#front of a court and a judge and a jury.)

[dipperscavern]

“i'm so sorry dippy but streets say—“

[light-wrath-paradise]

Me showing DSAF to an acquaintance who has only heard of it like: "You will get depression due to this later. Anyway this is my primordial pet freak, he has killed hundreds of people and will kill again and I think he should be locked in a controlled environment forever. Oh no not for his crimes. It's because I want to study him like a bug forever. Perhaps break his bones one by one... Anyway when I draw him drawing is actually fun and doesn't feel like a stressful performance."

[chaoticwriting]

Part 2

Danny x Cass part 3

Superman floats a little higher, gaining everyone's attention.

"Calm down everyone. We don't have time for gossip or conflict right now. We don't know when Trigon or Darkseid are coming. Let's hold this discussion for later."

All the heroes immediately collected themselves after the chaos just now. Spoiler is still looking at Danny and Cass with her big grin while Red Robin is beside her, still typing God knows what. Cass tries to play it cool but Danny can feel how ashamed she feels when Danny replies just now.

Danny decides to not torment her girlfriend anymore and distract the hero from the topic all together. He let go of her hand and steps forward towards Superman. Superman is alarmed at Danny's sudden movement but decides to not make any move since at least currently Danny counts as an ally force. And god do they need him.

"So before I do anything, I want to ask. On a scale of 1-10 how badly should I beat up Trigon and Darkseid?"

Danny's question raises a few eyebrows from the crowd. Diana decides to speak up when she sees Superman looks a little lost at the question.

"May I know what the extent of the scale is?"

"Ah yes. 1 is I just mildly scares them off and 10 is I ended them."

"Ended?"

"I will completely kill them. With no chance of resurrection or reincarnation."

All the heroes look at the big 3 for the answer. This kind of big decision, although are usually discussed, will in the end be made by the big 3. Diana looks at Superman and sees that he has no opinion on this matter. Diana then looks at Batman and sees that he is also fine with whatever the result is.

All of them have worked together for so long that they all know each other enough. If it is up to Diana to make a decision, then 10 is the answer. Which is surprising since Batman has a no kill rule.

"I prohibited killing because we are not the judge, the jury and the executioner. We are heroes. But from Danny's title, he has the power and right to enforce it."

Diana gives a nod, understanding her friend's reasoning. The other heroes look at Batman like he is an imposter playing Batman. Even his kids are confused.

"You are correct. I do have the right to enforce the rule. But I don't usually end someone like this because usually I would need to take it to the court to discuss the proper punishment. But I already discussed with them and they decide to follow whatever my decision is." Danny replies.

Danny then snaps his finger and opens another portal. A man, much taller than Danny steps out of the portal in full armor. His face looks almost identical to Danny if not for is blazing hair and red eyes.

"This is Dan. My brother and the Head Knight. He will handle Darkseid while I will handle Trigon."

Danny opens 2 more portals and Dan enters into 1 without even looking back. Just as Danny about to enter the other portal, a girl rushes out of the portal Dan just came out of and tackles Danny.

Danny immediately floats so that he will not trip and embarrassed himself in front of the other heroes and looks angrily at the girl that just tackles him.

"Elle! What the hell?!"

"How dare you bring Dan out to play but don't invite me?" Elle replies loudly. If Dan looks a little the same as Danny before this, this girl might be mistaken for Danny if not for the fact she is a girl and a little shorter than Danny.

"I wasn't bringing him to play. This is work you know. Didn't you say don't call you if it's not important?" Danny replies.

"You allow him to go beat up some old man. And you are about to go to another dimension without me. You never invite me whenever you are about to go on a trip like this."

"Ugghh, fine. But it is only a short trip. And I was gonna send a clone instead of going myself. You can follow but you need to stay near me."

"You know you can stop babying me. I am a grown woman now. I can take care of myself."

"I will stop babying you if you can either beat me in a fight or grows taller than Dan."

"Hey! That's not fair. You know I can't do both."

"Is it a me problem or a you problem you can't do either?"

"Fuck you!"

"Do not use that tone to speak to me young lady."

"You're not my dad."

"Tell that Plasmius."

"I hate you."

"I love you too."

Danny then makes a clone and lets the clone drag Elle into the other portal. Elle flips her finger at Danny and he just smiles and waves at her. When she is gone, Danny closes all portals. Just in case any of his other friends decide that crashing into this 'party' would be fun.

Danny then turns towards the crowd of heroes and just smiles at them. Diana decides to ask since she sees none of her friends are doing it.

"May I know Danny, who is that girl?"

"Oh Elle? She is my daughter/sister/cousin. Our relationship changes depends on the situation but we are practically family."

Some of the heroes have already made a few theories about why their relationship is that complicated before Danny clarifies it to them.

"She is a clone of me. I got cloned by a certain frootloop a few years ago. We have a rocky relationship at first since she tried to kidnap me but I don't blame her. She practically got indoctrinated by that frootloop that the only way for her to live is for her to capture me. After that incident we become families and things have been going great since then."

"Are you not uncomfortable with someone cloning you, Danny?" Superman voices his doubt.

"Oh certainly. When I knew I was getting cloned, I destroyed all the lab devices and beat up the frootloop that cloned me. But what can I do? I can't blame Elle for being born. It's like blaming a knife for stabbing me. Blame the stabber, not the knife."

Superman can feel a few pointed looks coming his way but years as a professional hero and journalist has thickened his face enough for him to just get back into the crowd.

"Anyway, now that the problem has been dealt with. How about we have some snacks while waiting? I heard from a certain someone that the food at the Watchtower is great."

Cass can feel a few glares from the crowd primarily from his father and Steph. She pretends she is checking her utility belt and she doesn't hear anything Danny says.

"Of course, Danny. The food is the pantry. How about we move our chatter there?"

"Sure."

Suddenly 2 rings of light appears around Danny and his body starts to transform. When the lights disappear, the man before them now has what the batkids would call the adoption bait. A young man with black hair and blue eyes stands in front of them confidently. To say they are stunned is an understatement but they are heroes and magical transformation wasn't something too new for them.

Diana and Clark lead the way with Danny and Cass walking side by side holding hands. All four of them can hear a commotion in the back and an intense hostile glare coming from someone towards Danny. The bat family follows closely behind them leaving the rest of the heroes in the meeting room. They know where to not poke their nose especially since Batman is glaring like he might actually kill someone that follows them.

Part 4

[deposedefenddeny]

Some legal experts contend prosecutors in New York overreached by charging Mangione with terrorism in the indictment. One criminal defense attorney, Stacy Schneider, told CNN’s Jake Tapper on Tuesday prosecutors might face more challenges proving that argument in court. “This victim was shot in the back of the head, not the front of the head, on a quiet sidewalk, early in the morning, in the dark. It doesn’t appear from a defense attorney’s perspective that this was intended to be a terroristic type of murder,” Schneider said. Mangione’s defense team, according to Schneider, could move to dismiss the top count of murder against him, arguing the reactions following the killing were “unintended consequences.” “The murder happened first, the outcry was second and totally unpredictable,” Schneider said. “So, I think this might be a case of overreaching on murder one.” Including terrorism in the indictment – making Mangione eligible for life imprisonment – may be part of a broader strategy by the district attorney, according to former federal prosecutor Jessica Roth. “By including that, the district attorney is setting up the conditions for a plea to a lesser charge where he has the possibility of, at some point, getting out of prison,” Roth said Tuesday on Anderson Cooper 360. “If there isn’t a plea, it’s also setting up the condition for a jury compromise on that lesser charge,” Roth added. The two-pronged prosecution is a strategy [Manhattan District Attorney Alvin Bragg] employed unsuccessfully in another high-profile case this year. Daniel Penny was charged with both second-degree manslaughter and criminally negligent homicide in the death of Jordan Neely, who Penny restrained with a chokehold, later saying he felt threatened by Neely’s erratic behavior on the New York subway. The jury was instructed to consider the two charges separately, beginning with the more serious charge. Ultimately, they deadlocked on the manslaughter count and the judge dismissed the charge at the request of prosecutors, allowing them to consider the criminally negligent homicide charge. The jury then found Penny not guilty of the lesser charge. [...] Throwing the book at Mangione risks backlash from the public, which in some corners has treated the murder suspect as a folk hero, said criminal defense attorney Jeremy Saland, who is not representing Mangione. “If you kill a police officer, that’s one thing. If you kill a witness to a crime, that’s something else, too, that would rise to this first-degree homicide or murder,” Saland told CNN’s John Berman. “If I’m someone whose brother or sister or sibling was murdered on the street, why should a CEO’s murder be treated differently than my loved one?”

CNN on Dec 18, 11:11 a.m. ET

[punkshort]

somewhere to run | 13. the trial pt.2

Pairing: sheriff!Joel x f!reader

Chapter Summary: The trial comes to an end and you go back to your life before.

Chapter Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, smut (18+ MDNI), bath sex, piv (somewhat) unprotected sex, breeding kink?, language, dirty talk, parental emotional abuse, oral sex (f receiving)

WC: 11.9K

A/N: Beginning was inspired by this anon ask a while back - thank you! Also, please excuse my shitty law expertise. I have no idea if what I'm writing is actually factual because I got my law degree from movies and TV.

Series Masterlist

Joel's entire body ached.

Under normal circumstances, he hated testifying in court. It was a long process, the benches were always uncomfortable, and by the end of the day his back was screaming at him. But this time, it was worse. His muscles were tense all day, twitching just underneath his shirt as he had to listen to every excruciating detail of what that monster put you through. By the time Madeline called him to the stand, he thought he would snap in half from the pressure. He remained tense throughout her questioning, but he was experienced enough to not allow his stress to show. He knew that it was too important and he needed to be the best possible witness he could be. He even made a point of trying to rein in his accent so he sounded more professional to the jury.

But all of that flew out the window when Beckett fucking Kennedy began his line of questioning.

Sheriff, have you ever had sex with the plaintiff?

Madeline leapt up from her chair, yelling objections at the judge while her and Beckett argued over the relevance of his question. Joel stared straight ahead, patiently waiting for the argument to settle. He knew this might happen, and they prepared for it.

"You better be going somewhere with this," the judge had warned Beckett before allowing Joel to answer.

"Yes," he had replied through gritted teeth.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw members of the jury shift in their chairs and a murmur ripple through the crowd. The judge tapped his gavel, reminding the room to be silent, before nodding at Beckett to continue.

"When was the first time?" Beckett asked, his eyes bright, knowing he had Joel right where he wanted him.

Joel hesitated, trying to remind himself to give as little information as possible, but it was going to sound bad any way he sliced it.

"The evening the plaintiff gave her statement."

Beckett raised his eyebrows at Joel and gave the jury a disbelieving look.

"The same evening she had all these injuries you've accused my client of inflicting?"

They didn't prepare for that. No, Maddy certainly didn't expect this sleazeball to accuse Joel of inflicting any type of harm on you, and something in him snapped.

"Are you tryin' to say I did that-" he pointed at the now blank monitor, "to her? I wouldn't lay a finger on her!" His voice was too loud. His blood was boiling. He was seeing red and he knew he was losing control. You had curled your hand into a fist and pressed it anxiously against your mouth. Madeline caught his attention and narrowed her eyes and he took a deep breath.

"But you did. You just admitted to having sex with her that evening, so by definition you laid a finger on her," Beckett said, clearly pleased he was getting under Joel's skin. Luckily, before Joel could reply, the judge intervened.

"Move on, counselor."

Beckett slowly paced in front of his own table. Patrick sat back in his chair with a stupid smirk plastered across his face while Beckett readied his next question.

"Can you describe the nature of your sexual relations that night?"

"Objection!" Madeline yelled, standing up from her chair.

"Sustained," the judge said, frowning at Beckett.

"I'll rephrase," he said, and Joel could feel his blood pressure rising. "Did you have what could be considered rough sex with the plaintiff?"

A few women behind the benches gasped quietly to themselves, as well as a few jurors at the unexpected, and inappropriate, question.

"No."

"Are you sure about that, sheriff?"

"Yes, I was there. I'm sure." Joel said, staring daggers at Beckett now.

Beckett hummed and continued to pace thoughtfully, purposely dragging out the questions so it would annoy him. And it was working.

"Are you currently in a relationship with the plaintiff?"

Joel swallowed and ticked his jaw to the side. "No."

"Really?" Beckett asked, raising his eyebrows curiously as he paused in front of the bench. "When was the last time you had sex with the plaintiff?"

Joel sighed and couldn't help but meet your gaze. He could see the anguish all over your face, the tears welling up in your eyes, knowing he was going to have to answer honestly and what it could mean for you both.

"A month or so ago."

Madeline glared at him over her glasses and he knew she was already planning on giving him an earful for not warning her, but he didn't care. He just needed to get this over with.

"Sounds like a relationship to me," Beckett said.

"Objection."

"Sustained."

Another excruciating fifteen minutes crawled by where Beckett lobbed question after question at Joel, building up an image of him in front of the jury as a man who wielded his power as town sheriff to target his client so that he could run off with his wife. Joel did the best he could, but he felt like he was failing. Once Beckett sat down, announcing he was through, Madeline stood up.

"Redirect, your honor."

The judge nodded and Madeline stood in front of him once again, staring him down.

"The evening the defendant was arrested for being drunk and disorderly, who swung first?"

"The defendant did."

"Was the plaintiff there at the time?" Madeline asked, and Joel shook his head.

"No, ma'am."

"Did you have any idea at that point in time what the defendant had allegedly done to the plaintiff?"

"No, ma'am."

"So it sounds to me like you were just doing your job, is that correct, sheriff?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"No further questions," Madeline said, then turned on her heel to sit back down beside you.

He could feel Michelle's eyes on him when he stood up from the stand and it made him want to squirm. He could only imagine the shit she had to say about all this. She had tried to stop him after court adjourned for the day, but he was too pissed off. He stormed out of the courtroom, not even bothering to wait for you or Madeline.

He regretted leaving you the moment he stepped foot outside, but he knew he couldn't be seen with you. Not in that room. Not after the line of questioning Beckett pummeled him with. So instead, he found himself all alone in the nearest drugstore, picking up a box of Epsom salts and a bottle of extra strength Tylenol. The hotel was a short distance away on foot, but his back and hips were killing him after everything he had been through. Every step felt like torture. His head pounded so loudly he could hardly focus, his jaw clenched so tightly he thought he would crack a tooth. It was times like this he wished he was more of a drinker.

He quickly shed his jacket and belt and headed into the bathroom, running the water as hot as his skin would allow and pouring in a generous amount of Epsom salts before taking off the rest of his clothes and leaving them in a wrinkled pile on the floor. He slipped into the bath with a groan, instantly finding some relief from the heat, and closed his eyes.

He had brought his phone into the bathroom, but it sat silently on the tile floor next to the tub. He couldn't imagine you or Madeline or Michelle or anybody would want to reach out to him at that moment, but just in case you did want to talk, or if Sarah needed something, he kept it close by.

He took a deep breath, his eyes still closed as he let his mind wander and allowed the bath to relax his aching body. What he wouldn't give to have you there with him right now. He just wanted to be with you so badly, even if you weren't doing anything, even if you were just in the same room, that's all he wanted. Just to be breathing the same air as you would be more than enough.

His tired mind heard a click, then the shuffling of feet on carpet. His eyes cracked open just as the door slowly swung into the room, and relief flooded his veins when he saw your face.

"How'd you get in here?" he asked with a lazy smile, his eyes raking up and down your body. You grinned down at him but didn't say a word, just took a hesitant step towards him with your perfect lower lip tucked between your teeth. "You walked around the hotel wearin' just that?" he asked, eyeing the short, white silk teddy you were wearing.

"Mhm," you hummed, kneeling down in front of the tub and dipping your hand into the water. "Feels nice."

"You wanna get in?"

"Yes," you said breathlessly, standing up to lift the teddy over your head, revealing your naked body to him, and he groaned.

"Fuck, you're so perfect," he mumbled, reaching his hands up to steady you as you stepped carefully into the tub to join him.

"It was such a hard day," you cooed, your hands drifting up his arms, fingers sending goosebumps all over his skin, and he nodded. "Can I help you relax?"

"Yes," he whispered, tilting his head back with a sigh when your hand dipped below the water, slowly dragging down his stomach before reaching his cock. He moaned softly when your delicate little fingers wrapped around him and began to pump him leisurely under the water.

You shifted so your thighs straddled his lap, your hand never leaving his throbbing length, and slowly sank yourself down onto him.

"Ohmygod," you whined, your hands gripping the sides of his head now, water dripping down his cheeks while you slowly began to rock your hips against him. His hands wrapped around your waist, pulling you close and squeezing your ass.

"I love you," he moaned, not caring anymore. "I love you so much, I'll do anythin' for you," he rambled as you sped up, the both of you beginning to pant for air.

"I know. I love you too, Joel," you told him, your fingers creeping up to get tangled in his hair. He nuzzled his face against your neck, basking in your touch as you continued to bounce up and down, bringing him closer and closer.

"Nothin' can keep us apart, you hear me?" he mumbled into your skin. "Wanna be with you forever. Wanna make you mine. Wanna give you a baby." He groaned when you whimpered and gave his hair a firm tug. "Would you like that? Want me to fuck you so good you have my baby?"

"Yes!" you cried out as you clenched around him, little moans falling from those perfect lips as he continued to fuck up into you, muttering praise in your ear until he came so hard and so fast it made him lightheaded.

But when he opened his eyes, you vanished. He was still alone in the bath, surrounded by lukewarm water and his fist gripping his softening cock as his breathing began to stabilize. With a grimace, he turned the knob to drain the tub and stood up, snatching a towel off the bar and wiping himself down quickly before stepping out.

He leaned over the sink, staring at his reflection in the foggy mirror. His eyes looked tired. He felt tired. His shoulders sagged but his head and muscles felt marginally better.

He would never forgive himself if he ruined this for you. He fucking knew better. Everyone warned him but he actually convinced himself no one would find out, and now everything was out in the open. Everything was on the record.

He didn't even want to think what this would mean for his own legal trouble with Patrick. Dan said it could cost him his job, and he didn't really believe it until today. He felt the panic begin to swell in his chest and he pushed away from the sink, disgusted and unable to look at himself anymore. Grabbing his phone, he strolled out of the bathroom with only a towel around his waist before flopping tiredly on the bed.

He wanted to call you. He needed to hear your voice. He wanted you to make him feel better, but he couldn't bring himself to call. He was too ashamed of himself. Ashamed for letting his feelings get in the way of something so fucking important to you. Ashamed for the way he behaved in court. Ashamed for the way he left you.

He didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve to have you soothe him. He fucking knew better. He should have put a stop to this thing with you. He never should have started it in the first place. Not when so much was at stake. But he just couldn't control himself. He couldn't fucking stop.

As he laid there, clad in only a towel while the TV droned on in the background, he wondered what you were doing. Were you upset? Were you mad at him? Fuck, he should really call you. Not to ease his own mind but to make sure you were okay. But when he picked up his phone, it rang in his hand. And when he saw Maddy's name pop up, he couldn't help but think she must have somehow known what he was about to do and she was putting a stop to it.

"Hey," he said into the phone, bracing himself for the lecture. He deserved it. He wasn't going to hide from it. "I know you're pissed, and I'm sorry. I should've told you-"

"I'm not calling about that, although I will kick your ass for that later, mark my words," she scolded, and he sat up on the bed, his interest piqued. "Are you sitting down?"

"Yes," he said, his heart beginning to thrum faster in his chest.

