brook held her tightly as Velouria moaned loudly at the intrusion, his hands shook and his dick twitched madly inside her core, he felt cold sweat beading in his forehead at the feeling of her gummy walls massaging his length.

“Keep still, just a little bit,” Brook begged, a whiny tone to his voice. Afraid that if she moved too much he'd cum right then and there. “You feel heavenly, my beauty– give me a second, Oh.” He buried his face against her neck, breathing in deeply the sweet scent of her perfume. He whimpered pathetically, a bloody indent on his lower lip from biting it too hard.

For what felt like an eternity, Brook allowed Velouria to move, guiding her movements with gentle hands on her waist. Steady up and down movements, moving her hips up so only the tip remained inside of her and lowering herself down until her clit met his pelvic bone. Squelching sounds of sex filled the room along with the rhythmic squeaks – their mouths met again in a desperate kiss, Brook swallowed her pleasured sounds like the sweetest ambrosia, his hands flattened over her spine and he tried to draw her even closer. Brook's chest ached with yearning as Velouria's heartbeat thumped against his ribcage, his embrace was tight, afraid of the thought that if she let her go, she'd slip through his fingers. At the same time he wanted their hearts closer, and closer, until they became one.

Long, nimble finger wrapped around Velouria's throat, pressing softly against her neck just enough to mess up her breathing. Brook was enamored, completely and utterly mesmerizing by her, her movements and her sounds, he could feel her pulse beating under his fingertips when he pressed at the right spot. How beautiful, he thought, being able to feel beneath his fingertips his favorite sound in the world.

“You sound like a melody,” Brook breathed against her lips, Velouria's thighs wrapped around his waist and her mouth went slack, trying to answer him but the words coiled around her throat just like Brook's fingers cutting her airway, only broken moans of his name came out. “Keep singing for me, pretty.”

Jerking her hips back and forth, she clenched tightly around him, the tip of his cock bullying her cervix with each thrust. Her gummy walls spasmed deliciously against his cock. Velouria's hands flew over to his back, raking her nails down his spine and leaving bright red marks on their wake, she bit at the junction of his shoulder to his neck. Velouria whrites in his lap as her orgasm washes over her, coming undone with her cunt splashing all over his lap and cock, minty hair stuck to her forehead with sweat.

The clamping of her walls is enough to milk Brook through his own high, breathy moans escaping his lips as his cock twitched inside of her, shooting hot, sticky cum into her pussy. His muscles clenched and his vision grew spotty for a moment, the force of his orgasm taking him by surprise.

They sat there for a moment, Brook's softening cock still inside of her, their heaving chests pressed tight against each other. Brook wiped the sweat from her brow and planted a gentle kiss on her forehead, heavy lidded green eyes staring deeply into his own, brown ones.

“I think you look great.”

#one piece #soul king brook #brook #one piece x oc #my stuff !!

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masterwords · 7 months

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between you and me

Summary: Hotch & Morgan go out into the wilderness for a weekend survival competition. They're wet, muddy and happy. That's all. There isn't a plot here.

Pairing: Hotch/Morgan

Words: 5.3k

Warnings: a lot of swearing, dude talk, food, chronic pain (hotch), foyet & stabbing mentions

AO3: between you and me

Notes: I had this image of them being skilled and competent and really adorable in the woods, and this is what came of it. A lot harder to write than you would think - it's so much just snappy dialogue and vibes. Don't expect poetry. Also, it should go without saying but: I made this up. This is not a real thing, I just wanted to put them in the woods with low-stakes and the ability to have some fun together doing the insane type adrenaline junkie shit I know those fools would enjoy. So, I made up an incredibly silly scenario and went all in.

***

“Both of you?” Rossi asked with a smirk. Looks like a cat who just got a mouthful of canary. “How long ago did you put in?”

“They’ve been passing me up for five years, Rossi.” Morgan lamented his misery convincingly while Hotch just smiled in that gentle, confident but subdued way he had that said I win. Everything was a competition with them.

“I’m at eight. They claimed it was too hard to justify putting a Unit Chief out of commission for three days, what if I had to be recalled and there was no service? And then when they did finally select me…”

“Foyet. I remember.” Rossi almost hated using the man’s name, like it might bring him back from the dead. He was hesitant and let his eyes linger on Hotch for a moment longer than necessary, gauging his reaction. It had been two years but he wasn’t sure time really mattered when trying to heal something like that. To his credit, Hotch gave no real indication that it made any difference. He simply nodded somberly and agreed – yes, he’d been chosen, and then Foyet met him in his apartment and bled him out, stopped his heart, rendered him incapable of participating. And ever since then, they’d pulled the Unit Chief speech when he asked why he wasn’t selected but he knew – they were afraid of his physical status after the stabbing. He must finally have worn them down, or proven that he was physically capable. Or maybe they were just tired of him throwing his name in the bucket and had a pool going to see how far he could make it before he collapsed. He might be wondering that himself.

“And you still want to do it? Go spend three days in the woods miserable with no roof over your head, no bed to sleep in, no good food or hot running water?”

“Bold talk comin’ from a Marine…”

“Ever heard of the draft, smart ass?”

“Fair enough. But we’re doing it and yes, we want to do it.” Derek had no idea if Rossi was being honest about the draft situation, he’d known he was a vet but he realized he didn’t know that much about Rossi’s service. Didn’t seem like the time to ask, anyway.

“Will you be together or are they separating you?”

“No idea. We’ll find out at the debrief tonight, they’re serving dinner and giving us our assignments. I’m assuming we’ll be separate, can’t imagine why they’d keep us together. It’s gotta be like a lottery situation. God I hope I don’t get paired up with some DEA asshat.”

“It’s only branches of the FBI this round,” Hotch pointed out, leaving through the paperwork he’d been given. It was vague about most details, just dates and times and a whole lot of TBA. It made his skin prickle. “Awfully secretive.” That he muttered more to himself, but Derek heard and it got his wheels turning.

“Well, damn. And here I thought you boys might be getting a date night out of this.”

That made Hotch and Morgan both laugh. They did like things a little off the beaten path when it came to their personal lives, but that’s what you get when you put two adrenaline junkies together in close quarters – what they considered dates weren’t exactly things other couples might. They preferred a day out on their bikes in the mountain air to a movie night, and an evening at the swimming pool taking laps and sucking chlorine was better than a stuffy and expensive candlelit dinner. So to say that a weekend spent in the woods utilizing survival training skills instead of lounging around the house sounded like a date wasn’t far off base. Of course, in Rossi’s very wise opinion, he thought they could both better use their time by simply taking a nap.

As it turned out, they were partnered up. It was a department challenge, two from counter-terrorism, two from organized crime, two from BAU, two from the fugitive task force, two from political corruption and two from the cyber crimes unit. Hotch looked around at the people he knew and tried to imagine them in the woods, tried to imagine them with a better partner than his. “We’ve got this,” he whispered to Derek who simply nodded his approval. It was a competition, and the two of them were not in the habit of losing, even to people who were in far better shape than them. Derek had been battling a chest cold the week prior, though he seemed to be mostly in the clear, and Hotch had overdone it playing soccer with Jack and been dealing with some latent knee pain for the last few days. The medications they’d put him on after the stabbing struck him with only mild side effects most of the time, but the most cumbersome was the intermittent bouts of joint pain. It came and went, usually after he’d overdone it and he was very good at overdoing it. Overdoing it was kind of his specialty.

One day of training with Commander Stevens, a Navy SEAL who had the brilliant idea to put the FBI through the ringer. Just for fun, or so he implied. “Torture the pencil pushers,” was what Hotch overheard him whispering with some fellow officers. Hotch wasn’t motivated by needing to prove himself to anyone but he was certain some of these people at the tables eating pinwheel sandwiches from Costco were allowing their feathers to be ruffled by the insinuation that they weren’t tough enough. That alone would give him a competitive edge – he didn’t need to prove himself to anyone.

They had reported to Quantico at 6am for the first of it, bright eyed and coffee in hand. Derek’s cold was all but gone and Hotch felt good. Optimistic. They spent the morning in a classroom listening to the Commander lecture about survival in the Appalachians, people who walk the trail, how they get lost and how to avoid it. Survival for beginners is what Derek said later, and he prided himself on not being a beginner. The two of them had spent some time out in the Smokey Mountains, nothing close to the intensity of the next few days but they weren’t strangers to the area. After lunch they spent the afternoon brushing up on skills training, getting their equipment, learning the rules of the game.

“This remind you of those movies where bored rich guys are hunting dudes in the woods?” Derek asked as he tossed his 75lb backpack into their SUV and waited while Hotch did the same. Three days and two nights in the woods walking for upwards of thirty miles when all was said and done with a backpack that weighed as much as Jack strapped to each of their backs, that realization was the first time Hotch felt a little pang of anxiety. He could do it but he was going to pay for it.

“You and Jessica watch too much television.”

“No seriously. This is how they all start, they’re like oh you guys are the best of the best and you won this fantastic retreat or vacation or really high honor of some kind...then bam. You’re being hunted by rich dudes with fuckin’ laser guns you didn’t even know existed yet, some kind of military grade stuff you only see in movies starring Schwarzenegger.”

“Way too much television…”

Derek ran his idea by Jessica while they shared their last family dinner for a few days and she agreed wholeheartedly. Didn’t even miss a beat. “You guys be careful,” she said, clicking her tongue against her teeth. Jack looked on with wide eyes, taking in everything they said but not picking up on the sarcasm lacing every word.

“Is it dangerous?” he asked, trying to make some sense of it in the way young kids do. He still had trouble differentiating fact from fiction, cartoons from reality, and Derek and Jessica were not helping in the slightest. Jessica shot Hotch a look that said to tread lightly. He wasn’t sure if that meant lie through his teeth or be honest. Both felt wrong, and this question was her fault anyway...why should he have to be the one to answer for it? Didn’t seem quite fair.

“It can be, buddy. But I’ll be okay. I’ll be with Derek, and there are fail safes in place if we get into trouble. It’s supposed to be for fun. A learning experience and a game.”

“A game!” That seemed to please him.

“The most dangerous game…” Derek whispered and Hotch elbowed him a little too hard in the ribs.

“Exactly, Jack. A fun game. Kind of like camping and a race...capture the flag for grown ups.”

“Can we go camping soon?” Crisis averted. Jack was no longer concerned about his dads being hunted in the woods. Whatever that meant. He still wasn’t sure.

“Sure buddy.” An easy concession.

Even Hotch couldn’t help feeling a little trepidation when they were dropped into the woods by helicopter. That did feel a little too on the nose, a little too much like one of the movies Derek couldn’t stop talking about. It was meant to disorient them, and it succeeded. “Just like in SWAT,” Derek said as he checked Hotch’s pack and Hotch did the same for him. “You ready?”

“Born ready.” A bit of a stretch, they both knew. But the minute he was standing with this face turned into the wind, that adrenaline rush kicked in and he sucked in a breath of fresh air and helicopter gasoline and maybe he felt like it wasn’t such a stretch after all.

