#(radio silence for 50 years)

[cak31ssuperi04]

uve prolly gotten this before but y ship the blondie and oreoy,,,, curious

Is this about Izuchi and Sagara??

For what little we see of it I like their potential dynamic. They're so particularly annoyed by each other. I like that most of Izuchi's presence in the story shows him as a hyper-smart prodigy who thinks he's better than everyone, only for him to get lame and pathetic in Sagara's 3rd event because the competent bonafide genius is weak to the Weird Anime Kid. She's able to bring him to her level and cracking through his ego, which is maybe more fragile than he lets on. He's stubborn and likes challenges, and she wants her unhinged mad scientist antagonist-figure to clash with. He acts like he's above the petty rivalry but folds after one childish insult. If that's all it took, and if Nanashi had to get between them this time, I 100% think this happens regularly and has escalated before. They're silly.

They're both jaded teens who have an inflated sense of self-confidence. They do what they want without regard for what people think(though I will draw the distinction between how she's just kind of annoying and he's actually harmful) and end up detached from them without much of a drive to change that, but they take it in different directions, with Izuchi being pragmatic and serious and Sagara being a chuuni who's easygoing and kind of making it up as she goes along a lot of the time. He's arrogant and will wrong others to further his research but can be capable of and willing to help others(re. Meru's event). She ultimately means well and is a nice person but will casually threaten strangers and target people because she thinks they're weird(her dialogue regarding him as an organization member indicates that she doesn't seem to actually know about any of the legitimately shady shit he does and just messes with him because the genius schtick is bizarre. Again, Kind Of A Bully Maybe is really not on the level of Human Experimentation but then the game doesn't treat that very seriously either. And also Sagara's still capable of knocking him on his ass)

It definitely would take some sort of development for them to come to like each other or for romance to come into question, but I think it could be fun. They'd challenge eachother. She'd keep his ego in check and make him see the value in things that aren't strictly logical and he'd act as a voice of reason(to an extent…) and help strike some balance between reality/fantasy, but they still wouldn't really care about what people think. Menaces always.

[gghostwriter]

Out of Sunshine

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Summary: Having forgotten your dinner date, Spencer comforts his usually sunshine girlfriend Trope:Fluff & Comfort w.c: 1.2k a/n: been very overwhelmed with responsibilities and wants lately that I just needed to write a self-indulgent fic. Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated! 💗 masterlist

Spencer’s knock on your apartment door was met with silence. It was a starry Friday night and he had arranged a dinner reservation with you, his girlfriend for a year and a half, to the newly opened French restaurant along the main street. With a certain spring in his step, he settled with Hotch, and by extension the team, that he couldn’t be disturbed unless an emergency case comes in—something he silently wished not to happen. He had also picked up a bouquet of your favorites from the local florist. An array of whites that reminded him of the dress he first saw you wearing at the park.

He knocked again, ears straining to hear anything behind the dark wooden door. There was nothing. He balanced the bouquet on one hand and reached for the phone inside his satchel. It was quite unlike you to not answer the door.

The number you dialed is either unattended—

“Strange,” he muttered under his breath. During his morning phone call with you, a much needed routine to tide him through the macabre of his job, you sounded so excited about the dinner he’d planned and had even promised to wear the same white dress that had plagued his eidetic memory. He chuckled in reply before asking any plans for the day. There was a slight pause on your end, no doubt thinking of ways to pass time before night winds down, and you answer—

The studio, he remembered. You mentioned passing by your art studio to occupy time. He sighed in relief as he enters his vintage blue car parked on the the sidewalk, bouquet placed securely on the passenger seat. The clock on the dashboard tells him there’s still time to make it to the reservation, granted he wasn’t sure if you were ready to go.

A non-descriptive tune played from the radio as he turned left to enter the designated parking space of your studio building. It was a mixture of soft piano keys that sounded like spring and sunshine, both adjectives he loved to use to describe you.

When he finally found the courage to fumble his way in asking for your number, the smile that flashed on your face was blinding. It was as if he stared directly into the sun with little to no protection for his vision.

Over the course of multiple dates, he found himself waxing prose about you in his head. The pinking of your cheeks reminded him of strawberries ripening, so tempting to touch with his own pair of lips. The twinkle in your eyes, full of adoration and trust, made him feel strong and protective—like he was some kind of crow guarding his loot of sparkling treasure. And the bounce in your step wherever you’d go had him envisioning a sprig of wildflowers growing from each footprint, the nymph of his very own Spring.

He let himself in the studio, grateful you’ve trusted him with a spare key. “Sunshine,” he called out.

The light inside the four cornered room was on, windows all open for the paint fumes to escape, and there you were, hunched over an easel, furiously painting without any care of your surroundings.

He called your name, softer this time, as if to slowly ease you out of the artistic trance. The timber of his voice and his sudden presence led you to squeak in surprise, paintbrush dropping on the wooden streaked floor.

“It’s me, sunshine,” he raised his hands in front of him in surrender. “It’s me.”

Your nose scrunched up in question, a streak of blue dried paint on your cheek, adorable. How adorable you were in his eyes.

“What are you doing here?” you bent down to grab the brush before resuming your old position.

“It’s 7:50, love.”

You swiveled to face him, eyes wide in distress. Hands promptly reaching to turn over the faced down phone. “No, no—oh my god, I am so sorry!”

“It’s alright,” he tries to placate you but his words of comfort seem to fall on deaf ears. “Really, it’s alright. It happens to everyone.”

Tears were starting to build up in your eyes. Your hands were wrangling with the apron tied around your waist as you mutter a series of apologies again and again. “I’m sorry. So sorry—we can’t make it to our reservation now, can’t we? Spence, I’m so so sorry. I—I forgot,” a sob escaped from your throat. “I don’t know what to do.”

He puts down the flowers on the nearest available space, your stool, and steps into your space. Filling it with his perfume and warmth meant to comfort you. He could see how distressed you were—rocking on your heels, hands unable to stay put, and lower lip sandwiched in between your pearly teeth.

“Breathe. It’s completely fine, love. No harm done. Really, it’s alright.”

The tears come rushing down, staining your flushed cheeks with its tracks. “It’s not—how could I forget?”

“Sunshine, it’s okay. It happens to all of us and I know you’re quite busy, it’s understandable.”

You burrow into his chest some more, afraid of separating from him and the haven he brings.

He continued on. “I also know you’re overwhelmed, the exhibit is just around the corner and I know how important it is to you, I understand.”

Laying your cheek near his beating heart, you mutter a reply. “It’s really not—I don’t want you to think you’re not important to me too.”

His hands cupped your face to stare into your saddened eyes. Spencer couldn’t see the warmth and brightness that was always present in his sunshine. There was a cloud of rain and doubt covering its’ greatness. He understood no one could always be happy all the time but it bothered him to see you breaking down from stress.

“Shouldn’t I be the one worried about that?” he lightly joked. “I’ve cancelled on dates so many times and did those ever make you feel less important to me?”

“No. Never,” you sniffled.

“Then what makes you say I’d think that, sunshine? I would never, I promise.”

The corners of your lips lifted up to a small smile. There it was, the rays of sun peeking behind the clouds, bringing warmth back to the dark crevices of his being.

“I’m sorry about your shirt,” your lower lip jutting out in a pout. The air of anxiety slowly dissipating around you.

Spencer laughed, noting the tear stained marks littered on his purple button down. “That’s alright. Why don’t we order from your favorite Indian place down the block? We can get your favorites and have our dinner date here instead?”

“You’d be okay with that?”

He leaned in to kiss your temples, taking in the twinkle back in your eyes framed by your wet long lashes and the flush on your cheeks from emotion—good and bad.

For Spencer, you had never looked more beautiful. The reason behind of your breakdown was raw, intimate, and it made him see you in a new light. Heat bloomed in his chest, like a series of red roses, filled with love for you.

“Anywhere with you is good for me, sunshine.”

Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated!

[barleyo]

Consequence.

Adoptive Dad! Enji Todoroki X Fem! Reader (smut)

A/N: nobody asked for this but idc :3 i wrote this as a b-day present for myself!! i luv this old abusive man so bad oh my god!!! nasty old man who tries to be good but fails so miserably :3 old man who is just MEANT to be awful and abusive and gross!! luv it!!! i wanted to do a full on incest fic w him but idk if anybody would be interested >_< just let me know!!

Tags: adoptive-incest (daddy-daughter), age gap (18-50s), p in v, purity, sexual abuse mentions, loss of virginity, allusions to physical abuse, size difference, creampie, gross nasty stuff in general

Wordcount: 1.6k

Once all of his kids had given him a final 'fuck you' and left him on his own, Enji felt the pressure of loneliness crash down on him. Being on top in the hero rankings was worthless to him when he came home to an empty house. Every second he sat alone in his house, he realized that it was simply too big for just one man. It had never been a home, only a house where a fragmented family resided. Only once his kids fled did that realization hit him. 

He needed to fill the space and quick, and more than that, he needed to start over. He wanted to redeem himself somehow. Whole new family for a whole new man. 

But dating was hard at his age, and all the decent women were taken. Only fame-chasing whores were interested in him at this point, and he couldn't blame them. What the hell else did he have to offer? No woman would want to be with a tired, emotionally constipated, divorced, middle-aged man. Nor would any want to have kids with one, especially not at his age. 

Adoption it was. Simple enough. Plenty of kids in the system. Plenty of needy little brats that could benefit from his new-found, new-wave parenting tactics that he read up on in his abundant spare time. 'Don't abuse your kids.' Who would've thought it? Crazy. 'Top ten reasons why your kids won't visit you when you're in the nursing home.' Well, shit. 

He knew he had to go older. He would be absolutely damned if he would take in a toddler, or worse, a tween. He wasn't ready to raise anyone— he needed something already broken in for the most part. 

17? Yeah, that should be fine. He could do that. Old enough to take care of itself for the most part. Another body in the house was what he needed, not another responsibility. A girl? Yeah. Girls were supposed to be easier, right? Girls are sweet and grateful, always considerate and willing to help out. Girls are gentle and tender. 

Just his luck. He got the most clingy girl the foster care system had to offer. It was, at most, a bit irritating for the first few days when you were skittish and nervous around him all the time, but he understood. The problems occurred when you started to get comfortable.

He thought he wanted an affectionate little thing, especially considering the radio silence he received from his biological children, but this was just too much. Wherever he was, you needed to be. All day, all night. Twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, excluding when he was on patrol. 

Enji knew that adopted kids tended to have abandonment issues, or whatever, but did you have to be such a damn velcro child? It was cute, in a way, the first year or so of your stay with him. He kinda liked it, having some positive attention finally turned his way, but at a certain point it was just too much. 

Like when you turned 18 and decided that sleeping alone was no longer an option. Of course, he gave in. He tried to argue back, but the threat of tears from you was too much for his now mended heart. He was trying to change, damn it. He couldn't possibly not give you everything you ever asked for. 

'Oh, what's that? Sleeping in daddy's bed isn't enough? He has to spoon with you until you fall asleep? Honey, do you really think—? No, no, don't cry. Okay, okay, I'll do it.'

Or when spooning wasn't enough, and you needed to be massaged before falling asleep in Enji's arms, taking up his bed like nobody's business. 

'What's wrong, baby? Daddy's already rubbing your back, what else do you want? Touch you where? Baby— okay, since you said please.'

Every night, his thick fingers ran tight circles over your clit, strong arms holding you tight while you flailed and wriggled against him. You never seemed to get used to his touch. It was just too good. He split you open with his index and middle, curling into the spot you couldn't quite reach on your own. Every night, like clockwork. 

