#intimidation

[merchandis]

[classycookiexo]

[porterdavis]

The FBI is moving to criminalize groups like Habitat for Humanity for receiving grants from the Environmental Protection Agency under the Biden administration. Citibank revealed in a court filing Wednesday that it was told to freeze the groups’ bank accounts at the FBI’s request. The reason? The FBI alleges that the groups are involved in “possible criminal violations,” including “conspiracy to defraud the United States.”

[fanfictiondramione]

Before you came around, I was doing just fine Usually I don't pay no mind

And when it came down, I was looking in your eyes Suddenly, I can feel it inside

I've got a fever, so can you check? Hand on my forehead, kiss my neck

When you touch me, baby, I turn red Like a medicine, I'm nothing without you

'Cause in my eyes, yes, you can see The fever inside my eyes, yes, you can see My heart sinks, there's fire in mine voice

Most of the time, it's when I think of you I've got a fever, can you check (Feverish love)

Tell me what you wanna do now 'Cause I really don't want it to get cold (Feverish love)

Fever by Dua Lipa (feat. Angéle)

Image credits: Ellemisc (Instagram)

[pretty-face-breaker]

Reunion: Nick Catches Up

cw. whumper finding runaway whumpee, manhandling, kidnapping, very creepy and intimate whumper, violence, borderline psychological torture, manipulation, gun

Art by me! :D

next

—

Hayko feels the weight of a hand clamp down on his shoulder just as he’s halfway through his burger. His first instinct is startled confusion—Vlad had only just gone around the corner to complain about his steak being overcooked—but then he sees it.

A grin in the periphery. A familiar razor-slash of teeth.

Nick’s swung around in the booth behind him, arms draped casually over the red vinyl seatback, both hands now planted firmly on Hayko’s shoulders like anchors.

The moment hits Hayko like a car crash. Every muscle locks. His throat closes. His spine stiffens. His heart forgets what it’s for. Every nightmare, every panic attack, every choke-collared memory rises like bile. This can’t be real this can’t—

They’re alone in the corner of the diner. No one seated close enough to hear anything. It’s quiet. Night presses against the windows.

The diner is quiet. No one nearby. Outside, the windows are painted in cold streetlight. In here, just soft rock and his own rapid, ugly breathing. And Nick’s, fanning warm and lazy across the nape of his neck. 

“How’s dinner?”

Hayko’s fingers won’t respond. His hands stay frozen, white-knuckling the fork and knife. His body refuses to remember every self-defense move he’s spent a year drilling into his bones, spent weeks and months staying late in the training rooms until he tasted his own sweat. His mouth doesn’t work. This isn’t how it was supposed to—Dr. Carter said it wouldn’t happen this way.

“I always did like your freeze response more,” Nick murmurs, giving his shoulders an affectionate squeeze, one that makes Hayko’s stomach convulse. Then, his voice dips, low and coaxing. “My love. Look straight ahead. Do you see him?”

Hayko’s eyes flick to the window. Beyond the blinds, a hooded figure stands partially obscured. Watching them both.

“One nod from me,” Nick says, “and he puts a bullet in your friend’s head.”

Another squeeze. Hayko’s breath hitches audibly. 

Nick adds lightly. “Unless you make a fuss, I have no reason to.”

Hayko swallows, voice fraying.

“What do you want.”

“Up.”

He pushes off the booth slowly, barely making a sound. Nick rises with him and in the same motion swings an arm over Hayko’s shoulders, a movement that could have been mistaken for a lover’s, if anybody else had been bearing witness, but Hayko feels the cold snout of a pistol nestling like a promise between his ribs.

His thoughts blank out on instinct.

They walk.

The distance to the door stretches forever, and Hayko catches Vlad’s blond head in the corner of his eye—still turned away, mid-argument with the cook. Hayko wants to scream. Wants to bolt and shout, but—

Vlad’s profile vanishes behind them as they cross the event horizon. In its place: the hooded man. Closer now to the window, a predator stalking its prey and about to pounce, one hand already buried in his jacket where it hadn’t been before and Vlad is still arguing with the cook. He hasn’t noticed and he isn’t fucking going to notice.

“No—”

The protest barely escapes before Nick’s palm crushes it. A hand clamps over Hayko’s mouth, fingers locking his jaw so tight he hears something creak.

“Hold off until I text you,” Nick says, not to him.

The man hesitates and a breath stutters loose in Hayko's throat as he watches his hand slip back out. Empty. But Hayko doesn’t have a second to savor it.

Nick forces him forward. A black sedan glides up to the curb. The rear door swings open.

