#it should be a crime punishable by law to do something like that to him

[infant-no-finances]

bbno$ - I Remember

[0mg-bird]

Lover’s Rock~ S. Reid

Spencer Reid x Fem Reader

Summary: Spencer isn’t the only one that stands out in the crowd, but maybe that’s a good thing, because that’s what leads him to you.

Warnings: I didn’t really proof read, I’ll do it later lol. 18+ content towards the end. Um Reid is such a dweeb and adorable???? Fluff, mentions of alcohol and embarrassment. Reader is so twee (can we bring twee back or no?) idk she makes questionable fashion choices.

Really, this wasn’t your thing.

The bar scene, the club dresses all the girls where, the high heels and the whole game of cat and mouse that all the guys want to play. But you’re here, you made an effort to appease your best friends who claim you have no social life.

The entire night so far, they watched you strike out with the guys they motioned over because in their mind, you’re desperate and lonely and lame.

Okay, maybe that’s more of your headspace than theirs, but they’ve been offering you pity glances this whole time.

You’ve made a decision a while ago that maybe there was no romance out there for you. You were just born with some aspect that made normal, sane guys physically run away, and maybe that’s fine. You were really good on your own. And it never did feel right when you had a guy, if it didn’t feel like the movies, it wasn’t worth it.

Right?

Okay, maybe you should settle, at some point, you’ll be too old to marry and you’ll just keep working, with no real life and take care of Shelly, your goldfish. Maybe it won’t be perfect, but it’ll be someone to share things with.

You let out a huff and watch the ice melt in your drink, not bothering to smile when your friend tells you to brighten up.

Normally, you’re a ray of sunshine, but something about getting rejected four consecutive times is raining on your parade.

An entire bar full of happy people in their element, and it’s just you, sticking out like a sore thumb, especially when your friends go dance with a few guys they hit it off with.

Too busy looking at the buckle on the ankle strap of your heel, you are sinking somewhere in your mind, to a place where you aren’t listening to cheap song lyrics of and realizing that table is stickier than you thought.

“Where’s Reid?”

“Reid.”

“Spencer!” Penelope smacks his shoulder, pulling him from the trance of his eyes on the book pages.

He looks up from the corner booth, seeing his team has returned with drinks.

“Are you seriously reading right now?” Morgan criticizes, placing a beer in front of the younger agent.

Spencer doesn’t know why he does this, beer tastes like a plowed hay field in his opinion. But he takes the drink in gratitude and before he can explain that he was just trying to finish the Russian publishing of ‘Crime and Punishment’, Morgan rips the book from his hands and tosses it to Emily for safe keeping.

“I- what was that for?” Spencer questions with a unjust squeak, feeling rather sad.

“Look around, kid, do you see how many fine ladies are here? You don’t need to be sitting here with your nose between the pages of Little Women.” Morgan states as a matter of fact.

“Yeah, nobody puts baby in the corner.” Penelope agrees.

With an airy scoff, Spencer looks to the other members for help, but they all seem to side with Derek.

He gains a defeated frown.

Spencer didn’t want to be here in the first place, now he’s being forced out into the public to socialize. There has to be a law against this, he knows there’s not because he knows everything, but he is certainly going to try and create one.

“Oh come on, Spence, why don’t you try to get a date?” JJ asks, meaning well, but the laugh that comes from Emily makes him want to recoil.

“C’mon, I’ll help you.” Morgan offers, pulling him from the booth seat.

“Yeah, that never really works well when you try to be my wingman, you usually end up with all the phone numbers.” Spencer claims, pressing his lips into a line.

But like some mock savior, Morgan stands behind Reid as they wait by the bar.

“What about her?” Morgan would point out.

To which Reid would respond with some variation of ‘she’s too much’ or ‘she definitely has a boyfriend three times my size’.

After fifteen minutes of this back and forth, Morgan is seriously regretting he forced the hermit out of his shell.

And that’s when a rowdy group finally leaves and clears the path of vision to you.

Still sat at a high table with one leg crossed over the other, you wiggle your foot as you doodle on a drink napkin.

Reid misses whatever Morgan says, and in that air of silence, the agent follows the vision.

“Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.” Derek chuckles, clapping Reid on the shoulder. “She’s pretty. Go talk to her.”

“What?” Reid looks away. “No, no, I don’t want to disturb her.”

You let out a very bored sigh.

Derek’s brows furrow. “I know you’re some boy genius but you really are dumb sometimes. Everything about that girl is screaming ‘put me outa my misery’.”

Spencer tilts his head slightly, watching you rub your eye and then frown at the way you smudged your already smudged eye liner.

“Okay, maybe you’re right.” He nods. “But…what do I say?”

Derek grins. “Compliment her, ask if she wants another drink, strike up a conversation. It’s easy, man.”

Spencer gets an uneasy feeling in him, but he still braves through it. “Easy for you, maybe.” He mumbles before running a hand through his hair and takes a step towards you.

“Go get her, tiger!” Morgan encourages.

When he returns to the team with the happy news, Penelope asks if Spencer’s gonna do good.

“Oh, definitely not, we’ll be lucky if he doesn’t trip over his own feet on the way over there.” Derek answers, laughing.

But Spencer makes it to you without a stumble, yet his whole plan leaves his mind when he gets to you.

You’re gorgeous, too pretty for him.

“Nice legs.”

Did he just say that?

You look up at him upon hearing his voice, your wide eyes confused.

“I’m sorry?” You question, not sure if you heard this stranger correctly.

He’s a rather handsome stranger.

“No- I mean I like your legs- tights! Not your legs, you have nice legs of course but that’s not- your tights are nice- cool! Different?”

Oh god, he should just walk away now. He’s already messed this whole thing up and surely you think he’s an idiot.

While he’s got an embarrassed look on his face, you look down at the red lace tights you wear under your skirt, something your friends questioned as a fashion choice.

“You really like them?” You ask, voice soft to his ears.

He stops his rambling.

“Yeah, of course I do, I think they’re cool.” He smiles softly.

You can’t help but grin bashfully.

“Every guy I’ve talked to tonight thought they were a little weird, but that’s okay, I kinda like weird.” You admit, watching as he shakes his head.

“People say my socks are weird all the time, don’t feel bad.” He comforts, pulling the material of his pants up so you can see his mismatched socks with funky colors and prints on them.

“Those are cool.” Your approval eases him, giving him just enough reassurance that you aren’t going to scream for help in the next two minutes.

“I’m Dr. Spencer Reid- sorry, force of habit, uh, just Spencer. I-I’m Spencer.” He introduces with the smallest of wave.

Still smiling more than you have the entire night, you greet him. He repeats your name like it has some special meaning, and you’ve never loved the sound of it more.

“I was going to get a drink, what are you having?” He asks, looking at your sweating glass. “Vodka soda? Cherry sour?”

You blush. “It’s actually a shirley temple…I just ate all the cherries out of it already.”

Without hesitation, he nods. “Okay, I’ll be back.”

He leaves you at your table, and then your brief moment of sunshine is clouded once more by doubt. What if he doesn’t come back? What if he drugs your drink and then you wake up in an alley somewhere, missing your wallet and phone and your tights that he thinks are so cool?

This was a bad idea. Dating isn’t for you. He seemed so nice and he’s so attractive but that should have been your first red flag and-

Oh. He’s coming back.

With two shirley temples.

He places them on the table and waits for you to grab one, then he grabs the other and takes a sip.

“You mind if I sit?” He asks.

Feeling a little silly for assuming he was out to maim you, you nod.

“I seriously doubt my friends remember I’m over here, so feel free to stay.” You joke at your expense.

He sits across from you, sparing a glance over his shoulder at his team who make it very obvious that they’re staring.

You study his profile, a shaggy haircut that falls across his forehead, all tousled in an effortless way. His jaw line is defined, round brown eyes that flick back to you. When he catches you looking, he grins once more.

It’s never been so…easy, having a ‘get to know you’ conversation. Questions come without second thoughts, you find yourself laughing, actually laughing.

Playing with your straw, you try to calm your facial expressions, your cheeks are starting to hurt from beaming so much.

“So, Dr. Reid, huh?” You ask, making him let out a small huff of embarrassment.

“That’s what the PhD’s say, yeah.” He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly feeling really dorky about his immense amount of education.

It’s not dorky to you. Every guy you’ve talked to tonight dropped out of community college because ‘it didn’t align with their career paths’ of selling protein smoothies or working in some ‘underground’ record store.

But here Spencer is, explaining he’s on the behavioral analysis unit for the FBI and he tells you about all the degrees he has. All you can think about as he talks of universities and the academy is, knowledge is such a sexy look on a guy. Sure, you’ve never really liked the underachieving stoners, but usually you’ve been with guys who seem to say “you like school?” when you talk about working towards your Masters degree.

“Wow.” Is all you can say for a moment, clearly shocked and, well, impressed. “I really wasn’t expecting that.”

“That’s what most people say.” He nods, picking the cherry in his drink out by the stem and offering it to you.

By your thankful eyes batting up at him, he’s tempted on going behind the bar and bringing you all the maraschino cherries they have. He quickly turns the conversation around to focus on you so he can focus on something other than the stained color on your lips.

“What about you? What do you do?” He asks.

Compared to his job, yours seems too normal, too mundane. You almost want to avoid the question, never once have you been unsatisfied with your career but now you can’t help it. What if Spencer doesn’t like you because you don’t work for NASA?

That’s ridiculous, because to Spencer, your job makes his adoration grow.

“Oh, I’m just a teacher.” You say, fiddling with a stem in your mouth.

Spencer gains a soft smile. “You could never just be a teacher, teacher’s are important. Well, unless you’re a sucky teacher.”

His joke earns a bubbly giggle and he decides he’d like to hear that sound forever. It’s moments like this that he’s glad to have an eidetic memory.

“I don’t think I’m a sucky teacher so that’s good, my students seem to like me.” You state, pushing your hair behind your ear and dropping the knotted stem onto a napkin.

Spencer finds himself leaning a little closer, body naturally gravitating to your pull. “What do you teach?” He asks.

“I work for my schools gifted children program, so I basically teach kid geniuses advanced core curriculum because they’ve tested out of their normal classes.” You chuckle, oblivious to the way Spencer’s heart warms.

He remains quiet for a bit too long, just staring at you with an honest look, one that makes you feel like you’re turned inside out and bared for him. The panic rises again, you think you must have said something to ruin it.

“I know it’s nothing special-” You begin to say.

“No.” He interrupts, a sure tone. “I-I think it’s great. Really, that’s not an easy job.”

Deep breath out, you’re put at ease.

“I constantly have imposter syndrome, these kids are twelve and bringing up philosophies and mathematical formulas I have to go home and study because I haven’t even learned them yet. Honestly, sometimes I don’t even think they need me there.” You joke lightly, half meaning it but masking that slight insecurity by finishing off your drink.

“They need you.” Spencer assures, an expression showing he’s never been more sure of something. “Believe me, you’re probably the only person they see in a school day that understands them.”

Brows creased, you shake your head, holding his rather intimidating gaze for such puppy dog eyes.

“What makes you so sure?” You question.

Spencer takes in a breath. “Because I know what it’s like to be twelve years old and telling a grown adult about Fermat’s Last Theorem.”

Sometimes, the world has a funny way of putting two people together. For years, you’ve wandered through life and on a random Friday night, feeling a little flushed from the Summer air, here is Spencer Reid, the man of your dreams.

Your friends left some time ago after you assured them you were fine to be left at the place you were just complaining about being. You don’t mind being left with Spencer, in fact, you’re dreading the time you have to go home because it means this moment is over.

“I really would like to live in New York.” You exclaim, somehow have fallen into the rabbit hole of dreams for the future.

“New York’s really cool!” He agrees. “Did you know that they have a homicide rate of 4.48 percent right now? It’s been declining since the nineties.”

You must make some sort of surprised face because his eyes go wide and he quickly tried to recover his odd statement.

“Sorry, my job isn’t really full of happy statistics. But mostly we just find dead prostitutes in alleys in New York.”

His blushed cheeks make your heart flutter in its beats.

“I’m glad I’m not a prostitute.” You giggle, making him chew his bottom lip for a moment.

“Yeah, I’m glad you’re not either.”

By the time the team gets their coats back on with the intention of heading home, they look across the room to see their quirky doctor friend is partaking in very friendly body language.

“Oh my god, look at him.” Emily laughs. “He’s finally using that big IQ of his.”

Penelope, who comes to hold onto Morgan’s arm, grins rather proudly. “It’s like a butterfly finally coming out of its cocoon. It’s…beautiful, actually.”

Derek laughs down at her. “I think that last long island ice tea was a bad idea. Come on, baby, let’s get you home.”

“Good luck, my fine friend.” She calls in the general direction of you and Spencer, but the two of you don’t notice.

JJ ties her hair up and starts to take a few steps forward.

“Where are you going?” Penelope questions.

“To let him know we’re leaving?”

“No!” The team seems to exclaim, all shouting that she cannot disturb the moment Spencer worked rather hard to get to.

She just holds her hands up in defense, then follows after Emily as they leave the bar.

Spencer of course notices the way Prentiss leaves him with an encouraging thumbs up. It makes his get a little bashful, but he nods a goodbye and watches the door shut once more. His attention is brought back to his hand on the table, well, more to the way your pinky brushes against his. You continue to talk about mutual interests and what your apartment in New York would look like, a slight ramble to you that shows you’re very aware of the slight contact.

With some kind of placebo courage he can’t even blame on alcohol, he lets his fingers crawl between yours like that’s where they belong.

The team would definitely laugh at this teenage display, but to the both of you, it’s the perfect amount of reassurance, soft enough to not be too scary.

The attraction is there, Spencer forces himself to profile it just so his negative thoughts can’t prove him wrong. You’re smiling at every word, your eyes seem to stay dilated and focused on his, and he isn’t sure if you even realize the way your heel brushes his ankle every so often.

His profile, often never wrong, is what helps him reach across the slight space to tuck your hair behind your ear so casually as he tells you about his minuscule music taste.

After a few flirty comments, you force yourself yo look away from him just so you can het your breathing under control. Upon this action, you read the watch on his wrist and a frown sets on your lipstick stained lips.

“I should go home before it’s too late to walk.” You sigh, not wanting this moment to end.

He nods. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

Those round eyes he’s starting to really adore look up at him and you chew your lip, almost like you’re waiting for him to do something. Say something.

It takes him entirely too long to figure out what to do. Morgan would be ashamed.

“C-Can I walk you home?” He asks in a rush and in eagerness.

You nod like that’s the best idea you’ve ever heard.

That’s how it leads to you leaning against him like it’s something you do often, walking in step as you ramble on and on about what you have to do to get your classroom ready for the new school year. He listens without annoyance like most guys would, then tells you about books he has that he thinks you might enjoy, books he could part with so you could give them to the students whose reading levels are above what the school provides.

He’s so caring and considerate, making sure he walks closest to the street, lets you be off in your own world and makes sure you don’t run into anything as you constantly gaze up at him. All the way to your building and up the stairs to your apartment door, the two of you are as comfortable with each other like two old friends would be.

That’s what makes your head spin. You just met Spencer and already feel like he’s been in your life for hundreds of years.

You pull your keys from your purse, you unlock the door but don’t make a move to open it.

“I’m really, really, happy that I met you.” You whisper to him as he slightly crowds your space in the door way.

“I am too.” He agrees, heart beating a little faster as your hand presses gently to his chest.

Don’t be crazy, you just met her, she doesn’t want a stranger trying to kiss her, tell her good night, call her tomorrow, maybe you can plan for something next weekend-

His thoughts don’t stand a chance when you wrap your fingers around his tie and gently tug him to your lips.

It’s smooth and warm and has your eyes shutting and your lungs exhaling. His gentle hand cradles your face while the other flexes against your hip.

It just feels so…

So right.

With the slight tilt of your head, the goodnight kiss deepens, you’re molded against him.

His lips part, coaxing yours to do the same, and the feeling of your tongue against his has you slightly teetering backwards. You lean against the door for support, hands roaming into his hair.

You’ve been wanting to run your hands through it all night.

He’s desperate in his movements, like he’s a starved man and you’re enjoying every second of it. His thumb runs over your jaw, you’re pushing away any space between you.

When you decide you’re going to pass out from the lack of oxygen, you pull away, sucking your bottom lip to savor the taste. Spencer still holds your face in his large hands and matches your shallow pants.

It’s all so much. You’re hot, brain a little foggy, but still so sure of this situation.

And you soon find yourself saying something you’ve never ever said after just meeting a guy.

“Do you want to come inside?”

Spencer seriously thinks he misheard you.

“Yeah- yes. Yes, I do.” He nods.

A laugh escapes your lips, one he swallows up as he embraces you once more, trying to help you open the door. His arm around your waist makes sure you don’t stumble and fall as the two of you finally get inside.

He looks around the space. “I like your apartment, it’s nice.”

“Thank you.” You mumble against his lips, pulling at your jean jacket and tossing it to the couch.

It’s dark, causing you to back into a side table. The both of you laugh, but neither of you bother to reach for the light switch.

You guid him towards your bedroom, pushing him through the ajar door. The open window leaves the room painted in a low light, the breeze is cool as you clumsily fall onto the mattress with him.

“I never do this.” You state, a huff leaving your lips as he rolls you onto your back.

“I don’t either.” He agrees, mouth wandering down your jaw to your neck.

You fiddling hands make a home in his hair. “Like I really don’t do this. I don’t even go to bars, let alone take home strange men- not that you’re strange. But don’t think I am a casual hookup girl, because I’m not, I just- there’s a connection, right? I’m not alone in this?”

He pulls away, looking down at you with a loopy grin. “You’re rambling, that’s a sign of nervousness.”

“I am nervous!” You exclaim with a breathy laugh. “You’re just…you’re really great.”

His thumb traces your bottom lip. “You’re really great too.” He whispers. “But we don’t have to do anything.”

“No!” You say a little too boldly. “I mean, no, no I want this. Do you want this?”

With a nod, he assures you. “I want this too.”

Maybe you should be more shy and self conscious about this, but when he’s being so kind, all your nervousness leaves. The two of you stumble through the awkward bits with laughter and jokes, and it makes you realize that something so serious doesn’t have to be so uniform.

Really, you’re having more fun than you’ve ever had.

“Spencer?” You gasp, dangerously close to falling off the bed at how the two of you have rolled around.

“Yeah?” He asks, head buried in your neck, trying not to get too ahead of himself as he continues his deep pace between your legs.

“You’re kinda pulling my hair.”

Immediately he moves his hand, apologetic.

Hands dragging up his chest, you try to shimmy away from the mattress ledge. Spencer notices the tragedy that’s about to strike, opting to back off of you completely so you can readjust.

You gasp at the loss of contact. “A little warning next time would be appreciated.”

“Sorry, sorry.” He stammers, gripping you in a feverish way, mouth back to yours.

You don’t exactly know how you ended up on top, but you look at him slightly frightened eyes.

“Is this a no?” He questions, only concerned with making you comfortable.

He’s the complete opposite of selfish, he proved that the second he started you off with his tongue against your core.

“No, not if you like this? I just…I don’t know if I’m good at this.”

He nods in understanding. “Okay, no problem.”

You protest as he goes to move you. “Can I try? Will-will you help me?”

God, he could marry you.

“Yeah, of course sweetheart.” He whispers, kissing you gently.

The butterflies in your stomach are all twitter pated.

Or maybe you’re just extremely turned on.

Spencer is a great teacher, it’s you who jumps the gun at things.

“There you go, angel, slow.” He breathes in your ear, finger tips pressing into your hips as you slowly push down, letting his tip enter you. “Just go really slow, okay?”

You try to do as he says, easing him into you slowly, but by some urge to rush satisfaction, you sink all the way onto him without warning.

“Fuck! That wasn’t slow.” He grits, a hoarse moan escaping from the back of his throat, his grip on you almost bruising.

“S-sorry.” You try to say, but the sheer pressure you feel at this sudden angle has you shuddering and crying out softly. “I’m an overachiever.” You try to joke.

“Holy shit, you want an A+ or something?” He chuckles, trying to calm himself down, running through mathematical formulas in his head so he doesn’t finish just like this.

“Spence, I need- it’s a lot, I need-” You whine out, not having the heart to feel embarrassed for sounding so needy.

“I know, I know. Fuck, do you have any idea how good you feel?” He questions, swallowing hard as he guides your hips forward slightly.

“I can’t really think at all when you’re sitting in my cervix right now.” You claim, quickly overwhelmed by pleasure as you find a rhythm against him.

Sucking on your throat, he mutters something you don’t care to listen to.

“This is- is it supposed to be this good?” You moan, trying not to dig your finger nails into his shoulders.

“I think we just fit perfectly.”

With each movement, you become more comfortable and confident, soon that friendly softness is replaced by lustful roughness. Through it all, Spencer remains caring, even when you tell him he can be a little rough with you.

Never in your sex life have you wanted more and more, even when it finishes.

Even after the two of you can’t find the strength to pull any more orgasms from each other, you lay beside each other, Spencer hasn’t bothered to pull out of you yet, perhaps he’s too spent.

“So.” You clear your throat, tracing his features. “How do you want to play this?”

He hums, dragging his fingers up and down your side. “What do you mean?”

“Guys usually leave after this stuff, right?”

His brows furrow, anxiety comes to ripple through him. “Do you want me to leave?”

Staring at his tired eyes, you shake your head. “No, I want you to stay. Forever. I’m thinking about chaining you to the headboard.”

He chuckles. “I’ll save you the effort, I will gladly stay.”

A sweet smile is returned to him.

At some point, the two of you clean up and fall asleep the second the sheets are pulled over you.

Spencer is convinced it’s all a dream until he wakes up to the sun warm over his skin. He rubs his blurry eyes and rolls over in the bed that is not his, met with your bare back. Slowly, he reaches for you, kissing your shoulder to rouse you.

His phone, still in the pocket of his discarded pants, rings again and again, forcing him to retrieve it in his boxers.

Of course it’s Hotch.

Of course he needs to get to the office. On a Saturday. After the night he just had.

“I should call the authorities, there’s a cute intruder in my room.” Your sleepy voice says from bed. “Oh wait…you are the authorities.”

He likes the way you can make yourself giggle.

“I have bad news.” He says, tracking down his clothes. “My boss just called me in.”

He hates the frown you have.

“That’s a very unfortunate thing.” You nod.

He buttons his pants, then slides his shirt on as he comes to your bedside.

“I should get going so I can go home and change.”

His warm hand presses to your cheek.

You turn to kiss his palm. “Is this goodbye?”

“No. Definitely no.” He assures. ��I’ll call when I can, okay? Maybe we can get dinner or something?”

You could sigh heavenly at the way he’s just so dreamy.

“That sounds nice. I’d kiss you but I might have morning breath.” You smile.

He kisses you anyway.

And after leaving the team waiting in the round table room, he appears refreshed and in a very good mood.

He takes his seat, all eyes on him.

“Sorry I’m late, good morning.” He clears his throat.

“Good morning indeed.” Morgan chuckles, sliding him a cup of coffee.

“You okay, Reid?” Rossi asks, eyeing the agent.

“I’m great.” He smiles.

“Is that a hickey?” JJ exclaims, reveling in the way he quickly grabs for his neck, only to realize she’s joking.