Derek descended the ladder first with Hotch right behind him. The sound of the chopper hurt Hotch’s ears until it disappeared over the treeline and they were left alone with the sounds of the woods. Without a word they each began surveying their surroundings – Hotch consulted his map while Derek walked around and got a lay of the land, checked out the views, climbed up a tree for a better view. In the end, they both decided on the same route. No argument, no issue. Off to a surprisingly easy start.

Jessica had guessed they’d be fighting over which route to take immediately and they couldn’t wait to tell her how wrong she was.

They walked and walked and walked. The air was heavy, the humidity oppressive. Hotch could feel sweat pooling at the base of his spine. Derek seemed to be handling it worse than he was – he’d already taken his long sleeves off. Hotch wouldn’t even think of it for a while yet. He’d rather have the protection from bugs. He can handle sweat.

They didn’t talk while they walked, didn’t want to waste precious energy on the first day – it’s all climbing elevation, steep hills that seem to go on and on forever but when they stopped for a moment to have a water break and a bite of food, they settled into quiet and pleasant conversation about things they saw, smelled, heard. Everything seemed to flow together seamlessly, the way Hotch would take the lead in places and Derek would slip by and take the lead in others. Instinctively knowing when one or the other needed a chance to suck wind in the back, slow down and smell the roses so to speak.

They managed almost ten miles before they decided to set up camp for the night. Everyone else had planned to stop around the 8th mile, before the big elevation change. It had sounded nice, too, when they stood at the base of the mound that rose before them, but they were both feeling up to a few extra miles and the weather held while they traveled. They watched a storm rolling in over the tree line and knew they’d rather be further ahead when it finally hit, just in case it took them longer to get going the next day. Having higher ground sounded appealing for a rain storm.

Quietly they set up their little camp, stringing a tarp between trees, getting their fire going, making sure they had what they needed before raising the rest of their packs up into the trees above, wrapped securely in tarp. They had each brought their own sleeping bag and wool blankets, just in case they were caught sleeping in a camp with others, but out here on their own they decided to pool their resources and get cozy.

It was a date night, after all. They’d slipped just enough off the path that they didn’t imagine anyone would wander by them if they slept a little later. It was safe.

The storm hit while they boiled their water to heat up their MRE packets. Out of their selections, Hotch decided they should have the biscuits and gravy with a side of chorizo breakfast tacos. Derek was appalled by his selections but when he looked at the other options he realized they didn’t sound any better. The first pang of homesick hit him then, as he crumbled freeze dried biscuits into a mylar bag and reconstituted their meal. He thought about sitting around the table with Jessica and Jack, with his family, and digging into a delicious warm meal that hadn’t been preserved before he was born. They had a good time describing the flavors of the meal, picking it apart like they were eating at a michelin star restaurant instead of out of mylar bags in the woods. Hotch decided that the biscuits and gravy weren’t half bad for space bag food, but the tacos were appalling. Derek could barely choke down either of them and refused to call them food.

It was soft at first, just the pitter-patter of fat rain drops falling through trees and plopping onto their tarp but soon it began pounding and Derek pushed in closer to Hotch as the ground absorbed the water and crept closer to them. “This is gonna suck,” he said, but he barely meant it. He was leaning against Hotch eating a cookie that was probably made when Rossi was in the Marines and mixing up a cup of powdery lemonade chock full of salty crumbly bits. “This would be better with vodka,” he said, setting the small paper cup to his lips. Hotch smiled and agreed in his sleepy way. He was halfway to lights out already.

The second day was all rain. They woke up wet and packed up their wet camp and set out in wet clothes. Derek threw his ballcap on and Hotch cinched up the hood of his rain jacket until hardly more than his nose protruded from the opening, and that was how they set out very glad they didn’t have to climb that first hill in the mud. The rest of the group was going to have some trouble with their footing. By mid-morning they both had the start of some serious blisters, Derek was freezing, and they were clinging to that small happiness that came with knowing they had given themselves a solid head start on the day. Not as far to go before they could set up camp, light a fire and try to get warm.

Hotch began limping by mid-day. Derek had just decided it was his turn to lead and slowed his pace to drop behind, let Hotch past, and that was when he first noticed. He wondered how long it had been going on behind him. He didn’t seem to care about trying to hide it.

Just a slight limp at first, becoming more and more pronounced as the silent miles wore on. Derek tried to talk him into a water break, a rest, anything. He couldn’t bear to watch it without trying to stop it.

“Derek, we’re three miles from today’s rendezvous and we’re hours ahead of schedule. We keep to the plan, we stop only we get there.”

“You’re limping.”

“And I’ll limp for three more miles.”

The way he said it so matter-of-fact grated on Derek’s nerves. It was the first time he could feel an argument bubbling up in his chest during the whole time they’d been out there. He swallowed it down and pleaded instead.

“Why don’t we just take a breather? You said it yourself, we’re hours ahead of schedule. A short water break, you can rest your leg and I can find my rain jacket.”

Hotch slowed his pace and turned to Derek, softening enough that he didn’t come across mean. The last thing he wanted to do was ruin this weekend. “Your rain jacket is tied around your waist, and if I stop now, I might not be able to get going again at this pace. I don’t want to lose momentum.”

“Come on, man. I was hoping this trip would be fun, not miserable.”

“I’m not miserable.”

“So you like limping through the woods?”

“Derek...if my ability to enjoy things was contingent on my body feeling good, I would lead a very different life than I do now. You know that my body has been different since Foyet’s attack and I think I’ve done a pretty good job of not letting it stop us from having fun. Part of that is knowing when I can push through and when I can’t. I can push through this. I can make it three miles. I believe I could make it at least five, if I’m being honest, but I’d rather not.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better…”

“It wasn’t meant to, it was just meant to let you know that I’m not stopping and I am having a good time. This is fun.”

“Yeah. Okay. What is it?”

“My knee.”

“The one you tweaked when we were out with Jack the other day?”

“The very same. Probably just the medication making an overuse issue worse. Please stop worrying and walk faster. Don’t let a guy with a bum knee out-hike you.”

They walked on, the banter predictably turning to light bickering, competitive shit talk, but always smiling. Derek figured it was easier to light up a small argument that would keep them both distracted for the last few miles than continue to try and get Hotch to stop. It was futile to try and get Hotch to do anything he didn’t want to do. That lesson had been a hard one to learn.

They came up on their check in point and were pleased to find that they were the third pair out of ten to pass through. Not bad, considering the limping slowing them down some, though Hotch had blamed it mostly on Derek. From there, all they had to do was find themselves a place to set up camp for the night and wait for everyone else to arrive. This was the only night where there were group activities in store, team building exercises that neither Hotch nor Morgan was thrilled about. They found a place a little off the beaten path, away from the crowd of people who wanted to be close to visit and talk about their experiences. They had no interest in making small talk. With the hope that those ominous clouds overhead would pass them by without dumping on them, they began to quickly assemble their camp. They were already cold and wet, their shoes were wet on the inside and Derek insisted that Hotch prop his leg up on the mound of his pack and put some ice on his knee instead of them hoisting the pack up the tree. They had two portable cold packs that wouldn’t do him much good, but there was a small creek nearby and Derek thought maybe later, if the weather held, they could go stand in it for a while. That would feel good on their aching legs and feet, sweet relief for both of them. For now, they ate some snacks and ended up falling asleep to the pitter-patter of tiny raindrops.

By evening, it was another full scale storm. No thunder and lightning, but soaking wet. No fires, which meant no hot food. Just huddling together under the blankets they had for warmth and eating the convenience food they’d stored – some nuts and dried fruits, granola, bottled water and beef jerky. Not enough to fill either of them up but they were glad for the storm and Derek hadn’t exactly been thrilled at the prospect of freeze dried beef stroganoff or chicken alfredo and peach cobbler that would just make him even more homesick for some real food. The weather had meant that the team building exercises were put on hold and they couldn’t complain about that, certainly.

Instead, they got a second date night, just like Dave had said. They tangled themselves together and shared the blankets for warmth, knowing that they had a definite advantage over anyone not involved in an explicitly forbidden (or at least frowned upon) workplace love affair. They had the kind of warmth that comes from being close, sharing body heat. Derek thought about Jerry and Mason from the fugitive team huddling like this and the thought brought him nearly to laughter.

“Hotch,” Derek whispered after a long silence, after listening to the storm rustle through the trees above them and rattle the tarp, thankful that there was no lightning. He shifted their bodies to get them off of the protruding root that was digging into his hip and curled up a little tighter. “You gonna be okay to walk fifteen miles tomorrow?”

Hotch hummed. “Yes. I’ll be fine.”

“We can tap out. Take the day and just chill. No shame in that.”

“Not a chance. Why, are you tired? Do you want to stop?”

“What? No. What…”

“It just sounds like maybe you’re using my knee as a way out.”

“I am not.”

“No?” Hotch asked, smiling as he kissed Derek in the dark, nuzzling his cold nose into Derek’s warm skin. “You sure?”

“Man. Fuck your knee. I hope it gives out on you tomorrow.”

“No you don’t.”

“I’ll leave you behind, let you get snatched by the people hunters.”

“No you won’t.”

Derek sighed. “No I won’t. I’m sorry.”

“I know. I forgive you.”

Hotch’s knee held up better than he’d anticipated through the last fifteen miles of the trek. The ache was deep and kept him awake some of the night worrying that he was being over-confident, but by morning it had loosened up some. He was limping and in considerable pain somewhere around the fifth mile but they had a good time, and that was worth plenty of discomfort in his book. By the tenth mile Derek had himself a little limp too, his blisters giving him grief. It wasn’t so much a limp, Hotch thought, as it was a painful waddle through the woods.

“My gooch is on fire,” Derek said when he noticed Hotch scrutinizing the way he was walking. “Damn rain gave me some wicked swamp ass.”

“Derek…” Hotch laughed, shaking his head.

“What? You sayin’ it’s not bothering you?”

Hotch refused to dignify that with an answer.

The last day was gloriously rain free, and where they ended had even better access to the creek than their camp the night before. So they had to trudge through thick, soupy mud and fight their way up past landslides to get to the end...it would make the creek that much better. At more than one spot, Hotch allowed Derek to help hoist him up, pull him up a hill when his knee buckled beneath him and refused to support his weight at certain angles. He couldn’t even be mad about that, not even when Derek insisted that he piggy back to the finish. (Hotch’s staunch refusal to even consider it gave him a hearty laugh, the kind that fueled the rest of his walk. Put a pep in his step, as his mother would say.)

They didn’t arrive first, that was Jerry and Mason from fugitive and Derek assumed it was the thought of snuggling the night before...they were so appalled at it, they didn’t sleep, they just got up and finished the race. Hotch and Derek managed to come in a respectable third and were pleased with it.

“You think the richies got the cyber nerds?”

“We’ll never know,” Hotch said, rolling his eyes at Derek’s question. He had been surprised that the commentary on human hunters had been dropped while they were out in the woods, maybe that was due to his knee taking up too much of Derek’s thoughts. If that was the case, he was thankful for the pain he’d endured that much more.