Hayko resists on good instinct, feet locking against the concrete, but Nick is faster—gripping the back of his neck, forcing his head down and shoving him into the car. He crashes face-first into the seat and tries to right himself, tasting blood, but everything is slowed—his limbs syrupy with shrill terror—by the time Nick’s inside and the doors are locked.

He’s yanked upright. Metal kisses his throat. Pressed right against his carotid as Nick buckles his seatbelt with a soft click, like a parent strapping in a stubborn child.

Then another. Nick buckles himself in. 

“Evening, love.”

The voice slithers in from the driver’s seat. Hayko looks up and locks eyes with the rearview mirror. Platinum blond hair, slicked into a grotesque pompadour. That wolfish, wide grin.

Harvey. That fucking—

Hayko doesn’t even register the sound he makes. His spine seizes. Electricity floods him, a flash-fry of memory—wires, teeth, screaming into a wet gag. All under that horrible, loveless smile. It’s not Nick’s. Nothing fond in it. Nothing in it at all. Just that empty-calorie cruelty wrapped in human skin that Hayko remembers so terribly.

Hayko reels into the flashback, yanked under—until he surfaces, hearing Nick’s breath again far too close. Until his warm leather and cologne ghost Hayko’s nostrils. Until he feels that arm pull him closer. The muzzle of the gun still firm against his throat.

And then—

And then it happens. A sob. Ragged, helpless, cracked down the middle.

Nick sighs in satisfaction beside him, like he’s just finished the best meal of his life. He presses his lips to Hayko’s ear and whispers lovingly.

“God, Hayko. I’ve missed you.”

—

Before this. A year of recovery, but never peace.

Hayko lived small in Montreal. A quiet apartment on the fourth floor. Two bedrooms, one filled with plants that Vlad watered fervently, even having a notification on his phone. The other full of plastic bins marked “don’t touch.”

In them: Doctor’s visits stacked like receipts. MRIs, lung scans, a neurologist who frowned at his reflexes. PTSD, insomnia, night terrors that left him raw-throated and shaking. Scars that ached and itched when it rained. A few months ago, he passed out on the bus because he thought he saw Nick’s silhouette in a storefront reflection.

Dr. Carter, his therapist, had soft eyes and a hard rule: no talking about Nick in the second person.

He earned a teaching certificate. Grade threes. Morning bells and watercolor handprints, tiny socks lost on the playground. He kept his sleeves down and practiced smiling in the mirror in the least fractured way possible. The children called him Mr. G. and he answered to it like anything else would be unthinkable.

They were laying low. But they were living. They were healing. And then—

The muzzle never leaves his back. Hayko walks ahead of Nick up the long stone path, his shoes scuffing on wet grit. The house is unfamiliar. Modern, faceless. Black paneling. Frosted windows. A house for a man who doesn’t plan to live in it but where it might be optimal to keep someone for a day. Or a few, if Nick intends for Hayko to pay more fully for his misdeeds.

The lock clicks. Nick gestures him in.

“Make yourself at home,” he says lightly. “Drink?”

Hayko doesn’t answer. He steps inside. The air is sterile, reeking of oak and varnish, cold metal underfoot. There’s an absurdly luxurious bar cart in the corner.

Nick walks ahead toward it.

He turns his back.

Hayko sees it all at once: the phone dropped on the counter, just out of Nick’s reach. The silence of the house. The hitman—waiting on that text. And there, on the console table, a glass vase catching the dim overhead light.

His body answers before his brain.

He grabs the vase and swings.

It shatters on impact, a crystalline shriek that floods the house. Nick goes down hard, a mess of blood and shards. He snarls, an animal thing that makes Hayko’s skin crawl but is already rising, pain ignored and teeth bared.

Hayko doesn’t let him. He throws himself at him again, fists raining wild, furious. One cracks Nick across the jaw. Another lands square in his collarbone. There’s blood on both of them now—Nick’s, maybe his own. Hayko doesn’t care.

A grunt. A shove. They crash into the wall. A picture frame falls and the glass within shrieks and shatters. Nick snarls, grabs him by the shoulders, shoves back. They stagger over furniture, breathing like animals.

Hayko brings his knee up. Nick blocks it, catches his wrists mid-swing, trips him, and slams him down against the floor. His head impacts viciously hard and Hayko cries out between his teeth, eyes squeezed shut.

“Goddamn it,” Nick mutters, laughing through bloodied teeth, breathing hard. “The diner. Where the fuck was this version of you?”

Hayko lunges forward and sinks his teeth into Nick’s shoulder.

Nick howls—in pain, but not in defeat or even in anger. In delight.