“Real mature.” He mutters, knowing the entire day is going to be jokes made at his expense.

He doesn’t mind though, not when he knows his reward for all of this is you.

[theostrophywife]

baby, won't you be my girl?

pairing: theodore nott x reader. song inspiration: only girl by stephen sanchez. author’s note: theodore nott, the man that you are. please enjoy my favorite flirty yummy slytherin boy 🐍 part two: stop the world i wanna get off with you.

Theodore Nott was not the jealous type. 

Jealousy required emotions, which Theo found so terribly unrefined. He was a Slytherin, for Salazar’s sake. Not some hotheaded Gryffindor incapable of keeping his anger in check. But as he glared daggers at the back of some pathetic little beater who was currently flirting with you across the common room, Theo couldn’t help but feel downright murderous. 

The worst part was that he could’ve prevented all of this. If he had just manned the fuck up, Theo would’ve been the one pressed close against you, whispering his signature suggestive comments in your ear and making you smile. 

But Theo—absolute tosser that he was—didn’t realize his blunder until it was too late. 

Earlier that week, the two of you had been studying in his room. Well, you were studying. Theo, on the other hand, was smoking enough pot to sedate a hippogriff. He inhaled deeply, watching with a slight smirk on his face as you frowned into your Charms textbook. You were laying on your stomach at the edge of his bed with notes strewn all around you. The combination of your slightly unbuttoned white blouse, dangerously short black pleated skirt, and green and silver high knee socks affected him more than the drugs he was currently inhaling. 

There was something incredibly sexy about a beautiful woman laying in his bed and completely ignoring him in favor of a dusty old tome. Or maybe it was just you. To be fair, Theo found everything about you quite sexy. Even your infamous lectures regarding his drug habits, which you were due to give him in three…two…one….

You huffed indignantly, the action ruffling the feathers on your quill. “I will never understand why you voluntarily choose to put that rubbish into your body.” 

Theo shrugged, blowing a puff of smoke towards the ceiling. “It’s relaxing.” 

“What could you possibly be stressed about, Teddy?” 

He smiled at the nickname. If anyone else called him that, Theo would’ve hexed the life out of them, but he liked the way it sounded when you said it. Especially when you were a little bit annoyed at him. 

“I’ve got a lot on my shoulders, love.” He took another drag and sighed dramatically. “Being rich and handsome is incredibly tiring work.” 

You snorted. “You’re an absolute twat, you know that?” 

Theo held the blunt between his slender fingers and plopped down next to you. “A rich and handsome twat.” 

“A rich, handsome, and dead twat if you don’t get that blunt away from my textbook.” Theo smiled sheepishly before putting out the cigarette on the ashtray by his bedside table. You rolled your eyes and tapped the end of your quill against his chest. “You should really quit. That shit’s terrible for your lungs.” 

Theo turned, cocking his head at you. His watercolor eyes bored into yours as a smirk curved against his lips. “What will you give me if I do?” 

“Theodore Aurelius Nott,” you chided. Despite the blush creeping into your cheeks, you managed to keep your voice steady as you glared at the perfectly coiffed prick. “Do not make me stab you with my quill.” 

He grinned. There was nothing Theo enjoyed more than making his best friend flustered. “I’ll take a light stabbing if it means that you’ll start paying attention to me again.” You laughed at his childish pout. “What are you studying so hard for anyways?” 

“We have a Charms exam on Friday and you know how brutal Flitwick is.”

“Scheduling an exam on the same day as a quidditch game should be a crime punishable by wizarding law.” Theo complained with a groan. “A game against Gryffindor, no less.” 

“Not everything revolves around quidditch, Theo.” 

“Try telling that to Malfoy,” he said with a sigh. “The bloody git’s been running the whole team ragged. For the past three weeks, Draco’s been forcing all of us to wake up before sunrise. I’m losing my precious beauty sleep, Y/N.” 

You pouted, pinching his cheeks. “Poor Teddy bear. How will you ever recover?” 

"Smartass," Theo said with a smirk.

"Top of the class, baby." You rolled over and winked at him. "I really am that witch."

"I think I'm rubbing off on you, love."

"In your dreams, Nott."

He chuckled. "Oh, I'm definitely rubbing off on you." Theo snatched the quill out of your hands. "Enough studying. I'd rather talk about how I'm going to crush those Gryffindor brutes, which I can only do with you cheering me on from the stands."

You took the quill back, tapping its feathery edge against Theo's nose. “You know that watching all that flying makes me nauseous. Plus, I can’t even enjoy myself because I’m too worried about you taking a bludger to the head.” 

“I promise not to let anything ruin my pretty face. I know how much you enjoy the view, after all,” Theo said with a wink. “If you promise to come.” 

“I don’t know, Teddy…”

He pouted, giving you his best puppy dog eyes. “Please, Y/N. I need my good luck charm. Plus, you look cute in my jersey.” 

“My eyes are closed half of the time from sheer terror,” you pointed out. Theo watched as you fiddled with the end of your quill. “Besides, wouldn’t it be weird to wear your jersey and cheer you on?” 

Theo’s brows furrowed. “Why would it be weird?” 

“Because,” you said matter-of-factly. “Those are things a girlfriend would normally do.” 

“Well, yes, traditionally. But you’re my best friend,” Theo explained. “It’s not like that between us.” 

The minute the words came out of his mouth, Theo knew it was the wrong thing to say. You stiffened beside him, your body language turning as tense as a bowstring. 

“Right,” you said in a tight tone. “It’s definitely not like that between us.” 

“No, that’s not what I meant. I just—I mean you’re not like the other guy’s girlfriends. We’ve known each other for ages. We just don’t see each other that way.” 

Theodore Nott, idiot extraordinaire. If looks could kill, he’d be at the bottom of the Black Lake waiting to become a delicious feast for the merpeople. 

“Of course not,” you said with humorless laughter. “We’re just friends. It would be mental for anyone to think that we’d ever be in a relationship, right?” 

There was a challenge behind those words. Despite the fact that his dorm was deep within the dungeons, Theo could hear a slight ringing in his ears, like the howl of the wind as he raced past on his Nimbus, heart beating against his chest as he prepared to hurl the quaffle with all his might. Only now his target wasn’t a goal hoop.

It was you. His best friend. The girl he had been head over heels in love with since the moment you pushed Adrian Pucey into a bush at Malfoy Manor for making fun of five year old Theo’s lisp. 

He should say something, anything, but for once in his life, Theodore Nott had no witty comeback in his arsenal. Stupid, pathetic coward that he was, all he could manage was a nod. 

“Right,” he licked his lips nervously. “Just friends.” 

The disappointment in your eyes felt like a punch to the gut. Worse than when he’d broken his arm in third year. Worse than when Mattheo dragged him into a brawl with those brawny Durmstrang guys in fourth year. He would have gladly taken another meaty Bulgarian fist to the face rather than face you right now.

Theo watched helplessly as you rolled off the bed and stuffed your studying materials into your leather satchel. “Wait, Y/N. Are you leaving? I thought you wanted to study?” 

You slipped your shoes on, averting his gaze. “I do, which is why I’m gonna head to the library. I’m more focused there, anyways.” 

Theo was still utterly confused as he scrambled after you. “Let me at least walk you to—”

“That’s really not necessary,” you said, cutting him off. “I’ll see you later, Theo.” 

Theo, did not, in fact, see you later. 

If avoiding him was a sport, you would’ve won the bloody Triwizard cup. The fact that you memorized his schedule for him since he couldn’t be trusted to actually remember to show up to class probably helped. Theo didn’t realize how accustomed he had grown to having you around until you weren’t there. 

When Enzo obliviously rebuffed a Hufflepuff’s attempt to flirt with him at breakfast, Theo turned to your usual spot beside him to nudge you only to find the space empty. When Potter & Co. prattled on about whatever martyr cause they’d picked up that week, Theo found himself searching for you across the Potions classroom to share an eyeroll, but caught a glimpse of your retrieving back instead. The last straw had been when Elizabeth Burke’s portrait refused to let him into his own dorms because Theo couldn’t remember the passcode. He never had to since you always came in together.

In other words, Theo was absolutely fucking miserable. Even the team’s win against Gryffindor failed to lift his spirits. He knew that it had only been a week, but he missed you so fucking much that it actually hurt. 

The sight of you walking into the common room filled him with instant relief. For about half a second. Until he saw that you weren’t alone. 

Then, Theo had reverted back to his sulky self, choosing a shady spot amidst the raging party to drown his sorrows with a bottle of firewhisky. He had gone through at least half of the Ogden’s while chain smoking like a Hungarian Horntail. 

“Oi, what’s got your wand in a twist?” Mattheo asked while snatching the cigarette out of Theo’s mouth. He took a deep inhale and blew a puff of smoke directly into Theo’s face. “Aren’t you supposed to be celebrating our victory? Why’d you look like someone pissed in your soup?” 

“Fuck off, Riddle,” Theo muttered in response as he took back his cigarette. The smoke made the room hazy, but not enough to block you from view. 

The beater—the fucking twat—leaned in to whisper into your ear. Whatever he said made you burst into laughter, which once again filled Theo with pure, unadulterated rage. 

“Someone’s in a mood,” Enzo remarked, plopping down on the sofa beside Theo. A circle of third years hovered at the edge of their group, but as usual, Berkshire remained utterly oblivious to their presence. Bloody hell, he was even worse than Theo. 

“I bet ten galleons that Nott bashes Murdock’s head in before the end of the night,” Draco said.

“Murdock, is it?” Theo grunted. “What do we know about the prick?”

Blaise rolled his eyes. “Absolutely nothing. He’s not even worth gossiping about,” he announced dismissively while sipping his drink. Imported French wine, probably. Zabini would never partake in something as common as beer. 

Mattheo’s lips curled in amusement. “Besides the fact that he’s making a move on Theo’s girl.” 

“She’s not my girl,” Theo said defensively. 

“Really?” Malfoy drawled, raising a pale blonde brow. “So you wouldn’t mind if I asked Y/N to dance?”

“Don’t even fucking think about it, Malfoy.” 

The Slytherin boys laughed. For them, the week had been amusing as all hell. They had never seen Theo this wound up before. A few days without Y/N and their usual sassy, sarcastic mate had turned into a complete basket case. 

Pansy sighed. “For Salazar’s sake, Theo. Either man the fuck up or stand down. Y/N deserves to have a good night, too. Who she has it with is entirely up to you.” 

Pansy Parkinson was a pain in the arse, but she was also right. 

With that, Theo put his cigarette out on the ashtray and stood from his place on the sofa. It only took three strides for Theo to get to you. Four for you to startle as he casually put his arm around your shoulders. 

“There you are,” he whispered into your ear. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

You froze in place as Theo pulled you close. The scent of expensive cologne and cigarette smoke enveloped you, drawing you in like a moth to a flame. 

Under normal circumstances, you would’ve flown straight into the fire that was Theodore Nott, but tonight you were in no mood to get burned. You’ve already endured enough pain and humiliation from your last conversation. 

Just friends kept replaying over and over in your head like a broken record. You felt like an absolute pillock. For years, it felt like the two of you had been teetering towards…something. All that shameless flirting, the lingering touches, the late night conversations. You had been stupid enough to believe in the possibility that Theo felt for you what you felt for him. 

But maybe it was all in your imagination. 

“Theo,” you said, slinking out of his reach. Hurt flashed in his eyes as you faced him. “Congrats on the win. Christoph said it was a good game.” 

“It would’ve been better if you were in the stands,” Theo said softly. 

“I was busy.” 

“Yeah, I can see that,” he eyed Christoph with disdain. “Listen, can we go somewhere and talk? I haven’t seen you all week.” 

You crossed your arms. “We just got here.” 

Theo was not well pleased by your use of ‘we’ as if you and Murdock were suddenly now a thing. He barely spared the sodding prick a glance. You couldn’t actually be attracted to this prat, could you? He was all wrong for you. Murdock had a stocky beater build and short blonde cropped hair. You hated beefy guys and you were definitely not a fan of blondes. Case in point: Draco.

No, you liked tall sarcastic brunettes with messy hair and a slight nicotine addiction. 

You liked him. 

So Theo stayed put, meeting your gaze with equal intensity. There was no way in hell he was backing down. 

For good measure, he pouted slightly and fixed his eyes on you. “Please, Y/N.” 

He saw the exact moment when your resolve broke. Your expression softened and your shoulders relaxed, slumping in defeat. You sighed before turning over to Murdock. “Do you mind giving us a moment?” 

Christoph nodded. “I’ll fetch us some more drinks.” 

Theo watched him walk away, or rather, he glared at his back until Murdock was out of sight. 

“Really, Y/N?” Theo asked incredulously. “You're slumming it with that benchwarmer?” 

You wheeled towards him, eyes blazing with fire. Oh, he was truly in for it now. “First of all, I’m not ‘slumming it’ with anyone and even if I were, it’s none of your bloody business. Second of all, Christoph is actually a really nice guy.” 

Theo scoffed. “Yeah, because you’re suddenly into really nice guys now.” 

“Well maybe I got tired of hanging around pricks.” 

Ouch. That one definitely hurt. Even if it was well deserved. 

“Is that why you’ve been avoiding me all week?” Theo asked, stepping closer. “You’ve been busy with Murdock?” 

Merlin’s beard, Theo was ridiculously tall. He towered a good foot over you, cornering you against the wall. His eyes were stormy and dark like a predator watching its prey. 

“Careful, Theo,” you warned, meeting his gaze. “You almost sound jealous.” 

The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Neither one of you were backing down from this little standoff. Theo braced himself against the wall, his face inches away from yours. 

“What if I am?” He challenged, his eyes dipping to your mouth. “What if I told you that it’s taking every ounce of self control I have not to rip Murdock to shreds?” 

A shiver skittered down your spine. Theo wasn’t a violent person. Sure, he’d been in a fight or two, but that was mostly Mattheo’s doing. Your best friend wasn’t the aggressive type, so to hear him threaten Christoph took you by surprise. 

“You have no reason to be jealous, Theo.” You countered. “After all, we’re just friends.” 

“No, we’re not,” he said. “We’ve never been just friends, Y/N.” 

“Then why did you—”

“Because I’m an idiot and a coward,” Theo said with a sigh. “Because I had a beautiful girl in my bed and I had no idea how to tell her that I’ve been in love with her since I was five.” 

All the anger and hurt you’ve been carrying around for the past week instantly dissolved. A little smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. “You’re in love with me?” 

“I thought that much was obvious, love.” 

“Hmm,” you hummed in response. “Theodore Nott, infamous playboy and shameless flirt, is in love with me. What an interesting development.” 

Theo groaned. “Now is not the time to be a smartass, Y/N.” 

“I think it’s the perfect time—” 

You didn’t get the chance to finish your sentence. Suddenly, Theo’s lips were on yours. He tasted like peppermint and whiskey, and he kissed you like his life depended on it. You sighed into his mouth, melting against his touch as he cupped the side of your cheek. This was definitely not a just friends kiss. It was a butterfly inducing, head in the clouds, sweep you off your feet kind of kiss. 

Theo's hands snaked around your waist as your fingers found purchase in his shaggy brown hair. He pulled you flush against him like he couldn't get enough. Merlin's pants, Theo really knew how to kiss. His lips were soft against yours, but there was a roughness in his actions that told you that his restraint was hanging on by a thread.

Like he'd been waiting for this for far too long.

You knew the feeling all too well.

"Darling, if you keep kissing me like that then this party will receive a show they didn't ask for."

You stuck your tongue out at him. "You started it."

"Shall I end it too, love?"

"You're an absolute twat, Theodore Nott." You rolled your eyes, kissing the tip of his nose affectionately. “A rich, handsome twat that I'm in love with."

Somewhere across the room, the hoots and hollers of your friends ignited a deafening cheer. Mattheo and Enzo clapped Theo on the back. Blaise raised his glass in approval. Draco smirked and exchanged galleons with Pansy. You didn’t even want to know what that was about.

“Fucking finally,” Mattheo remarked. “Notty boy here has been impossible to deal with this entire week. I never noticed how much of a wanker he can be when you aren’t there to balance him out, Y/N.” 

You chuckled. “It couldn’t have been that bad.” 

Enzo grimaced. “You weren’t on the receiving end of his quaffles,” he said, eyeing Theo. “He nearly took my head off.” 

That only made you laugh more. “Teddy bear wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“No, it’s true. Nott went absolutely mental.” Draco confirmed, draping an arm around your shoulder. “I’ve never seen him play like that. He wiped the floor with those pathetic Gryffindors. You should ignore him more often, Y/N." 

Pansy wrinkled her nose. “Please don’t. Looking at his miserable face put me off my meals for an entire week. I couldn’t even bear to eat any of my special Belgian chocolates. I missed out on Belgian chocolates, Y/N!” 

“You lot are overexaggerating,” Theo said, pulling you in by the waist. “I wasn’t that bad.” 

“Please, you were an absolute mess without Y/N,” Blaise added. 

“More like an absolute wanker,” Mattheo supplied. 

“An absolute supreme mega wanker,” Draco agreed. “Even by my standards.”

“It was pretty brutal,” said Enzo. 

Theo glared at all of them before taking your hand. “Let’s go, Y/N. I’d rather not stand around and get insulted all night.” 

“Sure thing. But I should probably tell Christoph that I’m…indisposed.” 

Mattheo grinned mischievously. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about Murdock.” 

You narrowed your eyes at him. “What did you do, Riddle?” 

“I didn’t do anything,” he said innocently. “The boys and I just let him know that he should set his sights elsewhere.” 

“We also might have implied that we’d turn him into a horned bullfrog if he ever hit on you again,” Enzo said with a smile.

“The audacity he even had approaching you is frankly insulting,” Malfoy remarked. “Everyone knows you’re off limits.” He smirked. “Unfortunately.” 

Theo fell right into Draco’s bait. “Don’t hit on my girl, Malfoy.” 

Blaise raised an amused brow. “Oh, she’s your girl now, is she?

“Of course she is,” Theo said. He linked his fingers with yours and flashed those pretty eyes at you. The perfect mixture of blue and green, just like the ocean during a storm. “If she’ll have me.” 

You smiled, wide and bright. “Come on, Teddy. Your girl wants to dance.” 

[ms-demeanor]

i’m curious what your opinion is on the finer points of the case mentioned in the JSTOR post you reblogged earlier. the two sources in the post say that JSTOR didn’t press charges against him and had already settled with him by the time he killed himself. from what i read on wikipedia, the concern seems to be that JSTOR complied with a subpoena, which i don’t believe they have a choice to ignore? if anything it seems like the us government had reason to want him dead for wikileaks and public court records reasons, so they took a terms of use violation and blew it up into a dozen federal crimes.

is there more context i should be aware of? i have no particular affection or malice for JSTOR but the sources i found don’t exactly implicate the database or its employees in murder.

That's from page 175 of this document. This line: "The activity noted is outright theft and may merit a call with university counsel, and even the local police, to ensure not only that the activity has stopped but that - e.g. the visiting scholar who left - isn't leaving with a hard drive containing our database" is where I think the culpability starts.

If someone is downloading 1000s of articles (what seems like reasonable threshold for us to take action), what's wrong with us - or the university in collaboration with us - alerting the cyber-crimes division of law enforcement and initiating an investigation, having cop search dorm room and try to retrieve any hard drive that contains our content, etc. Our content is extraordinarily valuable and hard to replicate by the sweat of one's brow, but can be duplicated by savvy hackers and who knows what they want to do with the content?

Page 379: "Does the university contact law enforcement? Would they be willing to do so in this instance?

From page 1296:

I think the important thing to note here is that JSTOR had worked with MIT and had plans in place to prevent future similar downloads, but remained focused on identifying the person responsible for the downloads and ensuring that their data was deleted.

"I might just be irked because I am up dealing with this person on a Sunday night, but I am starting to feel like they need to get a hold of this situation right away or we need to offer to send them some help (read FBI).

And there it is. Page 3093 of the document.

JSTOR can hem and haw about it all they want, but you can't un-call the cops.

MIT was working with JSTOR on preventing future incidents of pirating, but JSTOR repeatedly said that they weren't going to let it go, that it was unacceptable to drop the issue, that they were going to continue to pursue the pirate.

You can scroll through the document and see the JSTOR tech department and abuse team talking about Swartz as a script kiddie, and a hacker. You can see someone talking about how this was real theft - making the comparison to stealing books even while admitting that piracy doesn't close others out of access.

You can see the thread starts with a joke about punching someone in the face for hacking their system, and includes the tech team ominously considering whether they should threaten the MIT librarians with the FBI.

There's something really important to note here which I don't think that people who aren't PRETTY DEEP into hackery shit aren't aware of: US law enforcement is absolutely rabidly feral about prosecuting hackers. People may be more aware of this now because of Chelsea Manning and Edward Snowden (and perhaps a bit on tumblr because of maia arson crimew), but people who work in tech and who are in infosec - like the people joking about calling the FBI in these emails - would be aware of the bonkers disproportionate punishments faced by hackers. And knowing that, they kept pushing and pushing and pushing for identification of the hacker. They kept digging with MIT, they kept saying that simply preventing future incidents wasn't enough.

Early in the exchange someone from JSTOR asked "what's wrong with us - or the university in collaboration with us - alerting the cyber-crimes division of law enforcement and initiating an investigation, having cop search dorm room and try to retrieve any hard drive that contains our content, etc." and the answer is what happened to Aaron Swartz.

It is absolute bullshit for JSTOR to say "we arrived at a solution privately and didn't want to press charges" after law enforcement has gotten involved with a hacking case, especially one where they're talking about "real theft" and are attempting to quantify and emphasize the amount that was "stolen" from them.

The *public* may believe that private individuals or institutions are the ones who "press charges" but that's simply not the case. It's prosecutors who decide whether or not to go ahead with charges; they do it based on what cases they think they can win and what their office's perspective is on the crime. When you hear about people choosing to press charges it simply means that they decided to tell the prosecutor they wanted the case to go forward. It's up to the prosecutor whether or not that happens.

And the tech team at JSTOR had to know that law enforcement wasn't just going to wag a finger at an academic hacker.

There's a parallel here that happens sometimes when people have their identities stolen by their parents. If you mom takes out a credit card in your name, that's identity theft. That's fraud. That's illegal. If you reach the age of 25 and realize that your credit is ruined because your mom has been defaulting on cards in your name, you've got two choices to fix that: one is to accept the debt and pay it off and build up credit, and the other is to report the identity theft - which will end up with your mom in prison for a decade or so. Ruin your own personal finances, or your mom goes to jail for ruining your finances. So if you find out that your mom stole your identity you can't just call the cops to pressure her into transferring the debt to her name or something. That's not an option. The cops are not a threat to wave over people, they are not a way to get people to fall in line or act right. They aren't someone you can send to a college student's dorm room to retrieve a hard drive and have the matter drop.

When you call the cops on someone you are sending the full force of the law after them, and the full force of the law falls really heavily on hackers, and how heavy that blow can be is something that the JSTOR team must have been aware of when they were making snide comments about calling the FBI because they were frustrated with the noncommittal responses they were getting from librarians.

Ultimately it was the carceral state that killed Aaron Swartz, but they would not have been involved if JSTOR didn't think that what he did constituted theft.

