#and criminal abuse of the word “indeed”

[greatunironic]

work in progress wednesday

(from the regency au)

“In Bath, Father?” he questioned, setting aside his knife gently before folding his hands in his lap beneath the table. A gentleman did not fidget, or pick at his cuticles, he was oft told, but he dearly would have liked to, in this moment and all others at this table with his father. In fact, Steve dearly would have liked to do anything but have this conversation; he knew he should have made for the stables at sun up. Submitting to the inevitable censure for missing breakfast would have been preferable to this, he thought.

“Indeed,” Father was saying, beaming. “It’s a splendid time of year for it, and as you know Mr Bauman says that we can fetch quite the price on the manor with the leasing.”

Steve did indeed know, but Steve was not the one being addressed, despite all pretenses. Father’s speech — all of them, of late — was addressed almost entirely to the few servants dotting the dining room walls, and to the lady of the house, his so-called mother. Diana Harringtion, nee Hastings, had been the latest in a long line of several courted by his father since his own lady mother’s passing six years prior, when he was eighteen; she had thoroughly won Father’s attentions above all others by virtue of the simple fact that she was the first born daughter of three, issued of an English baron with no sons, and was young enough to beget an heir to that house — young enough indeed to be Steve’s little sister, some three years younger than him.

He did not pretend to understand the psychology of his father, though in truth he thought it quite transparent in the end: he supposed it was indeed obvious to all that wished to see it: his father, the fourth son of a minor English noble himself, never to inherit unless true tragedy befell his elder brothers and their own many sons. He had always felt that lack, no title, no prospects, no land to call his own, and when he had been married off to Steve’s mother all those years ago — well, Father always said it had been a love match, a story for the ages as this untitled son met a beautiful Scottish baroness during her first and only season in the Ton, eyes meeting across the room, dancing set after set night after night, two planets bound in orbit —

A love match, except for the land that Steve’s grandfather came into suddenly on the border; a love match, except for the babe that appeared in winter, six months after a society wedding.

[pin-k-ink]

Chrollo! There isn’t enough dark content about him. I want to see how Chrollo is, compared to Yandere Chrollo. I love both, but we don’t get enough dark content of Chrollo.

Chrollo is seen as manipulative, and cold. Considering he’s a mass murder, and his empathy is nonexistent to people outside of the phantom troupe. Though, he’s able to act like a gentleman, and a curious man who seems sweet. He definitely isn’t stable, but catching his attention would be terrifying. He collects what he’s interested in. Being in a relationship with him would be interesting, but complicated.

entropy // chrollo lucilfer

tw ⇢ emotional abuse/manipulation, psychological trauma, toxic relationship, mention of self-harm, suicide attempt, dub-con, non-consensual/coercion, stockholm syndrome(?), mention of violence and criminal activities, power play, some unspecified mental health issues, rough sex, cunnilingus, begging, idk kinda rushed ending, narrator’s pov

wc ⇢ 7.1k

a/n: i really liked this idea, anon, so i present you with 7k words of chrollo brainrot. i really tried not to make chrollo a cliche, run-of-the-mill yandere but im not sure i did a good job. its also my first time using y/n and i hated it

The dim lights of the crowded bar cast an amber glow across the room, the air thick with the hum of conversation and clinking glasses. Perched on a stool at the far end of the bar, I nursed my whiskey, the smooth glass cool against my palm, the rich amber liquid swirling hypnotically as I lifted it to my lips. The first sip burned pleasantly down my throat, warming me from within as my eyes scanned the crowd out of habit, taking in the sea of unfamiliar faces.

That's when I saw him.

He moved with a fluid grace that stood out amidst the tipsy stumbles and raucous laughter of the other patrons. Dark hair fell across his face in an artful sweep as he leaned in close to whisper something to the bartender, who nodded knowingly and slid a drink across the polished wood, the crystal tumbler gleaming under the soft light. As if sensing the weight of my gaze, he turned slowly, his eyes meeting mine with an intensity that made my breath catch in my throat, my fingers tightening reflexively around my glass.

A polite smile curved his lips as he approached with measured steps, sliding onto the stool next to mine with a nod of acknowledgment. "Good evening," he said, his voice smooth and cultured, with a faint lilt of an accent I couldn't quite place. "I hope you'll forgive my forwardness, but I couldn't help noticing you from across the room."

I felt a flush creep up my neck at his directness, a heat blooming under my skin that had little to do with the whiskey. But I maintained my composure, lifting one eyebrow in a practiced arch. "Is that so?" I asked, taking another sip of my drink, letting the smoky flavor linger on my tongue. My heart fluttered in my chest, a mix of excitement and nervousness at the attention from this intriguing stranger.

"Indeed. It's rare to find someone so comfortable in their own solitude. It speaks to a certain strength of character." His eyes held mine, dark and fathomless, seeming to search for something beneath the surface, beneath the mask of cool indifference I wore like armor.

I smiled slightly, intrigued by his observation, by the way he seemed to see beyond the carefully constructed facade. "And what would you know about my character?"

"Very little, I admit. But I'd like to learn more, if you're willing." He extended a hand, long fingers elegant and strong. "Chrollo Lucilfer, at your service."

"Y/N," I replied, placing my hand in his. His grip was firm, his skin cool and smooth against my own. A shiver raced down my spine at the contact, a spark of something electric and unfamiliar. I found myself drawn to his enigmatic aura, the hint of danger that lurked beneath his charming exterior.

As the evening wore on, Chrollo and I fell into easy conversation, trading stories and opinions over drinks, our knees brushing under the bar in a way that felt both accidental and deliberate. He was articulate and well-read, with a keen insight that made me feel like he could see straight into my soul, past the walls I'd so carefully constructed. There was a magnetism to him, a pull that I couldn't resist, drawing me in like a moth to a flame. I felt a connection growing between us, a sense of understanding and shared secrets that left me both thrilled and unnerved.

We began seeing each other regularly after that night, meeting for dinner at quiet candlelit restaurants or for coffee in cozy bookshops, the rich scent of roasted beans and old pages enveloping us as we talked for hours. Chrollo was always the perfect gentleman, holding doors and pulling out chairs, his manners impeccable, his attentiveness unwavering. But there were moments, fleeting glimpses, where something else seemed to flicker beneath the surface, a darkness that both thrilled and unsettled me. I found myself drawn to that darkness, to the mystery that surrounded him, even as a part of me whispered warnings in the back of my mind.

One evening, we were walking through the city, the pavement damp with recent rain, the neon signs reflecting in puddles at our feet. A man stumbled out of an alleyway, clearly drunk and disoriented, his clothes rumpled and stained. He lurched towards us, mumbling incoherently, his breath sour with the stench of alcohol. I tensed, expecting Chrollo to step in and help, to offer the man a steadying hand or a kind word. Instead, he sidestepped the man neatly, his movements fluid and precise, not even sparing him a glance. There was a coldness to the action, a calculated indifference that left me feeling chilled despite the warm summer air. A flicker of unease stirred in my gut, a sense that there was more to Chrollo than met the eye, but I pushed it aside, not wanting to shatter the illusion of the perfect romance.

Another time, we were at a restaurant, a trendy spot with exposed brick walls and industrial light fixtures. The hum of conversation and the clink of silverware against plates filled the air, a pleasant buzz of activity. A commotion broke out at a nearby table, a woman's voice rising in pitch as she gestured wildly at her companion, her face flushed with anger. Chrollo watched the scene unfold with a detached sort of interest, like a scientist observing a particularly fascinating specimen. When I expressed concern, my brow furrowed with worry, he simply shrugged, the movement languid and unconcerned.

"Some people thrive on drama," he said, his tone indifferent, almost bored. "It's best not to get involved."

I tried to brush off the nagging feeling that something wasn't quite right, telling myself that no one was perfect, that everyone had their flaws and quirks. Chrollo was attentive and affectionate, showering me with gifts and attention, his touch always gentle, always reverent. It was easy to get lost in the romance of it all, in the heady rush of new love. But even as I surrendered to the warmth of his embrace, to the tender caress of his lips on my skin, a part of me remained wary, a tiny voice whispering doubts in the back of my mind.

But the doubts continued to gather at the edges of my mind, like storm clouds on the horizon, dark and ominous. There were inconsistencies in the stories he told, small details that didn't quite add up, pieces that didn't fit into the puzzle of his past. He was evasive about his work, about his family and his childhood, always changing the subject with a charming smile and a clever turn of phrase when I pressed for more. I tried to ignore the growing sense of unease, the feeling that I was only seeing a carefully crafted facade, a mask that hid the true nature of the man I was falling for.

It all came to a head one night when we were out for a walk, the city streets quiet and still around us. A police car raced by, sirens blaring, red and blue lights flashing against the buildings. Chrollo tensed, his body going rigid beside me, his eyes tracking the vehicle with a sharpness that made me pause, my heart skipping a beat in my chest. There was something in his reaction, a hint of fear or guilt that I had never seen before, and it sent a chill down my spine.

"What is it?" I asked, searching his face for clues, for some hint of the thoughts swirling behind those dark eyes.

He relaxed just as quickly, his expression smoothing into a mask of calm, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Nothing, just lost in thought for a moment."

But I saw it then, in that brief unguarded instant. The hairline fracture in his facade, the glimpse of something raw and real beneath the polished surface. The realization hit me like a freight train, stealing the breath from my lungs - I didn't really know the man I was falling for at all. He was a mystery, a puzzle with missing pieces, and I had no idea what secrets he was hiding behind that charming smile and those fathomless eyes. Fear and doubt coiled in my gut, a sickening sense of dread that I couldn't shake, no matter how hard I tried to convince myself that everything was fine.

The doubt became an itch I couldn't scratch, a constant presence at the back of my mind. I found myself watching Chrollo more closely, looking for clues, for any sign that might confirm my growing suspicions. He was as attentive and affectionate as ever, his touch gentle, his words sweet. But there was a guardedness to him now, a sense that he was always holding something back, always keeping a part of himself locked away. It was like trying to catch smoke with my bare hands, always slipping through my fingers just when I thought I had a grasp on the truth.

One evening, we were at his apartment, curled up on the plush leather couch with a movie playing on the large flatscreen TV. The room was dimly lit, the flickering light from the screen casting shadows on the walls. Chrollo's phone buzzed with an incoming message, the screen lighting up on the coffee table. He glanced at it, his expression hardening for a split second, his jaw clenching almost imperceptibly before he smoothed it away, reaching for the device with a casual hand. My heart raced in my chest, a sense of foreboding washing over me as I watched him, a part of me desperately wanting to believe that it was nothing, that I was overreacting.

"Everything okay?" I asked, trying to keep my tone light, my heart pounding in my chest.

"Just work," he replied, his thumb swiping across the screen, his eyes scanning the message quickly before he slipped the phone into his pocket. "Nothing to worry about."

But there was a tightness to his smile, a strain around his eyes that belied his easy words. I couldn't shake the feeling that there was something he wasn't telling me, some secret he was keeping locked away. The doubts gnawed at me, a constant ache in my chest that I couldn't ignore, no matter how much I wanted to lose myself in the fantasy of our perfect love.

As the weeks passed, the distance between us grew, an invisible chasm widening with each passing day. Chrollo would disappear for hours at a time, offering vague explanations about meetings or errands, his tone carefully neutral. He was increasingly evasive about his activities, changing the subject with a practiced ease or deflecting my questions with a charming smile and a clever quip. I felt like I was losing him, like the man I had fallen for was slipping away, replaced by a stranger wearing a familiar face.

I knew I should confront him, demand answers, but a part of me was afraid of what I might uncover. The man I had fallen for, the gentleman with the quick wit and the electrifying touch, felt like a stranger wearing a familiar face, a mask that was starting to crack at the edges. I was torn between the desire to cling to the illusion of our perfect romance and the need to know the truth, to see the man behind the mask, no matter how painful it might be.

The final straw came late one night when I was leaving Chrollo's apartment, my mind whirling with unanswered questions, my heart heavy in my chest. As I stepped out into the dimly lit hallway, the plush carpet muffling my footsteps, I nearly collided with a man coming from the opposite direction. He was tall and lean, with cold eyes that seemed to look right through me, his face all sharp angles and harsh lines. A shiver of unease ran down my spine, a sense of danger emanating from him like a palpable force.

"Excuse me," I mumbled, trying to sidestep him, my skin prickling with unease.

But he blocked my path, his large frame filling the narrow hallway, his gaze flicking past me to Chrollo's door, a flash of something dark and dangerous in his eyes. "He's expecting me," the man said, his voice flat and emotionless, sending a chill down my spine.

I glanced over my shoulder, but Chrollo had already closed the door, the sound of the lock clicking into place loud in the sudden silence. A wave of dread washed over me as I hurried past the man, my heart pounding in my ears, my hands shaking as I jabbed at the elevator button. Questions swirled in my mind, a growing sense of fear and unease that I couldn't shake, no matter how hard I tried to rationalize it away.

I didn't sleep that night, my mind racing with possibilities, with questions I was afraid to voice aloud. Who was the man in the hallway? What business did he have with Chrollo at such a late hour? The not knowing was almost worse than the truth, my imagination conjuring up all manner of dark scenarios, each more terrible than the last. I tossed and turned, my sheets tangled around me, my heart aching with the growing realization that the man I loved was not who I thought he was.

The paranoia grew like a cancer, spreading through every aspect of my life, tainting every interaction with Chrollo. I found myself watching him constantly, analyzing every word, every gesture, looking for some hint of the truth behind the mask. Every phone call he took, every message he received, every unexplained absence became a clue in a puzzle I was desperate to solve, a mystery I couldn't let go. I was consumed by the need to know, to uncover the secrets he was hiding, even as a part of me feared what I might find.

I started making excuses to drop by his apartment unannounced, hoping to catch him off guard, to glimpse the man behind the facade. But Chrollo was always one step ahead, his mask of charm and civility firmly in place, his explanations smooth and plausible. It was like trying to catch smoke with my bare hands, always slipping through my fingers just when I thought I had a grasp on the truth. I felt like I was losing my mind, like I was trapped in a maze of lies and half-truths, with no way out.

The strain began to take its toll, the constant state of heightened awareness, of second-guessing every moment. I was distracted at work, jumping at every unexpected noise, seeing shadows in every corner. My friends noticed the change, commenting on my withdrawn behavior, the dark circles under my eyes, the way I seemed to be constantly on edge. I brushed off their concerns with a forced smile and a wave of my hand, not wanting to voice the suspicions that consumed my every waking moment.

I started to pull away, to put distance between us, needing time to clear my head, to make sense of the tangled web of lies and half-truths. I made excuses to avoid seeing him, claiming work obligations or family commitments, my voice shaking only slightly as I lied through my teeth. I needed space, needed to step back and look at the situation objectively, without the haze of love and desire clouding my judgment. But even as I tried to distance myself, I found myself drawn back to him, like a moth to a flame, unable to resist the pull of his magnetism.

But Chrollo wouldn't let me go so easily, his presence a constant pull, a magnetic force I couldn't seem to resist. He showed up at my work, at my favorite coffee shop, always with a bouquet of flowers and a contrite smile, his eyes soft and pleading. He promised to be more open, to answer any questions I might have, to lay his secrets bare before me. And for a moment, I wanted to believe him, to fall into the warmth of his embrace and let the world fade away.

I started to dig deeper, to research Chrollo's past, looking for any clue that might explain the inconsistencies, the blank spaces in his history. Late one night, huddled over my laptop with a mug of coffee growing cold beside me, I found it. A news article, buried deep in the archives of a local paper, a few scant paragraphs that made my blood run cold. A string of high-profile thefts, linked to a shadowy group known as the Phantom Troupe, their methods as elusive as their identities. And there, in grainy black and white, a photograph of a man with dark hair and piercing eyes, a face I would know anywhere.

My heart stopped in my chest as I stared at the screen, the pieces of the puzzle finally falling into place with a sickening clarity. The man I loved, the gentleman with the silver tongue and the devastating smile, was a thief. And not just any thief, but a member of the most notorious criminal organization in the city, a ghost in the shadows, a phantom in the night. I sat back in my chair, my hands shaking as I tried to process the truth, to reconcile the Chrollo I knew with the man in the article.

The reality of my situation crashed over me like a wave, cold and unrelenting. I was in love with a lie, a beautiful fiction wrapped in a tailored suit and a charming smile. The future I had imagined for us, the life I had started to build in my mind, was nothing more than a house of cards, ready to come tumbling down at any moment. I felt like I couldn't breathe, like the walls were closing in around me, trapping me in a nightmare from which there was no escape.

And I had no idea what I was going to do about it.

The truth hung heavy in the air between us, a suffocating presence that filled the room and pressed down on my chest, making it hard to breathe. My heart raced as I confronted Chrollo with the article, my voice trembling with a potent mix of anger, fear, and betrayal. He sat across from me, his posture relaxed, his eyes downcast, his hands resting calmly in his lap. The silence stretched on, broken only by the relentless ticking of the clock on the wall, each second an eternity of agonizing anticipation.

When he finally spoke, his voice was even and measured, devoid of any discernible emotion. "I never intended for you to discover the truth this way," he said, his gaze meeting mine, his dark eyes revealing nothing. "I considered telling you, explaining everything, but I couldn't find the right approach."

Disbelief and heartache surged through me, constricting my throat and stinging my eyes with unshed tears. "Explain what, Chrollo? That our entire relationship has been built on a foundation of lies? That the man I fell in love with is nothing more than a carefully crafted illusion?"

His expression remained impassive, unfazed by my accusation. "The connection between us is genuine, Y/N. My feelings for you, the moments we've shared, none of that was a deception."

A bitter, mirthless laugh escaped my lips, echoing harshly in the oppressive stillness of the room. "But everything else? The thefts, the Phantom Troupe? How can you claim that's not an integral part of who you are?"

Chrollo sighed, a subtle indication of impatience rather than genuine weariness. "It's not that simple. The Troupe is like family to me. We have each other's backs, keep each other safe. What we do isn't solely about financial gain or the adrenaline rush. It's about survival, about carving out a place in a world that's never given us a fair chance."