“There you are,” he pants. “Fuck, baby. It’s been so long.”

Hayko snarls, wrenching, struggling, hissing like a feral thing and angling for another shot at ripping out Nick’s throat.

“Get the fuck off.”

Nick keeps him pinned, one hand digging into his forearm, the other still smeared with blood. His voice turns low and practical.

“I’m not going to kill you,” he says. “Stop fighting. I just want to talk.”

“You have a gun to my fucking neck.”

Nick raises an eyebrow, mouth bloodied but smiling.

“I’ll text him. Tell him to back off. That better?”

Hayko doesn’t respond. He breathes hard and uneven, chest heaving beneath Nick’s weight. Sweat gathers under his shirt collar. His wrists tremble in Nick’s grip and he doesn’t answer. Nick can go fuck himself with his mind games. Hayko won’t be so easily swayed with false promises of security, of mercy. Not again.

Not again.

Nick studies him for a long, quiet beat. Then his voice drops, not soft but sharpened.

“I know your house, Hayko. Every inch.”

A pause.

“Your bedroom. The kitchen. The basement, where you keep that box of medical receipts. I touched the flowers in the garden you and Vlad planted last spring. Daisies, mostly. A few sickly tulips.”

Hayko stiffens. His breathing skids.

“For two months, I know where you sleep,” Nick continues, unfazed. “Where you work. Where he works. Unless you plan on tearing your life up by the roots again—I’m in it. I’ll be in it. Forever.”

Hayko shuts his eyes. Regulate. Dr. Carter's voice in his skull: Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Ground. You are safe.

But he isn’t. He never was.

“I’m not going to torture you,” Nick goes on, still holding him fast. “I’m not going to kill you. I don’t need to break you.”

What would be the point? hangs unspoken between them.

“I want a conversation. Maybe we figure something out.”

Hayko’s voice comes out hoarse, a rasp over gravel: “What’s the alternative?”

Nick chuckles. Amused and warm and chilling.

“You don’t want the alternative.”

Silence swells between them. The only sound is Hayko’s breathing—irregular, staggered, sharp.

Then, finally:

“You don’t want a conversation,” he spits. “A conversation. You want me to shut up and kowtow to you and beg for mercy and forgiveness and grovel like the pathetic-” 

He gasps, air catching in his throat like smoke. A sound like a death rattle claws its way out of his lungs. 

“—shell you turned me into.”

Nick doesn’t flinch, only counters as softly as velvet. “You killed people, Hayko.”

Hayko jerks as if slapped. His voice thins, cracks on the edges.

“That was you. You made me.” 

Nick tilts his head. A mock-thoughtful expression, like they’re in court and he’s about to call surprise evidence.

“Beat them to death,” he recites. “Negotiated drug deals. Defended murderers. Slept like a baby some nights, didn’t you?”

“No. No.”

“Should I continue?”

“You fucking made me—”

“All I needed you to do,” Nick cuts in, almost gently, “was the defending part, my love.”

He smiles a terrible, crooked thing. There’s pride in it. Nostalgic recollection of a child walking for the first time, or maybe a dog finally learning how to maul on command.

“I provoked you. You rose to the provocation.”

Hayko stares at him. A pit opens behind his eyes.

He wants to kill him. Truly kill him, this time. Not just with fists or glass. He wants to erase him. Smother him in cement, because that’s all he deserves, and salt the earth where he stood. But it’s like trying to throw a punch in a dream—his fury keeps folding inward. Every move against Nick feels like it happens inside a sealed room, and Nick is always waiting on the other side of the glass.

“You broke me,” Hayko says, voice thudding low. “You broke everything I was.”

Nick steps forward, slow and deliberate. Hayko doesn’t back away.

“No,” Nick says. “I just peeled off the part that pretended otherwise.”

Hayko’s fists clench. His legs tremble. Sweat pools under his arms. He feels the blood rushing in his ears, the fire racing up his throat. He wants to punch, scream, shove something off a balcony. Instead, his voice shivers out of him like steam:

“I had a life.”

“You have a life.”

Nick moves like he might touch him, but doesn’t. And that’s worse. The excess and absence of contact and how they were wielded as one weapon against him. The ache opens right back up. He aches.

“A house. A job. A live-in partner who still believes he can fix you,” Nick says, and his tone is deceptively gentle now. “All I want is a place in it. A seat at the table. A corner, if that’s too much for you.”

Hayko laughs. One sharp bark.

“A corner? You blew up the whole fucking house. I had to teach myself to breathe again.”

Nick gives a small, pitying smile. 

“And look how well you’re breathing now.”

That does it.