As soon as all of the formalities were done and everyone had separated, tired and ready for a shower, Hotch sent Jessica a text to let her know where to get them. It was his first time turning on his phone in days and he was glad to slide it back into his bag, ready to kick out of his shoes and do a quick change into shorts and t-shirts for some time in the creek. Everyone else piled out, ready to return to civilization but they wanted to stick around a while. It was the best part of the whole trip, standing in the icy water, all blisters and swollen knee and swamp ass, eating handfuls of trail mix while they waited for Jess and Jack to come pick them up.

“You boys look rough!” Jess called, walking carefully down the slope of pebbly hillside toward the water while Jack and Clooney bounded quickly. No fear. Her feet slipped out from under her more than once in the loose packed ground that had been ravaged by the storms of the last two days. Hotch and Derek just stood in the water and watched, content not to move, just to stand.

Jack and Clooney played with rocks, Jack trying to skip them over the current and Clooney trying to catch them while Jessica attacked them with a barrage of questions from her dry perch on the rocky beach. She wasn’t about to take her shoes off and get in, she knew damn well that water was cold.

“No hunters?”

“No hunters,” Hotch replied quickly. Derek shot him a disparaging look and then glanced at Jessica.

“We don’t know that. We never saw the guys from cyber crimes come out…”

Hotch groaned. “I overheard Jerry from fugitive say that the cyber guys tapped out the first night when it started raining.”

“Sure they did. You believe that? They’re someone’s dinner, buddy.”

Hotch, with a smile, decided he’d had enough of the woods and was ready to go home. He hadn’t been able to take any pain medication while they were out in the woods, not wanting to dull his senses when he needed them, but boy was he ready now to make up for lost time. Jack watched his dad limp gingerly out of the water with a look of concern, and without hesitation Jessica reached out to take his hand. She steadied him as he struggled to find adequate footing on slippery rocks.

“Bum knee?” she asked, stepping dangerously close to the water in her shoes. He made an effort to move a little faster, holding her hand but not letting her do much.

“Yeah. Bum knee.”

“Let me help you old man.” She held his hand tighter and guided him out of the water, letting him lean on her for the short walk up the hill. Derek followed close behind with Jack slung over his shoulder and Clooney nipping at his heels. He’d come back for their packs once his family was securely placed in the vehicle and ready to go. They had a long drive ahead of them.

“He says he’s fine.”

“Oh, yeah, well he definitely looks fine.”

“I am fine.” Hotch was grumbling as he fumbled with his seat belt in Jessica’s little rust bucket of a car. It wasn’t that she couldn’t afford a better car, she just didn’t want one. She loved her old Volkswagen Rabbit that required a special mechanic and wait times that were absurd for broken parts, with its rusted burnt orange paint job and bright flower decals that screamed Woodstock and Grateful Dead. Hotch barely fit in the car and he had to slide in sideways, bending his sore knees at an awkward angle to make sure Jack would fit behind him and Derek could slide in on the other side. Jessica didn’t let anyone else drive her car and she hated when Hotch was in the front seat, his long legs dangerously close to the stick shift. No way he’d fit in the back, though. “You should have brought my car,” Hotch said when she started the engine. It took two tries and at least ten minutes to let the old girl warm up enough that she wouldn’t stall out the minute Jessica tried to hit the gas.

“I hate driving that thing. It’s a grandma car.”

He had no argument there. If grandma car meant safe and secure, if that meant protected, then yeah. He did drive a grandma car. She drove a rust bucket and Derek had a motorcycle, one of them had to be responsible.

“Can we have PIZZA for dinner?!” Jack asked, thrashing around in the backseat and kneeing Hotch in the small of his back repeatedly through the thin, broken down old leather seats. Clooney’s hot breath from the back was overpowering. Hotch frowned and cranked the window down for some air.

“I want steak. A big juicy steak. One that came from a cow that was alive this century.”

“Jess, you up for playing grillmaster tonight? I don’t think I can stand that long…” Derek said, trying to stretch his legs out along the backseat, right over the top of Jack. His seat belt didn’t work anyway, and he was beat. A barbecue did sound nice though, Hotch had the right idea. A big juicy steak, some ibuprofen (and maybe something a little stronger for Hotch), some beers, and a long long nap. After a shower. He had mud in places he didn’t know mud could get.

“If I get to wear your apron and use your fancy spatula. You know the one.”

Derek grunted under his breath about that being his stuff, but he couldn’t argue. If it meant he didn’t have to do the work he’d probably agree to just about anything.

And as the sun sank over the trees, Jessica stood in Derek’s apron (that hung to her knees and looked ridiculous on a woman her size) and started getting the grill ready. She would enjoy getting the chance to be grillmaster for the night, Derek didn’t often relinquish the job. Hotch rarely took it, he preferred to lounge in the hammock, his one true indulgence. It was her turn. She set about cleaning the grill and seasoning it first, going through all the steps before slapping the big fat steaks on to sizzle while Jack and Clooney played. Hotch and Derek, freshly showered and medicated, were content to doze off in the hammock together and wait for their meal which they both promised they would wake back up for.

“If you don’t, Clooney will eat your steaks. There’s always the MREs in your pack for later. I saw one that said it was beef ravioli in meat sauce. Sounds delicious.”

“Why are you so mean?” Derek whined, his voice muffled and sleepy. His face was pressed into the back of Hotch’s head, Hotch who was already fast asleep smelling like sweet shampoo and icy hot. It hadn’t taken him any time at all once his eyes were closed. She smiled and shrugged.

“Go to sleep Derek. I’m sure the mosquitoes will wake you up before I do.”

#aaron hotchner #derek morgan #jessica brooks #hotchgan #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction

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whetstonefires · 6 months

Note

For the DVD Commentary post:

"I hate everything, he sobbed, and was surprised somehow when they did not draw back further, were not angry, even though it could not possibly be news by this point. I hate everything. I hate Shinra. I hate the world. I hate you. I hate Mother. I hate Sephiroth.

He made the name mean something entirely different than they had, trying to tame him. An image in fragments, bright silver yes and speed, the fit of uniform boots. The sound of people saying it, year in and year out—cold disdain and breathless admiration and writhing jealousy, and every repetition a new burden to carry. The crackle of flame and the stink of mako, laughter like Hojo’s laughter in his own throat, the taste of blood in your mouth. Jenova’s long-dead eyes staring with too much awareness for a corpse.

All the things the word Sephiroth meant that he felt consumed by, but also the mere thick, fungus-spreading concept of self.

He had failed so many times in so many ways. They told him he was perfect and yes everything was easy except anything that actually mattered, and he just wanted to do something right."

This one lives in my head hahaha i'd love to know the commentary behind it

Oh, this is a fun one! (That's for this post from this fic, the sixth and final Sephiroth-as-sibling AU.) Sorry for the delay in turnaround, I had to. Thanksgiving. It was a lot.

Well, we're already like three layers deep into Sephiroth's head during this bit, since it's a flashback to how he was feeling during an interaction within the Lifestream, so that part's a little redundant. He's about as self-aware as I can personally justify Sephiroth ever being.

This was an important bit for the fic, since it covers two essential elements--most obviously, it's the moment when Aerith's project of separating Sephiroth's consciousness from the greater Jenova gestalt decisively bore fruit.

Secondly, this is the passage where we find out why I've been tying myself into knots this entire time refusing to let the POV character call himself by name. (This would be even more important if I'd ever finished and posted the whole story; this is technically just the opening.)

Written carelessly, this bit would be just, the worst exposition-dump. So I leaned in hard on the sensory data, of Sephiroth's experience of brokenness and of his own fractured identity, and how that drives his relationship to the situation he's in now.

I ran through all the senses, some more than once--the physicality of memory was very important, since the physicality of the actual experience was illusory. Sight was first color, then a specific image; fire was a sound and mako was a smell. Taste was blood, which I remember wording carefully so it spanned the breadth from 'when you overwork until you start tasting blood' to 'blood in your mouth from serious injury' to 'having bitten,' because Sephiroth's cannibalism is all strictly metaphorical but it's also a big part of the narrative.

The game, I mean, but maybe also the fic.

Touch was the specific encasing sensation of standard-issue footwear and the internal sensation of your throat spasming on laughter, which bleeds into sound because Sephiroth's laughter during his breakdown is sometimes spelled like Hojo's and this makes me insane and I don't think he'd have been happy to notice it either.

And sound was also the symbolic item of the name, and the way it is held differently in each user's mouth, and how public-use Sephiroth's name was made by Shinra, when it was almost the only thing he had that was his own. The way his celebrity rendered him public property and so many people felt they knew him and had a right to his acknowledgement in return.

The way this makes trying to call him back to himself by calling his name, the way they do here, the way Zack tried at Nibelheim--difficult. There's no inherent intimacy in using his name to impose a specific personhood on him, and what there is has a lot of negative associations.

The nice thing about writing something happening in the Lifestream is you don't need to, and shouldn't, distinguish well between fact and metaphor. The name is the meaning you pack into it, much more than it is physical syllables. But the shape of those syllables is still attached, essential, in the same way the dead remember what they looked like, until they don't.

I don't think you can do a post-Jenovization Sephiroth without massive identity issues. He's technically been mindwhammied even more thoroughly than Cloud was at the Northern Crater, and like with Cloud, it was being in a position of doubting who and what he really was and whether that was worth anything that set him up to crack in the first place. So he doesn't have any stable sense of 'himself' to go back to.

There's no one alive who can do for Sephiroth what Tifa does for Cloud. But, I thought, there might be a few people dead who have a shot.

If you consider Sephiroth's lines in Cloud's version of the Nibelheim flashback to be canon--which I do because they're much more interesting than the alternative--then we also have strong indications Sephiroth adopted his omnicidal transhuman identity as a coping mechanism. He's very obviously not a happy person, but when Cloud/Zack/whoever says after the massacre that their sadness is the same he laughs and asks, what do I have to be sad about?

This new identity is his consolation, an escape. He has to have hated himself because most of 'himself' is a thing he threw away.

I think it's very significant to the themes of Final Fantasy VII that while our protagonist can be directly, physically puppeted by psychic projection when taken by surprise, ultimately it seems to be necessary to break Cloud's will at the root in order for Sephiroth to 'win' their conflict, a process probably achieved with the other more thoroughly overcome Copies via torture and isolation. (What this implies about the making of Genesis' Copies I'm not sure, but it's not good. The Compilation is very bad at preserving theme though, and I very much opted to side with the OG on any point of conflict here.)

Sephiroth may have been both deceived and influenced by psychic pressure, but he can't have been forced. He chose this. He rejected everything that he had ever been in life other than 'a killer' in exchange for a new identity that was straight-up fraudulent, and then when that bubble burst one with nothing in it but hunger and anger and pride, and didn't look back.

So, any Sephiroth you put back together post-Nibelheim to be a distinct living person and seek things other than domination and murder (a thing I've seen done quite a few times, it's a popular saw I'm kinda riffing on, though I've never seen it done in this timeframe) is going to be a wreck for reasons that have nothing whatever to do with guilt.

He has never had a strong and stable sense of self, raised within Shinra and subject to its demands. Sephiroth-of-SOLDIER was so easy to throw away because it was a self built up chiefly from without. He is not a nice or an accommodating person, but he's also not one who ever learned to make his own choices, something that's implied in the original game and leaned into heavily in Crisis Core.