As I sat there, my mind reeling, a chill crept down my spine, raising goosebumps on my skin. Chrollo's dark eyes bored into mine, a glimmer of something cold and dangerous lurking beneath the surface of his composed exterior. In that moment, the true depth of his detachment became starkly apparent, sending a fresh wave of fear washing over me.

"You need to understand, Y/N," he continued, his voice low and even. "The Phantom Troupe is more than just a gang. It's a way of life. A family bound by blood and loyalty. I've committed heinous acts in the name of that loyalty. Acts that would make your blood run cold."

I swallowed hard, my heart pounding against my ribcage like a trapped bird. "And what about me, Chrollo? Was I just another pawn in your twisted game? Another plaything to be discarded when you grew bored?"

A flicker of something unreadable crossed his features, vanishing as quickly as it appeared. "No, Y/N. Never. What I feel for you is the closest thing to genuine emotion I've ever experienced. But I won't deceive you. I am what I am. That's not going to change, not even for you."

With shaking legs, I stood up, my entire body trembling with a mixture of fear, anger, and despair. "I can't do this, Chrollo. I can't be a part of your world. The things you've done...the person you truly are...I can't turn a blind eye to that."

He nodded, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I expected as much. I knew this moment would arrive sooner or later. I merely hoped..." He trailed off, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. "It's irrelevant now."

I took a step back, my mind struggling to process the revelation of Chrollo's true identity. The man I had fallen for, the charming and enigmatic gentleman, was nothing more than a meticulously crafted facade, a mask concealing the cold, ruthless criminal beneath.

"I can't be a part of this, Chrollo," I repeated, my voice quivering with a mixture of fear and resignation. "I can't be with someone who lives a life of crime, who has no regard for the people he hurts."

Chrollo's expression remained inscrutable, his dark eyes boring into mine with an intensity that made my skin crawl. "I'm afraid you don't have a choice, Y/N. You see, you've become quite an intriguing diversion for me, a delightful puzzle to unravel. And I'm not in the habit of relinquishing things that keep me entertained."

His words, spoken with chilling calm, carried an unmistakable undercurrent of threat that turned my blood to ice in my veins. "What are you saying, Chrollo?"

A smile devoid of warmth or humor tugged at the corners of his mouth. "It's quite simple, really. You have two options. You can choose to stay with me, to accept me for who and what I am, and continue to be a part of my life. Or..." He paused, his gaze hardening. "You can refuse, and face the consequences."

My heart raced, a sickening realization dawning on me as the true nature of my predicament became clear. "And what consequences would those be?"

Chrollo shrugged, the gesture casual and unconcerned. "Death, of course. I can't risk you going to the authorities, exposing me and my associates. If you can't be with me, then you can't be allowed to live."

The words hung in the air between us, a chilling ultimatum that left me feeling trapped and utterly helpless. I searched Chrollo's face for any sign of remorse, any hint of the man I had thought I knew, but found only cold, calculating resolve.

"I...I need time to think," I managed, my voice barely above a whisper, my throat constricted with fear and despair.

Chrollo nodded, his expression impassive. "Of course. Take all the time you need, Y/N. But remember, the clock is ticking. And I'm not a patient man."

With those words, he turned and walked away, leaving me alone, the weight of his ultimatum crushing down on me. I sank to the floor, my legs no longer able to support me, as the full horror of my situation crashed over me in relentless waves.

I was trapped, caught between a love that had turned to ashes and a fate worse than death. And no matter which path I chose, I knew that my life would never be the same again.

I sat there, numb and disbelieving, as Chrollo's words echoed in my mind. Stay with him, or die. The choice was no choice at all, a cruel mockery of free will in the face of his cold ultimatum. With a heavy heart and an overwhelming sense of despair, I realized that I had no other option.

"I'll stay," I whispered, the words bitter on my tongue, tasting of ashes and defeat. "I'll stay with you, Chrollo."

He nodded, a glimmer of satisfaction in his dark eyes, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "A wise decision, Y/N. I knew you'd see reason."

But even as I agreed to his terms, a part of me rebelled against the idea of being trapped in this nightmare, of living a life shackled to a man who saw me as nothing more than a possession, a plaything to be discarded when he tired of me.

In the days that followed, I went through the motions of my life, a hollow shell of my former self. I smiled when Chrollo was around, played the role of the dutiful girlfriend, but inside, I was screaming, my soul withering with each passing moment. The weight of my despair pressed down on me, suffocating me slowly, day by day.

I couldn't bear the thought of living like this forever, of being forever bound to a monster who held no love, no true affection for me. In a moment of desperation, I made a decision. If I couldn't escape Chrollo in life, then I would find my freedom in death.

I sat in the bathtub, the steaming water lapping at my skin, providing no comfort to the icy numbness that had settled in my heart. The razor blade rested against my wrist, the metal cool and inviting, a whispered promise of release from the nightmare my life had become. My hand trembled, the weight of my decision bearing down on me, tears streaming down my face and mingling with the bathwater.

But even as I sat there, the razor poised to end my suffering, I couldn't bring myself to do it. My hand shook, the blade biting into my skin, drawing a thin line of crimson, but I couldn't find the strength, the resolve, to finish the job. Sobs wracked my body, my chest heaving with the force of my anguish, as I sat there, paralyzed by fear and despair.

"Well, well, what do we have here?"

My head snapped up, my heart leaping into my throat at the sound of Chrollo's voice. He stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a look of detached amusement on his face, as if he'd stumbled upon a mildly entertaining scene.

"Chrollo..." I whispered, my voice hoarse and broken, barely recognizable to my own ears.

He pushed off the doorframe and sauntered into the bathroom, his movements casual and unhurried. "Did you really think I wouldn't know, Y/N? That I wouldn't sense your desperation, your pathetic attempt at escape?"

I lowered my gaze, shame and despair warring within me, my cheeks burning with humiliation. "I can't do this anymore, Chrollo. I can't live like this."

He crouched down beside the tub, his dark eyes glittering with a cruel sort of amusement. "And yet, here you are, unable to even commit to your own demise. How tragic."

With a sudden motion, he grasped my wrist, yanking the razor from my fingers. I gasped, more from surprise than pain, as he held the blade up to the light, examining it with a detached sort of interest.

"Did you really think this would be the answer, Y/N? That you could escape me, escape your fate, with something as trivial as this?"

He tossed the razor aside, the metal clattering against the tile floor, and cupped my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. "You're mine, Y/N. Forever. And no matter how many times you try to run, to hide, to end your own miserable existence, I will always find you. I will always bring you back."

Tears streamed down my face, mixing with the bathwater, as the hopelessness of my situation crashed over me anew. Chrollo was right. There was no escape, no way out of this hell I had foolishly walked into.

He stood, looking down at me with a mixture of pity and cold amusement. "Clean yourself up, Y/N. And let this be a lesson to you. Your life is mine, to do with as I please. And I'm not done with you yet."

With those words, he turned and walked out, leaving me alone in the bath, my skin pruning in the cooling water, my heart shattered beyond repair. I had gambled everything on Chrollo, on the love I thought we shared, and I had lost. And now, I had to live with the consequences, forever trapped in a nightmare of my own making.

Chrollo led me from the bathroom, his hand wrapped around my wrist in a grip that was both gentle and unyielding. I followed him numbly, my mind still reeling from the events that had transpired, the razor's bite still stinging on my skin. He guided me to the bed, the plush comforter soft beneath my bare legs as he lowered me onto the mattress.

I sat there, my hands clasped in my lap, my eyes downcast, as he moved about the room, his presence a tangible force, a weight pressing down on me from all sides. Fear and despair coiled in my gut, my heart racing as I tried to anticipate his next move, dreading what new torment he might have in store for me.

"Look at me, Y/N," he commanded, his voice soft but firm, leaving no room for disobedience.

I obeyed, raising my gaze to meet his, my breath catching in my throat at the intensity I saw there. He stood before me, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his dark hair falling across his brow in a way that was both casual and calculated.

"Do you understand now?" he asked, his tone almost conversational, as if we were discussing the weather rather than the complete and utter destruction of my life. "Do you see the futility of your actions, the pointlessness of your resistance?"

I swallowed hard, my throat tight with unshed tears. "I understand that I'm trapped," I whispered, my voice hoarse and raw, barely recognizable to my own ears. "That there's no escape from this nightmare, from you."

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, a flash of satisfaction in his eyes. "Good. You're learning."

He reached out, his fingers ghosting along my cheek, tracing the curve of my jaw with a touch that was almost tender. I shivered, my skin prickling with a mixture of fear and revulsion, my stomach churning at the unwanted contact.

"You belong to me, Y/N," he murmured, his breath warm against my ear, sending a chill down my spine. "Body and soul, heart and mind. There is no part of you that is not mine, no corner of your being that I do not possess."

I closed my eyes, a single tear escaping to trail down my cheek, the hot sting of it a bitter reminder of my helplessness. He was right. I was his, wholly and completely, a moth caught in the web of a spider, helpless to resist the pull of his power.

Chrollo's lips brushed against my skin, trailing a path of fire down the column of my throat. I gasped, my hands fisting in the comforter, my body responding to his touch despite the revulsion that churned in my gut, despite the voice in my head screaming at me to fight, to resist, to do anything but submit to his twisted desires.

"You will never leave me," he whispered, his words a dark promise, a vow etched in blood and tears. "You will never escape. You are mine, now and forever."

And as his mouth descended on mine, his hands roaming over my body with a possessiveness that bordered on violence, I knew that he was right. There was no escape. Not for me, and not for anyone else who crossed his path.

I was his. And there was nothing I could do about it.

His kiss was like a drug, the taste of him addictive, the feel of his hands on my body intoxicating. I tried to resist, to push him away, but it was a futile effort. My body betrayed me, arching into his touch, craving more.

He broke the kiss, his eyes dark with desire, his breath ragged against my skin. "You can fight me all you want, Y/N. But in the end, you'll give in. You'll surrender to me, just as you did before."

"I won't," I whispered, my voice trembling with a mix of fear and defiance.

He smiled, a cold, cruel smile that sent a chill down my spine. "We'll see about that."

With a growl, he claimed my mouth again, his lips rough against mine, his teeth nipping at my skin. I cried out, my nails digging into his back, my body surrendering to the pleasure even as my mind screamed in protest.

I knew this was wrong, that I should resist, should fight him with every fiber of my being. But the line between pain and pleasure was blurred, the boundary between fear and desire a thin and fragile thing. And as he ravaged my body, his touch bruising, his voice a low and menacing growl in my ear, I realized with a sickening jolt that a part of me wanted this.

A part of me craved the pain, the darkness, the twisted power play. And that realization, more than anything else, was the final nail in the coffin of my doomed resistance.

Chrollo's hands moved over my body, his fingers tracing the lines of my hips, the curve of my breasts, a strange mix of gentleness and possessiveness in his touch. I gasped, arching into him, my pulse racing, a dull ache building between my thighs.

"That's it," he murmured, his lips ghosting over the sensitive skin of my neck. "Give in to me, Y/N. Surrender."

His teeth grazed my earlobe, sending a shiver of pleasure down my spine. I moaned, my fingers tangling in his hair, his name a whisper on my lips.

"Say it," he commanded, his voice rough and low. "Say that you're mine."

"I'm yours," I breathed, the words tumbling from my lips without hesitation, a damning admission of defeat. "I'm yours, Chrollo."

He kissed me again, hard and possessive, his tongue delving into my mouth. I surrendered to him, my body and mind consumed by the raw, primal need that burned between us.

He pulled back, his gaze dark and hungry, a satisfied smile curving his lips. "Good girl," he murmured, his thumb brushing across my swollen lips. "Now, let's see just how much you're willing to give me."

He moved with a predatory grace, his muscles rippling beneath his skin, his body a weapon honed to lethal perfection. He knelt before me, his fingers deft and sure, as he spread my thighs, his lips ghosting across my heated flesh.

I cried out, my back arching off the bed, as his tongue flicked over the sensitive bundle of nerves at my core. He growled, his fingers digging into my hips, holding me in place as he feasted on my body, his tongue and lips working their dark magic on me.

Pleasure rippled through me, hot and urgent, my skin tingling with electricity. I gasped, my hands clutching at the sheets, my body writhing beneath his touch.

"Chrollo," I moaned, my voice hoarse and desperate. "Please, please..."

He laughed, a dark and dangerous sound, his eyes glinting with a mix of lust and amusement. "Please what, Y/N?"

"Please," I begged, the word a broken whisper, a plea for release. "I need you."

"What do you need?" he asked, his tone mocking.

"I need you inside me," I gasped, my body aching with desire, a dull, throbbing heat pulsing through my veins. "Please, Chrollo, I need you to fuck me."

His eyes darkened, a look of pure, animalistic lust flashing across his features. With a low growl, he rose to his feet, his fingers digging into my hips, lifting me effortlessly, and drove himself into me, the sudden fullness tearing a cry from my lips.

I clung to him, my nails scoring his back, my body shuddering with the force of his thrusts. He claimed me, his mouth hot and hungry on mine, his hands gripping my flesh with a bruising intensity.

The room was filled with the sounds of our bodies colliding, the scent of our desire hanging heavy in the air. I cried out, my voice hoarse and raw, the waves of pleasure crashing over me, drowning out all thought, all reason.

I lost myself in the moment, in the feeling of him inside me, filling me, completing me. For a brief, shining moment, there was nothing but us, our bodies moving as one, the line between pain and pleasure blurred and meaningless.

And then, with a cry, I shattered, my body convulsing, the release tearing through me, an explosion of sensation. I felt him follow, his movements growing erratic, his breath a ragged gasp in my ear, his release hot and intense.

We collapsed in a tangle of limbs, the sweat cooling on our skin, the aftershocks of our shared pleasure still rippling through us. I lay there, breathless and spent, a strange mix of emotions churning within me.

I was disgusted with myself, with the way I had surrendered to him, with the pleasure I had found in his arms. But beneath that revulsion, buried deep beneath the surface, was a sense of shameful satisfaction, a twisted sort of gratification.

I had given in to him. I had surrendered to the darkness, the madness, the primal desire that raged between us. And as his arms tightened around me, his breath warm against my skin, a part of me reveled in the knowledge that, no matter what happened, he would always be a part of me.

"Are you satisfied?"

The question hung in the air between us, heavy with meaning, with implications. I glanced at Chrollo, my gaze flicking over his naked form, his skin still flushed with the aftermath of our encounter. He was watching me, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, the challenge clear in his dark eyes.

"No," I replied, meeting his gaze evenly, a thrill of anticipation running through me. "I'm not."

Chrollo raised an eyebrow, a flicker of interest sparking in his dark eyes. "Oh? And what more could you possibly want, Y/N?"

I swallowed, my heart pounding in my chest as I forced myself to hold his gaze. "I want the truth, Chrollo. The real you, not the mask you wear for the world."

A slow smile spread across his face, a predatory gleam in his eyes. "Careful what you wish for, my dear. The truth can be a dangerous thing."

I shook my head, a wry smile tugging at the corners of my lips. "I knew the risks when I chose to stay with you. I'm not afraid of the darkness."

Chrollo chuckled, a low, dark sound that sent shivers down my spine. "Brave words, Y/N. But we both know that's not entirely true, don't we?"

He leaned in closer, his breath warm against my skin, his fingers trailing along the curve of my jaw. "You may think you want the monster, but can you truly handle the reality of what I am?"

I met his gaze unflinchingly, my pulse racing with a heady mix of fear and desire. "There's only one way to find out."

With a sudden movement, Chrollo pinned me to the bed, his body covering mine, his eyes glittering with a dark hunger. "Then let me show you," he murmured, his mouth descending on mine in a searing kiss.

As the hours passed and the shadows lengthened, we lay there, entwined, our bodies slick with sweat, the air heavy with the scent of our mingled desire. Chrollo traced idle patterns on my skin, his fingers moving over my body with a familiarity born of countless encounters. But there was a distant look in his eyes, a contemplative expression that I hadn't seen before.

"What are you thinking about?" I asked, curious despite myself.

He was silent for a moment, his gaze focused on something far away. "I was wondering," he said at last, his voice uncharacteristically soft, "how things might have been different, if we had met under other circumstances."

I felt a flicker of surprise at his words, a strange sensation of hope and longing stirring in my chest. "What do you mean?"

Chrollo sighed, his fingers stilling on my skin. "If I wasn't who I am, if I wasn't a criminal, a member of the Phantom Troupe... could we have had something real, something genuine?"

I swallowed hard, my heart aching at the wistfulness in his tone. "I don't know," I replied honestly. "But I'd like to think so."

He smiled then, a sad, fleeting thing that barely touched his eyes. "In another life, perhaps I could have truly fallen in love with you, Y/N. Without the lies, the secrets, the constant threat of danger hanging over us."

I reached up, cupping his cheek in my hand, feeling the roughness of his stubble against my palm. "But this is the life we have, Chrollo. The one we've chosen, for better or worse."

He leaned into my touch, his eyes drifting shut for a moment. "I know. And I don't regret it, not really. But sometimes, I can't help but wonder..."

His words trailed off, the unspoken possibilities hanging in the air between us. I knew what he meant, knew the bittersweet ache of imagining a different path, a different fate. But we both knew that there was no going back, no changing the choices we had made.

"We have each other," I said softly, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. "Here and now. That's what matters."

Chrollo smiled, a real smile this time, his eyes warm and fond as they met mine. "You're right," he murmured, pulling me closer, his arms tightening around me. "And I wouldn't trade it for anything."

[mewsmagic]

Alright I did say I’d bring my infodumps and fantheying here to tumblr instead so lemme actually do this for once!!

Spoiler warning for Alrecchino’s animated short!

If you haven’t watched it yet, here’s the link!