Hayko lunges—but Nick slams him back down by the wrists, forceful but nowhere near as cruel as before, when Nick was getting his kicks off Hayko's immobilizing terror. They lock eyes. Nick’s pupils are blown wide with adrenaline and glee, but under it, something more calculating waits. A long game.

Nick is going to get what he wants.

“I’ll call off the guy. I’ll let you talk to Vlad,” Nick says smoothly. “But I meant what I said.”

He leans in, voice dipped in gravity now.

“You will never be free of me. You can live with that. Or you can keep running.”

Hayko’s breathing stutters. His body begins to shake—there's too much fury, too much heat in too small a cage.

He closes his eyes.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

The technique fails. Everything feels wrong inside his skin. But when he opens his eyes, it’s quieter. No less terrible. Just stiller, to the point that he can string together a coherent sentence that manages to make some progress in this waking nightmare.

“Fine,” he rasps. “That’s it. Just talk.”

His voice trembles with restraint, but it holds.

“Call him off. Call Vlad. Now.”

Nick’s phone is already in his hand. He types something out, then locks it.

“There,” he says. “See? Progress.”

Nick rolls his eyes when Hayko just glares at him with accusation, clearly tired of playing the patient villain.

“Fine. I’ll call him off while you watch. Jesus.”

He unlocks his phone, pulls up the messaging app, some off-brand secure interface with Cyrillic UI settings, and clicks through a few chats. A check mark appears next to the message. Sent. Hayko watches the movement of Nick’s thumb like it’s a loaded weapon.

“There. Happy? He’s off. Vladimir lives.”

Hayko’s voice is quiet but firm. “I’m not doing anything else until I talk to him.”

Nick groans theatrically, drops his head back like a man besieged by unreasonable demands.

“Come on, Hayko. You think I’m letting you call him so you can give him a head start?”

Hayko’s voice trembles and accidentally turns desperate. “Call him.”

It must do more than just give him away because Nick eyes him, lips thin. “You switch to Russian, the call ends.”

Hayko nods once, trying not to show his relief.

Nick exhales sharply, then taps open an encrypted call app—one Hayko doesn’t recognize. He dials. Hands it to Hayko.

Vlad picks up on the third ring. His voice cuts through the line like a blade.

“Where is he?” 

Hayko swallows. Suddenly, speech feels like walking a tightrope with a gun to his chest.

“It’s me,” Hayko says quickly, too quickly. He checks Nick’s expression to make sure he’s doing alright. If this is allowed. “I’m okay.”

There’s a pause. The kind that indicates Vlad's already stepped outside the diner, away from witnesses.

“Where are you?” Vlad’s voice is sharp but careful.

“I’ll be back soon.”

“Is he there?”

Hayko doesn’t answer fast enough. Not that he really needed to.

“Bring him back by tonight or you will regret it.”

Before Hayko can answer, another voice cuts in, close to the mic:

“My regret won’t be necessary,” Nick says, sing-song. “Your man will be home before sunrise.”

“Fuck yourself,” Vlad snarls immediately. “You lay one finger on him—”

“Please,” Nick laughs, easy, smooth. “We’re just having a conversation. And don’t bother trying to trace this call, by the way—it’s bouncing through five proxy servers and an Albanian VPN. Your Google Maps won’t help you here, comrade.”

Silence. Then:

“If anything happens to him,” Vlad says, even as ever, “I will not call police. I will call Alexei. I will name the city. And I promise you, Nick, by morning, I will have everything you own.”

Nick’s smile falters, just a hair. He covers it quickly with a chuckle.

“Very pretty, Vlad,” he says, lighter than before, but not quite cheerful now. “Ever the poet.”

Then he ends the call.

Hayko stares at the blank screen a beat too long before gently lowering the phone to the counter. The absence of Vlad’s voice leaves him cold in the bones. But he’s already calculating. Thinking of exit points, of how fast he could run now that the gun isn’t pressed to his ribs.

Nick watches him closely, then breaks the silence with a too-light question:

“Drink?”

“No.”

Nick sighs. “I wasn’t asking. And stop looking for exits.”

He moves to the bar cart again to pick up a new, still-sealed bottle of wine—a heavy red, foreign label—and uncorks it with a pop. The sound makes Hayko flinch. Nick notices, of course he does, but says nothing. Probably delights that he’s uncovered one of Hayko’s post-traumas already.

He pours into a glass. Then sees Hayko’s face.

“Oh for god’s sake.”

He grabs a clean glass from the shelf, holds it up to the light, then takes a cloth from the drawer and wipes it carefully—inside, outside, stem.

“See? Not a drop of chloral hydrate, I swear on my heart.”