"Guess who I just got a call from?"

"Who?"

"Nina fucking Hoffman," she said triumphantly on the other end. Joel's lips parted in surprise and his eyes darted around the room, trying to catch up with what that meant.

"What'd she say?" he asked nervously.

"She said she's changed her mind and she spoke to the other girls, and while not all of them are willing to come forward, she did manage to convince three others," Madeline said hurriedly, and he could hear the excitement in her voice.

"H-how did she find the others? I didn't share their information with her, Maddy, I swear-"

"The Trojan horse himself, Officer Bates, reached out to a few of the girls and tried to help us out," she said, and he could tell she was grinning.

Officer Bates. A man who worked in the same precinct as Patrick and witnessed what he had been doing, had contacted Madeline to inform her there's been other girls, which prompted Madeline to call Joel that sent him on a wild goose chase in Philadelphia that he thought ended up being a lost cause, but apparently not.

"You know what the best part is?" she asked excitedly. Madeline never acted like this. She was always matter of fact and level headed. Whatever was happening was huge, and Joel began to feel the weight being lifted from his chest.

"What?"

"There's video evidence, Joel. Fucking video! I'm looking at it right now. Time stamped and everything. Faces clear as day... apparently one of these girls had a nanny cam in her apartment."

Joel sucked in a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Tell me we got 'em, Maddy."

"We got him, Joel."

He let out a shaky breath, his heart hammering like crazy now. He didn't fuck everything up. You're going to win and, most importantly, you'll be safe. His hands were trembling so badly that he had to set his phone down and put it on speaker.

"What's the next move?" he asked, standing up to get fresh clothes. "What d'you need me to do?"

"Nothing," she said, and he heard her tapping on her keyboard in the background. "I'm going to use this as leverage. I'm waiting for Kennedy to call me back and I'm going to try to strike a deal and end this."

"A deal?" Joel repeated, standing up from his suitcase, which was spread open on the floor.

"Yes, a deal. Don't you want this to end or do you really want me to put her up on the stand tomorrow? After you couldn't keep your dick in your pants? You really want that asshole to put on a repeat performance?" she snapped.

He winced, but knew he deserved it, so he remained silent.

"Besides, it's a miracle these other women are willing to go on the record as it is. Putting them up on the stand will just traumatize them further."

"Does she know?" he asked.

"No! And don't you go telling her until I know this is wrapped up. If this doesn't work, I can't have her getting her hopes up," she said sternly.

After he hung up with Maddy, he finally started to feel some relief. Maybe he actually made a difference going to Philadelphia. But ultimately he knew all of this wouldn't even be happening without the one cop in Patrick's whole precinct who had a fucking conscience. He knew the officer preferred to remain as anonymous as possible for obvious reasons, but he really had to find a way to thank him.

He stared at his phone for a moment, chewing on his lower lip, his foot tapping anxiously on the carpet. Glancing at the clock to make sure it wasn't too late, he snatched up his phone and tapped on your number. He wasn't going to tell you the news, but he still wanted to talk to you. He needed to make sure you were okay.

"Hello?"

"Hey," he said, a little breathlessly. He was still too excited about the news Madeline had just shared, so he tried to tone it down. "Just wanted to check on you. You doin' okay?"

He heard you shift around and your TV muted in the background.

"I guess so."

"I'm sorry I didn't walk out with you," he began, and he heard you suck in a breath over the phone. "After all that shit, I didn't wanna give them more ammo, y'know?"

You didn't say anything for a moment and his ears strained to read your silence.

"That's it?" you asked.

"What'dya mean?"

"You didn't leave because..." you trailed off and he furrowed his brow.

"Because what?" he urged.

"Because you're rethinking this? Rethinking us?" you asked, and he could hear the tremble in your voice.

"Oh god, baby, no," he breathed. "No, never. Don't think that." He heard you breathe a sigh of relief, but you remained silent. "I'm sorry. I was pissed off, I should've-"

"It's okay," you told him. "It was just a shitty day."

"Yeah," he agreed, rubbing his eyes.

"I'm a little freaked out about tomorrow," you admitted, and he could hear it in your voice: the anxiety and fear that always came out whenever you spoke about Patrick, and some dark part of him wished he could wrap his fingers around that motherfucker's throat to make sure he could never hurt you again.

"It'll be okay," he told you, and now he fully understood why Maddy was going for a deal over a potentially stronger sentence a jury could dole out. You didn't deserve to go through every excruciating detail again, especially in front of a room full of people. People who would just look at you with pity, or judge you for sticking around as long as you did. "Remember what I told you, you just look right at me, okay?"

"But if I do that, won't that make things worse? The jury will see-"

"No, it'll be fine. They won't be able to tell," he said, and he wasn't sure if that was even true, but he just needed to put you at ease. He listened to you breathing on the other end, not saying a word, and it took all his willpower to not knock down every door in the hotel until he found you and scooped you up into his arms.

"But then you have your lawsuit-"

"I told you not to worry 'bout that," he said, his eyebrows pinching together.

"Patrick told me Nikki is going to testify against you, Joel," you told him, and his lips parted in surprise.

"What?"

"He told me this morning. He said she would testify that your feelings for me caused you to approach him at the bar that night."

"That's bullshit," Joel scoffed. "Hank's already stated on the record that he wanted me to escort Patrick outta the bar, and he was the only sober one in the goddamn place. Nikki's not a reliable witness, she was drunk, they're graspin' at straws," he continued as he tried to tamp down the anger growing in his belly.

"I'm so sorry I caused all of this, Joel," you said softly, and when he heard you sniffle, it broke his heart.

"You didn't do anythin', please stop blamin' yourself. None of this is your fault."

"Maybe my mom's right. Maybe if I -"

"Stop right there," Joel said, sitting up straighter now and clenching his jaw. "Nothin' that woman's ever said is right. Get that outta your head right now. Don't let her manipulate you like that. Don't you see you deserve better? You deserve so much more than what these people have given you, and -"

He stopped short, biting the inside of his cheek, trying to hold himself back.

"And what?" you asked after a few moments.

"And... I'm gonna do my best to give you everythin' you deserve," he said, leaving out those three little words that kept jumping to the tip of his tongue.

He heard you let out a shaky breath and readjust on your bed. Fuck, he wished he was there with you right now. He could help you feel better. You were so close, too, but after the day you both had, he couldn't risk making things worse.

"I should probably go," you finally said, your voice sounding so small. "I want to study the questions Madeline's going to ask me once more."

"Okay," he replied, and he could tell he hadn't done much to help your nerves, but he gave it one more shot. "It's gonna be okay. I promise you, this'll all be over soon and we can put this behind us."

"I know," you said, "thank you, Joel. For everything. I know today was really hard."

"It's worth it," he said, and he meant it, but for your sake he really hoped Maddy was striking a deal with Patrick's lawyer at that very same moment.

You had hardly slept and it showed.

It was far too late in the night when you considered taking a sleeping pill, so you just put on the TV and hoped you would get some sleep, but at best you got two hours. Your nerves were a mess. Your stomach was churning so badly that you didn't even trust yourself to eat or drink anything other than water that morning, and to make matters worse, Madeline and Joel were nowhere to be found. So, you found yourself sitting alone at the plaintiff's table, and as the court room began to fill up, you kept turning around in the hopes of seeing one or both of the faces you were looking for. One of those times, your eyes locked with your mother and you quickly turned back around in your seat. It was a good thing you didn't eat anything because you were fairly confident at this point, you would have thrown up all over your hideous blouse.

You: where are you??

You stared down at your unanswered text to Joel. What the hell was going on? You had really hoped today, of all days, they would be there early so you could go over some last minute tips before taking the stand.

You could hear the crowds of people murmuring behind you amongst themselves as the clock ticked closer to nine. The room had gotten too full now, so you stopped looking at the door. It was becoming too embarrassing and you really didn't want to catch your mother's eye again, but you had noticed at least Michelle didn't show up this time.

The door swung open but you remained still, staring down at your list of questions and mentally rehearsing your answers, double checking your notes in the column for certain inflections or physical actions you wanted to take at specific points when you finally heard Joel's voice behind you.

"Hey, sorry I'm late," he said breathlessly, and you swiveled around in your seat.

"Where's Madeline?" you hissed, but he didn't pick up on your agitation. Or if he did, he didn't care because he was grinning. Fucking grinning as you were on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

"She'll be here in a minute," he assured you, crouching down in front of the railing so he could keep your conversation private.

"In a minute? The trial's about to start! What do I do-"

"No, it's not," he said, his brown eyes sparkling as his smile stretched even wider.

"What do you mean?" you asked nervously, your eyes darting around the room at the people patiently waiting.

"It's -"

He was cut off when Madeline swung open the doors to the courtroom, followed closely by Beckett Kennedy, a confident smile sprawled across her face. Beckett dropped his briefcase on his table, and if you didn't know any better, he seemed annoyed. You ignored the bailiff in the corner of the room who ducked back behind the judge's bench to escort Patrick out from his holding cell, joining his lawyer at his table and looking distraught.

"What's going on?" you asked her when she sat down.

"It's over," she told you. You just stared at her, stunned.

"What do you mean?"

"He struck a deal. He's about to change his plea to guilty when the judge arrives. It's all over, hun," Madeline said, squeezing your shoulder. Your jaw dropped and your eyes widened as you looked back and forth between her and Joel, each of them looking elated.

"H-how?" you stammered, and your adrenaline finally caught up with you. Your hands began to shake and your heart slammed in your chest as you waited for an explanation that you were sure you would only absorb half of because you were far too emotional to focus.

"The other girls. A few came forward and gave their statements, and one in particular had video evidence. I presented all of this to Kennedy last night, and he had to review it with his client this morning but they took a deal," Madeline said hurriedly, knowing she was running out of time. "Six years in some cushy cop prison back up north, one of those years mandatory rehab. And," she said, triumphantly pulling a thick stack of papers out of her briefcase, "he signed your divorce papers. You're no longer married."

You gasped, eyes wide as you stared at the papers she dropped onto the desk. You finally tore your gaze away and looked at Joel, tears welling up in your eyes so quickly that you couldn't even read his expression.

"Oh my god," you whispered, turning back to Madeline and shakily covering your mouth with your palm.

"All rise!"

Somehow, you managed to stand on trembling legs and blink back most of your tears until the judge entered the courtroom and sat down, allowing the rest of the room to follow except for Beckett, who remained standing.

"Your honor, may I approach?"

You watched in a daze, trying to take deep breaths to calm yourself down as Patrick's lawyer walked up to the bench, murmured something to the judge, then sat back down. It was all a blur, but the judge announced there would be a change in plea, causing Patrick to stand and say the word you've been waiting to hear for years.

"Guilty."

You clapped your hands over your mouth and the tears began to flow. Madeline's arms wrapped around you as the judge tapped on his gavel, silencing the crowd behind you, and then dismissed the jury.

The bailiff led Patrick away, back into the room he emerged from moments ago, but you didn't notice. Your face was buried in Madeline's shoulder, sobbing your thanks over and over, knowing it would never be enough. Then you turned to Joel, reaching over the railing to wrap your arms around his neck. He squeezed you tightly around your ribs as you breathed in his familiar, comforting scent and you felt some of his own tears getting trapped against your neck.

"It's over," you whispered into his ear, "it's finally over."

By the time you finally collected yourself, most of the room had emptied out into the hallway, carrying with them their shocked murmurs and speculations as to what caused the sudden change in plea. Your eyes were still glimmering with tears as you walked out with Madeline. Joel trailed behind, pausing briefly to shake hands with the bailiff and exchange a few friendly words, before following you out into the hallway. You were dabbing at your cheeks with a tissue Madeline had procured from her purse, your mouth still stretched into a huge smile when he locked eyes with you, his own smile matching yours until he glanced over your shoulder. You could see the subtle change in his expression even from a distance, and your face fell a moment before you heard your mother call out your name.

You swiveled around, your heart getting stuck in your throat as you took her in. Her frail frame stood a few feet away, clutching her purse in front of her. Her makeup was perfectly done, not a hair out of place as she cleared her throat and asked to speak to you privately. By now, Joel had caught up with you. You glanced at Madeline first and then him. He tried to express his support with a small furrow of his brow and a quick nod: I'm here, I'm not going anywhere.

Turning back to your mother, you forced a tight smile and said sure before following her down the hall, out of earshot but still within range so you could still see Madeline and Joel over her shoulder.

"I'm sorry things didn't work out with you and Patrick," she said, her eyes briefly raking up and down your body, examining you up close now.

You didn't know what to say. The first words that popped into your head were I'm not, but you knew there would be no point, so you kept your mouth shut and just nodded.

An awkward silence passed as people filed past you, talking amongst themselves with ease and you wondered why it was always so hard to have a conversation with your own mother. And a few months ago, you blamed yourself, but today you finally felt like you could see clearly for the first time. It wasn't your fault. It never was your fault.

"I'm going to see if I can change my flight, I'd like to minimize my time spent in this godawful state as much as possible," she said, raising her chin in the air as she scrutinized a couple young women passing by. "When can we expect you back?"

Your eyes widened as you stared at her, gobsmacked.

"W-what?" you stammered, and her eyes dragged back to you.

"Back home, dear. When will you be coming back? I assume now that you've done what you came out here to do, you'll be coming back home."

You blinked rapidly and shook your head.

"What I came out here to do?" you repeated, and she sighed, looking at you as if to say drop the act.

"Yes. You wrangled some poor soul and managed to get him all twisted around in your drama so he could get you out of this mess," she said, waving over her shoulder in Joel's general direction. "So now that you got what you wanted from him, I can presume you'll be moving on."

Any other time, you would have crumpled at her words. You would have cried and bit your tongue. But not today. Today, you were free, and not just free from your ex-husband. Free from everybody who ever treated you like you weren't worthy. Like you were always the problem, like you deserved what happened to you.

"How dare you," you snarled, your eyes narrowing. "You might think you know everything about me, but you don't. I don't treat people like they're disposable. I'm not like you or Patrick. I don't hurt the people I love and take for granted that they'll forgive me," you said, the anger rising in your chest, and over her shoulder you could see Joel's body stiffen. He was watching, unable to hear you but your body language was telling him everything he needed to know.

Your mother scoffed and opened up her purse, rifling around for her compact with a little smirk.

"So this is how you're telling me you're in love with another man? Already? My god, has the ink even dried on your divorce papers?" she snickered, then flipped open the mirror to check her hair, avoiding your gaze. Your jaw tensed and you reached out, snatching the compact away and snapping it shut so she was forced to look you in the eye.

"So what?" you said, your voice getting louder and catching the attention of people passing by. "He's treated me better than Patrick or anyone else ever has. He's shown me-" you paused and looked over her shoulder, making eye contact with Joel, who looked nervous and concerned as he watched you from down the hall. "He's shown me what love is really supposed to be like," you said, your voice softening as you continued to hold his gaze. "He's been there for me through everything, good and bad. He would do anything for me, and I would do anything for him," you continued, dragging your eyes off of Joel and back to your mother. "And I deserve that. I deserve better."

Your mother regarded you for a moment, seemingly at a loss for words before she scoffed and plucked the compact out of your hand and dropped it back into her purse.

"Your father is going to hate him."

"I don't give a shit," you snapped, making her look up at you in surprise. "I'm not bringing him to Pennsylvania, Dad will never meet him because I'm not coming back," you said, looking at Joel once again. "This is my home now."

She looked around with her hands turned up towards the sky, a sarcastic smile on her face before looking back at you.

"This? This is what you consider home? Come on, be realistic," she said, dropping her hands.

"There's nothing wrong with Texas, so stop acting like there is," you told her with a frown. "I love it here. I love the people here. So, I'm staying."

Your mother opened her mouth to say more, but you held up your hand as you took a step forward.

"Have a safe flight," you said to her over your shoulder as you walked back towards Madeline and Joel. And you didn't look back once.

Madeline had insisted on taking you and Joel out to dinner to celebrate, and you excitedly agreed. In fact, you even decided to have a couple glasses of wine, something you rarely indulged in since Patrick managed to ruin the idea of alcohol for you, but you were determined not to let him influence your decisions any longer.

You didn't want to know much, but Madeline did share with you some of the details of Patrick's sentence. She told you he was cocky and arrogant when she announced there were other girls that came forward, then how stricken he looked when she played the video. He had asked for a specific prison up north, one that he knew of that was soft on cops, and in exchange he agreed to drop the charges against Joel and plead guilty to the rest of the charges for a reasonable sentence.

It only took one glass of wine for your muscles to relax and your lips to loosen up. You told the two of them over appetizers what your mother had said, leaving out some of the specifics and focusing on how you stood up for yourself, instead. And when Madeline excused herself to use the restroom, Joel gripped your hand and brought your knuckles up to his lips, his dark eyes shiny and his cheeks a little pink from the wine and he murmured how fucking proud he was of you, and you told him you never could have done it without him. He shook his head, about to say you were wrong, that you had it in you all along, but you stopped him and held his gaze.

"I mean it," you said, swallowing the lump in your throat. "You changed my life, Joel."

And if it weren't for the public setting, if it weren't for Madeline walking back over to your table, he would have said it. But the timing wasn't right, so he let the moment pass.

After dinner and a reminder from Madeline to stop by her office the next day to finalize some paperwork before heading back home, Joel walked you back to the hotel. His hands were shoved in his pockets, and it took a few minutes before you realized you didn't need to hide anymore. You wrapped your hand around his bicep, pulling yourself closer into his side and he smiled, then freed his hand so he could wrap his arm around your shoulders and kissed the top of your head.

"Which floor?" he asked after getting onto the elevator.

"Five," you replied, swaying slightly when the car lifted from the ground floor, the wine still coursing through your veins, making you feel loose and relaxed.

"Same as me," he said, leaning against the wall opposite you as his eyes leisurely roamed down your body, and you could tell by the playful smirk on his face that the wine had gotten to him, too.

"What a coincidence," you said, biting back a grin before carefully stepping out of the elevator when the doors opened. He followed behind you in silence. He didn't need to say anything. You could feel it. His eyes that were glued to your back, the heat that was radiating off of him, the heavy fall of his step behind you all sent a shiver down your spine.

You unlocked your door and pushed it open before turning back to Joel, who was leaning up against the wall, his hands shoved into his pockets again as he smiled at you lazily.

"See you tomorrow, then," he said, and you hummed before reaching out to fiddle with his tie, His eyes fell to your hand and watched as your fingers wrapped around the strip of material and tugged him forward. His mouth crashed against yours with a groan while his hands quickly found a home on your hips. He backed you into the room, letting the door swing shut with a quiet click, and he didn't stop until the backs of your legs hit the bed. You pulled away from his mouth breathlessly and gave his chest a gentle shove, pushing him back so you could have some room to reach around and unzip the hideous skirt you had been wearing.

"I told you I can't stand these clothes," you said softly, and he grinned as he patiently watched you strip, but once you were down to your underwear his body crowded yours once again. His hands were everywhere. Your shoulders, your back, your ass, then your face, holding you still so his tongue could delve deeper into your mouth. Your hands came to rest on his belt, fingertips tucking behind his waistband, ensuring he remained as close as possible because now that you finally had him, you didn't want to ever let him go.

One of his hands dropped from your jaw and skirted around the edge of your underwear, then he dipped an experimental finger past the fabric. When your kisses became more feverish and your hands flew up to his shoulders, he added a second finger, then slowly tugged on the material. Your legs pressed together so you could wiggle out of your panties, letting them fall to the floor around your ankles. Joel smirked against your mouth, his fingers gliding down and when they slipped easily between your folds, the smirk fell from his face. You were so wet and so warm and it was all for him.