When he unconsciously expects to be rejected for expressing his ragged, vulnerable hate in the section excerpted, that's part of this. Sephiroth is a character whose main vector of self-expression has always been violence, but who has never been permitted his own anger--before he breaks, his resentment of Hojo appears exclusively via passive aggression. (This is such a bad combination stg President dude wtf did you expect.)

This passage is the baring of all these facts, the breaking point where Aerith successfully deprives him of his coping mechanisms thoroughly enough that he's driven onto the shoals of honest agony. And he's already ditched the act-normal, stay-level coping behaviors that got him through most of his life. And he's straight-up lost chunks of his psyche that got particularly integrated with his Mother and left behind when Aerith did Big Slice, some of which had provided him with load-bearing emotional bulwarks against self-loathing. So what's left?

But even as this is getting to the heart of his unhappiness, he's at the same time conducting one more self-evasion maneuver here, trying to wrap Sephiroth up into a bundle that he can externalize his self-hatred onto, a thing that people (including Jenova) made of him (he, who is a made thing) rather than a person he continuously is.

If Aerith had set him adrift in the Lifestream in this state and somehow kept Jenova from promptly reincorporating him, he probably would have succumbed to the true death quite rapidly, since it's the hanging-on to one's own identity that holds that off, and Sephiroth's primary attachment points seem to have always been his hatred and his physical form, and he's here shown in a state of rejecting his attachment to both, for lack of any other effective shield against the hurt of being.

Instead she stuffed him back into his body, which was conveniently preserved in crystal at the Northern Crater (a significantly less bullshit way to resurrect the lad than anything else I've seen done imho lmao like it's already there in the text). Existing as a single person in a body is the foundation (though not a necessary prerequisite) of individual selfhood in this setting, so he's sort of being forced to patch a self together by virtue of having skin.

Which brings us out of this flashback and a day later to the main timeline of the fic--wherein it is hopefully now more obvious why he's acting this way.

And possibly why one of the first things he did (after stabbing Rufus on sight lol) was cut off his iconic hair.

The three ghosts (not actually appearing in the quoted passage but relevant) are being fairly honest, since 1) they're dead and made of feelings and that makes it harder to avoid and 2) what they're doing wouldn't work otherwise.

Aerith's primary motive really isn't revenge, though I think as we see with Tseng she is fully capable of balancing a sense of connection to someone and the opinion that they should die and spare everyone else the burden of their existence in the world; her primary motive isn't pity either.

This is strategic. Sephiroth makes Jenova much stronger and is doing a lot of her thinking as part of the gestalt; breaking them up is, if possible, the single most effective thing she can do from within the Lifestream. And since in this timeline she knows Sephiroth much better than in canon, she has an angle of attack available. And she does identify with him, and remember him as a very unhappy child, and when you come down to it no person who was a deeply unhappy child ever entirely stops being one, deep down.

(Another fact that is relevant to Cloud's canonical identity arc. He cannot start to fully heal until he integrates that resentful eight-year-old who internalized the blame for not protecting Tifa from herself.)

Zack is in this for her sake and Cloud's, and because his failure at Nibelheim is his greatest remaining regret, especially because of the way it replicates the trauma of Angeal's death. There's no way he could pass up the chance to resolve that. And even now, he really feels for Sephiroth--especially now, as Aerith's plan gets moving and how pitiful a creature Sephiroth is under all that gets exposed.

Angeal feels, with some justification, responsible for Sephiroth's mental breakdown. He didn't realize he had that kind of power or he would at the very least have made more effort to explicitly dip on Sephiroth personally and make clear that it wasn't personal, but he definitely helped fuck the guy up. Happily, if there's one thing Angeal is good at it's failing to let go of things he very clearly should not hold onto, so he makes a solid anchor for this maneuver.

The only reason he's able to verbalize this as usefully as he does is the squad basically ran drills for this before making their move. All three of them are violently allergic to most expressions of sincere emotion, especially negative, especially their own, especially conveyed in words rather than gestures and allusions, and having to listen to one another's practice monologues was significantly more unpleasant than getting killed in the first place. But they had to, so they could provide critique.

I don't think I have any puns for this one?

:} Do note that Aerith's chopping maneuver after luring Sephiroth's core consciousness away from the gestalt center via grudgebaiting should be visualized with that same overhead slam animation she uses in FFVII:1997 when you have her jump forward from the back row and deliver a physical blow with her staff.

#ask #hoc est meum #Anonymous #sephiroth #ffvii #final fantasy 7 #meta #aerith maxing out her ghost accomplishments #hold my beer obiwan #........stack of three obiwans #ask game #dvd commentary #i admit that the idea Aerith *can* stuff people back in their bodies relatively casually #relies heavily on advent children #but hey that's canon!!!

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where-is-francis · 2 years

Text

𝙃𝙤𝙥𝙨𝙘𝙤𝙩𝙘𝙝

**ROBIN IS CANONICALLY A LESBIAN, THIS FIC IS FOR NBLW/WLW ONLY**

𝙋𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙥𝙩: Robin doesn’t know if she can get through the plan or not. But that doesn’t matter, because you have enough hope for her.

𝙋𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙨: They/Them

𝙎𝙩𝙮𝙡𝙚: Slight angst to fluff

𝘼/𝙉: I immediately got the idea for this blurb when I watched Vol 2 and I just love Robin. Not sure how much content there is for her (or wlw/nblw in general) rn so I figured I’d add to it. Also, I’m trying something new with my theme so please bare with me lmao. Not watching episode 9 ever again so the lines from everybody/timeline (ig) aren’t accurate, sorry about that, but you get the gist. MY TUMBLR IS STILL GLITCHY WITH MY DRAFTS SO IF A PARAGRAPH IS REPEATED — IGNORE THAT. Part 2 after that??? Lmk if you’re interested.

𝙏𝙒: Vol 2 spoilers but other than that it’s just pure fluff.

Four of you waited by the playground, listening for Erica’s voice to move on to the next stage of the plan. When Robin snapped out of it again, her eyes were locked where you previously stood. Now, you were on one knee, making sure your laces were out of the way. The last thing you needed was to trip while trying to kill some evil demon wizard.

“You know, I don’t think now is a very good time to propose.” The girl gave you a slight smile.

You met her eyes and stood, finally able to see how she awkwardly shifted her weight in the dead grass. Even in all of the ongoing horror, something about her voice relaxed you.

“Damn, rejecting me before you even see the ring? That’s cold, Robin, real cold.”

It was hard not to smile at her. The slight dusting of gold particles from Erica’s flashlight danced around behind you, Robin taking a good look at you in the low light.

Something in her stomach didn’t sit right thinking that this could be the last time you were together.

But if she had to go, this image was certainly something. Your hair (slicked/pulled) back, wearing baggy camo cargo pants, and a giant hunting bow slung over your shoulder.

As if knowing what she was thinking, you playfully nudged her crossed arms. “Hey, we’re gonna be alright.”

Erica’s voice came through clearly, telling you to move into phase 3 of the plan. Nancy and Steve nodded in your direction, the four of you marching across the broken street to the house.

You had only seen it in regular Hawkins, this twisted version rendering you speechless at the steps. It was always a large house, but something about this version seemed bigger. How it loomed over your small group with dark eye-like holes behind shuttered windows. What little light shone in this new personal Hell didn’t even dare to touch this house.

Four heartbeats began to sound like one, beating in unison, dreading the battle. Steve took a deep breath and opened the door.

Vines from the hive mind coiled and snaked around what seemed like every square inch of the foyer. A sickening sheen on the tar-like roots glinted in the light as your group stepped in carefully, one by one. Robin’s teeth practically held a death grip on her lower lip, opting to be the last one into the house. Her gaze followed you like a shadow before you turned to meet her eyes.

She stepped in, making all four of you nearly in position.

“We have to get upstairs, but with all of this… it’s going to be rough.” Steve whispered in your guys’ direction. “We have to be careful about this.”

“I don’t think I can do this.” Robin croaked out.

Just a glance and you could tell she was trying to swallow down a panic attack. Nancy’s solemn expression began to falter as she tried to think of ways to help. A way around it. But the plan was too complicated, it was all hands on deck. The lives of Hawkins — and likely the rest of the world — were at stake, and Vecna wouldn’t be going down without a fight.

A warm sensation filled the blonde’s senses, causing her to turn and look at you. Your bruised up (skin tone) hand held onto hers with a firm grip as you stared into the mangled foyer. The expression you held was confident, nearly happy, like you were watching something completely different than what lied ahead.

“Do you remember when we were in elementary school, and none of the other kids wanted to play with us?” Your bright (E/C) eyes caught hers. “The teachers got new packs of chalk, and everybody wanted to play hopscotch.”

The (taller/shorter) girl smiled sadly at the memory. “Yeah. What does this have to do with anything?”

“You tried to play hopscotch with them. Julie Hammond wanted you to play, too. And then do you remember what happened?”

Robin nodded, but couldn’t manage to say anything.

“You tried, but you fell and scraped your leg all up the side.”

Her fingers intertwined with yours, staring at the decaying floorboards of the Creel house. Nancy looked to Steve, confused, only to find he was as in the dark as her.

“You walked me to the nurse that day.” Robin began to lean closer to your face. “That’s how we became friends.”

“And then, do you remember what happened later? I was in my driveway, and asked if you wanted to play. We could’ve played house, or Barbies, or even animals. But you wanted to play hopscotch.”

Tears rolled down her paled face, though quickly being wiped away by your hand. For the first time in the past few weeks, she was smiling. Your girl was smiling.

“We must’ve spent, like, two hours outside while you did that. It was getting dark, and you were still bound and determined to do it — even with your messed up leg. And you finally did. You managed to do our ‘extreme hopscotch’ board without tipping over.”

“You hugged me so hard — we fell over into the grass.” Robin sniffled.

The other two in the group had begun to climb the rotting stairs, taking glances back every so often. Now you and Robin held both hands, her forehead resting on yours.

“Aren’t you scared?”

A snort sounded from you as you began to lead her over the vines. “Me? I’m nearly pissing my pants right now. But it doesn’t matter — what I’m saying is, it’s just like hopscotch.”

She took a slightly more confident step in your direction. Your bodies pressed closely, comfortably, as they shared the new small space. It didn’t take much thought for her to lean in and kiss you, making Steve grin.

Her voice repeated your own, soft like honey. “Just like hopscotch.”

Your support is greatly appreciated! Reblogs over likes — it helps others find my stuff. I write male/gender neutral content, so check my blog for more. 💕

#x gender neutral reader #x reader #x female reader #robin buckley x reader #Robin Buckley x gender neutral reader #robin buckley x fem!reader #stranger things x gender neutral reader #stranger things x reader #jaws stranger things

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sburbian-sage · 21 hours

Note

Hey there sorry for the anonymous ask but I've found myself in a strange predicament

Upon reading the glitch FAQ I came across the space chapter and I believe I figured out something that happened to me?