He pours again. Slides the glass across the counter like an offering.

“Happy now? Drink. You’ll need something to take the edge off.”

Hayko stares at the glass. The color is dark, almost black in the low light. He doesn’t touch it. He’s not sure if it’s poison—but that’s not what stops him.

It’s that part of him, somewhere deeper than caution, darker than fear, knows Nick is right. He does need something. Something to slow the adrenaline, to anchor him in the room. Something to drink while bargaining with the devil. Because he needs to make this deal. 

Because there’s no alternative anymore.

Hayko picks up his wine and sips it, trying not to look too sour. Nick's life is half-theatre and Hayko will perform if it means they get to live.

Nick watches him with the same ease he might bring to observing fish in a tank.

“Did you really think you could run forever?” he asks, not expecting an answer. “New name. New job. New little apartment where the stove only half-works and the radiators clank all night.”

Hayko’s face twitches. He doesn't look up. His smile is faint, edged with something harder.

“You did a good job,” Nick continues, syrup-smooth. “You even got certified. Helping kids, shaping minds. Safe and sound, in a city where nobody else knows your name.”

He leans forward slightly, forearms on the table.

“Do you sleep better, knowing the men who wanted to carve you up are dead? The ones I killed. Or does that part not count, in your narrative?”

Hayko looks at him now. He does it slow. Purposefully.

“Is this a free therapy session?” he says flatly. “Or should I be charging by the hour for your whinging?”

It lands, despite Nick’s face not moving. His jaw finally clicks—once, audibly—as he grinds his teeth. Hayko sees it. And he smiles, sharp and small.

Good.

Nick’s fists clench, but only briefly. He exhales through his nose, forcibly casual.

“You’re lucky I like you like this,” he mutters.

“Just get on with it,” Hayko snaps. “Your terms. And no—no, sex won’t be one of them unless you’re planning to—”

Nick cuts him off with a dismissive sigh and a pointed eye-roll.

“Obviously I’m not stupid enough to open with that.” He gives him a dry look. “You can unclench. This isn’t that kind of negotiation.”

Hayko doesn’t answer. The silence bristles.

Nick adjusts his sleeve. “But since you’re so curious—fine. Terms.”

He counts on his fingers like he’s listing groceries.

“I want to see you. Talk. Sometimes. Coffee shop, bench in a park, dark alley, I’m flexible.”

Hayko blinks at him. “You think I’m going to just—schedule hangouts with you?”

Nick shrugs.

“You’d be surprised what people will do when their lives are on the line.”

He picks up his wine, sips.

“And keep in mind that yours is. Stalking was fun for the first few weeks. Watching you wait for your bus on Rue Rachel like clockwork, pretending you didn’t see me in the reflection—”

Hayko flinches. The blood drains from his face. He remembers that day. The way his spine locked. The full-body tremor he chalked up to a panic spiral.

“Yeah, love,” Nick says, gleefully watching the realization curdle. “Wasn’t your imagination, was it?”

Hayko swallows, hard. His palms are damp. But he’s still upright.

“How,” he says slowly, “do you imagine this conversation happens on any kind of even ground?”

Nick tilts his head.

“You think we’re equals now? You kidnapped me. You blackmailed me. You—" Hayko's breath stutters "tortured me. For two years. And yeah, you housed me. You fed me. Indulged my masochistic urges. You protected me from being tortured by other people. But that doesn’t erase it. You ruined my fucking life.”

His voice cracks, rising.

“Do you know how recently I got control of my panic attacks? You think that wine is gonna calm me down?”

Nick doesn't even blink.

“I know,” he says smoothly. “I read your therapist’s notes.”

Hayko’s whole body goes still as white horror washes over him. He sees a flicker of Dr. Carter’s handwriting. A post-it with his progress goals.

Nick's voice cuts easily through the fresh horror, unfazed.

“Without me, your body would’ve been dumped in a ditch on the outskirts of Chicago three years ago. You were a loose end. I saved your life.”

Hayko buries his face in his hands.

“It doesn’t matter,” he whispers. “I was so far gone I actually thought—”

He stops himself, shaking. His voice cracks again.

“I thought you loved me.”

Nick doesn’t move for a long moment. Then, matter-of-fact: “I do.”

Hayko laughs. A short, dry bark that’s almost a sob. “No. You don’t. You love owning me.”

Nick doesn’t refute it. He sits very still, fingers tapping once, then stopping.

Hayko lifts his head. His eyes are damp, but furious. His mouth set. His voice, hollow steel.

“Tell me your terms.”