Taking an *EVEN LARGER* step back from that, the idea that information can be owned and locked behind a paywall is what killed Aaron Swartz, someone who fought for information to be free.

Like. JSTOR is a licensing company. At the end of the day, cute social media posts and all, they're the same as the RIAA and ASCAB. They exist to extract a fee from people attempting to access information.

Aaron Swartz and all that he stood for are an existential threat to their core function.

Are JSTOR's hands as dirty as the federal prosecutors? Absolutely not. But they operate on a model that puts them in opposition to open information activists and it ended up with a hammer falling on Aaron Swartz that they dropped.

[robertreich]

How Trump is Following Hitler's Playbook

You’ve heard Trump’s promise:

TRUMP: I’m going to be a dictator for one day.

History shows there are no “one-day” dictatorships. When democracies fall, they typically fall completely.

In a previous video, I laid out the defining traits of fascism and how MAGA Republicans embody them. But how could Trump — or someone like him — actually turn America into a fascist state? Here’s how in five steps.

Step 1: Use threats of violence to gain power

Hitler and Mussolini relied on their vigilante militias to intimidate voters and local officials. We watched Trump try to do the same in 2020.

TRUMP: Proud Boys, stand back and stand by.

Republican election officials testified to the threats they faced when they refused Trump’s demands to falsify the election results.

RAFFENSPERGER: My email, my cell phone was doxxed.

RUSTY BOWERS: They have had video panel trucks with videos of me proclaiming me to be a pedophile.

GABRIEL STERLING: A 20-something tech in Gwinnett County today has death threats and a noose put out saying he should be hung for treason.

If the next election is close, threats to voters and election officials could be enough to sabotage it.

Step 2: Consolidate power

After taking office, a would-be fascist must turn every arm of government into a tool of the party. One of Hitler’s first steps was to take over the civil service, purging it of non-Nazis.

In October of 2020, Trump issued his own executive order that would have enabled him to fire tens of thousands of civil servants and replace them with MAGA loyalists. He never got to act on it, but he’s now promising to apply it to the entire civil service.

That’s become the centerpiece of something called Project 2025, a presidential agenda assembled by MAGA Republicans, that would, as the AP put it, “dismantle the US government and replace it with Trump’s vision.”

Step 3: Establish a police state

Hitler used the imaginary threat of “the poison of foreign races” to justify taking control of the military and police, placing both under his top general, and granting law-enforcement powers to his civilian militias.

Now Trump is using the same language to claim he needs similar powers to deal with immigrants.

Trump plans to deploy troops within the U.S. to conduct immigration raids and round up what he estimates to be 18 million people who would be placed in mass-detention camps while their fate is decided.

And even though crime is actually down across the nation, Trump is citing an imaginary crime wave to justify sending troops into blue cities and states against the will of governors and mayors.

Trump insiders say he plans to invoke the Insurrection Act to have the military crush civilian protests. We saw a glimpse of that in 2020, when Trump deployed the National Guard against peaceful protesters outside the White House.

And with promises to pardon January 6 criminals and stop prosecutions of right-wing domestic terrorists, Trump would empower groups like the Proud Boys to act as MAGA enforcers.

Step 4: Jail the opposition

In classic dictatorial fashion, Trump is now openly threatening to prosecute his opponents.

TRUMP: if I happen to be president and I see somebody who’s doing well and beating me very badly, I say, ‘Go down and indict them.’ They’d be out of business.

And he’s looking to remake the Justice Department into a tool for his personal vendettas.

TRUMP: As we completely overhaul the federal Department of Justice and FBI, we will also launch sweeping civil rights investigations into Marxist local district attorneys.

In the model of Hitler and Mussolini, Trump describes his opponents as subhuman.

TRUMP: …the radical left thugs that live like vermin within the confines of our country…

Step 5: Undermine the free press

As Hitler well understood, a fascist needs to control the flow of information. Trump has been attacking the press for years.

And he’s threatening to punish news outlets whose coverage he dislikes.

He has helped to reduce trust in the media to such a historic low that his supporters now view him as their most trusted source of information.

Within a democracy, we may often have leaders we don’t like. But we have the power to change them — at the ballot box and through public pressure. Once fascism takes hold, those freedoms are gone and can’t easily be won back.

We must recognize the threat of fascism when it appears, and do everything in our power to stop it.

[stickandthorn]

The way Terry Pratchett handled police in the Discworld continues to be one of the many, many things I love about his works. I certainly don’t have time to describe all the details of why he wrote such good policing, but I think the best summation of it is the arc that Sam Vimes had in many of the books.

I haven’t read all the watch books, but in the ones I have, there’s often a similar plot structure. We meet a truly detestable criminal Vimes is chasing down (think the Deep Downers in Thud, or Carcer in Night Watch). They show themselves to be truly awful people who do awful things, and they’re also just plain jackasses. They’re characters you hate to read about, the grind the audience’s gears. They also grind Sam Vimes’s gears. 

Throughout the story, they commit more and more crimes. Horrible crimes, like torturing and killing innocent people, or practicing violent religious extremism. They do things that personally target our protagonist, like go after his wife and son, or relentlessly taunt him and try to kill him and his past self. They consistently do bad things, and even as Vimes is chasing them, they do more bad things. You want them to be punished.  Finally, at the climax, we get some sort of final confrontation between the villain(s) and Vimes. In a different book, Vimes might kill the people who sent people to hurt his infant son, or tortured and killed innocent people, and the audience would probably cheer. In fact, Vimes wants to kill them. 

But he doesn’t. Every time, he suppresses the urge to enact his own justice, and he doesn’t kill them. He arrests them. Because, as he says many times, if you’ll do something for a good reason, you’ll do it for a bad. Even when there’s every excuse as to why this particular villain doesn’t deserve to live, he just arrests them. It’s not his job to decide how they should be punished for their crimes.

I think this is a masterful takedown of police brutality and Punisher style characters. Vimes isn’t a perfect person, it’s not that he could never dream of killing the bad guy. He can, and he does, often. But he never follows through, he understands why he can’t do that, so no matter how tempting it is, he doesn’t.

Because in this story, the hard boiled cynical cop truly believes in following the law. The message is always that law enforcement killing a criminal is never ok, even if they’re undeniably guilty of something truly dreadful. Hell, police brutality is personified as a millennia old demonic quasi-deity possessing Vimes, one that’s never been beaten before, but he beats it and doesn’t give in. I think that’s a really unique message in cop stories, and another reason as to why Pratchett was such a good author. 

[the-midnight-blooms]

violet crazy | jyh

pairing: psycho!jeong yunho x wife!reader AU: yandere au, modern au word count: 14.5k warnings: yandere themes, violence, sexual assault, strong language mentions of: alcohol, substance abuse, paranoid schizophrenia, abuse, neglect. (mc and side characters are referred to by their surname, not forename, apologies for any grammar errors)

masterlist

There must have been a divine current in the air that subdued her to fall in love with Jeong Yunho. An ethereal essence that led her to sway into the forsaken lands, a push that had lured her into the forbidden depths of his insanity. For he was a deceitful soul, born with an angel's face wrought with the heart of a devil. It should have not surprised her, when had men ever been purely good beings?

Despite his obviously charismatic demeanour, affirmed by the long bridge of his nose, the smooth curve of his plump cheeks, his pink lips and wide-brown eyes feigning curiosity and innocence. Or his evidently tall stature, and pleasant airs, attractive smile: he was very much a deceitful man. So much so that when Jue first glanced her eyes in his direction; as his wife she found herself reminiscing ignorance and dismissal. If only she had not given into his toxic wiles. If only she had not succumbed to him.

He's a thing of beauty, a being crafted from the essence of light; an angel drawn from the depths of heaven. It was enough to get drunk on his illustrious beauty, falling in love was a sin. What ghastly misdeed had she committed that she had been conserved to such punishment? What crime of her past life was she now paying penance for? It must have been something bleeding with horror that Jeong Yunho had chosen her to be his dutiful subject.

They stand outside the library, the cool wind tousling his soft hair as he pushes the thin-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. Her arms wrap around herself to keep herself warm, her jacket is too thin and worn to do the job anymore. Myeong stands with her, his classmate from law school, whilst he's standing with San and Yeosang. Yunho is supposed to be arguing with Yeosang about how Psychology is a science, he's almost tempted to give up with his eyes tightly fixed on her.

"Jue would agree with me." Yeosang pompously declares, huffing as he shoves his stethoscope into his bag. Typical STEM student narcissism, though he stares at his best friend in confusion. He's heard that name before but can't help but think where he's heard it. "The girl you've been staring at like a weirdo for the past five minutes, did you think we didn't notice?" San and Yeosang snicker at him, shaking their heads as they call for Myeong. Myeong sends San a look of disgust as she ambles over with her friend he's only caught a few times in passing. He thinks she's gorgeous but Yunho's too bashful to pluck up the courage to talk to her.

Her heart flutters at the sight of him clad in a formal blue shirt and tailored black trousers that completely juxtaposed San’s casual wear. Though right now, Jue is not sure if she is supposed to hate him as Myeong hates San to the core right now. It's something like he's her academic rival and for the past semester San has been scoring higher than her.

“Fuck you, and fuck your 89%.” Myeong scolded, she's not even sure why she bothers with him anymore. It's Yeosang, the middle-man, who's practically stuck, choosing between the two of his friends.

“Myeong, it’s one percent, goddam it. It’s not the end of the world.” But nobody could understand how succeeding was exhausting. Pouring herself over textbooks and questions on late nights, eating less so there would be more time to study, spending hours in the library and feeling terrible for time not spent revising. In all fairness, it was the end of the world for Myeong. Baring her teeth, the law student is dragged away by San, conversing in a heated argument. Yeosang disappears in less than a minute too, claiming he's late to Clinical Skills, but not before quickly embracing her. In the end it was just herself and Yunho who, tentatively, follows after as she sits under the large oak tree.

"Hi, I-uh." Yunho stuttered over his words as her doe eyes stared up at him. "Can I sit next to you?" He asked hopefully, heart palpitating violently in his chest. After nodding her head, dubiously, he slumped to the ground next to her as if there wasn't enough grass, or enough benches stretching out for miles awaiting for his graceful figure to bless the earth beneath his feet. It was silent between them as they intently stared at their respective friends fighting.

“I feel like I’m watching a K-Drama." She stated, breaking through the abrupt air as they both pulled out their lunches from their bags. Flickering her eyes towards him, she sought a delightful grin form across his beautiful features.

“Sponsored by Subway.” He joked presenting his subway sandwich as if it was a trophy. Giggling, she shook her head huffing as Myeong looked at San disinterestedly. "It's honestly so stupid, both of them. They both think they're better than everyone else." Humming in agreement, Jue subtly directed her gaze to him again tired of the occasional chirping of crickets rattled in her ears.

"Would you agree Psychology is a science?" Her head snaps towards his, mirroring the leaning in of his own head. A smirk falls on her lips, she loves this question.

"No." He's stunned, scowling as he realised it's two against one and San refuses to give his opinion on the topic; he left science a long time ago. "Science is a study of the natural world. Psychology is composed of biology but is not raw science it itself." He ponders her argument for a second. Her look reads one of a victory, happily munching away at her sandwich, as Yunho is rendered completely silent. Though he can't tell if he has just given up with arguing altogether, there was a figment within him that told him to bow to her every word, follow her every lead as if she was the beacon of light guiding his way through the darkest of tunnels.

There was also something so celestial about Jue that stemmed deeper than her quick wit. It roots were deeper than her undeniable beauty, there was a fragment of her which magnetised Yunho’s frenzied soul. Every remnant of him desired her in a way he had never desired for anything before. Faithfully, he believed she was born to be plastered by his side so as he sunk to his knees in Mass he prayed for his omnipotent God for her and her alone. She admired him too, though she didn't fail to notice how the smile on his face would falter when she laughed with San or playfully ballroom danced with Yeosang.

Jealousy, perhaps. Maybe he likes me.

After all, a little delusion didn't hurt anyone.

In the dull autumn evening, the streetlights began to flicker as the days became shorter. The laughter of children could be heard down the street as they escaped from the shackles of hell (school), dashing towards their homes. Studying in the autumn and winter months was particularly exhausting. With the sky losing its colour too quickly, no one wanted nothing more than to crawl home to their beds and slip under the covers. A false irritability roamed through her, as Yunho dragged her to the derelict convenience store off-campus as a big man like him needed as much food as he could get his hands on. There's an assignment due in two days, an exam in about two weeks with so much content and dealing with a demanding six-year-old and fifty-something-year-old is difficult.

Yunho also wants to know why all the kids at the local infant school think that she’s the mother of their favourite classmate.

"Oh, probably because it's just me, my younger brother and my dad. Mum left a while back, she has two boys now. I think?" She explained to him, as he couldn’t help but let his inquisition get the best of him.

"Why did she leave?" He asked softly, staring down at her under the dim lights of the convenience store. The delicate hum permeated into the solemn air, replaced by a sense of dismissal; Jue shaking her shoulders with disinterest.

"I don't know, she just didn't like us. I still see her around, Mum lives close to the university, actually." He wanted to follow her to ends of the earth as she aimlessly traipsed along the length of the aisle. "I still talk to her, help her around the house, steal her concealer." A sad smile painted across his features, the urge to just enamour her in his arms. God knew she deserved to be held in such a sincere way, that for the first time in her life she wanted to be held in a way that didn't feel like her skin was on fire.

“You’re really pretty.” Yunho blurted out.

Oh.

A faint blush tickled her cheeks as his ears heated red with embarrassment, the sudden proclamation instigating her to suppress a fit of laughter.

“Ok Yunho, what do you want? Help with statistics?” Her fingers danced across the aisle of packaged goods, each too expensive for her to buy. In a desperate attempt to avoid his stern gaze, she searched for the cheapest price tag.

“I’m being serious, you are very pretty.”

“I’m not Myeong pretty.”

“No you’re not.” She had no reason to be offended at that, it was a cold, hard fact that she had just accepted growing up. Myeong had always been the one boys wanted to talk to, be friends with, take out on dates and invite to parties. Jue had just been her quiet shadow that one would occasionally acknowledge. 'Oh, you're here too' as her friend tries to instigate them to include her. “You’re prettier. Smarter, yes she works hard but you work harder and at times I feel like it’s selfish that she overlooks that. You care a lot, maybe even too much, about other people more than yourself. So, you don’t have the right to stand there and say that you’re beneath her when you’re not. You’re on another plane that even she can’t reach.” His words had stunned her to the core, a quietude fell amongst them as his literature sunk into her skin her gaze tore away from the price tags to him. Her eyes brimmed with a sense of validation and adoration. Yunho stood firmly opposite her, his words were like a sworn oath he would take with him to the grave.

“Thank you. Nobody has ever said that to me before.” Her gratitude was sincere, bestowed from the depths of her heart and laid at his feet as if he was an emperor of ambitious lands and she was his follower.

“Well then they must have been blind. Because heaven knows how gorgeous you are.” With a breath lodged in her throat, she held tightly onto the shelves to stop herself from falling straight into his arms. To stop herself from pressing her lips tightly against his, to stop herself from devoting her life to him.

A weak soul she was, for she did it anyway. His touch softened the symphony of yearning trembling through her bones. The yearning that stemmed from years of neglect, all of the pent up love but nowhere to project it. Her knight, her lover, had arrived from distant lands to soothe the persisting ache of her vulnerable soul. When he went down on his knees, it took her less than a second to say 'yes', for she had already granted him every fibre of her being and became his dutiful supplicant upon a single sight of him.

Mr Jeong, a respectable criminal defence lawyer spent a majority of his time either in the office, or in the court of law, came home always around half five in the evening. Whereas his wife, Mrs Jeong (née Jue), worked as an engineer designing and processing equipment for manufacturing chemical products. She'd arrive an hour earlier on his command. The couple were a diligent pair, preceding their reputations as the best workers in their industries. After a long day of living up to their employer's expectations, Mrs Jeong came home to dreary night of living up to her husband's expectations.

Mrs Jeong couldn’t believe it took her to marry Yunho to realise how suffocating he really was. It took her too long to realise, his innocent face was a mask; beneath it lay a vicious, malformed creature who was self-conceited, rude and dissatisfied with those around him. Though it was particularly hard to prove, especially to herself at times. There came a period of love woven in between his callousness in such a subtle way that had her believing she was deserving of his aloof behaviour. Nights where he'd kiss away her tears, hold her hand and make promises to never lash out at her again. Now, three years into their marriage the fine line between his anger and love became so blurred that each pernicious trait went overlooked. There was also the notion of children suspended in the air, that she had tried her hardest to avoid, which her husband was constantly earnest to bring into a conversation.

They both slumped onto the sofa, the whirring of the television emptied into the room as he ran his slender fingers through her. Soft sighs and sweet hums permeated the restraint of their married home, despite its air of suffocation there was a paradoxical sense of amenity in the idea that they were there for each other.

“What do you think about a few children?” Yunho inquired, staring intently as she gradually shifts the position of her body to face him. Holding back a weary sigh, her fingers trace over the bridge of his nose, the smooth curvature of the soft cheeks and his sharp jawline.

“Define ‘few’.” She teased; he pursed his lips, in thought, as if he had never spent an endless number of nights thinking about it.

“Like two, three? Hell, we’re stable enough to have as many as we want. It’s up to you of course, you’ll be carrying them for nine months at a time.” His fingers drew to her stomach, gliding up and down the surface of the silk fabric, like there was a child settled in there waiting to meet its father.

“I don’t know if I’m ready for children yet.”

“What are you so afraid of?” Resting her forehead on his shoulder, his hands wrapped around her waist, pulling her deeper into him; his larger frame enveloping her.

“I don’t know—what if I’m not a good mother? I was barely raised by my parents, and I didn’t do a good job of taking care of my brother, either.” Her reason was valid, yet Yunho’s persistence had made her feel that she wasn’t mature enough to understand his wants. It was ruthless, in its own sense, for she understood him in profound ways that even she couldn’t understand herself.

“That wasn’t your choice. This is your choice.” He was wrong. This wasn’t exactly her choice either, if it was up to her, they would wait a little while longer—even if it was just a day to herself to truly think about their future together. Mrs Jeong hummed to fill the empty space, her thoughts flooding with memories of her brother and their childhood. Sure she fed him, clothed him, took him to school, helped him with his homework but at the end of the day, he still did not become the man she hoped he would be. It was if that was a testament to how poor of a mother she would be. “Do you know how much it hurts, seeing everyone live the life I’ve always wanted, while I’m questioning if my wife still has feelings for me?”

“Is this not the life you wanted, with me? There’s more to life than being fucking parents.” Reaching for the cushion beside her, she threw it against his head. “You’re not even mentally stable enough to treat me like a human being, god knows what a child means to you.” Wrangling away from his grip, his wife stalked out of the room, the slam of the bedroom door reverberating off the narrow hallways of their home.

The afternoon light had dimmed, significantly, the sun dropping into the sky to be replaced by the moon. Her eyes had wavered, opening and shutting, occasionally, as an obscure sense of guilt tugged at her. Perhaps she should have not been so crude, there were many more sincere ways to reason with Yunho however- at times- he seemed heedless to her concerns. It was always what Jeong Yunho wanted and never his wife. She couldn't really put her finger on how, or why he changed, it just happened so drastically. The door creaked open, her wide eyes fixing shut as he sauntered in the room. With the bed dipping beside her, he lifted up the covers to shuffle by her side; pink lips moving closer to her ears.

He knew she wasn't asleep.

“Don’t hit me again, even if it’s with pillow.”

“It’s not like it hurt you.” She grumbled, dragging the comforter over her shoulders, a surge of warmth glissaded over her body. A discontented sigh escaped from his lips, snaking his arms around her waist he nestled closely against her, the heat from his body radiating onto her. On instinct, her entire figure shifted to embrace him closely within her arms.

“Oh, are we friends now?” He teased, gently lifting her chin so she could bore her eyes into his.

“You’re my personal radiator. Nothing else." He grinned, as her fingers nimbly ran through his hair.

“I love you so much, darling. I just wish you tried to understand me.” Humming into his chest, her eyes fluttered to a close falling deep into a peaceful slumber within her lover’s arms.

Once again, she’s met by the voicemail machine, huffing to herself as the crisp autumn air comes to grace her again. Standing outside her office building Mrs Jeong waits for her husband to pick her up; phone in hand trying desperately to reach out to Yeosang, their psychiatrist friend. He had become a lot more reserved upon beginning his new job as a doctor after completing five difficult years at medical school. Such was expected, they knew his hours would be long and exhausting though with psychiatry being his chosen speciality, they expected him to slightly return back to his sociable ways. Mrs Jeong hadn’t spoken to Yeosang in about three months and she was worried now.

After seven 'o'clock in the evening, she's settling their ironed clothes in the wardrobe, her husband in the living room on the gaming console. Momentarily, his grunts of agitation and loud groaning annoys her but Mrs Jeong is so used to his borderline childish behaviour that she dismisses the actions over her shoulder and persists with the house chores. The buzzing of her phone, immediately, tears her away from her duties in a hope that her childhood friend has returned to her call.

"Jue?" His voice is so timid and wrought with fear, her heart lurches in her chest. Rattling with anxiety, she settles the phone putting it on speaker.

"Yeo, what's wrong?" It's all so sudden. The way he erupts into a fit of sobs which empties out into the derelict bedroom, a sound she thought she would ever hear in her life. "Yeo, talk to me dear." She urges, her soft tone gently easing him out of his melancholia.

“I love you, Jue. I love you so much, I don't know how to stop." The beating of her heart had ceased, any moment now she'll be taking the Angel of Death's hand, joining her brother in a land far away from this world. "I spent so many years wishing that you wanted me too, but I’m no one in comparison to Yunho. He’s taller, more handsome than I-,” His words all bled together, body rattling as his wailing fails to stop. Yeosang sits in his bedroom, curtains draw and the lights off ready to sink into another world.

“Yeo, you are perfect in your own way. You're funny, clever. I have nothing but adoration for you." Her reassurances are menial, sycophantic, her friend thinks.

“I am a fool. A broken, drunken fool to think you’d want me.” She can't even get a word in before he continues to ramble, he just wants to speak. She just needs to listen. “Of course, there’s this girl at work that really likes me. But she’s exactly like you, I talk to her and all I can hear is the sound of your voice. She looks like you, thinks like you. Perhaps it’s the version of you that would have been mine if you’d never met Yunho.” Her eyes well up with tears, realising why Yeosang had become so withdrawn from everyone. A small piece of her imagination flickers to what her life would have been like if she never met Yunho or even married him. It's still a pretty dream but one she finds hard to fully forge and it breaks him. Her body shifts around finding Yunho paralysed by the doorway, full tears pool in his eyes.

"One last time, I love you Jue. I always have and maybe I always will until my last breath." Large tears slip down Yunho's cheek, his palm slaps to his mouth holding back the grieving dissonance of pitiful sobs. The line cuts, her phone is discarded somewhere as she reaches out for her husband but he ignores her grasp moving towards his bed. At the foot of the bed, his body racks in agony as he bawls his heart out to the moon.

“So this is why you don’t want children. You really don’t love me anymore, you’re going to leave me for Yeosang.” Crawling on the bed to him, her arms wrap around his neck rocking him back and forth.