But, of course, you, the mouse who was given a cookie, asked for more. Fingers weren't enough. You needed more from daddy. Sleep didn't come easily enough for you after his skilled touches. You whined for him after every exchange, but he just couldn't give you what you wanted.

Daddy would do almost anything for his baby, anything you asked! Hell, if it made you happy, if it helped to ease the guilt he carried from his older four screw ups, why not? If it helped to mend the hole he created in his own heart, he'd pepper you in every kiss and suck and touch you as much as you wanted him to, but—

he really didn't think he could deflower you. 

The idea was too much, way too much. Kind of hypocritical of him. Finger banging and slurping on his adoptive daughter was well and good enough, but playing a little game of 'just the tip' was a line he didn't know if he could cross. 

It was tempting, and every time he turned you down he felt like a real douchebag, but he didn't trust himself with you. You were so small. He was anything but gentle. He had broken enough of his kids in other ways, he didn't exactly want to add to the score. 

Your cunt was swollen and drooling after your near nightly ritual with Enji. Crawl up into his bed, whine, scratch at him and beg for his sweet touch. You always got what you wanted, except for one thing.

"Why not?" you whined, gripping onto his forearm as he curled his fingers into you from his spot behind you, lazily acting as your big spoon. 

"This is enough." His teeth were gritted softly, trying to hold himself back. "You cum like this just fine."

You let your mouth hang open, shuddering silently at how he seemed to speed up and abuse your g-spot. "Not enough," you were finally able to make out, legs clenching in an attempt to force him to stop. 

Enji huffed, ignoring your whiny excuse. He hated when you locked him out like this, trying to keep your cunt from him like some type of half-assed punishment. Moving your legs back open, spread even further now, he continued fingering you with the same brutal, forceful pace. 

"You're being bratty, baby. I don't appreciate when you act like that," he said simply, looking down at your convulsing body. 

"You always say that," you said, pushing his arm as you tried to squirm away from him to pout. "You don't wanna 'cause you don't love me. Don't wanna get close t'me." 

That was his final straw. He had been holding himself back for your sake, but he could not handle the hurt tone in your voice, even if he knew you were faking just to get him to bite. 

He pulled his fingers out of your hole and pushed them into your mouth, stuffing the digits down your throat. He slipped his girthy cock out of his boxers, jamming the wide tip into your needy warmth. 

"You know that is not true," Enji said, already fucking into you without regard to how you were almost too tight. He'd fix that. Make you fit like a glove soon enough. "I spoil you enough, and you still want more?"

You moaned, sound coming out muffled from his fingers blocking your words. He pulled them out, strings of saliva coating your cheek as he brought his hand back to your clit. 

"Jus' wanna be closer to you 'nd feel you."

He scoffed, pushing down on your clit with too much force, bringing you to the edge of climax already. 

"No, you're a spoiled brat. I give you too much," he said, not meaning a damn word that came from his mouth. "Got used to getting whatever you want, huh? Selfish little pussy taking everything it can get." 

The pure euphoria you get from him being rough with you for once is unmatched. Daddy gave you what you wanted all the time, and you liked it, but he was too gentle with it. Like he was scared to mess up or make a mistake (again). You needed him to correct you, you'd wanted him to fuck some sense into you for so long.

You clenched the silky sheets on the bed, hands trembling while he pounding into you, hips cramming against yours spastically. 

God, he was ashamed. 

Not because he was fucking his daughter, hell, he came this far without problem. He just usually was much better in bed. Your gasps and shaky moans did little to appease him. Any other time, he'd be composed and sophisticated with his strokes, but he was sloppy and needy now. 

His cock kicked inside of you, twitching when he spilled his seed. He was so caught up in his own embarrassment that he hadn't realized how dangerously close he had gotten. 

"Daddy, did you—?"

Your question was interrupted by his hand covering your mouth, unstable thrusts continuing to fill your senses. You couldn't care that he came in you when he made you feel this good.

While your legs shook and your pussy gushed, one thing was made very apparent to both you and Enji:

This was the first time he let himself go and fucked you, but it would definitely not be the last.

[someone-will-remember-us]

There is no collective noun for rapists but spend a week at the Pelicot trial and you wonder why. As the early morning queue of women who’ve come to support Gisèle Pelicot passes through security at the Palais de Justice, Avignon, you spy men with downturned faces scurrying across the lobby past the press. In court they sit on the left, clustered around a glass box containing more men, those in custody for the gravest crimes. Since there are 50 in total, the alleged rapists have been tried in batches and I’m just here for the final seven: Boris, Philippe, Nicolas, Nizair, Joseph, Christian, Charly.

Plus Dominique Pelicot himself, who invited them all into his marital bedroom, where he had his wife waiting, drugged and naked, and who joined in and filmed it all. Pelicot, 71, crumpled and fat now, but with a residual bulky power, sits sullenly alone with his guard in a separate glass box, protected from the other men who blame and detest him. Often after lunch he appears to doze off.

Such nondescript men. Grizzled, middle-aged (the mean is 47 years old), smart-casual in windcheaters or leather jackets and their best trainers, like minicab drivers waiting for fares. Ordinary men in many respects, not vagrants, junkies or career criminals. This week’s seven includes a fireman, an electrician and a journalist; several are fathers, two were keen weightlifters, one bred dogs. French trials helpfully begin with a personality profile formed from interviews with the men, their friends and colleagues. Poverty, domestic violence and mental breakdowns feature, but also that a man is “kind” or “gentle”, had a lovely childhood, adored his grandparents or is devoted to his mum.

Yet each one had sex with an unconscious woman, that is beyond doubt, thanks to Pelicot’s camera mounted on a tripod beside the bed, and by his own admission. “I am a rapist,” he has declared, “like the others in this room.”

From the Pelicot affair have come demands for reform to French rape law, for sexual violence to be treated more seriously, for an investigation into “chemical submission” — the coercive use of sedatives. But one question overshadows all others. How many men would have done the same? If Pelicot could recruit at least 70 willing participants (a number could not be identified) within a 25-mile radius of Mazan, the Provençal town where the couple retired, how many in the whole of France? As I walk through Avignon with Juliette Campion of radio station France Info, who bears the strain of reporting this case since September, she gestures to a bureau de tabac: “You think, ‘Would a guy in there have raped Gisèle? Or men in the boulangerie or those on the street?’ Women are looking at men differently: they’re asking, ‘Could you or you or you?’ ”

On the right of the court, behind her counsel of three serious, dark-haired young men, is Gisèle Pelicot with her female companion from victim support, leaning on the wall, as far from the men as the room allows, but facing her ex-husband. Her composure is remarkable. Although clearly tired and strained, she retains a quiet vivacity reflected in her clothes. Instead of shrinking away in black, she dresses each day as if meeting friends for drinks on a sunny terrace. A chic scarf, a faux fur bag, patent leather boots. Clothes that say, “I still have a life.” Every evening, when women line up to clap her out of court, she speaks to them warmly, neither reticent nor relishing the attention. Every day she walks through the cobbled streets past graffiti saying, “Gisèle, les femmes te remercient” (Gisèle, women thank you) to lunch at the same excellent brasserie, and people turn to gaze at her in awe.

The extraordinary woman who refused to be silenced

The humiliations of Gisèle Pelicot have a mythic quality. This is a woman who discovered the man she married aged 20, with whom she had three children and seven grandchildren, waited until she was deeply asleep before removing her pyjamas, dressing her in “sexy” underwear or writing on her buttocks, “I am a good submissive bitch,” then he let a stranger penetrate her inert body, filmed it, washed her intimately and replaced her pyjamas. This is a woman who thought she was going insane, had Alzheimer’s or a brain tumour, whose children thought she was dying, who stopped driving and going out alone, who slept all day and once woke puzzled why her hair was shorter. “But madame,” said her hairdresser, “you came in yesterday.” This is a woman who had mysterious gynaecological problems, including a swollen cervix (and still lives with four STDs), who thought her husband wonderful for accompanying her to medical tests, including an MRI.

This is a woman who, when her husband was arrested for “upskirting” in a Leclerc supermarket and police found the contents of his phone, discovered her whole 50-year marriage was a travesty, that he’d raped her in a service station car park, on Valentine’s Day and on her 66th birthday, and may have raped their daughter too. This is a woman who has listened to legal arguments about whether a man put his tongue inside or merely kissed her vagina, who heard another man say he’d only returned to rape her a second time because he couldn’t find anyone better, who sits in a courtroom while three giant TV screens show clips of her body being coldly humped by yet another “ordinary” guy.

Yet this is a woman who gathered up every scrap of her humiliation and with it constructed a mirror that she holds up defiantly to the court and to French society itself. “Shame must change sides,” she said, and in insisting the entire trial be conducted openly, that the worst men can do to women is witnessed by the whole world, she has done exactly that.

I ask many women I meet in Avignon how men in their lives regard the accused. They say they call them losers and freaks, that these are men on the margins, with no relation to themselves. But, along with the testimony I hear, the people I talk to believe this case raises many questions about French sexual mores. Whatever the decision later this month by five judges — there is no jury — Gisèle Pelicot will never be forgotten.

The court turns to Christian L, a fireman with a straggly castaway beard, who speaks from the glass box because after he was arrested, police found 4,000 child sex abuse and zoophilic images on his hard drive. We hear from his girlfriend, Sylvie, a small blonde in a grey hoodie, who says he’s a wonderful man, and is suspected of destroying evidence. Christian L recalls the victims he watched die in fires, the coffins of 11 colleagues he carried, the mental breakdowns that ensued. He was married but after his two daughters were born says he went off sex with his wife and turned to libertinisme. Strange, I think, that the French have coined this noble, philosophical concept, with its whiff of the barricades, to describe what we call swinging or dogging.

Like all the men, Christian met Pelicot through coco.fr — the murky, unmoderated site since closed down and now the focus of many major police investigations — on a forum called À son insu (without her knowledge). Christian L had already enjoyed “Sleeping Beauty” encounters with ten other couples. He spells out the rules: that you only dealt with the husband, sending him photos for approval, and during the sexual encounter he ran the show. Sometimes the wife woke up, other times not. How did he know, asked Gisèle’s lawyer, Stéphane Babonneau, that she consented?

“In a libertine encounter,” Christian L explained, “it is the husband’s responsibility to ensure consent.”

But how could you be sure?

“Are we expected to sign a contract?” Christian L spluttered.

“You could ask the woman,” Babonneau suggested.

How the case could change French law

Given the overwhelming video evidence, the defendants can only claim Pelicot deceived or drugged them, or they believed Gisèle was collaborating in a game. If this case were before a British court, rape would be decided by two tests: whether Gisèle had “capacity to consent” (tough to argue given Pelicot admits to drugging her) and whether the men had “reasonable belief” in her consent. Unlike most European countries, French rape law has no concept of consent. Rather, it is defined as penetration “by violence, constraint, threat or surprise”. (The prosecution case rests on a convoluted definition of surprise.)

But rather than demand consent be added to the law, French feminists are divided. Some agree with President Macron, who supports change; many others argue that consent would put the onus on the victim to prove her conduct was not an invitation. This seems an odd objection, especially as the whole purpose of the video evidence is to show no one could believe Gisèle capable of consent, given she was so lifeless one man asked Pelicot, “Is your wife dead?”

Alice Géraud is the author of Sambre, an investigation into how, due to the indifference and cruelty of police, a caretaker called Dino Scala in northern France managed to rape 54 women over a period of 30 years. “The Pelicot case with 50 defendants and one victim feels a strange inverse of Sambre.”