—

TO BE CONTINUED (1/2)

@doveotions @thewhumpstuff @thatsthewhump @adamantem-rose @lonesome–hunter @whumpsorbet @whumpasaurus101 @lektricfergus @downrivergirl914 @burtlederp @redwingedwhump @nicolepascaline @ifbtnna  @whumperfully​​ ​@brittaunfiltered09

If you like my stuff, consider supporting me on ko-fi! :D

[victusinveritas]

Another time to say: listen to every podcast CoolZone Media puts out. Robert Evans is a gem of the journalism and podcasting worlds.

[loofandtimmy]

[whump-is-my-drug]

Garota do Momento

[porterdavis]

Not your father's America

[tomorrowusa]

It takes just one person standing up to break the authoritarian spell. History is seldom kind to opportunistic lickspittles of bullies.

Courageousness can be contagious, but someone has to be first.

Over 150 US university presidents sign letter decrying Trump administration

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Don’t let them intimidate us! We should welcome the fight!

May 21, 2025

Robert B. Hubbell

As everyone knows, Trump's strategy is to intimidate and exhaust us. The only appropriate response is to refuse to be intimidated or exhausted. To the contrary, we should welcome the fight—because Trump's bluster and imaginary grievances will evaporate under the harsh light of judicial scrutiny and the common sense of jurors.

Trump's threats of political, criminal, and civil sanctions are nearly always based on groundless legal theories and baseless “factual” assertions that simply will not hold up in court.

The sooner we can force Trump to “put up or shut up” in court, the better off the nation will be. Trump has repeatedly demonstrated that his bull-in-a-china-shop mentality is not successful before judges or juries. See, e.g., his 34 felony convictions and multi-million-dollar judgments for defamation against E. Jean Carroll.

The most recent case in point is that Trump is now attempting to intimidate Congress. Acting New Jersey US Attorney, Alina Habba, announced that she filed a criminal complaint against US Representative LaMonica McIver for an imaginary assault on ICE agents as McIver was performing congressional oversight at an ICE detention facility. See Criminal Complaint, US v. LaMonica McIver.

If an indictment is obtained on the criminal complaint, Rep. McIver will be exonerated by a jury. There does not appear to have been an “assault” on ICE agents; to the contrary, Rep. McIver was on the receiving end of a shoving match between ICE agents and Newark Mayor Ras Baraka.

When the scrum outside the detention center was over, the very agents who were allegedly assaulted by Rep. McIver escorted her through the ICE facility. Moreover, Rep. McIver was acting under statutory and constitutional authority that effectively immunizes her conduct from prosecution.

The bizarre procedure followed by Acting US Attorney Habba strongly suggests that Rep. McIver was targeted because she is a Black woman. Habba announced the criminal complaint on Twitter with a “siren” emoji—a clear sign of animus designed to stir public emotion in advance of charges.

In announcing the charges, Habba also referred to unsuccessful plea negotiations—a stark departure from practice. (Note to former DOJ attorneys: I can’t find a DOJ Manual or policy memorandum about the confidentiality of plea negotiations. I am grateful for any help you can give.)

Moreover, it is the policy of the US Department of Justice not to comment on criminal charges before conviction, other than to describe the charges being filed. Justice Manual | 1-7.000 - Confidentiality and Media Contacts Policy | United States Department of Justice (“Communications with the media should be limited to the information contained in publicly available material, such as an indictment or other public pleadings.”)

After Habba’s Twitter post, Trump claimed that the criminal complaint was intended to show that “The days of woke are over.” See The Hill.

What, exactly, does “woke” have to do with the question of whether Rep. McIver assaulted an ICE agent? Trump clearly used the term “woke” to refer to the fact that Rep. McIver is a Black woman.

Trump's comment violates a new policy memorandum issued by Attorney General Pam Bondi on February 25, 2025, which states, in part,

Critically, in determining whether to commence or recommend prosecution or take other action against a person, a prosecutor “may not be influenced”—in any respect—by the person's “political association, activities, or beliefs.”

Although there may be additional evidence or photos from different camera angles that have yet to be released, the strong suggestion is that Rep. McIver is being prosecuted selectively because she is a Black, female member of Congress who opposes Trump's policies.

Rep. McIver should put the government to the test. Let Habba and Trump assume the criminal burden of proof before a jury of Rep. McIver’s peers.

The effort to intimidate Rep. McIver, and by extension, all members of Congress, is but one instance in which welcoming the fight is our best option. We should not fear bringing matters before the Supreme Court. We need to know sooner rather than later whether the Supreme Court will abandon democracy or stand up to Trump in the coming constitutional clashes.