Im a god tier knight of hope currently (second run, the first i was ironically also a knight of hope) but my space player (lord of space) happened to go berserk over the death of a adopted consort, and having not read the guide at the time, and being good friends with them, i attempted to comfort them with a hug

Upon doing so I experienced a significant amount of lag (I didn't even know this game could lag) and found myself hurtling through deep space

Considering the appearance of the stars in the distance I do believe I am experiencing sburbs equivalent of a floating point error? (At least that's the best I could come up with)

I can't reach anybody back in my session and I've been out here for just... An absurdly long time, although the clock on my phone is permanently set to 00:00 and the calendar function has seemingly stopped working all together so I can't say exactly how long I've been out here (not totally sure what's causing this considering it wasn't an issue back in the session)

I do know I am still moving at a decent click because I've flown past a handful of what seems to be low res flat images of stars (perhaps sburb doesn't render this far out?)

I don't know if I completely skipped over the furthest ring or what but as far as I can tell I'm not corrupted in any way and ive yet to encounter any others

Although none of my abilities seem to work out here

I'm also not sure how I'm getting signal this far out

Any advice?

Oh, you must have gotten [Space Prankster]'d. Get pranked lmao This is a bit concerning. I don't imagine you've actually left the Medium. Once you leave the Medium it's just the Furthest Ring, and I don't imagine you got teleported far enough to exist outside of that either. Space abilities follow at least some law of reality, even if they're tweaking it with a wrench and some attitude.

By the way, the "stars" you see in a session are just the Other's eyes. So I hope you are not actually in the Furthest Ring, or that those "stars" are just optical illusions from moving at insane speeds.

If you have a signal, I would recommend hitting up your Space player and asking where the hell you are, and how to get back. My current theory is "circling the drain around the Medium at light speed", in which case another Space ability should be able to get you back. The bad news is that even if teleporting saves you, you seem to be going fast and your Space player might need to do some finagling to extract you safely. The good news is that if you do die, you're probably going fast enough that you won't even know what happened. If God Tiered, this is too pathetic to count as Just or Heroic. If not God Tiered, your existence as a pile of gore should remove the instinctual revulsion of kissing a dead friend or stranger on the lips.

The other alternative I can think of since you mentioned stars is that you're somehow stuck in the animation for Space Prankster. That makes the Space player look like stars, which means you might be inside your friend. 1) Sus 2) Teleportation is 50/50 here. It could finish the teleportation and get you somewhere. It could function like a Broken Gate and put you anywhere in the session (including inside a solid). If you have access to the Hope ability [Dreams Never Die], that should cancel out the effect. With unpredictable results. Look, I don't really have any reassuring words here, you're getting smeared against a wall at some point, just collaborate with your players so they know which wall and will smooch it up as fast as possible.

#sburb #replay value au #space aspect #berserk trigger #space prankster

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rinbowaman · 1 year

Text

HHP - Ch. 14 - Ethan *Part 3 (18+MDNI)

OMG PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE READING THIS PART!!!

I cannot stress enough the grotesque nature of this chapter. Yes justice has been served but please understand that I do not condone this type of behavior and the contents of this chapter is merely for the story. It is not at all representing the members of Enhypen or their character. Also, there's alot of references to chapter's 11 and 12 in this as far as character dialogue, so if you see the parts that are between the ........................ note that is a reference to one of the previous chapters. crucial, so if you haven't read them or are new and jumping into the series, please start from the first arc (MGR) because there is a reference in here from that arc as well.

Warnings! Sexual assault with foreign object, blackmailing, murder, assault, framing, restraining, gagging, rough sex, pain kinks....guys, literally every dark and twisted element is in this chapter. so please enjoy, it's a good read, but be warned if you are light hearted (absolutly nothing wrong with that) i just dont want to offend anyone with my creativity, because that's merely all this is. can you tell i'm nervous? lol

In a slurred and painful rotation, he shatters Scott’s nose, but didn’t stop his motions even after breaking the nasal cavity. Grinding and continuously applying immense pressure, he continues to rotate every bit and piece of the man’s feature, which had become completely loose and detached from the nasal bone.

From left to right as he pushes inward deeper, damaging more than just cartilage. Heeseung continues to palm the man’s face. Crushed bone and cartilage loosens, cracks, and peels from their connected state, the feeling of bits of bone, and pieces of cartilage are felt from under Scott’s skin beneath Heeseung’s palm.

In complete shock after experiencing indescribable and longing pain, Scott nearly blacks out as his voice, which blew out from the overwhelming screams of pain, can no longer be heard.

“Hmph.” Heeseung scoffs as he smirks, falling back into the hands of his full Ethan side, who releases Scott’s distorted and stunned face.

Present

Dance for me, like a flower that blooms dead I just wanna dance on, endlessly Like a curse, I can't stop myself Woah, again, chaconne now

Undressed, bare, and exposed for him to feast on, Eden is pressed against Ethan’s broad frame as he wraps his arms lovingly around her. She whimpers softly as her face is buried into his shirt, slightly muffled by the material that covers her face.

‘Oh my girl…does it hurt? I know…but you can take it…I know you can.’

Reaching over as his arm keeps her firm in his embrace, he reaches behind, opening the top drawer, taking out a black leather belt covered with dulled, semi-pointed metal studs. One that he occasionally wore with his leather jacket and all black attire, the man did have various taste and diversity in his fashion sense after all.

Your Eden side sets her sights on the leather strap he brings forth, wrapped around his wrist.

She recognizes it.

Through you, the memory of meeting ‘Ethan’ for the first time as Vicky’s roommate, had emerged, you recall the attire he had on as the image of him donning a full get up of skinny jeans, combat styled boots, a metal band themed t-shirt, hovered by a leather jacket and his cap. All in black.

Around his waist, was the belt he now snaked around his arm.

Softly shuttering at the view of it, with the silver studs sticking out, Eden’s breath hitches. Her chest issues a vibrating sense from the pause, which Ethan noticed.

‘Oh? You recognize this, don’t you? Mmm…my beautiful girl. How much I love you, you have no idea how much you continue to fascinate me. I wanna see more.’

Demanding for his Eden to undress him, she does as he bids as the glistened streams on her face begin to dry, yet her eyes remain moist and red.

‘This sensation…it’s….’

Feeling the painful effects of his affection, Eden renders her screams and tears of pain, yet, there was a yearning for more of it. A shattered burst of flutter and tingle emerged from inside her belly as she felt his roughness. The way he was looking at her…it was a look of fascination, love, lust, and desire. Somehow, she knew that by putting up with the intense, aching process, the result in the end was going to be beyond satisfaction.

With the two embracing one another, completely nude and kissed by the cold and crisp air around them, Ethan, snaking his hands behind her thighs and lifting his Eden, takes her into a seated position as he relaxes his ‘wife’ on his lap.

Once stationary, his hands roam upwards, grabbing on to her waist, with both hands, he snaps the leather belt, cracking a loud snap to shatter any peaceful sense inside the room. Lining the belt around the narrow part of her waist, he reverses the strap for the studs to be in contact against Eden’s skin, where he makes a full wrap and locks it in by feeding the tail through the loop ring, and holding on to the excess length, pulling it taught.

With his slight pull, the metal studs dig into her skin.

Leaning her head back as she moans in pain, Eden mentally thanked God that the belt had semi-pointed tips, though as dull as they were, the sting started to come in as the pyramid shaped metal pieces were digging into her soft skin as he continued to slowly pull.

The sting grew more intense, causing Eden to lift and slam her hands on his bare shoulders as she jolts, causing her weight to break from his lap for only a second. His hold on the belt that was tight around her waist allowed him to pull her back down the very moment he felt her warmth separate from him.

Through painstaking sting and anguish, he controlled her movements. Telling her to lean her head back towards him, he demands a kiss from his queen, slightly pulling the tail end of the belt once more.

Wincing in pain, Eden yelps and does as he bids, giving him the most passionate kiss, one that she could give through her painful whimpering.

Flashback

As Ethan was conducting ‘business’ with Scott, the painful screams of agony can be heard across the minimal hollow space, where Tiff sat across, with Eden before her.

Eyeing a suitcase off to the side, Eden’s curiosity was perked as she makes her way over and opens to reveal the contents.

A variety of erotic devices and toys stuffed into the large case, Eden’s brow raises. Grabbing on to a variety of the shapes, sizes, and lengths of each item, Eden selectively chooses one that had looked the most…painful.

Walking over to Tiff, Eden glares at the ground as she reaches down with her free hand, grabbing the girl by the hair, forcing her to go from her kneeling state to stand, facing Eden.

“Now I have to know…” Eden calmly starts as she admires the length and massive girth of the phallic toy she held in her hand, stroking the shaft as she guesses the measurement of the resin made item.

’15? 16? Hmm…maybe even 17 inches?’

Eden continues with her statement as she mentally assumes the length of the toy.

“I have to know…just how many girls did you recruit and trick to fall in the hands of that man?”

Eden’s glare switches from the toy, which she assumes had been used in the most violating manner against innocent girls, ones that, unlike yourself, couldn’t be saved from such undeserving assault.

She stares at the timid girl, who stood wide eyed and breathing through her nostrils deeply as her own shirt had been removed, twisted, and used to gag her distorted face.

“Was it all for petty cash? I bet it wasn’t for much…probably only enough to fill your gas tank…” Eden continues, tilting her face as she studies the girl’s face.

“Is that what they were all worth to you? You planned, arranged, and paid that man to do terrible acts just because things didn’t go your way?...How childish.” Eden whispers.

Whipping the toy over to her side, Eden swings, hitting Tiff’s face with the tip of it.

“It looks real…doesn’t it? But I bet it feels a lot harder, more…unpleasant. It’s also quite large…” Eden continues as she admires the toy as if it were a sword, crafted by the finest steel.

Turning her head off to the side, Eden observes as she hears Jake walking towards herself and Ethan, along with the offending pair at their mercy. He carried two gym bags, seemingly filled with something that caused a clinking noise as he walked.

As he reaches towards the end of the van, Jake glances over to Tiff, issuing a harsh smirk which ultimately caused her to wonder…to suddenly realize…

………………..

‘Uh..I’m the friend of the owner of this phone. Who is this?’

Answering Heeseung’s phone, Jake speaks, acting out a confused tone as he picked out whatever bottle he laid his hands on, adding it into the cart.

‘Whatever, where is Ethan?’

‘Ethan? He’s out at the moment…’

‘Where is he? I need to speak with him right now.’

………………

Noticing the sudden realization on her face, Jake issues a sly smile.

What with overhearing the story that Vickey explained to Heeseung in the car, he had never found himself so disgusted with a human being in his life.

But also…

Recalling the image of when you were taken, as the van pulled up from behind, it was nearly impossible for him to shake off the sight of the two men, masked, come up and sucker punch his girl. Not only that, but sitting atop of her as they pushed, and shoved her into the pavement, and laughed as they dragged her and tossed her around like a ragdoll, creating those awful scrapes to appear on her doll-like legs. Those legs that he took great pleasure in kissing and brushing his fingertips along the contours of their length, knowing how much she loved it.

Seeing her in distress, and helpless, he ran. He sprinted…but he was too far, all he could do was continue to run as he lost his breath and witness their filthy hands on….her. His delicate and pretty little (Jakes) y/n.

This…was just as personal for him, as it was for Heeseung, Vicky, you, and the countless girls in the past, ones like Vicky’s dear friend from high school.