Géraud believes the Pelicot affair could provide the same impetus for change as a famous 1974 case of two Belgian tourists, Anne-Marie Tonglet and Aracelli Castellano, who, camping near Marseilles, were brutally raped by three local men. As was normal practice, the crime was downgraded from felony to misdemeanour on the basis the victims eventually stopped resisting. But the women, a lesbian couple, persisted and thanks to their feminist lawyer, Gisèle Halimi, it became the first rape case to be heard in the higher assizes court. Like Gisèle Pelicot, the women waived their anonymity. “We believe that it’s one thing for a man to rape,” said Halimi, “and another to know it’ll get around his village, his work, the papers.” Shame changed sides: the men were jailed and the French criminal code was rewritten defining rape as a serious offence.

For Géraud, the greatest current injustice is that whether a man has raped one women or 50, the maximum sentence is 20 years (here a serial rapist can be jailed for life). “This is law made by men,” she says, “with a grave lack of knowledge of rape culture.” She is scornful too about libertinisme as a universal excuse for male sexual exploitation. “Libertinisme was why Coco existed for so long,” she says. “It is the justification for prostitution, for the porn industry.”

Charly A is the youngest of all the defendants, just 22 when he first entered the Pelicot house. Small, bearded, now 30, we learn his childhood was chaotic, his father an alcoholic, his mother had many sexual partners; there are hints of abuse. “This is a family of secrets,” concludes the personality profiler. A psychiatrist adds he is immature, struggles to sustain relationships and instead consumes porn, “especially the Milf [Mother I’d like to f***] category with mature women”. In 2016, he made contact with Pelicot via Coco: “He said his wife would be lying there pretending to be asleep, he doesn’t tell me more.”

Over time Pelicot asks Charly if he knows anyone they could drug for sex and he proffers the only woman in his life — his own mother. Pelicot gives him pills (which Charly claims to have thrown away), shows him how to crush them, keeps pressing him to use them. “When can I come and we f*** your mother?” he asks in one video, but Charly keeps stalling, saying his brother is at home. Yet he returns to violate Gisèle, always with Pelicot, once with another man, a total of six times. “Did you feel like you were in a porn film?” asks Babonneau. Charly shakes his head.

Until this point, very late in the trial, the influence of internet pornography has barely been explored. The court only notes paedophiliac images, not “normal” usage. Yet Mathieu Lacambre, a psychiatrist who evaluates Charly A, remarks how porn sites not only push users to more extreme content but to enact porn fantasies in real life. “Until now Charly A was behind the screens,” he says. “Now [in Gisèle] he has an object served up on a platter a few miles from home. The sleeping princess Milf, voilà.”

A rented home in a quiet cul-de-sac

I drive out to Mazan, a lovely honey-stoned French village set in the vineyards below Mont Ventoux, where the Pelicots retired from Villiers-sur-Marne, a Paris commuter town where he was electrician and she was a manager at EDF. I imagine Gisèle browsing the little boutique, dropping into the beauty salon, sipping an aperitif outside the bistro. The home they rented for ten years is five minutes away in a quiet cul-de-sac of four houses behind tall cypress trees. It is lemon yellow with blue shutters, a pool, a very prominent alarm system, and new tenants. Given how many men knew her address, Gisèle fled four years ago for her own safety, with just a suitcase and her dog.

Today an immense cloud of migrating starlings swoops over the house like pixels in a photograph. This was where their grandchildren loved to visit in the summer, but also the centre of Dominique Pelicot’s porn operation. For what else was this grotesque man but a pornographic auteur?

We leave our car, just as Pelicot instructed the men, in the sports ground car park, by the bottle bank. I think of them texting their arrival, then creeping down the lane. (One man made his girlfriend wait in the car.) Pelicot would meet them at the door by the light of his phone, tell them to undress in the dark living room and warm their hands on a radiator. (They’d been instructed to be clean, not smell of cigarettes or wear cologne.) Then they were led into a bedroom with a TV, a chest of drawers, a bed with a naked Gisèle motionless on white sheets, and a mounted camera.

Whatever followed next was carefully orchestrated by Pelicot, a director urging on actors in stage whispers, since the objective was to do what they desired without waking Gisèle. Pelicot would tell them how and when to penetrate her, or hold his wife’s gaping mouth to facilitate oral sex. Given four Temesta (lorazepam), a powerful anti-anxiety drug he’d crushed into her wine or ice cream, his wife was like a patient on an operating table. Even so, if her arm gave an involuntary spasm,the men would scuttle from the room. A friend who has sat through many court videos says it was Pelicot ordering the humping men to go doucement — softly — that upset her, since she knew this was not out of tenderness for Gisèle.

All the while the camera rolled. Why did these men agree to have their crimes recorded? They say it was part of the deal, that Pelicot told them Gisèle was shy and liked to watch the sex later. But perhaps also because, in taking part, these men were promoted from porn consumers to creators. Filming was central to their fantasy. When Christian L finally climaxes he turns to give the camera a cheery thumbs-up.

For Pelicot, each film added to his oeuvre. Police discovered a carefully curated archive of 20,000 images and videos on hard drives and memory sticks showing 200 rapes. He gave each film a title like “Squirt on the ass”, “Cock in mouth” or “Jacques fingering”. This man, once caught by his daughter-in-law masturbating at his computer, was now a porn impresario.

The question at the centre of the case

Why did Pelicot do all this to a wife he professed to love, whom he called “a saint”? Was it to punish Gisèle for an affair early in their marriage (although he was serially unfaithful himself)? Or because when he’d asked her to join him in the libertinisme scene she’d refused — so he devised a way to make her. But Gisèle was not his first victim: Pelicot has admitted to the rape of an estate agent, using ether to drug her, in 1999, and will be tried for the rape/murder of another young estate agent, Sophie Narme, in 1991. The French police cold case bureau is investigating his possible links to many other unsolved crimes.

But as the “Without her knowledge” forum suggests, his was not a unique fantasy. The Pelicot case has illuminated the issue of “chemical submission”, not only drinks being spiked by strangers in bars, but drugs used to control partners within relationships. The French health service is noted for being blasé about prescribing heavy-duty medications, which is how Pelicot stockpiled his vast stash of Temesta.

Documentary-maker Linda Bendali has made a film for French TV about chemical submission, featuring seven cases, including a 13-year-old girl drugged by her father with medicine supposedly for her allergies, put in lingerie and raped over two years, and a 60-year-old woman drugged then raped at home by a man she was mentoring at work. “I’ve looked back at 30 years of press reports of rape,” says Bendali, “which includes dozens of women saying they woke up — mainly with men they know— unable to remember what happened.”

The Sleeping Beauty scenario, she says, is not merely a means for a man to get easy sexual access, but a way to enjoy absolute domination. “You are not even giving her the chance to consent,” says Bendali. “You can do anything you want to a drugged woman, for as long as you want. You can dress her how you want. These men want total power.” Pelicot is typical in filming his crimes: “Pictures are trophies. He was driven by a mix of desires for blackmail and voyeurism.”

Gisèle’s daughter, Caroline Darian, who was also drugged and photographed naked by her father, is heading a campaign on chemical submission, demanding police take samples of hair from rape victims, the only way sedation can be proved.

In court, I hear another psychiatrist tasked with assessing whether each of the final seven defendants has the profile of a sexual abuser. One by one, he exonerates the men, saying they are not dangerous or likely to reoffend, to the growing exasperation of Gisèle’s team. Then he reaches Charly A. “He doesn’t search [for victims] systematically,” says the psychiatrist. “He’s not a predator.” Finally, Babonneau explodes: “Six times with a sleeping woman and he’s not a sexual abuser?” The men do not identify as rapists because, like this psychiatrist, they define rape as frenzied sexual violence, not an opportunistic act performed to whispers in a private home. As one defendant put it, “It’s her husband, his house, his room, his bed, his wife.”

Women unite in the town of Mazan

Both in religious and political terms, Mazan is a conservative town: for 500 years it was part of a papal enclave and in the recent French election voted heavily for Marine Le Pen. Villagers regarded the Pelicot case with horror and sympathy which turned quickly to resentment when press named it l’affaire Mazan. Amid longstanding families who’ve known each other for generations, the Pelicots were outsiders who’d brought disgrace into a rural community. Tired of inquiries, the mayor, Louis Bonnet, 74, told the BBC, “It could have been far more serious. There were no kids involved. No women were killed.”

At the Lucky Horse Ranch outside Mazan, women victims of sexual violence receive equine therapy. I’m sceptical at first about how grooming and riding horses could help rape victims, but somehow these large, placid animals are calming and restorative. Here I meet Latika, 33, who at first was too timid to touch a Shetland pony, but now sits high on a saddle for our photograph.

Latika was separating from her husband, the father of her two children, but still sharing a house. He was violent, hitting her daughters, putting her in hospital with cuts and a broken rib. Two years after they’d last had sex, she woke to find him inside her. She believes the sweet tea he often gave her was laced with sedatives, but that night she hadn’t drunk it all. She realised he’d been drugging her for years — her mother recalls finding her deeply unconscious early in her relationship — and, worse, she was pregnant with a third child. She told the police, who addressed the domestic violence but ignored the rape. Her husband fled to Guadeloupe and she was left traumatised, fearful of leaving the house.

“I didn’t feel people really believed what had happened to me until Gisèle Pelicot spoke out,” says Latika, who has since made the police reopen her case. In October, as women across France holding white flowers protested in support of Gisèle, Latika headed the local march into Mazan and the next day Gisèle herself visited the ranch. “She said it is almost unbearable to return to this place where terrible things happened,” says Latika, “but she wanted to thank us. She told me, ‘I didn’t know the meaning of my life before this happened — but I do now.’ ”

Watching Gisèle take such sustenance from her supporters, you wonder how she will cope when the trial finally ends. She is writing a book and could, if she chose, become a global campaigner. “There is something particularly powerful,” says Linda Bendali, “about her being an older woman — she represents all our mothers. All generations identify with her.” But those close to Gisèle say that, at 72, she may just return to a quiet life of friends, grandchildren and her garden, in the secret location where she now lives.

But she is already an icon of courage for the women who come from across France and beyond just to watch the trial on a screen in an overspill room. Some want to witness history, a few enjoy the sensational evidence like tricoteuses at the guillotine, but many have risen at 5am, taking a day off work, to support a woman they deeply admire. Marion Spiteri and Amélie Planche, both 24 and law graduates, feel the case opened their eyes. “How can it be,” Spiteri says, “that so many men did this without her consent?” “It is terrifying,” Planche adds, “that a woman cannot even trust her own husband.” They tell me, astonishingly, that neither they nor their friends ever go to the toilet in a bar or club alone.

But then the nation of libertinisme lags behind in its attitude to violence against women. Until 2021, France did not even have an age of consent, effectively decriminalising even incestuous relations between children and adults, allowing several high-profile child abusers, including firemen who groomed a 13-year-old girl, to evade rape charges. Each time a prominent Frenchman is accused of rape — whether politician Dominique Strauss-Kahn or, currently, actor Gerard Dépardieu — famous French actresses leap to defend him. This is the nation that convicted child rapist Roman Polanski fled to from America, and is still fêted. The #MeToo movement was regarded by many as a wave of Anglosphere prudishness, contrary to the spirit of French seduction. So what can the Pelicot trial achieve?