So, too, with Congress’s efforts to pay for an obscene tax cut for millionaires and corporations by stripping Medicaid and food assistance to the most vulnerable in our nation. Let’s find out if Republicans have the votes and the darkness in their souls to pass the cruel bill. If they do, we need to know sooner rather than later so that we can begin the process of convincing the American people that Trump has betrayed them.

Trump and Republicans are attempting to intimidate and exhaust us so that we will give up and go away. By pushing back, we challenge Trump and his enablers to prove their claims or carry their burdens of proof—legislative, criminal, and civil.

The administration has a losing track record in its first four months—which teaches that we should welcome the fight. Odds are that we will win, most of the time. Given the odds, there is no downside and plenty of upside in resisting Trump at every juncture.

[Robert B. Hubbell Newsletter]

[pretty-face-breaker]

it's snowing where i live and i'm imagining early NaH days hayko getting snowed in with nick, no way to get away from him and long before he learned to be 'comfortable' with it..

Snowed In

Two months in their relationship, Hayko gets evicted. Nick is happy to extend a helping hand.

cw. coercion, intimidation, referenced captivity, implied future torture, creepy whumper, dependent whumpee, damn it Nick

—

It was freezing in Chicago with the kind of chill that clung to the window edges.

Hayko hadn’t slept or stopped moving. Coffee ran like battery acid through his system—third cup of the day and his hands were finally trembling. 

Half of his clothes were on the floor. The other half were in a trash bag. Lease papers scattered across the coffee table, beside an unmarked folder containing one of Don Miguel’s files, which still felt like a bad dream he’d conjured during a fever in the hospital, recovering from Nick.

He sat cross-legged on the floor in thermal socks, scanning apartment listings with dull, anxious eyes. Places that were miles out of his budget. Listings that read like jokes: “charming loft with urban appeal”—which meant no heating. “Basement unit with character”—which meant mold and a leak. “Studio with shared kitchen”—kill me.

His eyes burned. He’d known the eviction deadline a month ago but let it loom over him like an execution date, too bruised and tired to have done anything about it. Four days left. His landlord, a bloated chain-smoker named Travis, had been gleeful when he told him the lease wouldn’t be renewed, claiming the building needed “renovations.” Then put it back on the market, marked up $700 for the next guy.

Hayko closed the tab. Opened it again. Hit refresh.

A knock. He froze.

No one was supposed to come by and he hadn’t even ordered food.

He looked around at the chaos and cursed under his breath, already standing. The floorboards groaned under his heels. The apartment looked like a crime scene, or maybe just the scene of someone falling apart quietly, one sock at a time.

He opened the door.

Nick stood there, neatly coated up, hair styled back, with stylish black gloves. His smile and silver hoop glinted against the dull hallway light.

“Why is it that you look so tragic anytime I see you?”

Hayko swallowed.

“We don’t—uh—we don’t have a meeting scheduled until Thursday,” he said, voice cracking with the tail end of sleep deprivation. “I haven’t looked at the files yet. I was going to—”

Nick pushed past him with an easy, one-handed nudge.

“Relax. I’m not here for work.”

Hayko hesitated at the threshold before shutting the door. He turned to find Nick standing in the middle of the room, surveying the chaos with an expression that was somewhere between amusement and suspicion.

“Just here to see you,” Nick added, glancing around. “Jesus. You’re not actually trying to flee the country.”

Hayko tensed, realizing how reasonable the interpretation seemed.

Nick cackled. “Let me guess. Witness protection?” he mused, half-serious. “I really wouldn’t recommend it. The guys who’d come after you don’t give a shit what name’s on your mailbox.”

Hayko shook his head once and flatly corrected him.

“I’m getting evicted.”

Nick blinked. Visibly recalibrating.

“Ah. Huh.”

He rocked back on his heels, still scanning the room and picking up details. Boxes. Open drawers. Mismatched socks balled in a laundry basket. Mug-stains on the carpet.

“Shame,” he said, almost pleasantly. “Best of luck finding a place in January. Chicago real estate’s a bloody dream.”

Hayko’s arms crossed. He’d started to sweat under his hoodie from stress alone.

“What do you want?”

Nick was quiet for a second. And though he was still looking, it wasn’t at the apartment anymore—but at Hayko. Something was turning over behind his eyes. Suddenly, his smile deepened, spreading like a lit fuse across his face. 

—

Nick dropped one of the boxes a little too hard on the floor, and Hayko winced—and swallowed down the urge to snap about being careful with his damn dishes. 

He stood there and watched, wrists tense at his sides, as Nick’s shoes scuffed the polished marble and another box settled with a quiet thump.

