#they should let you tell the prosecutors to go fuck themselves more often

[drawsmaddy]

[ID: A digital illustration of Miles Edgeworth from Ace Attorney. He is smirking and tapping a finger to his right temple, facing to the left. A bubble from off to the left shows a small image of Phoenix Wright looking annoyed and holding his middle finger up in Edgeworth's direction. End description.]

Playing Ace Attorney again and Edgeworth is the worst <3

[the-modernmary]

chess, not checkers || a. hotchner x f!reader

Summary: Cross-examining Agent Hotchner should have been a lot more simple than it had been. But when the questioning slips out of your control, you find yourself being profiled right there in the middle of the courtroom. Amazing how one stranger can know you better than anybody you've ever met.

Contains: SMUT! 18+ only, minors DNI. Fingering, (light) choking, semi-public sex, adultery, anger sex, enemies to lovers, edging, lawyer hotch <3

Word Count: 8k+

Comments: This is so heavily inspired by “charcoal grey” because we all know how hot he was in that scene. Thank you to @angelfxllcm for being an absolute godsend as I wrote this and being the most supportive friend ever. (If you haven’t read her work, you absolutely should!)

“Fucking FBI and their selfish ass schedules,” you grumbled as you hurried through the hallway of the courthouse, your intern Robin on on your heels. “Court gets pushed back for a week because Agent Hotchner just had to leave with them on a case instead of working remotely, and then expects us to drop everything to go to court the second he gets back to D.C. As if we don’t have jobs too. As if I don’t have six other cases sitting on my desk that now have to be pushed back because of him.”

 Robin scrambled behind you, nodding along to every word that left your mouth. “Does this happen with the, uh…”

  “BAU,” you supplied.

  “—BAU, right. Do court cases usually get pushed back for them?”

  You shook your head as you checked your watch. A glint caught the corner of your eye. Shit, your ring. You hadn’t expected to go to court, and completely forgot to leave it at home. You pulled it off and slipped it into the outside pocket of your bag, hoping nobody noticed.

“No. Most cases from the BAU never go to court,” you explained. “There’s enough evidence against the people they arrest that it’s almost always a plea.”

  The Bankers Box in Robin’s hands almost slipped as you placed another file precariously on top of it. “Then why is this case going to court?”

  Your step faltered as you processed her question, and you couldn’t hide the disbelief on your face. “You did read the brief for this case, right?” you asked, unsure if you really wanted the answer, except her embarrassed blush and averted gaze gave you enough of one. “Seriously? Okay, well, first of all, because of that, you won’t be sitting at the attorney’s table with us. Instead you’ll be in the public seating. I won’t weaken my case because you decided to be unprepared. If this happens again, you won’t be welcome to join me in court at all, am I clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good.” Deciding to take pity on the poor intern, you sighed as you started your explanation. “Our client claims that his arrest was unlawful and therefore none of the evidence they found should be usable. I’m inclined to agree with him, so we’re fighting all of the charges that were made with evidence found after the arrest.”

  “So you don’t think he’s guilty?”

  “I don’t ask that question. I’m not God and I’m not his priest, I don’t need to hear his confession. I just need to get him out of unjust and illegal charges.”

  Robin’s eyebrows furrowed. “So he’s going to walk free? Even after everything he did? How do you sleep at night?”

  Fucking Christ, how did this girl even get into law school? You rolled your eyes, suddenly regretting your decision to take on an intern. “No, he’s not going to walk free. He’s going to get a lesser charge, because everything else was obtained illegally. And I sleep very well, actually, because my job isn’t some episode of Law & Order. Less than 10% of my cases ever go to trial. I’m not here to suddenly convince juries that the evidence is wrong. My job is making sure that everybody is given their constitutional rights, that the police are doing their jobs correctly, and that the State isn’t over-punishing. Any cop knows that, and if you ever come across one that doesn’t, you know that you should look into those cases even further. You have to realize, criminal defense lawyers—”

  “— are the last line of protection against a corrupt system.” You turned to see your assistant, Marcus, making his way towards you, briefcase and your spare blazer that you keep in the office in hand. “I see you’re giving her your famous anti-prosecutor lecture.”

  Marcus helped you slip on your blazer over your satin button up, his hands lingering on your skin for just a little too long to be considered professional, and it made you shiver in anticipation. “God knows she needs it. Thank you, Marcus, for bringing these so quickly. Were you able to get the physical copies of Agent Hotchner’s files?”

  Marcus held up his briefcase. “All right here. Although I have to say, I’m a little lost as to why you need his service records.”

  The three of you turned the corner to enter the courtroom, your heels clicking on the tiled floor. Robin obediently took her seat in the public viewing area while you and Marcus pushed through the swinging door to settle at your table. “I’ve heard stories of Agent Hotchner’s testimonies. He used to be a prosecutor, so he’s not easily tricked, but he is prideful and will defend his work. I’m going to use that to my advantage. It’s like I always say, practicing law means always playing chess, never checkers.”

  Marcus took the seat next to you, making sure to sit close enough that his knee brushed yours the whole time. “You know, I was thinking, this case is complicated,” he whispered, “And we haven’t combed through everything yet… It could take more time than we planned.”

  You smirked, knowing exactly what he was insinuating. “Agreed. I’ll tell Tony I have to stay late at the office tonight.”

  Before Marcus could continue his flirting, you were distracted by the door to the judge’s chamber opening, revealing the back of a man in a black suit. “Thank you again, your honor, for the continuance,” came the deep timbre of the man, and oh. You certainly weren’t expecting that. “A young girl was able to be reunited with her family this week because of it.”

  The man in the doorway turned, and your breath caught in your throat. He was tall and buff and expensive-looking and absolutely gorgeous. His suit was tailored to fit him perfectly, the sleeves of his blazer straining against his biceps. He carried himself with an aura of confidence, like he belonged in the courtroom, and he was making his way directly towards you. Unconsciously, you separated from Marcus, putting as much distance between you and your assistant as possible without raising suspicion.

  The man said something to the prosecution before turning to you, hand outstretched. He said your name as a greeting, and your name had never sounded so good. “I’m Aaron Hotchner.”

  When you stood up to shake his hand, you tried to ignore the way his eyes raked down your body, or the way the two of you held on just a moment too long to be considered proper. It felt as if he was looking right through you, learning all of your secrets as though they were written on your body. No, you knew that look. He was studying you. “Agent Hotchner, it’s a pleasure.”

  “Likewise, Counselor. Please, call me Aaron.”

  You raised your eyebrows in Aaron’s direction, still shaking his hand, and it made your skin burn. You dropped his hand. “I’m just glad we’re able to get this case done and over with. Hopefully with no more delays.”

  His eyebrows quirked upwards in what could only be described as shock. “I see your reputation precedes you,” was his only reply before going to his respective seat, and if he noticed you watching his every move, he made no indication of it. That being said, you definitely felt his gaze on the back of your head as the judge entered the room and the session began.

  As the proceedings dragged on, you and Marcus continued to talk strategy, his hand finding its way to your thigh ever so often. You also continued negotiating with the prosecutor, both of you flashing Post-It notes of potential plea deals that you would be willing to accept, always careful to keep it out of the eyes of the judge and jury. By the time Aaron had been called to the stand, the offer given to you still wasn’t low enough. Fine, if the prosecution wanted to make a fool of themselves, so be it.

  You listened to Aaron’s testimony with the prosecution, completely enraptured. There was something about the way he spoke, so full of authority and confidence, that made the entire room drawn to him. He was incredibly intelligent, that much was clear, and despite the many years since he had actually practiced law, that prosecutor candor hadn’t left him. Staying focused on the case had proven to be more difficult than previously expected. You found yourself staring at his lips, and it didn’t take long for your mind to conjure up some obscene and explicit situations starring the man in front of you. 

  Eventually, his eyes caught yours, and he watched you, his lips — god, those lips — quirked up in a smirk. Aaron watched you expectantly, and in the light of the courtroom, his eyes were almost the color of whiskey, and you wanted nothing more than to drink it all in.

  A sharp “Counselor” broke you out of your trance. In the corner of your eye, you could see Marcus looking at you in concern, but he was the furthest thing from your mind now, especially as Aaron let out an amused huff of air.

  “Counselor, does the prosecution wish to cross-examine the witness?” the judge asked with barely hidden annoyance, making you think that it probably wasn’t the first time she had asked the question.

  You stood up quickly, smoothing down your pencil skirt as you did. “Yes, your honor. Thank you,” you said, trying your best to keep your voice steady as you noticed Aaron’s eyes trailing down your bare legs.

  The cross-examination started normally, and Aaron answered all of your questions with careful precision that only a lawyer could pull off. He seemed to know exactly where you were trying to go with your questions, and easily sidestepped any unflattering implication you were trying to make. Long, biased questions were met with short, clipped answers, not giving you anything to work with. Whatever move you made, Aaron was right there, two steps ahead with you. Never in your life had you met somebody who could follow you so easily or could match your wit without so much breaking a sweat.

  It was exhilarating.

  “Agent Hotchner,” you started, hands clasped behind your back. “Could you please explain to the court how profiles are used when finding and apprehending suspects?”

  Aaron sat up a little taller in the witness box. “Using behavioral research and past case studies, we’re able to construct what we call a profile of the perpetrator, or unsub. Anything they do can give us insights as to who they are — their victims, what weapons they use, even how they dispose of the bodies. Once we have a profile of who we believe is committing these crimes, we have our technical analyst run the parameters through her system. From there, narrowing down our search is easy.”

  You nodded slowly, pretending to mull over what he was saying. “For clarification’s sake, in layman’s terms, you build your profile off of assumed psychology, and not concrete evidence, is that correct?”

  The muscles in Aaron’s jaw flexed, a sure sign he was gritting his teeth. “Behavior analysis is a tool, just like any other—”

  “It’s a yes or no question, Agent,” you interrupted, and oh, he was not happy about that.

  His tongue darted out from between his lips. “The research we use for behavior is—”

  “Yes. Or no.”

  Aaron hesitated, his frustration building up to palpable tension that settled in the courtroom like a thick fog. You weren’t giving him a chance to explain or show off anymore, didn’t allow him to be seen as the smartest person in the room anymore, and that was getting to him.

  “Yes,” he conceded, grimacing as if admitting that was physically painful for him.

  “Thank you,” you replied, and he caught the unspoken that wasn’t so hard now, was it? even if the rest of the room did not. You walked back over to your table, snatching up a piece of paper and holding it in the air. “Your honor, the defense would like to submit Exhibit Seven into evidence.”

  Once the judge gave her express permission, you placed the form in front of Aaron with your left hand, perfectly manicured fingers splayed out in front of his eyes. You almost missed the way his head tilted ever so slightly and his eyes narrowed, like he was staring at a puzzle half complete. “Agent, could you please tell us what’s laying in front of you now.”

  He leaned forward slightly, eyes scanning the paper before meeting back with yours. “This is a part of our official report of the case. Specifically, it has the profile that was used to lead us to the apprehension of Mr. Mckenna.”

  “Does it say on that paper who had the final sign off on the profile before it was circulated?”

  “Yes, that would be me. As Unit Chief, my job is to sign and finalize any reports.”

  “And could you please read the profile, verbatim, as written on that report?”

  Aaron’s face remained neutral, with the exception of his eyebrows scrunching together. Slowly, he had started to piece together your strategy, and he didn’t like it. “The unsub is a white male, between 32 and 40 years old. He’ll most likely be unemployed and driving a van or truck — anything that would let him easily transport his equipment and victims. We believe that he’s also had run-ins with the law before, likely as a juvenile. He’ll come across as friendly, if not a little shy. We believe that this comes from a failed relationship in his past, one where he believes that he was manipulated and wronged, and now he’s going after surrogates for that woman. Killing these women is the only thing that gives him any sort of power. If we can figure out who this past relationship was, it will lead us directly to the killer.”

  You paced back and forth in front of the witness stand, your skirt tightening around your legs with every step you took. “Between 32 and 40 years old, unemployed, and killing surrogates… Except Mr. Mckenna is 22 and works part time as a bartender. How do you justify arresting my client with those inconsistencies?”

  “As I mentioned before,” Aaron started, his voice dangerously low, “A profile is just one tool we use of many. Not every single part of the profile will fit every single time. Which is why we also rely on outside evidence to ensure that we have the best chance at catching the unknown subject as quickly as possible.”

  “Except you had no concrete evidence, which you admit in your own report!” You took two steps closer to him, getting as in his face as possible without risking being held in contempt. With every word that left your mouth, your voice got more and more forceful, and you got more and more under Aaron’s skin.

  “All of it was circumstantial at best. You had a hunch, an inherent bias against my client due to his previous conviction record, and you were frustrated at your own inability to get a good lead. But you can’t arrest somebody on a hunch, or because you’re angry. You had no evidence and the man you arrested didn’t even match the profile that you came up with!”

  Your eyes locked with Aaron, his gaze heavy, and neither of you dared look away first. “Objection!” came from the prosecutor behind you. Exactly what you wanted. “Argumentative and foundation.” You flashed Aaron a predatory grin.

  Two moves to checkmate.

  “Sustained,” said the judge.

  “Withdrawn.” You tapped the witness bench, hoping to convey an air of aloofness and calm. Aaron scowled. “Agent Hotchner, before joining the FBI, you were a prosecutor, is that true?”

  Confusion flashed across his face for the briefest of moments, and it gave you a twisted sense of satisfaction to know that you had the upper hand. You knew the answer to every question you were about to ask, and he knew that. He just couldn’t figure out where you were going with this line of questioning, or what the relevance even was. “Yes, that’s correct.”

  You made a soft hum of approval. “Could you please walk us through your higher education?”

  “I attended George Washington University for both my undergraduate and law degree.”

  “What did you major in for your undergrad?”

  Aaron hesitated. “Political Science.”

  Check. “So all together, you’ve had about seven years in higher education. In that time, how many psychology classes did you take?”

  It was almost sadistic, the way you relished in the slight twitch of his face — the realization that he had been backed into a corner. The silence was deafening as Aaron’s scowl met your smug grin.

  “None,” Aaron said finally.

  “None,” you repeated, performative shock dripping from your words. “Do you have any academic background in psychology or human behavior, then?”

  Aaron’s jaw clenched, and as you made your way closer to the witness stand, you saw his thumb frantically moving back and forth over his fingertips. Clearly, you had struck a nerve. “The FBI has rigorous coursework in order to become a profiler, along with multiple exams and continued training as more research becomes available to us. The profiling classes are no easy feat and are written by experts in the field. Creating profiles has a long and respected history in detective work, and these profilers have caught some of the most prolific serial killers of all time.”