I meet feminists from Les Amazones d’Avignon, the creators of graffiti across the city supporting Gisèle. (So as not to spoil the city walls, they write slogans on paper that can be removed.) Their latest reads “20 ans pour chacun” — 20 years for each one. I suggest a drink in a café nearby: “Not in there,” says one Amazone, “that’s where all the rapists go.” Blandine Deverlanges, 56, is part of the Coalition Féministe Loi Intégrale putting 130 proposals about sexual violence before the French parliament, including a ban on lawyers harassing victims in court. They are disgusted the defence asked Gisèle why she swam naked in her own swimming pool.

“This is a trial,” says Deverlanges, “of one extraordinary man, the monster Pelicot, and many ordinary men.” And as we talk I see a group of them emerge nervously from their favoured café and head back to the court. A collective noun for rapists? A violation, a banality, a shame.

(archive)

[blughxreader]

I've been watching natural disaster documentaries and I'm so down bad for the idea of Platonic Yandere! Batfam during a blizzard.

They obviously have enough supplies to maintain a small village, so no one is pressed when sudden snow picks up. Batman has special cold-resistant suits for all of them but when the windchill drops to the negatives, their patrols are an hour at a time.

When the blizzard finally hits, they escort stranded cars to safety for as long as possible before the white-out makes it impossible to work.

That first night, they're all huddled in the the smallest lounge, fireplace roaring and hot chocolate in hand. You're pulled to the very front of the pile, bundled in blankets and Tim's various school hoodies and up against the rolling heat of the flames.

Despite the temperature breaking record lows, you've never been more toasty. Chocolate on your tongue and cheeks hot from the fire, they only let you unbundle yourself when you complain about sweating.

However much the others bitch and moan, Jason and Bruce are the ones at your side. They're packed full of muscle and do a great job of trapping in heat, so the skinnier Bats have to settle for watching you. Jason and Bruce take great pleasure in draping a big arm around you, pinning you so close to their sides that you have to fold your arms to keep them from getting squeezed.

Bruce insists you sleep in his bed, since this is one of the few times he gets to fall asleep at the same time as you. Damian insists, on account of being the least efficient at maintaining heat (i.e. the smallest), he should join you two. Bruce relents with an amused smile. You fall asleep pulled almost fully across Bruce's chest with Damian wound tightly around you.

The whole situation would almost be reminiscent of a family enjoying the winter holidays, had it not been for the Bat’s palpable longing.

Normally, they're desperate to touch you, to hold onto some part of your person and bask in the closeness. But with their fingertips cold and a slight shake to their limbs—they're ravenous.

Their yearning mixes with the cold and spurs on their dark thoughts more than the heat ever has. They have to hold you or they'll die. They have to feel your warm breath fan their faces. They have to take your body heat and to give you theirs.

Physical intimacy seems so much more personal when they could die from the cold (never mind the fact that they're at a healthy temperature).

Fights break out faster as they get more clingy, and Bruce creates a rigid schedule. The Bats must follow the rotation by the second, no bartering time for favors, and no incapacitating others to extend your time.

The weak sun travels the sky and snow swallows houses whole. Almost two days in, the power cut and everyone was forced to move into the small living room. Using the back-up generators, they powered only a few important rooms in the house and set up space heaters in every corner. Blankets were nailed over windows and Damian and Tim had a mini bitch-session over the unusable internet connection.

Dick and Jason carried down mattresses, while Tim, Cass, and Steph found every blanket and pillow in the house. Damian and Bruce brought up laptops, monitors, and a radio for work. Alfred is forced into the recliner with an instant water heater and a teapot by his side. He hasn't complained once, but everyone knows the cold isn't kind to his joints.

Then there's you, sitting on a pile of blankets and pillows and wrapped in sweaters, throws, hats, and gloves. You almost threw a fit because you were warm enough, but Cass's darkened face silenced you immediately. She backed off when you settled into Steph's side, gloves and all.

The time passes slowly. On the third and worst day, the wind chill reached negative 50. The house rattled and creaked against the cold, and the Bats took turns nestled against you.

Dick flipped through his old high school year book and told you stories about the students, while Steph chimed in with made up-ones to add drama.

You and Damian played a game that involved finishing each other's drawings.

Tim pretended to be stuck on a video game level and let you help. Cass somehow procured a party horn that she honked to celebrate each victory.

Despite how hard Jason tried to avoid Bruce, they always finished their books at the same time and left to get more. They returned with arm-fulls of books and a frozen snack that they shared with you.

At the end of the week, when the sun finally began melting the snow and the were having an increasingly difficult time keeping Bruce from the cowl, they were all sick of each other.

It was slightly satisfying, considering you never caught a break from any of them and this was a taste of their own medicine. The Bats finally returned to duty after a spectacular meltdown from Dick after Bruce asserted his opinion one too many times.

You, however, remained locked in the living room nest for several more days because "it's still too cold for you to sleep alone" and "patrols will be very short until crime picks back up."

It was already safe to return to your room, but there was something so comforting about knowing precisely where you'd be at any given moment. And Bruce, settling into the couch after patrol to thaw his frozen limbs, melted at the sight of his kids all piled up together.

for more yandere batfam, visit my masterlist!

[benjimatorarts]

I love your art! Your au is really interesting to me, can you perhaps tell me more about it? :)

Thank you! There are a lot of things I want to say but the 50s AU but some things I think are better explained with illustrations coming your way. I can share a few notes.

Alastor's and Vaughn's (Vox) friendship lasted for years before they broke up. I'm thinking 1954-early 1960s. They had a couple of years of radio silence between the two of them before they talked to each other again.

Alastor radio show is hosted by a local New Orleans station but that will both fortunately and unfortunately change.

Alastor’s killing sprees go up and down activity over the years. The 20-30s were his most active. Lots of reason why they’ve slowed down. (One of the reasons, that he won’t admit, is because of his body pains and stiffness related to aging, serving both wars, and killing people for years are not easy on the body.)

Vaughn has real estate in both CA, Hollywood, and NY, New York City. Oh right, and now in LA, New Orleans.

Vaughn is in a weird place where he’s moving towards television than film as there’s been a decline in the box offices post WW2.

Marian (still working on her full name), wears a lot of different hats in the film production scene in Hollywood. She has experiences with editing, production management, and screenwriting. She’d married Vaughn early 1940s, definitely before WW2 ended so Vaughn could get out of getting drafted to the war. She’s more focus in film than television but she’ll step in as production manager in Vaughn’s projects if he needs the extra help.

(And yes, she does know about Vaughn’s attraction to men and definitely knows about his feelings towards Alastor. Maybe more aware than he does.)

Morningstar family are consider royalty in the entertainment history with a heavy background law and business from Lucifer’s (his name might change for this AU) side of the family. But Lilith is the true lawyer of Charlie’s immediate family. And handles most of the businesses under the Morningstar’s name. Consider them kinda like the Kardashians in this AU.

Thanks for @random-emerald-thoughts for giving a lot of inspiration and ideas for this AU! I will explore these notes more with visuals and they may change! So nothing is concrete. Thank you again for the asks!

[poetlus]

ROARING ENGINES — streetracer!dabi x gn!reader

SYNOPSIS: Your boyfriend, a streetracing!Dabi, invites you to take a ride with him, which ends in an annoyingly teasing makeout session.

WARNINGS: unsafe driving, needy dabi (<3), slightly suggestive, reader is able to fit in dabi’s lap with ease— i apologize for the lack of plus-sized inclusivity; however, i couldn’t pass up this request!! i am a minor. do NOT interact if you are a stricly mdni account.

W/C: 1.7k

A/N: oh. my days. i love this so bad. I LOVE THIS SO BAD!!!! this was an amazing experience. one of the scenes in this fic was inspired by this scene in fast n furious. UGH. love. anywho, requested by @sepptember , proofread by @ikn9wyou!! follow auggie and alani. they have wonderful ideas.

Your boyfriend wasn’t one for showing off— he was reserved. Didn’t care for most people’s opinions. Unless he was on the road. When Dabi’s speeding down the highway, he wants everyone to hear. Especially you.

You were sitting on your apartment couch, the blue light from the TV shining on your face. You weren’t really even watching the show that was on, moreso doom scrolling through various apps— opening and closing them as though they were a fridge and you were hoping more food would magically appear.

Unfortunately, nothing caught your eye.

You let out a loud sigh, changing positions so you were laying down now. That’s when you heard it.

An engine revved from outside of your apartment complex, loud enough to make you wince at the sound. Then, you got a text.

Butterflies formed in your stomach— an often occurrence when it came to Dabi. Despite him literally being your boyfriend, he never failed to make your stomach do cartwheels any time you even thought about being around him. Your thumbs hovered over your phone, thinking about what to say.

Within seconds, the man hearted your message, as if he was waiting on the chat for you to respond. Your heart fluttered as you shot up from your spot on the couch, rushing to your bedroom to find something to wear.

After an eternity of searching and creating a mess of clothes on your floor, you had found the perfect outfit. You grabbed your phone and left your apartment, locking the door on your way out.

The elevator ride down to the first floor felt 50 years longer than normal— which was both good and bad; good because you got time to calm your stupid nerves, and bad because you didn’t want to wait to see your boyfriend any longer. As soon as you heard the “ding!”, indicating that the elevator had reached the bottom floor, you practically charged out of the building, looking for Dabi’s car.

There it was, the navy blue Camaro ZL1– bass bumping and engine roaring. That was definitely him. You hurried to the passenger door. Dabi rolled down his tinted windows. His cyan eyes seemingly glowed in the streetlight and you swore you were being seduced.

“Gonna get in?” His slightly raspy voice broke the silence.

You carefully opened the door and slid into the passenger seat. Dabi looked at you, awaiting something. You gave him a slightly confused look, likely muddied by the darkness of the night.

“Well? Where’s my kiss, huh?” He asked you, a hint of impatience sewn into his tone. You giggled and pressed a kiss to his cheek. He huffed, apparently not satisfied.

“What was that about?” You asked him.

“Nothin’.” The white haired man brushed it off and tossed you his phone. “You’re on aux.” He told you, you put on one of your favorite playlists— one that consisted of erotic songs. When you pressed the shuffle button, Poison by Brent Faiyaz began playing.

As the song began, Dabi shifted gears from neutral to drive and carefully pulled away from the cramped street.

His caution didn’t last long, though. As soon as he was out of the packed road, he sped up. His engine revved loudly as he did so and he moved his hand from the stick shift to the knob of the radio. He turned the knob to the right, making the music louder. After adjusting it to his liking, he rested his free hand on your thigh. His other was controlling the wheel, though his attention wasn’t fully on it. He was occupied with you. He watched as you hung your head slightly out of the open window, wind blowing your hair out of your face and giving him a perfect view of your features.

How can a singular human being be so flawless?

The man was enamored by you. In his eyes, you were a spectacle. A trophy that he, somehow, had won. And goddamn, was he proud of his trophy.

You looked to see him staring right back at you, making butterflies erupt yet again. In order to hide your fluster, you snapped your fingers at him.

“Eyes back on the road, Dabi.” He hummed in response and looked forward. You faced towards the window again, feeling the cool air on your cheeks. Dabi sped up as the song ended and the next one played. Slow Dancing in the Dark by Joji.

As the engine of his car became white noise, you asked Dabi where you were going.

“Dunno,” He said nonchalantly. “Just driving.” You couldn’t help but smile at Dabi’s voice. You’d play it on repeat if you could.

You began singing along to the radio, making Dabi chuckle. He joined in quietly, unintentionally harmonizing with you.

“Can’t you see? I don’t want to slow dance,” The two of you sang. “In the dark.”

The song continued and you two made conversation, talking about your days and how the two of you missed each other.

“Sorry ‘m so busy, babe.” He apologized. “A lot’s going on with the League right now.” You accepted his apology, because truthfully, that didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was here, with you, in this moment.