Alright first things first! It looks like Clervie and Bulle Fruit girl were Alrecchino’s closest friends/sisters, which’s just so cute 🥺

From the visual storytelling and just how we saw Arle and Clervie together much more often than with Bulle Fruit girl, it also appears like Clervie was much much closer to Arlecchino, which’s so interesting!!

I love how Arlecchino is all about blacks, whites and occasional reds, she was always quiet and doing her own thing, and SHE HAD ACTUAL SHORT HAIR UNTIL RECENTLY ACTUALLY!!!! Gnc nation won!!!!

Anyway ahemmm LOL and Clervie was the opposite. A pink, outgoing girl, full of life and wonder for the world she lives in. Also, she was “girly” and wears dresses, while Arlecchino doesn’t seem fond of them (like me omggg)

Like, they’re literally opposites in everything, yet they were so close and so important to each other. Thinking about what comes next hurts my heart like nothing else just because of this.

Another thing I wanna bring up before we move on is: in this part, we learn that Arle’s deal with the black hand is indeed some kind of curse. And that’s probably why she was able to tell Furina’s also cursed, she had experience with one since birth after all

I LOVE THAT THEY HAD THEIR OWN PLUSHIES MADE IN THEIR IMAGE!!!! Arlecchino’s plushie is so cute!!! I wonder if she kept Clervie’s after all these years 🥺

In this part we also learn that their “mother” usually “argues” with her daughters, and for some reason Clervie has quite some injuries. From this, it’s not hard to assume she’s literally beating them up, which’s nasty.

A full grown woman beating up literal kids who cannot defend themselves? As a survivor of parental abuse, I felt this so hard, and I hate that hag so fucking much already.

This part I didn’t get at first, probably bc I didn’t pay attention to the beginning; when I watched it again, I caught it however. Their “mother” not only physically abused them but also made them battle each other to death.

Resulting in Arlecchino being the very one that killed Clervie, and potentially Bulle Fruit girl too.

Naturally, she was full of rage. I would be too, if I were in her shoes.

And that’s why I love her battle against “mother”. I didn’t take many screenshots because it’s a fast moving scene, but “mother”’s dialogue seems to hint that she’s the kind of mother that pretends to be caring and gentle but is actually cruel and ruthless in her actions. Which’s tbh the worst kind of mother probably.

Another detail that caught my eye was that Arlecchino was no match for her without her curse. But as soon as she released and embraced her curse, she not only defeated her “mother”, she blew up the entire building. Which’s epic as hell and I love that for her LOL

I find it interesting that Arlecchino was actually pretty close to becoming a criminal because of killing “mother”. Which’s so tragic when you think that she had already killed Fatui members before (Clervie and Bulle Fruit girl), but they weren’t ranked enough for it to be a big deal, like their deaths didn’t mean anything. But to Arlecchino they did… Aaaaanywayyyy.

For some reason I thought the Arlecchino title succession was much more automatic, like 1. Kill your parent 2. You’re now king. I think it’s because I’ve seen this in other shows before, but here she was taken to Snezhnaya to be judged by the Tsaritsa herself.

Luckily, the Tsaritsa not only pardoned her crimes but also promoted her to Arlecchino. Also I gotta say, her words… “My poor, mad, cursed Knave” hit me so hard. The Tsaritsa does seem to not be that cold and to empathize with her. Based of her tbh.

And at the end, we see a seemingly orphan child. At first I thought this was Freminet, but he has a more yellowish tone of eye color, so maybe this is a random kid?

Anyway, the thing that matters here is that Arlecchino says that she’ll be his strict and unfeeling “father”, which immediately stood out to me against her “mother”’s “kind and caring” approach.

Looks like she decided to be a “strict and unfeeling father” to not become like her own “mother”. This is so real of her tbh. I already knew the previous Knave was nasty, but with this animation it really hit home to me, as a survivor too.

I wanna pull her even more now LOL may all Arlecchino wanters become Arlecchino havers!!!!! I’m so excited!!!!

[call-sign-shark]

Loose Cannon|| Arthur Shelby x Reader

Summary: The heatwave continues and you have an excellent --and illegal -- idea to refresh yourself... To Arthur's greatest despair. But let's be honest, your antics only make him fall harder for you || . Modern!Peaky AU Loose Cannon

Words: 4.2k

TW: language, mutual pinning, unresolved sexual tension, idiots in love, physical description of the MC, quick allusion to child abuse, no proofreading we die like John.

Notes: Each part is individual and can be read as one-shots in no particular order.

“I FUCKING HATE YOU!” A painful moan escaped from your quivering lips, your voice rendered croaky by all the effort. If your heart could break free from your ribcage it would have done it already but yet he was, drumming and agonizing in a prison of bones.

“Shut up and take it.” A low growl underlined by a light tremor of fatigue replied to you, its owner wiping the sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand as he kept on moving increasingly faster. The cacophony of his pulse hammering in his temples almost covered your complaints but, unfortunately for him, it wasn’t enough, and still heard you scream at him. Arthur should have known that you wouldn’t be docile.

“You’re torturing me!! I’ll sue you, Arthur Shelby!” Forced to pause between each word, you tried your best not to faint well aware that the soldier had no pity for you. He would continue what he was doing whether minding your consciousness. Why would he while you were the one who asked for it? All you wanted was for him to stop and yet he remained criminally deaf to all your supplications, “I can’t… I can’t anymore.” Your voice cracked.

“You wanted to do this with me so now yer going to assume your choice. Faster ey.” He ordered through gritted teeth, and the gravel in his voice made you crumble from inside.

“ It— It hurts. My legs are fucking shaking! Please stop! St—” You were about to keep whining when all came to a quite brutal halt. Indeed, this confusing chaos ended up with your face suddenly bumping against the soldier's chest. “Aouch!” You exclaimed, pushing yourself from him and ready to excoriate the fucker. “Couldn't you fucking warn me, bastard” You brought your hand to your nose and rubbed the pain away, your furious eyes shooting him a murderous look.

“And can’t ye stop fookin’ complaining? I told you that each afternoon I go for a run with Hannibal. You’ve spent all the morning begging to come with me and now that you’re here, ye do nothing but whine like a fookin' kid.” As Arthur lashed out his frustration on you, his chest rose and fell quickly for his lungs had troubled to understand he wasn’t running anymore. And despite his erratic breathing he still found enough air to scold you. Usually, you wouldn’t have minded his explosive anger but a particularly harsh night of nightmares and insomnia had turned you a bit overemotional today. While holding a bit of truth, his words still vexed you which resulted in you fleeing his eyes and crossing your arms on your tight chest.

“You don’t understand.” You mumbled, nervously chewing the inside of your cheek as your brain processed with forming a kind of explanation to offer him.

“And now she's sulking!” Arthur roared and rolled his eyes, losing the remnant of patience he had left. “Yer a fookin’ pain in the ass, that’s what you are ay. Go home if ye too tired to keep running, but I ain’t gonna change me habits for you.” An arrow through the heart would have been less painful. Your lips parted, willing to speak, but not a single coherent thing came out. You stuttered a very brief while before definitely giving up and the only thing you knew: being insolent.

“That’s not what I asked for!” You exclaimed, fists closed tights and blood boiling in your veins. Obviously, the corrosive effects of anger didn’t help. “You’re a bloody idiot, that’s all you are ay!” If there was one thing positive about this whole scene it was your perfect imitation of him.

“So what the fook d’ya want?!” His hoarse voice resounded so loud in the park that a few passersby couldn’t help but glance at you with curiosity. Lacking proper words, you ended up stomping your feet and screaming with frustration, hands pulling your own hair. The noises, the images, the smells in your head… They were all too much. Caught in a whirlwind of panic and anger, you would have given everything to be able to calmly explain that all you wanted was to be with him and not alone with your twisted thoughts, bad memories, and the faint voices in your head. Then, you would have proceeded to tell him that the only moment your mind was quiet was when he was by your side, as hard as it was to admit it. If it had been the case, everything would have been easier but no, and you hated yourself even more for all of this. Come on Rat, say it, you thought.

I just want to be with you, Arthur. Because it feels good when I'm with you. I might want to murder you sometimes but your presence is comforting to me. Please, let me stay by your side and protect me from myself.

But words remained stuck in your throat and all of it was because of a deep-rooted and still open wound you carried with you every day of your life. From the day Uncle Jack entered and destroyed it the only way you could express yourself was with violent emotional outbursts and tantrums, your body and mind still not recovering from the pain he had inflicted on you. And here was the reason why you were in the middle of the park sulking at Arthur Shelby after he had scolded you like an unruly kid.

Woof. Between the two of you sat the soldier's huge malinois, wondering why his master had stopped running and why everyone looked so angry. Curious, Hannibal stared at him with his dark beady eyes reflecting the sunlight. Then, his focus shifted to you before letting out a louder bark. In the end, what caught his attention the most was the girl's utter sadness he could sense. That was why he walked to her and gently bumped her legs with his head.

“What?!” The soldier barked back, his steel-blue eyes diving into the dog’s chocolate-brown irises, quite not believing that his own K9 had turned against him. Hannibal finally sat by your side and barked at Arthur again, and his antics brought a pause in all this senseless chaos.

“Listen...” You started, your free hand nervously spinning one of your long blue braids, “I’m sorry,” You finally mumbled, losing your slim fingers — which were wrapped with multicolor bandaids — in the beast's fur. The softness of his hair under your flesh sends you a wave of comfort. “Fucker." You added, for you couldn't address him without at least calling him names.

“Yeah.” Arthur sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose as if he wanted to stop his dawning headache — which was the case. At least you apologized and that was already a win. "Alright." He finally said with his thick Brummie accent, his muscles finally relaxing and the handsome features of his face softening, “Alright.” He repeated, running a hand in his scruffy beard as he looked for an idea to maybe make amend for how he had yelled at you in public. "I wasn’t feeling it today anyway. It's too bloody hot out 'here. Wanna get an ice cream instead?" He suggested, one brow raised. For once, you didn't need words to be understood for the way your eyes enlightened at the mention of the frozen treat had been more than enough for him to understand. Just like the sun coming after the storm, your lips curled in a faint smile.. A smile that made Arthur's anger vanish and his heart melt more than he was willing to admit.

Did you, two independent and tough adults, fight over ice cream's flavors? Absolutely yes.

"Pistachio and chocolate is THE banger."

"Suck my dick you unoriginal dumbass, lemon and raspberry is the best combo."

"No one fookin' likes lemon sorbet, dumb bitch. You're just being a weirdo."

"If I were you I would shut the fuck up right now because I'm about to smash my ice cream on your ugly face!"

"Oh yeah? Go ahead and I'll beat your fucking ass -- don't care if people see me, you bloody brat!"

It was the kind of heated conversation you had during the whole way home, to Hannibal's greatest despair. At one point, you even swore you had heard the dog sigh loudly, probably bored of your stupid fights. The beast had found hope when you almost tripped on your own feet and Arthur, with his sharp reflexes, had managed to grab you by the hand right before you hit the ground. With that little unfortunate event, he assessed that you were far too clumsy for your own good and that keeping your hands in his was the best way to avoid injury. The more minutes flew by, the more your fingers intertwined together. You finally reached home, reluctantly letting the soldier's large and calloused hand go. As he searched for his key, you simply stretched your body with your hands high and your body weight momentarily resting on your tiptoes, the intense temperatures of the heat waves had exhausted both of you.

"Arthur." You called him, something catching your attention nearby.

The soldier replied with an uninterested "hm" as he opened the door to let Hannibal rush inside before he finally looked at you from above a freckled shoulder. For a split second, he completely forgot that you were talking to him, far too hypnotized by the way sweat made your silky skin glow and how your bright blue braids danced in your back at each of your movements. Arthur couldn't lie to himself -- You were an otherworldly and unusual combination of beauty and chaos.

"Did you know that your neighbor owned such a big-ass pool?!" You exclaimed, your little fists on your hips and your broken-doll face adorned with an outraged pout.

"Hm, yes I did." He absentmindedly replied, too busy carefully observing your lean frame, which exuded a sense of boundless energy that perfectly matched with your vibrant and expressive powder-blue eyes, filled with a mischievous spark. From your grunge makeup and your colorful hair to your attractive body and the blue clouds tattooed along a whole arm, everything of you enticed him.

"Fucking cunt. It's a shame to have such a big swimming pool and not use it." You shook your head and pout, shifting your body weight on one leg more than on the other, hence making your seductive hips tilt. Arthur forced himself to look away -- it wouldn't be that hard if you weren't wearing the shortest shorts he had ever seen.

"Well, he's on vacation." He shrugged, "C'm'here Rat. I ain't your bloody door holder."

"Do you ever stop being grumpy?" You kicked a pebble with your combat boot in his direction.

"Do you ever stop being an annoying little shit?" His lips stretched in a carnivorous and teasing smile at your childish antics.

"Fuck you, Arthur." You retorted, laying a kiss on his jaw before disappearing inside the house.

Please do, he thought.

Just one night.

There was the exact wording he had used when you forced your presence in his bed two weeks ago, arguing that the only fan in the whole house was in this room. While your excuse could be believable, it didn’t explain why you ended up in his arms. So when you came back the night after and slipped under the thin sheet to snuggle up with him without uttering a single thing, Arthur told himself “Just another one”. But the heart was a strange creature and when it fell, it fell hard. Your surprising demonstration of affection was all it took for Arthur's mind to quickly forget about chasing you away, the idea gradually becoming unthinkable until he genuinely wondered how he managed to sleep without your presence next to him. From then an odd game of pretend settled between you and him: During the day you were fighting about the most ridiculous details, never missing a moment to get under the other’s skin, and yet, when the night came and the world turned silent, you found yourselves melting against each other, your lips brushing his neck to make him shiver and his nose buried in your vibrant hair to lured the demons of war away.

As Arthur woke up, his eyelids still heavy and his mind still foggy, he growled in dissatisfaction at the realization that you weren’t in his arms anymore. Maybe the heat had finally won, and his body temperature really kept you from sleeping? It was with this in mind that he stretched one arm, his hand patting the mattress. Not only he want to make sure you were still next to him, but he also already missed your touch. His fingers were met with empty sheets as they collided with the soft fabric. Blood immediately rushed through his entire body, adrenaline rattling against his every nerve just like it used to when his squad had to wake up to gunshots and bombs. For one second, Arthur couldn’t tell if he was in Birmingham or back to Iraq and somehow, he didn’t mind. Jumping from the bed and trying not to drown in his PTSD-induced paranoia, the soldier looked around him with haste, “Love?!” He called, rummaging through the room until the sight of the wide-open bedroom window made him freeze. After a few microseconds of complete panic, Arthur leaned over the window sill in a desperate attempt to see you and fortunately did. You were here, safe and sound in Small Heath. Far from death, maimed bodies, and agonizing soldiers. His shoulders dropped as he relaxed, watching you swimming in the neighbor’s pool. The information soon reached his brain: the neighbor’s pool? “Fuck me.” Arthur sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes at the thought of you trespassing the garden to take a midnight bath in his pool.

Unbelievable.

Wasting no more time, the soldier left the house without minding the fact he was wearing nothing more than his sweatpants. It wasn’t difficult for him to climb the fence and jump on the other side of it, right into the neighbor’s garden, considering how he had learned much more during his military training with the SAS. With both hands on his head, he roared “Are you fookin’ crazy?!” His steel blue eyes, whose color shone brighter under the glow of the pool’s lights, also noticed a familiar bottle in your hand, “Is it me or you’ve stolen me whisky? Jesus Christ, I’m going to drown you, you fucking disaster of a girl!” He looked so dramatic that you couldn’t help but giggle, his screams not impeding your little bathe. “LAUGHING AT ME FACE SHE IS!” This time Arthur, breathless with rage, was yelling so loud that the pale skin of his face had turned bright red.

"Sheeesh, calm down, you gonna pop an artery.” You swam closer to the edge of the pool, slightly lifting your body to cross your arms on the warm tiles. The way your two long blue braids danced behind you, waving like two water snakes, captivated his attention for a very short while. The soldier was about to retort something murderous when you cut him for a second time, “Why don’t you join me instead of making a fool of yourself eh? The house’s empty anyway.”

“You wish,” He exhaled slowly through the nose, his nostrils flaring as he tried to contain his boiling anger and not wake all the neighborhood up, “This ain’t fun, Rat. Get the fuck out of the pool right now.”

“Come and get me then.” You challenged him with a finger gun gesture.

“I don’t think you understand you stupid brat. Do you realize that what you’re doing is illegal?”

“Yeah.” You giggled.

“And that you could be in fookin’ trouble for it?”

“Yeaaaah!” You exclaimed, pale eyes shimmering with excitement and recklessness so childish it baffled the poor soldier. Taken aback by your behavior, Arthur blinked several time as he looked at you — Somehow he should have known that you weren’t going to obey him. After all, he could tell from your chapped lips and always bloody knees that you were everything but a nice little girl. No, you were an unhinged little shit and he liked it despite everything, “so? Do you really wanna catch me ‘cause I’m getting bored.”

“Okay, I’m done.” The soldier quickly took off his sweatpants to be in underwear and, with a nimbleness you didn’t suspect, dived into the pool. Engulfed by the water, Arthur had disappeared amidst the bluish light and the rippling tiles at the bottom of the pools. All you could see was a quick silhouette coming at you with what seemed to be the speed of a torpedo.