“No, Yunho. You misheard, he said he loved me, but I didn’t say I loved him. My heart only belongs for you, dummy.” His wails are distressing, prolonging over a vast period of time, her heart waves in anticipation that he’ll never see her the same again. “There’s no me without Jeong Yunho, baby. Come on, stop crying.” His cries falter for a few seconds, collecting himself whilst he nuzzles deeper into her hold.

“You still don’t want my children though, do you?” He peers up at her through his long, wet lashes, cooing at his pouty face. Her lips travel down his face to ease him of his pain, before her arms circulate around his neck.

“Of course I do, I just want there to be you and I for now.” Tugging him under the covers with her, his hands mildly roam over the surface of her skin, lips a tease as he pecks so slightly. Their mouths move in sync, the sanctified synchronisation proves their understanding of each other. He knows her in such a way, he plans a response to her next movement as he pushes his body so he is hovering over her. His lips plaster chaste kisses down her neck, fingers playing with the hem of her shirt; her soft moan consumes him. With a growl, he snakes his hand under her shirt as a ripple of goosebumps litter her skin. His wife is oblivious to his next move, he’s done this before and retracted later. It’s only when he’s moving closer to her cleavage, a breath hitches in her throat at his unfaithfulness.

“Yunho.” She squirmed under his touch, feeling trapped under his body. “I don’t want to.” She breathed out, the cold circulating over her as the hem of her shirt hitched up.

“Please. For me.” He presses his lips to hers once again. As if that was any consolation for his indecency, any justification for him throwing his body over hers leaving her captured under the emblem of his own desire.

The stars scape across the night in the landscape of the dead, a fragile soul awakens in the aftermath of his despotism. Her heart lurches out of her chest, feeling the aches of his vulgarity inflicted upon her.

It must all be a sick joke.

It’s a joke, the way the moonlight streams in through their velvet curtains forging a halo around his slender body.

Reeling away from him, she slipped out from under the covers, picking up remnants of her modesty from the ground beneath her. A demeaning silence fulfilled the sombre atmosphere as she trudged to the bathroom, the light shattering the fabric of her dignity.

Hot water spurted from the shower head, as she weakly slathered the soap over her body before grabbing the loofah from the stand. Violently, she rubbed the sponge over her skin, scrubbing hastily in all the places where his touch had lingered upon hers. Scrubbing in all the places where she had felt like a clay pot indented by fingerprints before it could be hardened; moulded by his barbarity. But no matter how much she cleaned her skin, even until it littered red and flakes began to peel off her arms, even when it lacerated—blood boiling as she itched and plucked her neck; it wouldn’t remove feeling of his tender touches burning her. The water could dissolve the soap off her body, the sponge could be rinsed clean, the room could be scrubbed, windows opened, but the memory could not be eradicated. The memory of her begging him to stop and under his reticent command she was rendered subservient. His toy to play with, his doll to admire. Sinking to her knees, her hand slapped against the cool marble; figure convulsing as pained teardrops slid down her cheeks.

A woman’s body belonged to her own, it was to be forged from the roots of her femininity, whether it was to express her sexuality freely or maintain a figure of modesty. It was a not a man’s to hold or to control. Here, he had torn it ruthlessly from her grip, claiming that it was his, all his, as if when she had been bound to him in matrimony it was her body she was giving to him and not herself. Those vows. Those wretched vows he’d spoken at the altar, they were just bewitched lies glossed over by his insatiable beauty.

‘But you belong to your husband, he is entitled to each and every part of you.’ The old wives would say. Yet, a woman’s words are weak, a single plea, a cry, a laughter can so quickly be obscured by his own.

Just this once, hear me, my love.

I just wanted you to hear me say: No.

Mr and Mrs Choi were accounted as distinguished lawyers in the court of law. Whilst Mr Choi worked as a criminal defence lawyer, alongside his closest friend, Mrs Choi laboured in prosecution much to the surprise of her peers who had concluded that she'd been chasing and competing with San in his own field. Again, Yunho had been the one to prove to be much more reputable and the best dignitary in law. When they weren't advocates for justice, they came home to their beautiful daughter Choi Soo-Ah, who inherited her mother's beauty and her father's intellect.

Mr and Mrs Jeong stand outside the terraced home, constructed from red-bricks. They surpass up the staircase, the bow windows outcast over the front lawn, showing San play gently with his daughter alongside his old plushie, Shiber. Her hands raise to provoke the door knocker, where her husband leans closer to her ear.

“Just think baby, that will be us soon.” Placing a chaste kiss on the top of her head, they patiently awaited for the door to swing open. She had thrown herself into Myeong’s hold, the childhood friends squeaking and giggling like little school girls upon their reunion. Until Choi Soo-Ah comes to join them, jumping up and down herself as if she is too an old childhood friend. The old wives do say that you are carrying your child and your child is carrying hers even before they are conceived. In a comical way, little Soo-Ah has been with them for so long.

“Ach, Yunho, what’s this?” Yunho is carrying a heavy chicken dish in his hands and there’s dessert in the car that he’s careful about passing over to San who silently thanks him for saving their dinner party. Myeong’s cooking skills are pitiful, to say the least.

When they finally sat down to eat, Mrs Jeong draws herself out of conversation, reserving her attention solely to her food. For the first time in her life, she wants to scream. She wants to break down into a fit of sobs, howling until the midnight escapes from the sky, convulsing until her body begins to deteriorate and all that’s left is her husband burying her six feet under. She can’t tolerate the way his touch pierces her skin, her clothes feel too tight on her back, hair sticks to the back of her neck as beads of sweat form. Those wretched memories and lies she told him are creeping back. Walls shimmer, the shape of the spoon has somehow distorted, the food all bleeds together to form some sort of mush.

“My, you’re quiet today, brainbox.” A sheepish smile rests on her lips, at San’s comment, her eyes almost flutter close in the midst of her burdening exhaustion.

“Parenthood seems to have taken a bigger toll on you than your wife, San.” She goads, leaning back in her seat. Yunho’s hands draw closer to her own. Her eyes flicker, but they are dams holding back a flood of emotions that are threatening to fall. San laughs, it’s so natural that she envies him for it. She hates how in love he is with Myeong and would never force her to anything she doesn’t want to.

“Soo-Ah is a daddy’s girl.” His fingers raise to tickle his daughter’s cheek who giggles, revealing a dimple on her left cheek. Yunho has dimples too but they’re only really prominent when stress overtakes him and he loses too much weight.

"Has anyone spoken to Yeo? It's honestly almost like he's dead." Myeong jokes, a breath is lodged in her throat calculating what the next best word to say is. But her mind is spiralling out of control, because it was that tragic day when Yunho depravedly ripped her apart.

"I spoke to him the other day, he's doing ok. I've been meaning to get back to him but I haven't had the time." In truth, she's been calling Yeosang at least four to five times a day, spamming him with messages. Sometimes she even pounds on his front door when she knows he will be at home. Heaven knows, a flicker of a shadow has crawled across the floor, receiving her presence but he ignores her like she did to his feelings. They sit there, knowing its incomplete without all five of them.

Stood by the Choi family household's doorway, Yunho slips on his shoes his wife loitering behind him.

"Are you sure you want to stay here for so long? I'll miss you." His pout no longer makes her heart throb with reverence. The sight of him repulses her, the tsunami is rising high above the waves, there is no longer a fragment of her that would breathe at his will. “I love you.” His declaration reverberated of the walls in the foyer, the beating of her heart paused momentarily. It felt too quiet, as San’s dimpled smile behind them, Soo-Ah’s wide eyes and Yunho’s longing gaze rested heavy on her figure. As if they were all awaiting for her to say the words back to him. Her face heated with the pressure, which one would have mistaken for a love-sick blush.

“I love you too.” Love. A word that didn’t hold any meaning anymore, what even was it? She once thought she knew what love meant, after all, love was Jeong Yunho. Love was waking up beside him every morning to his groggy voice and a fit of kisses. Love was dancing to songs in the kitchen, chasing him through the park but failing because of his long legs. Love was discussing remnants of the future together, not forcing it to happen within a single beat. Love was him. Was. Past tense, something long gone to the wind and would never return.

"I don't know if something has happened to you, but it's almost as if you've completely shut down." They sit on Myeong's bed as both her husband and daughter have skipped down to the park. Her eyes outcast from the window, the bare branches of the trees sway with the billow of the window, the leaves drift across the pavement as a few pedestrians stalk down the street in their work attire. The Choi's neighbourhood is so full of sophistication, its enough to make her domestic village seem inferior. Her head turns to meet her friend's concerned eyes, prevailing as if she is so eager to make her way through the labyrinth of struggle Mrs Jeong has been plunged through. "Did Yunho say, or do, something to you?"

Tears well up at the front of her eyes, the pace of her breathing quickens, everything has blurred so suddenly. A malicious monster has plunged his hands to her lungs, suffocating her airways so much that she cannot breathe and is denied the pleasures of living. His slender fingers lodge in the lumen of her airpipe, mouth locked in place all that escapes her are muffled cries. Chains ensnare around her legs too, tightened she cannot even as so much move her leg a single inch. A voice is attenuated at her ear drums, the tumultuous tides have rushed into the shore, sweeping her body into the vast expanse of the cerulean sea. Her anguished roar saturates the room, much like the water filling into her lungs.

"He-he-" Her voice stammers so pathetically, her arms wrap around herself because a touch of another will just kill her. "He hurt me. I said no but he wouldn't stop, he just kept on going. I said, please but he wouldn't stop." Her head falls onto the pillow and she just gives up allowing Myeong, and Myeong alone, to embrace her. The cry is no longer so silent, no longer expressed in the loneliness of her married home when he is not there to hear her. It is spoke in a house where the notions of absolutism do not exist. It speaks to Myeong's soul, watching her cry is a nightmare for she had never seen any other emotion other than happiness on her face.

"I can't go back. Please don't make me go back to him." She wails, gripping onto her forearms as if any moment now, he would tear through the walls and yield her back into prison.

Slumped on the leather sofa of Myeong's office in her home, as the lawyer ardently works through reads of paperwork and emails. Little Soo-Ah’s body is draped over her own, her small chest rises up and down, soft snores escaping her. On maternal instinct, her arms wrap around, holding her closer. There’s a poignancy in the idea that this is what she could have had, had he not forced it upon her.

"We have TRO-temporary restraining order for up to two weeks until a full trial is scheduled. The judge needs more information. You are aware that Yunho can make an appeal to get his restraining order revoked, right?" Chewing down on her lip, she nods, knowing that things will only get much worse from here.

The Magistrate’s court is where all court cases begin, even sexual assault cases. It’s when the suspect pleads “not guilty” that things get messy, and it’s established as “indictable only” that cases are handed over to the Crown Prosecution Services. Jue is even surprised that it’s taken a few weeks to reach the trial; normally cases like hers take months upon months. Yet what hurts the most is that for the second time she reads out aloud her statement and it’s almost like she’s begging to the judge for mercy. As if they are the ones who can cure of her this ailment.

The court room is cold, is really all she can think about as she avoids her husbands deceived gaze across the room. Jue knows that if she looks into his eyes, even once, she might feel pried to take back all that she has set against him. She doesn’t live with him anymore, she moved as quick as she could to a women’s hostel—the feeling of living alone terrifies her.

“A work convention? So soon?” His eyebrows furrow in confusion, he doesn’t quite believe her but there is nothing from the tone of her voice or body language that suggests she is lying.

“Yes, dear. About a week?” He snakes his arms around her waist, inhaling in her scent.

“You’ll take the pregnancy test, won’t you? God knows how much I want that baby.” Ignoring the pounding of her heart, she nods eagerly, cautiously pressing her lips to his soft cheek. “Fuck, I love you so much.”

There’s a number of officials, including a circuit judge and a jury of twelve members of the public all awaiting for the case to start. The defence lawyer is yet to walk in.

The wooden doors swing open, following a gust of air as a pair of shoes click against the floor. The prosecution follow their eyes across their shoulders, Myeong’s heart stops beating for a second.

Her husband stands there in all his glory, their eyes meet in a quick second before he dips his head sitting next to Yunho. She cannot her believe her eyes, yet the same way she would protect her friend with her life, San would fight Yunho’s case for as long the blood ran through his veins.

The war begins.

Mr and Mrs Choi both prepare succinct, detailed opening speeches for the court. In cases like sexual assault, there needs to be a sufficient amount of evidence for the perpetrator to be punished. In marital rape, it’s a lot more difficult and is categorised under domestic assault. It’s her word against the court, and god was it difficult for Myeong to pull something together.

It seems like this wasn’t the case for San and Yunho, for when he presents his opening speech deeming his client isn’t guilty and his argument begins, he has the physical evidence Myeong was scrounging for.

"The defence argues that Mrs Jeong’s appeal extends from her ongoing paranoid schizophrenia. Here, we have a letter of diagnosis issued on the 12th September, three years ago, by Dr Park Taeo, working for the Light Goeul Medical Foundation." San dropped a folder in front of the judge, a copy handed to Myeong who flips through the folder at a rapid pace.

“The defence would like to call Dr Park Taeo to the stand.” A man of average height with jet black hair ascends to the stand. He is clad in a smart suit, but Jue furrows her brows. She had never seen or met this man before. Granted, at one point Yunho had her meet a counsellor for her 'feelings' (an old woman who retired and had just passed away last year), yet there was no 'Dr Park Taeo' she had ever spoken to. Her lips move closer to Myeong, whispering words of defence.

"I have never met this man before. I don't even know who he is." Taeo is sworn in by the bible, pledging to the tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

“Could you inform the court of when you had first met Mrs Jeong, and what exactly had led you to believe she had paranoid schizophrenia?” San interrogates, he musters all the courage he can to avoid his wife’s gaze for he feels her stare burning holes in his back.

“Mrs Jeong came into my office on the 22nd of February, three years ago. She told me her husband had requested her see someone as she was particularly suffering from hallucinations, so seeing things that weren’t there. Hearing things. Delusions, withdrawing herself away from her family and friends. I also recognised a particularly disorganised train of thought, she stumbled over her speech.” Her heart stops in her chest.

22nd February. The same date she first saw her counsellor.

“And these are all symptoms of schizophrenia?” San provokes, to which Taeo nods followed quickly by a verbal confirmation. “Could you tell the court of her delusions?” The doctor sucks in a deep sigh, typically there’s ‘patient-confidentiality’ at play which is inherently discredited in the court of law.

“She perceived people were trying to hurt her. Usually it was people she was working with, sometimes it was her husband.” Jue squeezes her eyes shut.

That fucker.

“Can you elaborate?”

“Mrs Jeong stated, and I remember this so boldly: ‘Sometimes I feel that he doesn’t love me for any other reason other than to use me, or that I am of some value to him. Sometimes I feel he may hurt me, or is the wrong person to protect me from danger.’” A hand slaps to her mouth, her fingers squeezing her lips. Her heart palpitates in her chest, hastened breaths escaping her.

It’s exactly what she said, three years ago, to her therapist.

“What makes you say that?” Mrs Go’s soft voice is a dream, a melody dropped from the banner of a celestial plane. Her attitude eases the incessant pulsation of her heart.

“I wonder when he sees my scars if he loves me. Or when he hears of my past, that I am still the same woman he is in love with.”

“Why would any of that stop him from loving you?” Mrs Go never took notes. That woman had an impeccable memory, she wrote things down after the session, claiming her clients required her undivided attention.

“Men don’t like broken things.”

“Was there anything you believe could have been the cause of her condition?” Her ears have mellowed out San’s voice, she cannot bear it and it’s hard to avoid Yunho’s gaze now. She stares at him, though there’s no longer a betrayed look that settles in his eyes. A glimmer of triumph, a paint of melancholy.

“Yes, particularly her childhood is the main factor. Her father was a raging alcoholic who engaged in substance abuse. Her mother left him for that reason. His erratic behaviour eventually transgressed into acts of physical violence which he inflicted on his daughter and son. I believe Mrs Jeong’s brother—,” Her chair scrapes across the floor, she stumbles her line of sight blurring. There’s a mixture of voices and faces, they all wanting something to do with her. She wants nothing to do with them. Before she knows it, a spread of darkness fulfils her vision.

“I must look like a fool for fainting in court. That screams guilty straight away.” She breaks the silence in Myeong’s office, her body draped across the plush sofa. Her friend simply hums tightening her gaze across the spread of sheets littered upon her desk. Darting her eyes across the room, Myeong looks as deceived as Yunho did. After all, it’s her first time hearing any of this and despite her friend’s pleas that the diagnosis was never true—Myeong doesn’t know what to believe. For the first time since law school, there are dark circles under her eyes as she hasn’t gone home to sleep in a long time. Soo-Ah is with her grandparents and she doesn’t have the strength to face San. “I-my father did beat me.” Jue confesses, but the words splutter from her mouth. Disorganised, as Taeo would state. Passively, she gets up from the sofa, taking off her jacket revealing the t-shirt underneath.

Her arms are scarred, several indentations seem like streaks of white paint over her skin. None have faded, and they’re all relics of her past which seem like trophies of wars she has fought. Myeong has seen similar bruises, scars and wounds on victims of domestic violence; she may have never gone through it herself but seeing it in others is what prompted her to be a lawyer. Knowing that her friend was suffering whilst she was training to be an advocate is like a blow to the heart.

“How did we never notice?”

“Lots and lots of my mother’s concealer. Long shirts and jackets even in the summer…” She trails off feeling herself want to collapse. “I just—never expected him to use it against me. I confided in him, and he creates this lie that’s enough to close this case.”

“It’s absolutely boiling out there and you’re wearing a hoodie?” Yunho scolds as he rifles through their wardrobe, hands running through the hung fabric. They’re all long sleeve shirts, turtlenecks, jumpers and nothing with cropped sleeves. “I’ll have to give you one of mine.” He takes out the white shirt, slipping off the hanger before handing it to her. Her hands reach out, slowly, a fear striking through her heart. What if he sees those scars and doesn’t love her anymore? Muttering her thanks, the hoodie is replaced by the t-shirt. Yunho has noticed straight away, within an instance he’s on his knees whilst she bawls under his inquisition.

“We’re going to fight this, I’ve got evidence to prove he’s a fraud and this whole thing is fake. Second, I’ve called Yeosang in. We’re proving to the court you’re sane.” Jue just hopes there’s no bitter feelings amongst them; not after she completely disregarded his feelings in light of her husband’s.

The shatter of glass against the wall sent a jolt through her; the fragments bounced off the surface splitting into all corners of the living room. The black, leather sofa is pushed forward so she can squeeze her body through the tight spot. If she stays here long enough, he’ll eventually give up and leave. But she’s as wrong as she’ll ever be because when Mr Jue is drunk, he is the most persistent man on earth.

“If you come here now, then I won’t hit you.” Lie. He was stood by the doorway, blocking the exit to her bedroom. His body swayed from side to side, heavily intoxicated; having spent two weeks worth of food on a shit ton of alcohol and drugs in one night. “I can wait all day.” His low voice sending a wave of fear over her. Taking in a deep breath, she darted towards the space between his body and the doorway, wrangling away from the harsh grip of his greasy hands before scrambling up the steps. He pounded up the staircase behind her, hands outstretched for her legs, jerking her down, forearms slamming into the piercing edges. A cry escaped her lips as his elbow pummelled down on her head, his iron fists gripping her hair sending a violent punch through her head, the pain rattling at her core.

“That’s what we’ve got to do to clever bastards like you, go straight for the fucking head.” He snarled, throwing her body against the staircase. Where’s your brother?” He questioned, darting up to the stairs. Plastering her hands over her ears to drown out the sounds of his screams, tears soundlessly poured down her cheeks until the shrieks reverberated mercilessly through her head and she darted up to his bedroom.

“That’s enough, stop!” Her bellow carried over the expanse of the bedroom, her younger brother on the floor cradling his face in his arms.

“My own fucking children are ganging up on me now.” He cackles, mercilessly and she’s on the lookout for the Grim Reaper. But she doesn’t see him and she’s disappointed. The sight of him is better than the sight of her father. “Your mother was a dirty whore! She wanted fucking kids and then left me to deal with them. I didn’t even want you!”

“Tell me something I haven’t heard before.” He scowled, deprived of the energy to lash out again at her stumbling out of the door; slamming it behind them. Sinking onto the floor, her arms outstretched to encircle her brother into her—his body crawled in. Rocking him back and forth she ran her fingers through his hair as he sobbed pitifully into her chest.

The Jue siblings have been physically abused for as long as they’ve lived. Every morning the eldest child wakes up her brother, washes him, and applies a layer of concealer over his bruised skin. Then he wears long sleeve shirts, or a short-sleeve with a jumper on top, before being fed breakfast and taken to school. He is eight years old and doesn’t understand why he’s thrown against the floor like a rag doll. Often when he sees the father of his classmates hug them after school, he’s confused. So he asks his sister who’s only rendered silent as they eat dinner in her room behind a locked door.

Jue can’t tell him it’s his way of loving, because she doesn’t want to prepare her brother for a lifelong relationship of abuse. He deserves to know what love feels like, he just knows a bit of love is his sister staying hungry so he can have the last slice of oven pizza. He knows that a bit of love is her sneaking chocolate cake out of events so he can get a treat after dinner. Or her saving up from her measly wages so she can buy him a toy he’ll treasure forever. But he’ll never know what paternal love is.

Nobody knows of their secret. It’s something she’s forced her brother to not open his mouth on. If the teacher asks where the bruise came from, say you fell over. If the teacher asks where daddy is, say he’s at work. What about mummy? The truth. Mummy doesn’t live with us anymore.

(Mummy doesn’t love us.)

Myeong never knew, nor did San or Yeosang. No matter how deeply rooted Yunho’s infatuation was: he never knew either. Not until after they had married and he’d seen the scars on her body.

Having no maternal figure was awful for her, especially on days where she needed to rest and she physically couldn’t move her body from the bed. Her father storms into the room, he’s in his work attire but she knows he’s had one too many drinks from the pub on his way home from work. It’s a wonder how he’s never been sacked yet.

“Get up.” He roars. “What are you laying down for? Lazy bitch.”

“I can’t get up.” She croaked out.

“Get the fuck up.”

“I can’t.” She whined, groaning loudly as she pushed up her body from the bed. A scream erupted from her lips as he gripped her by the hair to drag her out of her room, her lower abdomen pummelling a wave of agony through her. He hauls her down the stairs, launching her body into the kitchen. Her figure slaps against the floor, a breath lodged in her throat as tears well up in her eyes.

“One of the men at the pub has told me you’ve been with a man. Not the doctor or specky-four-eyes.” She holds back the urge to roll her eyes, he’s only ever seen San with glasses on, she doesn’t bother to correct him that Yeosang is a medical student. “The lanky one. He’s supposed to be tall as fuck, I’m told. Who is he? Whose dick are you sucking now?”

“I’m not. He’s a friend, Yeosang’s friend. His name is Yunho.” She sits a little properly on the kitchen floor, but not up. Jue knows better than to shun her father’s superiority complex.

“What does he study?”

“Law and psychology.” He simply hums, she wonders what he’s thinking.

“Well don’t whore around with him, otherwise you’ll end up pregnant and he’ll leave you.” A breath of relief escapes her as he disappears from the first floor and enters his bedroom. She’s surprised. There is at least five objects in the kitchen that he can harm her with, she anticipates his arrival for the next fifteen minutes preparing herself to be battered by him. When he doesn’t reappear, she takes the opportunity to trudge back to her bedroom.