  You placed a hand over your chest in faux modesty. “My apologies, Agent Hotchner, I believe I wasn’t very clear. I’m not calling into question the validity and effectiveness of profiles. I’m calling into question the validity and effectiveness of you as a profiler.”

  You could practically see the cartoon fire spewing out of Aaron’s ears. He was so close to being in your trap, something he had to have known, too, yet he continued to toe dangerously close to that line.

  “A lack of formal education in profiling,” you continued, keeping your voice light, “and the blatant disregard for basic police and legal procedure as shown in this case with my client… I mean, how many other mistakes were made in your past cases? It’s hard to believe that you can read anybody, much less the hardened criminal that you have painted my client to be.”

  Checkmate.

  “Objection!” cried the prosecutor again. “Your Honor, this is —”

  He was cut off by the judge raising her hand. “Sustained. Counselor, I would advise you to tread lightly from here on out.”

  You raised your hands in mock surrender. “Withdrawn.” You turned around to make your way back to your table, ignoring Marcus’s look of complete disbelief. Baiting Aaron had been easy, and now all you had to do was wait.

  The courtroom was uncomfortably silent for one beat… two beats…

  “Not only can I read Mr. Mckenna,” echoed Aaron’s voice, “But I can also read you.”

  Once you got back to your desk, you turned around, hands resting on the cool wood of the table top, but you never sat down. Instead, you leaned forward, and arched your eyebrows in a silent challenge — one he was all too eager to pursue.

  “The red Harvard Law tag on your briefcase is a perfect match to your lipstick, and you wear the same one every time you go to court. Not because you’re superstitious the way most lawyers are, but because it’s your way of maintaining control in the courtroom, something you’re desperate to keep in every aspect of your life, personal and professional. I would guess that this need goes back to late high school, early college. But you’ve been worried about appearances and how you’re perceived for even longer than that.”

  You fought the urge to roll your eyes. So he thought you were Type A? Anybody could have guessed that by your anything. All they would have to do is look at your color coded case files or your daily schedule, planned down to the minute. You had only been trying to sway the jury when you insinuated that he wasn’t a good profiler, but maybe you were actually starting to believe it yourself.

  Except Aaron got a dangerous glint in his eye, causing your stomach to bubble with anxiety. Clearly, he was playing chess, too, and by the looks of it, he believed he was winning. 

  “In fact, you’re so worried about losing control, that despite your busy schedule, you refuse to hire a planner for your upcoming wedding.”

  That got your attention. The objection that you were about to call died on your lips, and all you could do was stare with poorly hidden shock. Next to you, Marcus turned pale as a ghost.

  Aaron, cocky bastard, continued his profile of you, with no clear signs of stopping anytime soon. “You have a tan where your ring usually is, and I know you’ve been wearing it recently as you subconsciously fiddle with where it would be whenever things in court aren’t going your way. Just like you’re doing now. You still have your maiden name, which you plan on giving up when you do get married because not taking his last name would arouse too many questions that you want to avoid. Just another way your concern of appearances is manifested. So you’re engaged.

  “I would say congratulations, but it’s not a happy relationship, not on your side, anyway. Younger female professionals will take their rings off in fear of not being taken seriously, but you’re an established and respected lawyer. You needn't worry about that. So if it’s not about you, it’s about the fiance. You don’t want to be associated with him.”

  You gripped the edge of the table, too angry to form words. Your nails dug into the varnish, and you were sure that your heavy breathing could be heard from across the room. This dick. This absolute, garbage, piece of shit dick. The worst part was how casual he sounded as he aired all of your dirty laundry for everybody to hear.

  “He’s holding you back, in all aspects of life, but mostly intellectually. He doesn’t have a sliver of your capabilities. The two of you are probably high school sweethearts, prom king and queen type, but while you grew up and matured, he never did. He can’t keep up with you. Still acts the same way he did in high school, only now with more access to alcohol and money. Career wise, he doesn’t have much going for him, probably some sports related pipe dream. But you stay with him because you know how to control him and how to use him to your advantage.”

  Aaron’s eyes zeroed in on Marcus, and all of the color drained from your face. The voice in the back of your mind was screaming at you to object, to get the judge involved, anything, before Aaron did any more damage, but you were frozen in your spot. For the first time in your life, you were completely and utterly speechless and spiraling out of control.

  “That need for control is also why you’re sleeping with your assistant. It’s casual for you, but not for him anymore. You should break that off. That’s nothing new for you, though. In fact, I would bet that if we looked back at all of your affairs since your engagement, we’d find a long string of men and women, all of whom are your subordinates or of lower status than you. It’s a win-win situation — they’re more than eager to have a chance with you, and you get to stay in control. Oh, you’ll stop when you actually get married, but you continue to push that date back, as well. So…”

  He leaned back in his chair, clearly feeling good about himself, and God, you could kill him. You could reach over the witness box and wrap your hands around his throat and squeeze until his whiskey colored eyes popped out of his smug, beautiful face.

  Aaron lifted his chin, eyebrows raised in your direction. “Do you believe in my abilities as a profiler now, Counselor?”

  That snapped you back into action. You cleared your throat and unnecessarily smoothed down your skirt in an attempt to regroup your thoughts. “Well, Agent Hotchner, thank you for that little show and tell. It’s clear that you are very passionate about your career. However, just like your profile of my client, you have no evidence for any of your unsubstantiated accusations.”

  It was a pathetic attempt at saving face, and Aaron knew it, but it had to be enough for you. You turned your back towards Aaron so that you could face the judge, who, to her credit, had a perfect poker face the whole time. “Your Honor, I move to strike Agent Hotchner’s outburst” — not an outburst, Aaron was too composed to ever have one of those, but he grimaced at the word all the same — “from the record, as no question stands before the witness at this time.”

  The judge looked at you dubiously, clearly debating her ruling. There shouldn’t have been any reason to worry, you were legally in the right, but there was always the chance that she wouldn’t be on your side. You noticed yourself fiddling with where your engagement ring would usually be, and you cursed yourself under your breath. How could Aaron have possibly known all of that?

  “Sustained,” she said finally, “I direct the jury to disregard the witness’s, uh, example when considering the evidence.”

  You let out a breath of relief. It wasn’t much of a win — everybody still heard what had happened, it was still in the back of their minds, like the ring of a bell echoing — but at least in regards to the case, you had the legal upper hand.

  The judge turned back to you. “Defense, the witness is still yours, if you have any further questions.”

  If you were a little more in your right mind, you would have cut your losses, but between your oath to defend your client to the best of your ability and that stupid self assured grin on Aaron’s face, you knew that you really had no choice.

  Deep breath in… Slow breath out… You’re at a stalemate now.

  “Agent Hotchner,” you said, causing him to perk him up in interest. Clearly, he hadn’t been expecting you to continue. “Wouldn’t an ex-lawyer and an FBI agent be familiar with the rules of decorum in a courtroom?”

  His eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure I understand your question, Counselor.”

  “Let me rephrase, then. Would you say that you have a history of emotional outbursts and rule breaking in your line of work? And I’ll remind you that you are still under oath.”

  Aaron shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “No, I wouldn’t. Integrity is one of our core values, and we take that very seriously.”

  With shaking hands, Marcus handed you one of the files you’d had him print out on Aaron. “If that’s so, can you explain why, since your promotion to Unit Chief in 2005, you and your team have had seven disciplinary hearings, one of which being an internal investigation into the excessive force used by one of your agents, and another being a congressional hearing?”

  A sick sense of satisfaction passed over you when you saw him get visibly shocked, his poker face breaking for the first time that day. If he wanted to go for blood, you could fight back twice as hard. “I’m not at liberty to discuss either of those cases.”

  You shrugged nonchalantly. “Very well, Agent. So between the discrepancies in the profile, your inability to control your temper, and your history of breaking procedure, coupled with the fact that you arrested my client without any warrant by kicking in the door to an innocent civilian’s house, do you really believe that your arrest and the subsequent evidence that came from that arrest was obtained legally? Or do you just not care either way, as long as you’re able to prove that you’re right?”

  Right as he opened his mouth to speak, you turned your back on him and started to walk back to your table. Aaron wasn’t even able to get a peep out before you cut him off with a sharp ��Question withdrawn. At this time, the defense rests.”

  “Our arrest was made on the grounds of—” Aaron tried, and you smirked to yourself. He must have been desperate if he was trying that move twice. You whipped around, gaze steeled.

  “I have no further questions, Agent Hotchner,” you repeated, only letting out the slightest hint of amusement. “But thank you for your cooperation with Lady Justice today.”

  Aaron’s eyes met yours, and a weight settled in the pit of your stomach. You should have hated him, but something about him had you completely and utterly entranced by him. Maybe it was the novelty of the case. Maybe it was the matching intellects and the fact that he was the only other person who could give you a challenge.

  Maybe you just liked the way you got to lose control with him.

  As he passed you, his arm brushed yours, and your whole body burned.

  “Very cute, Counselor,” he whispered, voice dripping with condescension. “How long did it take you to come up with that little switch up?”

  “Don’t patronize me,” you snapped. “I was playing chess, you were playing checkers, and that’s why you lost.”

  The rest of the session went on normally, if not a little tense. To your surprise, Aaron hadn’t left immediately after his testimony, and instead took a seat in the section for the public. Good. As soon as courtroom decorum wasn’t a factor, you were sure to give him a piece of your mind.

  Court adjourned for the day, and you couldn’t get out of there fast enough. You told Marcus to continue to push for a better plea option as you grabbed your briefcase and stormed out, pushing through the throngs of people until you could see the back of Aaron’s head.

  You sped up your steps until you were right behind him, and you grabbed his wrist to stop him in his tracks. “I have a bone to pick with you.”

  You pulled Aaron into an empty conference room, hoping to get some privacy before you completely blew your lid. You already had one public humiliation because of him, and you did not need another.

  “What is your problem?” you hissed, locking the door behind you. “You had no right to put my personal life on blast like that.”

  Aaron placed his hands on his hips, swooping the sides of his suit jacket back, and you had to make a very conscious effort to not stare. “You questioned my profiling abilities, and I proved them.”

  “You didn’t prove shit,” you argued, folding your arms across your chest. “Except for the fact that you’re an insufferable bastard.”

  “Are you saying that my profile was off? Because if you didn’t want to be caught committing adultery, then you shouldn’t have made it so obvious.”

  You gritted your teeth and took a step towards him in a futile attempt to come across as intimidating. Even in your heels, he still seemed to be towering over you. You’d have to level the playing field somehow. You gripped his tie and used it to pull him down so that he was closer to eye level with you. “I don’t need your judgment, Aaron.”

  Aaron moved closer to you, and you could feel the heat radiating off his body. His Adam's apple bobbed and it captivated you. “I couldn’t care less about what you do,” he said flippantly. “Matter of fact, I don’t think this fit of anger is even inherently about your little secret coming out. Do you want to know what I think it is?”

  “Not at all.”

  “I think,” he continued, completely ignoring your protest, “You’re angry because as much as you can dish it out, you can’t take it.”

  Your grip on his tie tightened at his words. “Trust me, I can take anything,” you said, voice low and breathy.

  Aaron’s eyes flickered to your lips — those kissable, red stained lips of yours. You hadn’t had to reapply your lipstick once throughout the day, and he idly wondered just exactly what it would take to muss up that perfect, pouty red lip. 

  “I also think that for the first time in a very long time, you didn’t have control, and you liked it.” He bent down a little bit more so that his lips brushed against your ear with every word and you could feel his breath run down your spine. “Aren’t you bored of sleeping with boys who are so far beneath you?”

  You’re not sure who initiated it, but the next thing you knew, your lips crashed against his, the two of you making out like it was the last kiss either of you were ever going to get. His hands felt impossibly everywhere all at once — gripping your hips, tugging at your hair, and even snaking under your work blouse to palm at your breast. His teeth nipped at the fibres of your lips. With every movement of his hands, little gasps escaped you, and you could feel the curve of his lips curling up into a smirk.

  His fingers trailed up the side of your body, past the curve of your neck, and tangled themselves in your hair before yanking it back, exposing the column of your throat. Immediately he attached his lips to your neck, nipping at your pulse point.

  “Aaron,” you whined, trying to regain the breath he stole from your lungs. You practically melted in his arms, going completely weak at the knees, especially as his tongue trailed across the underside of your jaw. You let his tie fall from your grip, instead bringing your hands up to cup his face to pull him in for another kiss. 

  His lips set a bruising pace, and it caused a fire to burn in the pit of your stomach. You had never once been kissed like this, never once felt so all-consumed by a person. Aaron’s cologne surrounded you, making your head spin. Bruises were sure to form from how harshly he was gripping your hips, but you didn’t care. He was addicting, and you wanted more.

  Hotch walked you backwards until you were pressed up against the wall, his thigh shoved in between your legs, forcing your skirt to ride up. The position made his arousal obvious as he pressed against you. The way he held you was possessive, primal even, Unconsciously, you ground down on his thigh, hoping for anything to help relieve the ache between your legs. 

  Unfortunately for you, Aaron caught on to what you were trying to do, and he chuckled against your lips before pulling away just far enough to speak. “Look at you,” he whispered, and the raspiness of his voice only served to turn you on even more. He hooked a finger under your chin, forcing you to look up at him, and his thumb traced your bottom lip, tugging at it ever so slightly. His other hand slowly trailed its way up your thigh, nails scratching at your skin. “Skirt hiked up around your waist, desperate to get off. Your little boyfriends aren’t doing it for you anymore?”

  He pressed his thigh further into you, ripping an involuntary moan from your throat. “Fuck,” you gasped, your hips still moving back and forth against him, not caring how needy it made you seem. “I need… I…”

  “What? Big, bad lawyer doesn’t have any more smart ass comments?” he cooed sarcastically, pushing your skirt up even higher. He replaced his thigh with his hand, and his fingers ghosted over your covered pussy, teasing you, not giving you nearly enough contact. “Fuck, you’re so wet already. Go ahead, needy girl, if you’re that desperate.” Aaron yanked down your panties in one fell swoop, and you blindly kicked them off to the side. “Be a good girl and show me how much you want this.”

  Without any more of a warning, one of his fingers entered you, and you let out a breathy moan that Aaron was sure to have on repeat in his mind for days to come. When the heel of his palm pressed against your clit, your brain completely short circuited. You threw your head back as far as you could despite being pressed against the wall as his name clumsily tumbled from your lips like a prayer.