He turned back to look at the corner where the rest of his things—shoved into his designated corner of Nick’s house. House being a generous word for it. A minimalist cathedral to bad taste and blood money. Stone countertops and designer furniture with zero warmth. That kind of eerie, showroom quality of people who decorate around themselves instead of for themselves.

Everything about it made Hayko feel like he was an ugly stain about to be scrubbed out of place.

He hadn’t even said yes at first.

He’d denied it outright when Nick offered—then tried to negotiate his way out of it: Just a few days. A hotel. Somewhere temporary. I’ll figure it out. But Nick had been relentless and asked, in that noxiously even tone, where else Hayko was planning on going in the middle of a Chicago winter? Did he expect to live out of his car and prep briefs on a laundromat table?

The thought of being seen breaking down in front of Nick again made his stomach twist. There was a kind of dignity he’d managed to cling to, in fragments. The illusion of private pain. He couldn’t stomach losing that, too. And yet, when Nick reminded him again that he still hadn’t found a place and was likely to be sleeping under a bridge by Friday, Hayko’s silence was all the agreement Nick needed.

Truthfully—even if it had been a real choice, even if Nick hadn’t slowly, tactically backed him into a corner until his rejections got smaller and smaller, until he was practically pressed up against the doorframe with Nick between him and the cold—he still would’ve caved.

He could barely last an hour outside in that coat. A week would’ve eaten him alive.

In some variant of generosity, Nick had called a moving truck and paid for it. Supervised the drop-off like a concierge, carrying in a few of the lighter boxes before disappearing again, leaving Hayko to deal with the bulk of it. 

Now, he trailed behind Nick like some weary tenant as Nick took him on a tour.

Nick nodded to the kitchen. “I cook but you’re welcome to, as well.” 

Then to the living room, complete with chandelier and a gas fireplace so pristine it looked like it had never been touched. Genuinely the least eclectic place he’d ever seen.

“That’s your room.” A nod down the hall. “Guest room’s next to it.”

And then—

The door.

Plain. White. Nothing ornate. But the handle was matte black and the lock was clearly, intentionally industrial. A bolt secured from the outside. Nick passed it with barely a flicker of attention.

Hayko didn’t ask.

“That’s the tour,” Nick said lightly. “Day’s yours.”

Outside, it had started to really come down, snow falling in heavy flurries and curling against the windows like ash. Nick wandered off and came back with a pot of tea, and before Hayko knew it, he was sitting cross-legged on a thick rug by the fireplace, a hot cup of something spiced in his hands. The heat radiated into his palms, through his throat, into his chest, relaxing him into his new environment, against his better judgement.

The fire flickered off the surface of the tea like molten gold. Hayko stared into it, long enough to forget himself, just for a second.

Then quietly: “Why are you helping me?”

Nick looked over, sipping his tea.

“You’re a smart cookie. You’ll figure it out.”

Hayko’s jaw tensed. He stared down into his cup. He was starting to sweat.

“I mean—besides the obvious. You need me functional. And I’m guessing I’m not paying rent.”

He looked up, expression flat. “But I’m not dumb enough to think that means it’s free.”

Nick grinned, shark-like and pleased.

“Couldn’t be more right.”

He sipped again.

“But if I tell you how you’re going to be paying me, it’d ruin the surprise.”

And just like that, Hayko felt the warmth turn to nausea.

Because now—without the pressure of deadlines or caffeine shakes—he could see it clearly. The slow tightening of the noose. It wasn’t a rescue. It was strategic intimacy. Nick had maneuvered him into the most intimate proximity possible. 

Hayko’s eyes flicked past Nick, to a cabinet in the corner.

There, mounted on polished wood, was a decorative knife rack. Carved handles. Beautiful, expensive. The blades caught the firelight like they were alive.

His heart clenched.

He thought again of the locked room.

The deadbolt.

There would be no privacy here. No dignity. No nights to himself to fall apart in peace. No safety in solitude. He’d been conned into trading one kind of cold for another.

Nick hadn’t carved his initials into Hayko’s shoulder just to forget about him.

The look must’ve passed over his face—too fast to catch, but not fast enough to hide. Because when he glanced back at Nick, Nick was already watching him, his smile dripping with faux-sympathy. A fox corralling a rabbit that had been too busy warming its burrow.

The light from the fire made Nick’s eyes glow orange. He looked lit from within, almost demonic. 

Hungry.

"Really coming down out there, isn't it?" Nick drawled, breaking Hayko's freshly terrified silence. "You might even have to spend a few days in."

—

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[alexandervovich]

Yoru, sharpening either the sword or his teeth. Maybe both…

[merchandis]