He quickly pulled his hand out from between your legs, making you whine until he wrapped his hands around your thighs, his mouth still relentless against yours, stealing all the breath from your lungs. He lifted you up, just enough so you were seated on the bed, then crawled forward, pushing you backwards until your back was flush with the mattress and your legs dangled over the edge.

He sat back, breaking the kiss, and you sucked in deep gulps of air, watching as he fell to his knees and yanked your hips closer. Your legs fell open while his palms slid up the inside of your thighs. His thumbs parted your folds and his eyes glazed over when he saw what was waiting for him.

"Fuck," he whispered, his eyes sliding closed for a moment, trying to collect himself before they snapped open again. "Can I taste you, baby? I really wanna taste you again," he breathed, then dragged his mouth up your leg, his beard tickling your skin and making you squirm.

"Yes," you squeaked, then gasped when you felt his tongue, hot and firm, slide over your clit, then dipped lower, licking at you greedily, scooping up your arousal with a moan, as if he enjoyed it as much as you did. Your hands immediately found his hair, clutching his curls between your fingers as he eagerly licked into you, his own fingers holding you against him and gripping your thighs so tightly that his nail beds turned white.

"Oh god, Joel, I... I-" you stammered, your head tossing back and forth as you struggled to breathe. You tugged harshly on his hair when his teeth grazed against your clit and he growled, his eyes flashing up to yours, watching your face as you lost all control, his chest swelling with pride that he was the one who got to do that to you, he was the only one who got to see you come undone.

He was relentless. He refused to hold back, having spent so many painstaking months already holding back, all he wanted to do now was make up for lost time. His jaw ached from the amount of pressure he was applying between your legs, his tongue cramped from how feverishly he licked, his lips were growing numb from how aggressively he sucked on your clit but if he were to die right then and there, he would die a happy man.

Your back arched underneath him, your body thrashed in his firm hold as you whined and whimpered his name. The slow spread of heat low in your belly came rushing up your entire body in an instant, causing your thighs to tighten around his head so hard, they trembled unsteadily when you finally relaxed.

He kissed your legs tenderly, spreading your slick over your skin with his lips as he listened to you catch your breath. Your muscles twitched under his fingers and your scent filled his nostrils and something about having you so soft and pliant under his touch made him feel animalistic.

He stood up suddenly, making you jump a little in surprise and turned your head as you groggily as you watched him tear off his tie and belt. You inched up the bed so your head rested on the pillow, making room for him while he hurriedly pulled off his shirt and pants, leaving his boxers for last. He caught your eye before tugging them down and your lips parted as you watched his cock bob free.

You eagerly spread your legs and motioned for him to join you on the bed. He shot you a smirk as he bent forward and crawled on top of you, his hips falling against yours, grinding into your sensitive core. Your eyelids fluttered rapidly and a small noise slipped past your lips but his mouth quickly captured yours, giving you a heady taste of yourself with his tongue.

Your body jolted underneath him every time his hips rubbed up against your clit, little electric currents shot through your limbs, and you gasped softly each time, your senses in overdrive, your skin tingling with each gentle touch from his hand and each playful bite from his mouth as he made his way down your neck.

His tip kept catching on your opening every time he rolled his hips back, and each time you became more and more frustrated.

"Joel, please," you whined, but his focus was entirely on your chest, his mouth drifting back and forth over your breasts, which were comically pushed up by the bra he had tugged down. He reached behind you and you arched your back so he could unhook it, and he slid it down your arms before tossing it to the side, his mouth barely leaving your skin.

Deciding to take matters into your own hands, you reached down between your bodies and lined him up at your entrance. His hips paused and he glanced up at you from your chest.

"Please," you tried again, your eyes momentarily fluttering shut. "It's been so long, I've missed you so much, please, Joel," you begged, not caring how pathetic you sounded.

In the blink of an eye, his mouth left your breast and was once again hovering over your own as he gazed down at you, his dark eyes shifting back and forth, examining you closely.

"I've missed you, too," he murmured, brushing a stray piece of hair away from your face. Then something in his expression shifted as he stared down at you heatedly. "And now you're finally all mine," he said, and as he spoke, he slowly began to sink into you, making your jaw drop and your eyes roll to the back of your head. He paused for a moment, allowing your body a chance to relax and adjust around him before pushing in further. A deep groan tumbled from his lips when he finally found himself fully sheathed inside your wet heat, then he nibbled tenderly at your chin, patiently waiting to move until you stopped writhing and whimpering.

Your hands slid up past his shoulders and got lost in his messy hair, pulling him down the last little bit so your lips connected once again. Your lips were raw and swollen from his beard but it just made you crave him even more. As your tongue slipped past his teeth, you hooked one leg around his waist and began to rock your hips up, encouraging him to move.

"I'm so proud of you," he whispered, dragging his lips across your cheek while he slowly began to thrust in and out, savoring every single second. "You did so good, my brave girl," he continued, and you felt yourself flush from the praise. Your eyes slid shut, heart swelling with joy and pride and something else that you felt inching its way to the surface. With each rut of his hips, you felt the words being pushed closer and closer to the tip of your tongue.

"Joel," you gasped, his lips finding a sensitive spot on your throat while his hand gripped the meaty part of your hip, pressing and tugging you as close to him as possible. Your bodies began to stick together, the noise from your skin and sweat adding to the little grunts and moans coming from each of you.

His touch was too gentle, his kisses too soft, words too sweet. It was making your mind hazy and muddled, to the point where you were worried you were babbling something you didn't intend to share just yet, so you bit down on your lip to keep the words inside, safe and sound.

"Are you okay?" he panted in your ear, slowing down when he noticed your prolonged silence. You blinked back the tears before he could see and you nodded.

"Yes," you whispered, your fingers slipping through his hair, nails scraping against his scalp. "Faster," you mumbled, and you felt his fingers dig a little harder into your hip at the request.

He did as you asked, hips snapping faster now, because he could never say no to you. Not that he would want to, anyway. But to him, anything you ever wanted would be yours.

You deserved someone who would treat you right, someone who would make up for all those horrible years you had to endure. Someone who would worship the ground you walked on during the day and kneel at the altar between your legs at night.

How did he get so lucky? How was he the person you chose? He didn't dare ask, not wanting to risk you coming to your senses because if you did, he was fairly certain he would never recover. His heart would surely never heal.

"Tell me you're mine," he groaned into your neck, his eyebrows pinched together and his eyes screwed shut as he listened to the air getting punched out of your lungs with each thrust. "Need to hear it. Need to-"

"I'm yours," you moaned, cutting him off, tipping your head back and exposing your neck.

"Say it again," he said through clenched teeth, hot air puffing from his nose in rhythm with his hips.

"I'm yours, I'm all yours," you rambled, your head rolling back and forth as you felt yourself begin to lose control. The white hot heat pooling low in your belly once again. "Of course I'm yours, I lo-, I'm yours, Joel," you continued to babble, hoping he didn't notice the words that almost slipped out.

He let go of your hip so he could wrap both arms around your ribs, holding you as close as he could with both your legs tightly squeezing around his waist. He felt so heavy, inside and on top of you, the pressure from both sending you careening towards the edge. You frantically grabbed at his hair as if you needed something to hold onto, and maybe you did because when your orgasm finally hit you, it felt like you might float away. Your back arched up into him, pressing your sweaty chest into his while he pulled his head back, just a little, so he could watch your face. He kissed one of the two small tears that trickled down from your eyes, all dark and wide. Your mouth hung open as you struggled to drag in air around his name. He would never tire of it. He was certain, now, more than ever.

"You got no idea what you do to me," he said huskily, recklessly chasing his own high now. Your body sagged under him, but your shaky legs still managed to pull him in, your heel pressing into his back, urging him forward. "God, I-I want you so much... all the time... all I think 'bout," he rambled, his vision going spotty. "Oh, fuck, I'm gonna come," he gritted out, slamming his hips into you until his body stilled and he let out a filthy moan, one you did you best to memorize before he dropped his head against your heaving chest.

"Oh my god," you whispered after a few minutes of silence, the two of you trying to catch your breath. He hummed tiredly into your skin, and you could feel it reverberating through your chest, right to your heart. You took a deep breath and summoned up what little courage you had left for the day.

"Joel?"

"Hmm?"

But when you looked down at his face, eyes closed and jaw relaxed, you could tell he was moments away from falling into a deep sleep.

"Nothing. I'll tell you tomorrow," you said, kissing the top of his head. His arms loosened ever so slightly around you, your sweaty skin there finally being exposed to the cool air of the room, making you shiver. And even though you couldn't reach the sheets, you were still warm because you were surrounded by him, and that was enough.

"If we're late, I am telling Madeline it was all your fault," you told him, grinning like a fool at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Your hands were busy trying to make your hair look somewhat presentable, but his hands were busy roaming up and down your body. His chest pressed against your back and his chin tucked into the crook of your neck made your task even more difficult, but you didn't dare squirm away.

"That's fine. She's mad at me, anyway," he said, planting chaste kisses against your shoulder.

You finally resigned yourself to pulling your hair into a low ponytail and then turned around in his arms. His lips immediately found yours and you couldn't stop the smile from spreading across your face.

"Joel, c'mon," you whined, but your hands drifted up his chest, contradicting your tone. "You still need to go back to your room and clean up. I wanna hit the road right after this meeting," you said, pressing a kiss against his neck. "I wanna go home."

He sighed and gave you one more kiss before dropping his hands and pulling away.

"Fine," he said, trying to sound cross but you could see right through him. "Lemme go change and pack, I'll meet you down in the lobby in half an hour."

"You're going to need longer than that, you need to shower," you said, scrunching up your nose as you watched him button up his wrinkled shirt from the day before.

He just caught your eye and winked, making you giggle, before walking towards your door.

"Thirty minutes."

As it turned out, you were right on time. Somehow.

This time, when you both walked into the lobby and gave the same young and pretty receptionist your name, you didn't feel your stomach twist when she batted her eyelashes at Joel. And he didn't seem to notice her, either. His eyes were fixed entirely on you and as you sat down, you began to realize you were always so caught up in your own insecurities that you never noticed the way he looked at you. His eyes were filled with a mix of admiration, playfulness, and devotion. How on earth couldn't you see that before?

The only thing that pulled your gaze off him now was Madeline's familiar voice calling out your name. You shot her a wide smile and stood up, Joel trailing after you, and followed her down the path to her office.

"Will this take very long? I was hoping to be back home by lunch," you asked, and you felt Joel's fingers brush delicately against your lower back as you walked behind her. You hadn't really figured out what your relationship was quite yet, and the instinct to still hide it was strong. Especially from Madeline, considering how angry she was when he took the stand.

"No more than an hour," she said over her shoulder, but when her hand came to rest on her doorknob, she paused and turned back to you. "I have a little surprise for you, if that's okay," she said, and you glanced over at Joel briefly before giving her a shrug. "I have someone here who wanted to talk to you."

Your eyes went wide as a few guesses flitted through your brain, but when she opened the door and revealed a clean shaven younger man with a buzz cut, wearing dark jeans and a flannel, you realized none of your guesses were correct.

Madeline ushered you both in and shut the door behind you, and you stood in the middle of the room, your eyes examining him, trying to place him but failing. When Madeline took a few steps forward and reached an arm in his direction and introduced him as Officer Tyler Bates, your lips parted in surprise.

"Don't you work with Patrick?" you asked in disbelief, swallowing down your nerves. He gave you a sad smile and a brief nod.

"Yes, ma'am."

His voice was deeper than you expected, but so far nothing was really going as you expected. You blinked at Madeline, confused, and then Joel's hand was on your lower back again. Reassuring. Firm. He stretched an arm out and shook his hand.

"Nice to finally meet you," Joel said to him.

"Same to you, sir," Tyler said, his jaw firm. Joel looked back at your confused expression and glanced at Madeline before explaining.

"Few weeks back, Madeline got a call from Officer Bates here," he began, and Tyler went back to standing rigidly against the wall, his hands linked behind his back. "He heard 'bout your case and he wanted to help. He knew about the other victims, the girls Patrick coerced into silence, just like you," Joel said, bringing his hand up to your shoulder now. "He put us in touch with these girls. That's why I went up to Philly - because of the information he risked his neck to share," he said, looking at Tyler again. "We're forever grateful to you, Officer," Joel said earnestly.

"It's the least I could do," he replied, glancing at you with shame. "I'm so sorry, ma'am," he said, his voice cracking a bit. "I should have done more. I saw what was happening and I -" he bit his lip and turned away for a moment, and you felt the tears begin to burn in the backs of your eyes. "I stood by and did nothing. I was a rookie back then and... it's no excuse, but I just didn't know what to do," he said, meeting your gaze again, his blue eyes wet with tears. He looked down at his feet and sniffled before continuing. "I just hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me-"

You lunged forward and wrapped your arms around his shoulders, surprising just about everybody in the room. You could feel his body stiffen under your touch, but then his arms shifted to gently embrace your midsection.

"Thank you," you whispered in his ear, your voice thick with emotion, and you felt him nod against your shoulder.

Stepping away, you wiped a few stray tears with the back of your hand and looked at Joel, whose eyes looked just as misty as Tyler's. His throat bobbed before meeting Tyler's gaze again.

"You ever find yourself in need of a job and you happen to yearn for the excitement of a podunk town," Joel joked with a grin, and pulled his card out of his coat pocket. "You give me a call."

Tyler took the card and flipped it over in his hand before putting it in his wallet.

"I will, sir. You never know. Change of scenery may be nice."

"Well, I mean it. Don't hesitate, okay?" Joel said, holding his gaze for a moment, and Tyler nodded before looking back at you.

"Thank you both," he said, his eyes drifting between you and Joel. "I appreciate you meeting with me and hearing me out."

After Officer Bates left, Madeline explained he had come down for the trial but, for obvious reasons, preferred to not let Patrick or the other cops who had been called to his defense see him. And for maybe the first time in your life, you realized you were actually losing count of how many people you had in your corner.

It was an incredibly draining day and it was barely ten in the morning but you finally wrapped everything up with Madeline and gave her a tight hug with the promise of staying in touch. But of course, just as you were letting your guard down, a knock came on the door when you were gathering your things and Michelle, of all people, poked her head in.

Your breath caught in your throat and you immediately looked away after giving her a shy smile. You wanted to look at Joel, but you couldn't bring yourself to do it. Just in case he looked at her the same way he looked at you, your heart wouldn't be able to take it. But had you found the courage to look at him, all you would have seen was a stony expression and a clenched jaw as she entered the room.

"I hear congratulations are in order," she said, clapping her hands. Madeline chuckled and nodded and you dragged your eyes back up to Michelle.

"Thank you again," you said weakly, and she waved you off like it was nothing.

"We're so happy to help," she said, still grinning when she locked eyes with Joel. "How have you been, Joel?"

"Alright," he said gruffly, and you could see the tension in his broad shoulders.

You thought her smile might have faltered a bit at his tone, but she still asked "do you have a second to talk?"

His eyes flicked over to you and you gave him a tight smile before turning to Madeline.

"Do you want to walk me out? You can tell me all about that cruise you're taking with your wife," you said, tilting your head towards the door, and she nodded as she rounded the desk.

"We're going to the Caribbean, we've never been," she said excitedly, pulling out her phone. "Take a look at the cabin we booked, isn't it just gorgeous?"

Joel's eyes followed you until you reached the hallway and disappeared, your voice fading, leaving him alone with Michelle.

"It's been a while," she said awkwardly, and he grunted while he shoved his hands in his pockets.

"Didn't even know you worked here."

"Just over a year now," she said, her fingers tangling nervously in front of her. "They offered me partner, great benefits, sign on bonus... I couldn't say no."

"Congratulations," he said softly, and finally forced himself to look at her. "Why'd you tell her you picked this case as a favor to me? You know that ain't true. It made her feel bad."

She sighed and glanced at the open door. "It kind of was a favor for you, Joel."

"I didn't even talk to you 'bout it, I didn't even know you worked here," he said, raising his eyebrows.

"Yeah, but Victor told me you spoke to him and I may have pushed her case a little during some executive meetings," Michelle said with a shrug. Joel chewed on the inside of his cheek as he mulled over what she said.

"Why?"

She scoffed and dropped her hands to her sides in defeat. "You really need me to spell it out for you?"

"Yeah, I think I do," he said, crossing his arms defensively. She rolled her eyes and muttered under her breath before answering.

"Because I wanted to see you again," she said, her voice trembling. "Because I missed you-"

"We didn't work out for a reason, Michelle," he reminded her. "And we are standing right in the fuckin' middle of that reason. Look around," he said, waving his hand in the air. "You got what you wanted. You made partner before you were forty. I'm sure you have a beautiful house or apartment and a fancy car-"

"But I was wrong," she said, cutting him off. "I thought those things would make me happy, but... I was wrong."

Joel stared at her for a moment, feeling something stirring in his chest - pity. Pity for the woman he once loved, who made the wrong choice and was full of regret.

"You're more than welcome to get together with Sarah," he said after a moment. "She's still got the same number. Maybe you should get lunch with her. Before you know it, she'll be off to college."

Michelle nodded and dropped her chin to her chest, trying to blink back tears, but Joel still noticed. He looked away, trying to give her a moment to collect herself.

"You love her, don't you?"

His eyes shot back over to her in surprise.

"Sarah?"

"No," Michelle said, sounding exasperated. She pointed to the open door. "Her."

He took a deep breath and nodded. "Yeah."

She smiled. A sad, strangled smile, then looked at him with glistening eyes.

"Makes sense now, why you did so much for her," she said, biting her lip and looking out the window.

Guilt began to creep up as he watched Michelle struggle with what to say. "Can't thank you enough for doin' what you did," he said, his eyebrows pinching together. "You helped out someone who really needed it. You did a good thing."

"For selfish reasons," she said with a chuckle.

"Doesn't matter," he told her. Michelle met his gaze and nodded slowly, then let out a sigh and clapped her hands together. In an instant, the sadness disappeared and a resilient lawyer once again stood before him.

"I'll give Sarah a call," she said, turning towards the door, and he followed.

"She'd like that."

When they reached the hallway, she looked at him once more, a soft look that once upon a time, he would have killed to see, but now no longer wanted. "Take care, Joel."

"You, too," he replied with a small smile, then turned on his heel and headed towards the lobby.

One Week Later

"Are you switchin' me to decaf?"

You feigned offense from behind the counter of the diner, your hand coming up to clutch your invisible pearls.

"What ever do you mean?"

"I heard you and Sarah whisperin' on Saturday before the movie," he said, wagging a finger at you.

"She was just telling me about a boy she liked," you said, leaning against the counter and watching his face contort.

"What?"

You giggled and filled up a glass of water. "She's a teenager, Joel. She's going to be interested in dating."

"Over my dead body," he grumbled before taking a sip of coffee and wincing. "I swear, this don't taste right."

"Try this instead," you told him, placing the glass of water in front of his nearly empty plate.

He eyed you suspiciously but picked up the glass and drank half, earning him one of the most beautiful smiles he'd ever seen and suddenly he felt like he could drink an ocean if he got to see that smile again. He leaned forward, his arms bent over the counter, as his eyes raked up and down your body.

"Still comin' over tonight?" he asked, but your eyes went wide and you shushed him, glancing to the side where Margaret, Nikki's mother, was seated. "Oh, come on, who cares?" he said, scowling in her direction even though she wasn't even looking.