The conversation carried on for another 20 minutes, and by now, you were out of the city. Flat, dark farmland stretched out as far as the eye could see. You looked up at the sky from your window— without the light pollution, everything was darker, causing the stars to shine brighter. You stared in awe for a moment at the gorgeous things, mesmerized.

Dabi, finally out of city limits, sped up to 160. You could feel your stomach drop as he sped up. You rolled your window up and said, “Dabi, slow down.” The man smirked.

“Why, ya scared?” He sped up to 180 in a matter of seconds.

“Yes, I am!” You retorted. He pouted mockingly.

“Awh, poor thing.” 185. You smack his arm lightly, making him laugh once more. He finally slowed down. Then, he patted his lap, confusing you slightly. “Well? C’mon.”

“Yeah, right.” You rolled your eyes at him. “While you’re driving?”

“What??” He asks, trying to sound innocent. “I mean it. C’mere.” His eyes were still fixated on the road.

Slightly awkwardly, you crawled over the center console and into his lap— your back was against the door and your head facing his. You smelled his cologne, a hint of vanilla and cinnamon.

Playfully, you dug your nose into the crook of his neck, trying to breathe in all of his scent. He smiled. “You’re ticklin’ me, Y/N.”

“I can’t help it,” you said with your head still buried. “You smell so good!” Another laugh was shared and it was quiet for the moment, the two of you relishing in one another’s peace. That’s when you got your grand idea.

You were going to tease him.

You planted a light kiss on his collarbone, and then another on his neck, and then another on his jaw. You continued this pattern for a minute or two, giving all of your attention to his neck and jaw. Once you seemed to be done, he looked down owards you, expecting you to kiss his lips, but you didn't. Instead, you kissed his cheek and went back to breathing in his scent.

“Y/N.” He said quietly.

“Hm?”

“My lips.” It was as if he thought you forgot, as if he was reminding you; you didn’t forget, though. You smiled semi-mischievously, realizing he hadn’t picked up on your teasing.

You looked up at him again and acted as though you were going to kiss him. To catch him off guard, you paused right before you did so and pecked the corner of his mouth. His face morphed from content to annoyance.

“What?” You tried to sound pure and innocent, as if you didn’t know what you were doing.

“You know what. Kiss my lips.” You couldn’t hide your smirk as he spoke. He almost sounded needy, like he had to have you kiss his lips. You pretended to think for a second. Then, you kissed the corner of his mouth again. He leaned into you this time, trying to make you kiss his lips, but to no avail. You dodged his efforts and continued to pepper smooches everywhere but his mouth.

Dabi groaned, eyeing you with an even more annoyed look than before.

“I don’t want to beg, Y/N, kiss my lips.” He almost demanded. “Not my neck, not my cheek, my lips.” You let out a laugh.

“But it’s so fun when you beg!”

“It’s not fun for me..” He grumbled. You almost felt bad, like you were actually doing something wrong by not kissing him on the mouth— not that that would stop you. When you wanted to do something, you were determined. And that something just so happened to be riling up your boyfriend.

So, you continued kissing him, getting ever so close to his mouth just to pull away at the last second. You could tell Dabi was getting frustrated, and that just made the experience all the more enjoyable. After a few more failed attempts of trying to make out with you, Dabi sighed loudly and sped up his vehicle once again.

“You are such a brat.” He hissed. “Stop teasing me.”

“Why? Is it working?”

“No— ‘ts not working. Cut it out.” Dabi denied.

“Seems like it is..” You mumbled to yourself.

“Only thing it’s doing is pissing me off.” You smiled smugly and cupped his face in your hand.

“Awh, I’m sorry baby.” You mocked his tone from earlier. Finally, you slowly kissed his lips, this time not pulling away.

Dabi leaned into you, perhaps more needily than he intended. He was starving for your touch. Your soft lips on his. His tongue easily slid into your mouth, intertwining with yours.

This man was yearning for you. You knew he wanted you, but damn, you didn’t know he wanted you this badly.

Your hands ran through Dabi’s surprisingly soft hair, massaging his scalp slightly. He was upset he couldn’t give you all of his undivided attention, what with also having to focus on the road. So, he did what any horny guy would do. He pulled over to the side of the road and effortlessly shifted your hips so now you were straddling him.

“Think it’s time to get you back for what you did, love.” He sighed almost maliciously. You were in for a ride, and you had no one to blame but yourself.

🏷️’s : @rueclfer , @seneon !

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 54 (12.1)

part 1 | part 53 | ao3

cw: angst

Chapter 12

Steve drives to Chicago.

He wakes up to an empty bed and a sticky note by the kitchen phone, words scribbled over so the only legible thing left is the word sorry underlined in jagged black, and his breath sticks in his chest and he can't be here anymore. Epiphany ringing like a gong, sending ripples through his marrow, because the walls are closing in and Eddie decorated those walls — splattered himself over every inch of this place, and now he's just the newest haunt in a line of ghosts that Steve can't shake. He thought he’d gotten rid of them, but now he hears them louder than ever. In the hiss of the faucet, in the buzz of the fridge; they’re moaning in his bad ear and rattling his bones, and he can't be here alone with them he can't be here he can't—

So he drives.

Gets in his car with nothing but a spare jacket and a crumpled pack of cigs. If ever there was a time to pick the habit up in earnest. Eddie’s van is gone, and Steve’s heart is bruised; it's bleeding out inside him, pumping fresh hurt with every beat, so he lights a cigarette with shaking hands and heads north. Takes the back roads to the on-ramp of I-65, drives for hours; drives for years, speeding down empty stretches of highway with nothing but roadkill for company.

At some point he rolls the windows down until the icy wind makes his cheeks burn, but he can't really feel them. Can't feel his face, or his fingers, or his heart.

All the world is snow and asphalt, and Steve Harrington is alone.

He tries to drown it out with music. The radio mocks him with swooning quartets love songs — 'put your head on my shoulder' and 'life could be a dream' — and all the tapes he can reach belong to Eddie, so he pulls over on the narrow shoulder of an overpass bridge and screams and screams and screams while he chucks the cassettes over the edge.

Fuck Eddie.

Fuck him.

"FUCK YOU!!" he shouts to the foggy nothingness.

The words dig in sharp; pocket knife twisting in the space below his kidneys.

The fog doesn't respond.

Back in the car, his thoughts turn to his mom. Because he's driving to her, he knows — knew it in his splintering bones and haunted blood the moment he left town. He's driving back to his first ghost, as if confronting the original will somehow exorcise the rest.

Miles pass in silence, and Steve paints over the canvas of what-ifs again and again, oily streaks in the underpainting as he tries to set the scenes just right: quiet, tearful confrontations in his aunt's formal living room, graceless screaming matches out on the front lawn. In one version he never makes it past the guard at the front gate, and in another he just eggs the stupid lion statues leading up to the house while his mom silently weeps from the top of the stairs.

He doesn't know if his mom would laugh at that.

He doesn't know her much at all.

And that fucking hurts; that sits like acid in his lungs, because his mom was his first friend. When he was little — before the housekeepers and nannies, before his mom started tailing his dad on business trips like a trained dog on a leash — they spent so much time together. Trips to the playground, to the library, to the pool. He'd perch himself on her vanity when she got ready in the mornings, use her hairbrush as a microphone to sing along to 50s doo-wop, and she'd giggle and call him her little superstar, so he'd come up with stupid dance moves just to make her smile more.

He misses that. The script, the routine. How he'd spin around in his socks on the slippery bathroom tile and look up at her with her big hair full of rollers and her big eyes full of stars, and he'd say, "Hey! How come your eyes are all twinkly?"

And she'd grin and pinch his cheek and give the same answer every time: "Because you're the light of my life."

"I wish I knew what you'd say now," he whispers to the empty car.

For a moment he envisions that she's sitting there with him, that she's filling the blank space where the boy who broke his heart should be, but he can't remember her cadence well enough to mimic it; can't put words in her mouth when he no longer knows her lines, and with something a bit like horror and a lot like despair it occurs to him that he can't remember what she looks like. There's an apparition in his blind spot, but it's formless and unstable. The shade of its hair keeps changing; the texture, the length.

When he tries to make it speak, it shrugs and dissipates.

—

part 55

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[robinhobiii]

only you | mafia! y. jh

summery : every one wants him. But he only wants one person.

He sighed for the millionth time today. He just wanted to leave. Too many people were trying to talk to him and it’s draining him. His eyes were slightly droopy but unbeknownst to him, it made him look more sultry like. Making more and more people attracted to him. His mysterious and slightly cold aura captures anyone coming his way.

“Jeonghan! There you are!” Another one of the socialites said as she waltz over to him. His face remained indifferent as she pushed up against him slightly.

“Let’s go somewhere else.” She whispered seductively.

God, he was really going to kill Seungcheol.

“Can’t, have work tomorrow.” He said courtly, trying to move away.

“Come on, hannie. It’ll only be for a little bit.” She pouted. He cringed at the name that disgraced her lips.

He pushed her slightly for her to land back on the other chairs and made his way out.

There’s only one woman that could call him hannie.

Y/n.

As he drove home, he remembers the memories with her. How brilliant her smile was and how shy she used to get at his flirty remarks. Her soft hands that would caress his face after a long day and how she would nurse him back to health after working for hours on end.

Oh, how much he misses her and how he longs for her warmth again.

Everything went well until she found out his real occupation. She gave him an ultimatum of leaving the mafia family or her. He obviously couldn’t choose. These were the things that made him happy. How could he only pick one? But in the end, she left. There was radio silence from her end.

Nothing.

She even moved work places and her apartment. If Jeonghan wasn’t in the mafia with a lot of connections, he would’ve never found her.

Her face remains engraved in his head. He wants to be in her arms again and hear her sweet nothings after a long day. It’s been harder these days to forget everything. It’s like the universe was taunting him with everything that reminds him of their time together.

. . .

To be fair, he didn’t want to be in the mafia family. He just wanted to make sure him and his sister didn’t die. His parents borrowed money from a different mafia family and they couldn’t pay it back. So his family was always on the run and wanted to essentially survive.

One day when Jeonghan was picking up his sister from school, his parents were brutally murdered. In that short 15 minutes of him picking up his sister, they died and couldn’t even plea to spare them. He received a phone call from the neighbor saying they heard loud screaming from his house. Sensing it could be bad, he dropped his sister at her friends house for the time being. He made his was home and saw the devastating sight. On the wall, written his parent’s blood, states that they need to get the remaining 50 million won by next Friday. He shuddered as he sat down on the couch. Although he was sad to see his parents like this, he couldn’t even shed a tear. At the ripe age of 18, he was now the sole guardian of his sister.

He needed to get out and get out fast. Where was he going to find that much money in a short amount of time? So, he knew what he had to do. And so he walked to the house at the very end of the street and knocked in strategic way to alert them. The door swung open and revealed a tall man with glasses.

“Wonwoo…”

“I’ve heard the gunshots.”

Jeonghan said nothing. “I’ll join.”

“What?” Wonwoo said, taken aback. “B-but, I thought you-“

“I have no choice. Me and my sister can’t keep running. We need him to protect us. He can avenge me and sister.”

He was the big boss, Choi Seunghyun, formally known as T.O.P. He was running the harshest and ever growing mafia family, Big Bang. The name Big Bang comes from the people that go out with a bang when nothing is paid back to them.

“Hyung, think it through. You’ll never be able to leave. I’ve been there for two years already and I made the biggest mistake.”

“I have to. For me and my sister.”