Placing the bags down by the van, he begins to unzip each one, releasing the contents carefully as he takes each bottle of hard liquor and stages it beside him.

Ethan walks over and begins to help Jake, who doesn’t say a single word. His face remained predominantly emotionless, yet…there was a hint of a smirk of satisfaction on it as Ethan approached and assists with the task.

Taking out all the bottles, the pair uncaps every single one, dowsing the van inside and out, the air was filled with the stench of hard liquor, it was so overwhelming as the boys kept pouring, one bottle right after the other. Who knows just how many bottles there were, the moment a bottle had been emptied, it was either tossed into the hollow van or smashed against the pavement.

Once the deed was done with the emptying of every bottle, Jake walks pass Ethan, issuing a hidden and low hand slap as he continues to make his way over to the opposite direction of where Ethan and Scott were.

Scott, still in painful shock from his face being broken, is lifted by Ethan’s grab of his hair, walks him over to the driver’s seat of the van. Removing the extension cord that bonded him, Ethan tosses it over towards the nearby equipment. With the state that Scott was in there was no way this man was going to run or do anything, he was severely weakened and injured to even think, let alone act out.

Rolling down the window, he shuts the van door. Walking over in the direction that Jake went, the duo returns with Scott’s crew, all blind folded and led by the cords wrapped around their necks, chain linking them into a single line. Releasing their restraints, Jake and Ethan toss each crew member inside the back of the van.

Watching with horror on her face, Tiff stares as she prepares to witness the worse to happen.

Taking out a brand-new pocketknife, Jake handles it with a cloth, passing it over to Ethan, who takes the cloth and grabbing on to the knife, he tosses it through the window of the van, where it lands on the floorboard of where Scott sat.

Walking behind Tiff, Eden stands behind as she wraps her arm around her neck, essentially forcing the girl to remain facing the vehicle. Pulling her skirt up, while dragging her panties down a bit with the toy in her hand, Eden begins to stroke the outrageously large toy in between Tiff’s thighs.

Trembling, never thinking that things could amount to the level of insanity she was witnessing. Not with ‘you’ or…Ethan….

She never saw him like this. He was evil, maniacal, insane, and insidious. His calm, and reserved nature that she knew all throughout high school was nowhere to be found, yet it was there for a moment when he met up with her at the parking lot initially, asking her if she had the ring in her possession.

For a moment, in her own head she finally realized that she had gone too far…regretful…but also too late. Not only did she have her warning, or her chance…she had years where she could have stopped…. could have developed remorse and repented for her part in ruining all those girls’ lives.

‘Too late…’

Beginning with the tip, Eden begins to shove the bulging resin tip of the toy inside Tiff’s cavity.

With no preparation to take in something that was too large, not meant to be taken in the manner that Eden was disposing, Tiff screams in pain as she feels herself becoming entirely stretched out by the foreign object.

Not only was her face going to be ruined…but her….she will forever be ruined.

“I told you…I was going to do what no other man could ever do…” Eden speaks softly as she admires a gaze to the van, continuing with her assault.

Inch by inch, she shoves the object in. Twisting, churning, and pushing it in, until it nearly was all the way in.

Tiff, rendering to the pressure and terrible pain, viscously breathed through her nostrils as she felt the pain of the pressure and lack of oxygen affecting her chest.

Letting go of the object, Eden lets the object remain steady as it rests inside Tiff. With her arms, Eden loosely embraces them around Tiff, petting her hair as she whispers against Tiff’s ear…

“Shhh….just relax….and watch…” Eden issues.

Closing all the doors to the van. Jake extends a hand, palm facing the sky. Ethan, issues a swift high-five once more, as they pass one another.

Heading back to the car to attend to his delicate (Jakes) y/n, Jake disappears in the dark shadows as he makes his way back.

Ethan, crossing his arms on the door of the driver’s seat, peaking his head slightly through the window to face Scott, gives him an ultimatum.

“I’m going to give you a choice…” he calmly speaks.

“You can all sit here and burn. Or…you can take that knife and slit your own throats…consider it my parting gift.”

Reaching over Scott’s lap, Ethan grabs an open pack of cigarettes, along with a lighter that was nearby.

Taking out a slim, he places it inside his mouth as he cups the end while lighting it, blocking the small gust of wind that grazed against his frame. Tossing the lighter back through the window inside the van, Ethan enjoys a puff or two. Not a smoker at all yet, the one thought that remained in his head kept aching his core…to the point that he needed something to take the edge off…the biggest of his fears that was tearing him up inside.

Taking a puff, Ethan explains to the mentally incoherent Scott, with his friends trembling in the back seating of the locked van.

“You know…” Ethan looks on the ground as he places one hand in his front pocket of his jeans, while the other cradles the cigarette between two fingers. His athletic wristbands taking in the scent of cigarette smoke as it elegantly drifts onto the soft material. He tilts his head down to look at the ground, his cap completely hiding his eyes as his nose and mouth had been the only part of his features to remain visible the entire night.

“For me to find y/n the way that I did…that might have been pure luck. I had no idea…no fucking clue how or where…to start. I had no idea where or who took her. I’m still in shock on how the fuck I pulled that off. I don’t know if it was luck, or if I’m just too fucking smart to be fooled…maybe it was both…or maybe…you and that bitch were too dumb to realize just who you were fucking with. You can fuck with the world…but no one fucks with mine. The fact that I could have easily lost her just as I had found her….that just…fucking is tearing me up inside. The fact that it was all by chance….”

Shaking his head in irritation as he takes another huff, he parts his lips just slightly and allows the smoke to emerge slowly without any assistance from his exhale, his gaze peers off to the side, focusing on the pavement.

“As much as I tried to give you and Tiff the benefit of the doubt…though it wasn’t much…I still gave it. But you…you and her…you guys couldn’t just take the fucking warning and be done. You could have just told her to fuck off when she hired you…but then again…”

Recalling Vickey’s story from her experience with Scott in high school, while he was away as a Senior, he snarls his lip.

“I guess it’s within your nature to do this shit.” Ethan sticks the cigarette inside his mouth, takes out his phone and opens the camera feature. Hitting the record button, he takes the cigarette, with one final huff, he exhales out the smoke and tosses it through the open window.

The van torched up as Scott and his crew all ramble in chaos inside. Howling and screaming in pure madness and aganozing pain.

With the scent of murder filling the air, everyone stood and watched. Unsure if they ever took it upon Ethan’s token of mercy to slit their own throats to avoid the slow torturous pain of being burned alive, or if they managed to grab the knife and slit their own throats, either way it didn’t matter. With the flames reaching the engine in no time, as black smoke emerges and waves into the night sky, a loud boom accompanied by the burst of flames flashes out, sealing everyone inside to perish nearly automatically.

Taking the recording, Ethan sends it in a text message…

…………………

Walking into the medical facility, after being painfully reminded of the occurrence from what happened in high school, Vickey couldn’t stop thinking about her dear friend. Reaching out to her fiancé, who’s prominence and status as the heir of his father’s company, allowed him connections that reached and found her friend, whom she lost contact with right after the terrible event.

Entering the ward, upon finding out the girl never healed from her emotional wounds of the disastrous assault against her, Vicky is led by a staff member that guides her to a closed room, where a peaceful and relaxed set up is arranged. The room had a TV, bed, windows that could not be opened, and a small bathroom.

Sitting on the bed, with her head hanging low, was the recognizable face of what used to be filled with life and vibrant youth.

Ridden with insomnia, unable to sleep the painful memories away, Vicky made efforts to express her emotional support after it took Sunghoon no time to find her.

Bringing forth a bouquet of flowers, Vicky sits next to the girl, who gazes up and looks at her visitor. Upon recognizing who it was, the girl bursts into tears, laying her head on Vicky’s lap.

“I’m so glad I was able to find you…” Vicky responds. There wasn’t anything Sunghoon wouldn’t’ do for her, upon hearing the tales of her painful memories, he offered his fullest support, which consisted of his private jet, private investigators, and special arrangements once she arrived at her destination.

Petting the girl’s head, Vicky sympathizes with the girl who had been her assistant cheerleader all throughout middle school, and prior to the incident, their time as Freshmans. A very dear and best friend at one point…until she was taken away and dropped out of school for lack of emotional stability. Who could blame her?

Hearing the notification of a text, Vicky checks the message….

………………

‘Ethan, tell me what I need to do.”

“…You still engaged?”

“Uh…yeah.”

“Did he give you a ring?”

“…Yeah…”

…………………….

‘Okay I’ll do it…but Ethan… can I ask…what are you going to do once you get to them? What are you going to do to Scott?....’

‘………….’

‘I’ll still do it. And by all means, don’t take this as me encouraging you…although judging by your voice…and the fact that this happened to y/n….Ican already tell….’

‘…………..’

‘Whatever you do, Ethan…if you do decide to go and…you know…..could you do me a favor? Please don’t ask me to explain, just tell me either yes or no.….’

……………………..

Seeing the message displayed a video, Vicky smirks as she leans in towards the damaged girl.

“Here…” Vicky gently issues as she lends her phone over to her former friend.

Playing the video, which clearly displayed Scott’s broken face, the girl’s eyes widen as she began to feel the trauma and fear upon recognizing him. Those horrible memories.

“Its okay…I promise…just watch.” Vicky gently reassures her as she cradles her head. Stroking her hair.

Upon watching the video till the end, for the first time since the horrible act the man committed against her, the emotionally damaged girl….

Flared a faint smile.

………………………

Flashback – Vicky’s Story

“….I’m so sor-…I-I”

Unable to speak, Vickey, after just witnessing the disturbing recording, which she couldn’t watch after reading the caption attached to the recording, describing the act that took place against her poor friend.

Watching her dear friend that she had known since childhood, sitting on the floor before her, Vicky broke out of her own trauma, issuing tears as she watched her friend sit motionless, unable to produce her own tears. She was broken, violated, and harmed in the worst manner possible. Unable to take the sight of her friend, who was the sunflower of her childhood, Vickey sobs and begs out of desperation.

“….Please….wh-what can I do? I can’t…I can’t see you like this…..”

The girl, looks up at her pretty little friend, still adorned in her cheerleading outfit, the same one that she has hunged up behind her door…but will never wear again…for she was forced to wear it as the assault took place. The echoes of that man’s voice emerges from her memory…

“Yeah…that’s it. Take it you little cheerleading slut. You like that don’t you?”

The girl, dead inside, watches as her dear friend, sheds tears for her. Begging her to tell her what to do. How to fix this.

With a barely toned whisper, the girl softly tells Vicky…

“….I just want them dead…I wish they all would die. I feel like I can’t live anymore.”

Upon hearing her damaged friend speak with absolutely no life in her tone, Vicky sobbed hard. How could they do this to her? How could they do this to her best friend? Her dear friend…..forever ruined. The worst part…was that she couldn’t do anything to help her….she couldn’t give her what she asked for.

…………………..

Watching the video that Ethan recorded, Vicky took in great delight as she and her once, dear friend, begin to smirk and gently laugh together, cradled in a friendly and familiar embrace.

‘Yes…my dear friend. Smile again. Know that, justice has finally been served…for you.’