"I know, I know," you replied, picking up a rag and wiping down the counter. He watched you fidget nervously before glancing at his watch and standing up.

"Better head back," he said, shrugging his blazer over his shoulders.

"Okay," you said sweetly, and you both paused, fighting the urge to kiss goodbye. You glanced around the dining room and looked back at him. You were about to say something when Maria waved you down.

"Can you grab table three?" she asked as Tommy sauntered out of the kitchen with a rag over his shoulder. He nodded in Joel's direction before grabbing Maria's chin and giving her a deep kiss. You felt your stomach clench, wishing more than anything Joel would do that very same thing to you, but your relationship was still so fresh and you were both trying to figure out how to act. In such a small town, you knew news like that would ripple through the streets in minutes, and neither of you seemed ready to deal with the fallout just yet.

"I'll see you later," you told him, and he took a deep breath.

"Seeya."

You grabbed your pad of paper and pen and headed over to table three while Joel walked toward the front door, tapping the hostess stand to break up Maria and Tommy and wave goodbye before he left.

You felt your heart clench when the door swung shut behind him. It always did. Whenever he left, you felt like a piece of you went with him. To distract yourself, you focused your attention on your table.

"Hi, Mr. Connor," you said with a cheery smile.

"How're doin', sweetheart? How's that car treatin' ya? Get you back and forth to Austin okay?"

Most of the town already knew about the finer details of your trial, courtesy of Betty. When you got back, you had explained to her the real reason for your divorce and why it required so much time off, and before you knew it, you were being overwhelmed with well-wishers.

"It did, thank you," you said with a smile.

"Well bring it by the garage, I'll rotate the tires and do a tune-up, on the house. You've been through enough as it is, don't need that car crappin' out on ya."

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the front door swing open.

"Really? Thank you so much!" you said, taken aback at his generosity. Mr. Connor nodded and smiled, then curiously looked past you towards the front door. You followed his gaze and saw Joel, his eyes landing on you at the exact same time. Your lips parted in surprise as he marched towards you, his face determined and shoulders squared.

"Did you forget something?"

"Yeah," he said, then reached out and cupped your jaw with both hands, pulling you firmly against his mouth and stealing all the air from your lungs. You dropped your pen and paper to the ground and wrapped your arms around his neck, and you faintly registered the whistles and scattered applause from the remaining guests in the diner, but your focus was entirely on him. His lips gently massaged yours and his thumbs pressed into the soft flesh of your cheeks and you couldn't think about anything else. Only him. Only ever him.

"Finally!" Betty exclaimed from a table nearby.

He pulled back with a grin, his hands still cupping your face.

"I love you."

A smile stretched across your face as tears instantly sprung to your eyes from hearing those words for the first time.

"I love you, too."

He laughed in disbelief and pulled you back in for one more quick kiss, both of you still grinning from ear to ear.

"I'll call you later," he said, dropping his hands.

"Okay," you replied, biting your lip and watching him back away, keeping his eyes on you until he reached the hostess stand, where Tommy and Maria were smirking, but he didn't look. All he could see was you. Only ever you.

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[fallenclan]

OFFICIAL TUMBLR JURY SUMMONS TO: @fallenclan

ADDRESS: 47.1915° N, 52.8371° W 

You are hereby summoned for Tumblr Jury Service and to appear in court in front of the honorable Judge Bartholomule Willickers Von Chiswicks VII. You will be attending the hearing of @mrkmciver, who is facing trial under the charge of shining a flashlight on a sea turtle. You will attend on the date of Sep 06, 2034, at the time of 1:37 AM. The location of the Courthouse is -83.345251337838° N   148.390243696836�� W. Please arrive 83 hours 43 minutes and 17 seconds before the trial begins or you will be fined.

Dress according to the dress code listed below:

Shark Costume

Oversized Uggs

Cursed amulet

If you do not adhere to this dress code you will be executed. 

If you have a valid excuse as to why you may not be able to attend, please contact us at @jury-duty-summons, in either our askbox or pms. Thank you for your time, and we look forward to seeing you.

what the hell

[perry-the-platypus-f1cs]

My son is on the news. A Dadler and Graveson oneshot.

Ao3: Link

It was a quiet day; the faint smell of cigar smoke curling through the air of the Adler estate combined with the framed photos depicting father and son in various stages of life had somehow managed to soften Adler's heart. The warm feeling of home stirred in his heart.   That is until he got a text from his old colleague and now friend, Frank Woods. (A Oneshot where Adler reacts to the court scene form Mw3)

“This is the life.” Adler hummed to the ghosts of his past as he puffed another cloud of smoke out of his nostrils, watching as it rose and curled towards the ceiling.

Here he was lying back in his armchair, a cigar held in his right hand, in his home for the past few decades, and the estate was his son's home as well.

Adler hadn’t seen his son for several months, which isn't unusual for the two of them. Phillip had his own pmc to command and Adler was still doing what he’s always done except he was stuck behind a desk, eyes latched to a screen, headphones secured on his head, he hated it, being so far from the action when his son was up fighting on the front lines.

As Adler was almost about to raise the cigar to his lips, a buzz sound from the small phone laid haphazardly on the small wooden side table. Adler's eyebrows furrow as he ashes out his cigar and plucks the small phone from the table.

The phone was a gift that he received from Phillip, despite Adler's grievances about Phillip's persistence that his father carry a phone so that he could be easily contacted by him and the rest of Adler’s friends, because of course he had so many.

Adler’s hand wrapped around the device, his finger pressing against the on button, the small screen illuminating a message at the top of the screen underneath the name displayed. 

Frank Woods

TURN ON THE FUCKING NEWS! YOUR SON'S DONE SOME SHIT!.

The bold words shown on the screen went straight to Adler's head, mind racing as he stood up from the armchair, heart racing. 

‘Fuck, what has Phillip done?’ His mind raced as he reached the glass coffee table, his hand wrapping around the TV remote, pressing buttons frantically, trying to find his son.

It didn't take long.

The breaking news headline moved across the bottom of the screen, the video of the courtroom playing before his eyes.

His son sat at a table facing towards the congress speaker; next to him sat an army general, judging from the many pins and other chest candy displayed on the general's chest.  

The TV speakers crackled as the audio came through. “Mr. Graves, were you given orders to use lethal force against TF-141?”

The congress speaker’s head tilted slightly as he asked the question, and Alder couldn’t help but laugh a little bit at the use of the fake last name despite the dread bubbling in his gut. The camera zoned in on Phillip waiting for his son’s response. 

“Yes, I was.” Phillip responded sharply, keeping his eyes ahead, not looking at the general sitting at another table next to him. Quiet murmurs echoed through the speakers detailing the jury's reactions.

“Quiet, quiet! In this chamber!” The judge's hard command spun through the chamber, flickering through the TV speakers. Adler watched as the judge redirected his attention back onto Phillip. 

“Who gave those orders?” The judge demands his eyes narrow on the screen. Phillip replies sharply, keeping his focused tunnel vision on the congress and judge panel.

“General Herschel Shepard.” 

Oh shit. 

Phillip had mentioned the general before, and Phillip's tone was less than friendly during that conversation. And this was that general. 

The court scene continues before Adler's very eyes.

“Did you act on those orders, Mr. Graves?” The judge’s continued grilling and questions were returned with devout answers until the trial came to a swift end.

As soon as Adler saw Phillip step out of the courtroom, his finger pressed against the call button, holding the small device to his ear, each ring of the phone feeling like another scar being etched into his skin with shrapnel. 

“Hey, Dad—” Phillip's words were cut short by Adler: “What the hell happened?” Adler’s demand was sharp, leaving no room for Phillip to deviate from the subject. 

Adler heard Phillip clear his throat before beginning to speak.

Safe to say after Phillip hung up on their conversation after explaining, and Adler got to work. 

—--------------------------------------------time skip—-------------------------------------------------------

Laswell was sitting in the middle of her dimly lit lounge. Her wife had gone to bed, trying to goad her to bed as well, but there was no rest for the wicked, so Laswell simply smiled and promised her that she would be in bed soon after.

That was 3 hours ago. Laswell had gotten a message earlier that day, and now all she was waiting for was a call. 

Her phone buzzed on the table, vibrating softly. Her hand snatched it from the tabletop. Her eyes scanned the illuminated screen, eyeing the ‘no caller ID’ at the top of the screen. She answered the call, holding it up to her ear. “This is Kate Laswell—” She's cut off by the voice on the other end. 

“709 Buena Vista Avenue DC. That's where the general is, tell Captain Price." The voice behind the phone was deep and calculated; it made Laswell's skin crawl.

“Who is this?” She asked, reaching for the computer in front of her. The voice responded immediately, “Someone who hates the general as much as you do and the captain does, so I’m doing you a favor and letting you end it.” 

The call with the stranger ended abruptly; Laswell retracted the phone from her ear as she sighed, rubbing her eyes as she set the phone down on the table. 

Her eyes darted back to the computer, tracing the screen before flicking onto another tab. Something felt wrong, but the general had overstepped far too many times and had proved to be a bigger threat than he was an ally.

The next day, Russel Adler got a call from a certain CIA director.

“Livingstone, how can I help you?’” Adler answers the incessant ringing phone that had been buzzing on his kitchen counter for well over two hours now. He had the phone tucked between his shoulder and his ear; his hands were preoccupied; he was cooking a simple meal for himself, nice glazed pork ribs with a side of coleslaw.

“An army general was just found dead in his office, the same general who had been seen on national television with your son! Did you do this!” Daniel Livingston's accusatory screeching voice whips through the phone, and Adler winces, mourning his right eardrum.

Adler signs exasperatedly. “Well, technically no,” he answered smugly. Oh, how he loved to push Livingston's buttons, and judging from the outraged cry that just came from Adler’s phone, it worked spectacularly. 

“What in God's good name did you do?” Livingstone demanded and Adler just chuckled a wide smirk across his face.

. “Well, I got rid of a potential threat. The general had already caused multiple unneeded casualties, and he also made an enemy of an exceptional task force that was under his command.” Adler's words were smooth and careless as if they were discussing the weather and not Adler's successful assassination.

Livingstone just sighed and hung up.

Adler removed one of his hands from glazing the ribs to place his phone back on the table before continuing to cover the raw meat in a beautiful barbecue glaze, his attention only being drawn away by the sound of footsteps approaching the kitchen.

“Heya pops.” The sound of Phillips' voice makes Adler roll his eyes comedically watching out of the corner of his eye as Phillip takes a seat at the large marble island table. “Watch'a making?” Phillips' inquiry makes Adler look up from his task to see his son's ruffled hair and dishevelled suit he had worn and slept in from the day before.

Adler huffs, smiling slightly, “barbecue ribs and a slaw. You slept in quite a bit; it's lunch." Adler watches as Phillip's tired expression rapidly changes into shock; his eyes widen at hearing what the time was. Phillip practically leaps out of his seat and tried to scramble out of the kitchen. 

“Not so fast, kiddo!.” Adler calls out, watching as Phillip stops dead in his tracks, looking over his shoulder at his old man. Adler smiles, picking up the bowl of perfectly glazed ribs. ‘At least stay for lunch.” 

Phillip looks at his father then to the bowl of yet-to-be-cooked ribs his stomach grumbles, gnawing with hunger, a flush of embarrassment flooding his face.

“Guess I could stay a little while longer…”

That day father and son ate lunch in the kitchen in their home. They shared stories and laughed together, a moment of peace for the both of them whilst the world was going to shit. 

[mushygreybrainmatter]

After finishing Turnabout Succession last night, one of the things I just can't get over is the way Klavier looked across the courtroom, saw Apollo standing there, calm and composed while Klavier was falling into hysterics, and Klavier asked Apollo point-blank to rip off the bandaid, to prove that Kristoph was the one behind it all, who gave the Vera the nail polish, gave Drew the poisoned stamp, commissioned the forged diary page. And then! After Apollo does everything short of provided hard, decisive evidence! Klavier looks at Kristoph and he starts, as he puts it, cleaning out the family closet.

Klavier starts explaining the ways in which Kristoph manipulated that trial, Zak Gramarye's trial, and he declares in front of his brother, the Judge, and the jury, that Kristoph told Klavier about the forged evidence, that Kristoph was the one Klavier was supposed to face in court that day, and when he finishes. It's quiet. And we get a new sprite for Klavier, and he's looking up at the ceiling, back straight, chin up, for the first time! For the first time in four cases, we see Klavier without that weight on his shoulders, dragging him down, shoulders hunched and head hung low.

It's over. And Klavier is free of a burden he's carried far longer than seven years. It's one he's carried his whole life.

Klavier and Apollo are both squirming out from under the thumb of an abuser, and they do it together. They help each other through it. As soon as this is over, it's Apollo's turn to sweat. Kristoph looks at Apollo and says Vera's poisoning is because of him! Apollo pressed Vera too hard. That's why she was biting her nails in the first place. Is Apollo then not just as guilty as Kristoph, if Kristoph is guilty at all? And Kristoph says, not in so many words, don't you see that you cannot prove it? There is no decisive evidence. And Klavier pulls them out. This trial is being decided by a jury, not a judge, and what matters is that the people are convinced, decisive evidence or no.

And you, the player, get to decide. Guilty, or not guilty? Did Vera Misham kill her father? Or was she as much a victim as he? And you have to move your cursor twice. You select your choice. Then you have to confirm. The weight of it hits you.

Vera is not guilty. You decided that. You looked into the eyes of the most despicable character in the franchise this far, and you decided that evidence it not, in fact, everything. The law is not absolute. The law, meant to govern the people, is derived from the people, and by declaring Vera Misham Not Guilty, you assert that Kristoph Gavin undeniably is.

It's catharsis, not only for the player, but for Klavier, for Apollo, for Phoenix, for Thalassa Gramarye, for Trucy, and for the legal system at large. This is the start of a new age, and you're ringing it in not with thunderous applause and confetti, but with silent relief.

[kingkatsuki]

— blind justice

Warnings: 18+, obsessive Higuruma, stalking, voyuerism .

You and Higuruma have never really met, but he feels like he knows you by now. Or at least — he knows a lot about you.

He knows what you do for a living, what you like to do outside of work, where you shop for groceries, and of course your favourite coffee shop — even down to your exact order. He’s also memorised your exact commute to and from work (which leads him to one of the seedier areas in Tokyo (something that fills him with dread each time you leave work a little later than usual).

Higuruma remembers the exact moment he was approached to defend your now ex-boyfriend. A seemingly good guy on paper with no prior convictions and unequivocally adamant that you were a scorned girlfriend trying to ruin his life when he’d tried to break up with you.

Higuruma couldn’t help but notice how pretty you are when you sat in front of him in the court room. An inexplicable ebb began to form in the pit of his stomach as he began to tear your story down brick by brick in front of the judge and jury, countering all your answers in defense of his client until he noticed you were holding back tears.

Of course, Higuruma won the case and the man was free to go.

But it wasn’t even a month later that another file sat in front of Higuruma on his desk. The same man he had defended before was asking for his help again as he was now facing prison time. Higuruma flicked through the pages to read the new charge — assault. Paired with a photograph of his victim.

You.

The first thing Higuruma noticed now he could admire you up close was that you had the prettiest eyes he’d ever seen — even when they were filled with fear as you stared hopelessly up at the camera. A dark bruise bloomed across your cheekbone as he noticed a slight gash beneath it from what he could only summise to be caused by a ring. You looked completely defeated, and it was his fault. He’d been the one to get your ex-boyfriend off with a slap on the wrist so that he was able to hurt you again, and he hated himself for it.

In that moment Higuruma had the most intense urge to protect you.

Some of the information about you was easier to find than others. Of course it had helped that your full name and address had been included in the case file, skimming your deposition as he learned about the abuse you’d endured at the hands of this lowlife. It had Higuruma’s heart churning in his chest, only adding to his disillusionment of the legal system when he’d discovered you’d reported this man at least six times. And yet this seemed to be the second time he’d ever been taken to court for something. The rest of the charges dropped for lack of evidence.

And he’d blindly defended your ex-boyfriend in court in the name of justice, but the justice he was so set on fighting for had not been served. And guilt began to seep into his veins as he glanced back at the photographs of you covered in bruises — it was all his fault.

But he’d make it right.

Higuruma wouldn’t consider this stalking — perhaps following you to and from work was a little unorthodox, but it’s not like the police were doing anything to protect you. And at least the other locations could be attributed to shared interests — everyone loves a coffee shop right?

The trial had made things more difficult, and he was certain his license would be in jeopardy if you found out what he was doing, so for now it was what he needed to do to keep you safe.

Especially when you’ve just got out of a relationship with an absolute sleazebag of a boyfriend — if it could even be classified as a relationship. The file detailed a tumultuous relationship that seemed to often end with you hurt, some scars worse than others as Higuruma wished he could just hold you in his arms.

So until then, he’d look after you.

He could admit sometimes he enjoys a break from his office when he leaves to find you in a local pub with your friends. Nursing a glass of whisky at the bar while you sat down drinking with your friends, admiring the pretty dresses and skirts that you always seemed to wear. His dark eyes glaring daggers at any man that even glanced in your direction when you leaned against the bar to order another round, your skirt creeping up your thighs. And if Higuruma was any less of a man, he definitely would have looked—

The neon lights of his alarm clock began to flash as the incessant beep rung out in his bedroom as he’d seemingly stayed up all night to find out more about you. There was at least three weeks until the court date, and your ex-boyfriend was out on bail for no prior convictions — that was three weeks too long.

He found himself delving deeper, losing himself in time while bleary eyes continued to stare at his laptop screen, scrolling through years of your social media. Your most recent post detailed how terrified you were about sleeping in your apartment alone and that every noise kept you up at night, and Higuruma knew then what he had to do, especially when the legal system was failing you — he had failed you.

He’d failed you in the courtroom so this time he had to protect you.

It’s why he’d ended up slipping an AirTag inside your purse one evening during your commute home, a device that you still hadn’t seemed to find (and even more reason why you needed him) as he kept his notifications on for you. Leaving his office early whenever he saw you were on the move, following obediently as he found himself falling into your routine.

His favourite was always the weekends you’d indulge in a bubble bath. Finding himself relaxed in the opposite high rise with a pack of smokes as he watched you completely unaware that he could see through the sheer curtains in your bedroom as you came out of the bathroom surrounded in a dewy glow. Settling your feet against the sheets of your bed as you smoothed cream along your supple thighs.

You’d have to forgive him for fisting his cock at the sight of you. Biting back a gruff grunt as he pictured sliding inside your warm, wet cunt. Molding you into the shape of him so you’d never be able to remember all the other guys that you’d been with before, feeling your pliant walls clamp down around his length as he made you cum before filling you up with his spend. Sighing when warm rivulets of cum would ooze out of his thick cock, coating his and and thighs as he pictured how pretty you’d look with it drooling out of your tightness instead.

What he wouldn’t give for just a feel of you — and perhaps you’d let him as a special thank you for diligently looking after you.

And so what if your ex-boyfriend had already been sentenced this time and was finally doing time for his abuse and stalking — why would Higuruma want to stop following you? He’d ensure that no one else ever had the opportunity to lay a finger on you ever again.

Especially when your taste in men seemed to be far less than savory. Rolling his eyes at the way you perked up when another asshole approached you on a night out with friends a few weeks later. Giving you a casual smile with his hand resting on the curve of your back, dangerously close to your ass. Hiromi would snap his fingers clean off for even touching you like this, you were far too delicate.