And so, Yoon Jeonghan was secretly sworn into the family and to build trust and a bond, TOP ordered his men to kill that mafia family that harassed Jeonghan and his family. Even he says it’s to build trust, it’s just something to emotionally blackmail Jeonghan to not leave.

By the time he was 20, a riot within the family was started. An internal war was far worse that the ones with someone else. “The family is not going to last any longer. We’re all going to die.” Joshua said.

“We need to leave and leave now. So many people already left.” Jihoon said.

“No.” Seungcheol said.

Everyone looked at him.

“We’ll start our own clan and be better than them. Most of us have no one waiting for us at home. For some of us, this is the only family we have.”

“But hyung-“

“There’s no buts. Trust me. I’ve been by Seunghyun’s side for the last 5 years, I know what to do. Just trust me.

And they did trust him. They became Seventeen, one of the most wanted group across world. With each members unique ability, the group prospered and because much bigger than imagined.

. . .

Because of the his charming looking and his ability to finesse anything in a conversation, Seungcheol made him one of their main undercover says to find informations.

That is how he met the beautiful woman that is Y/n. She worked as a journalist and would often spend her time at the cafe, across the street from her work place.

By fate, they met. They were there at the same place and at the same time. She caught his eye the moment his eyes landed on her. How focused she was on the paper she was writing and how she didn’t even look up. Everyone was flocking to get a glimpse of him, while her eyes remained on her laptop.

He smirked. How interesting.

He sat right in front of her and said, “Is this seat taken?”

Again she didn’t look up and mumbled out a no.

As he sipped his coffee, he looked at her. Everything about her was perfect to him. Is this what love at first sight was?

“You know staring is rude, right?” She finally said.

He was surprised for a second before that infamous smirk made its way to his face.

“I can’t help that a beautiful lady is sitting right in front of me.”

She blushed slightly.

“You’re weird.” She laughed.

God, he could hear that for the rest of his. Her laugh rang in his ears in the most beautiful way possible.

“Oh yeah? How so?”

“I need to leave.” She said with a smile as she picked up her stuff.

“You won’t tell me how I’m weird?”

“Maybe next time.”

Jeonghan smile widen as he hear that.

Next time. He couldn’t wait for it.

. . .

Soon enough, they were chatting at the cafe almost everyday. Jealous eyes scanned them as they were lost in their own world. She actually talked to him! He was starstruck by her and day by day he was falling deeper. Her small little habits never left out in Jeonghan’s mind.

After three months of talking, he knew he needed to make this official. She needed to be his. He took her to country side and showed her around the beautiful mountain village. She didn’t know this, but this was where Jeonghan grew up. But she loved every second of it. He finally took her to one of the nicer restaurant and asked her.

“Y/n. . I know that we’ve known each other for a short three months, but I feel like, I’ve known you my whole life. I just can’t imagine my life without you in my future. So, will you be my girlfriend?”

She smiled and leaped into his arms. “Of course! Don’t even have to ask.”

Soon enough, three years passed and Jeonghan was the happiest he has ever been. He never told her in those three years that he was in the mafia. He wanted to maintain her sweet innocence and not scare her away.

But that came to an end, when she was cleaning their shared home. She went to throw away the trash when she saw some files with Jeonghan’s name one them. So, she went to his office to put them on his desk, but she was shocked to his a gun and knives on his desk. She doesn’t know how long she was there, but she there for a while for Jeonghan to find her there. He couldn’t even come up with an explantation as to why there was a gun on his desk. He could’ve made an excuse for the knives but he knew he has to come clean about it to her.

“Hannie, what’s this?”

“Baby, let’s talk about this tomorrow”

“No! We’re talking about this right now. What is this?!”

“Angel. . . come with me.”

He took her to the other side of the room and sat her down on the couch. He sighed. “I’m . . . In the mafia. . and I know you’re confused but believe me when I say that I was going to tell you eventually when the time was right.” He was lying. He would’ve never ever told her. “I. . .wha-what?” She said.

He couldn’t read her face and was getting anxious. “Talk to me baby.”

“I. . . I’m heading to bed.”

She slept in the guest bed that night. Jeonghan couldn’t sleep as the bed felt too cold without her. Little did he know that this would be the last time she was ever be in the same house as him. The next morning rolled around and she was silent. But he had work to attend to. “I’m leaving, baby.” He leaned down to kiss her but she moved her head. He moved back in shock.

Later that night, when he came home, he noticed that she was thinking. He was nervous for what she’ll eventually say.

“Jeonghan.”

That sent shivered down his spine. In those three years, she only called him Jeonghan a handful amount of time. And each time he disliked it. “Yes.”

“I’m going to give you a choice. And you need to pick one.” She sighed. “Either you leave the mafia or . . leave me.”

There was silence after she said that.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Angel, you have to understand I can’t just pick o-“

“You have to! I can’t live with a man that kills for a living.”

“Listen to me-“

“JEONGHAN! JUST PICK ONE!”

It was silent again. Never does she ever raise her voice at anyone but she couldn’t help herself.

“Baby. . .” He started.

Suddenly his phone rang. He looked at her apologetically before he answered. It was Seungcheol.

“I need you to come to the office now!”

“Why? What’s wrong?!”

“Just come, it’s too long to explain but unit three is injured. We can’t get a hold of Soonyoung. That last response we got was from Chan at 10:56 pm. Come now.”

He rushed up but paused and look at her again.

“We’ll finish this when I get back.”

The door shut close and she got her answer. She scoffed slightly, “when I get back.”

She packed her things and called friends for help. They came and loaded somethings in their car and she packed some in her car well. She turned off her phone and made her way to her friends house.

By the time he came home, it was 6:42 am. She was no where to be seen. He called her phone and it went straight to voicemail. He was hysterical as he slipped to his knees. Yesterday night would mark the last day he sees her.

. . .

That was almost six months ago. It haunts him everyday. Oh how he regrets going out, but the other part would regret breaking the brotherhood that they created. Day by day, he yearns for her. His other members noticed him and tried to comfort him but he didn’t want comfort, he wanted . . no he needed her. Everyday passed by in a blur and he wanted that clarity again. When he met her, it felt as the all the problems in his world disappeared. He didn’t know how he lived without her before.

“Meeting in 5.” Jihoon reminded everyone in the common room. Slowly Jeonghan made his way to the conference room.

“The next month will be very busy, so pay attention, especially you Jeonghan.” Seungcheol started. Jeonghan just started tune everything out. He wanted to only live in his memories. Wanting to live in his make believe so that the harsh reality won’t make him cry more. Joshua got a glimpse of him slipping, so he elbowed him and that got Jeonghan out his daydream. He silently sighed.

“And Jeonghan will be there ahead of time to listen to everything.”

“Ugh, again.” He whined out, annoyed.

“Everyone sessionally wants a piece of you, so you’ll be going in.”

Jeonghan rolled his eyes at that. Not everyone wanted him.

. . .

His hooded eyes scanned the room to look make sure the target left so he could finally leave. Once he was sure, he made his way out. He stopped at a bar on his way home. Everyone’s eyes were on him. One drink turned into two drinks turned into three. Before he knew it, he was extremely drunk. He then heard a familiar laugh. He whipped his head to look for that comforting sound.

There she sat with all her beauty. Her beautiful lips up in a smile as she drank with her co-workers.

God, he wanted to leave before he did something stupid. As he made his way out, Y/n let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. It hurt so bad seeing him get so drunk and she didn’t even help him. Although she tried to forget him, and hate him, she couldn’t. She did too much with him to forget that man. His love still linger through her.

She missed him so much. She wanted to run back into his arms, but she knew that if she did, she would invite the bad into her life. His karma will come to collect his debt and she doesn’t want to be in the middle of it.

“Go” Her supervisor said.

Y/n looked up at her and shook her head. “I can’t.” She said as a few tears escaped. “You clearly still love him and want him. You should try to work it out.” They knew she broke up him but not for him being in the mafia. No. She told them that it just didn’t work out anymore. They were obviously shocked and didn’t believe her but didn’t pry as she was in a bad state. “I think I’m going to head home.” Y/n said as she paid for her share.

. . .

He woke up with a pounding headache and almost had no memory from last night. He did remember seeing her. He could never forget her. Jeonghan was having regrets. Maybe he should’ve talk to her? No. That could’ve gotten ugly.

He went on with day as normal but he was thinking about her more than usual. He wanted to talk to her again. He knew that it’ll never happen and it’s only a distant memory. He made it to work and Seungcheol made his way to his office. “Jeonghan, tonight is the night, be ready.” He said.

That night came faster than expected. And all 13 boys made their way to the club. There was a set plan and by tonight there should be one less person on this earth. He made his way to bar and ordered a whiskey. And made his way to one of the sofas. Many girls tried their ways with him with no success. He was only there as an extra pair of eyes, so seducing these women for information was not needed. As some girl was kissing his jaw, he saw her. She was wearing a black dress that was beautifully complementing her body. Her shy eyes scanned through crowds of people, looking for someone. The more he looked at her, the more he wanted to next to her.

He pushed the girl softly and made his way to Y/n. She was facing away from him and he was a few feet from her. His hands naturally found their way to her waist. She was slightly startled and tried to push the hands away before he said, “It’s me, angel.” She was frozen and said nothing. He took this as a sign to continue. One of his hand came up and brushed her hair out of the way to get access to her neck. He placed gentle kisses along there and she let him. Soon her hands were placed on top of his.

“Let’s go somewhere else.” He whispered in her ears as he placed some kisses there as well. And they left the club and Jeonghan was driving them to his apartment. The car ride was silent but he didn’t mind. Just being in her presence was enough for him.

. . .

He opened the door for her and let her in. He then got a glass of water for her and him to drink. Once they were done, they only looked at each other. They both longed for this moment again. “Maybe this was a mistake. I should leave. ” She softly said.

“N-no! S-stay.”

He sighed and said, “Angel, I owe you an explanation. That night I left, I had an emergency. The boys were in trouble and I needed to ensure their safety. I know in that moment you must’ve felt unimportant. I should’ve sat you down and talked throughly that morning. I should’ve set it straight when I saw you that morning. And to answer your question. . . I can’t leave them. It’s a bond we built on hardship and trust. We are each other’s family. We can’t ever be apart. But I also didn’t want to leave you. When I came back, you were gone. I wanted to come to a compromise because you are the light in my life. I only want you to look at me. I just want you.”

She looked at him and didn’t know what to think. “I don’t want to live my life in fear that I’ll be killed. I want to live normally.” She said.

“You can. No one in the mafia world knows I’m even affiliated with seventeen. We can work it out.” He said as he held her hands.

“I . . I want it to work too but I’m too scared.”

“We can take it slow and figure everything out, like old time.”

She smiled at that. “Yeah, like old times.”

“Let’s head to bed and plan out everything tomorrow, hmm? How does that sound?” He said as he brushed her hair behind her ear.

“Sound perfect.”

. . .

He gave her some of his clothes for pajamas and boy did he miss that sight. She softly smiled at him and made her way to bed. When she was comfortable, Jeonghan joined after turning off all the lights. He hugged her and placed a kiss on her head.

“We’ll be okay.” He whispered.

[coochiequeens]

A 22 year old woman who was about to graduate with a degree in engineering is now dead because her ex couldn't accept that the relationship was over.

Gino Cecchettin, hugging his daughter Elena, attends a torchlit procession in Vigonovo, near Venice, northern Italy, Sunday, Nov. 19, 2023, after the police found the body of his other daughter Giulia, reportedly with multiple stab wounds and wrapped in plastic on Saturday in a ditch near Venice. Police in Germany over the weekend arrested Filippo Turetta, 21, who had been on the run since Nov. 11, when he was last seen arguing with Giulia Cecchettin. (Lucrezia Granzetti/LaPresse via AP)

The Associated Press

ROME -- Italy has erupted in outrage over the death of a young woman, allegedly at the hands of her possessive ex-boyfriend, with the Italian premier vowing to crack down further on gender-based violence that has claimed the lives of more than 50 women so far this year.