  “You’re so fucking tight,” he grunted, pressing you further against the wall. “Can’t wait to feel you around my cock.”

  Electricity coursed through your veins as he added a second finger, easily finding that spot in you that made you see stars. You rocked your hips back and forth against his hand, eyes screwed shut in pleasure. His lips trailed from your jawline, down your neck, and to your collarbone. 

  “Look at me,” Aaron ordered, tightening his grip on your chin, and your eyes shot right back open. Instead of the whiskey colored irises you had gotten used to, Aaron’s pupils were so blown that they made his eyes completely black. “I want to see you lose control all over me. Gonna make sure you come harder for me than you have for any of your boy toys.”

  That wouldn’t be very difficult. Nobody had ever made you feel the way you did then, Aaron’s fingers buried deep in your cunt and lips exploring every inch of skin he could access. No part of this was for his pleasure — from the curl of his fingers to the slow circles on your clit, it was all expertly calculated to bring you to the edge with as much intensity as possible, and it was all devastatingly effective.

  “I’m so close,” you whimpered, and if it weren’t for the wall behind you, you would have completely lost your balance. “More, fuck, please.”

  “More?” he mumbled against the column of your throat. “Use your words, sweetheart.”

  Coherent sentences were not an option for you at the moment, not when you were so deliciously overwhelmed with pleasure and with Aaron. Besides, how could you tell him that you wanted him to completely and utterly ruin you? That you wanted him to bend you over the conference table and pound into you until you could barely speak. You wanted Aaron to mark you and send you home to your fiance with reminders of every little thing he did to you for the days to come. You wanted raw and untamed passion. You wanted to be consumed, for him to settle in your lungs like smoke, and haunt your dreams for the rest of your life. 

  You didn’t want nice and calculated the way every other man you’d been with had acted — you wanted Aaron Hotchner to take control.

  You couldn't say any of that, so instead, you grabbed his wrist, the one that was holding your chin in place and, without breaking eye contact with him, you guided his hand down until it rested on your throat. “More,” you choked out, giving him an animalistic grin.

  That was all it took. Using his grip on your neck, he pulled you in for another kiss, messy and desperate and swallowing all of your incoherent moans as his fingers moved harder, faster.

  You clung to him like a lifeline as you felt your whole body tense up, your orgasm fast approaching. You were so fucking close and he felt so fucking good and, God, if this is what losing control felt like, then you and Aaron could do this forever and —

  His fingers were gone from you, and you clenched around nothing. You cried out in protest, which only seemed to amuse him.

  “Oh? Prom queen isn’t used to not getting what she wants?” Keeping his hand on your throat and you pinned against the wall, he made slow, teasing work of his belt buckle.

  Your chest rose and fell in a desperate attempt to catch your breath. “What happened to watching me come undone all over you?” you shot, trying to even out your voice as much as possible. It didn’t work very well. “Did you lose your nerve?”

   A dark, humorless chuckle escaped his lips. “Don’t worry, Princess, that’s still the plan. I just never said where. I want to make sure you’re nice and wet and ready for me to turn you into a moaning mess on my cock.”

  In an attempt to regain some control of the situation, you rolled your eyes. “Yeah? And how do you expect to do that?”

  He smirked and released your throat. Wordlessly, he grabbed your wrist, and guided your hand down your body, further and further until you reached your throbbing pussy. He used his hands to press your fingers to your clit, and you whimpered softly. God, you were dripping, and the extra stimulation didn’t help your shaking legs.

  “By making you so needy and whiny that by the end of this, you're begging for me,” he hissed, lips brushing the shell of your ear with every word. He moved your fingers so that you were rubbing small, slow circles around your clit, although it wasn’t nearly enough to give any real relief. “Begging for me to come and fuck you over and over and over again. Because you know that your pathetic fiance and your string of affairs have never made you feel like this before.”

  Aaron yanked your hand away from your clit and you could sob. You wanted to cum so badly that you could barely put it into words. Still holding your wrist, Aaron brought your hand up to his face. He took a brief moment to admire the way your fingers glistened, covered in your arousal, before bringing them to his lips and sucking.

  Eyes wide, you made a choked noise as you committed the view of Aaron to memory. “Please, Aaron, fuck, I need you,” you whined, the start of a long string of incoherent begging. You needed him then and there, damn the consequences.

  He pulled your fingers out of his mouth slowly, and you moaned at the obscene wet noise it made. “So desperate,” he murmured as he began to unbutton his slacks. “All for me. All because I edged you once.”

  Aaron pulled down his pants just enough to pull out his dick, and you licked your lips involuntarily when you saw it, big and thick and leaking precum. Clearly, it gave Aaron a bit of an ego boost, because as he ran the head up and down your sensitive folds, he reminded you, “You did say you could take anything, Princess.”

  Your breathing came out shaking as you shivered, waiting for him to do something — anything. You were so empty and you needed him so badly. If you didn’t get his dick in you soon, you were pretty sure you would lose your mind completely.

  “Fuck me, Aaron,” you moaned, arching your back to press into him more.

  He pressed a chaste kiss to your lips in an almost intimate gesture. “Patience is a virtue,” he chastised.

  In your haze of arousal, you barely noticed him grabbing your briefcase and digging through the small pocket in the front. You especially didn’t notice his pause when his finger touched something small, round, and metal in the bottom of the bag. The only thing you cared about was him coming back to you, holding up a condom packet with a smirk.

  “I knew I’d find one somewhere in your briefcase.” You let the comment slide, the excitement at the prospect of sex with Aaron Hotchner outweighing any jackass comment he could make. Aaron made quick work of putting on the condom. The second he was done, one of his hands ran up your thigh, getting a good grip on it before pulling it up and around his waist.

  “Do you feel how wet you are for me? How willing you were to give up control? All for me? That—” Lips pressed to your ear, he pushed his cock into you, bottoming out with one thrust. You threw your head back in pleasure. “—Is playing chess, sweetheart.”

  Aaron dropped his forehead to the crook of your neck as he began pounding into you at a desperate pace. He had held off on his own pleasure for long enough, and now he was chasing his orgasm with a ruthless determination. One hand stayed gripping your thigh, the other one braced against the wall next to your head. Aaron nipped at your neck in between moans of praise for you.

  “I — oh, fuck — knew it,” he groaned, digging his fingers deeper into your thigh. “You wanted somebody to take control. Somebody who knows how to please you.”

  You wrapped your arms around his neck and tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer to you. You were an incoherent mess at this point, his name tumbling from your lips like it was the only thing you knew how to say. At that moment, it probably was. 

  “Finally, that bratty mouth of yours is good for something. You sound so pretty, moaning out my name. Say it again.” A particularly deep thrust caused you to tug at his hair. “Louder.”

  Never before had you met somebody like Aaron Hotchner, and you weren’t sure if you ever would again, so you screwed your eyes shut and let yourself get lost in the absolute pleasure he was providing. You memorized everything you could — the way the calluses on his hands felt against your skin, the way he moaned out your name, how deliciously full you felt, and how for the first time in your life you felt truly seen — so that you could suspend the moment in amber to preserve in the back of your mind.

  “Please,” you begged, scratching his scalp lightly with your nails. “I’m so close. Fuck, Aaron, you feel so good, please.”

  Aaron tore his lips from your throat, choosing instead to press his forehead against yours. His lips brushed yours with every word he spoke, so close that you were practically kissing him. “That’s it, princess,” he murmured. “Be a good girl. Be a good girl and come. All over my dick.”

  When you came, it was with a cry of his name as your whole body shuddered. You clung to him as he continued to fuck you. His thrusts began to stutter, and he took the opportunity to capture your lips in one last, scorching kiss, and you were all too happy to oblige.

  You think he moaned something as he came, but you couldn’t hear it over the sounds of skin slapping against skin. He fucked you through his orgasm, making sure that you felt every single inch of him. As if you could ever forget it. 

  The two of you stayed where you were for a few moments, relishing in the feeling of being full a little longer. Your walls fluttered around Aaron, which caused him to muffle his whimpers into your throat.

  “Aaron…” you whispered, not wanting to disturb the moment. “That was so—”

  “I know.”

  “We shouldn’t have done it.”

  “I know.” He pulled back just enough to leave a lingering kiss on your lips, and your whole body burned. “But I don’t regret it. Do you?”

  You shook your head. “Not at all.” The confession lingered in the hair for a tense second because both of you seemed to remember where you were.

  Aaron slowly pulled out of you, an act that looked almost painful for him when you let out an involuntary moan at the feeling. He could have spent all day in you, if given the chance.

  The two of you adjusted yourselves in silence, both of you hoping to be able to leave the room with some semblance of professionalism. At the very least, the goal was to not look like you had just had sex in a courthouse conference room. Shame and embarrassment flooded you — what had you been thinking?

  Once you felt that you were presentable enough, you grabbed your briefcase and tried to ignore Aaron burning a hole in the back of your head with his gaze.

  “Well, Aaron, this was fun.” You cleared your throat. “I’m sure we’ll see each other around at some point.”

  You were two steps away from the door when you heard his smug, courthouse voice come back in full swing.

  “Forgetting something?”

  You turned around in a huff, ready to go right back to arguing with him, but what you saw made your whole body heat up in embarrassment. There was Aaron with a self-satisfied grin and dangling off his finger was your panties.

  “These are cute,” he mused. “It’s a shame I didn’t get to fully appreciate them.”

  You rushed over there, fully prepared to snatch them out of his hand. “And you never will,” you shot, but even as you said it, you didn’t make much of an effort to take them out of his hands. You just stared at him and his swollen lips and mussed hair, all your doing.

  Ever the gentleman, Aaron started to hand your underwear back to you, but instead of taking it back like you knew you should have done, you covered his hand with yours, closing it in a fist around your panties.

  “Who says you can’t?” you whispered, guiding his pantie-filled hand down to his pockets. “This way… You can keep it as collateral. To make sure I’ll come and see you again.”

  His breath hitched in his throat as you guided him to put your panties into his suit pocket, and you were glad to be the one surprising him this time.

  “I don’t care about your fiance,” Aaron started, and you braced yourself for the worse. “But I’m not interested in being the ‘other man’ to your affairs with your assistants, too.”

  “Consider it ended,” you promised, not caring how desperate or easy it made you look. You wanted to keep Aaron around for a long, long time.

  Just until the wedding, you corrected yourself.

  You slung your briefcase over your shoulder, wincing as it dug into a bruise that Aaron had left. It would be there for a while — you’d have to find a way to hide it from Tony until it faded. The thought made you stupidly giddy. “I’ll see you around, Aaron.”

  He nodded in goodbye, and you slipped out of the conference room on shaking legs. As soon as the door closed behind you, you reached into your bag, and reluctantly slipped on your engagement ring.

[babbushka]

Beyond Reasonable Doubt (ch.1)

                                –      A Lawyer AU      –

You and Kylo Ren have hated one another for as long as you can remember. He, a criminal prosecutor, and you, a defense attorney should be natural-born enemies, and you are. But when Kylo comes to you seeking representation after being charged for a murder he didn’t commit, you both learn a thing or two about life, the law, and love…

[5k, no warnings for this first chapter!] 

Available on AO3

                                          ----------------------------

In a world of ever-changing circumstances, where people do things that cause ripples and shocks through the very fabric of society that shake them to their core, where the sun shines and rain falls and snow blows cold through the streets of Manhattan, where there is life and death and a mess of bullshit in between, there was but one thing that you could ever comfortably rely on in life.

Only one thing remained constant in the grand scheme of it all: your alarm.

With a grunt and sigh, your arm extends out from underneath the covers to smack at the loud blaring jingle that sounds from your phone, hand desperately trying to hit the dismiss button without looking so that you don’t have to face the day just yet. It’s too early, you reason, to pull your whole self out from under the covers.

Eventually you give that thought up though, because dammit now you’re awake and it’s Monday morning and you have an office that’s waiting for you uptown. So, ever grudgingly, you throw the plush comforter off of your body and stretch to greet the day, saying good morning to the city that never sleeps.

You don’t usually dread waking up, but well, the last time you’d been in the office was Friday afternoon, after you lost your case.

After you lost your case, to him.

Glancing at the clock on your phone, you chew your lip for a moment or two, before finally turning off the do not disturb function, immediately going into the bathroom to shower and ready yourself for the day while damn near a hundred backlogged notifications make your phone buzz nearly onto the floor.

There’s a small mirror in the shower, a little compact to make sure there’s nothing left on your face after you scrub your skin clean, and you catch your own reflection in it. You’ve looked better, that was for damn sure – but by that same token, you’ve also looked worse. Mondays were shit, but today was gearing up to be an even worse one than normal.

No, you think as you shake your head adamantly, you have no desire to let him soak up any more of your good mood than he had already. So what if you had forgone your entire weekend, canceling plans and ignoring friends to nurse the sting to your pride that was losing? So what if instead of checking your email or your phone, you sat yourself on the couch and wasted two entire days doing nothing but watching shitty shows on Netflix?

What you did on your downtime was nobodies’ business, and since you live alone in your beautiful one-bedroom in SoHo, no one was there to spill your secrets. If anyone asked – not that anyone would, if they knew what was good for them – you would tell them that you absolutely did not spend the weekend wanting to throw darts onto a photo of his face. That wouldn’t be very professional, now would it?

Shutting off the water, you wrap yourself up in a big plush towel, and pad across the floor to your closet. Briefly, ever so briefly, you glance at your phone on your way, holding your breath, wondering, hoping that there might be something from him.

If there is, it’s buried under a pile of emails and text-threads from your firm, so he’ll have to wait.

Manhattan in January was chilly, so you bundle yourself up in your chicest coat overtop your most well-fitting skirt suit and a pair of heeled boots. Even if you felt like shit, you could look like million fuckin’ bucks, and no one would be the wiser.

And what a wonder the power of confidence was! Through the streets and down to the subway, you smiled at everyone, and they all smiled back. You offered your seat on the train to an elderly man who clearly needed it more than you, and he complimented your gloves. Everyone from the NYPD officer drinking his coffee to the mom scolding her three children brightened as you wished them a good morning, and somehow, along the way to work, your Monday blues disappears into something a little brighter.

                                         ----------------------------

Your good mood only continues to grow as you exit the elevator of the huge high-rise that you call your home away from home, your office on the twenty-third floor right in the heart of the Upper West Side. Sandwiched between the Hudson and Central Park, you have to admit that getting your ass out of bed was worth it, even if just for this view.