Downing the rest of his whisky as he followed the man out of the bar when he left for a smoke. Towering over him as he shoved him down a dirty alley at the side of the building to threaten him with a flurry of possible charges that could come out of one night with you — something that was far too easy to do when you’re in his line of work.

Finishing off his own cigarette as he watched you look around the street for the man you were supposed to be going home with tonight to see he was now nowhere to be seen. Higuruma watched in satisfaction as he crushed the butt of his cigarette beneath his sole. Getting ready to follow you home alone.

After all, you can never be too careful these days… there’s just so many creeps about.

[thelawfulchaotic]

Welcome to Part 4 of How Does Court Work Anyway???

Previous parts (1: Investigations and why police are bad at them, 2: Bond, pretrial probation, and counsel at first appearance, and 3: preliminary hearings, the fuck is a grand jury, and trials) all available.

Welcome to Sentencing: who is a nolle prosecui, this math isn’t mathing, jail vs. prison, and The Stank.

And yes, I take questions, for the curious and for authors/etc. hit me up.

—

Here are some good ways a case can end.

If a jury (or a judge) finds you "not guilty" or "dismisses" the charge, you are free to go.

Here is a somewhat good way a case can end.

You are also free to go if the prosecution makes a motion for nolle prosecui that is granted. A nolle prosecui is the prosecutor saying, I want to drop the charges. Technically, a prosecutor has to have "good cause" for this motion; this is because a charge that has been NP'd can be brought back (with the defendant rearrested, going through the whole bond process again).

Prosecutors have, in fact, used this to get around deadlines for speedy trial. If they can't get their witnesses here for the trial date that's 4 ½ months in, they might just NP the case instead of risking losing it to a speedy trial deadline. Then, a few months later, when they have their witnesses, they bring it to another Grand Jury, indictment issued, defendant arrested – lo and behold, it's gonna be another four months waiting in jail before trial.

In some jurisdictions, prosecutors can get only a certain amount of tries before the case is dismissed "with prejudice." This means that it cannot be brought back. In my jurisdiction, there is no magic number. If the prosecutor can justify it ("it's not my fault, Your Honor, that the witness went on the run to North Carolina") then maybe they can bring it back over and over again. Doesn't stop them from asking each time to hold the defendant without bond, because they know how much of a strategic advantage it is for them.

How about if the jury, or the judge at a bench trial, found you guilty?

Now you go to a sentencing hearing. At a bench trial, in front of a judge, it might just happen right then: the judge knows the facts, now she takes a look at the criminal history of the defendant and the sentencing guidelines and makes a choice.

Wait, rewind. What are sentencing guidelines?

–

Let's have a little history lesson.

Before the 1980s, my jurisdiction had a parole system. This is the system you're used to seeing in movies, especially older movies: prisoners are sentenced to an obscene amount of time, but after a certain number of years they can go before a parole board and make a case as to why they should be released. This is Shawshank Redemption shit.

Parole boards have flaws. They are vulnerable to being manipulated in many ways; inmates have no counsel at parole hearings; parole boards are racist (of course, isn't everything); there was no consistency in the sentences people were serving; etc.

Because of this, the state decided to reform to abolish parole. Instead, it became probation-centric, under a Truth in Sentencing system. The name is ironic, as you'll come to find out. Instead of parole boards reviewing after a certain period of time, the judge would sentence the person both to their total possible sentence and to the amount they would serve right away. The difference between the two was suspended time.

Okay, I know that sounds like a lot of nonsense. Here's how it works in practice.

Jane commits a grand larceny. Jane has a record. Jane takes a plea for one year of active jail time. The plea agreement says: Jane is sentenced to 3 years of jail time, with 2 years suspended on condition of 2 years of supervised probation. What happens is 2 of the 3 years are "suspended" – hanging over her head, as the judges like to say – so if she messes up on supervised probation, those years can be imposed. Jane serves 1 year and then she is released. She then has 2 years of supervised probation. If she adheres to their strict and arbitrary rules, she never has to serve those other 2 years.

In the former parole based system, Jane might be sentenced to 3 years with parole available after 1 year.

Wait, you say, so it doesn't fucking matter what they do in jail? If they get rehabilitated?

Of course it does. Though nobody is getting rehabilitated. Good behavior in jail – defined as failing to get any serious incidents or new charges – gives people a certain percentage of time off. (Working for steeply discounted wages in for-profit jails and prisons can also do this! You can slave labor part of your sentence away! Love the personal empowerment!) Before 2020ish, around here, that percentage was ~15% (not quite but close enough; the way they calculate it, you're actually sentenced to 115% of the sentence you serve, which makes it closer to 14%, but whatever) on a felony, and 50% on a misdemeanor. Yes, misdemeanor time is half off. Now, those percentages have changed; violent crimes are at ~15%, the rest at ~35%, misdemeanors still at 50%.

So, now, under Truth-In-Sentencing, Jane is sentenced to 3y/2y suspended. She serves 1y – no, wait, 1y is changed to 7 months and 27 days. She serves 7m – no, hang on, she's working for cheap mopping the hallway at a private jail, so that's another 30 days off. She serves 6 months, 27 days, and she's out. Mission accomplished! Sentencing is so much clearer now!

This is hoodwinking magic. Politicians still want to be able to say that they are tough on crime, but they also don't want to pay for people to be in prison. So with all these little tricks of bookkeeping, "we sentenced people to years in prison" is true but "these people served a little more than half that time" is also true. This is stupid. It's an excuse not to confront the overwhelming damage of the justice system by hiding it in the numbers.

But, on the other hand, my jurisdiction's prison numbers have dropped in the last year and we're one of the only states in America that did, so.

–

So what are guidelines, because you never said.

Sentencing guidelines are recommended sentences for crimes with similar defendants, based on what those defendants have been sentenced to or what they served under the parole system.

In other words, it's a statistical summary of what People Like This have to do for Crimes Like That: it's a perpetuation of our system as it is, codified. Judges are required to fall between the low end (the 25th percentile) and the high end (the 75th percentile) or they have to find a specific reason why they deviated.

If a judge wants to be less harsh, then they need to justify it to the legislature later on.

There is no other scientific basis for the guidelines in my state. They have recently added things like risk levels, recidivism potential, and the potential of dropping the low end of the guidelines 2 years if the defendant shows "acceptance of responsibility."

What happens in a sentencing hearing?

Leading up to the hearing, the probation/parole agency completes a presentence investigation, and they call it something like "presentence investigation report" or "social history" or "risk assessment." This covers basic history of the defendant (filled in via questionnaire that was mailed to the defendant), adds in any victim impact statements, and mixes it all up with the police version of events. It also has a full copy of the defendant's record, which often erroneously contains juvenile charges that should have been expunged.

Based on this report, and the guidelines, the judge decides what to sentence.

Oh, you're allowed to call witnesses. Sometimes they even make a difference! A real triumph in a sentencing hearing is knowing that you swayed the judge, even a little.

There's also the potential of being sentenced by a jury, if you want. And I promise, you do not want.

What is the trial penalty?

I mentioned this last post, but let's dig in now.

People who go to trial and lose get bigger sentences than people who plead guilty. This used to be even more true than it is now. Why?

1) People who plead guilty have bargained for lower sentences. This is true.

2) People who go to trial essentially can't get the "acceptance of responsibility" change in their guidelines.

3) Judges get mad at people who clog up the dockets with "frivolous" trials.

4) How it used to be was that juries did the sentencing in jury trials. This was horrendous, for many reasons!

a - At first, attorneys were forbidden from even telling juries that parole had been abolished!

b - Once they were allowed to say that parole was abolished, they were not allowed to explain the system that had taken its place. That's because –

c - JURIES CANNOT SUSPEND JAIL TIME. Judges can! But juries cannot. So if the sentence range for a crime is 5-20 years, a judge can sentence someone to 5y with all 5y suspended – essentially, no active jail time. A jury's FLOOR for the same crime would be 5 active years.

d - Juries are not allowed to see the sentencing guidelines and are not allowed to know what an appropriate sentence for a similar crime would be.

Juries land above judges on sentence a truly significant part of the time (I think it tends to shake out that juries are harsher ⅔ to ¾ of the time). So, the way it used to be was that jury trials were a huge gamble – win big, or lose enormous. Now you can have judge sentencing with a jury trial. You still have the other couple problems with the trial penalty.

And anyone who opts for a trial is probably going to spend more time in jail awaiting their court date than someone who goes for a plea. That's just how scheduling works. Trials also require more preparation and work. There's no way to change that, I think.

–

Sentencing Ranges

In my jurisdiction, misdemeanors carry up to 1 year in jail (so, six months, at 50% – Truth In Sentencing!!) and felonies are crimes that carry any more than that. I hear that there are places where misdemeanors go to 2 years and places where misdemeanors don't go up to 1 year. Who truly fucking knows.

Felonies here also carry a range of classifications, from Class 6 (0-5 years in prison) to Class 1 (life).

Jail vs. Prison

Jail is sentences for misdemeanors or less than a year (around here). Jail is local, chaotic, and contains many people awaiting trial. Jail is also shit and the people in it are treated like shit. They are also shamelessly exploited on every level. Most jails now have tablets that inmates can have. This is not a luxury. It is so that they can charge inmates $1 for every picture they send and $.50 for every text message. Pure profit.

Prison is for sentences longer than a year. It ranges in classification, generally, from low security to high security to solitary confinement 23/24 hours. People in prison are often treated better than people in jail, fucking buck wild, I know, but my clients are usually pretty eager to get moved on to the Department of Corrections. In prison they can get better commissary, they have more stability, some places they can get radios and little tvs.

Why does jail/prison exist?

I don't imagine many of you actually asked this question, and maybe seeing it in black and white will bring it home that jail and prison actually don't have to exist. There was a time before jails and prisons, where people got whipped, maimed, humiliated, or killed for justice; prisons were supposed to be a more humane alternative.

Prisons, in theory, had four purposes.

1) Punishment. Prison does punish. Unfortunately, as dog and dolphin trainers figured out like a century ago, punishment doesn't actually get good results, and it has a lot of negative effects. It feels good, to the person doing the punishing. It feels satisfying. It is self-reinforcing, in that way. We expect that people change their behavior in response to punishment. They don't, really; they become more covert, they become more ashamed, and they do bad behaviors more, because they believe now that they are bad. Positive reinforcement of desired behaviors is shockingly effective to produce long-term change, and the positive reinforcement can be simple and small.

Yes, I'm telling you that it's time to let go of the idea of punishment, completely and wholeheartedly. There is no room for punishment in a society striving for improvement. It does not work. You may think I'm full of shit when I say this. Please just remember that it was said, and think about it every now and then. Think about the consequences people suffer for crimes that go above and beyond any kind of punishment. Think of a world where, instead of blaming a criminal for their behavior, we gather together and tell them: how did we fail you? Because there are places in this world that are like that.

But prison isn't just punishment. The idea is larger than that.

2) Rehabilitation – maybe you come out a better citizen? This does not happen in American prisons especially, because if you treat people worse than animals and tell them they deserve nothing, they start to believe you after a while. Programs are scarce and out of the ordinary. This, admittedly, is better even than it was eight years ago. And that was better than it was eight years before that. We used to send people to boot camp-style programs for Getting Straight (not in the sexual orientation way, but maybe also in the sexual orientation way). We did figure out that boot camps increased recidivism, not decreased. Oops.

3) Incapacitation. This is the only purpose of prison that is often achieved: while someone is in prison, they're generally not committing new crimes on the street. For an incredibly, incredibly small proportion of offenders – serial rapists, serial abusers, and serial killers – incapacitation can prove a godsend. Unfortunately, we as a society wildly overestimate the numbers of these people who will offend forever, and we pass laws that lock up people forever for shaky reasons. These draconian overreactions have gotten us policies like Three Strikes, which manage to lock people up for the rest of their life just about when they're statistically gonna stop offending, or laws that allow for the imposition of life sentences on crimes that previously didn't allow for it. Most recently, there is a new law in response to a murder committed by an undocumented immigrant who was out on bond. The solution, clearly, according to the legislature, is to make sure that no one undocumented can get bond ever again, whether they were convicted of a charge or just accused of one.

Yes, if an undocumented person is charged with any kind of crime, they can now be taken into ICE custody and disappeared before the chance to prove their innocence.

4) Deterrence. Two types of deterrence – specific (man I got sent to jail last time for this so I'm not doing it again) and general (people get sent to jail for this, I'm not doing it). It seems like this should work, but it doesn't, not really, or at least it doesn't to the amount that people think it does, or maybe it's based on the likelihood of being caught instead of the likelihood of high prison time. Or maybe it's just because people literally don't know what the normal penalty is for any given crime.

So prison doesn't stop people from doing the crime beforehand, even though it does stop people while they're in prison. It doesn't make people better. It does punish them, but punishment is creating a cycle of pain and deprivation felt far beyond individual inmates and far beyond their families. It destroys generations.

What is jail/prison like?

Boredom, frustration, and terror, I gather. It smells like the worst of high school BO plus old people plus cafeteria food with a strong overtone of bleach. It's gross.

They ignore medical issues until they're life-threatening. (Actual quote: "We're just here to keep you alive." Said, ironically, after three inmates died in three days in the local jail.) A psychiatrist visits by video once a month in the one I'm most familiar with; this is considered pretty progressive and innovative.

Many of them have eliminated in-person visitation in favor of video visitation. No, that doesn't mean you can do it on your phone from home. It means you drive to the jail and set up where there formerly was in-person visitation, and instead of your loved one sitting across the glass from you, a screen turns on and they're in their pod.

Jail charges people money per day to be there. It will come out of whatever cash they had on them when they were arrested, or it will be billed later. It was very controversial when our state passed some laws preventing this kind of debt from suspending someone's driver's license.

It isn't legal to jack it, because everywhere in a prison legally counts as a public place and public masturbation is a crime.

I don't know. I've never been in jail or prison. I just visit. Often. The smell lingers. What I see there just haunts me. There's no reason a guy locked in a room across from me has to have cuffs on in order to talk with me over the stupid little phone. There's no reason the guy I'm preparing a jury with has to be cuffed to the fucking wall while I'm at a table with him in person.

What haunts me the worst is when addicts look healthier and happier after weeks or months in prison. No one ever uses drugs except to escape something. What were they escaping that makes prison look like a sanctuary?

I know I've said this, but, again, it's the constant background noise. You become accustomed to holding a piece of paper steady so a man in handcuffs shackled to his waist can stand up far enough to sign it. You pull out the chair for him, because God knows while he's doing the penguin shuffle he can't do it himself. You carefully and deliberately make sure that your body language is open towards your client and closed towards the court, because the court needs to know that you aren't scared or grossed out or appalled by your client. You get good at telling him via gestures alone how he needs to dial his inmate number on the phone in order to connect to your side of the glass, because you've had to do it for eight years. You let their pain pass through you, because if you hold on to it, you won't have room for anything else.

idk y'all, I've kind of written myself out on this one. Join me next time for supervised probation and how it's destroyed black and poor neighborhoods, families, and culture.

[bookskeepers]

a little bit of love ◆ chapter one

content warnings: mentions of violence/gore, mentions of cheating, probably not how South Korean court works (i got my information from a guide called 'An overview of the criminal law system in South Korea' which was on... canada's government website)?, mentions of penises, trauma !, woo jinchul IS in this chapter

word count: 2,363

author's note: heh...? reader rlly said "oops"

taglist: none yet ! leave an ask / comment to be added

previous ◆ masterlist ◆ next

The police had appeared on your friend's doorstep the next day. When she opened the door, they simply mentioned that they were there for you and that they determined your location based on eyewitness reports. They didn't tell your friend what the crime was, instead opting to push past her and arrest you in the kitchen.

You'd've been foolish if you hadn't known this was coming; through the haze of your memories, you distinctly recalled mutilating your ex-boyfriend somehow. And, unfortunately for you, your ex-boyfriend was someone of mild importance in your neighborhood, so the police moved faster than usual to get you.

The actual investigation against you hadn't lasted very long -- they sat you down in a small, tiled room to ask you questions about your supposed motive. You could tell from their phrasing that they were already convinced you were guilty of whatever crime they were informed of, since each question was pointed and guiding.

After that, the trial itself was relatively short; you hadn't opted for a jury trial, so the decision was made by a judge. You had been detained in between the investigation and trial, cited to be "unfit to return to civil life" due to your apparent awakening and lack of control over your abilities. Your lawyer did most of the speaking for you, as your evidence was presented orally. There were only four separate court sessions total despite you having confessed to the crime, since the circumstances made the entire thing more nuanced.

When word first got out, it made national news -- it's not every day that a newly awakened hunter loses control of themselves and injures someone else unintentionally, especially not in a situation like yours. As a result, you lost your job due to the sudden criminal charges looming over your head. However, you and your ex-boyfriend's fifteen seconds of fame soon faded as the case progressed. The internet was full of arguments about who was in the right, with most people on your side since you were cheated on and abused. Your personal life was aired in every sense of the word, making you feel more like an animal in a cage than a human, and it felt like the entire world knew anything there was to know about your life by the time the trial was over.

The judge had deemed you guilty, but had given you a fairly light punishment given the scenario itself: you were to perform community service under the Hunter's Association. More specifically, you were to assist the Surveillance Team in something-or-other. You hadn't been paying close attention to the specifics, overwhelmed by relief that you weren't going to spend your life behind bars.

The same could not be said for your ex-boyfriend, however -- he lost his guild contract due to his mistreatment of you and was hospitalized for quite a bit to ensure his newly grown penis (courtesy of an A-rank healer) was working as intended. You had heard through the grapevine that it was extremely malfunctional, and you had taken a private moment of glee in response.

◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇

The verdict had been delivered two weeks ago. Now, you stand in front of a mirror in your friend's apartment, dressed in the best business-casual attire you own. A loose white button-up, a pair of black leggings, and a crepe blazer that dangles over your frame. You find yourself once again grateful that your friend had agreed to host you until you were able to find your own place, despite it all. You make a mental note to buy her lunch later, thankful that you were able to save while you were stuck in that awful relationship. After all, your hunter ex-boyfriend had insisted on paying for everything to appear more "masculine" to whoever may have been watching, whatever that meant.

You take a deep breath, inhaling through your nose and exhaling through your mouth, straightening your blazer before pulling your bag over your shoulder. As you make your way out of the spare room and into the entryway of the apartment, you stop by the door to slip on a pair of low wedges to complete your outfit. You leave your slippers by the shoerack.

It doesn't take you long to reach the main building of the Hunter's Association. Upon your arrival, someone at the front desk whisks you away to a different building across the street, telling you that you need to be evaluated before your community service can actually begin.

You spend a good chunk of the morning waiting in the queues, trying to maintain an air of patience while you ignore the stares aimed at you. While you may have faded from national headlines, your verdict had been public and the case itself had been considered "juicy" for lack of a better term. It wasn't difficult to put two and two together to figure out who you were.

Right before noon, your name is called and you shuffle into the evaluation room. The giant sphere in the middle intimidates you, and you feel a pit of dread begin to form in your stomach when the attendant instructs you to place your hand on the surface of it. Some brainwashed part of you whispers that you hope you're not an E-rank, despite knowing that's impossible; you were able to harm your C-rank ex-boyfriend, after all. It's only when the attendant lets out a soft sound of surprise that you look up at her with a tilted head, a questioning look in your eyes.

"You're an A-rank," she says with a bright smile, and you wonder if they're trained to deliver all news with that expression. "In fact, you're on the upper end of the spectrum! Congratulations on your new rank." She gestures you over to her so you can look at the screen dictating your power levels. The graphs and images don't mean anything to you, however, so you decide to take her at face value.