“Oh no, no, no!” Before you could do something, two large and calloused hands grabbed you by the hips and pulled you under the water, leaving you just the time time to take a deep inhale before getting swallowed by a chlorine tide. All your vision turned into a blur for a brief but intense second, chaos taking the form of confusing bubbles and foam until everything stopped. Reopening your eyes under the water, you found yourself transported in a parallel world in which a tranquil hush enveloped your senses. With each graceful stroke, you embraced the weightless sanctuary, finding solace in the quiet depths of the pool, where worries dissolved, and the rhythmic pulse of water echoed a soothing lullaby powerful enough to shut the insufferable screeching of both sickening memories and psychotic thoughts. Surprisingly enough, Arthur wasn’t there — or at least he wasn’t in sight. All you could see was an odd combination of bluish tiles and underwater spotlights that created a surprisingly serene and liminal landscape. It seemed like the cool water had the same calming effects upon the soldier, for when you turned around at the feeling of fingers gently brushing your ribs you were met with a playful smirk. Raising an eyebrow, you gently shove him before trying to escape several times but he inevitably caught you. A small bubble escaped from your lips as you tried not to laugh, amused by how Arthur made both of you slowly spin under the water, as a jolly sailor waltzing with her mermaid lover. With your bodies moving elegantly together, halfway between dancing and gently fighting, your fingers cupped his face. Despite the underwater hush, Arthur’s interrogation is visible through the way one of his eyebrows arched when he saw your face getting dangerously closer to his. Closer. Closer. Until your mouth finally crashed against his. Arthur’s eyes widened in shock, pupils suddenly dilating under the effect of adrenaline when the warmth of your mouth found his. The peck was brief, so brief he wondered if he hadn’t hallucinated it but it was enough for him to lose control of everything. His body softened, letting you a short moment to break free from his playful embrace. Offering a last wink, you trashed your legs to come back to the surface and took a deep inhale. As the warm air of the night filled your lungs, a strange state of calmness possessed you a with it followed a genuinely amused giggle at the remembering of Arthur’s surprised expression. The man broke from underwater a few seconds after you, quickly sliding his hair back with his hands before swimming to you, eyebrows knitted together and lips sewn tight in a thin line.

“What did ya do?” He rasped, his steady breathing rendered irregular for his heart raced in his chest. The taste of your sweet yet damaged lips was still tingling on his skin.

“What are you talking about?” You pouted even though you didn’t make a peculiar effort to hide your amusement. “Hey!” The complaint fell from your mouth when his strong arms wrapped around your waist to press your body against his. A wave of fire spread through your being.

“Do it again.” Arthur could barely believe he just said that and yet he did and now that it was too late, he decided to go for it and see what would happen. Taking advantage of your surprise, he nuzzled his face in the crook of your neck, his lips grazing the soft skin sprinkled with tiny droplets of water similar to translucent pearls engraved in your flesh. A delightful thrill crossed through your body as his beard scratched your skin -- A thrill that soon turned into a wave of heat that made you feel feverish.

“Do what?” Your fierce and loud voice was merely a whisper as your cheeks flushed red, as red as the blood simmering in your veins. You might have been slightly confused by the situation but your bandaged fingers seemed to know what to do when they lost themselves in his wet hair to slick it back with a tenderness you never knew you possessed.

“Kiss me.” The low rumble made your own soul quake. Punctuating his sentence with actions, the soldier's face left your neck to lean his forehead against yours. In this whirlwind of emotions and arousal, you batted your eyelashes while drowning in the dark blue of his eyes and wondered if they had always been this charming. What happened next none of you could tell for any thoughts left disappeared. Mouths grazed each other, the two of them timidly discovering the shape and details without daring to break the few inches remaining. Soft lips against chapped ones, and against all expectations the rougher pair was yours. How could such an unsufferable and brutal little minx like you feel so fragile in his scarred hands? A frail moan escaped from your mouth at the blissful sensation of the soldier's hips moving with yours at the water’s discretion and, for once, you weren't ashamed of it. With your underwear fabric sticking to your skin and bodies closely interlocked, you could both feel every intimate detail and shape, gently and sensually grinding against each other due to the flow... Or maybe the flow wasn't the cause and you were both actively asking for more, who knew? Arthur growled again, for even in the cold water of the pool the warmth between your legs made him weak and far too aware that you yearned for him.

"No, you kiss me first you coward." You tried to sound mean but your voice could produce nothing but an enamored tone.

"Ah, shut up Rat." Arthur softly bit your lower lip, trapping the juicy flesh between his teeth and pulling it a little bit. The taste of anticipation lingered in the air, mingling with the heady scent of perfume, chlorine, and the warmth of intertwined breaths.

"Go on then, shut me up..." And your wish became his command. His warm tongue gave a faint lick on your lower lips just to taste the water, almost too shyly for the man he was. Then a second one and a third, and as he did he kept his hands busy by slipping them under your panties. His large palms conquered your buttcheeks and then pressed on your flesh to bring your core closer to his until you could clearly feel how enthusiastic he was to have you so close. In reply, your fingers hung at the hem of his boxer, slightly pulling them down to disclose his V-line. In the secluded haven of the dimly lit swimming pool, the water's gentle caress enveloped both of you as you shared this moment suspended in time. Arthur's patience finally reached its limits and pressed his lips against yours for another chlorine kiss you were both eager to deepen. A kiss that felt like a car crash and still sounded like water lapping and the rhythmic beat of hearts. It could have been perfect if Arthur hadn't back up suddenly, eyes wide open at the sight of a car's headlight in the house's alley.

“Out of the pool, now!” He exclaimed, hauling himself from the water quickly to grab the bottle of whisky, then his pants before seizing your wrist to lift you from the pool.

"HOLY SHIT!" Adrenaline rushed through your body, momentarily shutting down everything except your flight instinct. That was how you both ended up dashing across the garden half-naked and completely soaked up. Fortunately enough, you both managed to climb the fence and lock yourselves into the house, banging the door so close that poor Hannibal jumped from the sofa and barked. Time stopped for a while, the two of you with your back leaning against the door and trying to catch your erratic breath, bodies dripping with water. A heavy silence floated in the corridor, only broken by the sound of your own heart drumming in your ears. And then, you heard it... It started with a little nervous giggle and then it became a loud and gravelly laughter. Despite the whole panic, you were soon infected by a fit of hilarity too, your aching heart drowning in a feeling you hadn't experienced in a long time: joy in its purest and most innocent form.

♠️ Any comment, review, reblog, or constructive criticism is welcome. Your reactions really motivate me and keep me alive, so please don't be shy. English is not my first language.

♠️ Tag list: @cljordan-imperium @1nterstellarcha0s @raincoffeeandfandoms @babaohhhriley @zablife

[theredofoctober]

MANNA PART 5

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham fic, sort of DD/LG dynamic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, injury, drugging

She/her pronouns for Reader

---

You clap out of the morphine night of your slumber to hear Will Graham's voice, low and, hoarse at the other end of the room.

"What happened?"

He stands, flushed from the outdoors, the tip of his soft nose pinkly cherubine, staring at you with the uncertainty of his having not yet slipped into the role he always assumes in this house.

Will is vulnerable, in such moments, suspended between the reclusive criminal profiler known to the public, and the often cruel, sensitive, complex creature shown to you, a character in continuous change.

He glances to Hannibal for reassurance, an answer, perhaps, permission to enter this space with him. There cannot be fire without the flint to strike it, after all.

"Dr Lecter," says Will, sharply, with a ridiculous formality, for the intimacies they have shared in your body. "What happened? Her leg is in a cast."

"Indeed it is," says Hannibal, congenially. "I put it there myself. As for what occurred to produce such an injury— it is only fitting that our errant charge tells you herself."

The doctor swills a glass of some dark liquid, and glances pointedly towards the boarded window. Will turns, unthreading his scarf from his neck; the pallidity of his white throat compells you with the ease of which you might cut it, were you not weak, had you kept a shard of glass from your escape.

His face stills, mouth drawn tight as he examines the planks over the shattered window, rather spoiling the aesthetic of the room. Will's eyes—large, glossy with alarm—harden as they return to you.

There is a pause held between the three of you, the reverence of cathedral quiet.

Your blood pounds in your temples, and every instinct has you craving the darkness of hidden corners where the hands of neither man can find you.

Hannibal says, "I will prepare dinner. The two of you may discuss this alone."

"No!" you say, quickly, and realise that Will has uttered the same word in blackly comical tandem: you, with a loathing to be boarded with the dog that bites, and Will in alarm at being left to rely on his own judgement, which he little trusts at the best of times.

"Our ward must foster an individual relationship with each of her guardians," says Hannibal, resolutely. "I will return presently. I trust that you will get along without me."

He retreats into the kitchen with a smile at his lips, all easy satisfaction.

You and Will look at each other, his gaze crawling down your body with the quickening venom of disappointment.

You are trapped by the weight on your leg, the shackling pain; you cannot flee this room, can do nothing but lie half-upright against the cushions, thinking of Will's dream, the wind-surge of leaves, and blood in the rain.

"The window," says Will, at length. "You broke it. You tried to leave. Don't bother denying it; the guilt is all over you."

You don't reply, beholding the cosmic uselessness of it.

"Dr Lecter chose not to give you your medication this morning," Will continues, with a tone of rising accusation. "You went out of your way to spit in his face by damaging his property and abandoning your treatment. Abandoning us. My question is, why now?"

The question comes with a suddeness you cannot easily respond to.

"This isn't the first time you've been unmedicated, alone in the house," says Will, jumping at your silence. "So why today?"

"You scare me," you admit. "Both of you. I'm scared of how far you're going to take all this."

Will scoffs, his soft looks soured with derision.

"That's nothing new. But you had a pretty good idea of what would happen if you were caught. What made you think you'd ever get away?"

His eyes are Byzantine stone in the low light, catching the lamp in such a way that their colour is magnified, unbearable in its focus.

"I... I didn't," you falter. "But I had to try. Because..."

Will's arched brows, scathing, provoke a rush of honesty.

"Because I don't want to get better," you say. "I never wanted to go to therapy; my family made me. I don't want help. And I don't want you."

You anticipate anger, but the smiling coldness with which the younger of your captors replies curdles your very blood.

"I don't think you're telling the truth. Not anymore."

Swallowing, you glance away, your eyes rooted to the broken window, the nails like malignantly winking eyes.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Will."

"Don't pretend you don't remember whose bed you climb into when you have nightmares," he says, coolly. "Who you crawl to, begging for reassurance when one of your sessions with Dr Lecter gets too much for you. You could disengage entirely from all of this, if you wanted to, but you don't. You're responding."

A smugness rounds Will's words, a confidence unusual to him. You wonder how much of it is him carrying out his role and how much is really him, the man that murders in sweet slumber.

"At this point, you need us," he continues, "and you know you do. I'm stunned that you'd insult us by even entertaining the notion that you'd last even a day out there alone before skulking back, like a dog hit by a car."

"I could make it," you mutter, petulantly. "I'm not a baby."

Will laughs aloud, a short, unhumorous sound.

"At this point, you might as well be. You're so sick that you can't be trusted for two hours alone. We know you broke the rules, the other night. Foolishly decided to be lenient. Clearly, that can't happen again."

To your dismay, you find yourself hanging your head, chastised.

"If we let you leave, what do you think would happen?" asks Will, relentless in his path to grind you down. "I'm curious. Did you really strike out without any plan at all, or did you intend to starve yourself to a martry's death just to prove a point?"

"I'm a human being," you protest. "An adult. I deserve my freedom."

"You can't be trusted with it."

"It's my choice to make. Mine."

You're almost shouting, ashamed of so loud a voice in a house that seems to be made only for respectful murmurs.

"You haven't been listening," says Will, sneeringly. "You don't get to decide that anymore. Not until you're well again."

His makes no attempt to conceal his lack of faith in this reality. It occurs to you that you should be insulted by such judgement from a madman, but you are hurt, deeply so.

"I guess you have nothing to say to me," says Will. "You're such a disappointment. And now I have to decide what to do with you."

A rod of fear flowers down your back, and you regret that you cannot run, cannot defend yourself in any way against him.

"I'll have to be careful," says Will, ponderously. "Wouldn't want to spoil Dr Lecter's impeccable handiwork."

"Will," you say. "Don't. I'm sorry."

Will's lips draw back from his teeth in disgust.

"You're sorry you were caught, is all."

He pauses, his hands in his pockets, thoughtful.

"You're sleeping in Hannibal's room from now on," he says, suddenly. "Privacy is a privilege you haven't earned."

Your bedroom had been a reprieve, a respected space in which it was understood you were to be left alone; there is no question as to where this change in arrangements will lead for you.

"But my leg," you protest. "I need my own bed."

"You can sleep on one of the chairs," he says, dismissively. "They're comfortable enough, though that's not my main priority right now."

Suddenly you're on the verge of despair, comprehending exactly to what end you have consigned yourself through your foiled venture.

"Why are you doing this?" you blurt out. "Why? To impress Dr Lecter? To make him happy?"

It's dangerous to interrogate the rules of the charade, yet you cannot prevent yourself, cannot exist here without treading deeper than the shallows of sex, and its hold on the three of you.

"Please answer me," you say, as Will tenses, the stillness that comes before a lapse in control. "You would never do something like this on your own. You... you try to be a good person, right? So why are you playing along? Is it like I said?"

Will is silent for so long that you regret having spoken.

"You're right," he says, at last. "At first, it was about Hannibal. I was curious how far he was willing to go with this; I wanted to understand him through you, even though what I saw and what I was doing made me uncomfortable. I was waiting for a revelation, like panning some dirty river for gold."

Will steps forward, closing the distance between you.

"The thing is," he says, "that what I found is that it's not just about Hannibal anymore."

You glance up at him in trepidation.

"So what it is about?"

"Family," says Will. "Blood has nothing to do with it. There's a bond, now, and responsibility, beyond the treatment."

Shocked, you say, "We're not a family."

Will lunges forwards, his flattened hand jolting you back against the couch.

"Careful. Thin ice doesn't even begin to cover your situation right now."

His touch, the magma of danger in his eyes; you stare into the trench of pupil and find the rational adult in you towed down into the deep.

"Daddy," you whimper, and you feel the quiver through him of want, of grudging affection even your running away has not made a meal of.

Will clenches his hand on your shoulder, staring at his knuckles as though astonished that he has the stomach to touch you.

"So now you're calling me that? Think I'll go easy on you?"

His face is so near to yours that you spin the same air into a flax that joins you together. His breath is odorless, yours rank with wine, with fear, with want to end your noxious attachment to one another.

"You were bad," says Will, coldly. "And this is what bad girls get."

Ridiculous language, the stuff of poor quality pornographic films, is made by him into an idol of darkness.

He pulls up the dress you're in, finding you bare beneath, peach-slick, and yearning for attention; his fingers open you to him, and you feel yourself descend to their invitation.

Will's breath comes in soft snarls at your neck. His free hand is at your breasts, your hip, his every grasp a tender and fumbling violence. Your back rises from the sofa cushions like a doubled belt, and you sob as your leg aches, and Will cracks pleasure from your rigid body as though you are but honeycomb to be so broken.

"I shouldn't even be touching you right now," he growls. "I''m giving you exactly what you want."

He kisses you in a sloppy bite that carries the wildness of terror, the dread of having near lost you, of having being driven to some abandoned, primitive cruelty.

"You'll never leave us again," he says. "Say it."

You turn your face against the back of the couch in misery.

"I can't!"

"Do it, or I swear I'll get you close to coming and leave you there. You know that I can. And will."

Pleasure between your thighs, pain parring your broken leg so that you cannot tell where one sense ends and the other begins. Will's thumb grazes your clitoris so lightly that you wish you'd snapped your neck jumping from the window, death a pleasantly beckoning alternative to this intelligent evil.

"Say it," says Will, again, and the crack in his voice is all possession, and broken need. "I have to hear you say it."

His kisses find your mouth, and the moon-silk of dolorous joy braids your middle with a giddy silver. Always his kisses are the catalyst to undo your resistance, for they come when the gauze between Will and madness is at its thinnest, when his desideratum is the same as yours.

"I..." you falter, and Will's fingers withdraw against your thigh, tracing the pearlescent matter of your pleasure in clawing arcs across your skin.

You don't want to be touched, yet you know the terrors that bask in every hour alone.

"I'll never leave you again," you whisper, and Will's expression is a child's drawing of relief, the overlarge eyes eating up his face.

His fingers rejoin your flesh in a messy dance of eagerness to make you come, to make you see how vacuous a mannequin you are without him and Hannibal to possess you with their desires.

You grip the sides of the settee and shiver through a guttural cry as your climax gloves Will from finger to wrist; the after-twinge of the ache in your leg forgotten in it.

He looks down at you, tucking one of his wayward curls behind one ear.

"That's better," he says.

Rather than elaborate on the statement, he kneels beside the couch and lowers himself to the tea-musk of your acquiescent orgasm to taste it.

Hannibal emerges, suddenly, in a doorway, his face slightly misted from the kitchen, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow. He looks upon the scene before him: you, raddled with exertion, Will lapping a lake of his own building.

"I was about to suggest that we move this conversation to the dining room," says Hannibal, lightly. "But I see that you have already started eating without me."

[but-a-humble-goon]

As are aware of Bruce's more negative character traits, who while not liking them doesn't dismiss them as a non canon aberration, you seem like the person to ask this question.

Do you think Gut's could be a good comparison as far as characters go in terms of being someone who is capable of great kindness & great cruelty, who is meant to be sympathetic but can at time horrify.

Obviously Guts having been written by one author for one story is a notably more coherent character. This is more of a general comparison if someone embodying two extremes & still making sense.

Guts in the Misty Valley arc could both save & be very cool towards a young child & be a source of comfort, but could also switch to holding a knife to that same child's throat to lure in an enemy for a surprise attack & still feel coherent.

Do you think a well written Batman could be handled as such, and or that Batman as he largely stands in terms of overall collective works could be regarded in a similar light?