“Morning (Y/N).” The front desk security guard greets you, and you say hello back to him with a performative show of your badge.

HKS Law, so named after the founders and current partners Amilyn Holdo, Ben Kenobi, and Luke Skywalker, is a shining pinnacle of what defense attorneys and opposing counsel at trials should be. Not only had the firm made history time and time again with incredible wins and even more incredible ultimate losses, but it prided itself on being representation for the people no one else could represent.

Most of all, it had you.

If your alarm was a constant, than this was a universal truth: you are a damn good defense attorney. As you walk through the crisp and clean polished floors, you hold your head high, knowing that this loss against him still put you at the lowest loss rate of anyone in the history of HKS, lower than even the founders themselves.

That little reminder has you grinning to yourself. You’d been working with HKS for nearly six years now, and very quickly you saw your office climbing higher and higher up the skyscraper, saw it getting bigger and bigger. And now, you were nearly positive, that your meeting at eleven o’clock would be to discuss partnership with the firm as a reward for your continued hard work.

“Hey (Y/N)!” One of the associates, Rose Tico smiles at you from where she’s chatting with her sister Paige by their desks.  

“Someone looks like they had a nice weekend.” Paige remarks, and you only wink at them, playing the game.

A game, which becomes instantly easier as your assistant, a bright-eyed intern fresh out of law school appears seemingly out of nowhere.

“(Y/N), good morning!” She is already offering you a cup of something nice and hot, her arm cradling a stack of manilla folders that have all sorts of sticky-note flags on them, that she shifts onto her hip ever so slightly to brush a few loose braids out of her face, speaking at what feels like a million miles a second, “I have your coffee ready and there’s a fresh breakfast buffet in the break room if you’d like, I can get you something – ”

“Good morning Neisha.” You accept the coffee gratefully, but interrupting her only to give her a chance to catch her breath. You check your watch, it’s only half-past seven, she’ll wear herself out if she exerts that much energy first thing. “A bagel with the usual would be perfect, thank you.”

“No problem – oh, Rick wanted you to look over those case files before your eleven-o’clock.” She breathes a sigh of relief, and gives you a smile.

Groaning, you accept the manilla folders too, balancing the coffee cup on top of them as Iman follows you into your own private office. Your assistant stands in front of your desk at the ready, looking sharp and put together, as ever.

One thing that you loved about Neisha – aside from the dozens of things that you admired and appreciated about her – was that you have never ever seen her in something other than a pantsuit. She did not wear dresses or skirts, she was almost never in heels, and she did not carry a purse. Instead, Neisha could almost always be found in a very smart trouser and blazer set, often complete with vests, and fun-colored socks in her loafers to coordinate with her ever-expanding collection of ties.

“Rick can go fuck himself.” You mutter under your breath, and she laughs.

“Should I tell him you said that?” With a playful glimmer in her eye, she crosses her arms over her broad chest.

“Yes.” You wink, before checking your watch once again and reminding her about that, “Bagel?”

“Bagel – right, on it.” Neisha snaps her fingers and leaves, closing the office door behind her.

 You like your office, even if you’ve outgrown it. Much like the rest of the firm, it has stayed up to date with the contemporary interior design of the day. However where the open floor of the firm is mostly whites and silvers and glass, your office feels warmer with shades of coffee browns and creamy neutrals. 

Remembering how you had been so excited for the promotion to your own office, you can’t help but chuckle to yourself now – it really was a small office. It consisted of a long dark brown desk situated in front of a wall-unit bookshelf/display area, and a seating arrangement of matching brown chairs situated around a free-edge wooden coffee-table. A soft rug covers the marble flooring, and cream gauzy curtains cover the windows, but that was about it.

You had been to the offices of the higher ups, you knew just what you could achieve if you made partner – even if you made junior partner.

And if all went well during this meeting at eleven, you knew you’d be moving into one of those offices soon.

For the first time all weekend, you sit down in the big leather chair behind your desk and finally check your phone. The case files remain on your desk, and you know you’ll get to them eventually, but until you’ve had some breakfast and that coffee can work its magic, no one could blame you for scrolling through the shit that you had put off since Friday.

It’s mostly work friends taking your side, which you appreciate. They knew losing a case was hard for you – you didn’t do it very often. And even though you never lost to anyone besides him, it still never got easier.

The case had been a simple one, or at least, you had thought so. Murders are so often simple, either the person did it, or they didn’t. If they did, there’s evidence, and if they didn’t, well, there’s evidence too. And when two parties come forward with their own evidence, compelling, strong fucking evidence – evidence of alibis and proof that your client couldn’t have been there, couldn’t have done it – it’s up to the jury to decide who to believe.

In this case, this jury decided to believe him, and there was nothing you could do about it. It was losses like this, losses like the knowledge than an innocent man was going to prison, that make you seriously question the legal system as a whole, frankly.

It’s then that you see it, and your hand freezes.

You have a missed message from him.

He’s saved in your contacts as the dick from VTH, and even though that could refer to any number of people, you know that it’s him. You have five missed messages from him, as a matter of fact, which sends both a rush of adrenaline through you, as well as a spike of anxiety.

The two of you…you’d never been friends, not really. In fact, the closest thing to a relationship that you might have is that of a rivalry, if not flat out enemies. You hated him, and he hated you, and he had hated you ever since the first day he set eyes on you, from the very first moment you walked into the courtroom as a last-minute addition to the defense counsel, and won the case in fifteen minutes.

Which was a shame, because you often find yourself thinking that if he weren’t such a…well, a dick, there could have been something there. Instead of a friendship, or even a civil acquaintanceship, you have over the years developed something of a hate-fucking-enemies-with-benefits arrangement. He was probably pissed that you ignored him all weekend, but that was okay – let him be pissed, you were pissed too.

You don’t open his messages, not yet. You’d need coffee in you and food in your stomach before you’re able to handle whatever mood he has to be in, now that you’ve got the energy to deal with him.

You’re so deep in thought that you nearly miss when Neisha returns with a plate for you, a big spread arranged on your desk for you to enjoy. You’re about to thank her and let her get on with whatever work she has to do, but she holds out a newsletter with a devious smile and curiosity gets the better of you.

“Have you seen?” She asks, and you raise a brow, a smile of your own creeping across your face.

The newsletter was something that circulated through the different firms in the area, keeping everyone up to date – or at least as up to date as legally possible – on the goings on in the sphere of influence that you all found yourselves in. Everything from congratulatory memos to case results, and even high profile celebrity gossip was fair game, but one of the more scandalous parts of the newsletter, was the publication of trouble that various lawyers found themselves in.

The Monday morning newsletter had quite a bit of this from over the weekend, and right there on page sixteen, is none other than his face looking as irritated as he possibly can, as he’s being given a hard time for a DUI on Friday night.

“Oh fuck.” Your eyes widen, wanting nothing more than to call him and yell at him for being a fucking idiot, “What the hell does he think he’s doing?”

“Whatever he wants, evidently.” Neisha shrugs, no doubt thinking the news would cheer you up in some sort of vengeful way that you appreciate. She reaches for a pumpernickel crisp from the spread on your desk and muses, “I bet the cops are thrilled, they hate that sonofabitch.”

“Yeah them and me both.” You mutter, already rubbing away a headache that’s starting to form across the expanse of your forehead. “He’s not going to be pleased about that photo, he looks rumpled.”

Sighing, you look down at the photo. He’s very clearly intoxicated, you’ve seen that look in his eyes more than once, the blurry out of focused glassy look that he gives you over smiles at dinner sometimes. You blink away the image of him in a nice suit on the other end of a table, reminding yourself that you’re angry with him.

“Doesn’t he have a driver? I wonder why he got behind the wheel himself.” Neisha continues, and bless her you think, for continually giving you a means to not be left alone with your thoughts.

“If there’s one thing I know about that man, it’s that when he sets him mind to something, no one is going to stop him from doing it.” You reply, not able to ignore a bit of gut-wrenching regret.

Maybe if you hadn’t been so mad at him, you could’ve gone with him to wherever he was coming back from, and maybe you could’ve --

“Should I have this framed?” Neisha asks, and you blink again.

You check your watch, it’s only a quarter ‘til eight. Have you really only been at work for fifteen minutes? That stack of folders sits on the edge of your desk, taunting you. You’re gearing up for an extra long day.

“No, that’s okay.” You shake your head, opening the bottom drawer of your desk and dropping the newsletter into it. “I will keep a hold onto it though. Just for fun.”

With a laugh, Neisha leaves and once again closes your office door.

“God dammit.” You grumble, pulling your phone out yet again.

The unread messages from him sit buried beneath thirty other messages that don’t warrant responses, and you hover your thumb over his name.

After all these years, something about getting a text from him made your heart jump. It felt stupid, you weren’t some teenager with a crush in high school, you were an adult, and this was just another adult, who you happened to have developed some sort of attachment to. Not a friendship, or a relationship even, but some kind of attachment.

Right now, you wanted to bitch at him for getting himself into trouble, for driving while he was so very clearly drunk, a whole argument prepared about how he could have seriously hurt or even killed someone, how even though he’s a rich asshole he can’t afford to be so reckless.

But first, in order to bitch at him, you have to read what he’s sent you over the weekend, and that’s where you keep tripping up. You don’t know why, but when you do finally open up his texts, you find that you’re holding your breath until you read them.

You try to ignore the way the thread starts out, try to ignore how if anyone were to squint, they might think something was going on between you two.

 Incoming: [1/8 6:03am] just picking up croissants from that place u like. jam?

[1/8 6:10am] Yeah, raspberry if they have

Incoming: [1/8 6:11am] on it, go back 2 bed.

 That had been just over a week ago, and you remember the day well, how you exchanged smiles over bites of fresh and flaky pastry, how you had dipped the croissants into hot chocolate in his bed, not giving a fuck about the crumbs that weren’t your problem because they weren’t your sheets.

How that was the last time you had seen him, before the conclusion of the case.

Now, now that you’d lost, the tone of the thread has very clearly shifted to something much colder. One thing you’re surprised to see though, is that they’re all from around Friday night, which was unusual.

 Incoming: [1/15 7:43pm] going out 2 celebrate tonight, join me

Incoming: [1/15 8:57pm] u can’t ignore me forever u know

Incoming: [1/16 12:02am] i’m glad u didn’t come, ud fucking hate it here. theyre playing music 2 loud

Incoming: [1/16 12:15am] r u seriously still mad?

Incoming: [1/16 1:09am] Fuck you.

 Rolling your eyes, you rub away more of that headache that starts to form. It was weird that he didn’t text you at all for the whole day of Saturday, or Sunday for that matter. If you didn’t spend the weekend together, he was very content to simply blow your phone up with links to random bullshit or long text conversations in broken grammar because his thumbs were too big for the buttons.

So for there to be radio silence after one o’clock in the morning was strange.

“For fucks sake.” You find yourself texting him back without even thinking about it, your fingers moving over the keyboard easily and quickly, sending off a slightly antagonizing reply after two days of nothing;

 [1/18 7:55am] Looks like you had quite the night on Friday.

 There, you think. That should get a response out of him. No doubt he would be quick to complain about how he had been pulled over and the whole nine yards. You wait for it to come through, the text. Or more accurately, the string of impassioned paragraphs that he tends to send you.

But a minute go by, and there’s nothing.

Five minutes, and nothing still.

You know you have to work, you have shit to do, you have that big meeting in a couple hours that you have to mentally prepare for, there’s no time to be worrying about him not texting you back. Still, you don’t like the silence. Sure that makes you a hypocrite, but he deserved your cold shoulder for beating you in court. At least, that’s how you justify it for yourself.

Getting up from your desk, you hover in the doorframe, where your assistant’s desk sits just outside to act as a buffer for anyone wanting to bother you.

“Hey Neisha?” You ask quietly, getting her attention, “I haven’t missed any calls, have I?”

A crease of confusion dips between her brows as she frowns, and immediately she checks the call logs on the conference phone that sits on her desk next to the big computer that takes up most of her space.

“No not that I can think of, are you expecting someone – ?”

Just as she’s asking, the phone rings. You lean over and see the number is one you don’t recognize, and you frown too.

“Better get that.” Neisha says awkwardly, so you just nod and retreat back into your own office from where you came.

It’s been seven minutes now, and there’s still nothing from him.

“Fine, fuck you too.” You mutter at the phone, locking it and putting it in the shallow drawer of your desk so you can focus on the folders in front of you finally.

 The stack is pretty normal, all the weekend material finally coming in now that it’s the start of a new week. There’s new case files to look through to decide if you’re doing to accept the client, supplementary material from old case files that you’ve asked for to review, notes and evidence belonging to associates’ cases that you said you’d give your opinion on – all mixed into one big pile.

You liked it though, liked staying busy. It was a good distraction from a loss, the ability to win, the ability to prove to yourself and to the world that you’re good at what you do. There are all sorts of awards and pieces of paper displayed on the walls of your office that show that you’re good, but still, there’s nothing like a strong win after a frustrating loss.

But you’re not even halfway through reading the first folder, when Neisha knocks on your door and opens it slowly, a look of preemptive apology on her face.

“I’m afraid you’re going to need to cancel your eleven o’clock.” She says, and you can tell by the tone of her voice that there’s no use in trying to argue with her.

You let the folder fall down onto the desk, and brace yourself for whatever bombshell she’s about to drop on you, what could possibly be so important for you to have to reschedule one of the biggest meetings of your career. They would understand, you’re sure.

You hope, anyway.

“Who is it?” Your tone is already filled with dread, but a resigned kind of dread, knowing that whatever it must be, it has to be big, and you’re the only one in this entire fucking firm who can handle big things like this – it was the reason they wanted you for partner in the first place.

But Neisha hesitates with this response, scratches the back of her neck in a way that makes you instantly curious.

“I…I was instructed not to say, just that you’ve been requested to meet with them regarding representation.” She tells you, and now your headache pounds even harder.

Clients didn’t withhold their identity from you; some used an alias of course, but you can’t say that so far in your career you’ve had a completely anonymous client. Whoever this person was, had to either be royalty, or something very very close.

And though that meant there was going to be a nightmare of a trial – because these high profile people almost never got to simple settle, not when the prosecutor wants to make a show of prosecuting them – you can’t help but think that would be a pretty good notch in your beltloop, as it were.

“Alright, where are they?” You’re already up and away from your desk, shuffling the case files into a locked cabinet.

“Rikers.” She says straight away, and you let out a groan.

“Of course they are.”