It was funny. Perhaps her father should have warned Yunho to not chase after her. After all, he was the one who ‘whored around’ with her and she was the one leaving him. But that’s all her past feels to her now: irony. Something to laugh and laugh like a crazed man. Perhaps her husband is right, she is insane.

Here she is, sitting opposite Yeosang in the clinic he works at. Unlike Mrs Go, he scribbles down her words as if he’s transcribing them across the page furiously with his fountain pen. When she stops speaking and a distasteful quietude fills the air, Jue knows exactly what he’s thinking and doesn’t have it in her to meet his scrutiny.

“I can’t believe you went through all of this, and never told us.” Those words she expected. “What happened to that bastard afterwards? I remember him at the wedding but what happened to him?”

“He just left of the face of the earth. I don’t know if he’s dead, or in jail or just shit faced in another city. Doesn’t matter, I won’t forgive him for what he did to my brother.” Wiping her nose, the scrunched up tissue is shoved back into her pocket; she peers at him through her lashes as Yeosang stares at his sheet.

"Well, the good news it that you're sane. It is normal to suffer as you have done and still be 'sane'. You've created a somewhat healthy coping mechanism to be relatively unaffected. Any history of mental illness in the family?" She shakes her head. There's just a history of abuse after abuse but somehow they've all managed to be escape the grasp of mental illness. For a minute she wonders if she ever had a child and if they would be the one to break. "Good. I'll pass this along to Myeong and I'm more than happy to testify."

"Thank you, Yeo. Are you ok? You didn't respond to my calls." He takes off his glasses and throws them to the side, his face falling into his palms as a long groan emits from his lips.

"I'm fine, I'm sorry I burdened you with what I said the other day. It was merely a moment of weakness." But it wasn't. It took him all the strength that laid within him for every moment it roamed within, it felt like his organs were being toxified.

"But did you mean what you said?"

"Yes. Without doubt."

In the middle of the biting winter, she shoves her fists into the deep pockets of her trench coat; as her heels click against the steps up to the court. Thank goodness the building is warm, she makes her way down to the room, the security guards are familiar with her now—after all her case seems to never end. Meeting Myeong outside, Jue gives San a curt nod as the couple engage in a private conversation.

A figure clears his throat from behind her, her head turns to find her husband loitering awkwardly by the double doors. His eyes are slightly tired, face sunken. He’s lost weight, so much so she can see the dimple his healthy face hides.

“Have you been eating?” She confesses, the words escape her before she can suppress them.

“Yes, my mother has been taking care of that. You?” She nods, though it is false nonetheless. Eating, sleeping, living is a luxury. All she can do is breathe and sometimes even that comes at a price. "You look like you've lost weight." She shrugs, perhaps she has. She's never neglected herself this much in her life, there's nothing to live but for freedom now. A spectral silence is suspended in the air before the door swings open and they are allowed into the court room. Myeong hooks her arm around her own, they walk in leaving their husbands behind.

There’s a quiet chatter as the prosecution lawyer discusses a few matters with her assistant. It’s tense at the moment, their witness has not arrived yet and session is about to start.

“Counsellor?” The judge prompts, all the eyes fall on her. Jue quickly texts Yeosang underneath the table but the message isn't received on his end.

There is no Yeosang.

Myeong's heart flutters with dejection, her face heating up as she feels the burning stares of tens upon tens. Her fists ball at her sides, her sharp eyes digging Yunho's grave.

"The prosecution would like to call the defendant, Jeong Yunho, to the stand." Ignoring the small murmur, Yunho is sworn in by the bible before he seats himself to be questioned. San narrows his eyes, flickering his gaze to Jue. The prosecution only speaks up after a few beats of silence.

“How long have you known Mrs Jue and how long have you been married for?” He pauses. Mrs Jue. As if she didn’t tear her father’s name away from her own the second she married him.

“I have known her for five years, and we’ve been married for three.”

“At what point did she begin to display manic behaviour?”

“Four months after we married. I suggested she went to see a psychiatrist.”

Lie.

“That’s funny, Yunho. Here, it states. She went to see Mrs Go, a psychotherapist—not a psychiatrist—on the 22nd February.” She picks up her folder, holding the receipts Jue managed to find in her folder. “You do know there’s a significant difference between a psychotherapist and psychiatrist, right?” He snickers, cocking his head to the side. It’s the small flickers of his egotism that roams within him, infiltrating into the cold, court room. It’s there and gone, as if it only belongs for his wife to see.

“I’m a psychologist by background, I think I know better than most people, Mrs Choi.” Myeong’s chilling laughter reverberates through the room, his eyebrows crease. A sentiment of annoyance.

“So then tell me the truth, Yunho. Who did she see on the 22nd February. Was it Mrs Go or Dr Park Taeo?”

“Dr Park Taeo. We didn’t need to see a therapist when it was a diagnosis she was seeking.” The folder is thrown onto the table, her hands rest on her hips, digging into the crevice of her cinched waist. A long, deep sigh.

“Seeing as though you’re a psychologist by background, what are some of the treatments available for schizophrenia?”

“Medication, cognitive behavioural therapy, there are care plans in place as well.” Yunho’s brown eyes move to his wife, her eyes tear away from his as quickly as she can.

“There are no medical records, not even on her past medical history that states she was ever on medication, such an Olanzapine. It doesn’t even state that she is schizophrenic, but for arguments sake: she is. If she was really was batshit crazy, wouldn’t you as a loving husband ensure she is under the correct medication? Wouldn’t she have made these allegations before but in order for her to make such a statement: wouldn’t you have had to have done something to prompt her?” Myeong sucked her a deep breath, her chest heaving in anger. “There’s nothing from her childhood that can even do so much as enable her to conjure such a thought. Yet you, her husband, a man who has continually emotionally blackmailed her throughout your marriage— is the man she deems has hurt her the most. Tell me, Jeong Yunho, what did you do to her? Tell the court what a vile man you are.” His bottom lip quivers, pearl tears welling up in her eyes.

“I would never hurt her. I love her too much. She didn’t go on medication because she refused to.”

“Bullshit! She was never offered medication from that fraud.” There's a slight warning from the judge on her language but Myeong will say all the profanities in the world if it means provoking her enemy.

“I never touched her without her say, even if it was to hold her hand. If she said no, I backed away within a second. You can’t force someone to go on medication, Mrs Choi and she is not ‘batshit crazy’ she is ill. All I ever wanted was for her to get better.”

“There is no illness, Yunho. Look.” Waving a piece of paper in front of his face. Before handing a clean folder to the judge. “Dr Park Taeo isn’t real, your honour. There was no illness to begin with, other than a surmountable amount of childhood trauma—which in several cases doesn’t always resolve to mental illness. I have a report from Dr Kang who carried out her psychological examination, proving this statement. Unfortunately he could not make it here today. Might I add, you, Mr Jeong was her her anchor in the entirety of your marriage. And you, had ruined that by assaulting her, a man who, may I also say, is a man of the law.” Her shaking hands run through her hair, San knows she is on the brink of collapsing. Her face has thinned significantly, Myeong hasn’t eaten; it’s why she’s reached this far in the case.

A pearly tear slips down Yunho’s face, glossing the curvature of his plump cheek. His body wracks with prevalent cries and the court is stunned by his vulnerability. His wife sucks in a painful breath, God he knows where it hurts her the most.

“Why did you do it, Yunho? Hm? To feel powerful?”

“I object, your honour. Question leads to speculation.” San rises from his seat, raising a questioning brow at his wife.

“Objection is upheld.” The judge agrees, yet Myeong has exhausted all that she has to say. She knows that if Yeosang was here with them, her argument could have been made stronger.

The homes on her street have stood still, like a broken clock whose hands don’t move as time steals by. It seems the very essence of the wind has defied the laws of nature—the leaves do not bustle in the winter air. Myeong sits alongside Jue, in her kitchen, Soo-Ah plastered on her hip as she stirs the steaming pot of food under her friend’s careful instruction. San is at his parents’ home, unwilling to stay in his house as he ferociously fights the case against his wife.

Mrs Jeong is at her table, the computer screen blaring at her. Too tired to continue, she gathers all of the diagrams compiling them into a neat stack before packing everything up. Everything feels too normal, it’s as if she isn’t fighting a brutal case against her husband. The TRO has ‘expired’ and she never bothered to get it extended knowing that at the end of the day, it will be a divorce she gets from her husband.

“I try to reach out for him, in my dreams, before I realise that he’s not the same man I fell in love with.” She blurts, the attention of the women in front immediately moves to her. Myeong watches her friend stuff food into her mouth at the kitchen table; her eyes glistening with tears, body wrought with exhaustion spending sleepless nights roaming the hostel and long days at work staring into the dull screen. Days at court, days at Myeong’s home, avoiding the ghost town where their home used to be. “I realise that I want him to hold me again, and pretend he didn’t ruin me the way he did. Sometimes I wish I never said anything, then at least I would have had someone.” Her friend’s eyes litter with empathy, though it feels so sadistic in an other-worldly sense. How can a woman in a secure marriage understand her? Biting down on her quivering lip, she refrains from letting out the sobs that have clogged up her throat. Painful sounds are released, her teeth grind against each other as her body lurches forward.

"J--," Her hand is held up to censor her friends movements, she has done this before on several occasions at the hostel. Nights curled up on the floor, suppressing a fit of miserable emotions. She doesn't need any of this, not now when her lover is long gone.

Kang Yeosang is officially missing; the local community searches for him when they get a chance. Though his best friend has spent the last few weeks trying to track down his location. After he psychoanalysed Jue, he remained in his clinic until 1700 hours in the evening. He arrived at his home at 1738 hours, information given by the courtesy of his neighbour. Nobody knows anything after that.

She can't help but go back to his house, maybe there's something there that can tell them where he's gone. The old neighbour walks outside to throw away the bins, when she catches Jue, Myeong and Soo-Ah roaming in his front yard.

"Excuse me!" Jue calls out. "I don't know if I remember me, but I asked about Yeosang a while back." Gesticulating to the front door as if she might remember, the old lady does. Nodding, she gravitates to the garden wall.

"Yes. I do. The poor boy hasn't been found yet, has he?" They shake their heads. "I think I forgot to mention, there was a man that passed by his home a few times. I think they may have been friends." Myeong meets her friend's eyes, urging the woman to continue talking.

"Ah, he was very tall, wore glasses and a suit almost every time he was here. He was here the same day he went missing." She pulls out her phone, rushing to her camera roll.

Pressing her phone to the older woman's face, "Was this the man, by any chance?" The neighbour nods, profusely. "Why didn't you tell us earlier?" She snaps before grabbing Myeong's hand leaving from his lawn.

It was Yunho.

She is sure of it. There is no one else in the world that would possibly want to hurt Yeosang more than him, for what reason: she can only speculate but pieces of her mind refuses to jump to those forbidden thoughts. Mrs Jeong is once again stood in Myeong's kitchen as the lawyer paces up and down her kitchen aisle.

"Well San says he left his house a while back, he's not at your in-laws." She doesn't even want to reach out to her mother-in-law, they know of the court case and probably hate their daughter with every fibre of their being. "Maybe he's at that summer home you have?" Myeong suggests. That's exactly where he is, but with no substantial proof they can't exactly storm in with the police or a search warrant. Besides Yunho is incredibly intelligent and resourceful, as if the court case isn't a testament to that already.

"Don't do something stupid like walk into his house. He's fucking dangerous at this point." She scolds knowing Myeong's stubbornness holds no bounds. The lawyer holds back a scowl, not long before she redirects the words back at her. "He won't hurt me, if he wanted to this fiasco would have been over a long time ago."

Yunho is mirror image of Mr Jue, his father-in-law. She has become her mother, running away from him except she has not left him with two young children.

"Amma, where are you going?" The younger version of herself stands by the doorway of her parents' bedroom as Mrs Jue profusely shoves the clothes into her bag discarding the hangers onto the floor.

"Baby, pick up the hangers from the floor will you?" Her mother orders, and obedient-her listens earnestly, placing the hangers inside the small ironing basket. She repeats the questions, to which her mother pauses in her actions to look at her daughter. "I'm just going to my mother's. Alone. So don't pack your bags. You'll be ok taking care of your brother, won't you?" She's still so eager to attain her mother's validation so she nods as if handling a young child is the easiest thing one can do.

How could she have not realised that her mother was leaving for good? It's not until her younger brother passes away that, at the funeral, her mother's wild cries boil her blood. There's something like a spurt of anger brewing within her as the jarring dissonance cripples her ears. Yunho is stalking after her as she saunters over to her mother.

Her hand raises, striking a harsh blow against her mother's cheek; there's a pin drop silence in the room. "How fucking dare you. As if you were his mother, you cry? You left us." Her voice cracks, Yunho's hand rests on her shoulder pulling her back towards him. "You left us and you're crying as if you raised him? You may have given birth to him, but I was more of his mother than you have ever been!"

Soo-Ah will be raised with lots of love, she knows that much. Mr and Mrs Choi's love is too strong to be torn apart by Yunho, no less. There's no need to be envious, a poor love is hereditary something that the Jue's are undeserving off. That's ok with her, she is last of them. There will be no more of them.

The front door blasts open, her grip on the handle of the knife tightens as a figure charges down the hallways through to the kitchen. San's clothes fit loose on him, hair dishevelled and with a flushed face he meets her stare.

"Where is she?" He demands, lifting his daughter off the high chair, holding her smaller frame closely against his body. As if she is anything like her husband and will harm her too.

Myeong left her home at 0900 on Tuesday morning, entrusting the care of her child with her friend. Jue has been taking care of Soo-Ah, taking a few days off work but when she doesn't arrive home by 1730; something is deeply wrong. She called everywhere including her office, San and his parents and in-laws.

Like Yeosang, Myeong is nowhere to be found.

"Do you know where she may have gone?" Jue slumps down on the chair, sucking in a deep breath.

"Yunho's. The summer home we have." He gives a look of pure confusion, that his friend cannot help but feel sorry for him. As intelligent as he may be, he is also incredibly oblivious. "Open your eyes now San, Yunho is not who you think he is. He's a goddam psycho."

"But why would she drive two and a half hours away from here, to your holiday home?"

"We believe he's the reason Yeo is missing. His neighbour said she saw Yunho on the same day Yeosang went missing." Pieces of the puzzle have now been put into place, San can envision the big picture now; he just wishes he listened to his wife when she scolded him for taking on the case. His heart palpitates within his chest, cursing himself for endangering his family.

"I'm going to go pay him a visit and you're going to listen to every word I say."

Their summer home is just of the coast, maybe two miles away from the beach. Regardless it stands in all its glory, with a large porch circulating around the home-it's antique salmun doors had been replaced for contemporary ones, panelled windows outcast the front lawn. In itself the driveway is a massive field with a pavement large enough to carry a vehicle up and down it. It's serene, at any time of the year yet its a 'summer' home because Yunho always drags her down there when the sun peaks at its highest. A low grunt and she rolls of the drivers seat, eyes scanning over San's message before she makes her way to his front door.

Yunho has already noticed her, settling down the book on the coffee table before dashing to the door to swing it open.

"Jagiya." He breathes out, it feels silent before she ambles in staring at him before taking of her shoes. Mrs Jeong knew she had to face him but she doesn't really know what to say now that she's here. Yunho seats himself on the sofa, motioning for her to do the same. "Why are you here?" He doesn't bother to ask how she knew he was here, his wife isn't unintelligible.

"I wanted to talk to you. But now that I am here, I don't know what to say." Her profession stuns him a little. Mrs Jeong always knows what to say. It's one of the things he loves about her.

“I always imagined you and I and a little toddler. Just the three of us." His eyes squeeze shut, she feels the urge to wrap her hands around his slender neck and wrangle him until he drops dead. How is her body the only thing he cares about?

“I could never give you that, Yunho. I believe that there is another woman who can give you the family you want.” Yet the plain truth is that he doesn't deserve to remarry and have children. He will just hurt them. He will suffocate them, the same way her father suffocated her.

“No but you could have. You’ll give another man exactly what I wanted.” Oh god. The incongruity. He took away Yeosang and Myeong, she wonders who is next. He will take away the next man that even so much as blinks in her direction.

“There won’t be another man after you, because it took me to fall in love with you to realise that I wasn’t brought on this earth to be a wife or a mother.”

“If you weren’t born to be by my side then God would not have listened to my prayers. He wouldn’t have listened to me when I went down on my knees and begged for you.” Gulping the lump in her throat she blinked back the tears holding in her eyes. "I really do love you, it just hurts me that you made this false allegation against me-," Raising from her seat she rushes towards him, glaring down at him in fury.

"Let's not begin with false allegations when all you did was lie in court. I fucking said no. God is my witness. I loved you more than you ever loved me, and you broke that by treating me as if I was your doll." Tears well up in his own eyes, he simply says nothing slouching further in his seat. With tiredness, Jue leaves the room, analysing the setting before her eyes fall on the basement door. "I'm going to the bathroom." He hums, picking his book back up as she carefully slips down to the cellar.

The lurid scent of damp perfuses the atmosphere, gentle steps descend the staircase where a dim light floods into the room. Her heart is heavy in her chest as she makes her way down, a warning sign that she is not going to see something she likes. The basement is small, with a low ceiling that she knows has her husband crouching down as he enters, its concrete floors and grey walls are unsettling.

Gripping her lips with her fingers, she sinks to the floor holding back an ear-splitting scream as two limp figures sprawl over the floor in a puddle of dried scarlet blood. Tears flood down her cheeks, a low hiss escapes her as she crawls towards the masculine figure. His face is almost unrecognisable, beaten to a pulp with a split lip and swollen eyes. His long hair is rumpled, his own saliva and blood sticking the oily strands to his neck.

"Yeo." She chokes out, his unresponsiveness deconstructs her. Resting his head on her lap, her tears drop onto his face bleeding into his own; he can just about make out her face through his weak vision. Her howls increase by an octave, but his hitched breaths diminish her by the second. "Please. Say something so I know you're here." He says nothing. Yeosang just breathes.

Until he stops. There's a beat of silence. Then another. She waits with some false delusion that he will breathe again, but he does not. A shriek, and the cellar door erupts open Yunho pounding down the steps. Her head whips around, launching of the floor she swings her body at him but he holds down her fists with an iron grip.

"You monster! You bastard! How could you?"

"You said you loved me more than I ever loved you, how could that be true when I killed someone for you?" His voice is so mellow it disgusts her. He speaks as if he did not take another life. "Nobody is allowed to love you but me." Shaking her head, she parries against his strident grip, launching a brutal punch against him. An annoyed look floods his face, he holds his ground stalking towards Myeong's limp figure.

"Let her go. This is between you and I." She orders. Yunho simply scoffs, grabbing a water bottle-draining its contents across her face. Myeong squawks for air, as she jolts away from her unconsciousness, drops of water dribble from her lips as she tries to strengthen herself.

"And this one. This witty, little bitch." He grips her hair, yielding her closer to him ignoring Myeong's cries. "She really tried to fuck me over. It's a shame that she's never been better than me at any point in her life." He bends down to Myeong's level, drawing his lips to her ear.

"You're good. But you're not better than me." His taunts irritate her, and she squirms, ferociously, in his hold yet it pains when all he seems to do is rip her hair from its roots. His wife's howls fall deaf at his ears, a look of pleasure fills his features. A cruel blade departs from his pocket, holding it close to Myeong's neck. "What do you say, baby, get rid of her too? All she's doing is separating us."

“YUNHO. PLEASE.” His knife draws close to Myeong’s throat dancing on the surface of her skin. “I’m pregnant!” His head snaps up, his grip on the knife almost falters. It's a long shot, but she knows how to hurt him.

“What?”

“Yes.” She chokes on her sobs. “I’m having our baby, so please don’t hurt Myeong. Then our baby won’t have an auntie and Soo-Ah won’t have her mother.” He drops the knife, stalking towards her in a few single strides. His pale hands rest on her cheeks, tilting her face so she is looking at him.

“How long have you known?”

“It’s been a week since I’ve known, but I’m 8 weeks along.” He holds back a cry, he’s a fucking monster. A second ago he was ready to take Myeong’s life. Her face is tightly fixed in the palm of his hands as he peppers kisses on her forehead, down the bridge of her nose and finally on her lips. She allows him, just this once, to roam his hands around her body. “Just leave Myeong.” Yunho is so sure that there’s a patter of footsteps behind him, yet his wife’s hands drag him down her neck deeper. His soul is completely intoxicated by her essence, there is some figment that has him so utterly devoted to her.

Her heart pounds, incessantly, against her chest as she storms down the hospital hallways ignoring the burning stare of the clinicians and nurses. It’s not long before she skids into the emergency ward—pummelling towards the end of the room.

Her brother is lying on the bed, so weak and helpless she cannot help but cry out for his ruptured soul. He does not deserve this. He did not deserve every minute of torture he was subjected for every second he was alive. His small lips form her name as he barely sees through the slits of his eyes.

It’s her baby, after all.

His body is cradled in her arms, repressing tears. There is something so inhumane about the way his body is butchered, the depth of the lacerations astound her—as if they were trying to cut down to his bone. His staggered breaths send a wave of fear through her heart.

“Who did this to you?” Her whisper, low enough for him to hear.

Dad.

A silver blade ruptures tissues, indenting the skin. Blood bursts from its banks like a scarlet river flooding through the ghost town, he grunts; breath hitched in his throat.

“Before you, there was my father. Before him, was me.”

“My darling daughter! What brings you here?” He slurs, sliding down the wall. Her hand shakes as she screams at him, her ears are deaf. Jue doesn't really know what she's saying to him other than a plethora of vulgar words that she deeply despises.

"How could you hurt him, you fucking bastard!" Her bellow carried over the humid atmosphere, her father barely snickers. It is a gift from god that he is intoxicated. But a curse from hell that his daughter has been brought to his doorstep, in a fit of frenzy. "You have lived to hurt us long enough."

The knife in her hand is not unfamiliar. The way it has dragged under supple skin is not new. She has done it in a time before, Yunho is unbeknownst to this as he sinks to his knees clutching his abdomen, a roar erupting from his lips. His wheezes infiltrate the atmosphere, but his wife is quick on her feet as her arms outstretch for Myeong—eyes widened in shock. Is she an accomplice to this crime?

"Come on!" She shouts, panicked their footsteps launch up the basement staircase, an attempt to escape onto the upper floor in a haste. The door handle rattled, profusely, in her harsh grip yet the door won’t budge.

Fuck.

Their hastened breaths quicken in a deep panic, before a quick thought rushes to mind. There's a hidden tunnel that leads out. They run past Yunho's frail body, ignoring his threats she summons all of the adrenaline she has before pushing past the massive wooden door covering the exit. An ache grinds at her muscle but as her husband raises from the floor she flocks out of the basement in a frenzy.

The smell of the hallways is enough to make them nauseous, but the magnetic force of apprehension is stronger that all they can do is run whilst he chases after them. The end is in sight, the door at the end is always open; seeing as though Yunho could never find a builder to fix it shut. All of a sudden, something sharp drills through her leg, a distressing yelp escaping from her. Groaning she falls to the floor, a metal rod from the unattended copper pipes has obstructed her path.