I think the sheer insurmountable difference in the writing quality is what makes the comparison difficult. The way I'd describe it is Guts feels like an incredibly well written dark fucked up antihero and Batman feels like a very badly written morally grey goodguy. It's hard to reconcile Bruce's good with his bad because most of the time it genuinely feels like him being kind of a monster happens unintentionally thanks to writers just having no clue what they're doing. Like, clearly during the whole Stephanie War Games saga the audience was supposed to sympathize with Bruce over her but like... they sorta forgot to make him sympathetic and forgot to make Stephanie do anything bad besides being a teenaged girl so the result his he just comes across like a willfully abusive piece of shit motivated apparently by pure spite. Or, again, by pure misogyny if you take Chuck Dixon's word for it. Or whenever he's casually gleefully cruel to criminals and treats them like animals. Most of the time it doesn't feel like the story is commenting on Batman's own issues, it just kinda feels like it's being written by people who think the thoughtless brutality is okay and/or super cool actually and are using Bruce as a vicarious power fantasy. Or all the times they have him lash out with physical violence against his kids, do they actually get how screwed up and over the line that is? Because it feels more like the writers are just like "nah, it's cool, they're not his real kids so it doesn't count as child abuse, just regular abuse which is fine." I've said it before but it genuinely feels like writers think him just being Batman (the beloved childhood icon of whole generations) is a free pass to have him constantly act as awful as they feel like and never face consequences, learn any lessons or grow as a person while expecting everyone to still like him for some reason. I don't think there really is a way to square Batman's constant shittiness with the good person we're supposed to take him to be. Instead it just ends up feeling like there's two Batmans; one who's gruff, antisocial and scary but ultimately a hero who always means well... and another who is a totally incoherently horrible leech of a human being who everyone inexplicably has infinite patience for, presumably because they mistake him for the first guy. On the other hand, Berserk clearly at least understands that the extremes of bastardry Guts ends up going to are indeed extremes. They actually endeavor to make it make internal sense for the character. The dude is at any one time just barely clinging to his sanity after all the horrific shit he's lived through and every single time he tries to let his guard down and start healing the universe punishes him for it, leaving him broken all over again. He ends up being sympathetic because he's somehow only as much of a monster as he is. Even at his absolute darkest he's managed to hold on to even just the faintest glimmer of his humanity despite everything. Also to be perfectly honest, accounting for the sheer difference in quantity of content I would put money on Guts having a much higher proportional rate of humanizing moments of genuine kindness for contrast than Bruce does, even if he does also go a whole lot darker than Bruce ever has.

So if anything the comparison feels more like: here's what to do and here's what not to do.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Dean Obeidallah at The Dean's Report:

President Biden is not playing. He came out Friday and delivered what even the awful NY Times dubbed a “fiery” speech before a boisterous crowd in Michigan where thousands cheered: “Don’t you quit!” and “We’ve got your back!” The audience laughed at Biden’s barbs about Trump’s failed businesses, declaring Trump “even went bankrupt running a casino – I didn’t think that was even possible. Doesn’t the house always win in a casino?!” And when Biden touched on Trump being a convicted felon, the crowd organically chanted, “Lock him up!” But it was Biden’s line rightfully calling Trump a “rapist” that needs to be repeated by Democrats to force the media to cover this fact so that it becomes a visible part of the 2024 election. And that was Biden’s very point, as he called out the corporate media’s failure to cover so much about Trump while instead dissecting every syllable uttered by the President.

As Biden correctly told the excited crowd, the media has been holding him to a different standard by ignoring Trump’s crimes, etc. But Biden defiantly declared that was going to end now: “No more free passes!” Biden continued, “Today we’re going to shine a spotlight on Donald Trump. We’re going to do what the press so far hasn’t” adding, “We’re going to say who he is.” That is when Biden leaned into Trump being found liable for rape in the civil case brought by journalist E. Jean Carroll.  Biden told his throngs of supporters: “Donald Trump was found liable for sexual assault by a judge, who told us not to be fooled by Trump brushing it off.” The President continued, “Here’s what the judge wrote. Quote, the judge in that case wrote, quote, ‘Mr. Trump attempted to minimize sexual abuse, finding it frivolous. Mr. Trump raped her.’ That’s the judge’s language, not mine.” Adding, “Raped her, as many people understand the word rape.” That is correct and it deserves far more coverage. Donald Trump is a rapist as a federal judge determined after reviewing the evidence and jury verdict.

As a quick reminder, E. Jean Carroll had stated that Trump had sexually assaulted her in 1996 while she was in a dressing room in an upscale department store.  Carroll sued Trump in this case for both the attack and for defamation because he called her a liar, publicly ridiculed her as making up the story to sell books and more causing damage to her reputation and inflicting emotional distress. In May 2023, a federal jury unanimously found that Trump—who was represented by well-known lawyers in the trial—had “sexually abused” Carroll and did defame her, thus, awarding her $5 million. The jury did not, however, find that Trump had “raped” her in the narrow definition of the NY Penal law, but this was not a criminal trial, only a civil one seeking damages. (You can read the actual jury verdict form here.)

What Biden was referring to as Trump being adjudicated a rapist comes from what the federal judge presiding over the case, Lewis A. Kaplan, ruled in July 2023 in response to Trump’s motion to set aside the verdict. Judge Kaplan wrote in his decision (which you can read here) that what Trump did was in fact rape, as commonly understood. As the judge explained, “Carroll failed to prove that she was “raped” within the meaning of the New York Penal Law does not mean that she failed to prove that Mr. Trump “raped” her as many people commonly understand the word “rape.” Indeed, as the evidence at trial recounted below makes clear, the jury found that Mr. Trump in fact did exactly that.”

President Biden is right to call Donald Trump a rapist.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

TRUMP IS PISSED

TCinLA

Sep 29, 2024

Friday night, Trump posted this on his Lies Anti-Social:

“It has been determined that Google has illegally used a system of only revealing and displaying bad stories about Donald J Trump, some made up for this purpose while, at the same time, only revealing good stories about Comrade Kamala Harris. This is an ILLEGAL ACTIVITY, and hopefully the Justice Department will criminally prosecute them for this blatant Interference of Elections. If not, and subject to the Laws of our Country, I will request their prosecution, when I win the Election and become President of the United States.”

He’s not even pretending anymore.

Last Tuesday, the Senate Judiciary Committee held a very interesting hearing, the title of which was: “‘When the President Does It, That Means It’s Not Illegal’: The Supreme Court’s Dangerous Immunity Decision.”

Philip Lacovara who - along with Richard ben-Veniste and Jill Wine-Banks - was one of the young lawyers in the employ of Watergate special prosecutors Archibald Cox and Leon Jaworski, gave the following testimony at that hearing:

“Quoting a couple of snippets from comments by some of the Framers that they wanted to have a ‘vigorous’ and ‘robust’ presidency is transparently result-oriented. Of course, the Framers wanted a strong presidency. Indeed, historians agree that they had General George Washington in mind as their model; not surprisingly, he became the first president. But a strong president is not necessarily a criminal president. Not a word in the debates surrounding the drafting of the Constitution or in text that they framed suggests that any of the Framers expected that a president could be ‘vigorous’ enough and ‘energetic’ enough only if licensed to commit federal crimes.

‘The majority had to concede that, “unlike the Speech and Debate Clause immunity,” which the Framers carefully crafted in Article I, Section 6, to provide members of Congress with some limited immunity for engaging in some legislative acts, it is “true” that “there is no ‘Presidential immunity clause’ in the Constitution.” But it is misleading to imply that the Framers simply overlooked this issue or forgot about the possibility that there might be a criminal president one day. Instead, they actually addressed that issue, and the text of the Constitution demonstrates that the Roberts Court simply defied the Framers’ fundamental judgment that a president who uses his office to commit crimes is fully answerable in a criminal prosecution.

“The Constitution declares that the “President . . . shall be removed from Office on Impeachment for, and Conviction of, Treason, Bribery, or other high Crimes and Misdemeanors.” (Art. II, Sec. 4). Like treason and bribery, these other “high crimes and misdemeanors” may be statutory crimes as well as abuses of office. The Impeachment Clause expressly states that, even after impeachment by the House and conviction by the Senate, any person, including the president, “shall nevertheless be liable and subject to Indictment, Trial, Judgement and Punishment, according to Law.” (Art. I, Sec. 3) (emphasis added). This “nevertheless” clause was intended to preclude an argument that the Double Jeopardy Clause would bar criminal prosecution after a Senate conviction.

“Of course, there is the immediate risk that former President Trump will escape otherwise just punishment for crimes allegedly committed in 2020-2021. There is the further, near-term risk that, if he is reelected, he will take advantage of this newly created immunity and exercise this “license to kill” vigorously and energetically. But more is at stake. This ruling – until repudiated at some point in the future – will be available to future presidents. It would be nice to think that there will never again be a president who is tempted to use criminal immunity to pursue what he considers “official” actions. But I know from my experience during the Watergate affair that it would be folly to assume that every president will voluntarily refrain from abusing power available to him, even when it involves committing federal crimes. As I mentioned, the Framers understood that persons who occupy high office in government, including the presidency, are not any more likely to be “angels” than any other mortals.

“Richard Nixon abused his powers to punish his political enemies by setting the Internal Revenue Service on them. He used his control over executive agencies, including the CIA, to interfere with the investigation into responsibility for the Watergate break-in. He misused his senior White House aides to orchestrate a campaign of bribery and subornation of perjury to obstruct the Watergate coverup investigation. Except for Ford’s pardon, he faced prosecution for those crimes. Under the Trump Immunity ruling, however, a future Richard Nixon could replicate those crimes with impunity.”

Trump is telling us what crimes he intends to commit when he re-enters the White House and destroys this constitutional democratic republic, supported by the traitors on the Unsupreme Court and in the Confederate White People’s Treason and Sedition Party, aka what used to be the Republican Party, and the otherwise-unemployable low achievers of the upper middle class in the DC Press Corpse and their corporate masters.

Of course Trump would think as he does about this. The reason he got fact-checked the way he did in the September 10 debate with Kamala Harris is that everything he says is a lie. The reason Google returns “bad stories about Trump,” is because he constantly says and does Bad Things.

Google has said it does not manipulate search results to benefit a particular party. “Both campaign websites consistently appear at the top of Search for relevant and common search queries,” the company said in a statement.

Still, conservatives have long complained that Google’s search results unfairly favor Democrats. The right wing Media Research Center - run by the raving lunatic L. Brent Bozell III (he has been p[hotographed literally foaming at the mouth), who channels is lunatic father - which bills itself as a media watchdog for conservatives, has previously issued reports claiming Google helped Democrats.

This month, Trump threatened in another Lies Anti-Social post to pursue criminal charges against any lawyers, donors, political operatives and a range of other people who he believes engaged in supposed election fraud against him if he wins the presidential election in November.

One wonders what his response will be to “Athletes for Kamala Harris,” launched yesterday with co-chairs Thomas Booker, Magic Johnson, Billie Jean King, Steve Kerr, Ali Krieger, Candace Parker, Doc Rivers, Dawn Staley, Ali Truwit and Chris Paul. This morning, 15 NFL Hall of Famers announced a joint endorsement of the Harris-Walz presidential ticket, praising Vice President Kamala Harris’s “vision of Democracy, Freedom, American world leadership, and equal education and equal opportunities for all Americans.”

Among those who are listed on the endorsement are Emmitt Smith, the all-time NFL rushing leader who won three Super Bowls with the Dallas Cowboys in the 1990s; Calvin Johnson — known by fans as “Megatron” during his time with the Detroit Lions; and Alan Page, one of two defensive players to win the MVP award. The others included Mel Blount, Kellen Winslow, Andre Tippett, Marv Levy, Drew Pearson, Kenny Houston, Jan Stenerud, Calvin Johnson, Robert Brazile, Willie Roaf, Mike Haynes, Elvin Bethea and Ron Mix.

Magic Johnson wrote: “I’m so happy to be a part of Athletes for Harris. I have known Vice President Harris for over 25 years, and you can count on her to deliver on what she says she is going to do. She’ll be a President for all people, no matter the race, language, sexual orientation, or party line. She showed all of us — and showed the world — that she was ready to be President, how smart she is, and her plan for the country in that debate. We are not going backwards; we are moving forward. For all of the athletes out there, don’t be afraid to use your platforms – we need all of you to get involved. Share this with your friends that Vice President Harris has an agenda that will move the country forward. The Magic Man is on board.”

Let’s see Trump indict these guys.

37 days to defeat this treasonous motherfucking monster.

[TCinLA]

[safely-in-vhagars-belly]

Aegonxocreader

Dark stuff

Warnings: dark non con slavery kidnapping arranged marriages and animal abuse sort of.

Word count: mine says about 4251♡

Chapters published:2

Title: the first night.

Concept: You got married without permission from the royals and they don't like that so they decide to bring back a horrible old tradition from the grave where it shouldve stayed.

Not my gif. Idk how to make any gifs. Credits to who owns it.

The dress you wear is a simple white gown. It was made by your friend. She had to work every day in the tavern to earn enough coin to buy the silk from the tailor.

You slowly walk down the aisle to your future and to your soon to be husband. The cheap tavern you both rented for the festivities is filled with his friends and some of yours. Your family couldn't attend.

You didn't even tell them you are getting married. They don't know you are, in fact, alive.

He smiles and takes his hands into your own. You feel his heartbeat through his hands, and you feel your soul slowly connect and intertwine with his as the septon speaks the words you dreamt of hearing ever since you were little.

'We stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife: one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.' You happily kiss your husband on his cheeks. Faybaen kisses you gently on your lips, and you feel him cloak you. The septon spreads his arms to address the crowd.

'Let it be known that Bessie Stone and Faybaen Stone are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be they who would seak to tear-'

The door of the tavern is pushed upon, and unexpected guests enter. You back away slowly, assuming your family finally found you. You take Faybaens hand into your own and whisper something in his ear. 'In case it is my father, stab me before he can drag me back. I rather die here with you than live with my awful family.' You whisper in your husband ear. He nods and prepares a small dagger ready to end your life.

Faybaen shakes his head and puts it away moments later. You feel uneasy. Gold cloaks. Only one kind of person has that. The king. 'It is not your family. I know those kinds of cloaks from the capital. This is the Kingsguard.' The cloaks are indeed unmistakably gold with white. You don't understand what they are doing here. This is an illegal wedding, perhaps, but surely they have bigger fishes to fry with the queen in open rebellion and the usurper on the throne? With the former Kings funeral and the wars?

A man comes to you.

He has silver short hairs and wears impressive armour. You know him as Aegon of house Targaryen. You suppose it's King Aegon now.

Next to you, Faybaen already curses before getting to his knees, kneeling for the king of the seven kingdoms. He hates kneeling for other men. You fake a smile and curtsy, like you did so many times. Most of your friends here are supporters of Rhaenyra. Most of them kneel for now and await their turn.

Another taller figure follows the king; He has also silver hair, but it's much longer, and he wears a very unstylish eyepatch. Faybaen gulps. 'Oh no.' He stutters softly before getting up and walking to the two brothers.

You lift your skirts before rushing and quickly follow him with your fake smile still on your lips like its armour. 'M'lords, Welcome to eh ...The tavern of my uncle, Gibsen.' Faybaen points to his uncle, who has already fled and is no longer where Faybaen points to.

Faybaen lowers his arms and nods half before eying the royals.

'Thank you, Mr-' the prince speaks before the king, and that does surprise you.

You walk to your husband and join him. 'Oh, I'm just Faybaen Stone, m'lord.' He says with a nervous little laugh. You know he is terrified. You subtly show your support by taking his hands into your own. Faybaen is a wanted criminal, after all.

The king looks around the ceremony hall that is decorated with small and cheap decorations to make it feel festive like paper doves and white simple flowers. 'Is this supposed to be a wedding?' He asks, clearly not fond of the decorations and the location.

Faybaen laughs forced and nods. The prince's eye falls on you, and he narrows it. For a moment, you see him think like he knows who you are. You smile back calmly and pretend to be just fine when inside you are nearly breaking under the pressure. This is just a test. You tell yourself.

'You must be the bride.' The king says, taking in your simple white wedding gown. He eyes you as Faybaen does. Full of desire.

You nod and make a curtsy. You still haven't forgotten how to do that. You do it too well, and Aemonds brows raise in suspicion.

'Indeed, your grace. Welcome to our humble little town. What brings you here, if you don't mind me asking so?' You can't imagine anyone stopping here anyway without good reason. Perhaps they heard rumours about the treason plot, or they are looking for Faybaen.

Come to think of it: They are not here for Faybaen. He is wanted for murders. They wouldn't send the King and the future king regent to him.

The king shrugs a bit before taking a glass of wine that is handed to him by Faybaen.

'We were passing by and needed to rest somewhere.' That could be true. And it could also be a lie.

You clap your hands, pretending to be delighted and calm. You force a smile at both of them, masking your fears very well.

'I won't keep you long, then. Please, enjoy yourselves.' You gesture to the cake displayed and the buffet of simple delicious baked goods.

Aemond steps closer to you before taking in your face very carefully. You stare back, still smiling.

'You look familair. Have we met?' He asks. You did not meet him. You do know who he is, and he might know who you are as well.

You laugh gently, a bit nervous, perhaps. 'No, I have been told I have a very common face. Perhaps that is it.' You say like that should the end of it. Aemond nods like he accepts that must be it and walks off to enjoy wine and some delicious cake.

Faybaen, meanwhile, talks to Aegon. 'My uncle wants to give you both free stay, free of charge. We planned to take the bridal suite but ...well, it is the only decent room here. You should take it, my king.' He says like he is a noble servant.

Aegon wants to already walk away, but Aemond quickly turns to Faybaen. 'Thank you, that is very generous. Are you sure your uncle is fine with us staying here? We can pay. We have no shortage of gold.' He already searches for what you assume is his wallet.

You know Faybaen a while now and now when he is spinning a story or a lie. 'Honestly, my Prince, think of all the good customers this will attract. That you both spend the night here will do wonders for our little town. It is our treat, really. Of course, your guards are welcome here as well. Food and beverages are on us.'

That makes Aemond very suspicious. 'What do you get out of this, besides publication and attention? It can't be profitable for you to give 30 men free food and housing.' He argues.

His brother sighs like a whiny little brat. 'Listen, Aemond. They want to feed us. What did they tell you about looking a horse in its mouth? If they try to kill us, we'll kill them first. It is that easy.'

Faybaen has that scoffing little glimmer in his eyes but keeps his voice neutral and grounded when turning his back to both of them and escorting them and the guards upstairs to the rooms.

You take a drink nervously. You hope you fooled them enough. Tomorrow, they'll be both gone.