You had almost hoped that whoever this mystery client was, they had posted bail and could meet at a nice neutral location. You didn’t have anything against Rikers personally, but rather the entire prison industrial complex as a whole, and as far as New York prisons went, there were few more infamous for being unnecessarily brutal than Rikers Island.

“I can call them back and tell them you’re busy…but they sounded adamant about wanting you in particular.” Neisha nudges gently, and really there’s no need to butter you up, you’ve already made up your mind.

“I’m guessing they didn’t tell you why?” You ask, even though you know the answer.

“Correct.” She replies with a sheepish shrug.

You look at her, at your watch, at your phone screen which shows no new notifications from the last time that you checked it, and you square your shoulders.  

“Alright, reschedule the eleven o’clock, and let’s get out of here before Holdo freaks the fuck out on me for that.” You say, grabbing your coffee and a few more of the pastries to take in the car with you for the drive.

                                           ----------------------------

Most times, you have no problem taking the subway wherever you need to get, but visiting Rikers wasn’t as easy as hopping off the train and walking a couple blocks. For times like these, you and Neisha take one of the company cars, a sleek and shiny black thing with dark tinted windows. Cars really aren’t practical in the city, which is why you don’t have one of your own, but it was nice to be driven around from time to time in the peace and quiet of a car like this.

Normally, visitors are not allowed on Mondays or Tuesdays, but you’re not a normal person, and you’re not here for a normal visit, so once you pass through the security gate, the K-9 unit and the metal detector security tests with ease, you find it a pretty quiet lobby.

“Good afternoon Ms. (L/N), here on official duty?” One of the correctional officers that sits up by the front visitation desk beams at you.

“No, I just missed you Jake.” You reply, fishing out your identification for him even though he really doesn’t need it. Jake has worked there only a year or so, and every time you see him you can’t help but think he’s young, too young for this job, you think, too young to become desensitized to the humanity of incarcerated individuals. But that’s not a conversation that you’re here to have today, so instead you keep up the chitchat with, “How’s Lottie and the kids?”

“They’re good, who are you here for?” Jake asks as a matter of protocol, and you give Neisha a look, before looking back at him.

“That’s just the thing, I don’t know. I wasn’t informed for confidentiality reasons.” You try to explain, before leaning forward and mock-whispering to him, “Please tell me someone has me on the list and I didn’t drive all this way for nothing.”

Jake laughs, a sound that feels out of place in a place like this, and pulls something up on his computer. You can’t really see it, the list, and that’s okay. Whoever this mysterious person is, you’ll find out within just a few minutes.

“You know the drill, they’re waiting for you in the back.” Jake waves you off, and you’re glad to go.

“Wait out here.” You tell Neisha, who clearly looks uncomfortable even being in the lobby, and with good reason. She doesn’t argue you on that, instead takes a seat on a bench near Jake’s table, and the two of them get to chatting while your boots click on the floors as you walk away.

There’s a couple different visitation areas in the jail, and the deeper into the building you go, the more that you’re glad that visitation isn’t allowed on Mondays. You don’t want the chance of running into someone that you had failed. Granted there had only been a handful of those instances, but the thought of any one of them being here is not outside the realm of possibility.

Through the sea of empty tables and chairs that are reserved for long term inmates who happen to have visitation privileges for good behavior, you find yourself moving deeper and deeper, until you’re at the door of another room, a closed off one more typical to that seen in movies and television shows.

Opening the door, you hang in the hallway to confirm that there’s no one else there, as there shouldn’t be. There’s eight stations, four on each side of the small room, with a phone and a pane of bulletproof glass. Right away, you have a feeling this is going to be a murder trial, if they’re not even letting you meet with the client out in the open, if they’re monitoring the phone conversation that you’re about to have.

You see a shuffle of movement out of the corner of your eye, and assume that that’s who you’re here to meet, so with your chin held high, you step into the room, and make your way to the visitation booth where a man in a bright orange jumpsuit is waiting on the other side of the glass.

Stopping as quickly as you’ve started, you stand frozen in the middle of the room, blinking away and desperately shoving aside a wave of feelings that have crashed over you at the familiar face behind the glass.

The dark hair, the deep eyes, that proud nose, those full lips, you take it all in with some strange sense of disbelief – surely this must be a dream? It has to be, even as you sit on the little stool and yank the phone off the wall, shoving it against your ear, not even knowing where to start as you try to wrap your mind around the fact that the man, this mystery client…

“Hey sweetheart.” He says, and you could smack him upside the head if only there weren’t this glass between you and Kylo Ren.

                                         ----------------------------

Tagging some pals, please let me know if you’d like to be added to or taken off the taglist! @safarigirlsp​ @steeevienicks​ @mochabucky​ @sacklerscumrag​ @artsymaddie​ @bitchydecisions​ @direnightshade​ @reyloaddict55​ @kylorenswhxre​ @sunflowersinthesnow​ @mousemakingjam @the-unmanaged-mischief​ @drake-bells-waxed-penis @littleevilme13 @rennaissance-mama @materialisthicc​ 

[thelastyetfabolousmidwestmadman]

Dark Side Of The Rising Sun Part 1

Yo what’s up!

After the success of my previous post, I’ve decided to bring a follow up where I talk about the many dysfunctions and issues facing Japan that I’ve learned in my research. Detective Conan often shows the criminal justice system of Japan in a positive light while in reality it has many issues due to the culture.

Now let me make this clear: Japan has many great things about itself that should never be ignored. However, these are real flaws that have or need to be addressed with many Japanese also recognizing them as problems.

Now I had to split this into parts as this is rather ungainly to put it all at once. If you have any questions please ask and I’ll do my best to answer them.

 Suicide

Japan has one of the highest suicide rates in the world with about 15.2 deaths per 100,000 people.

This is due to many factors such as Suicide not being considered a sin as well as historical connotations of it being a honorable way to go.

It is also considered a act of revenge, apology, and protest.

It is mostly caused today by factors such as unemployment, alienation and intense social pressure.

Japanese society is overall tolerant of Suicide but this is changing in recent times.

Another factor is the need for acceptance over individuality.

People with mental illness are often discriminated against, stopping potential help.

Internet Suicide Clubs where anonymous people make/plan suicide pacts and commit group suicide are a major issue.

If you kill yourself via Shinkansen, your family will be fined heavily. It is also the cause of half of the train delays and referred to as a human incident.

Tall buildings have mandatory suicide fences to prevent people from jumping off. When they succeed, they take off their shoes before hand.

It is common for suicidal people to take insurance policies and wait a year or two to go through with it so their families would be okay.

Ikka Shinju or family suicides are when the entire family kills themselves together due to Asian views of the family. When the parents kill their children before themselves, this is called Muri-Shinju or murder suicides.

Oyaku Shinju or parent-child suicide are where a single parent kill their children along with themselves.

Drownings, overdoses, hangings, and jumping off places are the most common form of suicide.

Judiciary

Traditionally, the judge is hated more then the lawyer is in the west as the Judge is often viewed as a symbol of the Japanese nobility judging the common man.

If you are sent to trial, you are certain to be convicted regardless of innocence due to the countries 99% conviction rate. (Really makes Eri’s work more awesome and badass doesn’t it?)

The Japanese supreme court is one of the most conservative in the world, rarely ruling against issues that are blatantly unconstitutional and anti human rights. As a result, one of the more positive proposals for amendments of the Constitution is the creation of a separate Constitutional Court.

If you are sent to death row, you will never be told in advance when you are going to die.

Culturally, once arrested the person is automatically considered guilty.

Police are often reluctant to overturn convictions as they insist that only guilty are arrested and convicted.

The law when a child is considered criminally responsible is 14.

Judges are often pressured into making convictions as their careers are negatively affected by a not guilty verdict.

Prosecutors are given the choice not to pursue a case regardless of sufficient evidence.

Prisoners in Japan, while somewhat treated better then much of the world due to it’s focus on rehabilitation instead of punishment, have to follow strict military style regulations from minor things such as being forced to fold the bed, or to wash your face to more draconian measures such being beaten if you don’t march or sit the wrong way.

In turn, many have inadequate access to medical care as they don’t have many options for their healthcare.

It can take months or years before you are tried, meaning that a right to a speedy trial is completely nonexistent.

“Periods of reflection” where inmates are forced to be handcuffed, gagged and placed in solitary, are often not recorded by the warden.

Foreigners are forced to speak and write in Japanese.

Drug Use

It is considered vastly socially unacceptable to do narcotics in Japan.

Most drug addicts are even considered to be not human.

If a celebrity is caught doing drugs, his career is automatically fucked and he is blacklisted from the industry, as well as erased from current projects.

The most commonly sold drug is methamphetamine. This started after World War II due to Meth being legal for soldiers to consume in order to stay up late on petrol as well as from occupying Americans. After the was, it became a huge epidemic for 12 years.

Marijuana use has risen among youth. Despite it having little danger as well as medicinal uses, it is widely considered evil, with the law having no tolerance.

Overall, Japan has little drug use compared to the rest of the world due to the cultural taboo and strict laws. However, there are signs that it is being vastly under counted,

Most illicit drugs are imported from Taiwan and South Korea due to it being near impossible to grow it natively but it is becoming increasingly hard to do so.

Drugs overdoses are criminally under diagnosed.

Epidemics often occur due to low periods of economic growth and recessions. (Examples include the postwar period, the 70′s, and the Lost Decade after the Bubble Economy burst in 1989)

It is common for your family or doctor to call the police once you admit there is a problem. Then you are forced to take a urine sample and if it tests positive you are immediately arrested.

A lot of doctors open pharmacies to add to their income. As a result, many oversubscribe prescription drugs.

Hypocritically, Alcoholism is completely tolerated and not treated as a addiction due to alcohol being considering purifying in Shinto, a cure, and Japan having a intense drinking culture.

Child Abuse

For the most part, physical child abuse is considered a private issue and often ignored. While things are slowly getting better, Japan still has a long way to go. (Imagine if Kogoro did what he did to Conan in the west. Child services would be on him like a fly swatter.)

Child services often return the children to their parents even if they say their abusing them as the counseling centers need the parents to admit to their abuse.

It is a complete myth that Japan’s age of consent is 13. That is only the lowest one could set it. Most prefectures are set at 16 or higher. In turn, child molestation of those under 12 is heavily punished. However while vaginal rape of children is illegal, basically just about everything else as long as it’s statutory is basically alright.

Enjo Kosai or compensated dating is the practice of Teenage Girls to go on dates with older men in exchange for money and gifts. While not necessarily always leading to prostitution is treated as such and the girls are often blamed if they are hurt in the process.

Child sex trafficking of migrants is a serious issue and they are often treated as criminals and sent home without counseling.

Adoption of children is rare and frowned upon so many of them have to gro up in centers.

Children of unmarried couples are discriminated against due to the violation of the traditional Ie system and do not have the same protections or privileges of married couples because of its Koseki system.

Men are not obligated to pay child support and it’s near impossible to get them to legally as they can simply hide their finances by not telling them. Plus only one person can be named on the custody sheet.

Child Pornography was effectively decriminalized until 2014. No seriously.

Sexual Harassment/Assault

Domestic violence victims are disabused from coming forward due to the idea of bringing shame to their family.

Stalking cases are rarely taken seriously by the police

OH THERE”S WAY MORE BUT THIS LIST IS DARK ENOUGH SO LET”S SAVE THIS FOR A LATER DATE.

Working Conditions

Idols are heavily exploited and forced to follow strict rules such as having no social life, banned from having a boyfriend, etc. This is because they are supposed to sell a image of innocence and be there exclusively for their fans.

Anime creators are often forced to work long hours with little pay. This has resulted in a slump in the industry with very few new hires so they are forced to rely on the older animators whose health may fail sooner rather then later.

Funds are rarely given to films with artistic intent or that are political in nature, resulting the film industry suffering compared to the more internationally regarded South Korea.

Police Corruption

Until recently, Japanese police would work with organized crime to lower crime. The only reason they stopped was not out of concern for the everyday citizen but because they were embarrassed by the Yakuza when they began to show up more publically.

The media is often laughably compliant to the police, with they rarely offering a critical lens.

Police have undue influence on the Pachiko industry, with many retired officers being hired as muscle and for advice.

It is quite common for officers to embezzle from their slush funds.

In a effort to cover up crime, police often refuse to investigate mysterious or suspicious deaths, preferring to label them as accidents or suicide.

Police are often anti migrant and sexist to a fault.

It is neigh impossible to get a wiretap going due to rigid privacy laws.

Even the police can’t fire weapons as you need approval to even loose your gun so many officers have never fired a bullet.

Government Incompetence/Corruption

Voter Apathy is super high, with many elections having hilariously low turnout.

Many politicians have Yakuza connections, with the gang members serving as bodyguards and canvassing for votes.

Votes in the countryside are worth two compared to urban ones.

A lot of politicians are completely out of touch and constantly have to resign for gaffes (racism, sexism, historical revisionism, etc.)

Political acts are based on group consensus so it can take a long time to get meaningful reform done.

Criticism and debate is ironically frowned upon, with open criticism within a party being effectively banned.

Cronyism is common. While for the most part Japanese politics is based on expertise, many politicians are awarded ministries based on their support for the leader.

The NHK (Japanese version of the BBC) is largely neutral and free but the current Japanese government can dictate what it is to focus on temporarily.

Press Clubs are often given exclusive access to interviews and information from the government, so they get biased preferential treatment.

Okay I guess the point of this list is to bring attention to these issues and expand the opportunities of where to go when it comes to dark DC fanfiction. Don’t worry, here’s a cute Conan to make you smile!

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Daniel Michaelson: Trembling

(for @whumptober2019, Day 20: Trembling TW: serious violence/torture, SW: creepy whumper thoughts, Abraham Denner is a bad bad man)

“Am, am I doing okay so far?” The man’s blue eyes are wide, moving from one lawyer to another, a constant dance of seeking approval and reassurance from anyone he can see. 

Of course, no one in the courtroom can see the lawyers he is looking at, only him - he is the center of the frame, wavy red hair falling nearly to his eyes, scarred hands flat on the table but visibly shaking even through the digital image projected on the screen.

“You’re doing great, Mr. Michaelson. We just need to keep going, okay? Do you think you’ll be fine to continue?”

The man slowly nods. “I, I can try to keep going.” The warm blue eyes are rimmed in red by now - his testimony includes several edits and jump-cuts, and the jury doesn’t see the tears but they do see the way his face has changed, over time, from nervous but resolute to sniffing and uncertain and finally to frightened and eager to smooth over whatever offense he thinks he might have caused by not being perfect enough.