Present

With the studs digging into her skin, Eden grabs on to Ethan’s arms, his length and girth thrusting into her repeatedly. Her naked body bouncing relentlessly on his shaft as his fluids mixes in with her own, dripping down as it secretes from her cavity.

“Ahhhh!! E-Ethan!!” she screams as her rear smacks against his thighs.

With one hand maintaining the hold of the belt, pulling it taught with each quake he feels in his gut from the overwhelming sense of pleasure, his other hand reaches around, grabbing and cradling his hold on one of Eden’s rear cheeks, furthering enhancing the bouncing motion as he slightly lifts and pushes down.

Thrusting, riding, grinding, with his skin popping against her rear each time she is brought down with such immense force, Ethan’s length twitches and pulsates inside her as he grows near his release. Eden following close behind.

“Fuck…you’re going to make me cum baby…” Ethan exclaims through gritted teeth as he smirks upon admiring the sight of his shaft re-entering inside Eden’s cavity.

With a final thrust, as deep as he could possibly go, he wraps his arms around her, pulling her to melt into him as he releases inside her clenching walls. The feeling of her gushing fluids, swirling around his shaft and rushing out as she experiences her orgasm furthers his flickering motions, causing Eden to feel the tapping against her fleshy walls.

Grinding into her as he remains fully inside, his hands grab onto her rear, guiding her to a waving lap dance. Slow and steady, to his rhythm, Eden rides him as her gut trembles from the stimulation of sensational pleasure. Guiding her with the hold of her rear, his shaft slightly pulling, entering, thrusting, and re-entering, he hums out the tune that she rides to…

“Dance for me, like a flower that blooms dead I just wanna dance on, endlessly Like a curse, I can't stop myself Woah, again, chaconne now Woah-oh, woah-oh, woah-oh Again chaconne now Woah-oh, woah-oh, woah-oh Chaconne now”

Flashback

As Eden remains behind Tiff, she reaches around and cradles the girl’s chin, forcing her to watch the torching of the van, with Scott and his terrible crew inside.

“I’m going to give you a choice…hopefully you make the right one this time…” Eden issues.

“You’re either going to turn yourself in, confess to your offenses against all those girls from the past, while also taking the hit for this. Or…..” Eden leans in towards Tiff’s ear.

“You can join your friends right now as I toss you inside while it still burns…” Eden whispers.

Tiff’s eyes widened. She’s seen enough to know better than to say anything smart or assume their bluff. This girl…this Eden…she was not y/n….she was different. The same one that assaulted her inside the campus building.

After so many years, so many lives ruined, and so much pain and torment caused by her hand, Tiff finally learned her lesson. Her life was over…it was done. Her face, her body, and her soul…everything was gone. Whether she would agree to it or not…it was all her fault. Justice had long been overdue.

Tiff nods her head to reflect her compliance with taking in the responsibilities of her crimes.

Eden smiles.

“Hm. Smart. But also know this Tifffff…even if you don’t rot in jail, just know that…if you ever are free again…it will be wise for you to stay away from me…and my Ethan. Just know, that beyond the bars that will contain you, you are not safe…”

Unbeknownst to Eden, the eyes of her beloved Ethan stares intently at her as she issues her warning to Tiff. His eyes…wide, piercing, and stabbing through her unaware state as he becomes overwhelmed with an intense sensation.

Fascinated…intrigued…and falling hard in love all over again, Ethan’s chest paused in it’s inflection as his breathing stopped for a second. His mouth parts slightly as he takes in the sight of her….God she was incredible. So beautiful. So sexy. So poisonous. So much like him.

He wanted her…now.

With the fact that, not only did the love of his life witness and supported his vicious act of the night….but she even partook in it. She stood by him. She understood and communicated love, the same way he did.

Not knowing how she does it…but he was falling for her all over again.

As he stared he hears the last bit of Eden’s words to Tiff, he replays her voice.

‘…you are not safe.’

………

‘And unbeknownst to you my dear Eden…neither are you….’

#heeseung x reader #heeseung smut #heeseung scenarios #heeseung hard hours #heeseung hard thoughts #enhypen smut #enha x reader #enhypen hard hours #heeseung fanfic #enha heeseung #yandere heeseung #Spotify

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alephskoteinos · 7 months

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A view to a solar non-dualism

During my study of the Greek Magical Papyri, a while back I encountered a phrase at the end of PGM IV. 1596-1715, which is a spell for Helios. The last line of the papyrus says that, when the consecration is complete, the magician must say the following: "the one Zeus is Sarapis".

I thought about that phrase again recently, maybe while going through The Concepts of the Divine in the Greek Magical Papyri, and it strikes me as a solar image of non-duality.

"The one Zeus is Sarapis", "heis Zeus Sarapis", but Sarapis (Serapis) is also an image of Hades or Plouton, being a god of the underworld and lord of the dead (not to mention a fusion of the god Osiris and the bull Apis). That's actually quite explicit when you get to Sarapis' iconography. In fact that were instances where Serapis and Hades or Plouton were explicitly identified with each other. In fact, that link is even more explicit in Porphyry's Philosophia ex oraculis, where he described Serapis as one of the gods who rule the infernal daimons, the others being Hekate and the demon dog Kerberos.

From this standpoint, I interpret the formula "heis Zeus Sarapis" as meaning that Zeus and Hades are one. In some ways that could be seen not only as a form of syncretism but also as an expression of theological monism, or certainly of the kind that was being developed around the time of Hellenistic Egypt.

But there's more to it, because this is also a solar image. Zeus-Sarapis was also Zeus-Helios-Sarapis, or Zeus Helios Great Sarapis. In the eastern desert of Egypt, under Roman occupation, one could except to find many images of the god Zeus Helios Megas Sarapis. especially in a place called Dios (now called Abu Qurayyah). There was also a temple dedicate to that god at Mons Claudianus, consecrated by a slave named Epaphroditos. Some scholars, of course, interpret this as a Greek interpretation of the Egyptian god Amun Ra. Furthermore, the phrase "heis Zeus Sarapis" has been found inscribed on a depiction of Harpocrates, Horus the Child, a deity who was frequently syncretised with Helios and thus seen as a solar god. Zeus, Helios, and Serapis were also sometimes seen as one godhead. This perhaps derives from an Orphic saying, purportedly attributed to an oracle of Apollo, which says "Zeus, Hades, Helios-Dionysus, three gods in one godhead!". In Flavius Claudius Julianus Hymn to Helios, this is rendered as "Zeus, Hades, Helios Serapis, three gods in one godhead!", which perhaps suggests that Serapis was being identified with Dionysus. Either way, it establishes a theology in which the three gods are mutually identified and unified as a solar godhead.

Since Helios was the sun god par excellence in this context, Zeus-Helios-Sarapis was seen as a solar deity, and thus it is a solar image. More importantly, it is an image of the non-duality of the sun. This incidentally is not out of step with certain monistic trends insofar as they also reflected a kind of solar theology. For example, Macrobius interpreted the myth of Saturn or Kronos as an expression of the generative power of the sun, thus identifying Saturn/Kronos with the sun, which Macrobius thought was the highest divine principle and even the ultimate basis of all the other gods.

The non-duality that I'm getting into, by this point, should be understood as something that involves and transcends a certain measure of "evil", or at least contains the infernal in itself. This lends itself to a dual-natured solar divinity that is by no means unfamiliar within ancient polytheism. Sun gods, perhaps like many other gods, were very double-sided. For example, the Iranian sun god Mithra was seen both as a benevolent deity concerned with friendship and contract, and as a mysteries, uncanny, and even "sinister" or "warlike" deity (though, these aspects are often attributed to his syncretic form as Mitra-Varuna). Kris Kershaw suggested in The One-Eyed God: Odin and the (Indo-)Germanic Männerbünde that the daeva Aeshma actually represented an aspect of Mithra's being. In Egypt, the wrathful goddess Sekhmet was also understood as an aspect of the power of Ra. The Mesopotamian sun god, Utu, or Shamash, was also a judge in the underworld. Another Mesopotamian god, Nergal, was a warlike god of disease and death who also represented a harsh aspect of the sun. Apollo, an oracular deity who was eventually associated with the sun, was also seen as a destroyer and shared Nergal's association with disease in addition to healing. Helios himself was also sometimes referred to as a destroyer, as indicated by one of his epithets, Apollon. In fact, even Helios may have been connected or in some cases even identified with Hades. At Smyrna, Plouton was worshipped as Plouton-Helios. This may even have reflected the notion of a nocturnal Sun that shone in the realm of the dead, perhaps inherited from Egypt. In some parts of Greece, Helios was also invoked alongside a chthonic form of Zeus in oath-swearing ceremonies.

The real fun I'd like to get into with this concept comes from hongaku-inspired forms of medieval Buddhist theology and their influence on the Shinto pantheon. And in that sense our focus turns to none other than Amaterasu, the Japanese sun goddess who was also the divine patron of sovereignty. The medieval Amaterasu was to some extent equated with all deities at all levels - naturally, this meant even the demonic and chthonic deities. Thus Amaterasu was both a saving deity and a wrathful deity in the Buddhist context. Late medieval Shinto theology had even crowned her a "deity of the Dharma nature", a unique kind of deity with no original ground, and thus a transcendent power akin to that of Dainichi Nyorai (Vairocana Buddha). The Tenshō daijin kuketsu identified Amaterasu with Bonten (Brahma), Taishakuten (Indra), and Shoten, and then with Yama in the underworld because she records the dharmas of good and evil, and from there it asserts that we are dealing with the same deity in all cases. The same text also says that Kukai interpreted Amaterasu as the great deity of the five paths in the underworld, and therefore the primordial deity controlling birth and death. In some respects she was even seen as an araburu-no-kami just like Susano-o, both sharing a double ambivalence that is projected onto their opposition. In other cases, Amaterasu was identified with the Buddhist god Sanbo Kojin, the wild or demonic god of the three poisons who was interpreted as the honji or "original ground" of Amaterasu, and then by extension Amaterasu was identified with Mara, the demon king himself, in the same way.

All of this, of course, is an expression of the non-dualism of hongaku thought, in which the darkness of unenlightened passion and ignorance (thus the realm of the demons) is at once enlightenment and Buddha nature, and not only this it is both simultaneously the ground of enlightenment and Buddha nature and also, ultimately, indistinguishable from enlightenment and Buddha nature.

#sun gods #non-dualism #polytheism #paganism #zeus #serapis #helios #hellenic polytheism #hellenistic egypt #ancient egypt #ancient greece #hongaku #hades #chthonic gods

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drifting-pieces-blog-blog · 6 months

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Breaking down the comics: Death of Legends (Issue 33)

Moon Knight, Issue # 33: Exploding Myths

Bonus preview image!:

BANGER.

We start with a good old fashioned newsstand. On the side is a poster:

"Exploding myths. Titans for our times. A continuing series by Joy Mercado. Upcoming features on:

Druid Walsh and Moon Knight.

Only in the Daily Times".

A huge muscle bound man that is obviously Druid Walsh punches his first through the image of Moon Knight, proclaiming: "He ain't nothin'. He's nothin' but meat. Dead meat."