“Run, Myeong! RUN!” She screams, cradling her leg; a torturous wave of pain lays within her; enough to render her paralysed. His pounding footsteps quicken behind them, grunting heavily as he limps down the hallways to them. Myeong’s movements falter slightly but she dashes through the door leaving it open as she darts through the open field.

A cool gust air blesses her bruised skin, she has never ran this fast before in her life. A sense of guilt resides as she ponders if her friend will make it, yet the car in the distances rips away that thought. It’s San’s car and she clamours his name as loud as she can.

The coolness floods into the narrow passageway, grappling onto the copper pipes for support she staggers feebly towards the exit, the metal rod inserted in her leg weighs her down. Each step is like walking on a million shards of glass, it’s as if coal sizzles under her skin. Was she born just to be in pain?

“Nae sarang, come back. You’re only going to hurt the baby.” The tears draw in her eyes, tickling the edge of her jawline before they clink onto the earth below. The sound of his voice lingers too close to her ears, beckoning all her might she stumbles faster towards the exit breaking out into a run.

Screams expend from her, she doesn’t care to refrain them as she bolts down the fields where Myeong is in San’s arms. There are shackles tied to her feet, the force of gravity is strong.

“Come back here right now!” Yunho roars into the wind, as if they bow to him they stop to let his voice circulate the atmosphere. She will not return to him, she would rather die. Her heart savagely crushes against her chest—phlegm clogs her throat. Pain gnaws at her. Why does the distance to San’s car seem longer than it should be? She shrieks his name while Yunho calls after her.

I’m so tired.

Her knees drop down to the earth beneath her feet, chest hurling with exhaustion. The vast fields are met by an excruciating howl; enough to shatter her voice box. With fingers gripping around the locks of her hair, tears endlessly cascade from her eyes—she’s begging for the Angel of Death to take her away. So much so as her head hits the earth, she speaks to its entity.

“Amma! I can’t do this anymore.” Because what does a child in pain do when the world turns against them? Nothing more than call out for their mother. There’s nothing more left for her to do. She can run to San with a metal rod prodded through her leg. Chances are: she won’t make it when Yunho can easily outrun her. She can stop here and allow her husband to consume her, force her to give birth to a child she does not want.

Or she can turn the weapon against herself. What can go through the leg can go through the heart, right?

Her head whips around to meet Yunho’s stare. There’s no anger, there never is any when he’s looking at her. He’s slowed down in his path, arms nimbly outstretched for her.

“Come back to me, baby.”

In the valley they run, the grass tickling her feet as she dashes across the landscape. A melodic laughter escapes him, like a chorus sung by angels. She’s always been fast at running but it’s never been a chore; it’s a joy to skip through the meadow at lightning speed. The sun illuminates their figures, nobody but them for miles and miles.

Perhaps this is what death feels like.

Or this is what death should be, for now she knows how her fate should resume.

All Right Reserved © the-midnight-blooms

DO NOT REPOST, TRANSLATE, REPURPOSE, OR PLAGISRISE ANY OF THE WORK HERE

'Jue' of chinese origin, stems from 'zhou' 'Soo-Ah' meaning butterfly 'Myeong' meaning bright or clear

A/N: please do NOT romanticise this piece of work, it addresses heavy issues. if you have ever been sexually harassed/assaulted by your s/o (or ANYONE), please report it!!! just because they’re your husband/boyfriend e.t.c doesn’t mean that they’re allowed to be let off the hook! I wanted to write this fic because I’ve-first hand- seen the exploitation of female bodies to establish male superiority. take care of yourself and know your worth, I know it’s difficult to speak out against someone who you’re supposed to love but you’re worth much more than that. i hope you enjoyed reading this, it was a little difficult to write but I believe it’s a fic that’s been worth writing.

big thank you to @poartz-writes for hyping me up during this writing process

let me know if you’d like to be added to the tag list for any future fics I post!

tag list: @n0v4t33z @potatos-on-clouds @jjongwho @barbielibra

[bedoballoons]

A/n: The livestream has got me on my knees for Wriothesley, like oh my gosh this man is so fine!! So uh...hehe heres a little something I thought of while watching...

─⊰⁠⊹ฺ✿𝔾𝕖𝕟𝕤𝕙𝕚𝕟 ℍ𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕔𝕒𝕟𝕠𝕟𝕤⊰⁠⊹ฺ✿─

{༻~Grrr~༺}

Nsfw! MDNI! Top Wriothesley! Bottom Afab reader, but GN pronouns! Handcuffs, fingering, punishment, rough sex, no protection, a bit of degradation and threats! Reader is a prisoner! This is written before his release so may be a little ooc!

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𑁍༄Wriothesley:

You moaned loudly as Wriothesley slid his large digits inbetween your pretty little light pink folds, pumping them in and out of you at a speed that left you unable to think straight, your wrists stinging as you struggled against the metal confines of the cuffs that kept you trapped against the bedframe. Your wet heat dripping off his fingers and onto the dingy bedsheets you'd been forced to use, the sounds of him spreading you so forcefully like a melody in his lust crazy mind. He just wanted you so bad, the large tent in his pants throbbing with need to the point he could barely keep himself from shoving his full length into you right then, he wanted to make sure you never broke the law again...

"Mnnn~ Wriothesley!" You gasped, watching as he released his member from its fabric confines, his impatience getting the better of him, "Shush, did I tell you you could talk inmate? Cause I sure as hell don't remember telling you." His voice was authoritative, threatening in a way that had you shaking your head in fear and left your pussy throbbing for attention. He could help but smirk in delight at the sight of you, his dick sinking so deep into your heat that you could see stars and he didn't give you even a moment to adjust, his pace absolutely unforgiving.

"Mmhgghn!" You screamed, his thrusts slamming your body against the mattress as he fucked you silly, your brain turned to nothing but mush, tears welling up in your glazed over eyes and your hands holding onto the cuffs for dear life. Wriothesley was enjoying himself immensely, your tight gummy walls clamping around his length in a way that had him growling with greed, "Filthy criminal...so wet for me when all I'm doing is punishing you for your crimes, honestly what a dirty whore."

You couldn't even say a word back, only loud moans and breathless gasps able to escape your lips, your mouth hung open with ecstasy that burned in your core, 'Nghhh-mnnn! Ahahhh!" His rough hands grabbed your hips harshly, leaving bruises as his cock slammed into you with such force that you came on site, your body shaking and quivering around him. He chuckled as he ruined you further, going until his hot white cum filled you to the brim...

♡♡♡♡♡��♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

ଘ(੭*ˊᵕˋ)੭* ੈ♡‧₊˚He so grrrrrr*⁠.⁠✧

(Should I make a version where he's a bottom? 0w0 )

[morbific-or-felicific]

-PÂRO Featuring Wriothesley

Meaning: The feeling that no matter what you do is always somehow wrong—that any attempt to make your way comfortably through the world will only end up crossing some invisible taboo

Word Count: 1.7k~

Description: After accidentally breaking a few laws while at lunch with your boyfriend, he has to ‘punish’ you for your crimes

Edited by: @pretty-princess-peach @tortellini-bandit

You paced around Wriothesley’s office, trying to stay calm. Today hadn’t gone even remotely as you had intended. You were supposed to be having a completely normal lunch with your boyfriend. Unfortunately, however, you had somehow managed to end up in the fortress of meropide… well, in Wriothesley’s office, anyway.

You really hadn’t meant to do anything wrong, but despite that, you had still broken several laws while on your date. Although, it really wasn’t your fault that your fork had caused one of the carrots in your salad to shoot onto the ground, resulting in you getting a littering charge, and how could they blame you for bumping into the table and causing your boyfriend's drink to spill in your lap, which was apparently contact with alcohol while underage (Seriously? You were 20!).

And were they really allowed to call it “evading arrest” when you refused to go with Wriothesley to the fortress?

Despite your refusal, Wriothesley had taken you (read: carried you over his shoulder) to his office in the fortress, and he left you there while he talked to the chief justice about your punishment. Now you were stuck waiting for your boyfriend to return and tell you if you would have to go to jail or not.

Finally, you heard the metal doors creak open after heavy steps came up the staircase. Your boyfriend walked behind his desk and sat down, rubbing his eyes.

“So?”

“‘So?’”

“Do I have to go to jail…?”

“Oh, that.” He smiled gently. “No, but… you do need some kind of punishment. Neuvilette said that community service might be a good idea, but he didn’t give a definitive punishment.”

“But I didn’t do anything wrong!”

He sighed, shaking his head.

“You still broke laws, but it is up to me to determine your punishment, since this wasn’t an official trial.”

You stood there for a moment, waiting for him to say more.

“So, what will you decide…?”

He leaned back in his chair and raised his eyebrows at you.

“What do you think you deserve?”

You thought for a second. Should you just say something like community service or just a small fine? Or would he think that’s not enough? You contemplated what you should say, but before you got a chance to say anything, Wriothesley spoke.

“I think you deserve to be handcuffed and punished for being a bad girl. What do you think, princess?”

You blushed. Was he really going to punish you like that…? For this? There’s no way this was a legal recourse. You weren’t going to complain if that’s how things worked out, but you were still confused.

“Is that legal?”

He let out a light laugh.

“Do you really care?”

You smiled at him.

“I guess not.”

Wriothesley smiled back at you, but there was something in his eyes that made you nervous. He had punished you before, and you knew that you were right to be concerned, but it still disquieted you.

“Strip.”

You did as he asked. You slipped out of your dress and took off your underwear.

“Come here. Now.”

Wriothesley slid his chair back as you walked over to stand in front of your boyfriend. He looked you up and down, drawing his eyes over your beautiful body. He stood up and grabbed his handcuffs from his belt before sliding them onto your wrists.

“Get on your knees.”

Wriothesley sat back down in his chair with his legs open so you could settle between them. He took off his belt and undid his pants before pulling out his cock.

“Suck.”

You felt the urge to disobey him bubble up inside of you. You smiled up at him and simply stated, “No.”

He returned your smile once again.

“‘No?’”

His voice holds a menacing lilt.

“No.”

He sighed.

“Five, four, three.” You felt a sense of unease in your stomach, and you began to question your resolve. It was hard to be firm in your brattiness when he used that voice. “Two, one, zero.”

He didn’t say another word as he roughly grabbed your hair in one hand and forcibly opened your mouth with the other. He pushed his cock into your mouth and brought you down until you reached the base. You spluttered and gagged as you tried to get used to his cock in your throat, your jaw already hurting from how thick the Duke was.

He pulled you up and down his cock, letting out deep groans as he did so. You wiggled around, trying to slip out of your handcuffs, but you were completely at Wriothesley’s mercy.

After a minute or two of your boyfriend fucking your throat, you had a bright idea. You could use your teeth! Seconds after you slid your teeth against his cock, he was pulling you off and leaning down to look you in the eye, still gripping your hair tightly.

The look in his eyes sent a chill down your spine. You had made a big mistake.

“Do that again and see what happens, princess.”

You felt your resistance dissipate after those words. You were already being punished, and you didn’t want to make it worse.

“I’m sorry, your grace.”

Wriothesley smiled softly at your submission. You relaxed your body and opened your mouth. He pushed his cock back down your throat, keeping a firm grip on your hair, far preferring to set the pace himself rather than have you do it. This was a punishment, after all. You did your best to breathe through your nose and relax your throat as your boyfriend used your mouth like a toy.

Your throat felt so perfect around Wriothesley’s cock. He was finally about to cum, but before he did, he pulled out of your mouth so he could cum on your face, rather than down your throat. Bad girls don’t get his cum.

You instinctively closed your eyes and stuck out your tongue before his cum landed on your face. You licked up what landed near your mouth, but with your hands stuck behind your back, you were forced to leave the rest.

Wriothesley took a moment to breathe before standing up and dragging you up with him. He turned you so that you were facing away from him, and he pushed you down on his desk. He stood back, admiring your bent body before grabbing his belt where he left it on his desk. He folded his belt and stood back slightly before bringing it down hard on your ass.

You fought the urge to stay silent and began to count the strikes, just like his grace had taught you. One, two, three, four, five.

“Six!”

You braced yourself for another hit, but it never came. You felt his hand gently run over the marks he had made, and you couldn’t help but wince at the discomfort. Wriothesley removed his hand from your ass and ran a finger up your slit.

“You’re so wet. Do you want me to fuck you?”

“Yes! Please.”

A choked scream escaped your lips when another hit came from your boyfriend’s belt.

“Please, what?”

“Please, your grace!”

“Better.”

You felt the tip of Wriothesley’s cock at your entrance and almost protested at the lack of prep, but before you could, he was pushing inside of you. Tears were forming in your eyes from how much his cock was stretching you out. Fuck, he’s thick.

He bottomed out inside of you, pausing to let you somewhat adjust to his size. How sweet of him.

When he could no longer restrain himself, he started fucking you hard and deep. You felt like you had ascended to heaven after enduring hell. He filled you up so perfectly, turning your mind blank and holding your hips in a bruising grip as he worked towards his end.

“You’re fucking perfect, taking me so good.”

He couldn’t help but let out a deep moan at the feeling of you tightening around him.

“Feels so good! Thank you, your grace!”

A breathy laugh escaped his lips, and he began fucking you faster, needing you more. You were so perfect for him, taking your punishment without protest, and then taking his cock. Was it really necessary to tell you that you hadn’t actually broken any laws, and that he had used your ignorance of Fontaine’s complicated legal system to orchestrate a night of fun for the two of you? He did have to have a meeting with Neuvilette, so it wasn’t a complete lie, but still.

You were losing yourself slowly to the overwhelming pleasure and could barely form words at this point. You tried to tell Wriothesley that you wanted to be closer to him but all that came out was gibberish. The only thing that he was able to make out was “closer”, and fuck, he wanted to be closer to you too.

He wrapped a hand around the front of your throat and pulled you up until you could feel the fabric and the cold clasps of his vest against your bare back. His lips found your neck, and he kissed up towards your lips until, eventually, you were kissing. His lips moved against yours passionately as he continued to fuck you.

“I’m gonna cum! Please, need to so bad!”

Wriothesley smiled at how good you were being, even asking permission to cum.

“Go ahead, princess.”

You let yourself be consumed by the pleasure and tip over the edge. You saw stars as Wriothesley fucked you through your orgasm. As you came down from your high, Wriothesley continued his harsh rhythm, and you could do nothing but whine from the overstimulation. He always lasted longer than you, and you were almost always overstimulated by the time he was finished.

Finally, you felt his rhythm begin to falter, and finally, you felt him fill you up with his cum. The two of you stayed connected, placing gentle kisses on each other's lips as you wound down from the experience.

“How are you feeling?”

“Tired.”

You just wanted to lay down in bed and sleep after such an intense experience. If it weren’t for Wriothesley’s arms around you, you were certain that you would be laying flat on his desk.

“Let’s go home.”

The Duke undid your handcuffs and placed them back on his belt before doing up his own pants and helping you get dressed. Then, he scooped you up and began to carry you home.

Tag List: @lilia-sspouse @but-a-peach @stannazuna @izzalovesdilfs @lordbugs @randomlycockroach @licensedsimp @leena-shi @cesimaaa @welpthisisfine @dainself-when-playable @fic-rebloga @bubblyxdolly @wanderin-stories @iwysbellez @k4ze3e @kenmabfasf @vvyeislazzy @nerdiel-has-no-braincells @hopeless-smvt @bloomingheartz @crazydreamcat @kazumiku @str4wb3rizz @kyon-cherri @ravereina @ashrodisiac

morbific-or-felicific.

[denim-devil]

Rage | Robber!Frank Castle x Male!R

Summary - The burley “punisher” known for his menacing presence and crimes happened to stumble by your home…

A/N - A simple thought that became something more then it should of, although this has been sat in my drafts for weeks now, I just decided to leave it open, maybe a PT 2 if yall are interested idk…

The night was young.

You sigh, scribbling down notes, anything that came to mind to help with the current case “Murdock and Nelson” was handling.

A series of break-in’s littered the papers of Hell’s kitchen, the bastard had managed to wriggle himself from the grips of the N.Y.P.D, stalking the shadows of the night for his next victim.

Flopping back into your chair, the cushions helped relieve the strain between your shoulder blades from standing a while, bending over the desk that currently wasn’t visible, messy crumbled up balls of paper and yellow documents detailing the certain aspects fitting the onslaught of crime covering the varnished service.

The cool breeze of the city left you shivering and alone reminding you that the law firm you happened to call home for past couple of months was your intake of madness and the decent into a spiralling well of secludedness, you hadn’t had the time to truly enjoy the character Hell’s Kitchen was and will remain.

Once clasping the window shut, you stand, rubbing at your eyes, the tiredness that stuck to them like honey grew thick yet withstand-able, it was if the city was listening, creeping and sauntering, figuring you out, a loud clunk echo’s through your apartment, ringing from wall to wall.

You had guessed it was the stormy weather outside but curiosity killed the cat…didn’t it?

“Fuck-“

Ushering out profanities was your way of coping, taking course of a few steps, gradually making your way to the wooden frame of the door consoling the running thoughts swirling around in your fuzzy brain, you still before turning the bitter-cold handle.

It wasn’t a shock, it almost felt real, more then anything you had witnessed over the past coming months, there he stood, a tall burley man, broad shoulders and toned physique, dressed in all black and a ski mask to cover his identity.

Silence fell over the room but his confidence stood proud, his muscular arms falling to his side underneath the dim light the outside street lamps provided.

“I don’t want any trouble sir-“

You tremble at the thought of becoming his next victim, although he hadn’t killed, the offer still loomed over you like his figure. It wasn’t immediate but you had guessed something within him flicked like a light switch, he placed the bag he managed to fill with stolen goods, your goods, on the floor with the same clunk from before, moving himself closer until he began to invade your space.

“What…do-“

With the incapacity to speak, you stumble back into the wall, his brown hazel’s staring deeply, trying to figure you out. He huffed before licking at his dry lips, closing in on you like an animal with it’s prey, trapping you from a potential exit.

At first he huffed and puffed like the big bad wolf, eyes twitching and lips still, as intimidating as he was, curiosity did infact kill the cat. You waited, keeping your eyes trained on his own, watching for anything.

“You’re a little to curious for your own good”

His voice was low and growly like the worn-down roads of New York City, a shiver ran down the edge of your spine, tingly yet comforting, almost riveting. Although you had no plan of escape nor defense, you melt into the wall keeping you up right, he eyed you up, almost checking to see if you fit the checkbox he had granted himself.

“Are you saying…I gotta be careful from now on?”

You question, hands glued by your sides whilst his block you against the structure of the room. This wasn’t how you expected it to go nor is it how you expected him to be, in ways he seemed softer, almost sweet like your favourite candy dissolving on the tip of your tongue.

He nods confidently, quicker then you would have liked. You can’t help the shakes the ran through your body like a tumble dryer and clothes, eager to figure out what it was that he so desired from you but also to terrified to even speak another word.

“There’s a bad guy out there, he could hurt you, y’know?”

Was it a threat? Or was he simply taking his time? His voice had managed to make you calmer, although being the aggressor, you couldn’t help but reach out, placing a hand on his hard chest, trying anything to communicate.

“Please- please I don’t want this, I-“

Worrisome pleas seemed to do nothing as he stood, still blocking you. The glint in his eyes had changed from dangerous to lustrous within seconds as if he wasn’t here to steal anything but your innocence.

“Don’t you think you could learn a lesson or two?”

A warm hand cups the base of your throat, tightening until your breathing was short-circuited, restricting each intake until you faced him, watching as he tugged a smile onto his plump lips.

Pressing forward, you allow your hand to drop from his chest, his overwhelming presence shifting until his warm breath began to fan against the shell of your ear.

“Never disturb a man whilst he’s at work…”

He presses more firmly with his hand this time making you gasp, choking on the air that seemed to be invading the small space in your lungs. He chuckles before pulling away, essentially playing with his meat, doing everything and anything in his power to make you dumb and nonchalant.

“I- please”

Your ache prolonged, blossoming as you grew harder, he was tall, practically looming over you, closing in and eventually overshadowing you from the light, his burly body blocking you in. A single hand of his cup at one your cheeks, his thumb trailing against your bottom lip in attempts to quieten you.

“God your sweet ain’t ya…”

His mouth was vulgar, his smile stretching as you accept the thumb into your mouth, tongue rolling against the thick digit. Frank could feel himself twitch, it was unusual for his nightly escapades to go like this, it was uncommon for someone to be so inviting, non the less he was entirely enticed by the whole ordeal.

You groan once he pushes deeper, jabbing the palette of your throat causing you gag, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. He couldn’t deny how pretty you were like this which pushed him to pull his now slick digit back with a pop.

Frank doesn’t fight the urge to dip his head low enough to connect your lips, locking you within a searing kiss, one that left you both hungry for more. His tongue, long and wet, rolled smoothly against your own, the material of his disguise rubbing against your upper lip and the tip of your nose, giving enough friction to calm the storm.

It’s chaste and sweet much like he was trying to seduce you which had worked a little to well considering how dumb and weak you had gotten from one touch, one look.

Pulling away with a quick press of his lips, he looks hungrily downward, lips slightly red and lick from the sloppy snog. Still leaning one muscular arm against the wall just to the right above your head, he leans further into you, pressing all of his weight against your front.

That’s when you had felt it, thick and plump underneath his black cargo’s, he settled against your own slowly growing bulge, the continuous roll of his hips relieving the ache as you sigh, practically falling into his chest.

“Just one touch and yer’ dumb for me, for it, come on, show me what i’m missin’ sweetheart”

His hands wrap around your waist once he pulls away, just enough to softly throw you onto the sheets of your bed, his talented hands make quick work of your night shorts and boxers, his eagerness prevailing once they fall into a pool on the carpet.

You hiss when the cold air hits your now oversensitive tip which dripped copious amounts of pre, Frank noticed with a deep chuckle, strong hands pushing up your legs with no resistance as he settles on his knees, hot breath fanning against the back of your thighs.

He takes note of your pale pink hole, salivating at the thought of finally planting his face between the two pert globes you had offered up.

“There he is- fuck look at that”

He wouldn’t ever admit just how hard you had got him, you we’re pretty, a little to pretty, maybe ditzy and a little stupid for letting someone as dangerous as him touch you in ways that had you clutching at the sheets.

“Sir- I can’t, need you-“

Is all you could mutter passed pressed lips, it had been so long, to long since the last time you had gotten intimate with someone, this one took the cake, it was all kinds of strange, only taking note of features shown, the way his eyes had changed to a dark shade of lust, how his lips softly pressed dirty chaste kisses to the skin of your under thighs…why was this happening, you were suppose to help catch the bastard, not fall into bed with him.

“Say that again- wanna hear yer’ beg”

Each kiss led lower until he settled just above your hole, pressing two rough, sloppy kisses to the puckered skin surrounding it, he wanted to hear just how eager you were to finally have him, to finally allow him to dissect you like a butterfly, clip the wings and make you his own.

“Please- I need you, anything-“

He tuts before chuckling one more, the huff of hot breath settling over the coolness of your hole, without any thought, you sink back into the sheets before reaching for the top of his head, with a surge of confidence, you smush his face between your cheeks as he spreads them, feeling him smirk against you was everything, but the long lap, from balls, taint to hole was much more.