"An A-rank?" you echo, confusion lacing itself in your tone. "That's... wow. I didn't think..." You trail off, struggling to get the words out.

The attendant seems unbothered. "If you're lucky, maybe you'll get scouted by a major guild!"

Her optimism sinks its claws into you, and you give her a weak smile. "I don't think that'll happen," you say earnestly. You've never heard of anyone with a criminal record being recruited by one of the big five. Besides, you have a stint with the Hunter's Association that has to be completed before you can even consider guild recruitment.

You thank the attendant for her time and head out, picking up your Hunter ID on your way out. You retrace your steps, crossing the street once more and re-entering the Hunter's Association HQ. The individual behind the desk herds you into an elevator this time, pressing the button for a floor higher up in the building. Soft music fills the tense, awkward silence between the two of you as the elevator ascends.

The muzak doesn't do much to quiet your thoughts, which are currently spiralling out of control. Ever since the incident, you had been trying to make sense of these sudden new powers, trying to see if you ever felt the sensations of those abilities manifesting since then. Simply put, the answer was no. In the past several months, there had been no itch in your fingertips, no sparks of red-hot rage. To be quite honest, you aren't even completely sure how awakening works -- you honestly think there should be more incidents similar to yours, because how often do people awaken with perfect control over their abilities? How did people even learn how to use them?

As if the universe itself is trying to answer your question, the elevator dings softly and the doors slide open to reveal a long hallway. You can faintly hear bustling and ringing phones off to your left, and you suppose that's where one of those huge offices with cubicles is. The secretary gestures for you to follow as they lead you down the long hallway, past the door you're sure leads to those cubicles. There are two rights and three lefts on your route, and you're working on memorizing them before the secretary stops in front of a door that matches all the other doors you've seen thus far.

"You can wait in here," they say, albeit not unkindly. They open the door with one hand, and you can feel their eyes on you as you walk inside.

It's a fairly average-looking personal office; there's a mahogany desk in the center, with giant windows as the backdrop. A swivel chair sits behind the desk, along with a neat stack of papers next to a monitor and keyboard. Several meters in front of the desk are two sofas across from each other with a coffee table in between. The walls that aren't windows are lined with tall bookcases, and closer inspection reveals that most of the books are about hunting, raids, and mana. The other few are fantasy novels and science fiction novels, which comes to you as a mild surprise.

The secretary closes the door behind you with a soft click, and you take the time to inspect the room some more. On the desk, there's a silver placard with the name "WOO JINCHUL" written in bold letters on it. The handwriting on the paperwork is extremely organized, as if whoever wrote it took extra time to ensure it's legible. The monitor isn't displaying a screensaver and the PC it's attached to is hidden out of view, but the rim of the screen has several sticky notes detailing important dates hanging from it.

You run your fingers along the placard, feeling the grooves of the letters. The metal is cool to the touch, and your hand comes away completely free of dust. You're beginning to form an image in your mind of this Woo Jinchul when the door suddenly opens rather loudly without warning, frightening you.

In your state of panic, your mind flashes back to the times your ex-boyfriend would do the same, usually with the intent to shout at you or worse. The itching in your fingers suddenly returns full force, and you find yourself firing off another one of those airblades at the newcomer. You let out a strangled "watch out," thinking about how you're about to have yet another criminal charge on your once-perfect-now-ruined record.

To your relief -- and perhaps shock -- the newcomer makes a slashing motion with their hand, and the incoming attack dissipates. Your knees suddenly collapse beneath you, the fear coursing through your veins too much to bear. It takes you several long, silent minutes to calm yourself. Once you succeed, you cringe at how awful of a first impression you just made on this individual.

"Better?" the person asks, tone polite and plain. The voice is deep and masculine, pleasing to your brain.

You blink a few times, taking the time to actually look at him. He's tall, clad in a black suit, and his blondish-orangeish hair is slicked back save for one curl that rests against his forehead. He's too far away for you to determine the exact color of his eyes, but from your vantage point you can see that they're on the darker end. His frame is broad, and something about the way he stands suggests years of experience at doing whatever it is he does. He also exudes a slightly intimidating aura, made worse by your embarrassing interaction just now.

"Um, yes, thank you, sorry," you manage to say, although your voice is not much louder than a mumble.

The man makes a show of dusting himself off before striding across the room and sitting on one of the sofas. He gestures to the couch opposite him. "Sit."

You pick yourself off the ground, wincing at the pain in your knees, and obey his command. Now that you're closer to him, you can tell that his eyes are a shade of violet. Pretty.

You swallow the lump in your throat, willing your voice to be louder this time. "I'm really sorry about that," you begin. "The door... startled me, and I don't have the best control ov--"

He holds up one finger, and you find yourself stopping mid-sentence. "Don't worry about it. I've dealt with worse." He leans forward, reaching his hand out over the coffee table. "Let me formally introduce myself. My name is Woo Jinchul, and I'll be your... case worker, for lack of a better word."

"Case... worker?" you echo, confusion laced in your tone.

"I'll be the one overseeing your community service," he clarifies. "I'm the Chief Investigator of the Hunter Association's Surveillance Team."

You blink, all these words making sense separately but not together. "So... that means...?"

Jinchul raises an eyebrow at you, perhaps the first sign of emotion he's outwardly displayed since stepping foot in the room. He slowly retracts his hand once he realizes you're probably not going to shake it. "It means my team and I keep an eye on hunters and investigate raid-related incidents when necessary."

You nod, things finally clicking into place. "I'm guessing I'll be helping you do that?" you finally say.

"Eventually. Firstly, I'm going to help you control your abilities. Then we'll see about fieldwork."

You note that he has a very straight-to-the-point way of talking, and he excels at keeping his voice even to ensure it doesn't betray his internal feelings. In fact, you can't actually get a read on how he might feel about this whole situation, as he's been nothing but polite yet somewhat cold during your entire brief interaction. Nothing about the way he's acted thus far suggests he's repulsed by you, at least.

"That's good, at least. Maybe this way I won't accidentally kill anyone for opening a door loudly," you joke.

The silence that follows your words is deafening. You find yourself wishing that there were at least crickets in the room, as their chirps would be more responsive to your comedy than Jinchul is.

After a bit, he just lets out a small sigh. "I look forward to working with you, Ms. Sun."

[christinebloodwrittings]

Die in your arms #1

Alastor x Fem!Reader.

Warning: mentions of implied SA, imprisonment, murder.

July 1913. Manhattan, NYC.

The courtroom, with all those eyes staring, would make anyone tremble with anxiety. The jury of men in gloomy suits, whose faces you did not know and did not bother to remember, the judge with white hair and glasses perched on the tip of his nose, and the lawyer on the side of the people looked at you as if you were the worst scum in the world.

How distasteful.

The D.A’s office had taken the trouble to give you a new outfit to wear to court, with lots of layers and cream-colored ruffles. The last time you wore something so nice was when your parents brought you to a friend of the family’s house, for dinner.

The high neck of the dress was not tight, but given the heavy atmosphere and the nerves, it was as if a rope had been put around your neck.

"Your Honor, my client has not a single criminal record prior to this incident.  Her family in Denver reported her to missing persons five years ago, the police deliberately dropped the case after a week” he paused for a moment, taking a deep breath before watching your lip quiver, “After her father asked to do so" but you knew that already.

Incident, five years of imprisonment, and the attorney who is supposed to be defending you used such a weak word to describe it all.

Also, your father… it should have surprised you, but after everything he said before it all started…it really didn’t.

Before your attorney could actually begin to speak, the defense took his sweet time trying to make you look like a serial killer, a potential risk to the community.

“Miss Desmond, is it true that your commanding officer knows that you are the New York Smiler?” the lawyer asked, the jury having their sole attention on you. “No” the scoffs of the public at the hearing  echoed in the room. “Do you consider yourself guilty of the twenty-two victims, murdered in between the years of 1910 and 1912?” it was only 1912, december, you remembered because there were christmas decorations on some houses.

“Twenty-one, and no, I did what was necessary to stay alive” at what cost, liberation? That one breath of fresh air felt like needles down your throat, and has brought you nothing but problems ever since.

“Twenty-one? There were twenty-two bodies at the scene” he placed a detailed record of the evidence found in the scene in front of the jury for all to read.

“When I left there was one that was still alive, since he was in no position to follow us, I didn’t do anything, I was the one to notify the ambulance about him” his kneecaps were shot with a gun, he would never walk again so it meant no harm at the moment.

Then, he continued to the one charge he could actually condemn you to, “Miss Desmond, did you or did you not fake an ID to enter the army?” your attorney nodded, giving you a pass to say the truth, given his strategy. “I did” he presented a photo of the woman of the original identification, “Who’s ID did you forged?” mercilessly, the memories flooded your mind. 

‘Everything will be alright Y/n, just…’ she took a deep breath before caressing your cheek, ‘Do what they say, and no harm will come to you’ her bloodied hair stuck to her face as she smiled, teeth broken and red. “Martha Woodsman” her name burnt as it left your tongue, “Who is she?” you closed your eyes trying to remember a time when she was the most beautiful woman inside the facilities. Her creole accent and brown skin, along with the greenest eyes you had ever seen, she was idyllic.

“Was” you corrected, “One of the eldest women inside the brothel, I stole her ID and placed a picture of myself” you answered with the truth, your voice trembling and breaking as you did. “Nothing further” that lawyer had some mercy in finishing his questions after that.

"Do you understand, Miss Desmond, that if you lie while under oath, you risk being charged with perjury?" the judge reminded you. The judge had a cold and defiant attitude towards you from the moment he found out that the accused was a woman. He reminded you about perjury with the sole motive of saying ‘you are a woman so don't get emotional and tell the truth’ indirectly. 

"Your Honor, I did plan the escape, down to the smallest detail, with the goal of getting out of that place without anyone getting hurt. The boss shouldn't have been there, I checked the schedule book three times before the escape." You were irritated, but you didn’t let his guts get to you. "If I had planned a murder of that magnitude, I would have admitted it from the start, they were bad men, but that doesn’t excuse ending a life like that, I didn’t plan to harm anyone that night" satisfied, yet adamant, he signaled to your defense to step forward.

In all, it took three sessions in court and at the grand jury, during which you spent the night in the cell of the police station closest to the courthouse. Three sessions that lasted about two weeks, telling the same story over and over again until someone could make up their mind.

"I understand that it's difficult for you, so take your time" Your defense looked at you as a victim, not as just another psychopath, it wasn’t a great help, his look of pity boiled your blood.

"I had been in brothels for a little over five years, in different places, although I didn't know exactly where, they blindfolded us and kept men with us, with guns" The weight and cold metal of a revolver barrel is a sensation that will never leave your skin.

"You and other women" matter of fact-ly directed himself towards you. "Yes" you tried to sound sad, not as nonchalant as you would hope. "How many would you say?" One hallway, five rooms, the red door always had more voices coming out.

"There were six of us in the room, but some time passed and two of them didn't come back. When I left I saw that there were more rooms so I guess more than a dozen" you managed to get 26 girls out, the red room was secured on the inside for some reason, so picking the lock resorted impossible, and when you thought you had cracked it, your boss came back through the main door.

Spotting you, red-handed.

"And those two who didn't come back, do you know what happened to them?" you shook your head, "Not very well, but I heard that the ones that aren't sold to other brothels are usually killed in front of the newer ones to set an example, but it may have been just a rumor".

"There were women of many ages, the youngest must have been about fifteen or fourteen" chained, with hands and legs to the wall. You watched as the youngest and newest ones entered trembling with fear, knowing there was only so much you could do for them.

“People of the jury, she’s no psychopath, she is a little girl who tried to escape her captors, a stray kitten who saw no other way than to scratch her abusers in self defense” ‘Oh call me kitten one more time’ you bit down, trying your very best not to give them even a smidge of anger to use against you.

“Miss Desmond, why did you join the army?” They had not asked themselves why, they had only seen the deception and identity theft. “Objection, relevance?” The defense tried to prevent your attorney from using a sympathy card, but the judge, tired of going over the same case over and over again, allowed it. Like the jury, he was curious as to why on earth a woman would want to enlist in the military.

“Overruled. Miss Desmond, answer the question” your answer left a few men in disbelief.

“I tried to join the police force to bring down the people in the brothel, but not only did they reject me, but also they didn’t believe me, so I thought the army would help me build my body to help others” ‘how noble’ you heard the judge mutter under his breath.

“You didn’t want anyone else to feel like a victim” speculative, that earned a misplaced objection. “No, I wanted to give the victims someone that would fight for them, some hope to survive” an executioner, someone that would cut the heads of the snakes for them.

The judge called both representatives to the chambers after they started arguing, faces far too close, fists tight and white, like two wolves showing their fangs in warning.

“She did forge an ID to enter the army” started the defense, "Forging an ID can be considered a misdemeanor, but my client did not do it for sinister reasons" continued your attorney. "And what do you suggest we do with your client, Mr. Davis?" the old judge sat, his eyes never leaving your over coloured form.

"Remand her to the care of her family, one foot outside will get her 35 to life in prison”  a bunch of files were opened before the eyes of the judge, records of your family mostly. "Does Ms. Desmond have a family, a husband?" no husband, though there were men that tried to buy you for that purpose, you never understood why. 

"A cousin in New Orleans, no husband” you shook your head at the thought of your cousin, you haven't seen him in years and now you were going to drop on his front door in shackles with a criminal record? “I don’t want to be a burden to my cousin”, you didn’t even know how he looked like after so many years.  

“If you get a husband, it will be the same sentence, remanded to his care, one year” tied to a man that will have a sexual appetite, and probably demand that of you, hell no. Your attorney saw the hesitation in your face, “Y/n listen, either is this or a lifetime in the reformatory in Indiana, your choice”.

After what felt like half an hour, the jury had come to a decision. 

“Does the jury have a verdict?” you closed your eyes, a bruising grip on your skirt as the leading man spoke, “We have, your honor”.

“On the charge of first-degree murder, how do you find?” the charge of planned manslaughter, “Not guilty” and how it hurt their pride to find no evidence of a planned murder. “On the charge of forgery, how do you find?” oh, that’s the one you would have to pay a few bucks to get rid of, “Guilty”.

After assuming that you would walk as a free woman, the judge proposed house arrest to the jury, “Gentlemen of the jury, do you agree with the solution?” instead of the fine that forgery would make you pay for the rest of your life and that you would not finish paying even after death, “Yes, your honor” now you were going to be imprisoned, again.

"Y/N Desmond, you are hereby remanded to your family’s care, you will be considered a flight risk, and your title as a soldier will be removed”

“This is an extraordinary measure, given that you freed more people than you killed, but as Mr. Davis says, one foot outside will resort to a lifetime behind bars, do you agree to this?” it’s not like you had any other option, “Yes your honor, thank you”.

The sound of the gavel was the last thing heard in that quiet courtroom. 

You were assigned a nurse for your medical care, among other cares. Given the severity of your wounds and the time it took you to call for help in the army, several of them became infected or went from being a knife scratch to a deep cut.

The stitches made by the commander's assistant were not the best, so some dead pieces of skin had to be surgically removed and sutured. More than one or the other, you looked like the daughter of the mummy and Frankenstein, covered in sutures and bandages.

Not to mention the cut on your cheek from the first time you were forced to please a man, orally. The mobster took an awfully big liberty in permanently scarring your face, which is why he was never allowed back in.

The train and ferry ride was long. At night you couldn't really appreciate the scenery, much less being handcuffed and delivered to your cousin's door without warning.

Finally, the police car that picked you up at the port stopped in front of a two-story brown house. In the darkness of the night, and with it being the new moon phase, there wasn't much you could make out of the image.

A police woman delivered a few punches to the front door, immediately attracting rapid footsteps from the inside. 

“Howard Desmond?” she asked, suddenly Howard was paler than he already was. “Yes, is there a problem, officers?” A tall man, with short, ebony-black, tattered hair, dressed in an old, smelly nightgown, as if he had never washed it, appeared through the door. 

"Your cousin, Y/n Desmond, is under your legal care for one year, the details are written here" he slammed a thick file against his chest, before pushing you inside "We'll be monitoring from time to time, just to make sure the sentence is carried out" he released the iron grip of the shackles and walked out the door.

“Thank you, uhm, good night officers” Howard said goodbye, absolutely sleep deprived and shocked. Though that would be an understatment.

“Y/n, what the hell?” He wobbled a little, but after processing it for a second, Howard ran to hug you. The embrace was something you longed, every fiber of your being wanted to remain in his arms until your flesh dissolved.The sudden pins and needles that his strength against your wounds provoked was everything but comfortable, but to be cared for just one second, you could bear with it.  

“What happened?” cold rushed by your body the second he stepped away, he glanced at the file for a second, “I can’t summarize five years of shit in a couple sentences” that came out shaky, more than you expected.

“How did the jury find you?” you rested your back against the wall, finding some comfort in the cold surface, “Not guilty for first-degree murder, but guilty for forgery, thank god they oversaw the identity theft charge” he was appalled, not understanding a single thing and making movie about you being a mastermind of crime in his head. You rolled your eyes and pointed to the file they gave him, “Like they said, read it, may I have some water?” from the table next to the coats he took a small pair of glasses, his face became paler as he read the reports. “Of course” he sprinted towards the kitchen whilst reading and muttering ‘oh goodness’ as he went.

Meanwhile you took it upon yourself to wander around the living room, specially to the picture frames on top of the fireplace. His graduation, marriage - she was pretty, maybe too pretty-, then Howard in front of a building with a glass and lots of happy people - maybe a grand opening?-.  

His pacing sound made you turn around, the silence as he handed you the glass of water was sepulchral. “Wow, you own a business? Swell” an ice breaker, not a very good one, because he didn’t seem to un-glue his eyes off the pages. 

“Twenty-one?” he breathlessly asked, either in disbelief or pride, you weren’t sure, his tone didn’t match the smile on his face. You nodded, saying something would be redundant, given that your confession was on the report, signed by you. 

“And a nurse will be coming to my house to tend to your rehab?” Multiple injuries that worsened over time, bones that healed poorly, rehabilitation and physical therapy was the only option the doctor gave you to heal completely. You thought it was incredibly invasive, but they promised you a woman nurse to aid you, so in order to heal, you could bear it. 

“It’s already paid for” Howard felt his knees buckle at the sudden information, he hadn’t seen you in years and you show up with this kind of situation, money wasn’t the problem. “You know that’s not what I mean” with that he meant perhaps what kind of people the crime committed could attract.

“Look, I didn’t want this to happen, my parents aren’t an option and I don’t have a husband, please” begging to stay somewhere safe for a year wasn’t on your plans, but for the sake of not being thrown in jail for the rest of your life, you could lower your pride enough.

This time, willingly.

“Did you get them all, or?” The disagreement look you gave him was enough of an answer.

Howard was going to ask about your possible luggage, but noticed that you only had what you were wearing, the cream-colored ruffled dress from the trial. Thinking out-loud he began to make a list of needs, “I’ll have a modiste come tomorrow, also I’ll hire you a tutor so you can learn some basics” he spoke of shoes, undergarments, cooking books, he wrote everything so he wouldn’t forget.

“Sweet lord” he exhaled, gathering some thoughts, “You want…some alcohol, food?” you shook your head, “I’m not very hungry, the train got me a bit dizzy” he left the note with the file and his reading glasses on the table near the door, “Then, rest, we’ll figure stuff out in the morning” he took the empty glass off your hands, after putting it down in the sink he made his way to the stairs.