He doesn’t give up, he never stops trying.

He’s trying so hard to be brave, and it’s so fucking beautiful.

He’s being such a good boy, and Abraham wishes he were right here in the courtroom so he could tell him so right to his face.

Abraham Denner can nearly feel those tear tracks that shimmer only a little in the soulless fluorescent lights, the way they would give the slightest damp warmth if he ran his thumb down pretty red scar dug deep into his cheekbone, down the softer skin below it, all the way to his jaw. 

He could picture how Red would hold himself so still, trembling under Abraham’s touch, but he would never flinch or pull away. 

If Abraham wanted information from him, of course, it would all fall out of his mouth like a waterfall of words, whatever he wanted to hear, to know, all his for the taking. Red was all his for the taking, but these lawyers - they did not know how to take him correctly.

Instead, they question and dance around and try to coax without really coaxing. It’s annoying, but it draws everything out, so he tries to sit back and enjoy it. Honestly, who knows when he’ll see his Red all tear-stained and gorgeously tempting like this again?

Little less bleeding than he likes to see, granted, but he can just imagine that part.

His memories provide so many images of Red bleeding. 

“Okay, Daniel. Let’s keep going.”

“What is your name? Who do you belong to?” He holds Red by the chin, tilting it up to meet his eyes where the man kneels on the floor, his wrists tied with barbed wire Abraham found in the body’s workshop out back and held out in front of him at chest level, holding himself perfectly still so none of the barbs will cut him. 

He’s been kneeling like that for an hour in the smokehouse, in the dark with the scent of old fires and curing meat all around them. Abraham set a timer on his phone and sat back to take some photos, then simply waited, watching him, until the timer beeped.

It’s hot, and Red is pouring sweat in rivulets and rivers, but he doesn’t try to get up, and he doesn’t try to move his wrists even as his arms begin to tremble with the effort of holding themselves up like this.

“Red, m-my name is Red.” The voice shakes, it shivers for him. Red is always shivering for him, one way or another, when he bleeds. “My name is Red and I belong to y-you, Abraham, to you.”

“Good boy. Put your hands on the ground.” He watches Red do as he is told, smiling as some of the barbs finally prick into his skin and Red winces, laying his palms flat on the ground. “Now are we going to try any of that nonsense again? You going to try picking the lock on your chain again?”

“N-No. I’m sorry, Abraham, I won’t. I’m sorry.”

“Good.” Abraham lets one boot come out and press against Red’s wrists, forcing the barbed wire to dig into the skin, and listens to the sound of Red hissing through his teeth at the pain, digging his fingernails into the earthen ground, with perfect contentment.

Those blue eyes stay open, and they never look away from his, even as they well with tears.

Abraham leans down, reaches out, and gently wipes one tear away as it slides down that perfectly scarred cheek. “I adore you, Red,” He says softly. “You’re going to be our perfect puppy forever.”

Red licks his lips, breathing in shallow pants to avoid making any noise as Abraham puts even more weight over the wire wrapped around his wrists, and nods quickly. “Yes,” He says in a gasp. “Yes, I will, I will, please stop, I’m sorry, I’ll try harder to be good-”

“Yes,” Abraham says thoughtfully, and pulls his foot back, listening to Red’s relieved half-sob in response. “Yes, you will try harder. And you will be good.”

“Th-thank you, Abraham,” Red manages in a voice just above a whimper. “Thank you for listening to my apology, thank you for only hurting me a little, thank you.”

The way the lawyers question him is irritating. What Red really needs, of course, is someone in that room to give him some orders, using his true name, the name Abraham had gifted to him, a way to understand his place, to become what he was meant to be.

If they would only tell his good boy what to do or say, of course, Red would understand what they want from him. He would feel safer, more secure, hemmed in the way he deserves to be. Red feels safer in a life full of cages, now, defined bars made up of commands and orders and expectations. 

Red likes the rules. He understands his name.

All those lawyers in fancy suits do, though, is ask questions, they give him choices. It confuses Red, makes him struggle to figure out the right thing to say.

No one bothers to get Abraham’s advice about any of it, of course. He’s the bad guy, he’s the villain, just for simply doing what came naturally to him and turning Red into what he had been meant to be all along. 

In a world where the monsters all wear nametags and point at someone higher-up when called to accept responsibility, Abraham is a monster all on his own, one they cannot tame, and so they want to lock him away.

They call him a lot of things, in the newspapers that report on the trial - he gets four newspapers every day in jail - but mostly he’s picked up the nickname The Carver in the Cabin, and he kind of likes that one. It’s better than he thought he’d get, anyway, and his guards are quick to let him know that the Carver is the nickname that seems to be sticking.

He likes the guards. They’re his best friends now.

Granted, everyone he talks to is his best friend if you give him long enough - that’s always been true.

Abraham and Ashley have been caught so many times, but until Nate burned the cabin down none of those moments ever seemed to stick.

Abraham Denner could charm the pants off anyone - and often did, shortly before killing them.

Ashley could never seem to charm anyone - something about her was too cold, the violence in her coiled too close to the surface and too visible to anyone who looked right at her. Abraham could bury his.  

To him, though, Ashley was always his warm and loving twin sister. To him, she had been arms around him from birth, arms he could still sometimes feel even though she had been dead for more than four years.

Nate’s fault - but he couldn’t feel angry… he couldn’t feel anything but pride at his black-haired prince for being strong enough to pull it off, to leave. No, he’s not mad at Nate. 

He’s mad at Ashley for leaving Nate the opening to kill her. She should have known better.

In the video, Red rubs compulsively at the scars around his face, and Abraham feels his mouth go a little dry just watching him, pouring himself a glass of water (next to him, his defense lawyer flinches, just the slightest bit, and Abraham feels good about that). He sips slowly, savoring the cool clear nothing-taste of it while imagining Red’s tears were just for him, just for him and Nate, the way it should be.

Red, a tall and lanky man with heavily muscled shoulders, is hunched over like a child waiting for punishment with fear in his eyes, and it’s all because of Abraham Denner. He’s so perfect, so genuinely and perfectly beautiful. 

Nate was his true love, of course - and Abraham fully intended to find some way to see his sweet man again, either a prison visit or, hell, never write off an escape, he’d done more unbelievable things in his life… but he would never walk away from his Red, either.

“All right, Mr. Michaelson,” The prosecutor on the video is saying. “We need to move on to speaking about what happened in this photo. Would you be able to look at this photo for us, Daniel?” 

The soft scrape of a bit of paper being moved across the table, and Red reaches out as if to touch it. His eyes glance down, too quickly to do more than take in the basics, and then he looks back up, looking more confused than frightened, pulling his hands back. “We, we have to talk about, um, about that?”

“Yes. We need to understand what was happening in this photo. Would you be able to talk about that now? Obviously if you need a break-”

“No,” Red says quickly, leaning forward, pulling the paper towards himself, shaking his head so his hair falls back over his eyes. “No, I’m fine, I can do it, I’m sorry, I’ll just try harder, I can, I can be good and do this for you-”

That’s my good good boy, Abraham thinks with a grin. He knows the jury watches him. He can feel their revulsion when he smiles at Red’s tears. 

He doesn’t care.

Nothing about this trial was ever going to end in anything but a prison sentence, and Abraham isn’t the type to delude himself. He’s not here to try and find acquittal. He’s just here to have some fun before he gets locked away.

“I will show the photo using the secondary screen,” The prosecutor sitting at the other table speaks out loud. The judge gives his approval, and when the prosecutor clicks the remote to pull up a large-scale version of the photo the man is holding in the testimony, everyone in the courtroom sees a photo of Red sitting on the ground, his face turned away and eyes shut but his mouth open wide in a scream, his hands wrapped tightly around himself.

Nathaniel Vandrum is crouched just behind him, one arm around him, one hand buried in his hair to pull Red against his chest. Nate’s chin rests on top of Red’s head and he’s glaring right at the camera - right at Abraham - with pure, loveless fury.

Closed around Red’s left leg is a bear trap. The smears of bright red showing through his torn jeans seem too brilliant to be real in the courtroom’s yellow light. 

Abraham takes a deep breath, seeing it blown up so large, larger than life really, and has to take another drink of water before he’s totally bowled over by the incredibly knife-sharp surge of pure joy that rocks through him head to toe.

Joy, and something much darker.

“I stepped in a bear trap,” Red says in the video testimony, staring down at the photo. “He took a photo before he let Nate get me out of it.”

“Why were you in a bear trap, Mr. Michaelson?”

“I was bad and I did not apologize,” Red says, head tilted down at the photo, tracing his fingers along it. “When you do something wrong, you apologize, and you get hurt so that you do not do it again.”

Someone in the jury coughs hard.

Red’s eyes are glittering again, and Abraham can see him trembling, even though this isn’t really happening right now.

He shivers so well, little Red.

He knows just how to shake the way Abraham likes best.

“Are you saying that Mr. Denner forced you into the trap? We need you to be absolutely clear, for the record, Daniel. Can you be clear about this for us?”

Red takes a deep breath, licking his lips, and slowly nods. He looks around the ring of lawyers offscreen again, looking for their approval, and then lets his eyes drop back down to the photo. Abraham looks over to the jury to see some of them glaring right at him with hatred, most of them looking at the photo still, and one old woman dabbing at the corner of her eyes with a tissue.

“Yes,” Red says finally, and his voice is shaking as hard as he is. “He told me to step in the trap as hard as I could or he would, um, he would… he would…” His voice trails off and he hunches over, mumbling too low to be heard.

“Please, Daniel, please try to speak clearly for us, just to finish this last little bit. Then we’ll take another break. Describe what happened.”

“He told me I had to step in the bear trap to punish myself or he would hurt Nate again.” Red looks up, pleading with them to understand with his wide eyes. “He, he said he would really hurt him this time - he’d break his leg or worse, if I didn’t go in the trap, so I had to. The last time I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t take my punishment like a g-… like he wanted me to, he beat Nate so badly, so.. so I had to go in the trap. I had to step in it, I had been, I had been bad I had tried to say no again, and I don’t get to say no. Puppies don’t get angry, pets don’t… I had to, I, I had to be good, I had to…”

They cut the video short again, but Abraham isn’t done with this memory, not at all. He’s going to be thinking about the bear trap for days, running over and over in his mind the moment Red had agreed to do exactly what he said to spare Nate.

The way Nate had glared at him over Red’s head, holding onto him, the way the guilt had shredded Nate for days and days, that Red had been so willing to take a punishment to save him. 

“I’m sorry, Abraham, please, I’ll do it. Don’t hurt him, please!”

“I won’t, if you step right in. Not just a little step, either. These things are made for much larger animals than my skinny little puppy. You stomp your foot right into it and take your punishment, or Nate takes it for you.”

Red’s hair is sweat-soaked and stuck to his forehead, even out here in the chill air. He nods quickly, hugging himself around his middle as though it would ever make it any better. “I will, I’ll do it, Abraham, just, just give me a second, I just need…”

“Take a moment. Deep breaths, Red. In and out, in and out. That’s my good boy.” Red’s whole body shakes, but he nods, breathing slow and deep, just the way Abraham tells him to. Nate steps over to him, hands on either side of his face.

“You don’t h-h-have to d-do this,” Nate says softly, gently, and Abraham missed the love in his words, because he was so busy searching for it when Nate looked at -him-. “I c-can take it. I’ve t-t-taken it before, Red. I can t-take it. Don’t d-d-do this just because of m-me.”

Red looks up at him, tears in his eyes, and shakes his head. “I’ll do it. You were so hurt last time, I can do it, Nate. Okay? Okay, Nate?”

Nate just pulls him close for a hug, holds him tightly, and finally steps back. “I’ll b-be right h-h-here to hold you after,” He says, gently, reassuring, leaning in to kiss Red’s forehead, each side of his face, the tip of his nose. “I’ll h-hold your hand.”

Abraham’s not jealous, not yet. He had taken Red to give Nate a friend, after all, and in Abraham’s world there was no such thing as a platonic friend. The puppy’s not a person, and taking is what puppies like Red are made for.

Red nods, stepping back, taking breaths as deeply and slowly as he can.

He turns back to the bear trap, one hand gripped white-knuckled onto Nate’s, as he moves towards it, staring down with abject dread. He shivers, he shakes, and Abraham all but purrs watching it.

Red’s left foot is trembling as he slowly lifts it up above the open trap.

He looks back at Abraham - maybe hoping for some sort of last-minute mercy - but Abraham just smiles and waits, shaking his head. “Will you be good for me, Red?”

“I’ll be good,” Red whispers. “I’m going to try harder. I can be good, just… just don’t hurt Nate.” Then he jams his left foot down into the trap, onto the little metal plate in the center, as hard as he can.

The trap snaps shut around his left leg and Red collapses long before the pain reaches him. He gives out and falls backwards, Nate grabbing onto him tightly around the chest and waist, holding onto him and murmuring soothing nonsense sounds.

Red goes suddenly still, his eyes wide and white-ringed, and he begins to scream. The sound shatters the woods around them, sends a flock of birds flying up into the sky in a burst of wings, bounces around the trees and crisp air, goes on and on and on.

Red screams, and screams, and screams.

The video testimony cuts to after the break, his little Red looking shaken but still resolute, still resolved to see this through. Abraham glances over to the prosecution’s side and sees Red’s little brother, that Ryan kid, ashen under his darker skin (adopted brothers, and still the brother comes here every day but the parents don’t… interesting, that) and staring at nothing now, twisting a little bit of paper into shreds with his hands.

He sees Nate, looking straight at the screen still, his jaw locked tightly and his green eyes totally focused. He doesn’t look to Abraham. He doesn’t see what his reaction was.

But Abraham settles back. He doesn’t care about this next bit of testimony.

No, he closes his eyes and relives, one more time, the moment his beautiful Red put his foot down in the trap.

[wardencommanderrodimiss]

snake eyes

not the next Fae AU chapter update, but instead a short fic that is based on the best damn joke in this AU that I owe my life for

Maya has been gone for about ten minutes, which is about the point that Phoenix starts to worry - not, necessarily, for her sake, but rather the sake of everyone whose paths she may have crossed in that time. He feels less like a lawyer and more a sort of tour guide, sometimes, explaining cultural mores to a group that makes the stakes are much higher than their embarrassment or causing offense to others. (Culturally, the fae do not brush it off or forget it if someone offends them. Even Mia didn't. And culturally, there's a lot humans can do to offend the fae.)