He had witnessed the case file you had on him, guessed you were some sort of lawyer working for murdock, it just fuelled his fire, his urge to take control, make you forget, make you understand that he is the man you should fear, but the man you should come running to, it had his dick jump with joy, you were easy but he liked that.

He lapped and lathed at your hole dirtily like some pornstar, eager to uncover the very thing he craved. You could feel the once more slobber roll down from his tongue to your balls, dripping onto the carpet below, shivering in his hold, you begin to push back, wiggling against his face as he noses at your wet clutch.

The tips of two fingers were present, pushing into you alongside his tongue like butter, no resistance, just pure admiration and pleasure, allowing the stranger to ruin your hole, lavish licks and darts of his tongue had you quivering around the intrusion, his fingers smashing in and outwards, scissoring them apart to prepare you for the oncoming assault.

“So easy, just wanna be used? Yer’ that hungry for me? yer’ been stalking me for months and here I am…using yer’ like a damn whore…what would Murdock and Co. think of yer’ spread out and whining for the biggest criminal in Hell’s Kitchen?”

You whimpered at the thought, almost driving you over the edge. He was vulgar and dirty with his words and his tone, deep and low, almost making you dizzy along side the third digit slipping inside, burying themselves to the knuckle making your cock jump.

He smirks against your hole before giving it a few final laps. He pulls them away, standing to glare down at your fucked out features.

“Somethin’ tells me yer’ like the sound of that hmm?”

You watch attentively as his fingers work to unclasp his belt, whipping it off. He unfastens the button, watching as his cargo’s pool around his ankles before kicking them off along with his boxers.

His cock slaps up into his abdomen with a sharp thud. You glare at it, taking it in, judging it harshly. He was big, big enough to leave an impression, he was girthy and long, thick from base to tip, his head an angry shade of red, his balls resting heavily between his thighs, the light shedding of hair framing the beauty.

“Don’t think yer’ gettin’ outta this boy, yer’ gonna take it like the pretty little thing yer’ are”

Peeling off his long sleeved t-shirt, you glaze amongst the muscles that bulged, his physique was godly, heavenly, everything that had your body spreading automatically to give him the space to slot between your legs, kneeling on the edge of the bed.

“Fuck- you look-“

Your words were slight encouragement to Frank as he dipped, still the Ski-mask stayed, secreting his identy, you could still kiss him, sloppy and rough. Whining into the kiss notified Frank of your eagerness, so much so, without warning he pressed the spongy head of his cock against your rim, practically asking for permission.

Breaking the kiss had you back to reality, but it was to late, you mumbled a sharp “yes” allowing him to enter, pushing into your sloppy, slick hole with resistance. You both moan in unison as Frank pushes the air out of your lungs, pushing each inch inward until he sheathed himself fully, now resting against you.

“Atta boy, all the way in with no complanin’, yer’ such a pretty boy ain’t yer’, taking me in all the way like a professional-“

You flutter against him as his arms throw your legs up, pushing them against your stomach giving him enough space to settle just above you, his lips kissing at your jaw, nibbling on the skin as he pulls out, pushing back in slowly to allow you to adjust.

How were you going to explain the current set of events to the law firm and two of the closest men to you, Matthew Murdock and Foggy Nelson, the intimacy of your thoughts only lead you to believe that this would put you at risk…of wanting more.

[shout-it-out13]

This fandom I swear

So I know I’m basically screaming into the void here but I have seen some seriously alarming tendencies of both parasocial behaviour and now downright infantalisation regarding Yoongi’s DUI incident

Now I’m a big fan of Yoongi, and I’m just as fond of the “lil meow meow” memes about him as anybody else, but it just doesn’t apply in this case.

Let me spell out the obvious (because then takes I’m seeing is downright worrying):

1. Min Yoongi is a 31 year old man. Not a baby or a teen, a whole ass adult, in his 30s. Thus him being of legal age, makes him as fully subject to the law, as any other legal adult of legal age (or even those of minor age, persecution of underage people is very much a thing, and even if he wasn’t an adult, he would still have received criminal punishment).

(Edit: It has been brought to my attention that I had misunderstood the situation and I must admit that I based this post when I wrote it on what I had seen on Tumblr of the situation (no, I didn’t fact-check online and I won’t now either, this post was made out of an emotional response to the overall fandom situation)(I get if people thinks that’s messed up and ignorant of me (which you’re entitled to totally) but personally I have never been personally invested much in BTS beyond their music and I don’t see that changing). I just wanted to vent and say my piece, I apologise for any misinformation I may have caused. Again, I do not condone the media backlash that has gone beyond the reasonable amount (holding him accountable is different from going on a outright witch-hunt).

-I know this post is months old, and I see now I have had people in my inbox since I first posted it, and I only have seen them now (I ignore that I even have mutuale, inbox and dms on here because that’s just not what I’m here for). I must admit that I did delete your messages and could have actually researched the situation, but to be honest I can’t be bothered (again, I’m not Wikipedia, the facts are there online, this post was made and now edited out of my emotional frustration over the situation), but felt I should at least say something so here it is, lazily edited and smacked in the middle.

2. A DUI (which you can get while operation any form of vehicle or mode of transportation, be it cars, scooters, boats, bikes etc) is a serious offense, no matter what the outcome is. It’s fortunate that this situation was so mild, nobody got hurt nor no personal damages, it still is a serious offense and should have be treated as such. Yes, we shouldn’t be treating this situation as if he hit and killed somebody, but he still could have, and this needs to be taken seriously.

Min Yoongi, a man in his 30s (a grown ass man of legal age, whom I’m seeing getting his criminal offense downplayed like nothing happened by those both of legal age and those not), committed a crime, as mild as the situation was, is a serious situation and for that break of the law, he deserves to be punished for it. And the fact that there are people treating like he did nothing wrong is just idiotic.

The amount of parasocial behaviour (friendly reminder, you will never truly know any idol, youtuber, celebrity, actor etc if you don’t personally know them (no meeting them multiple times and borderline stalking them and learning evrry single detail you can about them online doesn’t count) and infantilisation in this fandom is insane.

Stop putting people you look up to on such a high pedestal until the point where you think they can do nothing wrong (like some armys are doing right now, with a man in his 30s)

I love Yoongi, I still look up to him even after this, I’m glad that he wasn’t hurt and that this doesn’t hurt his military service. I hope he learns from this, faces whatever legal punishment they give him, and hope that he can regain his license again in the future.

I hope he, the company and most importantly the fandom, recognises how serious this situation is and stops going “poor little meow meow” or “I’m in love with a criminal” (no you don’t, nobody in the fandom knows who and how BTS are in their private lives (private lives whom they are fully entitled to keep hidden from overobsessive fangirls who thinks stalking people counts as knowing them. They’re people, not objects nor saints, please treat them as such) over a man who commuted a criminal offense, aka broke the law and now needs to face said punishment.

I know I have been repeating myself over and over, but with the amount of braindead takes seen in this fandom regarding theses legal grown men, is just painful.

[flowerandblood]

The Crime and Punishment (2)

[ modern! lawyer • Aemond x female ]

[ warnings: sex content, age gap, smut, angst, domination kink, sexual tension ]

[ description: Aemond becomes a co-owner of one of the largest law firms in the area. He is invited to cooperate by one of the best lawyers he knows. While working in the evenings on further matters at his house, he meets his daughter, much younger than him, whose behavior gives him sleepless nights. Anon Request: Age gap, domination, lots of sexual tension and guilt. ]

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Previous and next parts: Masterlist

______

A few days had passed since he touched her for the first time. They both tried to pretend that nothing had happened. They did not look at each other and did not speak to each other. There was tension between them as they were left alone in the room. It felt like some kind of competition.

Her father often asked her for help in the law firm. Mostly when it comes to documentation. Of course, they had everything electronically stored, but they also had to have copies of the files in separate folders and binders in case something happened.

Aemond hated messy paperwork. She'd seen him scolding his assistant many times for not being able to arrange them properly and for putting them all over the place.

As far as she knew, the girl also studied law and did an apprenticeship with him. But she didn't seem to be able to handle the pressure and demands he placed on her.

"Leave it. Go home now. I'll take care of it." She said to her once, putting her backpack on a chair.

It was hot despite the air conditioning. For this reason she decided to wear a dress with small flowers, pretty and girly, with a triangle neckline. The girl looked at her gratefully.

"Thank you. I owe you lunch." She sputtered tiredly, putting down the pages she had been sorting. She packed her things from her desk and left.

She went to work, standing at the table where all the documentation from the previous month was spread out. From a drawer she took a piece of divider and a marker.

She knew what he liked.

Each client was to have their own binder. Inside, each case was to be separated by a red sheet with its number, date and table of contents - so you could see where one began and the other ended.

They had to be accurately described. The case was to be divided into parts: the evidences, the opinions of the experts, their discussions recorded by ear, the testimonies of the witnesses, the testimony of the client himself, the evidences of the prosecutor's office.

This order had to be followed, no other. Each part should be arranged logically, fragments of the statements of the same witnesses were to be arranged one after the other, so as not to look for them further. If there were any small notes or footnotes among the papers, they had to be stapled to the relevant document they concerned with a stapler.

She arranged everything with care. She put the sheets of paper into piles, and then put everything as one part into a binder. She flinched when she heard his voice behind her.

"What are you doing?" He asked coldly, standing in the doorway. She wondered how long he had been watching her silently.

She went back to her work, pretending she wasn't impressed by the sight of him in a tight, thin black turtleneck hugging his chest. She wondered how it was possible that he wasn't too hot inside.

"I'm putting together your documentation." She said softly as she stapled the two sheets together.

"Where is Hannah?" He asked indifferently, walking over to the table where she stood, roughly leafing through one of the binders that she had just set aside.

"I sent her home because she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Should I call her?" She asked as she tucked pieces of paper into a plastic sleeve. A momentary silence answered her.

"No." He said finally, without commenting further, sitting down at his desk. She knew it was a sign that she was doing her job well and he couldn't find anything to complain about.

She decided that she would work standing up since she led such a sedentary lifestyle. She allowed him to look at her long, shapely legs without restriction. She wondered if he was just thinking about how soft her skin felt when he touched her.

She heard him start typing on his laptop. He was probably replying to a client. She glanced at her watch - it was seven o'clock in the evening. She wondered when he rested.

She had heard that he had dumped his long-time partner, Alys, precisely because she wanted him to give up his career and start a family with her. In six years of relationship he hadn't even proposed to her, and her biological clock was ticking.

Turns out they have other priorities in life.

She guessed he wasn't a sexual ascetic, but she knew he hadn't had a long-term relationship with anyone since then. She wasn't going to be his adventure. One of the smiling journalists or clerks that he could fuck once in the back room. She wanted him to die of despair because of her.

A knock on the open door snapped her out of her thoughts. Daemon, a close friend of her father's for many years, stood there. He was a well-known forensic pathologist, helping them with their cases and determining the possible course of events. He often came to visit them and helped her father when her mother left them and he struggled with depression, unable to get out of bed.

"Would you like a quick snack before the restaurant downstairs closes?" He asked lightly, smiling out of the corner of his mouth.

She thought that he always looked very good. His slicked-back hair, gallant smile, unbuttoned jacket, casually buttoned shirt. He was a very handsome man, and she thought it was great that he'd asked her that in front of Aemond. She smiled broadly.

"Of course." She said lightly and glanced at Aemond who was glaring at her from his laptop. "Do you mind? I promise I'll finish it today. I have the keys to the office." She said calmly.

He looked away, starting typing again on his laptop. His lips were pressed into a thin line.

"No."

***

She and Daemon sat at one of the tables. It was practically empty around them because all the offices, except theirs, were already closed. Daemon ordered a drink, she took tea and a piece of chocolate cake. He stared at her for a moment in concentration.

"How are you?" He asked finally, taking a sip of his drink. She looked at him from under her long lashes and smiled slightly.

"All right." She answered briefly, taking a piece of cake on a small fork into her mouth. Daemon looked at her expectantly.

"You still don't speak to her?" He asked finally. She looked at him with furrowed brows.

"No, Dad." She said maliciously, giving him a warning look. He laughed at her words and shook his head.

"You're going to have to do it eventually." He grunted as he took a sip from his glass. She sighed heavily, looking away.

"My dad told you to talk to me?" She asked tired. She hated bringing it up again. It was a closed chapter for her. Daemon stared at her silently.

"He worries about you." He finally said, looking at her with a raised eyebrow.

There was something rakish and youthful about him, a certain arrogance and energy that always impressed her. She couldn't be mad at him. She smiled pityingly.

"I know. But I don't think I have to explain anything. Not even to you." She said, as she popped a piece of cake into her mouth and ate deliberately, keeping her eyes on him. He looked at her thoughtfully. He didn't speak for a moment.

"You know that if you need to talk, you can always count on me." He said finally. She smiled warmly at him.

"I know."

***

After a few minutes they got up and said goodbye. He was already on his way home and she was climbing the stairs up to their office. On the way she met her father, who was running downstairs in a hurry.

"There's a new witness in the case. I need to question him. Can you get yourself an Uber home?" He asked, grabbing her by the shoulders. She shivered with excitement at the thought of being alone with Aemond in the office.

"Yes, don't worry." She said lightly. He nodded and ran downstairs.

She walked slowly down the corridor thinking hard about what she should do. She decided that the best option was to let him look at her. She knew that just being alone with each other would make the tension unbearable for them. She decided that there was no reason to exaggerate and to show him anything more than she herself wanted.

She entered the code and heard a confirmation beep that the password was correct. She went inside and walked through the glass walls to the only room with a light on.

She saw with surprise that he got hot after all, and he was left in just a tight black T-shirt, a nice little watch with a black strap on his wrist. He was leaning over the papers on the table she had been dealing with.

He gave her a quick glance, eyeing her up and down, as if to see if she really had eaten something or if she was doing something else with Daemon. Deciding to pretend not to see it, she stood next to him, getting to work without saying a word.

He sorted the sheets and documents as he saw fit, handing them to her and telling her the client's name and case number. She wrote it down, working with complete concentration, her small hands slipping the pages into plastic sleeves and placing them in the correct order into binders.

She smelled the intense scent of his cologne water and felt with amusement that her nipples hardened slightly, her insides clenched, hot and moist. She thought it was ridiculous how much he affected her.

She glanced thoughtfully at his large hands, lines of veins showing through their skin. He had slender fingers. She remembered how nice their touch felt on her skin, and a pleasant shiver ran through her. She turned her head as she went back to work. She closed several ready-made binders and walked over to the regiment, clearing space and putting them in their proper place.

She heard him move and stand behind her. Her movements slowed in tension, wondering what he would do. She felt him place one of the files on the shelf above her head, placing it on top of the others. She could feel his breath and the warmth of his body. Her heart was pounding like crazy.

Slowly she slid the last of the binders into place, her hand trembling slightly. She felt that he hadn't moved away, his hand still searching for something just above her. She knew he was pretending.

She placed her hands on the shelf in front of her, not moving. She felt that he wanted her to turn to face him, to show with her eyes how much she wanted him. She decided she wouldn't give him the satisfaction and waited for him to pull away.

A strong, aggressive shudder went through her, as she felt his fingertips brushing against the side of her thigh. He guided them as he had done then, up and down, lifting her dress slightly, so that once in a while he could see the fabric of her panties. She swallowed hard, feeling her own wetness between her thighs.

Her fingers tightened on the shelf in front of her and she leaned forward slightly, her buttocks landing on his pants right behind her. They both sucked in a sharp breath as her butt pressed against the bulge hidden under his fly. His hand tightened around her buttock as she began to rub innocently up and down against him, feeling the pleasure of him throbbing under her.

"Stop." He whispered softly. She wondered if he was trying to convince himself or her.

"Just do it." She said softly, squeezing her eyes shut. She felt him freeze, his breath caught in his throat.

They were panting softly, rubbing against each other slowly and intensely, she could feel him completely hard now. His thumb pushed the material of her panties aside, exposing her wet, fleshy structure to him, all hot and throbbing. He ran his thumb over her entry, lapping it in her fluids, his breath quivering slightly.

"Are you sure?" He asked quietly, unsure of himself. She had never heard him talk to anyone like that before. It turned her on even more. All she wanted was for him to fuck her.

"Yes." She whispered softly, her lips quivering slightly, her face pressing against the bookcase in front of her.

She began to breathe faster when she heard the sudden sound of the belt from his pants being unfastened and his fly being unzipped. She felt him pull her panties down to her knees.

She couldn't suppress a soft moan of delight as she felt his huge, throbbing manhood begin to rub against her, sticky with her wetness. He held her buttocks, parting her in front of him, his cock literally slithering over her dripping entrance.

"Are you so wet for Daemon too?" He asked low and mean, his voice quivering slightly, his fingers tightening on her skin. She smiled to herself, breathing deeply through her mouth, unable to bear the tension between her thighs. His jealousy was like a honey to her ears.

"Are you trying to accuse me of something, Your Honor?" She asked lightly, wetting her lips with her saliva, her fingers tightening on the shelf in front of her.

She gasped as she felt him grab her by the throat and pull her higher, until his mouth was at her ear. She was surprised that she liked it. He wasn't violent, but he was determined. He didn't want to give her control.

"Yes. I think you like an older man to fuck you well." He hissed softly into her ear, her lips parting slightly.

"So what are you waiting for?" She asked quietly. Silence answered her, his body froze for a moment.

She moaned loudly, suddenly feeling him deep inside her. Her lips parted in shock as he filled her so much that he barely fit. He must have been just as surprised, because a helpless, short moan escaped his lips. She wondered if she would be able to get more of such wonderful sounds out of him.

His cock began to move inside her, and they both gasped loudly, unable to contain themselves or pretend they weren't enjoying it. He slid in and out of her in an intense, hard rhythm, his throbbing cock rubbing against the soft, moist, sensitive skin inside her.

His balls hit her ass with a wet slap each time he thrust into her again. She couldn't help but moan loudly every time he rubbed against the spot inside her that her fingers always sought when she touched herself. Hearing this, he began to fuck her there on purpose, making her pant in pleasure.

"So close already?" He asked ironically, speeding up, his thighs wet with her juices hitting her with a loud, sticky slap, her fleshy, hot walls pressing desperately around him.

They both breathed heavily, feeling they wouldn't last long. She swallowed hard in humiliation at hearing his words. She couldn't help it, no one had ever fucked her so wonderfully before. Her nipples were painfully hard, her insides swollen and bloodshot with excitement.

"Yes." She mumbled softly, her hips responding greedily to his every thrust as he pumped his cock deep into her, pushing her tight walls to breaking point.

"Do you take pills?" He whispered quickly, panting harder and harder, accelerating, as they both fucked greedily, the shameless, wet sound of their bodies hitting each other reverberating across the room.

"Yes, please, come inside me, please, please, please!" She moaned loudly and sobbed as she felt his fingers on her clit, massaging it in intense, circular motions. Her lips parted in a soundless moan, her body arched in pleasure as she felt a powerful, wonderful orgasm surge through her body, knocking her unconscious for a moment.

She heard him groan loudly as he felt her walls pressing down on him greedily. He couldn't take it any longer, he thrusted in her one last time and just came inside her, semen flowing out of him in waves.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" He was panting low, furious with himself, and at the same time delighted with the pleasure that he was experiencing right now. His nose and forehead brushed her hair, inhaling her scent. They both moved for a moment, unable to stop. Silence fell between them, broken only by their heavy, labored breathing.

"I'm sorry." He finally whispered, his voice trembling slightly as if he was terrified of what he had just done. She slid her hand off the shelf and placed it on his hand, still holding her hip. She stroked him gently and reassuringly, his face still buried in her hair.

"Don't be. Let's get back to work."

______

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @avgdusterfan @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @random-ocity @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost

Others: @fan-goddess @itsabby15 @fangirlninja67 @the-common-cowgirl

If you want to be tagged, leave a comment below. ♥

[banamine-bananime]

my concept of donut is like, he should be on a 1960s white america boyscouts poster but like, goofy about it. do you get what i mean.

like to me donut was basically cooked up in a lab to be a parody of the Good Ol’ Boy Back When Boys Were Real Boys who played outside all day with friends smacking each other with sticks playing space cowboys and aliens, rubbing dirt in all his cuts and knowing big boys repress all their emotions except Boisterousness, always says his yes maams and yes sirs and never questions authority (but also, y’know, boys will be boys so of course they’re up to Mischief when unsupervised, a bit of chaotic and violent rule-breaking fun is all fine and good as long as they’re respectful to authority and just accept their punishment with an “awwww, man! Shucks!” in the end).

a parody because it plays up how someone genuinely like that probably must be pretty stupid/oblivious/gullible to be so pliable to authority and follow dumb norms of “what is a nice polite young man supposed to act like” without any thought into “wait, what makes this something it’s important or nice to do? are there perhaps other things i could focus on doing that would actually be more important or nice to do? do i actually get or care what being nice and doing good is, or do i just like doing whatever i want without having to think about Ethics and then having a very easy set of rules of How To Be Nice to follow”.

and also a parody because he also is like, extremely gay, and he literally just does what he wants and acts how he wants and it’s simultaneously ^that whole Good Ol’ Boy thing and the most flamboyant stereotypically gay mannerisms and hobbies you’ve seen in your life. and he just fully lacks the interest in doing any reflection that would lead him to conclude anyone might see these as rather contradictory or subverting expectations. he’s exposed both to norms of good behaviour coming from conservative places and from progressive places and doesn’t really think about these perhaps being conflicting ethos, he just grabs this random patchwork of “hey this is something someone told me yayyyy :)”. he can enthusiastically follow the letter of many laws rooted in heteronormativity and toxic masculinity and also the letter of laws coming from Progressive Ideals but he fully does not give a shit to consider whether there might be a bigger spirit to any of those laws. dumbitchitis got him immune to internalized homophobia (no he isn’t actually. but he is quite certain that just Not Thinking About It means any negative emotions don’t exist. this is a foundational truth to donut’s understanding of the universe)

what i’m saying is donut should simultaneously give the impression of walking straight off a cheery WWI Join The Troops poster or 1960s boy scouts ad, but also of being absolutely A Pansy of the same era, but also of being the kind of modern queer who says “be gay do crime” not because they’ve given two seconds of thought to prison abolition but because they find doing crime really fun

[coltermorning]

The Outlaw’s Way (RDR2 Fanfic, Arthur Morgan x F!Reader, 18+)

Summary: You catch a notorious outlaw in the act of robbing the general store late one night. To keep you quiet, he punishes you for it.

Author’s Notes: Look at me finally learning how to write something shorter than ten thousand words :)

Tags: Arthur Morgan x reader, smut, low honor Arthur Morgan, rough sex, semi-public sex

AO3 Link

~

The Outlaw’s Way

Word count: 2323

“Easy, girl.”

The irony of the way Arthur Morgan purred those words was laughable. But you were far from laughing.

His hand was clamped around your throat, holding you against the wall. You would be terrified, should have been, if you weren’t so busy being aroused by his lowly, rough handling. Far from any kind of easy, no matter how much he said otherwise.

“Open your mouth.”

You did as he said, and his thumb found the edge of your lip, running across it. You watched his eyes, the only thing you could see of his face behind that black bandana. They studied your mouth like it was a complicated score, another job to run and get away with.