Police in Germany over the weekend arrested Filippo Turetta, who had been on the run since Nov. 11, when he was last seen fighting with 22-year-old Giulia Cecchettin, hitting her in a physical attack that was captured by roadside video cameras.

Cecchettin's body, reportedly with multiple stab wounds, was found wrapped in plastic on Saturday in a ditch near Lake Barcis, in the province of Pordenone north of Venice.

Italian newspapers had been consumed with the search for them both, given multiple reports from friends and family that Turetta had refused to accept Cecchettin's decision to end the relationship. Cecchettin’s sister, Elena, said she had been concerned about Turetta’s possessiveness of her sister but never imagined he could hurt her.

Police in the eastern German city of Halle said Sunday that they had detained a 21-year-old Italian man who was wanted by police in Italy after his car broke down on the A9 highway in the south of the eastern state of Saxony-Anhalt.

Italian news reports said police road cameras had traced Turetta’s black Fiat Punto as he drove on mountain roads through northern Italy, into Austria and then Germany.

Italian state-run radio network RAI said Turetta had agreed to be extradited, and Italian Foreign Minister Antonio Tajani said he was expected back in Italy within days. Venice's chief prosecutor, Bruno Cherchi, suggested Monday it might take longer and urged patience so the investigation can complete its course without external pressure.

The fate of Cecchettin, who had been due to graduate university Thursday with a degree in engineering, had dominated news reports for a week and led to an outpouring of anger when her body was finally found. Even Turetta's parents attended a candlelit vigil for her, and RAI led its main evening news program Sunday with a backdrop made up of portraits of all the women killed in Italy this year.

Premier Giorgia Melon i expressed outrage at Italy’s long history of violence against women by their partners or ex-partners, saying it has appeared to be getting worse recently. She cited data from the Interior Ministry saying of the 102 women killed in Italy this year up to Nov. 12, 53 died at the hands of their partners or former partners.

“Every single woman killed because she is ‘guilty’ of being free is an aberration that cannot be tolerated and that drives me to continue on the path taken to stop this barbarity,” she said in a statement on social media.

A government-backed bill that has already passed the lower Chamber of Deputies and is coming to the Senate later this month would boost preventative measures to protect victims of gender-based violence.

In addition, the Interior Ministry urged all schools to hold a minute of silence on Tuesday in honor of Cecchettin “and all abused women and victims of violence.” An organization of Italian university rectors, meanwhile, vowed to launch initiatives to make students more aware of gender-based violence.

The aim, the group said, was to “promote respect of the person and halt violence against women” through education that fosters a culture of respect and responsibility.

[sirhyst]

Fukuzawa x child!reader x child!ranpo

Note: In case you were wondering why he’s so rigid around you and Ranpo, this is a younger Fukuzawa. If you read the Untold Origins light novel he literally thinks of 50 ways to get rid of Ranpo.

————————————————————————-

Fukuzawa didn’t know at what point he began to regret every decision that led him to this point in his life. Was it back at the crime scene, when you and Ranpo kicked down the door of the Presidents office? Was it when he watched you two obliterate your red bean porridge?

Whenever it was, all he wanted was to reclaim the calming silence that broke ties with him as soon as he offered to look after you two.

The trio had reached Fukuzawa’s house. It was an old home—it wasn’t very big, but big enough for a man and the little gremlins that followed him. He managed to keep them distracted with unsolved mysteries until night fell over Yokohama, by suggestion of his guide to raising 5 year olds

“You can sleep in this room tonight and I’ll put you in another room,” Fukuzawa said in his usual collected way.

You and Ranpo nodded, for the first time that day, holding back any snarky remarks. Fukuzawa helped you both set up your futons, before retiring to his own room.

As he was about to start changing, he heard little feet running towards his door. He turned around to find you standing there with a cold stare.

“I need a something to listen to,” you said blankly, as if he should have known this despite only meeting you today. You were about to express more grievances, when Ranpo ran up behind you.

“I can’t sleep in the dark,” he whined. Neither of you were blood related, but you managed to hold the exact same expression. Fukuzawa sighed , placing his hand in his head.

Without saying anything he led you both back to your bedrooms, grabbing a nightlight for Ranpo and a small radio for you on the way. He returned to his room, and attempted to begin changing again.

Before he undid the first button, little feet were once again heard stomping towards his door.

“Can you sit with me?” You said quietly. Before Fukuzawa could send you back to your room, Ranpo once again appeared behind you as if summoned.

Feeling the discomfort of these two gremlins staring into his soul catching up to him, he complied.

“You’re a patient old guy, y’know?” You said while staring at the ceiling. Ranpo chimes in, but Fukuzawa was too overcome by tiredness to respond in fear that it would only be met with a snarky remark from the other. He sat there with them for what felt like an hour until silence filled the room.

Being to caught up in the subtle excitement that the two had calmed down, he foolishly believed that he would finally be able to get some rest.

Fukuzawa quietly closed the door, not bothering to take Ranpo back to his own room. He quickly changed into his night clothes and peaked out of his room to make sure the duo had not followed him back.

He slipped into his futon, recounting the days events. He’d been through a lot, meeting new people, vowing to himself that he would never grow closer to them beyond knowing their name. But here he was, his daily routine suddenly taking a drastic turn, having two brats children to look after.

His stream of thoughts was suddenly interrupted when he felt someone place their head on his chest.

His eyes flew open. He looked to his side to find that you had somehow snuck into his room with your blanket. You cling onto his shirt.

“There’s something in my room, I know it!” You whimpered. He was going to point out that the extra scary presence was Ranpo but decided against it. Before he could move, Ranpo appeared at the door.

Perhaps he could hear his thoughts, Fukuzawa thought to himself. Without saying a word, Ranpo crawled onto Fukuzawa’s right side. The man sighed to himself, realising there was no escaping his current predicament. If it was a predicament.

I’m too soft*, he thought to himself. He could’ve kicked them both to the curb, but whether or not he’d be able to sleep at night was the problem.

It was quiet before you raised your head to look him in the eyes. Fukuzawa knew what was coming and before you had the chance to even sign, he got up and retrieved the radio and nightlight he had placed in yours and Ranpos room.

As soon as he laid back down, you and Ranpo cuddled up to him closer than he would’ve liked, but of course accepted it.

“Fukuzawa-san,” you said in a hushed voice, notably the quietest voice you’ve used all day.

“Hm?” He responded. He waited for you to speak up again, but was met with the joint small snores from the children on either side of him.

[helianthus21]

louis contacting daniel after 50 years of radio silence is such a vampire friendship fr

[hazbinhazbinhazbinreblog]

The other Overlords might have found a solution.

Vox wants to try it right away, but he's not the only guest in this universe.

“We need your Alastor,” Carmilla reminds him sternly.

Alastor still isn't back, and Vox has hit a snag in his work. Contrary to what he told the deer demon, Vox does need his expertise with radio waves and magic to finish it.

Vox sighs. He's been sifting through his memory banks all the way back to the 50s when he arrived in Hell. He can't stop thinking about what Alastor said to him the other day during his episode of anger. He's watched so many old memories of just him and Alastor. It hurts more than he expected it to. He's really tired. “Yeah, okay. Just give me a second.”

He closes his eyes and casts out radio waves. It's been a while since he's tried to find Alastor using just his—their frequency.

To the side, he senses how his other self and the Other Alastor watch him curiously. They can feel what he's doing.

He ignores it. His Alastor is more important.

He shuffles rapidly through the signals in the air and discards the ones that aren't Alastor's.

No.

Nope.

Not that one.

No.

Absolutely not.

There.

…

He's still mad.

Vox sighs again and opens his eyes. “Uh. I might be a while. He's still mad at me. I'll try to calm him down.”

He takes a step towards the corner and melts into the shadows the way Alastor taught him so many years ago, ignoring the exclamations of surprise and shock behind him as the darkness wraps around him like an old friend, much like how it did for Alastor.

In a way it is. It's one thing he and Alastor share, with Alastor introducing him to it once Vox recovered from his fall back then.

Vox feels conflicted knowing that Alastor still keeps the shadows open for him to use. That's a major amount of trust that he really shouldn't give Vox. But at the same time it makes him feel warm inside.

The shadows take him to the edge of the city, where he sees Alastor sitting on some rubble, facing away from him.

Vox approaches him silently and sits next to him.

Neither of them say anything.

In a funny way, silence is easier than talking for the two performers.

There's no tension in the air, just grief sadness.

"My biggest mistake is falling in love with you," Alastor says suddenly, breaking the silence. "I had gone on for so long without opening myself up to anyone even before I ended up in Hell. And then you came along."

Vox feels guilty at that admission. "Al, if there's anything I can do to make it up to you…"

Alastor chuckles and shakes his head. "You didn't let me finish. My mistake is loving you. Even if I walked away my heart wouldn't let me get far. But I can't bring myself to regret it. Even after all this time I still love you."

Alastor turns to face him fully, and Vox freezes.

Alastor is crying.

He's not smiling, he's holding back his grief, and Vox feels a sharper stab of guilt.

"Oh, Alastor…" Vox wraps his arms around the other sinner. "Al, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"I hate you," Alastor sobs, "I hate you. I hate you I hate you I hate you! I hate that I still love you…"

Vox says nothing. Instead he hugs his Alastor tighter. He'll stay like this for as long as Alastor needs him to. It's not the same as before, but it's a hopeful start.

"His- their frequency" screaming crying throwing up I'm on the fucking floor and the leaving the shadows open for him I'm so.

Perfect and devastating as usual so bittersweet at the end but I love it

Someone made fanart for this!

[cuteniarose]

If Twitter was a thing in the Avatar universe do you think the official verified Avatar twitter account would be passed down to the new Avatar like the PotUS and FLotUS accounts?

So with Aang you get like 50 years of funny shitposts and Gyatso's quotes and long chain exchanges with his friends and pictures of lemurs and sky bison and scenery and his beautiful wife, then 17 years of radio silence before Korra gets on there and starts yelling at politicians in quote retweets, posting thirst traps of her abs and simping for Asami

And then Elon Musk Varrick buys the site, renames it to something stupid and ruins it for everyone

[javierpena-inatacvest]

Hey besties, ya girl is currently going through a bit of a menty b at the moment 😗 work is legitimately draining the life out of me (standardized testing season is the WORST) and I started looking for a new job (literally anyone hire me pls- I legit have applied to 50+ jobs at this point and have heard nothing but radio silence and rejection) and writing/being on here in general has really taken a backseat.

As much as it sucks, I probably won't be on here as much bc I am spending all my free time looking for jobs, and unfortunately, Javier Peña isn't planning on paying my bills any time in the future 🥴

I'm still planning on working on NTL or other things if inspiration (or time) strikes, but if you don't see me on here as much, just know I am fighting for my life trying to make it to the end of the school year and find a job that gets me out of teaching 😭

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[queen-of-deans-booty]

Inside Man: Part Two

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.1k

Warnings: canon angst and violence, extra angst

Summary: The gang is split into two. Sam and Cas continue to look for the cure for the Mark with the help of someone who will do anything to bring you back. You and Dean face off with Rowena but this time, you're going to show her that you're the most powerful witch there is, and damn her if she thinks she can beat you.