So Phoenix is starting to worry and about to get up to make sure that there wasn't a catastrophe of magic at the front desk - he doesn't know what they wanted with Maya, the bellboy didn't say - when he spots Maya far down at the end of the hallway. The first thing he notices is that she is slumped halfway down the wall, barely holding herself upright at all; the second thing he notices is that her hair, at the ends, is dissipating into black smog. Pearl, next to him, clambering down from her chair because she too has seen Maya, still looks like an ordinary little girl, and Maya's skin is still brown, still human-appearing. It isn't a problem with Phoenix's eyes - it is a problem with Maya's glamour, and now he is worried.

Now he is worried for her.

Gumshoe is talking to one of the other detectives and Lotta seems to have run off elsewhere, so no one gives Phoenix a glance as he ushers Pearl ahead of him down the hall. Maya's skin is shifting colors when they reach her, patchy, like a few splotches of purple paint were spilled onto her skin, and her eyes are hellfire red but still with black irises. Phoenix helps her up by the elbow - her hand is clapped to the side of her neck, claws starting to protrude on two of her fingers. The other hand is pressed against her stomach. "Maya! What happened?"

Pearl flings herself into Maya's side like a little limpet, her eyes starting to burn red now too, and the hotel lights shining just a little strangely off of her skin. "He attacked me," Maya rasps. Her mouth doesn't fully close when she isn't speaking, her teeth too big for it, but some parts of her glamour still trying to hold themselves up. "Stabbed - with."

He looks about for somewhere to go, spots a bathroom sign down another corridor and helps Maya stumble along with him. This isn’t a good place to be, so close to the scene of a crime, so close to so many police, with Maya’s broken glamour, but there is a door for a single-stalled restroom next to the two gendered ones and Phoenix falls into it with Maya. When he lets go of her to lock the door, she nearly topples to the floor, nearly brings Pearl down with her. “Stabbed with what?" Phoenix asks, trying to pry her hand away from her neck, and her claws go from digging into her own skin to his, with a force just shy of drawing blood. The skin on the side of her neck is purple, and darkening to gray in the shape of a welt around a small puncture. A needle? "Who did, Maya?"

"Bellboy," she says. "A - thing. Needle thing. The - with - inside it."

"A syringe?" he asks.

Her claws on his arm loosen. "Thing!" she cries. He thinks that might be confirmation. "Drugs!"

One thing Phoenix never, ever wanted to know was what one of the fae acts like on drugs.

"Said - kidnapping."

"He told you he was kidnapping you?" That seems like a weird way to go about kidnapping someone, just telling them that. Maybe he thought the drugs would kick in sooner, or fully. He probably didn't know what Maya was. He probably thought the injection would knock her out, if she was human. "Did he say why?"

Maya releases his arm entirely and slumps down further toward the floor. "Why?" she repeats. "Why why?"

"Humans don't usually go around just kidnapping people, Maya," Phoenix says, feeling half like a tour guide again, and half like the voiceover on a nature documentary. "Not like you guys do."

"We don't!" Pearl says indignantly. Her eyes flash red entirely, and then they aren't, and she has a thumb, a claw, to her mouth. "Erm, not often. And only little babies. But rarely!"

For all he's been tangled up in, Phoenix has never met a changeling, and if he hasn't, then it probably is rare. "It's okay, Pearls," he says, even though really, that isn't, at all. "I'm just saying, it's a very, very bad thing among humans." Honestly, a bad thing for the fae to do, too, but he's going to leave that for another day. "So he tried to drug you, and the drug didn't take, and you got away - where did he go?" Maya's eyes are closed. Her face twists in disgust. Her mouth is stretching wider, slowly, across her cheeks, toward her jaw. "Maya? Where did he go, Maya?"

"Ate him."

Some days Phoenix wishes Mia had just let him fucking die. "You ate him?!"

Logically, he has known for a long time that she could. She told him as much, and she can't lie, even as much as Phoenix tried to assure himself (lie to himself) that she was exaggerating when she said she could unhinge her jaw like a snake and swallow a person. She had learned how to use the office computer just to look up videos of snakes for a visualization that Phoenix did not want.

"Yeah," she says. Her mouth drops open and her tongue lolls out. She looks a little sick.

"You can't just eat people, Maya!"

"Even when they want to hurt me?"

"You..."

It's self-defense, wasn't it? She didn't act unprovoked - and more than that, it wasn't like she answered a slight with an extreme. He tried to drug and kidnap her. He deserved something coming to him for that.

"Mr Nick!" Pearl smacks him hard on the leg with an open palm, which he is grateful for, because it means she has taken to heart his lesson about not swatting him with claws because he only has so many pairs of slacks to wear with his suit if she shreds one. "He hurt the Mystic! He deserves it!"

"If you say so, Nick," Maya says, grabbing onto his arm and hoisting herself up, still curled over herself a little, still supporting herself on the wall. She doesn't have to do what he said - there was no deal, no contract made, not at this moment. (He probably should figure out what he can afford to bargain away to seal this, though.) "He tasted real bad anyway."

"Wh - what?"

Snakes can regurgitate their meals, for several reasons, including if they ate something far too big to handle. (Maya called this weak, implying that she could handle eating absolutely anything. Maya spent several days researching snakes. The Twilight Realm doesn't have much in the way of wildlife, apparently.) Phoenix did not really ever need in his life to know that. What he certainly did not need to know is that Maya could do the same.

She opens her mouth like a fancy trashcan popping open with a foot pedal, the top of her head just moving in a way it shouldn't, back, to make room for her gaping black maw with its two rows of teeth, and she makes a horrible heaving noise. Phoenix closes his eyes when the wide circle of her mouth, its ring of teeth, starts expanding, and the second gagging sound is drowned out by a heavy thud. With the impact, the floor near Phoenix's feet vibrates.

He opens his eyes.

Before them, picking himself up from where he lays sprawled on the floor, is a man - the bellboy, Phoenix realizes, the uniform and the black gloves and the monocle and the scar down his face. It's a distinctive appearance but somehow if Phoenix had tried to bring it to mind a moment ago, he doesn't think he could have. (There is some sort of magic in forgettability, Maya said once, about the one prosecutor that Phoenix can't remember except that his hair was stupid.)

"You know," the man, the kidnapper, says, adjusting his monocle and slowly standing, dusting off his jacket, "Something I like to say is that people are often not what they appear to be, but you, madam" - he inclines his head to Maya like she didn't just vomit him back into existence entirely unharmed, and when Phoenix looks at her, she is still patchily somewhere between fae and human in appearance - "have informed me that perhaps I have become lax in how I take heed of my own words."

He has small, heavy-lidded eyes that Phoenix can't tell the color of, but with the Sight, there is nothing for Phoenix to see to signify that he has it - and that they look to this kidnapper any more than this half-human horror and an ordinary man and an ordinary little girl, all standing in a bathroom. What must he be thinking right now?

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a course of action I must reconsider, and" - he bows, this time, again to Maya - "may we never meet again."

By the time Phoenix processes exactly all of this - that Maya eating someone doesn't necessarily mean that she killed him, and that the kidnapper seems to have taken this remarkably in stride - and realizes that, Maya's wrath or no, that man is a kidnapper and there is hotel security that needs to be alerted to this situation - "Hey! Wait!" - he is long gone, and Phoenix is standing outside a restroom about a dozen yards from a crime scene.

A murder and an attempted kidnapping. What a night.

“Hey, Nick.” Maya is on the threshold, still leaning heavily on the wall, her hair still darkly wisping, but her skin has smoothed over and her eyes merely look bloodshot. “Pearly said there was a murder? Let’s check it out!”

“The Jammin’ Ninja was killed,” Phoenix says, unable to actually remember the names of the actors, “and the Nickel Samurai is under suspicion.”

“Then we have to do something!” Maya pushes herself up off the wall and stands triumphantly with her fists raised for about a second before stumbling forward and nearly knocking Phoenix off his feet. He staggers and winces as her claws dig into his arm in her attempts to regain stability. “You have to defend him, Nick!”

Is he seriously going to get badgered into defending another one of her favorite TV heroes? “I do?”

“Yes! I nearly died, Nick! Do it for me!”

“You did not nearly--”

“Nick! You’re a defense attorney! You have to! He’s a hero! The Nickel Samurai would never!”

He can feel his Nick the cultural translator persona clawing its way to the front of his skull again. “Maya - you do know that these TV shows are fiction, right?”

[phroyd]

Scott Beierle, 40, was named by Tallahassee Police as the shooter who opened fire inside the Hot Yoga Tallahassee studio, killing two and injuring four other women and a man.

Those killed were named as Dr. Nancy Van Vessem, 61, who worked at Florida State University’s College of Medicine, and FSU student Maura Binkley, 21.

On a YouTube channel in 2014, Beierle filmed several videos of himself offering extremely racist and misogynistic opinions, in which he called women “sluts” and “whores,” and lamented “the collective treachery” of girls he went to high school with.

“There are whores in — not only every city, not only every town, but every village,” he said, referring to women in interracial relationships, whom he said had betrayed “their blood.”

Officer Damon Miller of the Tallahassee Police Department said he could not tell BuzzFeed News whether women were specifically targeted in the attack or whether these online posts were the subject of detectives’ inquiries.

“Everything that he has a connection to we’re investigating right now,” Miller said.

Police said they were still investigating a motive, but noted Beierle had previously been investigated for harassing women.

In one video called “Plight of the Adolescent Male,” he named Elliot Rodger, who killed six people and injured 14 and is often seen as a hero for so-called incels, or those who consider themselves “involuntarily celibate.”

“I’d like to send a message now to the adolescent males ... that are in the position, the situation, the disposition of Elliot Rodger, of not getting any, no love, no nothing. This endless wasteland that breeds this longing and this frustration. That was me, certainly, as an adolescent,” he said.

This is the second deadly attack this year in which Rodger has been mentioned by the suspected assailant. A man who wrote anti-women references on his Facebook account allegedly killed 10 people in Toronto in April when he drove his van into a crowd. “The Incel Rebellion has already begun!” Alek Minassian wrote on Facebook prior to the attack in a post that also mentioned “the Supreme Gentleman Elliot Rodger!”

Another of Beierle’s 2014 videos was titled “The Rebirth of my Misogynism,” and featured him listing the names of women — from eighth grade until his time in the Army — whom he said caused his “rebirth.” (A Pentagon spokesperson told BuzzFeed News Beierle served from 2008 to 2010).

In the video he said women were capable of “treachery” and “lying.” He spoke aggressively about women giving him their phone number even when they had a boyfriend, and how angry it made him. He also mentioned a girl who cancelled dates on him. “I could have ripped her head off,” he said.

Unlike the YouTube videos, his songs on Soundcloud were all uploaded in the last few months. Shortly before Friday’s shooting, Beierle uploaded one song called “Fuck ’Em All,” with the lyrics: “To hell with the boss that won’t get off my back / To hell with the girl I can’t get in the sack.”

Another song, called “Nobody’s Type,” featured him lamenting that women didn’t find him attractive. “I’m no athletic shark. I’m not a physical specimen. I don’t win the trophies and medals. Nobody stands in awe of me,” he sang.

In “American Wigger,” he sang that he would “blow off” the head of a woman he referred to using the c-word. The song “Locked in My Basement” featured an extremely disturbing tale of Beierle holding a woman prisoner in his basement using chains so he can rape her.

Other songs were entitled “Who Let the Fags Out?” and “Bring Your Fatwa.”

After this story was published, all the videos were removed from YouTube. “This account has been terminated due to multiple or severe violations of YouTube’s policy on violence,” read a disclaimer on the site.

A YouTube spokesperson told BuzzFeed News the account "only had 3 subscribers and 17 videos uploaded in 2014" and that none of the videos had been previously flagged.

"Because of multiple violations of our community guidelines, the account has now been terminated in line with our three-strikes policy," the spokesperson said in an email.

Soundcloud didn’t immediately respond to requests for comment.

Beierle’s political affiliations were not immediately clear, but he was highly critical of the Obama administration in his 2014 videos. In one video, he said that he resented having to subsidize as a taxpayer “the casual sex lives of slutty girls” through the Affordable Care Act’s contraception provisions. In the same video he also criticized “the invasion of Central American children” in the US that year and said the migrants seeking asylum should be deported on barges.

The Tallahassee shooting comes after a spate of deadly violence from the far right in the past two weeks. On Oct. 27, a far-right extremist shouting anti-Semitic phrases opened fire in a Pittsburgh synagogue, killing 11. That came just three days after a man shot dead two black people in Louisville, Kentucky, in an attack authorities have described as a hate crime.

In a punk song he made called “Don’t Shame,” Beierle sang of walking into a girl’s locker room and going on an “ass-grabbing rampage of underage girls.” He also spoke about grabbing women in the song “Handful of Bare Ass.” TheTallahassee Democrat newspaper reported he had been arrested in 2012 and 2016 for grabbing women’s buttocks without their consent.

In the 2016 incident, Beierle told a young woman who was laying out at the pool of an apartment complex that she had "a nice butt," according to the police report.

"She thanked him and he offered to put sunscreen on it," the police report said. "She told him no thank you, she did not need it."

Beierle then asked her name and said it was nice to meet her. He then "slapped her butt, and grabbed it and then shock [sic] it," the report said.

Prosecutors eventually dropped charges in both cases, according to the newspaper.

“I have no shame, but this is to blame. I would do anything. I just don’t care. I have no fear of any consequences,” Beierle sang in his song.

“I am pro-death,” the song continued. “The more that die the merrier.”

Stephanie K. Baer contributed reporting.

Phroyd

[nctsukashii-archive-blog]

🌻

Let me tell you whatever the fuck I want.

I love debating, as I’ve mentioned before, so let’s talk about something in connection to that!

Gish Galloping is something you’ve probably seen in arguments before, or unfortunately have had done to you. This is when, in an argument, someone will try to overwhelm their opponent with arguments rather than actually try to argue about the original topic. It’s basically trying to overload someone with statements that they have to refute rather than letting them actually talk, which makes it a really sleazy trick in debating. 

Think of it as kind of like forcing someone into a panic attack by overstimulating them. By repeatedly barraging someone with questions and accusations- you make someone panic so they start spouting things out to make their opponent be quiet and to defend themselves. As a result the person being attacked can end up looking like the ‘childish’ one for ‘not being able to handle a debate’. This is a trick generally used to make people look like fools, as they tend to repeat themselves more often and yell more, as well as just openly panic or cry. It can also be used in court to make someone talk, as when someone is panicking they tend to not think the clearest and can end up giving away information that they otherwise would have kept secret. You can see prosecutors doing this a lot, as this is a trick which makes people just say whatever to get out of the conversation faster, which sometimes means just agreeing with whatever someone says to make them shut up. Hence why people that do it are generally regarded as assholes, or just overall disgusting people.