Faybaen comes back to you and takes you with him to the stables. You know of the secret hidden room and enter it, and he follows. Inside, he lights a candle and sits down in one of the chairs. You join him and sigh.

He rubs his face with a towel before sighing deeply. When he speaks, you hear not the common tongue but the hoarse and throaty language of his family. The Dothraki. You have not heard the words in so long, but you still understand it just as clear when you were a little girl. 'They are onto us.'

You sigh and master to speak back in his tongue. 'Onto you, or me?' You ask, uneasy with both options.

Your uncle in law enters. Faybaen gets up and rushes over to him. Gibsen warns him with a single glance. 'Both of you should leave. This town is not safe. The pirate is asking about you.' His gaze falls upon you.

Pirate? He must mean Aemond.

You nod and gulp. 'Aemond did say he thought he recognised me. Which should be not possible. I never met him.' You were shipped to Essos when you were three. Before that, you never met any Targaryens.

'One of the guards has requested that you go to the royals. Now.' Uncle Gibsen says before helping you both out of the secret room again. 'You'll just be a good wife and keep your background as vague as possible. I don't know how long I can protect you, but by tomorrow we'll need to find a new house for you both.' He says.

He looks at Faybaen. 'You two should be outside tonight. You know it is what the great Stallion would want, Draezho. A Khal must ride his Khaleesie under the stars.' You heard that title before when you were a prisoner, but you never realised that your marriage to Faybaen would make you a Khaleesi. You feel pride and smile at Faybaen because of the exciting suggestion of him taking you under the stars far away from anyone to hear you both.

Like always, when his home is mentioned, Faybaen gets defensive. 'I am no Khal. Vazzo made sure of that when he slayed my entire Khalasar.' You accept that Faybaen has let his past be. But his friend does not. He finds the Dothraki exciting and thinks that Faybaen or Draezho should return to Essos and murder Vazzo.

You leave the stables.

You walk to the rooms of the royals and knock on the door. 'In,' you hear Aegons voice. You brace yourself and enter. Faybaen growls and follows.

Faybaen is very charming. It is one of the reasons why you fell for him. 'My king. How is the room?' He asks after he has been told to get up.

Aegon groans. 'It's the worst bed I ever laid on.' He says, and you don't doubt him for a moment. He is spoiled.

'What is your name, darling?' Aemond asks you suddenly. Faybaen raises a brow in offence by that little nickname, but you know he knows better than to hook Aemond on his nose for calling you darling.

You curtsy before introducing yourself. 'Bessie Stone.' You say softly. 'Why, my Prince? Do you think you saw me milk a goat somewhere before?' You joke.

Aemond shakes his head with a chuckle. 'I heard rumours once. About a beautiful rich house richer than the Lannisters. House SilverBone.' Your house. He is very close to finding out the truth. 'Where a girl was shipped off to meet her betrothed, but her ship got attacked by pirates who sold her allegedly to the Dothraki.' He studies your face for any reaction. Any giveaway that it is, indeed, you.

You try to keep him away from it.. 'That is a horrifying tale. I hope it is just a tale and not true.' Except you know all too well that it is true.

He does not believe you. He is busy studying the cloak that covers your shoulders. 'Hmm.' He says. He grabs you by your shoulder and pulls you to his chest. You try to break free, but he already has what he was after. He rips your cloak off on your left shoulder and exposes a small silver moon tattoo with golden lines.

A tradition in your house. They mark their babies and children to avoid kidnapping and ransom. Not that it works, but it is a tradition.

Aemond chuckles. Aegon stares at it, impressed.. You get another idea and try it. Another lie. 'It's a fake one. My parents tried to convince the SilverBones that I was their lost daughter and-'

'Except you aren't, Ayroara.' A guard softly speaks up from the wall he was leaning against. 'I did some questioning. A certain girl was very happy to pay for both information on you and your husband. She does not like foreigners.' He says so mostly to Faybaen, who bites his lips.

You eye Faybaen, and he understands. He drops his smile and gets serious. 'How much gold do you two want to keep quiet?' Faybaens voice is rough and darker.

You hope they take the money and leave. You have no interest in your former house and glory.

'Quiet? We assumed she was dead. The SilverBone heir was sent to Volantis to marry a high slave trader, but House Hightower and House Velayron and even House Targaryen all made marriage proposals.'

You scoff covering yourself with your cloak again. You roll your eyes as well. He is making it sound like it was your fault. 'Take it up with my parents, I was three summers old when I was shipped of like some common whore.'

The guard meanwhile whispers things in Aegons ears, and he chuckles cruelly and nods sometimes. Faybaen keeps biting down his lips. 'When were you going to tell me that you fuck horses?' Aegon grins at Faybaen. Oh no.

You quickly eye Faybaen, and he just scoffs at that common belief before ignoring the king.

Faybaen keeps up his lies. He protects you no matter the costs. 'Hm. I am afraid I don't know much about that, my Prince. Will you take gold, silver, or coins?' He asks.

Aegon gets up and leans in close and studies the neck of Faybaen. He smiles darkly.'Perhaps...Horses?' He jokes. He most certainly knows. Horses are a very common trade way in the Dothraki culture. 'Aemond; we are in the present of royalty. That man here is a Dothraki Khal. He has run away from his Khalasar to wed her, who was his whore.' Aemond looks up suprised by that information.

You shake your head. You were never his whore. He was kind and good to you. He never raped you. Not once. 'I was his gift!' You scream at them in anger.

Aegon shrugs carelessly. 'That is the same thing, darling. You were meant to be his whore. His plaything and his toy. You are lucky he didn't let his horse fuck you first.' He chuckles. 'Speaking of Dothraki things: Your hair damn short and not braided. Were you beaten recently?'

Faybaen gets in Aegons face. The guard surrounded him, so don't grab hold of him yet. 'I am fine with you mocking my culture and my family, but she is off limits.' He groans.

Aegon and Aemond share a long look.'I think I'm going to leave you both a wedding gift. Brother, do you have any ideas?'

You think you know suffering, but what comes out of his mouth is the cruellest thing you ever heard.

'Indeed. Long ago, there was this tradition. Where a king or even a Lord could claim a married maiden's ...virginity.' You. Your virginity. You shake your head and nervously chuckle thinking they are joking. You eye the guards. They vowed to uphold the good. They will never let this happen.

You freeze and tremble. Aemond continues before softly touching your face and staring you down until you shake. 'It was seen as a sign of honour and respect if the king was to bestow his seed upon the bride. Any babies born from it were considered heroes.' He mostly tells his brother, but he keeps his attention on you.

The king licks his lips. 'How lucky you are, Lady SilverBone that I am to bestow you with this gift.' You hear the scoffing in his voice. You growl like an angry cat.

Faybaen pulls his dagger and shields you. But he is outnumbered. Ser Criston and his friends take him into custody and smack him across his face.

You beg Aemond to let the torture stop. 'Let them stop! He is unarmed.' Surely that must do something.

He simply glares at you before nodding to the direction of the smirking king. 'Go to my brother, and I will.' You realise you don't have much of a choice or a say anymore. You wish for the beating to just end.

'Hello, darling.' You don't bow. Aegon grabs your arms and drags you to the bed, throwing you on your back. He grins before letting his hands touch and grab your breasts through the cheap fabric of the dress. He groans when he squeezes you painfully, and you whimper out loud. Faybaen quits fighting the moment he hears your whimpers.

He drops your cloak to the ground and takes off the protective little pins, keeping your dress up. The fabric doubles over exposing your breasts. The king grins and comes closer with his face to your breasts before harshly biting down on your nippels. You smack his head angrily.

He looks up, and is blood coming from his nose. You see the anger in his eyes and gulp. You cower a bit before he grabs your throat and roughly slams you against the board of the bed before ripping your dress open.

The king kisses your lips before forcing his tongue down your throat and roughly squeezing your breasts again. He chuckles when you try to resist and punish you for it by spanking you. 'Faybaen, I am so sorry.' You cry out between the smacks in Dothraki.

Faybaen is very quiet and hangs between the two guards who keep forcing him to watch.

The prince has moved next to you and watches nearly in the trance how you are touched and abused. You scoot away from him.

Your legs are spread open, and they both glance at your wet, soft looking entrance. Aegons fingers eager trace down between your entrance and you gulp soft.

He has a almost pernament smirk on his lips and slams his fingers in you roughly fucking you with pure his hand. You are confused and scared. The other brother grabs your hips and rolls them to the hand making your entire upper body move. He breaths in your ear and kisses your tear stained cheeks.

You do not like how your body likes it. You feel shame and disgust. Aegon grins as his fingers have a small white see through layer of your juice on them. 'Your Khaleesi's cunt sure is tight, Khal. You'll have to do with seconds, or if I see how invested my brother is, maybe even tirths. Perhaps we take her with us and sell her to a brothel. The Savage Queen. That makes a wonderful whore name does it not?' You grunt and try to break free.

Faybaen boils with rage.

'You are both cruel and don't deserve to lay with anyone! She is sweet and innocent. Why are you both torturing her?!' He yells.

Aemond traces a finger down between your legs too and keeps your face still so you are forced to look at him when he does this. He chuckles very softly. 'Because she looks very pretty with her legs spread wide and her cunt bare.' Aegon groans at his torture and wants to make himself the bigger torturer.

He grabs your ankle and drags you to him before taking his clothes off with a annoyed groan and a pant. 'On your knees, Khaleesi.' He mocks you. 'I wish to have you like your husband fucks you. Like a savage.' You don't feel like a khaleesi. You feel scared and unsafe. Just like when you were first introduced to Faybaen.

You obey. Aegon pets your hairs and softly kisses your wet cheeks before muttering some compliments about your body and all the dirty things He will do with you after this. You nod, softly and cling your shaking legs together. Aegon grabs you by your hips and kneels behind you. You lost faith in the gods so you don't bother to pray.

With a chuckle and a very dark twisted grin he enters your body and takes your maidenhead. You grab hold of the edge of the bed to feel a little bit of safety during this unfamiliar and strange event. Your hips are grabbed and pushes to his front with painful shameful trutst and he keeps entering you and you feel as if he is entering you to exit you from the other side out.

He slows down and breaths in your ear before speeding up again. You go up and down with him and softly whimper. 'I am going to make your Khaleesi bleed. She'll be the first Khaleesi to be blessed by a king in Westeros.' Blessed? You don't feel blessed.

You have had enough of his boasting and smack his hands that still rest on your hips. He lets go briefly and slips out. Your body has rest for a moment. 'The great Stallion and both the old gods and the new will damn you, Aegon of house Targaryen. You will die a miserable death.' You promise him.

He is not impressed. Instead he grabs you more roughly and fucks you this time. It is not gentle taking. He shoves himself deep inside you and roughly fucks your body against his. Your body likes it. You feel so disgusting. You enjoy the hard savage sex he gives you. He thinks it's punishment but your body loves it. A little bit of saliva drops down your mouth and he softly changes the rytm.

'So you do talk. I thought that my cock had took your tongue away.' He boasts before softly touching your hairs again.

You try to think of another insult, but Faybaen shakes his head. He does not want you to risk it.

'O, you naughty girl.' The king knows. He knows you are turned on. You lower your head in shame.

'Don't tell him.' You beg soft.

Aegon grins cruelly.

'What? Doesn't your husband deserve to know? I think he does.'

He turns to Faybaen.

'Your wife is enjoying herself. She is wet.' To prove his point, he shows his wet fingers.

You want to explain yourself, but the moment that you do, he takes you again. Your words get caught up in your throat, and only a pathetic little strangled sound comes out. 'Nhn!'

Aegon is stiff. 'This is going to be a little unpleasant. Just be calm.'

You cry out as your head rolls in pleasure. You roll back your hips and let him fuck You. Aegon groans. 'Disgusting savage whore.'

You cry out again this time brief little cries in a row. Both the king and the prince and your husband watches as you discover new foreign emotions and mind states.

You cry out loudly before finding peace and pleasure. Your soaked head is petted. Your legs are grabbed again and a new cock finds itself inside you.

You turn around and see that the prince has decided to also leave you a wedding gift. He pushes your head down and smacks you on your behind. You obey and let him have you your pleasure still high and your body wet and ready for the taking.

He does so, fully pushing himself in. He kisses your cheeks and mutters. They both stretch you out, and you are certain you can not walk tomorrow. You hear yourself grunt as he speeds up and begins trying to get pleasure, too. You are pushed and rocked on the bed that cracks under the two of you. Your legs are hurting, and you feel pain in your neck as well.

You moan in pain and whimper.

'It's been enough! She is hurting.' Faybaen says, trying to break free. His attempt is useless.

Aegon grins and smacks your ass painfully when Aemond is grunting and groaning like a beast. You feel small and little and crawl away to safety. You are dragged back by your feet and pushed back into the position. You drag your nails in the mattress to have some sort of safety.

'A little pain is good for brats like her. Teaches her some manners.'

The prince groans and he feels you up like his brother did before him. He chuckles and smacks your ass painfully. 'We should take her with us.'

You hesitate and shake your head at both of them. 'You did what you wanted. Let us both be now.' You beg.

Aegon sighs before eying Aemond. 'Do you want to tell her, or shall I?' He asks when dressing.

'Tell me, what?' You ask as Faybaen is finally released. He rushes to your side and protects you.

Aegon tells with a little bored chuckle. 'House SilverBone didn't had permission from House Targaryen. In fact; The crown wanted you to become betrothed with someone else. Someone closer to the throne to ensure that we had enough silver for the coming century.' Closer to the throne...

It hits you like a slap in your face. He means himself.

///a/n suffering from the flu here please excuse any errors.

[soon-palestine]

Alison Russell, a Scottish-born Belgian citizen and Human Rights Defender, was detained by the Israeli occupation authorities while documenting the demolition of a house in Masafer Yatta, in the South Hebron Hills of the occupied West Bank. She was deported after very perfunctory proceedings at the Jerusalem Magistrate’s Court. Israeli police alleged in a public statement that Alison “supported a terrorist organization.” Her attorney pointed out that this claim had no basis. Nevertheless, the presiding judge issued a verdict couched in fiery nationalist rhetoric, claiming that “There are many faces to Hamas terror. There are various kinds of terrorists. Some terrorists wield guns and bombs while others use a computer keyboard”.

In the last month and a half, the charge of being a “supporter of a terrorist organization” has become an excuse for an extensive campaign of political persecution against anyone who dares to post any protest the unfolding genocide in Gaza. This has affected Palestinians who have Israeli citizenship and against Israeli Jews, such as the teacher Meir Baruchin, who was detained for almost a week on completely unfounded charges. In the Gaza Strip, a far more brutal procedure for the same allegations is implemented. A Gazan journalist or political activist accused of “supporting Hamas” may expect to be targeted and/or have their family targeted by a missile from an Israeli warplane. Such was, for example, the fate of Ahmed Abu Artema and countless other Palestinian activists and journalists. Nowadays in Israel, all it takes to be charged with “supporting terrorism” is to express sorrow and pain over the killing of children in the bombing of the Gaza Strip. State Attorney Amit Isman strongly criticized these detentions, but Israel’s police, controlled by Ben-Gvir, persist in carrying out such detentions.  In the case of human rights defender Alison Russell, the far-fetched charges of “supporting terrorism” or “keyboard terrorism” cover up the real reason for her detention and deportation. In court, the state asserted that “she had many times disrupted the activities of the IDF troops, whenever she came in contact with them”. Indeed, it is highly disturbing for the troops to have outside observers and witnesses present where acts of oppression take place, which often constitute blatant violations of International Law. 

The tiny villages at Masafer Yatta in the South Hebron Hills are attacked by settlers on one side and the army on the other: The settlers attack the villages, destroy whatever is at hand and threaten entire communities with murder, and in these criminal acts they enjoy complete immunity from the police and army. For its part, the army arrives to destroy the houses of the villagers, houses which were declared to be “illegal” by the Supreme Court. Alison was detained and deported when she tried to document the destruction of one of these houses. The police had stated “a deportation order from Israel” was issued to Alison, as well as a decree to “prevent her from entering Israel” in the future. We would like to emphasize that Alison never wanted to “enter Israel.” She wanted to come to the West Bank, a Palestinian territory occupied by Israel, by the express invitation of Palestinian residents to document and intervene in human rights abuses and stop an ongoing nakba. In the words of Alison herself, “The UN, created when the world was saying ‘nie wieder faschismus,’ has given up on Palestine. But right now, right here, in a tiny little corner of Palestine, there are a dozen villages that are under direct and immediate threat. When the handful of determined people that are here manage to organize a group to sleep in the hamlets, we delay their expulsion…I’m here ‘cos I really think our action is effective. Please make it more effective by getting involved too.”

[alexlesuagz]

Criminal Case fanfic ideas (because IDK, I’m bored)

[Possible spoilers for all 8 seasons]

{S5} Prequelfic where Amir realizes he’s gay and confides in Rupert about it.

{S5} Rupert having an ace awakening (because yes, I headcanon him as ace) and being extremely confused about his feelings, so he confides in Amir about it. (No seggs, only tea, amirite)

{S3} [TW: SA] Jack finally gaining the courage to tell Lars about Lavinia DeBrils SA’ing him.

{S1} How Chad Whickman and Rose Cassidy first met (because goddamnit, they deserved better).

{S1} AU where Chad managed to calm Joe Stern down, not die, and get the job.

{S2} [TW: Abuse] A day in the life of Duncan Young, living with his mother and sister and having to deal with her emotional abuse.

{S1} Adam Bentley talking with his foster brother at his grave.

{S1} The aftermath of Julian Ramis’s arrest from the perspective of Julian’s parents.

{S2} [TW: Homophobia] The end of Zack and Becky’s friendship.

{S5} James Savage first meets Carter Hayes.

{S4} How Timmy and Bridget Baker first became friends.

{S5} [TW: Implied Sewerslide] Rene Narcisse’s words almost push Julian over the edge until the player and Gabriel show up.