“Howard th-” he cut you off before you could finish your sentence, “Don’t even mention it, not until you are thoroughly okay” with that he disappeared upstairs, the sound of a door closing the last you heard.

---

Stay tuned.

Taglist open: @littlebluefishtail @maxlynn17

[levispersonalslave]

I Said, “You Pop that Gum One More Time. . .”

I Took the Shotgun Off the Wall, and Fired Two Warning Shots.

Trigger Warnings——mentions of murder, cursing, & arrest; major character death; depictions of emotional neglect; 1.1k wc; 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The courtroom is eerily quiet as the defense attorney rises, his polished shoes clicking against the marble floor. The judge watches from the bench, impassive, while the jury sits in rigid silence, their eyes fixed on you. The court stenographer’s fingers hover over the keys, poised to record every word.

The attorney adjusts his glasses before locking eyes with you, a mix of skepticism and calculation in his gaze. He turns briefly to the judge. “Your Honor, with the court’s permission, I would like to proceed with questioning the defendant.”

The judge gives a curt nod. “Proceed.”

The attorney paces slowly in front of the witness stand. “Let’s move on to the case at hand. You, the defendant, are accused of murdering your husband, Nagi Seishiro. Please recount, for the court, what transpired on the day of his death.”

You shift in your seat, the hard wood creaking beneath you. The weight of their eyes presses down on you, but it does little to faze you. Instead, your lips tighten into a cold, hard line as you lift your chin. Your voice is low—but beneath it, a simmering rage.

“You want me to explain?” Your eyes narrow. “Fine. I’ll tell you exactly what happened. But don’t go on thinkin’ you’ll understand.”

The attorney glances at his notes before returning his gaze to you. “The court seeks to understand the sequence of events. What led to your husband’s death?”

You tighten your grip on the edges of the witness stand, your knuckles white. The question seems almost insulting, like they think this is all some kind of game. You grind your teeth but push forward.

“You know how people have these little habits that just get on your nerves? Like Nagi, yeah?” Your lip curls into a snarl at the sound of his surname on your tongue. “Nagi always thought the world was a whole big game. He’d lie ‘round all day playin’ his games like he didn’t have a care in the world, and you can imagine how charming that got, right? But you know what? It’s not even the big stuff. It’s the little things that build up.”

A murmur ripples through the gallery. The defense attorney cocks his head, his face difficult to read. “Please clarify for the record. What behavior, specifically, caused you to act in the manner that you did?”

You stare at him for a beat, letting your words sink in. Your voice becomes bitter, and the memory of that moment creeps up like a hot, honed knife.

“I come home this one day, right? Real irritated after bustin’ my ass all day, lookin’ for just a little bit o’ peace. . . ‘n maybe some sympathy.” You lean forward slightly, your fingers tightening against the wooden railing. “I walk in, ‘n there’s Nagi—lyin’ on the couch, loungin’ around like he’s the king of the world. Phone in one hand, gum in the other, poppin’ it like it’s his personal symphony. And I’m sitting there, tryin’ not to lose it, but I’m already fuming. So I just watched ‘im. Poppin’ that damn gum.”

You hear a sharp inhale from the jury box. Your hands clench the stand tighter, knuckles bloodless with the strain. “‘N it just pushed me. Pushed me all the way.”

The attorney jots something down quickly, his voice measured and unwavering. “And you claim this behavior made you. . . snap?”

A scoff tumbles past your lips, your gaze hardening. “Snap? Hell yeah, I snapped. You don’t get it. I warned him, I said to ‘im, I said, ‘You pop that gum one more time. . .’ And what does he do? Popped it again. Like it was nothing. Like he didn’t even care.”

You lean in, voice sharp as a knife’s edge—almost a dare.

“So yeah, I lost it. What was I supposed to do, huh? Sit there and pretend like I wasn’t pissed off? That I wasn’t sick of it?”

The judge clears their throat, cutting through the silence. “The defendant will refrain from speculative commentary and answer the questions directly.”

You exhale sharply but nod. “Yes, Your Honor.”

The defense attorney glances up at you. “So you retrieved the weapon?”

You hold his gaze, your voice dropping to a furious murmur. “So I grabbed the shotgun off the wall ‘n. . .”

The courtroom is quiet. Every eye in the room is on you. The defense attorney leans in, sensing the shift in your energy.

“And you fired?” he asks carefully, as if testing the waters.

You hold his gaze, your voice dropping to a furious murmur. “I fired two warning shots.

“Into his head.”

A gasp erupts from the gallery. The attorney falters, visibly rattled, flipping through his notes as if searching for an anchor. He clears his throat and pushes on, though his voice has lost some of its certainty. “You didn’t hesitate at all?”

You don’t so much as blink as you respond. You feel the anger begin to bubble over. “No. I didn’t. It was either him or me. And I wasn’t about to be the one to sit there and take it anymore.”

A juror shifts uncomfortably, their gaze darting to the judge. Somewhere in the gallery, someone exhales a sharp, disbelieving sound. The attorney hesitates for the first time, tapping his pen against his notes. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“Don’t act like you don’t know how it feels,” you say, your words cutting through the tension like a blade of honed silver. “He kept goin’—kept poppin’ that gum like I was nothing, like I didn’t matter. He was treating me like a joke, and I just—” You trail off, your eyes flashing with fury.

A tense hush blankets the room. The jury watches you, their expressions ranging from horror to grim fascination. The defense attorney exhales, shaking his head slightly before he steps back toward his table.

“Let the record reflect that the defendant has admitted to firing the weapon. Defendant, do you have anything else to say in your defense?”

You sit back in your chair, a cold smile tugging at your lips. Your eyes sweep over the jury, the judge, the spectators. Your voice, when it comes, is quiet but unyielding.

“I already said it,” you reply, leaning forward slightly. “He had it comin’. He never took me seriously, never took anything seriously. So I ended it. Just like that.”

You let the weight of your words settle over the room, let them hang between them like a blade suspended by a thread. The silence has become deafening.

“‘N I’m not sorry. Not for him, not for anyone else. Just the way it had to be.”

The judge leans forward slightly, watching you carefully. The defense attorney sits down, disbelief and contemplation warring on his face. The courtroom remains still, the echo of your words lingering in the air.

The trial has only just begun. But the verdict—at least in their eyes—has already been written.

𝐼𝑛𝑠𝑝𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑦, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑑𝑖𝑡𝑠 𝑔𝑜 𝑡𝑜, @/kaitycole

ᵎ!ᵎ 𝑑𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑏𝑦 @/strangergraphics 𝑎𝑛𝑑 @/saradika-graphics ᵎ!ᵎ

⊱ 𝑇𝑎𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 ⊰ @the-traveling-poet , @pinkberryfox , 𝑑𝑚 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑎𝑑𝑑𝑒𝑑 ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭

[sweetlikecandysstuff]

Luca changretta x reader

The devil's bargain, (Part 1)

Reader is a very smart and powerful lawyer, however, she recently started working on a case against Luca Changretta, and she certainly seems to be winning the case. What does Luca think about this?

Part 2

The courtroom was thick with tension, the kind that made men shift uncomfortably in their seats and loosen their ties. The case against Luca Changretta had gripped the entire city, everyone wanted to see if the infamous Italian mobster could finally be brought to his knees. And you? You were leading the charge.

You stood at the front, poised, sharp eyes locking onto the judge as you laid out your argument with effortless confidence. Facts, truths, and hard evidence... everything was stacked against him. You knew it. The jury knew it. And Luca? He just sat there, watching you with an amused smirk, one leg crossed over the other, fingers adjusting his cufflinks like this was all some elaborate joke.

But you weren’t here to play games.

By the time court adjourned for the day, murmurs filled the room. You had made your case strong enough to shake the foundations of his empire. Your reputation had already been stellar, but this? This could be career-defining. You walked out of the courthouse, heels clicking sharply against the marble floor, the weight of victory pressing against your chest.

When you reached your office later that night, your breath hitched.

Luca Changretta was already there, sitting at your desk, his hands folded neatly in front of him, that devilish smirk still dancing on his lips.

"You make quite the impression, bella," he mused, his deep, velvety voice curling around the words like smoke.

"I don’t recall sending you an invitation, Mr. Changretta."

He chuckled, standing up at an unhurried pace, his dark eyes drinking you in as if he was savoring the sight of you. "No, but I figured... seeing as you've taken such an interest in me... I should return the favor."

You scoffed, placing your case down. "Oh, I’m interested, alright. Interested in watching you rot in a cell."

He tilted his head, stepping closer, the scent of expensive cologne and danger wrapping around you. "You don’t scare easy, do you?"

"Not even a little."

Luca's smirk deepened. "That’s what I like about you, cara mia."

You crossed your arms, ignoring the way your pulse quickened under his gaze. "You came all this way to flirt? I expected threats, maybe even a bribe. Or did you finally realize you’re losing?"

His laughter was low, dark, and amused. "You think this is about winning and losing?" He reached for a strand of your hair, twisting it gently around his finger before letting it slip through. "No, this is about something much more... interesting."

You swallowed, but stood your ground. "And what exactly do you want from me?"

Luca leaned in, so close you could feel his breath against your skin. "You’ve become a problem, tesoro mio," he murmured. "And yet, I can’t decide if I want to destroy you… or keep you all to myself."

A thrill shot through you, but you masked it with a sharp glare. "You don’t get to decide, Mr. Changretta."

He chuckled again, but this time, it was different... less amused, more intrigued. "Oh, but I do love a woman who fights back." His fingers traced the edge of your desk as he moved, circling you like a predator playing with his prey.

Except you weren’t prey.

You were fire, and you weren’t about to be extinguished.

"You can play all the mind games you want," you said, voice steady despite the heat simmering between you. "But in the end, I’ll be the one writing your downfall."

Luca exhaled sharply, his gaze darkening with something wicked. "Then let’s make this interesting, shall we?" He leaned in just enough for his lips to ghost over your cheek, the faintest touch that sent an unwilling shiver down your spine.

"You want to take me down?" he whispered, voice dripping with challenge. "Then do it. But don’t be surprised when I start playing a game of my own."

And just like that, he stepped back, walking toward the door with that same slow, confident stride. He paused at the threshold, looking at you over his shoulder.

"Until next time, avvocato."

And then he was gone, leaving behind nothing but the scent of danger… and the unmistakable craving for more.

You exhaled sharply, pacing your office after Luca had left. The audacity. The arrogance. The sheer nerve of that man. You had faced criminals before, murderers, liars, the worst of the worst... but Luca Changretta was something else entirely. He didn’t just play the game. He was the game.

And now? Now, he had made it personal.

But he had made one crucial mistake.

He thought he could rattle you.

You smirked to yourself as you sat at your desk, running a hand through your hair. If he wants a game, I’ll give him one.

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

The Next Day,

The courtroom was packed, buzzing with anticipation. The case was nearing its climax, and every journalist, politician, and high-ranking official wanted to see the untouchable Luca Changretta finally fall.

You walked in with confidence, head held high, dressed in a sleek black ensemble that made you feel like a queen about to deliver a royal decree.

And there he was.

Sitting at the defendant’s table, completely at ease, looking like he was attending a business meeting rather than a trial that could ruin him. His dark eyes met yours the second you entered, and that smirk was already in place.

Cocky bastard.

But you didn’t waver. You didn’t blink. You just gave him the kind of look that said, You should be afraid.

As you presented your argument, listing every charge with evidence that was damn near airtight, you felt his gaze burning into you. But you refused to look at him. You refused to give him the satisfaction.

Still, you felt him.

It was almost infuriating.

When the court was dismissed for the day, Luca stood, adjusting his suit, moving at that same unbothered pace. As you gathered your things, you heard his voice... low, teasing, just as he passed behind you.

"You look good when you're winning, bella."

You turned swiftly, eyes flashing. "I always win."

Luca chuckled, tilting his head. "That so?" He leaned in slightly, voice dropping. "Tell me… do you always enjoy it this much?"

The way he said it sent a dangerous heat through you, and you hated that he could do that. That he could make your skin prickle with awareness even when he was the enemy.

You gave him a sickeningly sweet smile. "You should worry less about my enjoyment, Mr. Changretta, and more about your sentencing."

His smirk deepened. "You make it sound like you actually want me locked away."

"I do," you shot back.

But his gaze flickered with something… darker.

"No, you don’t."

You opened your mouth to argue, but he was already walking away, his words lingering in the air like smoke.

You hated that he was right.

You hated it even more that he knew it.

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

You were up late, going over case files, your mind working through every angle, every potential weakness in Luca’s defense. You needed this win. You needed to prove that no man... no matter how powerful, how deadly... was above the law.

And yet, your thoughts kept drifting back to him.

To the way his voice sent shivers down your spine.

To the way his eyes watched you like a wolf toying with its prey.

To the way he made you feel… something you had no business feeling.

Then, as if conjured by your very thoughts, there was a knock at your door.

You froze. It was past midnight.

Another knock.

Slow. Measured.

Your pulse quickened.

Reaching for the small gun you kept in your drawer, you moved carefully, unlocking the door just enough to see...

Luca.

He stood there, maddeningly calm, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a bottle of expensive Italian wine. His smirk was infuriating, a slow, knowing thing that curled at the edges of his lips like smoke.

"Now, before you shoot me," he said smoothly, tilting his head, "I thought we could discuss our… arrangement."

Your grip on the door tightened. "What arrangement?"

Luca stepped closer, so close the scent of his cologne... dark, rich, sinful.. wrapped around you. "The one where you try to destroy me in court," he murmured, eyes gleaming, "and I see how long it takes before you admit you want something else entirely."

You scoffed, but the way your pulse quickened betrayed you. "You really think you can charm your way out of this?"

His smirk deepened. "No, cara mia. I think I can charm my way into something much more interesting."

You hated the heat curling in your stomach, hated the way he could make you feel anything at all when you should be focused on ruining him. But as he held out the bottle, watching you with that devil-may-care confidence, you did something reckless.

You let him in.

As you pour two glasses of the expensive wine, your eyes never leaving Luca's as you hand him one. You take a sip, the rich red liquid rolling over your tongue, a small hum of appreciation escaping your lips.

Luca watches you intently over the rim of his glass, swirling the wine gently. He sets the glass down, leaning back on your couch, his eyes glinting with unspoken challenge.

He spreads his arms across the back of the couch, a picture of casual confidence. His gaze slowly rakes over you, appreciating the way the wine has stained your lips a deeper red. "You know, for someone so determined to take me down, you're not half bad at entertaining a guest,"

"For someone who's supposed to be behind bars, you're unusually comfortable in someone else's home," you counter, crossing your legs elegantly as you take another sip. Your eyes lock with his, displaying equal parts challenge and... something else you can't quite admit, even to yourself.

Luca's lips curl into a slow, dangerous smile. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his voice dropping to a low, husky tone. "Ah, but that's where you're wrong, cara mia. I'm not just any guest."

His face inches closer to yours, the air between you crackling with unspoken tension. His gaze drops to your lips, lingers there for a moment before snapping back up to your eyes. "I'm the man you can't stand to lose to. The man you hate to want."

You feel your heart rate quicken, your breath hitching slightly at his proximity. You set your glass down, your hands curling into fists on your lap. Your voice comes out low, steady, a mirror to his own. "And what makes you think I want you at all, Luca?"

Luca's smile widens, his eyes gleaming with triumph. He knows he's gotten to you, that you're protesting too much. He reaches out, gently lifting your chin with his finger, tilting your face up to his.

"Because if you didn't, you wouldn't be arguing so hard." His thumb brushes lightly against your lower lip, a feather-light touch that sends a jolt through you. "You wouldn't let me get so close. You wouldn't still be sitting here, talking to me, drinking my wine."

His hand drops back to his lap, but his eyes remain locked with yours, intense, knowing. You feel your resolve shaking, the professional mask slipping. His voice softens, almost tender. "You're damn good at your job. The best I've ever seen."

He leans back, giving you some much-needed space. His eyes never leave yours, full of respect and something deeper, more primal. "But you're even better at denying yourself what you truly want."

You feel the sting of his words, recognizing the truth in them. Your resolve wavers, the attraction you've fought so hard against threatening to overtake you. You take a deep, steadying breath, your fingers tightening around the stem of your wine glass.

Luca watches the internal struggle play across your face, his expression a perfect blend of understanding and amusement. He takes a slow sip of his wine, savoring the flavor ... and the moment. When he speaks again, his voice is low and laden with barely restrained desire.

"Tell me to leave. But first, look me in the eye and convince me , convince us both , that you don't want me as much as I want you." His gaze drops to your lips, his intentions clear and unmistakable.

You stare back at him, your heart racing in your chest. The room feels smaller, the air thick with tension. You open your mouth to speak, to issue the command that would send him away ... but the words stick in your throat. Because deep down, you know he's right.

"That's what I thought." His voice comes out rough, almost tortured with wanting. He sets his wine glass down carefully, his eyes never leaving yours. Then, slowly, deliberately, he reaches out and gently takes your wine glass from your trembling fingers. "You're fighting a losing battle here."

He leans in closer, his face inches from yours. His breath is warm against your skin, carrying the scent of red wine and something distinctly Luca. His thumb brushes over your lower lip, parting them slightly. "Stop fighting, cara. Give in to what you really want."

His words are a soft command, a whisper of temptation that echoes through your entire being. You feel your resolve crumbling, the walls you've built to keep him out shattering one by one. Your breath hitches as his thumb slides deeper into your mouth, grazing against your tongue.

His eyes darken with desire, his pupils dilated with hunger. Slowly, almost reverently, he pulls his thumb out of your mouth, trailing a spark of electricity in its wake. "Tell me to fuck you. Say it out loud, and I'll do it right here on this sofa."

Your body tenses, your breasts tightening as your nipples harden. Your mind screams warnings, your professional self shouting 'No! Bad idea!' But your body... your body has different plans. You swallow hard, your voice lower, huskier than before.

"Jesus, that look..." His voice is barely more than a ragged whisper. "Even when you're fighting yourself, you're the sexiest fucking thing I've ever seen." His hand moves to your thigh, warm through the fabric of your dress. "Just say the word, Bella."

His fingers trace a slow path up your thigh, making your breath catch. "Is it 'fuck me'? Or 'get out'? Which is it going to be? Because one word... that's all it'll take."

The room felt impossibly small. Every nerve in your body was ablaze. Your lips parted...

And then... You chose.

Part 2

[mymessyfandomlibrary]

As the Evidence Shows

Featuring; Higuruma Hiromi x GN!Prosecutor! Reader

Rating; SFW

Other Notes; fluff, back at it again with mutual pining cuz that's the good shit, friends to lovers

Word Count; 3.9K

Link to Masterlist

If there was one thing that you hated, it would be losing.

A competitive spark, headstrong as a mule, and never backing down even when your back is to a corner. But that’s good. If you weren’t all that, your job would have chewed you up and spat you out at the very beginning if your classmates in university hadn’t already tried as much. 

And for most of your time sitting and presenting in front of the judge and the court, you found it becoming less and less of a challenge. Typically, undeniable evidence sealed the deal, and the jury would deliberate for a few hours before coming back with either a not guilty or guilty verdict.

Yes, the opposition would try to get under your skin — as what was to be expected — you never took much mind. They were holding their end of their deal with their client, as much as you were holding up yours. To be fair though, they and their client had much to lose; status, reputation, money, and their freedom for the criminal cases, those were always the most high stakes.

That’s what brought you to court today, after setting the court dates and getting all of the necessary paperwork (and several all nighters overviewing everything) it was finally the first day of many.