Under the cut, but I also wanna take a small swing at who out of the main 3 games could probably do it well. Not including the anime or UDG just because I don’t think I’m too well versed in those to answer them well.

DR.1

Naegi: Naegi’s more of a “find the flaws” kind in debating. He’d look for faults in statements rather than trying to subdue his opponent. That and I don’t think he just has the heart in him to be so ruthless lmao. So no, he can’t do it.Sayaka: I want to say that she can’t do it the best. She’s prolly had to fight tooth and nail for her status as an idol, meaning she can take it really well, but she prolly can’t dish it out. While again, having to fight for her job, I don’t think this is a trick she would have probably used.Leon: This guy is one that would be gish galloped easily. Not a good debater, just because he doesn’t really have the type of motivation to argue with someone about anything because why would he when he’s right? lmao.Chihiro: Bruh Chihiro can’t hurt anyone’s feelings, so why do you think Chihiro would ever gish gallop? How dare you.Mondo: Mondo can’t debate for his life without getting pissed off when someone uses words that make them sound smart. He’s not a talking type of guy, so he prolly can’t do it.Celes: She could do it. Probably only to people that haven’t spent years looking at a dictionary, but she has a sharp tongue that she actually does try to use in the trial! Hence by bringing up subjects like the camera or the times- she’s purposefully trying to lead people off track with these kinds of questions. She doesn’t do it quickly enough for it to work well, but she tried and I’ll give her that.Ishimaru: Any form of dishonest debate probably riles him up to no end, and the idea of overwhelming a person rather than truly debating with them is not something he likes. He hates the idea, and even though he’s loud and passionate he’d never try to overwhelm someone with information. Hifumi: I could see him do it about anime, but not anything serious. Like, if he knows he’s getting outplayed in an anime debate, he’d ask shit about weird filler episodes or bg characters just to make someone look like a fool. Sakura: She’s honorable as fuck, and while I believe she’d stand up for what she believes is true, wouldn’t be one to debate on what idea is truly ‘right’ in a sense. So no, she wouldn’t do it either.Mukuro: Considering how stone cold she can be, I wanted to say yes, but I also remember she can’t talk for shit. She’d prolly just stab someone rather than debate with them, so no, gish galloping is not her strong suit.Junko: Considering her talent, she could do it with ease and know exactly what to say to make someone just the absolute right amount of pissed off.Togami: He could do it. He would do it and use a big vocab to make someone really pissy too, because he’s that type of guy. Aoi: She’s not a debater, so no, I don’t think so. And she’s too nice, because even tho she can’t debate she’d want to use facts! Playing w/ someone’s feelings is mean.Fukawa: No, because why would she debate with people? They already hate her, so fuck their opinions, why should she care?Sho: Also no, she much like Mukuro, is the stabby type. Not because she can’t talk, but she just hates sitting around doing nothing when she could be stabbing a hot guy.Kirigiri: She could do it, I definitely believe she could, but she wouldn’t because it doesn’t line up with her morals.Hagakure: I could see him doing it to dodge having to pay some debt. Instead of topics related to the debate at hand he’d just ask shit like how the weather is or something until he annoys the other person so much he makes them yell at him to go away. He’s the Bugs kinda guy, “rabbit season duck season” kinda tactic.

SD.R2

Hinata: ERRrr no. He’s stubborn and sassy, but he’s not like, actively gunna go out of his way to do that to people. He’s just a normal dude, honestly he’d hate to argue w/ some ultimates that way. Souda: Nope. He has it done to him more than anything, and his tongue gets too tied for him to really debate well either. Have you seen him argue? dude just can’t.Gundam: He’d probably end up doing it to someone accidentally, like just by being himself with his speaking style and everything he could probably just naturally overwhelm someone that way. lol.Sonia: She could, just because as a princess she was probably told to look out for that kinda thing by reporters or interviewers or people, but she wouldn’t do it because it’s a dirty trick.Twogami: Despite his attitude, I don’t think so. Twogami’s just too nice to actually do that to someone, lmao.Ibuki: Nah. She’s too nice to do it intentionally, but I could see her doing it accidentally to someone just by being her hyperactive self.Saionji: Yes. She would do it just because it makes people panic. Can’t fight back if they can’t speak right? Mikan: I want to say that she could, but unless she was playing her cards right she wouldn’t be able to. Her nature gets in the way of it, just because she stutters so often, but considering everything else I do believe she has the potential to.Teruteru: Can’t. He wants to say he can, but he can’t. He’s too softhearted to do something like that, and even if he tried he’d be bad at it. Akane: Also can’t, just because she’s a punch first kind rather than debate kind.Chiaki: Too tired to debate, but she’d not be the best considering her slow speaking style. That kinda debate doesn’t jive w/ her well anyways.Komaeda: He’d do it. 100% he’d do it only to test out everyone’s skills as ultimates just because they’d be able to overpower the despair of his trashy conversation skills.Fuyuhiko: He probably could, but he’d rather fight out a problem than debate about it. He’s got a Yakuza image to withhold, and even then I think he’d just consider it kinda scummy.Peko: She prolly wouldn’t just b/c she just goes w/ what Fuyuhiko does. But even then on her own, I don’t think she would. She’s not the type to do that kinda stuff.Mahiru: That’s fuccin rude dog she ain’t no disrespectin thot. She’d talk about things in her angry motherly kinda way, but not ever to the extent of Gish Galloping someone.Nekomaru: Nope, but he’s the encouraging type. He’d rather support someone to follow their dreams than argue with someone. That and he can respect people’s wishes, even if he doesn’t agree with them always. V honorable dude.

V3

Saihara: Nope. Another one that gets too tongue-tied in conversations. That and he wouldn’t- he’s seen other detective’s do it, but it doesn’t sit right with him.Kaito: Has it done to him more than he could ever do it to others. That shit ain’t manly but that’s really just him saying that he can’t do it so that means it’s bad.Kaede: Nope! Too nice to, but even then I don’t think she’d ever be able to do just because it doesn’t jive w/ her well.Kirumi: Given the circumstances, yes; she absolutely could. That’s actually kind of what she does in her Showdown Rebuttal, but with big words rather than actual arguments. Intending to confuse someone rather than actually let them talk. Maki: Nope. Debating isn’t her thing, because she doesn’t really care to debate about anything. Her opinions are hers, others are theirs, and as long as it doesn’t bother her she prolly doesn’t give enough of a fuck to really fight anyone about it. Even then, she’s surprisingly smart when forming rebuttal topics, so I don’t think she would.Ouma: Yes. Ouma absolutely would but mainly just to piss people like Kaito off. Would he use it in like, an actual debate? Debatable in itself, but in stupid arguments he would 100%.Iruma: She tries to sound smart despite not having enough information a lot of the time in trials- she didn’t even know what an alibi was okay tbh I don’t think she’d be good at it. Kiibo: I also don’t think he’d be good at it, just because he doesn’t seem like the type to. If he’s going to debate with someone he’ll do it fair and square.Amami: .......yes.Shinguuji: He could do it, but I don’t think he would unless it’s necessary to. He’d much rather have a proper debate or discussion on something, but if emotions get high he’d turn to it as more of a last resort tactic.Angie: I wanna say yes, purely because I think her only real answer would be “god thinks this” in debates, so she’d just fuckin deadass ask people shit to make them shut up.Tenko: Nope. She’s not a debater either, so she just wouldn’t be good at it. And she’s an emotional gal, why would she want to make someone distraught? Even if they’re a man, that’s a dirty trick, it’d make her no better than those degenerates.Himiko: She’s too lazy to debate tho, so no. She would prolly have it done to her a few times though, just due to not caring about things.Hoshi: I want to say that he probably could, just because he’s had it done to himself before most likely by detectives, but also because he just uses his head often and could realize that he could just say shit to make someone be quiet, but he wouldn’t. He’s not the type to, and it’s uncool in his mind to do that.Gonta: Nope! While he’s not dumb, he wouldn’t be the best at debates just because he thinks he’s dumb, so he’d just nod along to things rather than actually form an argument. Unless it’s about bugs, but even then he’d use facts rather than Gish Gallop someone. Tsumugi: Debate-ably she kinda does it in the 6th trial, with trying to make everyone so overwhelmed they just vote or do anything, so yes, in some circumstances she would. But most of the time, no, she’s not the debating type.

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Right Wing Extremism vs. Islamic Extremism Myth

Recently I have noticed a lot of people on Tumblr and all over social media posting articles that claim right wing extremism is more dangerous than Islamic extremism. They have cherry-picked stats, twisted a few truths and hid some facts to come to this wild conclusion that the left ultimately uses to brush off the epidemic of Islamic extremism today. 

There’s quite a lot of things wrong with this myth. First of all, the idea that right wing extremists are more dangerous than Islamic extremists is based on deaths and completely excludes casualties. They have also limited themselves to attacks in the United States, not worldwide. They have also purposefully excluded the nearly 3,000 deaths (as well as the over 6,000 survivors) that took place on September 11, 2001. They don’t count the 9/11 deaths as that would obviously obliterate their argument so they started counting from 9/12. 

It seems a little misleading to have a discussion about terrorism related deaths in the United States and exclude the most important and largest terror attack in U.S. history, particularly from 2001, it’s not like we’re talking about the 70′s or 80′s, but this nevertheless has become standard practice when they cover these issues. 

They also excluded the large number of attempted attacks. There have been over 50 planned terror plots that have been stopped since 9/11. Feel free to go through them all and tell me how many of these attempts were made by right wing extremists compared to Islamic extremists. 

Do you know what else they left out? The 49 murdered and 53 injured during the Orlando nightclub massacre. Yes, their numbers are conveniently outdated yet they still blindly run with it. 

I mean, there’s no point even continuing as the updated version of their own source shows that Islamic extremism is greatly more dangerous than any other form of extremism in the U.S. But let’s keep going. 

Their such misleading accounting also does nothing to recognize the disproportionately high number of attacks by Islamic extremists in the United States, who even after excluding the victims of 9/11, are still responsible for far more deaths of Americans due to extremism, even though Muslims only account for around 1% of the total U.S. population. Let that sink in. And still, the left refuses to discuss it or even acknowledge it. 

If we are going to compare Islamic extremism to right wing extremism, apples to apples, then why does their source stop counting the Islamic extremism cases after the first nine? There’s no mention of the other endless examples of Islamic extremism within the U.S. Consider the Beltway sniper John Allen Williams, a longtime member of the Nation of Islam, who only one month after 9/11 changed his last name from Williams to Muhammad and after his arrest, he told police that he modeled himself after Osama bin Laden and claimed one of their goals was to extort money from the federal government so they could set up a terrorist training camp in Canada. The Virginia Supreme Court affirmed his death penalty on the basis that he had committed an act of terrorism yet there’s also conveniently no mention of these murders.

There are, unfortunately, many more such examples that have not been included. In Denver, a Muslim man shot four of his co-workers and a swat team member, killing one and claimed he did it because it was “Allah’s choice.” No mention of this murder.

In Binghamton, a Saudi Arabian graduate student named Abdulsalam al-Zahrani killed Richard Antoun, a non-Muslim Islamic studies professor who served on al-Zahrani’s dissertation committee, in revenge for “persecuted” Muslims. Prior to the killing, one of al-Zahrani’s roommates tried to warn the university administration after al-Zahrani had threatened to kill him, “He often mentioned death, he was all the time shouting in Arabic, shouting threats, insulting this country for no reason.” No mention of this murder. 

In Houston, in two separate incidents in January and in November, two Christians were shot dead by a Muslim father and his family because the victims “had a role in the conversion of his daughter to Christianity” and running away with a Christian man. Gelareh Bagherzadeh, a 30-year-old researcher at MD Anderson, was shot to death outside her parents home. Ali Irsan, 57, was charged with capital murder in the case. His wife, Shmou Ali Alrawabdeh, and their 21-year-old son, Nasim, were also charged with murder. Irsan also killed Coty Beavers, his daughter's Christian husband, 10 months after killing Bagherzadeh. The crimes were described an honor killing in court, "Nesreen Irsan would not succumb to her father's complete domination and rule of her. And she left his home without his permission and went into hiding. These two murders are linked by the belief on the defendant's part that his honor as a father and a Muslim has been violated by his daughter, who defied his rule and married a Christian man." No mention of these murders. 

In Richmond California, a Muslim man, Daymond Agnew, killed an Ace Hardware employee by stabbing him seventeen times, claiming he was on a “mission from Allah” and he was "following Allah's direction.” Agnew's Facebook page was filled with religious messages referring to his adherence to Islam, jihadist material as well as pictures of passages in the Quran. No mention of this murder. 

In Houston, Saudi Arabian student Mohammed Ali Alayed, slashed the throat of a Jewish student with a knife, nearly decapitating him. Before the attack, Alayed had undergone a “religious reawakening” and became a strict, devout Muslim and even went to a local mosque after the slaying and had planned to flee to Saudi Arabia to avoid prosecution. The court were forced to set Alayed's bail at $5 million after prosecutors said they feared the Saudi Arabian government would help post his bond after the Saudi consulate had already posted previous bonds for Alayed. No mention of this murder. 

It seems these few small examples (and many others) should have certainly counted as victims of violent Islamic extremism, but they were not included in the left’s attempt to take the focus away from the threat of Islamic extremism and make Islamic extremism a little bit easier to just “live with.” 

It all becomes very misleading when they exclude almost every American’s deaths of Islamic extremism but this is the only way to come up with a number that suits their argument.

This is not to dismiss the threat of non-Islamic extremism, it’s about keeping the debate factual and honest, something those who spread this claim clearly have little regard for. The moment you apply equal standards and remove the convenient restrictions, then the raw and unfiltered numbers of deaths of Americans due to Islamic extremism in the United States over the last fifteen years absolutely dwarf the numbers attributable to any other form of extremism.

If we move beyond America’s borders, then the disparity becomes sickeningly far greater, with somewhere around 90% of the world’s terrorism related deaths attributable to Islamic extremism, and only a fraction of 1% attributable to right wing extremism. So the next time they tell you that you should be more afraid of Trump supporters than Muslims as “right wing extremism is more dangerous than Islamic extremism,” you can now prove them to be the terrorist apologist fucking morons that they so shamefully are.