Season Ten Masterlist

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Supernatural. All credit goes to their respective owners. I love seeing any and all comments <3

x

There's a psychic, Oliver Pryce, who is living in town and who Sam thinks is strong enough to connect to someone in Heaven. He's located two towns over so Sam and Cas immediately head over there.

"Who is this guy?" Cas asks.

"So, back in the '50s, Oliver Pryce was a kid psychic. He performed everywhere--carnivals, Atlantic City, you name it. He was the real deal. The Men of Letters were teaching him how to control his powers when they were killed. The point is, he's one of the good guys. He might be happy to see us."

Sam and Cas approach Oliver's house and see a "No Trespassing" sign on his fence.

"Or not," Cas says.

Sam walks past the fence, walks up the porch steps, and pounds on his front door.

"Mr. Pryce? Oliver Pryce!"

No response.

"I'll break it down," Cas says seriously.

"Dude, chill."

"What? I'm helping." The front door opens and Oliver stands there with a slight glare. "Just follow my lead." Cas turns to the older man. "Mr. Pryce? This is Sam--"

"Winchester. You're Sam Winchester, Man of Letters."

"How did you know?"

"Mind reader, remember?" Oliver's eyes look Cas up and down as he tries to figure out who or what he is. "What are you?"

"I'm an Angel."

"No, you can't be," Oliver frowns.

"Why not?"

"I'm an atheist."

"Not anymore," Sam says. Both he and Cas enter Oliver's house and Oliver escorts them to the living room. There are pictures of Oliver during his younger years hanging on the wall. "Is that you?"

"It was me. I don't do the psychic stuff anymore. Being around people, it's kind of... Hell, all those brains yapping all the time drive a guy bananas."

"Because you can hear everyone's thoughts?" Cas asks.

"Well, not yours. All I'm getting from you is colors. The hippie over here? I'm seeing some creep-ass hobbit-lookin' fella and a prison cell?"

Sam frowns at being called a hippie but lets it go.

"That's Heaven's jail," Cas says.

"Heaven's got a fucking jail?"

"Yeah, it does, and we're looking to break someone out of it. We have an inside man but we need your help to talk to him."

"If I say no?"

"You're the mind reader," Sam smirks.

"I'll get my shit," Oliver sighs. Oliver sets his living room up like one of his seance sessions and sits in between Sam and Cas. Candles cover the surface of the table and a small radio sits in the middle of the table. "Do you have anything that belonged to the deceased?"

"Yeah, right here."

Sam pulls out Bobby's hat and sets it on the table. If anyone will have enough motivation to help you and Dean, it's your dad.

"Good. Now shut up and hold hands."

All three men do and Oliver begins chanting something in Latin. The lights start to flicker, the table shakes slightly, and the candles start shooting flames from the wicks. Once Oliver is done chanting, he opens his eyes and nods to Sam.

"Bobby? Bobby, can you hear me?" Silence. "Bobby, we need your help."

"Sam?"

Bobby's voice comes from the radio in the middle of the table. Sam doesn't know how long this connection will last so he speaks fast and tells Bobby everything that has been happening with you and Dean.

"Y/N is turning into a monster, Bobby. She's soulless and pretty soon, your daughter won't be your daughter. She'll be beyond saving. Anyway, that's the short version of what's been happening. Are you still there?"

"Yeah, I'm here," Bobby says thickly. "What about Joanna?"

Sam looks at Cas.

"All I know is that they're safe. She's a witch again, Bobby, which means she can read minds. Dean and I can't know where they are."

"They? There's more than just Joanna?"

"We don't have time to get into this right now, Bobby."

"Okay, just so I'm hearing this right, you have to figure out a way to get the Mark of Cain off Dean before he turns back into a demon and off Y/N before she goes postal?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

"So, just another day at the office for you boys, huh? Put Dean on the line."

"Dean's not here. Y/N isn't either."

"Why not?"

"Y/N threatened her kids. She made him promise not to look for the cure or else she'll find her kids and kill them. She doesn't want this cure, Bobby. Dean's distracting her right now. I never made any promise to find the cure."

"Shit," Bobby sighs. "Alright, what's the plan?"

"Each soul in Heaven is locked in its own private paradise," Cas explains. "That's where you are now. You need to escape. You need to find the gate to Earth and open it. Then you and I will find Metatron, the Scribe of God."

"Hey, Sam, you remember when this job was just chopping up some fang and tossing back a cold one?"

"I miss that," Sam sighs.

"Ditto. So, while I'm playing Steve McQueen, is anyone gonna be looking for me?"

"Everyone," Cas answers. "The Angels will not like a soul wandering free."

"Do you have a way to slow them down?"

"Not exactly. I'm sure you'll figure something out, Bobby. You always do."

"Listen, I appreciate the warm and fuzzy, but I ain't exactly playing on the big leagues these days. I'm mostly drinking and reading the classics. Truth is, I'm rusty and maybe there's somebody better out there."

"Bobby, there isn't. I'm telling you, if you love Y/N and Dean in the way I know you do, you'll do this for them... for me."

Bobby takes two deep breaths before scoffing.

"Hell, I'm already dead. What's the worst that could happen? What do I need to do?"

"You need to find your Heaven's escape hatch. Look for something that shouldn't be there, and that's your way out."

"If I find a way out, then what?"

"You'll be in a long hallway with a bunch of doors. The gate to Earth will be behind number forty-two."

"Okay."

Bobby gets off his ass and starts looking around in the small room he always stays in and drinks. Nothing seems out of the ordinary but there is something on the carpet he only notices until now. A small white string is sticking out of the carpet he's standing on. He reaches down and pulls on it, and a doorway opens on the back wall. White light pours from it and he smirks.

"Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in."

The second that Bobby steps through the door into the hallway, the connection to Bobby is severed. Sam and Cas, after thanking Oliver, head back to the playground. They stay stuck in the shadows so the angels don't suspect anything. All they have to do is wait for Bobby to open the gate and Cas can go through without a hitch.

"This better work. I need my brother and best friend back," Sam sighs.

"You sure he can handle this?" Cas asks.

"He's Bobby. He can handle anything, especially when it comes to his daughter."

The second Bobby sets foot into the hallway, the alarm blares and he bangs his fist on the wall.

"Balls!"

If Bobby doesn't do something now, the angels will come for him and ruin everything. He looks at the endless doors in the hallway and gets an idea. He starts opening up all the doors and calling out for their occupants. Before he knows it, a ton of people are wandering the halls looking confused. That's when the angels come including Hannah.

"What? Find out how this happened," Hannah says to one of the other angels. "Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, I need you to return to your Heavens in a calm, orderly manner."

"Oh, yeah? Well, who made you boss?" Bobby says loudly.

"Right?"

"Who the hell you think do you are?" another person asks.

This causes an outrage where the souls are trying to fight back against the angels. Bobby uses this and escapes while the angels are occupied. He slips into another hallway and searches for door forty-two. When he finds it, he pushes it open. Sam and Cas have been waiting patiently for Bobby to find the door. A rift opens from above the sandbox and the two men jump into action. Sam runs to keep the guarding angels back while Cas runs for the door.

"Go! Go!" Sam says and tackles one of the angels to the ground.

Cas jumps through the door of Heaven and slides on the floor right in front of Bobby.

"Welcome to the party," Bobby chuckles. Bobby helps Cas to his feet and pats him on the back. "So, I need you to tell me how bad it really is."

"Um..."

"Cas, what's happening?"

"Dean is angry all the time. Y/N doesn't have a soul. Dean has it. He sucked her soul out of her when Metatron killed him. He tainted hers as dark as his so we're waiting for her soul to purify before we can put it back in."

"Does Dean know you're here?"

"He knows we're looking for a way to get the Mark off. He doesn't know you're involved. Y/N doesn't know anything. If she does, she will hurt your granddaughters and grandson."

"Wait." Bobby stops Cas from walking and gets tears in his eyes. "I have three grandchildren?"

If he doesn't know about Maryann, he doesn't know about Robert and what happened to him.

"Maryann was born two years after Joanna. She was a twin. Robert, your grandson, didn't make it. He was a stillborn. Noah is adopted. Y/N found him at a time when they needed each other."

"I have three grandkids," Bobby whispers to himself.

"You might not if Y/N continues down this road."

Cas leads Bobby to the prison where Metatron currently is. He looks up when the two men enter and grins knowingly.

"Well, howdy, fellas."

"This is the Scribe of God? He looks like a Fraggle," Bobby scoffs.

"I'm gonna take that as a compliment. That was an excellent program."

"Metatron, we are here--"

"I know why you're here, Asstiel, and I'm not interested. I told you I would rather die than let Dean and Y/N Winchester use me as their personal punching bag again."

"Don't worry. They're not involved. You're gonna be my punching bag," Cas glares.

"Ah, the B team, huh? Interesting. Keys are over there." Metatron points to the keys hanging on the wall. "Chop chop!"

"Are you sure this is the only way?" Bobby asks.

"Unfortunately."

Sam killed both angels so they wouldn't blab to the other ones of what Cas did. He's been waiting patiently by the car for the door to Heaven to open again. It's been about two hours when it finally opens, and Cas steps out with Metatron. Bobby isn't with him. He didn't think he would be.

"Sam-tastic! Miss me?" Metatron sniffs the air. "Oh, smell that? That smells like freedom. Well, let's go. I call shotgun!"

Metatron tries walking to the car but Cas pulls him back by his jacket collar.

"You don't get to make demands, Metatron. You're not in charge here."

"Oh, I'm afraid I am. I know about the Mark. I have your Grace. I make the rules. It's called leverage, boys. Learn it, live it, love it."

Sam and Cas look at each other, and the Winchester nods to the angel once. Without blinking, Cas slides out his angel blade and slices Metaron's neck horizontally. It's not to kill him, no, it's to steal his Grace. He did it so fast that Metatron didn't have enough time to react. Before he knows it, his Grace is trapped in a small container Sam brought.

Metatron is human.

Knowing he won't heal from this, Sam takes out his gun and shoots Metatron in the leg. The former angel screams in pain and falls on his ass while reaching for his bleeding leg.

"Ow! Ow! Ow!"

"We have your Grace, Metatron. You're mortal now. So, you will answer our questions or Sam will, what's the phrase?" Cas' voice deepens angrily. "Blow your fucking brains out. It's called leverage, Metatron."

"Learn it, live it, love it," Sam smirks. "How do we get rid of the Mark?"

"I don't know," Metatron stutters. Sam aims the gun at his head and the former angel backs away in fear. "I don't know! It's old magic, God-level magic! Or Lucifer level, but you can't ask him, exactly, can you?"

"What about the tablets?"

"No, there's nothing in them about the Mark," he stutters again.

"So, when you said, 'The river ends at the source,' that was--"

"I was just making up shit, trying to buy time till I could screw you over. It worked before."

"He's telling the truth," Cas says. His eyes darken. "Shoot him."

Sam raises his gun without question, dead set on killing Metatron.

"No, no! No!" Metatron panics. "Your Grace! I wasn't lying about that. There's still some left. I'll take you to it."

"It's your call, Cas."

"I have to get my Grace back, Sam," Cas whispers.

Metatron is relieved that he isn't going to die today. Cas shoves him into the back of the car but before Sam can get behind the wheel, Cas stops him. He reaches into his trenchcoat and pulls out two envelopes.

"Listen, Bobby asked me to give you these. One is for you and Dean. The other is for Y/N. Don't give it to her until her soul is returned."

"Okay. Thanks," Sam whispers.

If he gives it to you now, you'll destroy this and you'd be heartbroken if you destroyed something you can't ever get back.

x

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