{S2} [TW: Murder] A young Yann Toussaint has an argument with his parents and storms off. That would end up being the biggest mistake of his life.

{S5} Jones accidentally stumbles upon Zoe suddenly using telekinesis.

{S2} [TW: Cults, PTSD, and Implied Abuse] Not even Russell is safe from flashbacks, and surprisingly, the one who helps him out of a PTSD-induced panic attack is Frank.

{S4} The events of Vittorio Cappechi’s murder from Seamus’s point of view.

{S6} One of Amy’s therapy sessions with Marina following Nebet’s betrayal.

{S6} Sirius wonders why Orlando constantly ignores him, so he decides to ask. It doesn’t really go well.

{S6} Sequelfic(?) where Tony meets the player during S1 and tries to recall why they seem so familiar.

{S3} Baxter Fraser goes to therapy.

{S3} AU where Obaasan (IDK how to spell it, sorry) is found dead and Tsukada Hiroshi is alive because he killed her.

{S7} An apology note Dolores wrote to Gwen before her demise.

{S7} Inspired by @katrinahood , a crackshipfic between James Savage and Sam Ellis.

{S5} Crackshipfic between brunette bastard Louis Leroux and Joe Warren.

{S8} Jones and the player bond and catch up after 3 years.

{S8} Hugo Mercier giving love advice to Carrie.

{S5} Jones copes with Tony Marconi’s death.

{S8} Hugo and Jones bond over similar experiences.

{S5} [TW: Sewerslide] Gabriel and Jones talk after Jones’s attempt.

{S2} One of Jupiter’s letters to Russell, apologizing for being a shit dad.

{S5} Jones, Zoe, Alex and Cathy have a double date.

{S7} Larry Zarus goes on a car ride with his friend and business partner, Bernie. Next thing he knows, he’s waking up in a coffin. His own coffin.

{S4} Charlie reveals that he can’t slow dance for the life of him. Maddie decides to teach him.

{S2} [TW: Abuse] Frank confronts Miriam Young about her shit parenting.

{S2} [TW: Abuse] Duncan confronts his mother about her shit parenting. It goes as well as you’d expect.

{S2} [TW: Abuse and Death] The day the Young siblings’ father died was a hellish day indeed.

{S5} [TW: Underage Drug Use] Julian and Vicki smoke weed together and have a chat about life.

{S7} Dolores tries to figure out a way to apologize to Gwen.

{S7} Arthur Darkwood never really enjoyed the small things in life, and he never noticed until he spent time with the Supernatural Hunters.

{S5} Jones is lowkey kinda lonely, so Ramirez decides to set him up on a blind date to cheer him up. Unbeknownst to Ramirez, Jones’ blind date was one of his old college acquaintances — Zoe Kusama.

{S6} The “Altered Present” Arc, but Lars is in it for some reason.

{S7} Zander Stark and Danny Kwame were queerplatonic bros, change my mind— (I hc Zander as bisexual and Danny as omniromantic asexual)

{S8} Cody reminisces on his failed relationship with Eleanora.

{S8} Prequelfic where Jean-Phillipe slow dances with Marguerite.

{S5} After skipping the trial of Rosamund Wilcox, Julian runs into Chelsea Bloom and they have a chat.

{S7} Human AU where Arthur and Reggie decide to have some “brother bonding time”, so they go to a local art museum. Things don’t go well.

{S4} Seamus makes eye contact with Giulietta at Mr. Alastor’s party.

{S2} A series of noteworthy recorded conversations between Bobby Prince and his therapist over the span of a year.

{S3} 5 times Jonah tries to smile and the first time Marina makes him smile.

{S3} [TW: Kidnapping, Torture, and PTSD] Elliot claims that he’s moved on past the whole “Anbu Devanesan” thing. He has not.

{S6} Serap and Roxelana’s love story, starting from their first meet.

{S6} Noah Lowe gets some advice from Ian Devine about love and life and shit (also, Noah lives in this fanfic concept, because bro deserves better).

{S7} AU where Rathimael lives, Arthur lives, and they live a peaceful life together in a small lakeside cottage on the outskirts of Michigan.

{S2} “What happened to the Francis I loved and cared about deeply?!” “He’s dead, and I killed him a long time ago.”

{S2} Bobby Prince’s last thoughts were about the idyllic life he would live with Amy via the virtual reality. (This was inspired by Bojack Horseman btw) (No I do not like Bobby Prince)

{S5} [TW: Attempted Murder] AU where Zoe survives Louis’s attempt on her life.

{S3} [TW: Implied Abuse] Michelle Zuria’s traumatic childhood at the hands of her nanny.

{S5} [TW: Sewerslide] AU where Jones decides to go home after Leroux is arrested, and the player decides to accompany him. Possible alternate endings available.

{S7} Fabien de la Mort chills out and asks Gwen for advice on how to properly swoon a certain someone (*cough*, Luke Fernandez, *cough cough*)

{S7} [TW: Murder] Ruth Wu’s final moments were in utter agony. (Deserved tbh)

{S4} [TW: Murder] Elias Willingham pays local pimp Kristopher Bauer for information about his missing daughter. Like many moments in the Criminal Case universe, things do not end well.

{S7} AU where Arthur Darkwood survives the events of S7 and decides to join the Supernatural Hunters.

{S2} Anjulie Cruz breaks up with Bobby and remembers all the red flags he showed while they were dating.

{S1} AU for “The Rorscach Reaper” where Ramirez arrives just in time to arrest Tess — but too late to save the player.

{S5} Canon divergence after Zoe’s arrest when Jones confronts Marconi and breaks down. Marconi talks him out of doing anything foolish and the two of them just talk while lying down on the grass.

{S7} Arthur never really had a family (besides Reggie, but we don’t talk about Reggie) due to being a demon. One of the Supernatural Hunters (probably Hope Newman) makes an offhand comment about how he’s family to them. (Bro deserved better imo)

{S5} [TW: Attempted Murder] AU where Nathan manages to regain consciousness just before Kit pulls out the snake.

{S6} Series of transcripts from Marina’s therapy sessions with different Criminal Case characters, including Jack, Amy, Jones, Chief Arrow, and Arthur Darkwood.

{S5} Prequelfic where Joe Warren meets his new college roommate, Louis Leroux.

{S2} After the events of “Once Upon a Crime”, Frank decides to call his daughter to tell her what happened.

{S5} [TW: Sewerslide] Either Alex, Grace, or Ramirez get the call about Jones’ attempt on his own life.

(I’m perfectly fine with y’all using these, just please ask first and credit me!)

[malice-death]

RWBY Ships

After getting to talk about my favorite characters from RWBY, I thought I talk about my favorite ships.

Of course, there are many that I ship, but these are just my top faves.

Alright Than.

1.  Rosegarden (” Love Blooms Anywhere”)

When I finally got around to watching RWBY for the first time, Volume 4 had just come out, and I told myself that this character was quite fascinating.

But where Rosegarden comes in, I didn’t ship them until Volume 7, where it became clear that they both hold each other as friends, and that they both had a foot in the same mess.

Either way I like them both as friends and romantic partners, so even if this ship doesn’t happen, I will enjoy their interactions either way.

2. Spiced Ice-cream (” Two is still better than One”)

Now the fact that I spent years watching this show, and that even though there is little interaction to even think of this pairing as romantic, you can clearly tell from Volume 9, that these two were in love.

I think that is great. The thing about shipping is that its free, and these two live rent-free in my head, the criminals.

Their dynamic of being partners, was the best thing to come out of their introduction, and the fact that Neo spent so long trying to find clarification for his death.

And of course, after being freed from the Cat, Neo decided to have a final talk with Roman and she settles for finding her own way home, while Ruby understands this, and thus brings the end to this ship.

But who says that fate can’t bring together again.

(And because I can just write a reincarnation fic, when I have the courage.)

To the next ship.

3. Emercury (” Our feelings aren’t illusions.”)

Love comes in many forms, and I believe the form of love you get here, is someone trying to reach the other, and yet each want to take their own path.

And the other person questions, but still respects that they have those opinions.

Emerald as a character is great, and even with a rushed redemption, I still loved what she brought to the table, both good and bad.

Mercury on one hand is starved dog who has to fight for his scraps, but on a sadder note, is the same as Cinder in a way. An abused soul who never tries to step out of line (Unless it is to finally get the chance to murder.)

The thing is those they grew off of each other, and I think that shows as they work together throughout the show.

At first they didn’t want to work together, and Emerald thought that he was taking her place next to Cinder, but as time grew on, they both got use to the other and formed this friendship.

Than when they thought that they both were standing together, Salem changes the pieces on her chess board and pushes Mercury to Vacuo with Tyrian, who tells them that the world is indeed being brought to an end.

Still the two part ways on emotional goodbyes.

Not even needing words to explain themselves to the other.

Until they meet again, I guess.

While there still some time, I have to move forward.

4. Whiteknight (” Not all princesses need a knight in shining Armor”)

Jaune and Weiss are two minor favorites of mine, but for different reasons.

I like that Wiess is a character that grows from flaws and reaches to high heights by seeing that family can come from those that aren’t your blood.

While Jaune is because he has a heart of gold that gets beaten and melted, and his emotions get racked through the dirt as he tries to make things better, not just for himself but for others.

These two had a long history together, but after they worked together, and each worked through their issues, you could see that their original opinion towards the other changed.

And if this ship did happen, then well, wouldn’t that be nice.

Now to the final message, each of these ships are of everyone's opinion, and I’m always open to hear it.

Thank you for reading.

And of course, a final hug to all who read the post.

[mags-writes]

Unconfirmed - part 2 || Rick Flag x OC

Summary: After Maeve O'Malley goes to prison for assassination and narrowly avoids getting the Blackcat moniker slapped on her record, she's pulled from her cell and brought into the chaos awaiting in Midway City. Only thing is, she was explicitly requested by Rick Flag, her former squad leader and Colonel back when they were in the special forces together. And they didn't end on the best of terms. Despite that, they easily slip back into their former banter but how long can it last when he won't tell her all the details of what exactly she's going up against?

Warnings: Canon-level violence, Aussie-level swearing, Harley/Joker-level abuse, angst, slow burn

Pairing: Rick Flag x Maeve O'Malley (OC)

Length: 2.7k words

Masterlist || Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Epilogue

"I should be driving." Maeve said for the hundredth time.

It made Rick roll his eyes again from across her and repeat some variation of what he's already said on the matter.

"These are some of the best pilots we have. We'll be fine." His tone had no indication of shutting her up like he would the other criminals. He spoke like he was talking to a child in the back seat asking over and over again if they were there yet.

"Oh god." Was Maeve's response, making Rick snap his gaze to her almost immediately. She had her eyes squeezed shut and she was gripping the seatbelt straps, pressing back in her seat like she was trying to disappear.

He knew what this was. They were about to get hit. And she couldn't do a damn thing about it.

Maeve had been born with the uncanny ability to dodge anything that was airborne and coming her way at any speed. She could dodge bullets, knives, punches, and ass slaps all the same. The only scars she had were from when someone else got involved. She was only ever shot when someone was trying to shoot at Rick. She got them out of the way but it was like she traded places for them. Most of the time she could keep up and keep both parties safe but sometimes luck wasn't on her side.

Rick also thought she could see through walls but he hadn't voiced that theory to anyone yet.

"Oh god, oh god!" Maeve was getting more and more panicked as the seconds ticked by and Rick could only hold on to his own seat belt straps for whatever they were about to be hit with.

"What's up with that chick?" An Aussie accent rang out just before they were, indeed, shot.

The chopper jostled with the impact before taking a sudden nose dive. It hit the ground below them and then started rolling. Screams and laughter alike were heard screeching in the small cabin before it finally stopped and they were all left hanging upside down.

"I should've been driving."

They eventually made their way out of the unrecoverable chopper to the other one filled with all of Rick's army buddies that managed to not get hit and Maeve stumbled her way over.

"Lookin' good, Sarge!" Lieutenant GQ Edwards was a loyal son of a bitch but he had one fuckin attitude with Maeve.

"Shut up, Edwards!"

"Both of you shut it." Rick ordered, rifle out and finger on the trigger. "Let's move out."

They all walked in relative silence, the army boys actively scanning every inch of new terrain they came upon. Rick told them to take it easy and not to worry until Maeve was on edge. Edwards rolled his eyes.

"Remind me again why Katana is here." Maeve didn't look at Rick when she questioned him, trying to come off as aloof and like she didn't care about his answer. "What's wrong? Don't trust me anymore?"

"She's got my back. You've got my everything." Was his simple answer. "Besides, I needed at least one crazy person out here with me without a bomb in their neck."

"Oh, yeah, thanks for that." She said sarcastically, now turning to look at him with an unimpressed expression.

"Hey, I got you out of your cell for a while, didn't I?" He nudged her when he saw her trying to suppress the smallest smile on the face of the earth. Only rivaled by Nessa. "As for the bomb in your neck... can't do much but play by Waller's rules."

She scoffed, kicking something out of the way before speaking again. "Can I ask you a personal question?"

"All that wasn't personal?" He took his time kicking the same debris when they came up to it again.

"Why do you look like you're running on three hours sleep and five lines of cocaine?" She deadpanned, making him look at her with an insulted expression.

"I do not." He said after a pause. "I would never do cocaine."

"Oh, my bad," she replied sarcastically again. "Why do you look like you're running on three hours sleep and six espressos?"

"If you're trying to say I look like shit, just say it." He countered.

"You look like shit." She met him step after step, she always did. "You look worse than the dog shit under my boot. You look worse than hungover Edwards with his head in the toilet."

"Hey!" Edwards called out. "It was one time!" Making them both look at him before turning back to each other.

"My question still stands."

"Heh," Harley interrupted, coming up from behind Maeve and bringing her arm around her shoulders. "You two are cute. Ya married or somethin'?"

"God no." Rick and Maeve answered in unison.

"Personally I have been working on my finger-blasting game with some consenting bitches in prison." Maeve's words made Rick blink in surprise before turning his head, acting like he wasn't about to laugh. "I don't know what this guy's been up to but I know it's juicy if he won't give me a straight answer."

"Can we keep moving, please?" He deflected, walking a bit faster and falling out of step with the women.

"Oh, you're right!" Harley giggled, hugging her a little tighter before letting go and walking beside Maeve. "How ya been Kitty?"

Kitty. It was a cute nickname Harley had been calling her ever since they ran into each other and Harley was bleeding out from a gunshot wound. She had been delirious at the time and recognised from the gear who Maeve was but the new high-tech heat vision goggles perched on her head looked like cat ears when they weren't in use. The nickname tumbled out before Harley could stop herself, and it cemented in her memory forever.

Maeve took pity and took her back to a safehouse, cleaning her up, stitching her up, and feeding her. In return, Harley told the Joker about how well Kitty had taken care of her and issued a no-kill order on Maeve for his whole territory. That no-kill order only lasts as long as Harley is in Joker's good books and unfortunately, Maeve is always aware of their relationship status due to if someone is going out of their way to kill her whenever she steps foot in Joker's territory.

"Well, no one's been trying to shank me in prison, so I guess that means you and the clown are still on." Maeve kept her voice down, she wanted Rick to have deniability about her as much as possible.

"Oh, Kitty. We're always on." Harley playfully whacked her arm limply.

"Even that time he chained you in the basement for a week with no food and I had to come and break your ass out at your sister's request?" Maeve countered.

"Hey! I told you, Mr. J was just playin'!" Harley defended, taking offense that her psycho, serial murdering, clown boyfriend could do anything wrong.

Maeve hummed in response.

Suddenly a scuffle breaks out and one of the criminals shoots a wire up to the buildings to escape. Maeve doesn't move, turning instead to the other one that was trying to escape at the same time. As she approached, he threw a boomerang at Katana, but she jumped into a front flip to avoid it before she had her sword at his throat. Maeve would've continued paying attention but something was itching at the side of her neck.

She knew it wasn't anything she needed to dodge, but it was a prickling feeling making her twitch. She turned, her eyes catching a flash of movement before everything went still again. It felt like a hundred pairs of eyes were on her for a split second, and now it was gone. No one was aiming anything at her now but she couldn't ignore whatever itch just came up.

She was interrupted from her thoughts when a small explosion went off and the guy with all the wires was suddenly hanging upside down in front of her... without his head.

Rick was speaking, she couldn't discern what it was in her shock as her hand came up to clamp down on the part of her neck that had been injected. She well and truly had a fucking bomb sitting at the base of her skull.

"That's what you put in me?" She yelled, her eyes swiveling to Rick who suddenly grimaced. "You took me from my fucking cell to do that to me?"

"Hope you're not gonna play favourites with the criminals, Colonel." Edwards called out.

"Shut up, Edwards!" Maeve pointed a finger at him. "I was acting under duress!"

"Can you get a hold of yourself?" Rick roughly took a hold of her elbow and moved her slightly out of earshot, lowering his voice.

"How can I get a hold of myself when at any moment, these idiots could get you killed and I'll have my fuckin' head blown off!"

"That's not goin' to happen to you!" His answer shocked her into silence, her eyes wide and mouth open before she narrowed her eyes and set her face into a glare.

"So you are going to play favourites."

Rick turned aspirated, looking like he was about to grab her shoulders and shake some sense into her. "What answer do you want from me?"

"I am so glad you asked-" she went to bring her hands up, ready to number her demands on each of her fingers when he slapped them down again.

"Stop it! Just have my back, do as you're told, and stay alive." He actually did take a hold of her shoulders this time, turned her to face the others, and started walking. "That's all I'm asking."

"Mallacht mo chait ort." She cursed in her native Irish, putting as much venom into her words as she could.

"You don't own a cat." Rick countered, shoving her a little to keep walking.

"You don't know that!"

Maeve did as she was told. Keeping her eyes peeled for anything trying to shoot at Rick. It wasn't long until she felt that itch again. Like there was something pointed at her with their finger on the trigger and every intention of shooting but hesitating.

It made her twitch. It made her tick. It made her flinch. And Rick saw all of it.

"Hold!" He called out, holding his fist up and frowning at her. "What is it?"