He stuck his thumb in your mouth, making you close your lips around it out of instinct. You saw the slightest narrowing of his eyes—a satisfied smile behind that mask.

“So good for me,” he said lowly. “You gonna keep quiet? Or do I have to keep this pretty mouth filled?”

You couldn’t answer, too busy with his finger, too worried by his hand around your throat. He was making shallow movements in and out, just enough for you to move your tongue against him.

He took his thumb away, closing in on you. “Answer me.”

You felt his thigh press against your legs, separating them until his knee hit the wall at your back.

You held in a moan when the friction of his leg scraped against your arousal. “I…”

His free hand found your backside, pitched you forward until you were fully straddling his leg. All the while, those deep, piercing eyes never left yours.

“Use your words.” He tightened his grip on your throat instead of loosening it.

“I won’t tell,” you breathed.

“Won’t you?”

Never. Not if this was what it got you. He had been robbing the general store at your back when you found him, catching him in the act. The store owner was long since retired for the night, leaving you the sole witness to the crime. And not only was it an actionable offense, but he was also one of the more famous outlaws in the state. His bounty posters were all over town. Arthur Morgan, head enforcer to the Van der Linde Gang. His picture didn’t do him justice. But it wasn’t his masculine features that were attracting your attention.

He kept your head pinned back, leaning in even closer. “What if you’re lying? Then what’ll I do with you?”

He gripped your hip hard, hard enough to bruise, and started guiding you back and forth on his leg. You let out a breathy moan.

“I won’t tell,” you repeated, the words mewled.

“I don’t trust that for a second. Maybe I’ll fill you up, give you a reminder any time you think of going to the law about what you saw.”

You moaned. You wanted that so badly you were willing to sacrifice any moral you’d ever had.

“Yeah, you’d like that would you?”

You couldn’t hold his intense gaze. Your eyes fluttered shut, all thought on moving against his muscled thigh, the heat building within you.

He finally let go of your throat. You stopped grinding against him when you heard him undoing his gun belt, looking down to watch.

“Uh uh. You keep moving until I tell you to stop.”

You obeyed but watched all the same. He unbuckled the belt, and it fell to the ground with a heavy thunk, his weapons sprawling in the dirt. You ground against his thigh a little harder when his hands worked his pants buttons apart. Were you really about to do this? Let an outlaw ravage you in the wide open? When he pulled himself out, stroking his cock as he clamped his hand around your throat once more, you had your answer.

“You want me to fill that little cunt, darlin’?”

Lord above, what a crude way to speak to a woman. But you were aroused even more by it.

You hesitated, overwhelmed by the feeling his leg was giving you and the sight of his hand around his impressive length.

His grip tightened around your throat. “Answer me, sweetheart. I don’t like asking twice.”

“Yes, I do,” you breathed.

His lazy laughter rent the night. It drew your attention. You suddenly wanted to see his face, wanted to know if he was as handsome under that mask as the rest of him was.

Before you could go to remove it, he released your throat and stooped, gathering up your skirts. His hand slipped under them, and he had your undergarments pulled down before you could so much as blink. One of his fingers ran against your slick, and your eyes fluttered shut as you released a breath, leaning into the feeling.

He gave a satisfied hum. “All ready for me, ain’tcha? Naughty little thing, wanting me to take you so bad.”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. It didn’t matter anyway—he was too impatient to wait for an answer. He hitched the front of your skirts up and boxed you in against the wall, his hips lining up with yours. You felt his cock slide against the inside of your thigh.

“Tell me again why I’m having to do this to you.”

It took all your will to focus. To think. Especially as those eyes bored into yours. “Because I need to be reminded to…to keep quiet.”

You expected a quip in return, but instead he rammed his length into you in one harsh stroke. The beginning of a cry of pleasure spilled from your lips before he slapped his hand over your mouth, muffling it.

“Quiet, girl. Don’t want no one knowing what we’re doing out here.”

He retreated, the pull of his cock against your walls sinfully good. Even better was when he slammed back in, greedy and rough.

He laughed in that smug way again when you moaned into his hand. “There.” The way he drug that word out had you dripping with want.

He started to take you against the wall, your lower back pressing into the wood harshly with each thrust. His hand moved slowly down your face until it found your throat again, forcing your chin back with his need. He began to fuck you hard and fast, the sound of him slamming into you filling the night.

He gave a low grunt at a particularly hard thrust. So did you, but you used the distraction and took his mask between your fingers, pulling it up just enough to see the rest of his face. God above, was he handsome. Your heavy-lidded eyes flicked up to see him staring you down. Hungry.

He brought his hand away from your throat and pressed it against your clit as he continued to fuck you deep. You lost it.

“Please,” you moaned as you gripped his arms, needing relief and needing to get out from under that finger all at once. He had trapped you against the wall. You had nowhere to go, nothing to do but take it.

“No use begging,” he grumbled. “You won’t get no mercy from me.”

You threw your head back, trying your best to stifle your moans. Those cursed words. Why did you covet them so?

His thumb started a wild pace against you, and your orgasm came roaring awake like you had never known true pleasure before. Your moans changed pitch, shooting as high as your need did.

“Want to feel that little cunt go tight,” he growled. It was the last straw. Your body obeyed him like it spoke his language.

You let go of all your restraint and pride, letting this man have every piece of you. Your orgasm hit you like a wall, and you were holding onto the edges of a scream as he continued his abuse of you. What pitiful noises you did manage caught the outlaw’s attention. Your upper back hit the wall hard as he changed his angle. And it was worse, so much worse—he wouldn’t let your pleasure down.

“Please,” you begged, desperate this time. You moved any way you could to get away from his abuse, but he only laughed. Went deeper. Ravaged you with his finger even faster.

“Take it,” he demanded, and there was no part of you that wanted to disobey him. Even though your body was protesting, even though it had never taken such treatment, you relented.

“I-” You gasped a breath. Another orgasm rolled through you like fire, this one so intense your legs started shaking.

“There,” he said low. You could hear the smugness in the word.

You were so high you couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe for a moment. His finger finally drew away, but still he pushed into you.

His hands came around your backside and lifted you, making you straddle his waist when he pushed you back against the wall. You were chest to chest now, and he used all his strength to thrust upward. Hard. You let out such a loud whine that he shushed you.

“What’d I say?”

“To be- oh god. To be quiet.”

“I need to make myself more clear?”

“No,” you breathed, your head falling back and plunking against the wood.

“Good girl.” His voice had a new edge to it—a desperate one. He was close to his own release.

Your breathing mingled with his, and he went impossibly harder, your body never knowing such pleasure.

He let out a panting breath then said, voice faltering, “Gonna fill you up.”

You moaned again, trying your best to keep it quiet.

“You want that?” he taunted. “Want my spend dripping out of you?” You shut your eyes tight, those words stirring your desire again. He was relentless. And got off on those dirty words of his almost as much as you did.

“Yes.” It was a breath of a word. An idiotic word. But you couldn’t resist it.

He chuckled, the rumble of it through his chest so masculine and proud. “Knew you would.” And like he had been holding back before, he gripped your hips and dug into you, his cock pushing so deep you were crying out again. He didn’t seem to care this time, buried under his desire.

His grip became so tight on your skin you writhed to get away. He was pulling another orgasm from you against your will, hitting that sweet spot within you over and over again.

When it surmounted, when you fell apart and he began to, you let his name slip past your lips. He groaned at the sound. You came hard, and he slammed into you one last time, doing the very same. Spilling inside of you, just like he said. It made your high inexplicably better. You basked in it, knowing nothing but the feeling of pleasure for a few blissful moments. Then he was pulling out of you, letting your legs down. You wanted to whine at the loss, wanted him to do it all over again. You couldn’t think that for long as you realized, with burning shame, you were having a hard time standing. Your legs shook beneath you, barely holding you up.

The outlaw laughed lowly, dangerously, when he saw. “I make your knees go all weak darlin’?” You met his eye, and he closed in on you. For a heartbeat you thought he would try to kiss you through his mask, but you realized too late his hands were dropping low. He brushed his fingers along the inside of your thigh, to his spend that had indeed dripped down your legs. If your knees hadn’t already been shivering, they would have started to at the touch. Especially as he held your gaze, gathering up his spend and tucking it back into your soaked core. His fingers dragged against you, filled you with his come, served their purpose. Your knees gave.

He caught you, laughing lowly as he did, and his cursed fingers finally let you be. “You remember that the next time you think of going to the law,” he said in your ear.

You didn’t respond. Numb with pleasure.

He went on. “If I find out you did, I’ll come do it again. And another time after that, just to be sure it takes.” You squeezed your legs together at the very idea of him doing this again.

“And if I dont?” you whispered, voice hoarse.

“Then I’ll do it anyway.” You let a groan escape you, and he laughed as he settled you on your legs a little better, stepping back and tucking himself back in his pants. “Look at you, all used up.”

“Stop speaking like that,” you begged.

He just chuckled, low and deep, as he went to refasten his gun belt. “I’ll stop when you learn your lesson about snooping around on a man.”

You wanted to say it had been an accident, that you hadn’t intended to see him robbing the store blind. But you were also much too receptive to any lesson he was willing to give you to say otherwise.

When he was all put back together, his hands falling on his gun belt in an unfairly attractive way, he stepped forward. He towered over you as that gaze of his pierced your very soul. “Be here when I get back. And keep that pretty mouth shut. Understood?”

You nodded, hoping—entirely irrationally—that he would return sometime soon.

“Use your words,” he taunted, his eyes crinkling in that hidden smile.

“I understand. I’ll be good.”

He snickered as he turned, whistling for his horse. He took one last look at you, a sudden hardness overtaking his gaze. “You better be.” Your knees gave another involuntary shiver. And just like that, he made for his horse and mounted, riding away. No more than a phantom sent to torture you and gone just as soon.

[starlight-bread-blog]

Katara made it very clear that she never ever wants to see Yon Rah again and most of the Zutara fandom supports that decision of hers.

So I guess the possible downside of Katara choosing to marry Zuko means sharing Zuko's burden of reforming and rehabilitating depraved war criminals like Yon Rha and all those who are even worse than him.

Then there's this whole thing with Aaron Ehasz imagining Zuko being Azula's Iroh and she reforms in that way along with my and a few other's ideas of Aang showing her how open and master her own chakras. Speaking of Iroh, does anyone remember his ruthless and brutal 600-day siege anymore? There's no way he'd avoid dropping bodies that whole time.

Looks like Katara will ironically be taking Aang's advice about forgiveness after all but I don't think it'll be necessary for Katara to look for Yon Rah again and say so.

What do you think?

Tw: War crimes, genocide and nazism.

Disclaimer: I don't know what actually happened post canon. I tried to look on internet forums and it seems as the topic wasn't addressed in the comics. For this answer, I'm going under this assumption.

Sorry for not getting to this sooner, life got busy and I didn't want to give some half assed answer to such a delicate topic. There's a lot to comment on so I'll break this down step by step.

"Katara choosing to marry Zuko means sharing Zuko's burden of reforming and rehabilitating depraved war criminals"...

The fire nation commited atrocious war crimes, leaving them with with many war criminals. War crimes are more than punishable. If it were real life, neither Katara or Zuko would have to reform and rehabilitate any of them.

An example of this would be the Nuremberg trials after WW2. Even recently, in 2022, Irmgard Furchner (an 98 year old women) faced a trial for being a secretary of a concentration camp (to put it lightly, she was very much a murderer). No one is getting away with their actions.

I read the relevant section from a Red Cross's document titled "Analysis of the punishments applicable to international crimes (war crimes, crimes against humanity and genocide) in domestic law and practice". (The section being "States’ obligations under IHL to prosecute and punish international crimes").

I found something interesting. (ID in alt text).

*Grave breaches are more serious, vile violations of humananitarian law. Everything above applies to "genocide and crimes against humanity".

If Katara were in a position of power in the Fire Nation, not only would she not have to reform anyone, she also might get to help with the trials for them.

"Then there's this whole thing with Aaron Ehasz imagining Zuko being Azula's Iroh"

I don't know about his plans for Aang's other ideas, so I can't comment on them. What I did find was a short thread of his. And after reading it, I maintain that – like most ideas – his vision can work with sensitive execution.

Azula was still very much a 14 year old victim of grooming when the series took place. Her brother can help her through her redemption under one condition – the desire to be better should come from her.

He shouldn't sit through any mistreatment whatsoever. He'll guide her through a path he already went through, but she has to walk with him. Azula needs to be safe for Zuko. Only then, redemption would be possible.

"does anyone remember [Iroh's] ruthless and brutal 600-day siege anymore?"

The difference between Iroh and Yon Rah is what they're up to now. In the present Yon Rah is just some guy living with his mother. Meanwhile Iroh took back Ba Sing Se from Fire Nation colonizers.

Yon Rah isn't out here fixing his mistakes, he just got off scot-free. On the other hand, Iroh is a changed man and took action to correct his past on the same scale.

At the end of the day redemtion isn't Aang's idea. It's one of the major themes of Atla. It wants to show that people can change and grow. So it does. Zuko changes, Mai changes, Ty Lee changes, and Iroh is their future.

He tried to conquer Ba Sing Se, and now he took it back from conquerors. He was the worst of them all, and now he's unrecognizable. He's warm, wise and sweet. There's a meaning to it.

That doesn't mean that war criminals in the current day, scums who made no affort, will get away with their crimes. That doesn't mean Katara would have to go through the mental torture of reforming her colonizers.

That is it! I hope I didn't come off as aggressive, I didn't mean to. Thank you for the ask, sorry for taking me forever to write this, and have a lovely day!

[unhappytimeleaper]

I don’t know how to feel about this. I just couldn’t stop thinking about watching the rain and reflecting on Neuvillette. Also, who knows what might change as he is officially released. This is just an idea that was eating my soul. 

Also, requests are open. I don’t really need to close them, but I am still slow with writing since I work full-time. I am hoping to branch off a little more from just Enstars requests, and ,I’ve taken a lot more of an active interest in writing for Jojo specifically, but anything works.

Neuvillette; Unedited. Gender Neutral Reader. 

Warnings: very vague for the most part but talk of isolation, mental and physical abuse, and manipulation. It’s still Yandere.

Word Count: 2,300+

This blog is 17+ please have your age in your bio or tagged; any ageless blog and below the age asked for will be blocked at the end of the week.

plitter-platter, plitter-platter, plitter-platter—

The rain had been pouring for some time now, longer than usual. What could have set him off for so long was still unknown. The drumming of the rain against the window, your head pressed more into it and away from the armrest of the chair, almost as if hoping by sheer luck you’d phase through the glass and be set free. The sound of the rain, once so peaceful, has grown to become nauseating. Ringing in the depths of your ears and into your soul, plaguing as a reminder of the life you now had. When there is nothing to shut it out, it only digs in more into the predicament you’ve been chained to. No more are the cozy aspects of the rain curled up in a family home with food, cooking, and music as the rain danced across the roof or the time with friends running through the storm in attempts to find shelter, laughs filling the air—just you and the room. 

Well, the room could be your fault. You weren’t physically chained there— not anymore, but the walls of the home, as big as they were, only served to mock you. Too big of a cage, a labyrinth that could only make the looming fear of loneliness bury itself between your ribs and bloom across your heart. The shadows of people known not to interact with you but their whispers tickling in your ears. Sounds of them adding about their personal lives and families, trips, gossip across Fontaine… all while your days had become mostly kept in silence. No, you’d rather stay in here… just one room that you could build into an escape paradise from the weighing ache the rest brought you—filled with books, a window [that you had spent countless hours fighting with], plush chairs, and per your request some plants. You managed to get your argument across to him on allowing for such necessities; although he liked to remind you what he had given, he could just as much take away. Though you knew his bleeding heart for you, that under it all, he craved the love he one day believed you’d give him. Punishments were honest; you knew that much had been burned into your brain, but it was rare that little things would be a trigger for him to take account less you become too much of a “brat.” Ugh, how easy it was to scoff at that term— treating you like a child having a tantrum compared to the reality of a human stuck in the grasp of the inhuman judge himself. 

Sometimes, you wondered what was better; he often was gone. Working, fulfilling a role you had to bite your tongue to denounce him from. If someone couldn’t understand humans, couldn’t understand what drove them to petty crimes and the struggles so many befall, why should he be allowed to make the calls? Judge-free, unbiased… no, that isn’t the way to handle it; you knew the pain of it all weighed down on him, which was something enough [better than doing so without remorse] but didn’t alter the unfair nature of the law. Not when, through it all, you ended up here, a product for his love rather than a participant. But him being gone didn’t change the aching; with the limited interactions, it was only through him the loneliness had a moment to dull. Even if you hated to admit it, you were only human— only able to crave someone to share time with to break the deafening silence of the home. Of the rain. It scared you. To know if he was around more, around enough that your fight to be free would extinguished. You’d lose yourself, complacent in a life you never asked for. If he was home more, would you lose yourself faster, lose the motivation to escape, and become just another wheel in the cog of fate? Or would you have more time to whittle down his defenses and create more openings for means of escape? The thought could only make your heart beat faster, drumming along to the rain, though was it out of fear or excitement? It was hard to tell.

plitter-platter, plitter-platter, plitter-platter—

Breathe fogged up a patch of the window, the cooling glass chilling the chunk of the forehead that was placed against it. The feeling was uncomfortable, both in angle and blooming chills from the material, but not enough to want to move. The rain was still falling, though slowly dying down. He’d be home soon, creeping into the room looking for you just like every night. Days spent on loop, blending more and more into each other. He didn’t mind crying in front of you, often the tears adorning your shoulder or back as he held you close, but he seemed to try to keep the outside world— well outside. He knew it upset you, that it’d turn into some argument, and he’d need to find a reason to punish you for breaking the rules. You often had to bite your tongue, wanting to tell him this is why inhuman creatures shouldn’t have human partners. The gap in communication, feelings and needs was too much. It was killing both of you. You could feel it as he wept, the soft rain showers of him just not understanding, not being able to communicate effectively the motions of his heart. 

Two drops lined up just centimeters from your face. The mark of a race, the starting line. It was a time that once was so innocent when you were a kid choosing a random drop and narrating it in your head as you waited for the storm to pass so you could go out and play. ‘Woe is me’ could only be how you thought of it now. Him and you set up for the race— the starting line and… go. 

Rolling down the frame and collecting other droplets, their trails jumping and altering in their paths as gravity dragged them down. One pulled into the lead, always him. He was always one step ahead, one smarter and more intuned. Like a kid with their hand in the cookie jar, he always found your new escape attempt and could see through your flowery words of deception. In that sense, you had to admit his role fits him well, but only left the bitter remains of the stems in your mouth when he locked you back up with a ‘you’ll be let out when you learn not to lie.’ It must be something tied to him on a fundamental level, a sense. Or perhaps it was just age, something you could never achieve. You couldn’t count how many times you watched the droplets race, hoping that maybe just once you could be one step ahead, one…

No. Even if you did, where would you go? The melusine were everywhere, and getting out within reach of the court would be a life sentence of punishment. Perhaps solace somewhere in the underground community, but someone likely would sell you out to better favor their outcome. You could break for the border; it’d be brutal and dangerous, a bounty on your head faster than you could imagine. Would other regions even be safe from a runaway? Maybe some other small communities… would become looking for you? Would you have to always stay alert for the rest of your life? Would you have to live alone, fending only for yourself? You’d lose yourself just as much in a life like that, but maybe it was the price of freedom. The price of not playing a role, soul withering away trying to maintain the rules and ideals of something you could never understand. When did your thought become so sorrowful, the fight you once had? A flame extinguished by the rain left only as sparks fumbling to stay lit. Look away, it wasn’t over yet. There had to be good out there, people who could understand, you’d take you in. Life would never be easy again, but it wasn’t over. Not yet. 

Lifting your head from the window was always weirdly comforting, the movement restored to your neck and it stretching back into place. The coolness of the glass no longer flushed against your skin, allowing the heat of the room to melt away the temperature. Rest your mind, reset your body. He never minded the long game, maybe as time for him felt infinite. But rushing would only cause holes in a plan you couldn’t keep affording to lose. The storm would pass, and you’d find a way to relight that flame. You couldn’t let him win, and you couldn’t let this system win. 

plat, plat, plat…

“My love,” he spoke. He— Neuvillette, was home. The rain had stopped, only some residue drops highlighting the storm moments before. He stood in the doorway, hand holding the frame as his voice reverberated across the silent room. He always waited for you to notice him before entering. Permission didn’t matter, but in a sense, it tended to bring some comfort to know where the dragon lurked. It only took a brief flash of eye contact for him to take it as clearance into entering the room, legs quickly carrying him to your seat. 

Neuvillette stood in front of you, pristine and put together; his eyes sharply focused on you, and his neutral expression made him seem more intimating than you knew he was. You had been here long enough as well to see the faint but dried crust of where his tears had pooled down his cheeks from moments just before. It didn’t change the power radiating off him, seeping into the room and over you like a blanket to remind you he was in charge here. Curiosity burned in your stomach, leaping up your throat, wanting you to ask what could have caused him to cry so much.

Gossip regarding the law wasn’t to be taken seriously, but the lack of outside world stimulation always makes the prospects more enticing. It burned in your mind to know what was happening outside of your cage, in the world below. Though asking would only come back to haunt you, the fights that led to punishments burned into your mind and skin even if the physical sides had healed. Not to mention the way he would take it if the words even managed not to set off a disagreement, that you cared. Neuvillette may be blind to human emotions and feelings, but he did have his own set— and that presented as caring for him on the most basic level of touch or tone only worked against you. Solidifying your partnership, your love in his mind. 

The silence was always more deafening when he stood before you; that even a breath would break the moment. His hand was delicate, though, floating to your head before wistfully tracing your hair and to your chin. It tickled, enough you wanted to flinch but knew better as he tilted your head to look into his eyes more. Pulling his hand from your face, he held it with his palm up. You knew what he was asking. Take his hand, but don’t look away. Unlike his graceful movements, you didn’t have as much time before his eyes would narrow, a sign of rejection in his eyes— he couldn’t take it. Unlike for humans, you could only assume there was something dormant, something innate that drove the ideas of jealousy, rejection, and the need to isolate on a biological level rather than mental. People could do just the same; you knew this for a fact, but the way he carried it out felt more visceral. Not doing so wasn’t an option; it freed him from his own judgment because nothing could defy the fact of biology. 

Your hand moved from instinct; at least, at this point, it was strange to think of how things now were ingrained in you. The movements of hands, replying to questions, from when it was time to sleep and wake up to where you walked through the day. That it just instantly would click, a passive thought or action. Not trained into you but a reflection of your life, how the passing days and routines with him had become a staple in your life. You had changed since then, proof that whatever was to come was inevitable—a mark of fate. 

Pulled to your feet, Neuvillette wrapped his arm around your torso, still ghostly with his touches. His face now resting on your hair as he breathed– in and out. The tension in his body released just slightly, but as if you were the answer to what had been weighing down on him. “My love,” he repeated, lips softly tickling the top of your head, “come on. Let’s have dinner.” 

The routine of your long day: Neuvillette returns from work to fetch you from your room to a meal before settling into bed together. He’d try to make a convo, and sometimes you’d reply. Other times, he’d focus on reading something, and you’d do the same or just turn your back, hoping he’d get the hint. There was no use in fighting it; the rules layered in stone. 

“Okay.”