You had reviewed every single detail of the case, and made yourself acquainted with your opposition for this case.

Higuruma Hiromi. 

You knew that this case wouldn’t be easy. You knew that it would be a verbal tooth and nail fight. On the outside you remained stoic, but on the inside you felt like a boxer prepping for the biggest match of the year. 

Did you feel nervous? Not really. You don’t doubt your abilities.

Excited though? Yeah, you could say that.

“Excited over punishment?” People would ask when they found out you were a prosecutor. ‘Shark’ would play through your mind, ‘lawyers are nothing but sharks.’ And it always leaves a bad taste in your mouth.

“Innocent until proven guilty beyond a responsible doubt,” you would retort.

You didn’t get excited about punishment, or ‘karma’, or anything like that.

You got excited about a challenge. At this push and pull as the defence and prosecution made their arguments. Calling up witnessings. Cross examining evidence. Pointing out weaknesses in what the other is saying. Trying to make the other tick until the judge would reprimand the other. Butting heads until the jury came back with a final decision. Only relenting when the verdict is spoken, albeit with a bruised ego.

You made eye contact as you were giving your opening statement, and you could tell that Higuruma was analysing you, trying to stay one step ahead.

Most of the day went like this, of course with a myriad of ‘objection, your honour’ thrown in there.

Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. 

It went on like this for hours before a recess was called. And you could tell that the judge wanted to rub at their temples from how both you and Higuruma were presenting and objecting to your cases.

Cracking your knuckles and your neck, you took a breath of somewhat fresh air in the hallway, looking at your watch before looking back up and sighing.

The amount of evidence, witnesses, and the nature of the case would make this drag on for some time. If this was a case of a different nature, and a different defence lawyer, you would have mentally groaned at the potential weeks if not months of court dates fighting a predictable but easy uphill battle. But now, this ‘rock’ of yours was proving to be much more difficult than usual.

“So,” a voice that you were growing familiar to spoke quietly behind you, “are you planning to object to everything I say?”

Higuruma was standing behind you, sporting a cup of what smelled to be very strong black coffee and a somewhat amused expression on his face.

You took a drink from the water bottle you were holding, pretending to think to see if it would eat at his resolve. “No, not everything,” you answer, raising a brow. “Just doing my job.”

He huffed out of his nose. “By making mine more difficult,” he retorted.

“Would you expect anything else,” you challenge.

He looked at you, analysing again before taking a long drag from his paper cup, “No.”

He didn’t say anything else, instead he continued to nurse his coffee and wait. Waiting for either for court to be back in session or for you to tick at the presumed awkward silence.

Today it would be the former as the court went back from recess and the chess match continued. 

It continued like this for the duration of the trial.

Higuruma and you would make your arguments, a few attempts at trying to win over the jury — to which both of you would object, making the judge choose to sustain or overrule or pull out their hair — but mainly just providing the evidence to prove the accused innocence or guilt.

Today was the last day. Countless hours of hard work would prove out today, for the both of you.

The last recess was called, and you found yourself back in the hallway, again with Higuruma coming up beside you but without his typical black coffee in hand.

“You put up a hell of a fight,” you break the silence, looking at him through the corner of your eye.

Higuruma looked at you the same, just out of the corner of his eye, making contact. “Just doing my job,” he says back, a slight smile trying to fight its way onto his face.

You nearly snort, going back to your first actual conversation with the man outside of the courtroom. “… by making mine more difficult, right,” you fire back.

Something flashes in his eyes; amusement? Mischief? You didn’t know, but something flashed in those typically dark and guarded eyes.

“Would you expect anything else?”

At that you are the first to chuckle. “No.”

A smile made its appearance on his face, the first one you had seen this entire time. But soon you both found yourselves back in the courtroom, waiting for the jury to come back with their verdict, which was going to … well, it was going to take a while.

But you were both patient. Both you and Higuruma had made your cases, hell, this was probably one of the best cases in your career, and now, you waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Finally, after nearly six or seven hours, the jury came out from deliberating, the foreperson coming up to the stand.

“We the jury find the defendant,” they said, both you and Higuruma waited for the answer with baited breath, “not guilty.”

You never thought yourself to be overconfident in your abilities, but you couldn’t lie that those words didn’t feel like a slap to the face over the work you had put in. Arguably though, something stranger brewed in your gut other than a bruised ego — pride.

You were proud of Higuruma, which you found odd but also not really. He also put in just as much, if not more, work as you did, and stood by his client.

You waited until he was done speaking to his client to approach him, trying to come up with something to say. “You beat me, fair and square.” Was way too… well, it didn’t feel right to say after all this time.

“Congratulations,” you offered instead, extending your hand to shake his. I may be a loser, but I’m not a sore one.

Higuruma looked at your hand for a moment before encapsulating it with his own, “… thanks.” 

Your hands stayed like that for a moment before he drew his back, and you noted that his hands were cold. Maybe the piping hot coffee also served to keep them warm? You internally mused.

You both stood there for a moment, both debating on what to say.

“So-”

“You-”

You said at the same time, interrupting each other before both falling quiet, waiting.

He cleared his throat, “You go first.”

“So,” you pondered for the right thing to say. You sure as hell didn’t want to just part ways and never speak to him again. Higuruma tickles a part of your brain that had laid dormant for too long. He provided a challenge. A new perspective. Plus he did outwit you in court, and you wanted to learn how he did that. “Coffee on me?”

Higuruma looked at you for a moment, brows furrowed, thinking. “Sure,” he said, “and also, you put up a hell of a fight.”

“Can’t make your job too easy, can I,” you muster back.

He just shakes his head. “Can’t expect anything else.”

You both stand there, in content quiet.

“Does the cafe down the street suffice,” you ask.

“I think we’ll get some odd looks due to the hour, but it works.”

That much was true, as the sun was kissing the horizon line, but you disregarded that.

“Alright then,” you pretend to sigh in defeat, joking, “follow me.”

Higuruma does indeed wait for you to take the lead, and you wait a second before doing so, waiting to see if he would follow. And even though he did say that was good with a late-ish cafe trip, you were still pleasantly surprised that he was following you, just a step behind.

The short walk over was quiet, both of you undoubtedly tired from your respective work loads, but also comfortable enough as to not make any meaningless idle chatter.

Once at the cafe — a cute pastel and lace themed one that looked like it belonged in a children’s bedtime story rather than the real world — you and Higuruma got seated in a booth. Mentally you knew that the sight of two suit clad people with probable dark circles sitting in a baby blue booth with lace frills and such was a comedic sight, but you didn’t care.

“Let me guess,” you drum your fingers over the table, “black coffee strong enough to kill a horse?”

Higuruma cocked a brow and looked at you, “Am I that predictable?” And he feigned interest at the menu, looking over the photos. “I don’t strike you as the brown sugar latte type?”

You hummed, “Well, you were sporting one every day in court, so I assumed as such. Guilty, I guess.”

Now it was his turn to hum. “Should have guessed you would have made notes, you seem to note little details.”

And you both searched through the menu until an employee came up to take your orders.

Black coffee and a double chocolate muffin for Higuruma. Lemon chamomile tea and an apple danish for you.

“No water?” He asked, looking over the brim of his cup.

“It’s late and I want to go to bed as soon as I get home, so, tea,” you quip back.

He shrugged, putting down his scorching hot beverage.

It was quiet again, and if this was you several years back, you would have felt the need to mindlessly fill the silence with fillers, but you knew this was comfortable. Plus, the both of you have been going back and forth in court. Yes, this was different, but it still allowed you to get a bit of a sense of what Higuruma was about. Sort of.

“Higuruma,” you started, stirring sugar into your ‘sleepy time tea’, “I would like to be friends.”

I would like to be friends? Why does that sound so … lame? UGH!

He looked at you, analysing yet again. “Defence and a prosecutor, friends,” he said in a mockingly joking tone, pretending to think about it. “I thought we already were.”

You held his eye contact for a moment before offering a lopsided grin, holding your drink out to toast. “To new friendships and to me getting my ass handed to.”

He chuckled, “To new friendships and to you getting your ass handed to… courtesy of me.”

You rolled your eyes but toasted to it anyways, a warm feeling brewing in your stomach — it was most likely tea, but you decided that for now, it was better to leave it alone until another day.

Higuruma was beside himself, mentally pacing back and forth as he revised all of the evidence in his head, trying to connect the imaginary red string to see where things started to feel different.

Not with you, you had always been the same, still as much as a spitfire as usual, but where the shift in his feelings had started.

It wasn’t during the trial, as he didn’t know you very well. He did think you to be competent and sharp, and funny in a dry wit sort of way. And while it was endearing to see you in that pastel cafe with your ‘sleepy time grandparent tea’ he doesn’t think it was then.

There was no concrete point where he could pinpoint when platonic morphed into this strange being that lived in the recesses of his brain that wanted more than merely platonic bonds between the two of you. It was strange. It was … annoying. It was annoying because Hiromi finally found someone that he could be himself around and his brain decided ‘hey, you know what could ruin this?’ and now he’s standing at his kitchen counter at quarter past two in the morning trying to figure out why and when.

But there was no defining thing or time, which was irksome. No aha! Moment, just a seamless blend that left him wanting for more yet feeling guilty for wanting more. A double edged sword.

The harsh blue light of his phone illuminated the darkness, his finger hovering over your number, debating whether or not to hit the green call button at this late hour. Instead of pressing it — it’s late, they’re sleeping — he opened up his messenger, fingers yet again hovering over the keyboard, trying to think of something to say, but coming up with nothing.

Sighing in frustration he closed his phone, choosing instead to look out the window, trying to figure something out.

Cliche. I’m a damn cliche.

Falling for ‘the enemy’ alone is bad, but also your friend? Hiromi debated about either starting his coffee pot or picking up a shot glass full of bourbon to take away the edge.

He decided against it though, instead choosing to lay his forehead on the cool glass of the window, hoping the chill would clear his head and level his thoughts. All it left though was cold skin, unanswered questions, and a smudge on the glass that he would need to clean up come morning.

Opening up his phone again, he stared at your contact name and photo, something the both of you had done after hanging out for the third time. The photo was the one from your LinkedIn profile, but with neon cat ears and whiskers — yes, he looked at your LinkedIn. And you had set your name in his phone as just your name.

It wasn’t anything special.

To be fair, Hiromi had just put his name into your phone, and let you decide what photo to use for it, which resulted in you taking a blurry photo of him in yet another themed cafe.

It isn’t anything special. 

He closed his phone again, raking his hands through his hair and started to walk back to his bed. He knew that he wouldn’t be getting a lick of sleep tonight, but like hell was he going to wake you up at this hour just because he was feeling conflicted about your relationship, that he had broken the universal rule of ‘don’t fall in love with your friend’.

“You look like shit, Hiro,” you mused, assessing the man’s pronounced dark circles. “Work life balance is key, so don’t be working yourself to death. I’ll haunt you if you do.”

Hiromi sighed, and rolled his eyes. “If I’m dead then how would you, a live person, haunt me,” he shot back. 

You made a face, but went back to picking at the pastry you had ordered, “I would find a way. Can’t let you get off the hook too easily now.”

There it was again, that part of his brain that wanted to say something. “I’ve been hooked for a long time now.” But he sipped his too sweet drink instead, trying something new. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said instead, “you’re too stubborn.”

“Mhm,” you hummed in agreement, choosing to analyse him like he did to you at the very beginning.

Dark under eye circles from probable lack of sleep, but you knew that those were typical for him. His hair wasn’t as styled like it typically was, again, that could be chalked up to a lack of sleep. But there was something else going on. Hiromi felt … troubled.

Now, it could be a case he’s working on — the two of you don’t mix business with the friendship that had formed, afterall, you both knew about confidentiality and its ramifications — but those typically didn’t get under his skin. Whatever was bothering him was far more complex and was at ends with the man’s morals and values.

“Something is wrong,” you place your fork down, resting your head in your crossed hands, “spill, Hiromi.”

Hiromi paused. You had taken to calling him Hiro ever since the two of you went to karaoke several months back. You only call him Hiromi when you’re serious. Higuruma when you were mad, which thankfully hadn’t happened save for when you had to almost carry him home when he had too many drinks.

Lie.

“Lost some sleep to a wandering brain,” he said, carefully watching his words.

You purse your lips, an obvious I call bullshit expression clear on your face, waiting for a better answer.

… a bit of the truth is fine, just make sure it’s not obvious.

So, he steadied himself, making sure that he didn’t blow his cover. “A coworker, you know Jun, decided to unload his love life on me late last night,” he sighed, carefully judging your reaction.

You raised a brow, “Do I want to know about it?”

“No, not really. It’s boring. Just conflicting feelings that he has for a friend and he doesn’t want to fuck it up.” Hiromi took a sip of the too sweet drink again, regretting that he had let you choose his drink today and you had decided to see if he would drink the neon pink thing with whip cream and sprinkles.

You winced, and shook your head. “Poor bastard,” you sipped your own drink, mentally noting that Hiromi had ordered you your regular even though you had decided to be an imp and order something off his usual brand. “What did you tell him?”

What did I tell him? “That he shouldn’t risk his friendship.”

“Seriously?” You deadpanned, groaning. “I mean, fair, but do they have good chemistry? Trust? Do they reciprocate?”

Hiromi considered what you said and applied those questions to your friendship.

Do they have good chemistry? He would say yes, afterall, why would you both still hang out after parting ways from the courtroom? Talking to you was easy.

Trust? You’ve both seen each other running on miniscule amounts of sleep. You’ve seen each other sing your hearts out at karaoke. You’ve seen him in some of his most vulnerable in the past year of knowing each other and becoming friends.

Do they reciprocate?

He couldn’t answer that one. That wasn’t his question to answer. It was your’s. 

“I don’t know if they reciprocate,” he answered carefully, not wanting his internal monologue to slip through the cracks.

You nodded, going back to picking at your food. “Well, tell Jun that the only way to figure that one out is to ask them.”

Obviously you were right again.

“He doesn’t want to ruin–”

“He doesn’t know if it will ruin anything.”

Hiromi fell silent, knowing it was true, but today wasn’t the day to confide that Jun didn’t have relationship woes. He did.

You didn’t push, as both of you weren’t the type to fill awkward silence with even more awkward needless idle chatter. Instead you were trying to quell down the two parts of your brain that were duking it out.

One part wanted, and had for a while, to cradle Hiromi’s head in its hand and press their foreheads together before kissing him senseless — something that made you stare up at your ceiling late at night. And the other was wanting to keep the status quo, to continue business just as usual.

Your alarm went off, and you groaned.

“Work?” He asked, smirking a bit at your reaction; you never protested when you were called to the office.

You got up and stretched your limbs, “Yeah. Rain check for another day?”

Hiromi nodded, which you took as an answer before getting your belongings together before making your way to the office.

But that left him alone at your booth, nursing both the sweet drink but also his own conflicting feelings.

You got home that night, utterly spent and wanting nothing more than to crawl underneath the covers and pass out. Unfortunately, your brain decided that no, things would not be that easy. Things were never that easy.

You taped your fingers on your phone case, before deciding to call Hiromi.

The phone hadn’t even finished its first ring before he picked up the phone and answered. “Something’s wrong,” it wasn’t a question. He knew that you wouldn’t call at this hour if something wasn’t wrong. 

“Hello to you too,” you sighed, trying to dismiss that yes, something was wrong. “Can’t I just call because I miss you?”

That much was true. You missed him. 

And Hiromi sucked at his teeth, his mind storing that phrase away even though he knew that he shouldn’t. “You can,” he said quietly, “I doubt that was the only reason though.”

You strode over to your sofa, plopping down as you debated what to say. “You got me thinking over what you said at the cafe earlier, about Jun.”

“Ah,” Hiromi was tapping his foot. The late hour and the fear that his charade was up was getting the better of him. “What did you think of?”

You swallowed. Where was the usual courage? The typical smartass? Where did my fire go? “Well,” you dragged a hand across your face, “I think it would be unwise to not at least ask how the other person feels.”

Hiromi was quiet. That was something that he dreaded to ask, but he also knew that you wouldn’t just shout ‘Objection!’ like you had in court.

“How do you feel?” About me? He said quietly.

The two creatures in your head stopped their quarrelling, the doubtful one giving the hopeful one a look of defeat. Your fate was sealed. 

You licked your lips, your mouth dry. “Do you want an honest answer?”

It’s now or never. “Yes.”

You sat up, and placed your phone on the table, the blurry photo you took of Hiromi several months back staring back at you with an amused expression. “I feel like … I can’t imagine my life without you,” you say.

Hiromi paused, “Nor can I imagine mine without you.”

This wasn’t some sort of Hallmark movie where the two love interests ran to each other to kiss, no. You were both in your homes, navigating how things would play out. But you both knew that there would be no getting rid of each other.

You both hated losing. You both were stubborn. You both cared and respected each other. 

“Lucky for you, I’m not going anywhere,” you say back.

Hiromi smiled, chuckling a bit, knowing you very well, “I wouldn’t doubt you, not in the slightest.”

[livwritesstuff]

another steve/college-aged daughter phone call bc i liked writing the last one

Steve is at work when his middle daughter, Robbie, FaceTimes him. He’s between clients, so he answers it, and his phone screen lights up with a view of Robbie standing in front of her floor-length mirror.

Without any preamble, she asks, “Do you think this is okay to wear to court?”

Steve squints at his screen long enough to see that she’s wearing a pair of baggy jeans and what looks like an oversized suit vest with a white button down underneath.

“Uh…I dunno about the jeans, hon,” he replies, and then his brain catches the court part of her question, “Wait – why are you going to court? Jury duty?”

“No, I’m contesting a parking ticket.”

“Another one?”

It’s true – since Robbie’s move to New York City for college a few years back, he’s lost count of how many parking tickets she’s gotten.

“This one was unfair.”

“She parked in a tow-zone,” he hears Moe supply from off-camera, “I thought it was nice they only gave her a ticket and didn’t tow it like they should have.”

“It’s not usually a tow-zone,” Robbie protested, “They should have made an announcement or something.”

“Like with a megaphone?” Moe asks, sounding baffled, and Steve has to hold in a laugh.

“Shut up,” Robbie fires back.

“Did they put up any signs, hon?” Steve asks her.

“No.”

“Yes,” Moe cuts in.

“Fuck off, Lucille.” And that does not go over well with Moe, obviously, because Robbie knows that calling her Lucille (which isn’t even her actual name; it’s just Lucy) is a spectacularly efficient way to piss her off.

Robbie’s phone is pointed at the ground so Steve can’t see what exactly is happening, but judging by the dull thump he hears and how it’s followed by Robbie’s frustrated “Stop it!”, he’d guess that Moe walloped her pretty good with one of Robbie’s many throw pillows.

“You stop it, Bedelia.”

And if Lucille isn’t Moe’s real name, Bedelia is even further from Robbie’s – it’s Amelia, actually, but Bedelia (as in Amelia Bedelia, the children’s book character) became a way for Moe to call her stupid without actually calling her stupid (a punishable offense in the Harrington house when they were growing up).

“Robbie, how much was the ticket?” Steve interrupts before the fighting can get too brutal.

“It’s not about how much it was,” she says as she flips the camera so he can see her face again, “It’s the principle of the thing.”

“It was only seventy dollars,” Moe tells him, “The outfit she bought was basically triple that.”

Steve sighs, and glances at the clock.

“Darling, I have to go. I really think you should call your Aunt Erica and see what she thinks about all this.”