Maeve suddenly felt it in a different direction, making her flinch back and snap her head. There was nothing there, no movement, no person.

Another twitch. This time from a couple stories above them. This time she used the scope of her rifle to see through the windows, going as far as to pull her goggles on when that turned up nothing.

"Kitty?" Called out Harley with a worried tone.

Maeve spun in the opposite direction everyone was facing, goggles firmly in place and rapidly searching for anything to turn up.

"I don't know." Despite her words, she pointed behind her before turning in that direction again, keeping the goggles on. "Something's definitely that way though."

Rick got his boys to go ahead, surveying the area and seeing if the path was clear. What they came across made their skin crawl.

Maeve let Rick do his thing, communicating with base about what to do and where to go, if the other team was responding at their location. She stood firmly in place behind a car when Deadshot came up next to her, bumping shoulders with her and staring puzzled at what was in front of them.

"They're not giving off a heat signature." She reported, moving the goggles back to the top of her head, having no more use for them now. "At least not with these. You?"

"What the hell are they?" He asked, ignoring her question. "Flag said, terrorists."

"Flag lied about terrorists." She corrected. "He's fucked up. He won't give me a straight answer on anything. He's keeping things from me."

Deadshot turned to her with a questioning frown. "And you said you're not married?"

"That is what I said, yes." She said defensively, trying to act like she couldn't feel her cheeks heat up.

They both had their chance at a real relationship once, but it had been wrong place, wrong time. They were waist-deep in their work and more than content to simply work together than try and possibly ruin it by getting serious. They knew each other better than any spouse will come to know the other, and that was okay with them. A dare issued by Edwards that they would get married if they were both single by 2018 had Maeve by the heartstrings though. She wondered a lot in her cell if that dare was the reason she could never commit to a relationship after that.

"Hey, I like these odds, mate, you just say the word." The stench of Digger Harkness drew Maeve out of her thoughts before his words could get the chance.

"Yeah." Harley agreed quietly.

"Pardon?" Maeve asked.

"C'mon." She persisted when she saw Deadshot hesitate.

"Yeah," Deadshot did hesitate, taking out his eyepiece so he could get a better look at the figures in front of them. "Uh, hold that thought."

"What's his deal?" Harley came closer to Maeve, wrapping her arm around her shoulders again and leaning in.

"Despite being bad guys, this might be something really fucked up even for you." Maeve answered, bringing her arm around Harley's waist and leaning into her.

They both watched as Deadshot brought up his weapon, most likely using the scope to get a better look at what was in front of them. When he did, Maeve twitched. The feeling was back. And like a switch, the figures in front of them descended upon them and the shooting started. Before Maeve surged forward, she saw Digger open a can of energy drink before slinking off into the shadows into an alley and she couldn't help but be a little jealous. She quickly came to a stop next to Rick, knowing she couldn't stop firing until they were all down. Except they weren't going down.

She knew that being around Rick and the boys meant she had to go back to her military training, no immediate headshots. As opposed to her mercenary night job, only headshots. But military training wasn't doing shit right now so she switched it up. She reloaded and this time didn't hesitate to aim for the head, doing a far better job at keeping them back now as their head shattered and they fell.

"Get off me!" She heard Rick shout, making her snap her head in his direction. She reloaded again and started firing. "Get off me you son of a-"

She only shot any extra ones from piling on top of them, trusting that someone would notice and do something about the ones already swarming him.

"Flag!" Edwards had noticed, good. He was always a good aim.

Harley must have said something because Deadshot started yelling at her, "Harley! He dies, we die!"

As soon as Harley and Edwards move in on the group, she lets up and waits for them to finish, not wanting to hit anyone with friendly fire by accident.

"Thanks." Rick says, being hauled up by both his saviours.

"Shut up." Harley retorts.

Rick looks up just in time to make eye contact with Maeve before she gets tackled from the side. It makes her yell out and on instinct take out her knife, wildly stabbing at anything available to her. The thing puts her down but only to try swiping at her, which she avoids before embedding her knife into the skull and viciously ripping it out with a grunt. Maeve movements have a deadly precision to them and the men around her move out of the way when they see her teeth bared.

She sheaths her knife.

She reloads.

She walks over to a car that Deadshot had taken up residence on.

She gets herself comfortable on the roof on one knee and the other one propped up for the kickback of her rifle.

She starts firing again.

Maeve was numb. Headshot after headshot in a daze and completely zoned out. Back in a warzone for shitty benefits from the government shooting at human-shaped moving objects that screamed. Everything blurred. They didn't stand a chance.

"Sargent."

Maeve looked around to see nothing moving. When had she stopped firing? When had she started breathing so hard?

Rick dragged her down from the roof of the car, moving the rifle to sit on her shoulder on the strap and grabbing her face in his hands.

"C'mon, I need you up and walkin'." He mumbled loud enough for her to hear, lightly moving her face from side to side to get her attention. "Don't get like this on me, Sargent. Not now."

Maeve blinked a handful of times, trying to will the daze away.

Deep breath in.

Hold.

And out.

Repeat.

Focus on Rick, on his hold on her face, and the callus on his trigger finger behind her ear.

Maeve nods, swallowing hard and humming to let him know she was back.

"Yeah?" He asked, leaning down slightly to look at her properly, eyes flittering between hers.

"Yeah." She confirmed with a nod.

Speaking felt heavy in her mouth, eye contact felt like looking at the devil, and moving was like dragging herself through a bog, but she persisted.

Rick knew this. Rick knew all of this. So he took her rifle, putting it back in her hands, unloading the empty mag, and taking one out of his own supply. She swallowed again, taking hold of the tac vest on Rick's chest, and cast her eyes upward. Deadshot walked over then, looking as severe as the grave.

"That's how I cut and run." He said, watching as Rick, without looking at his hands, loaded the mag in and shoved it into place.

The movement jostled Maeve and Rick moved her, bringing his arm around her shoulders and started getting her walking.

[strawberista]

Hanekoma felt himself choking, sitting in the floor with his head in Abe's lap while the older man petted his hair. He whispered soothing words down to him, telling him how this wasn't his fault and he didn't need to live with that guilt.

He felt the tears forming once they rose together, took to the comfortable confines of Gold Cross and sat at a dimly lit counter together. He felt his chest squeeze tight as he smelled Abe's coffee for what he knew would be the last time. And he struggled. He struggled through that last cup that he stained with his tears.

When Abe was taken up for his trial, he pressed a kiss to Hanekoma's forehead and told him he loved him and moved away to take the stand. Hanekoma stood and watched as he refused to defend himself at all, really. He repeated the same words to his judges that he did to those in that chatroom, and the jury came to the same conclusion that the counterparts of that room did.

He was trying to manipulate his Composer to gain power. They spoke nothing at all of the abuse. Instead they focused on the implication. First the district, then his corner of the Higher Plane, until he had built up a power and following so strong he could seek to overthrow them all. A dangerous criminal indeed.

One unfit for existence.

Hanekoma felt empty when he was sentenced to a public exorcism. Someone squeezed his shoulder and congratulated him on his unravelling of this coup. He barely even heard them at all, and he wanted to run away. Hide from this. Never think about it again. But of course, that wasn't in the cards for him.

Hanekoma was made to stand in a place of honor at the exorcism. Abe did not fight back. He gazed up at Hanekoma the whole time, and there was a strange expression on his face that Hanekoma couldn't process. He was still, choked, voice cut off and broken as the executor approached and read out the sentencing. He cried, quietly, as he watched the angel be wiped from existence. And while in any normal case he could go about his life not remembering his lost Producer, the higher angels protected the witnesses of the exorcism, so that Abe could be made a proper example of anyone with the idea to start an uprising. He was forced to live with the memory.

Once it was over, they sat Hanekoma down at a table and pushed a form in front of him. A deadline. He was to find a new Producer posthaste, or he would be punished. It was a simple thing to solve, so there should be no trouble, they said. It was delivered callously, and no emotion on Hanekoma was even acknowledged by them. He was still being congratulated. This was being treated like a win.

After that meeting was concluded, Hanekoma was sent home. And he sat at his kitchen table and cried. He sobbed harder than he had in years, since his parents died. But this hurt worse. It hurt worse than anything he could have possibly experienced. Because no matter what Abe had told him before hand, this was entirely his fault, in every sense of the word.

[shiningdesignersreflections]

Chapter 3: Gems

Narrated by Krista.

~Content Warning: extreme poverty, loss, depression, emotional abuse~

Narrator: Once we passed through the narrow block, there were fewer people. After so many years, this place still looked the same as it was in my memory.

Narrator: The streets were as dilapidated as it used to be, and the air was so unpleasant. The poor and sick curled up in corners, shivering, even though the freezing winter had already passed.

Krista: Why are people still suffering from the cold and starvation with all these gems?

Louis: Life indeed had been better a few years back. Some people made a living by carving gems for nobles. But last year, the royal family launched a conscription campaign, taking men and property from civilian households.

Narrator: A biting wind still lingers in the slums, as though the spring has abandoned these people. There was a half-collapsed bungalow nearby with a touch of green color peeking out of the rubble.

Krista: That was... my home...

Narrator: What happened here...? The house in my dreams, the place where I spent those happy days with my parents... It held the only comforting memories I had of my childhood...

Narrator: The bricks scattered on the ground were like the broken pieces of my past, stabbing my heart like sharp knives.

Narrator: Another half of the house still stood, though barely. Then out of a small corner emerged a barefoot girl.

Narrator: She looks so skinny and delicate, clutching a few bouquets of light-colored flowers.

Little Girl: Fresh flowers for Worship Day. Want to buy some?

Narrator: I used to be just like her... It seemed nothing had changed here. The same despair that struck me years before had befallen another innocent child.

Narrator: Tears well up in my eyes. Two glistening gems fell onto the hem of the girl’s ragged skirt.

Narrator: As I was about to hand them to the poor kid a blade was thrust before me, with the cold voice of a guard.

Guard: Gems are a gift from Arionus. Only the nobles are allowed to touch them. I’m arresting you for the illegal possession of gems!

Narrator: Louis opened his way through the guards surrounding us, and shielded me and the little girl.

Louis: Sir, can’t you recognize the envoy’s clothes? As the Day of Worship approaches, everyone should heed the gospel of Arionus.

Narrator: As soon as that was said, the arrogant guard froze. In an instant, his expression turned from a vicious scowl to a cautious frown.

Guard: Still, a lowly commoner does not have the right to touch Arionus’ gift. Since you are the envoy who serves the saintess, you should be back in the tower.

Louis: Of course. And please take these two gems back to the temple.

Narrator: Louis turned around, his eyes filled with guilt. I knew what he was trying to say, so I nodded without a word.

Narrator: The guards escorted me back to the tower as if I was a criminal. They observed me and Louis closely to see if we were lying, but none of them dared to ask.

Narrator: I thought there would be severe punishment, but the High Priest just closed the gate of the tower with a sullen look in front of the soldiers and did nothing.

Narrator: The tragedy play was no longer performed in the tower, and I never saw Louis again.

Narrator: Days felt like years inside the tower. There was even a time when I hoped that the High Priest would come and condemn me for my transgression. That’d at least give me a chance to air the grievances bottled up inside me.

Narrator: But no one came, and I found the confinement even more suffocating. Finally, the Day of Worship arrived.

Narrator: It was a sunny evening. The rays of the setting sun filled the streets of the capital city, making everything glow like gold.

Narrator: They made me put on a cumbersome gown, and sat me in an elephant-drawn carriage made of gold to be worshiped by the people of Delmond.

Narrator: I was told to keep silent. As the golden carriage passed down the street, only those well-dressed people sang loud praises of God.

Narrator: When I looked up, I saw in the distance a bunch of people in ragged clothes praying in silence. They were being shunned by the rest of the crowd and seemed so far away.

Krista: “With a devout heart, I humbly pray to you and ask for your mercy. Please see the suffering of the masses and heed their grievances...”

Krista: “Please hear my prayers and forgive our ignorance. Please shower your blessings down on us and bring Delmond back to life...”

Choose either “How ironic” or “You can’t save them.”

If “ironic,” ...

You: How ironic! Those who truly need salvation are even never allowed to approach you, the saintess!

Narrator: But it is only my wish to preserve their happiness that supported me to bear the duty in this cold tower.

If “can’t,” ...

You: The gems bestowed by you will never reach the poor. No matter how hard they pray, you can’t save them.

Narrator: But why...? Arionus’ blessings even differ among the poor and the rich?

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

[warningsine]

In recent years, we have seen so many men splayed open before a public that has then been asked to judge, in real-time, their degrees of awfulness. What’s the line between a douchebag, a creep, and an abuser? How do we sketch a spectrum from harassment through rape? When does garden-variety shittiness shade into criminality? These conversations, still roiling, are helpfully illustrated by the men in question: the hiding-in-plain-sight monstrosity of Harvey Weinstein or Donald J. Trump; the onanistic assaults of Louis C.K.; the pathetic moves of former Artforum publisher Knight Landesmann, accused of coercing office visitors into allowing him to sensuously hand-feed them walnuts, among other unwanted gropings and abuses of power.

Into this ongoing reckoning drops The Girl at the Door, by Italian author Veronica Raimo. File it on the shelf with other recent masterpieces of the #MeToo era, from Sofka Zinovieff’s Putney to Sally Rooney’s Normal People. Raimo’s slim and uncomfortable novel is the opposite of a straightforward polemic; indeed, it’s the kind of thing that’s destined to launch a million tense book-club discussions.

The plot is simple enough. A couple has emigrated from their economically depressed home country (which seems a lot like Italy) in order to start a new life on the island of Miden (which seems a lot like Iceland, or at least an amalgam of various Scandinavian nations). The man—no one in the book is named outright—is a 37-year-old professor of philosophy at a local arts college. The woman, his partner, is pregnant with his child. One fateful afternoon, a girl shows up at the door with some news: The man, her former professor, raped her. Or, rather, they were involved, sexually, for a period of time; and now, two years later, she has come to the understanding that she was raped.

Miden is both utopian and bureaucracy obsessed, so this bombshell sets in motion a long process in which various official groups will determine whether the man is indeed guilty of what, in their books, is defined as “Trauma no. 215.” The man himself essentially accepts the charges as they’re spelled out, which amount to varying degrees of rough sex and quasi-bondage, against the fraught context of a teacher-student relationship. His accuser, in retrospect, feels traumatized. The accused, meanwhile, still fantasizes about their affair, which he considers both a mistake and a thing of beauty. He keeps a drawer full of her dirty underwear, revisits a folder of nude photos she once sent him. Those pictures, he notes, go unmentioned in the charges the girl has brought to Miden’s Commission. “Evidently the trauma had spared them,” he writes, with a slight sneer. “She didn’t suddenly realize that she’d been forced to take them. No, that’s not the correct wording: she didn’t suddenly realize that she’d felt forced to take them. Everything hinged on that feeling.”

Raimo’s prose is lean, sprinkled with dashes of the poetic. Her chapterlets toggle between the point-of-view of the male professor and his pregnant girlfriend—Him, Her—which at first plays like a version of Gone Girl’s endlessly ripped-off, conflicting and unreliable narrators. But Raimo isn’t interested in ratcheting up tension, or making the reader think that some climax will arise once the truth outs. The truth is mostly always there, sitting on the table, begging to be interpreted. “Do you realize that this is absurd?” the man asks when he encounters the girl, his accuser, on the street. “Do you realize that I was assaulted?” she asks in response. Several lines later, they both admit that they had loved each other, once.

What makes The Girl at the Door so thorny is the way in which it dissolves into a hall of mirrors, offers itself to be weaponized by conflicting viewpoints. From one angle, it might be a jab at the #MeToo movement and the groupthink of so-called “cancel culture”; from another, it’s a passionate defense of the ways in which the right to define abuse indeed lies with the abused. Raimo’s professor is certainly a narcissist, a mansplainer and a pompous asshole—someone who lamely rhapsodizes his art school’s aroma of “organic turpentine and the hormones of young bodies,” and salivates over the “vulnerable enthusiasm” of his students. And yet, is he a rapist?

“Some things need time to process,” one of his peers tell him, unpacking the reasoning of the girl’s accusation. “Okay,” the professor counters, “but maybe in two years she’ll process something else, and we’ll be back to the beginning.” “Then in two years we’ll talk about it again,” she retorts. Meanwhile, the professor’s partner—saddled with having to stand by while his fate is decided—is coming to terms with the contours of the consensual relationship she has with the man who will soon be the father of her child. The sex they have, she notes, isn’t much different than the sex he had with his accuser, now reclassified as evidence of Trauma no. 215. “In those days,” she writes, “he often spoke to me as if were a little girl.” In many ways, the real story of The Girl at the Door is her own becoming, a journey away from what might not be abuse, but is still its own parade of tiny traumas.

The novel does have a denouement of sorts, but it’s hard to recall a book that leaves so much of its author’s own intentions floating, hazy and shifting. I asked Raimo, via email, how notions of “guilt” reverberated while she was writing the novel, and also if she feels like she brought a different perspective to her subject matter as a European rather than an American. (Somewhat shockingly, Raimo said she began writing the book eight years ago, and completed it prior to when the #MeToo movement came for Harvey Weinstein.) “It’s easier to bear guilt than ambiguity,” she noted. “I don’t believe in punishment. I don’t think the opposite of punishment is forgiveness, but [rather] dialectics. And if there’s something I learned from feminist thinkers, it’s to be dialectic.” And also: “I feel the only message in my novel was: Please, don’t look for a message!”

That sort of attitude can, of course, be maddening, if not obnoxious. But The Girl at the Door earns its moral complexity and its refusals. The novel’s swift 229 pages are dotted with landmines; a second reading does little to settle its barbed nuances. After—spoiler alert—the professor receives his verdict, he finds himself confronting an entirely new identity. “And only now that my status had passed from professor to Perpetrator did I realize that language created reality,” he writes. “I was inside that reality. I had raped a girl. I had loved a girl and raped her.”