And like myth, we see people talking about Druid.

They talk about rumors and stories of his strength.

About how he once stole a grand piano off the back of a truck then carried it up to a roof and tossed it down to crush a cop car. Another talks about how he ripped bricks out of a wall to crush the skulls of mobsters.

More still talk about more and more acts of strength and rage.

"He's so mean, Lady. The Druid is so mean he ain't real."

Joy Mercado is the source of their discussion.

She pauses to consider their information then asks "Where can I meet this Druid Walsh?"

"Ain't you been listenin' Lady? You gotta be crazy to wanna-"

"I'm not crazy--I'm a reporter, and I'm going to do a piece on the Druid whether you help me or not."

They point her to the local bar and grill.

Sure enough, inside is the towering Druid and he's running a protection racket.

He threatens the bartender for payment but the bartender has hired his own protection.

He beats down the gang of men without flinching then turns on the bartender. He lifts up the bar itself and throws it down on the beaten men.

Joy Mercado stands in the doorway. She's been admiring his work.

She compliments him and introduces herself.

She's flirty and invites him to dinner. It's a fancy expensive place and apparently she goes there a lot to conduct her interviews. She bribes the wait staff to let in the mountain of a man and seat them in the back.

One of the waiters compliments her most recent articles about Daredevil and Detective Flint. (Oh? What's Flint getting up to? He hanging with DD now? This poor man. No wonder he looks so done with everything all the time).

Of course she didn’t tell Druid she was a reporter and he instantly is dismayed to realize she didn’t pick him up for a date but for an interview.

She admits that she's working on a series about mythical figure of their time. He thought it was a date.

She back pedals. "Well of course it's a date in a sense. A dinner date, but I...I hoped you might also consider it an interview..."

She finds him interesting and assures him that if she is willing to want to write about him then perhaps she might want to see him again.

He agrees to it! After all, he has taken a real shine to her.

So she starts with the rumor about him throwing a whole grand piano off a roof.

"That wasn't no piano--It was just a big empty crate."

And it goes on like that. The bricks weren't rendered from a wall but were just laying there. And of course he didn't rip a street lamp out of the ground.

Each debunked myth leaves our reporter friend more and more dismayed.

As they talk, a pompous rich guy bumps into their table. He apologizes till he notices the look of the Druid.

"Yugh. It would be nice if some people would learn how to bathe..."

This upsets Druid. He gets up and picks up the guy and threatens to throw him out the window.

This excites the reporter who suddenly has a story happening in front of her.

"Naw... You're a jerk all right, but not the kind who deserves to go out a plate glass window...." He instead sets the guy down in a large three tier cake.

Disappointed, Joy's enthusiasm has vanished. They leave the restaurant and she turns to go. Druid asks if she wants to see him again sometime.

"Anything is possible, Mr. Walsh. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to make the late edition... Perhaps we'll bump into each other again sometime."

"And Druid Walsh is left to gape at her stiff retreat. What happened to her slow and easy walk like when her hip kept rubbing his? What happened to her smile? What happened?"

The next day! Jack Lockley buys a newspaper and heads into Gena's.

I must say I do love the fact that EVERY SINGLE TIME Jake sees Gena, he always asks her how the kids are doing.

A while back, Moon Knight wanted a way for people and police to reach him so he gave them Gena's diner's number. I mean... They sort of know who he is by means of Jake, and Jake can always be found there.

Gena, I'm sure, found it thrilling at first. Poor Gena.

"By the way Lockley, ever since you let it be known that Moon Knight can be contacted through this establishment, that phone of mine's been takin' some mighty weird rings... But there's one you should know about--From your detective friend Flint, relaying a call from someone named Joy Mercado... SHe says she's gotta see you today-matter of life and death."

Hmmmm...

Jake is familiar with Joy and is skeptical.

"Yeah, sure, she might miss a deadline. Some matter of life and death."

Crawley points to the latest article. "If Druid Walsh peruses her column today, Jake, it could well be."

Jake takes a look. Whoopse. Must not be a nice one. He decides he might need to see Joy after all.

(I love Gena. How many cups do you think Jake has in his cab?)

Meanwhile, Druid has one of his thugs read him the article.

It can't be that bad, can it?

"It says: 'My encounter with the allegedly mythic figure known as Druid Walsh began promisingly enough, in the aftermath of an epic bar fight more suited to a Hollywood back lot than to 29th street...But it soon became apparent that the Druid was little more than an ignorant scapegoat for the collective yearning of our mundane society: The pervasive need for myths, real or imagined.'"

I'm sure once he has that explained to him, he's going to be quite upset.

"--Can only conclude that the fabled Druid Walsh is all fable and no substance. As such, he qualifies as nothing more than a cheap thug, somewhat bizarre and certainly oafish, yet another titan with feet of clay, another modern myth exploded. Tomorrow's feature on Moon Knight, however, should prove to be a different story."

He's pretty upset. And you know what? It's a pretty shit piece.

Druid heads out to have a word with Joy.

Joy is at the Daily Times taking praise for her recent piece.

Moon Knight strides in and up to her desk.

"You wanted to see me?"

She asks him to take a seat for an interview.

"And your quaint way of securing an interview with me was to cry wolf--to scream life and death, is THAT it?"

"Ah, well... If your entire career isn't one long matter of life and death, then I don't know what--"

"You don't know anything, Ms. Mercado!"

Yeah... I'm not surprised that it struck a nerve.

Just as Moon Knight is feeling pretty pissed, Druid busts in, looking for revenge.

He yells about her using him and pretending to be on a date with him. He grabs her and Moon Knight steps in.

Druid is less than thrilled by 'the real myth' and takes a swing. He's a hard hitter.

Moon Knight hits back, but it hardly phases this mountain of muscles.

While Moon Knight takes a minute to recover, Druid takes the moment to kidnap Joy.

This man knows how to take a hit.

Out on the street, Druid is gone.

Moon Knight calls in Frenchie.

"Frenchie--Keep an eye out for a ten-foot tall Gorilla who's just abducted a woman."

"Zis is a joke, oui, Marc?"

"You hear me chuckling?"

I love Frenchie.

Druid has taken Joy to a back alley where he uncovers a picnic basket?

"We're gonna have dinner again, Baby. Another date. But this time we're gonna be alone--And it's gonna be done the right way..."

Lady and basket in hand, he busts into the fancy restaurant they went to before. He pulls a shotgun from the basket and tells everyone to get out.

That’s a pretty good reference, honestly. And he has a pretty good grasp on the concept of myths.

He goes on a rant.

He learned to handle himself in almost any situation because of how big and tough he was and he had no fear.

Coming back from 'nam, he tried to be a professional wrestler. Changed his look and got fangs to try to make a trademark. It backfired and his look got him kicked out of the wrestling business.

Moon Knight gets the police report from Frenchie about the disturbance at the restaurant and heads over.

Hey! Flint!

"So it boils down to a fairy tale. Princess captured by ogre. Held prisoner in tower."

"And the white knight has to rescue her, Flint."

"Not this time, Moon Knight. This one's not just a matter of you and me. The whole special hostage unit is here. I can't--"

Oh, Flint. You know better than to try to reason with Moon Knight.

Up in the restaurant, Druid is ready to dine.

What's this? The basket is filled with Dynamite!

He sets the timer for 30 minutes. Time enough to get to know one another.

But wait! What's this?

His favorite way to make an entrance. (Adds a talley to the ‘busts through window’ counter. We’re at 4 here people.)

Rematch time!

They exchange blows.

It'a always interesting to watch Moon Knight actually fight against badguys that also know how to fight and get close and personal.

Marc's ability to take the worst hits and keep going are legendary. His complete lack of concern for the body and his own well being make him a wild card on the battle field and no one really knows how to deal with it. They always underestimate him.

They exchange blow for blow.

Down on the ground Flint faces his boss.

"What's the matter with you, Flint? Didn't you know Moon Knight would try a grandstand play like this?!"

"Yep. But consider this, Boss. You ever try to stop Moon Knight?"

(I love Flint. I need more of this man in the comics)

(This man has been through so much).

Druid and Moon Knight continue to fight as the timer of the bomb ticks down.

He knocks Druid down and gets Joy to the moon copter ladder.

They fight up to the roof top, exhausted and barely able to stand.

Druid refuses to flee. "She wanted an exploding myth!" He is determined to see out the explosion.

Seconds left, Frenchie yells for Marc to jump. Druid collapses. Moon Knight jumps and the bombs go off.

Druid goes up with the explosion.

They land safe on the docks.

Joy notices Moon Knight is wounded and bleeding.

"And Druid Walsh is Dead. Contrary to media-shaped public opinion, we weren't immortal...Invulnerable. And you, pity you, you've missed your precious deadline."

(Something he's grappled with time and time again in later comics and the Mackay run. The notion that he can't die. Considering where the current run is openly heading, I'm curious to see how that plays out.)

Joy tries to defend herself, saying it wasn't like that.

"You said it yourself-The Druid was just a dumb thug who never hurt anybody until he was pushed. Then you came along and bumped him harder than he'd ever been pushed before--All without laying a finger on him."

"B-But he tried to kill you."

"Only because I tried to stop him from killing himself."

"What about me?"

"All right...He snapped. And you'd better do some hard thinking about why he snapped. All I know is that before you came along he was largely harmless. Maybe he shouldn't have been loose in the streets...But he shouldn't be dead either."

Give it to her, Moon Knight!

He calls her an instigator and tells her to go back to her city room.

He leaves her there, the building fire in the background.

I think this particular story is really fascinating. And I might be biased, because modern myths and how they develop in places like a city are a special interest of mine.

What makes a myth? Is there a timeline involved? How long does it take to build a legend?

We have a large strong and temperamental man that went to war and learned how to become a survivor. Called dumb all his life and failing out of school, he learned skills and how to use his own abilities to his advantage. Clearly painted to look like an Oaf, not reading, not picking up social cues immediately, and quick to anger, he demonstrates knowledge and understanding. He notes Olypus and knows where it comes from. He knows the stories of the old Greek lores. He is no dummy.

What’s interesting is that Moon Knight recognizes this. He doesn’t see Druid as a threat. He is obviously aware of his presence in the streets and his reputation, but he doesn’t bother him. I’m sure Jake Lockley had heard about him, since Jake keeps his eyes on the streets.

This is a common thing with Moon Knight. The lesser villains and even a few of the big ones. He sympathizes with them. Respects them. Mourns them.

What does Moon Knight see in the Druid? Lost dreams and survival? A man trying to find his life? A man filled with anger but still able to get by?

There is so much Marc in so many of the villains that have unhappy endings.

It has ALSO come to my attention that this is the LAST official Moon Knight written by Doug Moench. (He comes back briefly later on for a short run and a cameo, but this is it.)

With the jab Moon Knight takes against the reporter and publishing, I wonder what terms Moench left Marvel on. I wonder if this was the story he wanted to finish on or if he had a script that was left behind for the 1980s run. I'll get more into this later...

#Moon Knight #Moon Knight Comics #Analyzing the comics #Marc Spector #Jake Lockley #Steven Grant #I want to do a write up of Marc Spector in the comics

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